My Ex's Jewish Fetish

A few weeks after I began dating Hendrik, I went through a serious Dolly Parton phase, perhaps in rebellion to all the pretentious snot clogging up my college campus. I wrote country songs and performed them before my full-length mirror and my roommate, who promised not to judge. I wore cowboy boots and peroxided my hair so blonde it washed out all the Jewish character on my face.

I e-mailed Hendrik a digital picture of the new me labeled, "Just as Hitler ordered" and I expected at least some kind of half-pleasure to come out from under him; maybe he would call me his "sexy little Barbara Streisand" or he would tell me gently that I looked very hot but that he wanted his Jew back. I assumed that all guys, even the most Jew-chasing among them, were turned on by blonde. I thought it an evolutionary thing.

For a good few hours, I stared, autistic-like, at my computer until an instant message from bodyofgod937 popped up on the screen: "Call me when you have better judgment" is all it said. My better judgment told me that I should delete Hendrik's from my cell phone and that I should have listened to my mother and only dated nice Jewish boys. Jewish boys, after all, would never pass up a good shiksa.