How I Failed to be a Slut at AIPAC

Was barely attending class. Afraid my marks were slipping. They weren't. Most of my grades hinged on final exams, which I aced relatively while neglecting almost everything else.

Sobbed everywhere. Except at work, where I earned hand over fist but lived hood rich. Most of my earnings went to sumptuously plated fare, taxi cabs, and impromptu trips out of state. Just to forget how empty the void was.

Shifts were long. Nocturnal. My calves were pudding. My gait became so accustomed to heels, flat shoes were foreign. And I was hanging out with girlfriends, weeping endlessly. We divulged so much to each other.

Were our friendships really sustainable? Were they only predicated on severe heartbreak? Would these friendships dissolve as soon as we got into other relationships?

Didn’t care. We bonded over Haagen Daz and Barefoot Wine.

One girlfriend told me how her ex—the young man I lost my virginity to, that Mayakovsky-loving, ushanka-wearing asshole—held a knife to her throat. And even though it was dastardly, horrifying, and contemptible, it was at least an expression of emotional investment. At least he showed that he cared on some level.

Honestly, I never understood why my girlfriends chased after these self-proclaimed leftist men. Why? They gutted the courtship process—left it flayed and exposed. Not even a whisper of chivalry’s rotting corpse. Their contempt for women? Thinly veiled, if veiled at all. Hiding behind the banner of equality, they dodged the check. Forced women into polyamorous setups—claimed it was "ethical non-monogamy." Cheating? At least it’s honest. Cloaked their disdain in class analysis. If they leaned into "intersectionality," they’d weaponize terms like "white women." Not because of some grand theory—just plain envy and detestation.

All these girls with horror stories from anarchists and DSA and PSL jerks.

Never trust a man at a protest. Especially if you’re a woman. He has no value system. I felt the urge to ask, "Oh, you like leftist men? Name every man that has left you."

I at least respect men who are honest about their default state. Men who make it patently clear that they don’t actually like women and only tolerate them.

Ben moved on so fast.

Everyone told me to move on. And I wanted to.

Then the Public Policy department and the Asian and Middle Eastern Studies department notified us about the upcoming AIPAC conference in D.C. My friend Nick offered to drive us, and I obliged.

We took his Passat to D.C. Everyone from my university attending the conference stayed in a cheap hostel near the Walter E. Washington Convention Center.

We all shared co-ed bunks. But I needed distance from university students. The hostel depressed me.

Had J-Swipe set up. For once, I craved something absolutely self-destructive. Hooking up just to hook up.

I always presented as a free-wheeling floozy. Everything seemed to be for others, till they learned I was nothing but a tease except for who I’d let ravage me at the time. But originally, I was nude and vivacious because it was heavily discouraged. Nude like a German in Mallorca. Like Wandervogel nude. Like Fidus or Max Koch nude.

Actually, it wasn’t intellectual at all. Clothing was restrictive and annoying. I hated pants. Pants are cells for the legs. Shoes are coffins for the feet.

Maybe it wasn’t heroic nudity, but it was pure, angelic nudity. Born out of sheer comfort. But when it was interpreted as something shameful, I leaned into it. Because it helped me. It got me out of dire situations. That, and those scholarships.

Used what I had. If my physical appearance was the first and easiest thing to notice, and if fools didn’t bother to learn more about me, then I knew it was in my best interest to take them for a ride.

Sure, Dworkin could sympathize, but still. I was never a liberal feminist. Never a sex-positive feminist. Never a feminist at all, really. Feminists are delusional about power. No one likes a screeching harridan monitoring others’ sensuality. Prostitution will always exist, and any attractive woman who plays her cards right becomes a scab in the dating market. A bold affront to the unwritten rules set by other women. I had to survive somehow, leveraging base human nature.

But now, I was so deep in the doldrums that I wanted my sex life to match my presentation. I wanted to annihilate myself. To turn off my emotions. To transcend morality. But unfortunately, I had a type. And I knew that the AIPAC conference was the only place I'd find it—short of New York, Los Angeles, and maybe the greater D.C. area.

I knew there were men of my type in Silver Spring, Bethesda, and beyond.

That’s why I decided to use J-Swipe in this neck of the woods. And that’s how I met David, a state dignitary.

His profile was bog standard. I found his social media—photos captioned "Time spent with the gene pool." Just him and his upper-middle-class family. I bet he never faced any real hardship. Probably saw his family every week for a big dinner in Silver Springs.

David was handsome enough, so I snuck out of the hostel to meet him for Thai food.

It was nauseating. Not the food—the conversation. D.C. is a dreadful place. Especially without the saving grace of cherry blossom season. Drained and ghoulish, masonic, foggy marshland. Everything we talked about was political, as expected. He was a blue-dog Democrat, going on about The Squad. Nothing could be less sensuous. He kept harping on Ilhan Omar, the smarter one, and AOC, the dumber one, the Beltway consensus, Israel, and the new post-Hart Cellar Turd World imports infiltrating the Democratic Party. Resenting the old dinosaur Zionists.

I felt compelled to ask David, "Would you limit migration?"

"What do you mean?" he asked. "Illegal migration? Yeah, of course."

"No," I clarified, "a moratorium on people from countries that don’t like Israel."

"Well, aren’t your parents Copts?" he asked. "It would depend. Don’t you and your family hate militant Islamists?"

"Yeah, for obvious reasons, but also I would deport my parents," I replied.

"Okay, so I’d let you in but not Linda Sarsour," he continued. "You know what sarsour means, right? Also, why do you want to deport your parents?"

"Yes, silly. Sarsour means roach. Wasn’t she born in Brooklyn?" I asked, ignoring the question about my parents. "Okay, what about birthright citizenship?"

"I’d need to think about that," he admitted.

"Yeah, you need to think about a lot of things," I thought out loud.

Kept wondering when this date would end. But I knew I couldn’t cut it short. To get over Ben, I needed to get under someone else. Probably multiple men.

Of the same type.

David finally caught my interest. He switched to Egyptian Arabic—his Masri was flawless—and confessed that deep down, he only wanted a woman to accompany him from country to country. A lady-in-waiting while he handled his diplomatic affairs. He said I seemed like I’d be good at cocktail parties.

Knew what he wanted right away. A repeat of Ben. To corral a young, impressionable, wild creature. Maybe he wanted to be like Kissinger and walk hand-in-hand with an Amazonian gal. But David wasn’t up to it. If Ben couldn’t handle me, David certainly couldn’t. I could just tell. I knew I’d be "embarrassing."

And I knew I’d fail even if I made every point on his checklist.

We were now at his place. A sixth-floor condo. Clean, bachelor setup. Still early evening. He kept speaking to me in Masri. He also knew Fusha, which I didn’t. I wondered why he was interested at all, given how quiet I was. Maybe that’s what he liked—my silence. I could tell he loathed dating women in D.C. Said they were too careerist. He wanted a woman who was smart enough to keep up but malleable enough to follow him around. This, I knew.

Thumbed through his bookshelves. Just historical analysis, internal documents, history, pop science, pop psychology, sociology, and crime. But no fiction.

Don’t know why that unsettled me. Maybe because material existence is quotidian. Prosaic even. Truth is universal and eternal, and so is fiction.

Maybe I didn’t trust people without an imagination.

Perhaps I felt as if reality mocked me and reminded me that I lacked an imagination.

We ended up in his bed. We were about to fuck, but he was gentle. Far too gentle. It unnerved me.

Took his clammy, somewhat diminutive hand and placed it on my throat. Just to feel something. Because this wasn’t working.

He hesitated. "Oh, I don’t do that."

"Why?" I asked.

"Too intimate..."

"…It scares me," he admitted.

"Just fucking choke me," I pleaded. "You want to bomb the entire Middle East, and you can’t even choke me in bed?"

"What?" he was flustered.

"Choking can be romantic," I was sitting up now, covered in goosebumps, "You want to escalate tensions with Iran, but you can’t escalate tensions in here. Think about all the Persian women you could unveil and therefore all the war you could prevent."

"I don’t understand what you’re saying."

"To dismantle Iran, simply import their stunning women, shower them with rhinoplasty stimulus checks and shopping stipends, and set them up in lavish palaces and penthouses in LA and NYC. Make them American whores in a tech or finance bro’s odalisque. No need for war," I explained, "Please choke me."

I like being choked because my father choked me, but not sexually.

Choking meant discipline.

Sometimes I fainted.

When I was six, my male classmates tied me to a tree with chainlinks. Cowboys, Indians, and Robbers. I was always an Indian princess or a burglaress, but never a cowgirl.

It turned me on before I even knew what riding someone cowgirl was.

More than riding the pleated arm of our couch upstairs. I’d turn on the treadmill next to the couch. Crank it up to eleven miles per hour. Just to make the couch vibrate.

I did this at nine years old. I always liked being tied up and choked. I could afford to lose more brain cells and thought too much anyway. A lack of oxygen? Euphoria.

Giving someone that much trust. Being spared, showered with that much attention. I needed-wanted someone to desire me so much they’d say it in every way: "You’re not going anywhere."

"I’m sorry David," I got out of bed before he could have sex with me, "I have to go. It was a pleasure meeting you."

He wasn’t a very romantic soul. He wasn’t poetic enough to read fiction or choke me in bed.

All I wanted was a sensitive man to strangle me in bed.

I stood outside his condominium complex.

Then I clicked with another guy on J-Swipe. I had been meaning to meet him anyway. A guy named Andy who worked for the Mint. A Fulbright scholar. He knew Masri. Perfect professional fluency. Which made me feel insecure because my parents’ tongue was imposed, a phantom tongue. Mostly a disgusting Americanized patois that I’d shed only when in extenuating circumstances.

He liked Naguib Mahfouz and Franz Kafka. He was worldly in the way every overly-educated optimist was worldly, but I could tell he was shrewd and chewed on things—a bit of a humanist really.

I liked this man a lot more. He could read my emotions. He had less of a desire to control the room. He was comfortable in his own skin. I didn’t feel pressured into anything, and I didn’t feel like I was a checklist.

"So you’re here for the AIPAC conference?" Andy asked.

"Yeah," I explained. "I’m just here to see what it looks like and get out of class."

"Oh, they’re a bit hardcore," Andy admitted. "I’m a liberal Zionist. I prefer J Street over AIPAC."

"I went to the J Street conference last year," I responded. "I don’t really see the difference between the two of them. One just seems more honest than the other."

"No, J Street is more peaceful," Andy asserted. "More willing to work towards a two-state solution."

"No offense, but I really don’t think that’s going to happen. It’s a zero-sum game, and neither side will stop until the other is annihilated or obliterated."

Andy looked a bit disappointed as I said that.

"I’m sorry. They’re just sand people, the Arabs and the Jews. Especially in that environment. It’s a different mentality."

We went back to his place after grabbing cocktails. I wanted to be a slut. To get over Ben.

As I attempted to unbuckle Andy’s belt while we made out, he stopped me, saying, "You’re gorgeous and have a rocking bod, but I’d really like to get to know you better."

"What is there to know?" I asked. "I’m a pretty open book."

I wasn’t a completely open book, but I was open enough. At least open enough to open my legs.

"Well, what are you doing on J-Swipe? What’s your background?" he asked.

"My parents are Egyptian Karaites," I lied. "That’s why I know Arabic."

"Oh, that’s…rare. But you’re converting?" He interrogated. "Umm. What do you think the meaning of life is?"

"I’m becoming rabbinic, I guess. As for life, I don’t fucking know." I shook my head, adjusting my tights and huddling, moving my legs up to my topless chest. "It’s too cold in here."

"Borrow this," Andy handed me a merino wool sweater. "So what do you think the meaning of life is?"

I genuinely didn’t know how to answer this question. I thought about War, the purpose of Education, and what Love meant. If Love was real. What I was even doing for a millisecond or two.

"I think… that the purpose of life is the desire to truly like the world even if the world does everything in its indifference to make you despise the world."

"Go on," he shifted in bed, putting one foot under his buttocks.

"If I’m going to be perfectly honest with you, Andy," I responded, "I’m trying to sleep with you to get over someone else."

"What’s the longest relationship you’ve ever been in?" Andy asked, his voice curious but guarded.

"The one I just got out of," I sighed, feeling the weight of it all over again.

Andy nodded slowly. "I haven’t been in a relationship longer than a year," he admitted.

"Why?" I asked, genuinely interested, because he seemed to have it all.

"Because I live in a big city," he replied, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "I want to have a deep relationship. You think I really want my life to revolve around work solely?"

"Then find a gal and stick with her," I told him, projecting my own feelings of fallout onto him. "Pretend to care about what she has to say. Don’t overthink it."

"So, could you tell me more about what you think the meaning of life is?" he backpedaled, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground.

"You’re just saying that to humor me," I said, feeling sulky and then gross.

"No, I’m not," Andy insisted, his eyes earnest.

"Fine," I cleared my throat, preparing myself. "The purpose of our pathetically short lives is to try to like the world. We try to understand it, appreciate its aesthetic structure by recognizing patterns and opposites. That’s why we have Art and Literature. But that’s also why we do horrible things to each other—because we see the opposites, and that breeds contempt. We cultivate that contempt to acquire resources and to compete."

Glory, and by extension, civilization, often comes at the cost of others.

Andy looked thoughtful. "Okay," he said slowly. "Do you think part of liking the world is trying to like yourself since you’re also part of the world? Do you like yourself?"

"No," I muttered without hesitation. "Maybe sometimes. Seldom, perhaps. Do you like yourself?"

"Yeah, most of the time," he said, a small smile playing on his lips.

We cuddled and drifted off to bed but didn’t fuck, which frustrated me but also relieved me on some level. The next day, early in the morning, Andy rustled out of bed, and made me Turkish coffee and ful mudammas, just like my father did, and it was about as good at my father’s coffee and ful. And as I was about to walk back over to the hostel, Andy insisted I take his sweater.

"It’s close to winter," he urged, "You have no body fat, and you’re underdressed."

I thanked him and scuttled back to the hostel at seven in the morning. Everything was slate gray and covered in dew.

"Where the hell were you?" Nick asked, adjusting his glasses. His cheeks were particularly rosy.

"I found a place to sleep that wasn’t the hostel," I responded while getting ready. I decided not to tell Nick what was going on.

The AIPAC conference teemed with energy, navy suits and smart dresses, but I knew what I came here for— to spread my legs for the Israeli lobby.

   left right left

left——

right

right

faces words

synergy—scaleable—legal consultant—avid traveler—i like hiking (three times a year but let’s just pretend that i hike every week)— whisky— jazz bar—healthcare professional— lobbyist who is also a standup comedian—no fatties—trying to find my wife on here—knit kippah—black kippah— norwood three—norwood four— BALD— covering bald spot with kippah—

—

bradley

tech guru and mountain climber

skiing & peaks

right

swipe

— yossi

a sun-tanned surfer boy—

beach waves and abs—yes please

yes yes and swipe

       swipe right left

—————

ethan disruptor builder blazer game-changer

oh hi ethan

—yes—

    right right

swipe

noah zach liam—

a yacht a guitar a camera yes all sound good to me

alex?

a chef, i think?

on a yacht (not) catamaran or maybe

—why not swipe?—

but then i realized that i wanted to have sex with an

unconventionally attractive man

for

philanthropic purposes

or rather because i wanted to feel the ugliest most revolting and downright grotesque swiping, swiping on beasts and golems a pathological lust for monsters to make me feel wanted needed prettier than ever

so swipe on the frogs the rats and all the trolls who might bring solace

but then—

i bump into him— a man with a face like a charismatic toucan—long and narrow like his sharp nose eyes round and dark hair slicked back but with a portly body.

"Ello, darling," he squawked, "Fancy meeting someone like me?"

I laughed nervously—half-expecting the beak to peck.

"Yeah, sure," I replied, "What brings you here? You’re British."

"I’m also American," he replied.

Dual loyalties? Triple loyalties? Sounds splendid. People rag on Jews for having multiple allegiances. But why see it as a downside? Having as many passports as possible is a smart move. Only a fool wouldn’t take advantage.

"Are you a sabra?" the toucan man asked.

"No, I’m a Karaite, and my family fled Egypt after the Lavon Affair," I lied.

The Toucan Man and I agreed to meet up in the late afternoon. He was staying in the Marriott Marquis attached to the convention center. I wandered from session to session, lecture to lecture—absorbing the perpetual reiteration of bipartisan support for Eretz Yisrael. Hours passed as I sought distraction.

I found myself engrossed in a presentation about the Ezer Mizion Bone Marrow registry, caught by the life-size model of the Iron Dome and David’s Sling. I wondered idly when I’d find a way to give Iron Dome to get over my ex.

Finally, the Toucan Man appeared at the display.

"Isn’t it odd," I joked, “that a military apparatus is called David’s Sling? David was just a boy. His sling was tiny. This ‘David’s Sling’ is a giant. It should’ve been called Goliath."

He laughed dismissively. "You’re a silly girl," he said. "Come on, let’s go back to my room."

We navigated the concourse and slipped into his suite. The room was cloaked in beige, the carpet a swirl of teal and brown. A brief exchange of glances and we were in the bathroom.

"Want to take a shower with me?" he asked, his voice a seductive whisper.

"Yes," I replied. I peeled off my tights, shimmied out of my pencil skirt, kicked off my wedges. Finally, I thought. The chance to be reckless. To drown out the past and neuter my feelings.

It was dry. No lotion. My heart wasn’t in it. I kept thinking about Andy from the night before. And my ex obviously. I tried pushing that thought away, but it was stubborn. The Toucan Man was hard. Tears began to stream down my cheeks, lubricating manhood—first subtle, then a flood. I was a blubbering mess.

"What’s going on?" he asked, his eyes wide with confusion. He removed my hand off his cock, stepping out of the shower. "This isn’t rape, you know. You were totally into it."

"I know, I know!" I cried, my face flushing with embarrassment. "I’m sorry. I just—I can’t do this. It’s not you. I’m trying to get over my ex."

"You’re way too beautiful to be this sad," he said, shaking his head, his voice soft as he rubbed my shoulders.

"Are ugly people the only ones supposed to be sad?" I shot back, my voice tinged with sarcasm.

He paused, then shrugged, turning away as I switched on the shower, letting the water cascade over me. "I didn’t mean it like that," he mumbled.

He moved to the toilet, lifting the seat. I watched as he started to pee, his face a mask of indifference or flatlined disappointment. The sound of the water hitting the porcelain and the shower’s steady stream.

"I’m a wreck," I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. "Please, forgive me."

He nodded silently. I hastily pulled on my clothes, blow-dried my hair, and left, hurrying back to the conference. The Iron Dome and David’s Sling simulation were replaced. In its place stood a Palestinian man. An advocate from the American Enterprise Institute. He was waxing poetic about the Hashemite regime.

I turned around to grab refreshments. And then I bumped into the last person I wanted to see besides my ex: Bruzonsky.

He reeked of carbolic soap, as usual.

"Well, hello, young lady," he waved with a smirk.

"Oh my God. You’ve got to be kidding me," I muttered.

"I had a feeling you’d be here," Bruzonsky said, his eyes twinkling.

"Why?" I snapped.

"Because you’re a masochist. Just like me. You love these conferences," Bruzonsky chuckled. "Recently, I’ve been hanging out with another curious young lady around your age. She insists she’s not a woman. Claims she’s ‘nonbinary.’ Wants me to call her ‘they-them.’ But that’s for a group of people, isn’t it? Not one girl."

He air-quoted nonbinary and they-them.

"Uh, it’s just a thing people my age do now. A trend. Like when Prince or Grace Jones were everything. Besides, lesbians are so passé. I don’t know," I said, waving him off. I wasn’t in the mood to educate Bruzonsky about confused chicks. Not today. Not after everything.

"You should’ve listened to me. Should have tried to get into Cato or Brookings," he shifted gears.

"Hey, do you know that guy?" I pointed at the only other Arab in the crowd.

"Yeah, he’s a sell-out. A polemicist. A Palestinian Uncle Tom. Hey, come to think of it you should work for the American Enterprise Institute."

"Why do you always tell me to work for places you supposedly hate?" I challenged him.

"Because you’re smart enough to navigate it. And frankly, it’s all pointless anyway," he shrugged.

"Thanks," I replied, turning on my heel. I needed to find Nick. He was my ride home.

Nick and I stood outside. Our breath hung in the cold air—crystallizing—fading.

"So," I asked, breaking the silence, "What’d you think of the conference?"

"Pretty much what I expected," Nick said, shoving his hands deep into his corduroy slacks.

"In terms of policy? Or the crowd?" I pressed.

"Both. Lots of old people," he clarified, "Some our age, but it’s gerontocratic as hell."

"I wonder what happens when Millennials and Gen Z take office," I mused, the words tumbling out. "Will the bipartisan pleas stick? Will people with Third World parents be inclined to support a state they see as ‘white’ colonizers—even though half of it is brown, religious, and just as Third World with its blood feud? What about a multipolar shift? Israel aligning with Russia or China? American Jews are so different from Israeli Jews. Almost like a different species. The religious ones make aliyah, and the rest just blend into the secular blob. Will anyone back a country that’s not the underdog but acts like it is?"

"You’re asking a lot of questions," Nick said.

A middle-aged Poindexter in a gray suit overheard us. His glasses glinted with irritation.

"Hey!" he barked, stepping into our space, "What are you talking about? Do you support Israel’s right to exist?"

His intrusion grated. I parried, "See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. ‘Right to exist’—what does that even mean? No country has a ‘right’ to exist. Does Iran? Myanmar? Denmark? Does the U.S. have a ‘right to exist’? It’s just there. It exists. And it’s up to them to keep it that way—or not. It’s out of my hands."

"Are you a Zionist?" he asked, the question dripping with intent.

"No. Because Israel already exists. It’s beyond Herzl now. It is what it is. And honestly, begging people to like you just makes you sound guilty."

Nick stepped in, saving me from saying more, "She’s a good egg. Just thinks out loud, asks a lot of questions."

The Poindexter backed off.

What could I have said to him anyway? That I liked Israel as a concept even though living there stressed me out—a containment zone for Jewish men, a backup plan if things went south? That Israeli guys weren’t nerdy or anemic enough for my taste? That I was at AIPAC to screw guys who reminded me of my ex—and failing miserably? That I was converting, and my background was ‘dirty Arab’? My stupid fetish? My guilt? The desire to be throttled? Asphyxiated? Garrotted? Or that I knew people in desert New Jersey would devour each other until the Messiah came? How could I tell him any of that?

Nick was driving us back to North Carolina. The road stretched out ahead, and I finally found the nerve to ask, "Back in freshman year. When we first met—did you notice what happened? When I left your dorm room. You were piss drunk."

He flushed deep red. "Yeah, I noticed."

I exhaled sharply. "Well, that’s embarrassing."

Silence hung in the car. The hum of the tires was our only soundtrack until Nick pulled into a gas station. While he pumped, I offered to grab some food. But as I approached the entrance, I spotted two women huddled by the curb.

One of them, a Black woman with a short, matted bob and a lazy eye, shuffled over. "Hey, kind lady. Spare some change? God bless you."

I took a step back, instinctively recoiling as if their misfortune might stick. "I’m sorry, ma’am. I only have cards."

The other woman, almost a mirror image of the first—same lazy eye, but with a limp and wearing a tattered blue outfit instead of green—hobbled over. "Come on. Help me and my mother-sister."

"Mother-sister?" I echoed. "Mother? Sister?"

"Yeah, ma," she said, her voice cracking. "She my mother and my sister."

"What?"

"We both have the same papa. My papa is her papa and my papa made me with her. That’s why we mother-sister and look alike but I got a lazy leg and a lazy eye," Lazy-Eye-Lazy-Leg-Lady said.

"Yeah," Lazy-Eye-Lady interjected, "We on the streets now. Bussin’ and trickin’ cuz it’s better than being with papa. He told us he was God. And we could never leave da’ house. Told us Jesus Christ was a vampire and had his own Bible. He made us jerk him off and take his nut and shit and spread it through his dreads and scratch his belly and armpits."

"Oh," I winced, a surge of loathing for the world and humanity swelling inside me. Those women never had a chance, and I knew they weren’t lying about the walking flammable Cumbox of their husband-father. "I don’t have cash, but I’ll get y’all some food."

I walked in, grabbed a few taquitos. Not from a deaf white guy like in West Virginia, but a Pakistani man—just like the modern economy intended.

"I’m sorry it’s not healthy. And I’m sorry it’s not cash," I said, handing over the greasy plastic bag.

The rest of the drive was thick with tension. I was visibly upset, and it made Nick squirm. "Is it because I noticed? Back in freshman year? You know I don’t care. You’re my friend."

"No, Nick. I’m over that. Freshman year was nothing. The world is a miserable, wretched place. We’re lucky if boredom and discontentment are our biggest problems."

Back in Chapel Hill, I deleted J-Swipe. But then, my not-even-boyfriend—not-even-close-to-husband—found me on social media. It was around Purim. I threw on bunny ears from an old Playboy costume, paired with a modest dress, and showed up at the local Chabad.

He listened to me vent for four hours on the phone. Relentless in his pursuit.

All the way from Toronto.

At some point, Andy asked about me. I even saw Andy over the years. He was always dating someone else. Or I was married. I’m thankful he prevented me from sleeping with him. I told him this other guy seemed more interested. I felt obligated to choose the one who wanted me more. I didn’t want another Ben situation. Besides, Andy always felt too good for me anyway.