A couple of summers ago, I found myself in the back of my Jeep with a Canadian, rebounding out of a very serious relationship. Things were heating up and hands were starting to venture south. I slowly undid his belt, then the button and zipper on his jeans. I reached my hand inside his pants and grabbed on. But something seemed different … there was a lot of skin down there. I poked around for a hot second, then quickly removed my hand. Being the nice Jewish girl that I am, I went home that night to Google and typed in the nine letters I hoped would prove me wrong: f-o-r-e-s-k-i-n.