"Everything means everything": Lapides liveComedian Beth Lapides, who has written about yoga and guest-blogged for Jewcy in the past, has a new piece about the Holiday of No Bread called "Passover and Over." Being highly associative and from LA, she likes Passover because of the symbolism and potential for bondage puns. Check out the clip, below, and then listen to the whole thing at Audible.com.

Total muff-muncher: LizzyLizzy the Lezzy might be the cutest cartoon lesbian of all time. She’s got a British accent and a giant oval-shaped head, and she sings filthy songs about muff-munching in a high-pitched voice, sounding a bit like a sapphic Hermione on helium. The brainchild of Ruth Selwyn, a Jewish Brit based in Israel, Lizzy’s combination of hilarious candor—you should hear what she has to say about bisexuals—and unabashed pride has won her a devoted fanbase. After less than a year as a MySpace phenomenon, she was picked up by LOGO TV, which airs her episodes on “Alien Boot Camp,” their Friday night animation show for gay geeks.

We spoke to Lizzy through her intermediary Selwyn about sex, Judaism, and gay Tel Aviv.

Lizzy, what’s your background? Are you British? Where do you currently live?

I was born and raised in a secular Jewish family in a small town in England. I attended a Church of England local primary school where the headmistress was called Mrs. Winterbottom and my class teacher was called Mrs. Shrimpton, I kid you not. I developed my love for singing when they made me head of the choir and every week I sang merrily from the pulpit in church. I broke challah bread with my family on Friday night and offered it up to Jesus on Sunday. But there was never any confusion in my head.

One freezing winter’s day a teacher scolded me for praying in church with my gloves on. “But I’m not praying to your god,” I said, “I’m Jewish, and my god doesn’t mind!”

Throughout my teenage years I attended Habonim-Dror Jewish youth movement, where I learned about Judaism, Socialism, Zionism and smoking pot. It was there that I met a girl who liked it when we tickled each other’s arms and backs. “We’re not really lesbians, are we?” she said. “Naaaaa, it just feels nice.” I replied. It took me another ten years to realize that I was indeed a lesbian, and that it felt more than nice.

Successfully brainwashed to “marry someone Jewish” and feel like “Israel is my home” I packed a bag and made aliyah to Israel in search of a nice Jewish girl to tickle.

Continue reading...

J-Love conquers all: A JDate billboard looms over Boston I am a New York City–dwelling, L Word–watching, liberal-minded hipsterish hetero. A girl who has always thought it would be kinda sorta maybe cool to make out with another girl but never has. That kind. And yet....

As my 30th birthday approached, I found myself single — and celibate — for a longer stretch than I've ever wanted to be. As more and more friends settled into the adult worlds of marriage and parenthood, I started lamenting my missed opportunities, as if 30 marked some sort of slow decline toward death.

I was embroiled in a tumultuous on-again, off-again relationship — with JDate. What had once been exciting — a sea of eligible Jewish men for the taking! — had become a virtual waiting room of guys who liked to work hard and play hard and enjoyed staying in as much as they liked going out.

It was a particularly heinous-feeling I'm-never-going-to-have-sex-again kind of night when I received a Flirt from ArtsyGrrl18*, a curvaceous and pretty woman seeking a woman. Her message was nothing more than a cheesy canned pick-up line chosen from a drop-down menu: "You're burning up my monitor — are you always this hot?" But I felt a flutter in my stomach. And while, yeah, OK, I'm straight, I didn't really care. I was smitten. Sort of.

I was sick of men. Sick of corresponding with guys only to meet them in person and find out we have zero chemistry, to repeatedly come to the soul-crushing realization that the dream lover I'd imagined doesn't exist anywhere in this universe. Sick of pretending to be indifferent just so I won't scare them away. I'm not indifferent. Why should I be? Men could keep their issues and their fear of commitment. They could have their erectile dysfunction and their emotional unavailability. I was moving on to bigger, better (softer, nicer-smelling) things.

I immediately drafted a response. "I'm burning up your monitor?" I asked incredulously. "Come on, that's almost as bad as some of the guys on here." My reply accomplished a few things. It flirted back, it put her in her place and, perhaps most important, it reminded her that I was used to being courted by men. I hit send without stopping to wonder what I was doing.

A few days passed with no reply, and I began to worry. Had it been wrong to mention men? It was no secret that I'm straight. What was the sense of playing down that fact when it was, in fact, a fact? Maybe that was even part of what drew her to me — I was, in theory, off-limits. Every day I skimmed through message upon message from a nondescript crop of men, obsessively refreshing my in-box, automatically declining IM requests from the likes of Mensch4U and JewtasticNYC, hoping that each new page would bring a sign of ArtsyGrrl18.

And then, on the fifth day, there was light, in the form of a blinking-envelope new-message icon. "LOL, Carla," she'd written back. "You rock so hard." How adorable, I thought. What a gem! It's true, a similar response from a man probably would have found its way into my Trash bin. But I was hooked. There was no doubt about it: ArtsyGrrl18 would signify my first trip into Girltown.

"I think I'm going to go out with a girl!" I told friends. They all looked at me strangely, as if I'd told them I was thinking of piercing my nipples or moving to India, that I was going to do something that sounded adventurous and edifying but in reality was probably foolish and regrettable. And they all asked the same thing: "Do you really want to date a woman?"

Straight-girl lesbian-dating: Don't knock it till you've tried it A good question. Did I want to date a woman? Well let's see. I love women. Most of my closest friends are women. But no, all right, that's not what they meant. So did I want to kiss a woman? Well, sure! Maybe. Life's too short not to try it, right? And kissing's always nice. OK, forget kissing. Did I want to get naked and sweaty and dirty with a woman? Oh boy, now it was getting tricky. Maybe if Susan looked like Diane Lane. (She did not.) And maybe if the prospect of a man were anywhere on the horizon. (Mensch4U's ability to feel as comfortable in a T-shirt as in a tux and JewtasticNYC's exciting life as an actuary weren't exactly getting my blood going.) Maybe if I could keep my eyes closed and spend more time receiving than giving. Whatever, I thought. I'd figure out the particulars later. I was going to do this, damn it, so I decided to address my reservations the best way I knew how: by ignoring them.

Susan and I e-mailed for about a week, and then she decided we should talk on the phone.

When she called, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, I jumped, even though I knew it was her before picking up. She'd scheduled the time for our phone date (who schedules a phone date?), but even if she hadn't, there was an urgency in the ring that told me it was her. Or maybe it just seemed that way.

But the conversation was easy. There were no awkward silences. Aside from the weird feeling in my stomach, talking to Susan was just like talking to a girlfriend. You know, a girl friend. When she let slip, "You're cute," or worse, tried to talk about "us," I shifted the topic to more platonic things.

At one point, I managed to get out, "I don't know how much of a tease I'm being." It was the only thing I'd rehearsed, the one thing I'd known I would have to say, even before the phone rang.

I was still speaking when she said, "That's OK." I could feel the period of my sentence hanging somewhere in the middle of hers. She wasn't listening to me. "Do you like more masculine or feminine women?" she asked.

Oh, Jesus. "I'm not sure what kind of women I like because I've never liked a woman before."

I had thrown in the "before" to be kind, even though I knew lying now might result in an even bigger cruelty later. What was true was that I was curious, I was intrigued, I was flattered, I was bored. But I did not know if I was interested. And wasn't that what she was really asking?

When she pressed it further, I tried to think of celebrities I found hot. Jennifer Lopez, sure. Rosie O'Donnell, not so much. Scarlett Johansson? Yes, please. Lea Delaria? Hell to the no. "Feminine, I guess."

Which led to a discussion of the photographs she had posted with her profile. "The one of you in the red top is nice," I said. I regretted it as soon as the words were out of my mouth. The red top was pretty low-cut. I could hear her smiling.

"You like the boobies, then."

Like a boy, but nicer-smelling: As a straight girl, would you switch teams for J-Lo? "You just look happy in that picture. And red's a really good color on you. " There was no fucking way I was talking about boobies.

We chatted a bit longer and hung up with a time and a place to meet. Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. "It's me," she said. Her sense of familiarity annoyed me, and the second call caught me more off-guard. Men did not hang up the phone and call back 20 minutes later. At least not men I've ever known. I suddenly understood that old joke: What do lesbians bring on a first date? A U-Haul.

"You make a person want to cancel her appointments and just keep talking to you," she said. I wouldn't have believed it if I'd read it in a book. I'd have chalked it up to melodrama if it were a line in some asinine romantic comedy.

"Oh," was all I could muster.

"Can you talk a bit more?" I was already planning on telling her not really, but then she added, "Just for like 20 minutes." It was so exact, so needy, so faux casual that I couldn't even consider saying yes.

"Look," I said, "I've really got to go. We're going to see each other in a few days." I could sense disappointment on her end, but what could I do? This woman seemed crazy! We'd never even met! Didn't she know you can't just act on every impulse you have? That you need to play the game? I shuddered. What the hell was going on here?

Susan's disappointment didn't last long because that night, around midnight, my phone rang again and we had our third conversation of the day. On the first day we'd ever talked at all. I had gotten my wish: an attentive mate who said what she meant and meant what she said. And I couldn't have been more freaked out about it.

But the truth is I enjoyed talking to her. In fact, I opened up to Susan in that third conversation more than I have with some men I've dated for months. But Susan was sensitive. She didn't spook at the first mention of imperfection, of baggage. She was, after all, a girl.

The week after our first day of phone calls passed with alarming speed. I grew increasingly panicked as our date neared. "Blow it off," one friend advised. "You're not a lesbian!" A good point. And yet, didn't I owe it to myself to see how this thing played out? I'd already come so far! Wasn't it time to live a little dangerously in homage to all the friends who were now shopping for Bugaboos and obsessing over seating arrangements? Going out with Susan wasn't something I necessarily wanted to do, but something I felt I should, to build character. I mean, going weak in the knees for someone or wanting to tear his clothes off the second you see him is nice, I guess, but it doesn't hold a candle to character, right? Right?!

Sunday arrived, and I woke up groggy. My sleep had been fitful and uneasy. I was supposed to get in touch with Susan to confirm the details of our date. I didn't. Later that day I received an e-mail from her: "Am I right in assuming you've lost interest in meeting me?"

Hot straight girl-on-girl action: Sca-Jo and N-Po (Even worse, she had accidentally sent a slightly altered draft of the message, too. I was mortified for her. I was mortified for me—how many times had I agonized over every syllable in a one-line missive to a man who probably skimmed it anyway, too distracted by ball-scratching or mirror-gazing to care?)

My response to Susan's e-mail surprised even me: "What makes you think I've lost interest?" Holy shit, I thought. I am a guy. I am a motherfucking guy. I was full-on playing with her head, and it terrified me how naturally it came, how easily and effortlessly the transition had occurred. Didn't I complain that men can never just make a plan and stick with it? That they're purposefully evasive? That they toy with our emotions for sport? What could I have been thinking?

Not much, I guess, because I strung Susan along for a week or two. I answered her phone messages with e-mails. I canceled plans at the last minute once because I got stuck at work and another time because a friend sprang last-minute birthday plans on me (a last-minute birthday?). Finally I decided to do something no man has ever done with me: I decided to come clean.

"Look," I wrote, "I'm really sorry. I never meant for this to happen or for things to get this far only to have me chicken out. I just don't think my heart is really in it. And I sort of wish it were. I'm truly sorry if I've hurt you."

And she, also being female, responded in a similarly refreshing way: with honesty, compassion and understanding: "I'm a little bummed because I thought we were connecting, but no worries, OK? Please. Call me if you ever change your mind. Goodbye, beautiful."

Her e-mailed crushed me. It made me want to write back and tell her I was wrong, that we should meet, but I didn't. The kindness was what I was attracted to. It always had been. I just couldn't get down with the boobies.

In the end, Girltown turned out to be less like an exciting vacation spot and more like a restaurant I wanted to gawk at through the windows but never actually eat in. Today when friends and I are contemplating how to proceed with men we're dating, what the best course of action is, we invoke the question WWSD — What Would Susan Do? We figure out the answer, then do the opposite. And I hate that we have to. But I guess that's the price you pay for being a straight girl.

*Names and Jdate handles have been changed.

What's she do for an encore, recognize Israel over a ham sandwich and bottle of Merlot?  This woman has got Jewcy Radical written all over her. 

A Nigerian lesbian who "married" four women last weekend in Kano State has gone into hiding from the Islamic police, with her partners.

Under Sharia law, adopted in the state seven years ago, homosexuality and same-sex marriages are outlawed and considered very serious offences.

Since Laurel and I are hanging out together at the AWP conference today, I thought it would be appropriate to give some fiction recommendations for spiritual reading. Or as my high school English teacher liked to say, “Things to make you go hmmmmm…”

The Wholeness of a Broken Heart by Katie Singer – A book about four generations of Jewish women, Judaism ends up being the background that all the women learn to deal with. I admit I first picked it up because of the awesome title, and it did not disappoint.
The Gilded Chamber: Who doesn't like a novel set in a harem?
The Chosen by Chaim Potok – If for some reason you haven’t read this classic, please go pick it up now. Besides all kinds of insight into Hassidism and the trials and joys of the Orthodox community it’s fantastically well written. The first time I read it I was twelve and I immediately thought, “I’m an apikoros!” And I was all proud and shit. The movie is pretty good, too.

The Genizah at the House of Shepher by Tamar Yellin – I decided to like this book even before I read it because it was written by someone named Tamar, but I wasn’t disappointed. It’s the story of family that’s trying to hold its own religious history while competing with religious zealots, it does the whole back and forth in time thing without being annoying. A good thing to read when you’re trying to figure out how important it is to be Jewish when you don’t feel like being religious.

The Red Tent by Anita Diamant and The Gilded Chamber by Rebecca Kohn – You’ve probably already read the Red Tent, which is a fictionalized account of the story of Dina. The Gilded Chamber is the same kind of thing with the story of Esther. Both are fun and fascinating and make you think about Biblical women in all kinds of news ways. (And hey guys, one of my best guy friends read the Red Tent last year and told me he was expecting to hate it but he LOVED it. He swore me to secrecy, though, because he’s a pussy. But you’re not a pussy, are you? I thought not. Now get reading.)

The Dyke and the Dybbuk by Ellen Galford – I read this book when I was about fifteen, and I would read about ten pages and then put the book down, laugh and say, “Wow!” I was kind of a dork when I was fifteen. Anyway, the Kirkus review calls it “A fun, feisty, feminist romp through Jewish folklore as an ancient spirit returns to haunt a modern-day London lesbian.” A fun thing to read on those days you need to think about spirituality outside of religiosity.

The First Desire by Nancy Reisman – Full Disclosure: Nancy’s my fiction professor these days. She’s also a fantastic writer and doesn’t, to my knowledge, read this blog, so I’m not kissing up. This is the story of a Jewish family in Buffalo, New York in first half of the 20th century. Without being obvious about it, it examines the way Jews were treated by others, and the way Jews treated outsiders. A good examination of “the community.”

That should be enough to get you to the library. Anyone else have recommendations?

At a lesbian and bisexual strip show in Tel Aviv, a protest broke out Tuesday night. And it wasn't one derived from the Rush Limbaugh and Bill O'Reilly mindset. On the contrary, it was feminists speaking out against the exploitation of women for the pleasure of other women. Defending the show, Minerva Club owner Galit Ben-Simchon aptly pointed out, "Straight women can go to a Chippendales show, but lesbians have no place to go,"

Ben-Simchon went on to say of her strippers, "This does not constitute exploitation because I know the woman do it out of free will and that they are well-paid." I believe Julia Roberts employed the same logic with Richard Gere in Pretty Woman when George Costanza tried to have his way with her.