Heck no, it won't go!: A protestor marches for foreskin Until recently, I'd never seen a Jewish guy's ween. Rather than get into the factors behind this lacuna in my sexual experience -- am I a self-hating Jew who isn't attracted to body hair? Do I date guys named "Christian" to stick it to my grandparents?-- I want to just cut to the chase and start talking about why I've historically been a fan of foreskins.

But first, a quick caveat: writing this is hard for me because, unlike Rachel Kramer Bussel, I'm sort of shy about talking about sex. Like for example the word "come" -- just typing it makes me cringe. It's even worse if you spell it "cum." Aiieee! I also hate all euphemisms for genitalia -- even though, yes, I just said "ween" -- and sex. I'm even opposed to the more 'romantic' terms. Like, when people say "lovemaking" it makes me never want to ... you know ... again. I guess I'm sort of a prude! But lucky for you, I'm not the kind of prude who doesn't have sex. So I'll just try to sack up (oh, haha) and get on with my defense of uncut penises.

Call me crazy, but I like having a little extra penis-skin to work with. Uncircumcised dudes are generally more sensitive, which can mean things happen more quickly than you'd like, but that sensitivity makes it easier to sort of sexually... relate to them? Like, the foreskin is sort of analogous to a clitoral hood, not to get too icky and technical. Comparing their goods to your goods makes it easier to figure out what's going on and how they're feeling, which can make you feel more sort of connected to them, which is hot.

The Turtleneck: It can be daunting Also, like most girls, I am bad at giving hand jobs, and it's easier to jerk off someone whose dick-skin isn't already stretched tight as a drum.

As for the contention that uncircumcised penises are somehow uglier than circumcised ones, I guess I sort of understand where Rachel is coming from. A flaccid uncut dick can seem uncomfortably reminiscent of a sea cucumber or a shar-pei. But you know what? It's a penis, not a painting in an art museum. It's not there to be stared at for hours and admired, it's there to bone you. And also, once it's erect, it's usually hard to tell a circumcised from an uncircumcised penis, unless there is serious turtleneckage going on.

The other common gripe about uncircumcision is that uncut weens tend to be dirtier. This can go either way, in my experience. Uncircumcised guys are generally taught from childhood to be more vigilant about keeping their things clean. Whether or not they maintain their commitment to hygiene as adults can, of course, vary, but in my -- wow, I sound like a hooker and I assure you that I'm not! -- experience, circumcised dudes are just as likely as uncircumcised ones to have ill-maintained regions.

By now, as a lady reading this, you've probably totally seen the light and are ready to embrace uncircumcised men without reservations! But what if you're a marriage-minded lady who's hell-bent on winding up hitched to a fellow Jew? Well, there are like 50 Jewcy posts devoted to your plight and its various pros, cons, and repercussions. Personally, I think you are kind of nutty because love shouldn't have anything to do with religion or ethnicity, but if you insist on J-dating exclusively, you'll be happy to know that it's still possible for you to test-drive my theories. Just date Jews who were born in countries where Judaism has historically been frowned upon, and you'll still be able to experience the wrinkly, mysterious wonders of penises that haven't been ritually mutilated.

Counterpoint: Why the foreskin is not my friend

Feministing points to rumors that male Democrats are split between voting for Obama and McCain. Given the way The Washington Post has handled comparable news about female Democrats and the Obama/Clinton split, they came up with this totally hilarious mock-up for next week's Post:

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.

Good news, men. According to the New York Times, now you can wear your fur hats and coats without shame. For some, fur has been in fashion for a while, but the ladies out there might prefer the home-grown variety.

"My mudda didn't love me enough": The cracked masculinity of Tony SopranoIn the pilot episode of The Sopranos, mob captain Tony Soprano and his teenage daughter Meadow sit in an old, empty church. Tony marvels at the place—its grandeur, its history—and tries to get his daughter to do the same. “Your great-grandfather and his brother Frank—they built this place. Stone and marble workers,” he says with pride. Meadow is skeptical—just the two of them? “No,” Tony explains. ...

Shabbat PreparationsToday I was in a very interesting conversation… about how the Jewish community can best involve and engage men in religious/cultural life.  Because evidently the Jewish community has discovered that men don’t want to get involved.  Needless to say, the conversation went a lot like this.

“We could invite them to join a book club?”

 “Nah, men don’t like to join stuff.”

 “So, maybe we could just get their wives to come to something, and they’ll drag the men along.”

Which pretty much defeats the purpose, right?  But what can you do?

I spent years with Hillel trying to drag people into affiliating.  To get people to show up to programs, and give us email addresses and phone numbers.  It rarely works in great numbers. People don’t like being dragged.

At the same time, I’m thinking about how much it bugs me that women ARE the force behind most Jewish programming.  They organize, attend, bring food, drag the kids. They oversee educational efforts and sit on committees.  Honestly, I do believe that, by and large, they make the Jewish world happen.

But they aren’t in charge.

I want to get the numbers on this (number that were thrown around in the conversation that inspired this post).  I think it’s upsetting. Men like to run things. Men are rabbis, board presidents, executive directors, and (I’m not talking about you, Tahl) editors… but my gut says that it isn’t Daddy waking everyone up for services on Saturday morning.

So, dudes, why are you so lazy?  Why do you want to steer a ship you aren’t really riding (statistically) anyway?