A man walks into a peep show. He has an excellent reason: he has just scuffed his shoe, which was costly, on the sidewalk. A flight of stairs and $5 later he is in a booth, facing a circular stage. The partition lifts. Before him sit four nearly naked women. The first is sheer perfection, the creature of his dreams. He barely has time to come to terms with his torrent of desire — “a feeling so pure that he wants to cry” — when his time is up. Briefly he ponders his situation. In a few rush-hour minutes he has transformed himself from the loyal suburban husband of a pregnant wife to a man befouled by lust on 42nd Street. He inserts a second token. The partition lifts. Before him sit the rabbis of his youth. Their leader is fat, naked and demanding. What precisely does Allen Fein — born Ari Feinberg, hotshot lawyer in his $500 wingtips — think he’s doing? Before he can properly answer, an inner chamber opens to reveal Fein’s therapist.