As I walked down the narrow Beverly Hills side streets on the way to my car, I saw a few families (I think they were Persian) having Rosh Hashanah dinner on their balconies. Sounds of joy and conversation filled the warm night air, and I was jealous. I would rather have been with a family, enjoying brisket and kasha varnishkes, than at temple by myself. One day I’ll have a family like that, I thought to myself. Instead, I drove to Cheetahs in Hollywood to meet my girlfriend. Both events, the Temple and Cheetahs, were letdowns. I had built up both in my mind: a transformative night of prayer peppered with sex.

What I remember most about Cheetahs was talking to a stripper named Sarah. She wasn’t wearing an ounce of makeup, and her hair was scraggly and her grammar was poor. Despite the lack of effort, she still looked pretty. She was talking to us about how badly the economy has hit strip clubs, and how little she makes now – which is more than I make. Then she said "I’ve worked here for ten years." I found that shocking, because I haven’t done anything for ten years. Talk about commitment: ten years at the same strip club. I was amazed. My girlfriend and I joked that she should have a 401(k), or at least a pension plan. She told us that she also goes to school. Relatively, she has her shit together. I figured that she was the Mother Hen of Cheetahs, and she watched over all the girls. When a dancer from Switzerland approached the stage, Sarah commented, "I mean some dancers…like that heffa’, I mean come on!" The Swiss dancer was very voluptuous. She had rolls of stomach fat, but strangely, no cellulite. The skin on her legs was smooth and taut. "Look at that heffa’," Sarah repeated and walked away. We watched the "heffa’" dance. "Wow," I said to my girlfriend, "She is really hot. She is like sex personified." She danced like she was fucking the stage, but at first it wasn’t dirty; it was real clean. She wore this ballerina outfit, she had a Lolita look to her. See, Cheetahs is not a nude club. The girls wear panties or bathing suit bottoms and bra or bikini tops. It’s so you can drink. In California, nude clubs are dry. The Swiss dancer had on a pink bikini top, but not the kind of bikini top you can purchase at a swim store: this kind is only available at a Hollywood ‘specialty’ store. It was sparkly, pink and silver, and had two triangles that covered her chest. She also wore a black thong, which she lazily covered with a very short pink frilly skirt. That was a dirty outfit, so girly and naughty that it begged for a spanking. She came out and folded herself down into a split. She put her arms forward and held that position, crotch down to the floor. She writhed slowly on the ground. "Holy shit," I said to my girlfriend, "She is really dirty." That’s the thing with this girl, she wasn’t cheap, and she had no qualms about the extra fat on her stomach and neither did I. She was a woman and a girl all at once. Even while posed, her face remained cherubic. She looked only twenty-two or twenty-three. This plump ballerina wore pinkish lipstick and soft, rosy blush.

Watching her dance, none of the other girls compared. The Swiss girl smiled at me longer than a stripper ought to stare. She knew I approved. The other girls were dirtier, and I felt their self-loathing. No one turned me on like the Swiss girl. It’s not that I wanted to kiss her, but she had something that appealed to me: pride, brazenness, Chutzpah. Near the end of the night, my girlfriend and I talked about tattoos. She recently decided that she wanted one, and I recently settled on a design I could live with. I don’t have any tattoos, and I have never thought of getting one until now. I would get the word "COURAGE." Sure, it might sound juvenile, but it’s what I lack. I feel like I don’t always have the courage to be myself, and I need to be reminded. Still, I doubt that I will ever actually get a tattoo. No, I’m pretty positive that I won’t. You’re really not supposed to in the Jewish religion. Maybe it is just that I hate needles. I’m not sure what will happen in 5770. I’m not sure if I’ll continue going to temple or to strip clubs (not that I go to either very often), but I am sure that I will continue writing, and I will continue trying to have the courage and chutzpah. I will be brazen, I will be myself.

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We were doing it missionary-style and his Saint was dangling next to my Chai. I didn’t want to point out the ridiculousness of our new necklaces, and the fact that we NEVER wore these when we were married. The fact that I am a Jew and he a Christian became painfully obvious.

“We’re both wearing our necklaces,” he said. “Yep," I responded, trying not to think about it. I was trying to just get off and not pay attention to possibly why we didn’t work. I didn’t ask him what the Saint stood for. I didn’t want to know. He knew what the Chai was because I talked about it a lot while making my Jewish calendar. But he never talked about Saints. He talked about Christmas but he didn’t believe in God, and yet somehow I drove him to need a Saint? I guess I can’t complain, I also needed something holy after our separation.

One of the last questions our couples therapist asked was, “Did you have a problem with her being Jewish?” To be honest, I don’t think that was our essential problem, but it was a major difference. It wasn’t a God thing. It was a family and cultural thing. When we were happy our religious beliefs were never the issue. We were both reform in our religious ideas and politically very liberal, but when things got bad, I had " the loud Jewish family,” and his family was “white trash.” Yes, not healthy.

If someone pinned me down and forced me to tell them what I thought about his family Christmas, I would blurt out "I fucking hated it!" But I wouldn’t admit that in public. I hated going to West Virginia during Hanukkah and pretending it didn’t matter. I hated buying $500 worth of presents and opening them on Christmas Day. I hated Christmas cookies and Christmas decorations, and I hated being away from my family’s Chinese food and movie night. I wanted to be the Jewish girlfriend and Jewish wife who was “cool” with the holiday that made everyone happy and giving. But I wasn’t, and I couldn’t admit it.

I dreaded that trip to West Virginia. We always got into a big fight before. It wasn’t Christmas per se, as I actually have never dated a Jewish man, but it was his Christmas. It was the fact that I felt excluded from the fun cause I was Jewish.

Do I think it would be easier if I married someone Jewish? Yes, possibly.

Will I? I don’t know. I’m dating both Jews and non-Jews and I like them all. As a Reform Jew, I walk a line in modern society. I am religiously defined, but I also am an assimilated liberal American. I fear losing someone I really love because he’s not Jewish, but when I’m really honest, I can say that I want my children to be Jewish, and that there is a indescribable cultural understanding when I meet a Jewish man.

I’m curious what will happen. I’ll let you know. I have date tomorrow with a Jewish man.

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