Katz’s Deli has been serving New Yorkers our delicious food for over a hundred years. As the general manager for the last twenty of those years, I’ve seen my fair share of odd customers. And it goes without saying that we welcome people of every race, creed, and sexual orientation to come sit and dine with us at any time.

Even so, we still have to put our foot down every now and then when a customer gets a little too out of hand. So listen, lady, no matter how good the food is, you cannot have an orgasm in this restaurant.

Katz’s is a New York institution. It might even be the most famous deli on Earth. People come from every corner of the globe to try our pastrami, corned beef, and brisket sandwiches. The line often wraps around the building and down Houston Street. So, yeah, we’re pretty confident our sandwiches are good.

But our sandwiches can’t be that good, okay? At least not good enough to have a full-on orgasm. Or was it a fake orgasm? It had to be real, right?

Anyway, I get that, on one hand, seeing a woman writhing and yelling for no reason is just a typical Tuesday for the average New Yorker. But you have to remember that we get visitors from all sorts of remote corners of the world—Japan, Fiji, western Pennsylvania—and they’re not always accustomed to hearing loud moans of orgiastic pleasure while they’re dining.

Moans that surely must’ve been real, I’m assuming. Because if they were fake, boy, I’d really have to rethink some things. I’m getting off track. Look. We’re not here to kink shame. Or to tell women they’re not allowed to express their sexuality. But we do have to insist that you keep your climaxes to a reasonable noise level for the sake of your fellow customers. Wailing, pounding the table with your fists, and screaming, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” can be quite disruptive to other diners trying to go about their day.

Which, now that I’m thinking about it, that had to be real. Nobody could fake that. The faking thing has got to be one of those urban legends, like the alligators in the sewer. But I digress.

All I’m saying is, if taking a bite out of one of our signature sandwiches really does make your legs quiver in uncontrollable ecstasy, all we ask is that you take your meal to-go. Our full menu is available for takeout at all hours. Plus, we deliver in Manhattan and ship (freeze-packed) to all fifty states and Canada. So if our sandwiches really make your downstairs quake with pleasure, there are plenty of ways you can “see God” from home. And if cumming communally is more your speed, we also offer catering to all five boroughs, Jersey, and southwestern Connecticut, and we’re happy to liven up your next orgy or sex party with our delicious deli meats. Whatever you’re into. We don’t judge.

And if you were faking it… but, I mean… how? It sounded so real. Can all women fake an orgasm like that? Do most of them fake it? They don’t, right? It’s impossible. My wife wouldn’t… no… there’s no way. Or is there? Oh, God… okay, focus, focus.

Point is, lady, you can’t cum in the freaking restaurant, okay? What do you want me to tell you? Do we have to put up a sign? I didn’t think that was the sort of thing you needed to remind people not to do. But, fine, we’ll put up a big sign that says, “No cumming allowed. Real or fake, doesn’t matter.” I guess we’ll just cover our bases, cause now I have no idea what’s even real anymore.

Is anything real? Whatever, doesn’t matter. No cumming! Okay? No cumming! It’s disturbing to me, and it’s disturbing to the customers.

Even if, in the end, they do decide to have what you’re having.

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This essay appears as part of frequent contributor Carlos Greaves’s hilarious debut book, Spoilers: Essays That Might Ruin Your Favorite Hollywood Movies, which also includes essays based on work originally published in McSweeney’s.