Overheard at Columbia University …

College Guy 1: “Dude, I’m Jewish.”

College Guy 2: “Man, you killed my god.”

College Guy 1: “Hahaha, yeah … we did.”

College Guy 2: “Yo, but we got you back!”

* Enjoying my last couple days in Philadelphia, where I’m staying with le sexy Jessica Gold Haralson (see right) and hanging with all the cool kids at Penn. Hot student journalist Eric Obenzinger told me that ever since I linked to his Facebook profile, the page has skyrocketed in Google searches. Ladies, friend him.

* Just got nominated for the 2007 Bloggies as a finalist for Best Teen Weblog. Show your love by submitting a vote! And if you haven’t voted for the Sex Blog Awards yet, click on the graphic on my sidebar. Both end Thursday!

* Suffering through a severe case of writer’s block. Been trying to finish two freelance assignments for the past month and have gotten nowhere. My first CollegeHumor piece (still to-be-written) debuts in a week. I’m also toying with the idea of submitting for “In Their Own Words”, a production put on by Harvard’s Women’s Center. Waiting for a creative breakthrough, perhaps in the form of …

* An intercession fling in Philly! Sam, who I met this weekend, is unconventional but a sweetheart … exactly what I need to cure mid-winter monotomy. Thanks to Jess and him, I’ll carry fond memories of Penn: great dessert with the former (love the bitter chocolate gelato at Capogiro) and fantastic sex with the latter (love, well …) I’ll write the full chronicle of my New York/Philadelphia adventures when I return to Boston.

* In addition to shopping classes, next week will be devoted to getting my ass in line. Pending are uncompleted work-study forms, multiple internship deadlines, and a yet-to-be-scheduled pre-screening for group therapy.

* FemSex information sessions kick off this week. I’m so there!

* I hear it’s twenty below freezing back on campus. Better warm up soon, if not for my arrival, then for the arrival of my favorite man I love to hate. Summer Guy may be paying a visit to Boston, Massachusetts in the next month or so. Details tk.

* And in lieu of a male conquest, here’s a snapshot of five-month-old baby, Dash — the first male face to appear on the blog! He accompanied his father, Ryan, to our (platonic) coffee date last Saturday in Union Square. I peg him as a future heartbreaker.

I answered the door in a t-shirt and boyshorts. “Hey,” I said to my curly-haired visitor.

He glanced up and shook his head at my (lack of) attire before managing a “hi” with a smirk. It was 3 a.m. and there were no pretensions about why he was here.

Shortly after I ensured that he came with an alibi and condoms, we were wrangling each other’s shirts off, eager to finish the long cocktease I started the last time he landed late in my lap.

And then his phone rang. With mouth pressed against the back of his neck, I whispered, “Answer it.”

He glanced at the name and tossed the phone to the side, atop the small pile of clothing we had made. “Sorry,” he muttered. Within seconds, we were back at it. Grabbing, squeezing, breathing hard against each other.

I got on top and straddled him, half-playfully, half-aggressively. As I ran my fingers over his upper body, his torso twisted to follow the touch of my hand. Each graze of my mouth against his lower stomach elicited a gasp. I dipped my head and pulled down his jeans. He was wearing black boxer briefs, his erection perfectly outlined against the fabric. I turned my head to wrap my lips around his girth, the cotton acting as the only barrier between him and my mouth.

“Oh god,” he whispered as I followed the length of his cock with my lips.. He was running his hands through my hair now, guiding me down. But I resisted the more he pushed. This is fun, I decided as I thumbed the tip of his erection. I was ready to finally deliver on my tease when his phone went off for the second time, emitting a low buzz as it vibrated over my carpet.

“Well?” I asked expectantly.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, before reaching over to flip it open and answer.

It was his friend (the one he ditched to rendezvous with me) inquiring about his whereabouts at a most inopportune time. He responded tersely and vaguely, as I stayed quiet and impatiently rubbed his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he said again when he hung up. I responded by tugging at his boxer briefs and revealing his cock inch by beautiful inch. I didn’t know where to start so I decided to aim low and work my way up. I flicked my tongue against the soft flesh at the base and moved my mouth up his shaft, leaving a trail of wetness behind. He was breathing hard now, grunting softly until I finally closed my lips over the head of his cock, inciting a low and hard groan.

He let out another one — more annoyed than turned on — when his phone rang again for the third unwelcome time. The caller was persistent. “What the fuck?” he answered after letting it ring a few more times.

While he talked to his pal, I had no intention of stopping the action on our end. I lowered my mouth over his cock and slid my lips over his shaft easily.

“Oh my god …” he groaned into the receiver. I was bobbing my head up and down while stroking his base with one hand. He lowered his eyes to look at me. “Fuck …” he said, still speaking into the phone. As I sped up my rhythm, he flipped the device shut — his friend still on the line — and watched me working his cock with my mouth. “Oh yeah, just like that,” he whispered. I sucked him off for a few more minutes before pushing him back on my bed and handing him a condom. I wanted to get fucked doggy style. In minutes, he had me on my knees.

- - -

As I straddled him in the afterglow of our encounter, I asked him what he wanted to be called on my blog if he ever warranted a mention. This was the first time I offered such a courtesy to anyone — close friends included, much less casual hookups. My hands tapping on his chest playfully, I waited expectantly for an answer. I already had a name in mind regardless but I was curious to hear what he’d say.

“Kyle,” he finally said after a few seconds of thought.

“What?” I almost fell off my bed from shock. “That’s exactly what I was thinking … did I already tell you?”

“No,” he replied casually. “I just thought it was a good, simple name.”

“That is so weird,” I said.

I shook my head. I could hardly believe it. But then again, Kyle left me bewildered with just about everything.

[For the rest of the Kyle series: Part I, Part II, Part III, and Part IV]

During the first week of each semester, Crimsonites “shop” classes, trying on cores for size and hopping from back-to-back lectures to overflowing seminars. It’s the most academically enthusiastic you’ll ever see the campus — or me. It’s the only time I eagerly highlight syllabi and listen with rapt attention to accented instructors. I dash from building to building, no pre-med requirements to slow me down, with a license (via my sociology concentration) to taste test history, English, women and gender studies, psychology, African American studies, and more.

Not unlike nights when I’ve triple booked myself for drinks (as I did last week in New York), I sometimes schedule three classes for a single hour. A quick scan of the room for potential classmates, an assessment of the professor’s ability to keep me awake, a few taps at my Powerbook, and I’m off with syllabus in hand.

Conveniently, my shopping schedule for this semester includes FOUR classes at 10am on MWF. I’m choosing between:

* Folklore and Mythology 106: Witchcraft and Charm Magic
* Literature and Arts A-88: Interracial Literature
* Sociology 109: Leadership and Organizations
* Sociology 156: Quantitative Methods in Sociology

Actually, it’s not much of a choice. I’m required to take the last one for my concentration, so I have to ditch the other three classes (which are infinitely more interesting). Must also take Sociology 97: Tutorial in Sociological Theory. Which means I have room for two of the following:

* African and African American Studies 97b : Topics in African American History and Society: Changing Concepts of Blackness (Does anyone know if I can get into an Af-Am tutorial if I’m not a concentrator?)
* Psychology 980qq. Psychology of Race: Theories, Politics, and Controversy
* Psychology 1201. Your Brain on Drugs: Psychopharmacology
* Sociology 24 : Introduction to Social Inequality (Might be a gut since I did four sociology courses already)
* Sociology 67 : Visualizing Social Problems In Documentary Film and Photography (Sociology in fun mediums. Most excited about this!)
* Studies of Women, Gender, and Sexuality 1170 : Power to the People: Black Power, Radical Feminism, and Gay Liberation 1955-1975 (Unfortunately, the reading for WGS tends to kill.)

Though I don’t want to, I should really look into cores (I’ve only taken Justice so far, and my head tutor is ready to deny my study card):

* Science B-57. Dinosaurs and Their Relatives
* Science B-64 : Feeding the World; Feeding Yourself
* Foreign Cultures 67. Popular Culture in Modern China

Save for the sociology requirements and cores, that’s a pretty representative sample of my intellectual interests. I should’ve probably gone to a liberal arts school.

[Okay, I've determined there's no way I'm doing an 11am class on Friday. Just no way. Also, I'm only waking up at 10am two days a week because my concentration requires it. Fuck science on TTh.]

I don’t want to admit this. I don’t want to admit this. But I will.

At the end of the day, I still think about you. At the end of the night, I still care. I wish I didn’t. I can’t explain why I do. Reason says that you’ve done nothing but hurt me. Gut instinct says what the hell. But I should listen to the former … “reason” being my friends. Since my therapist says my neurotransmitters aren’t the most reliable, the roommates have to do. They’re probably more dependable than my own judgment at this point and they have my best interests in mind. But instinct doesn’t. And neither do you.

So what I don’t understand is why I care so damn much about someone who couldn’t care less. I think about you all the time, worry about you as if we were friends (which we’re not), and actually want to be part of your life. You don’t think about me at all. The irony is that I’ve been doing all these things to distract myself from you, and simultaneously everything I do is because of you. The spending sprees, the serial dating, the constant desire to run away … it’s all because of you. You’re the one I’m running from when I board buses and shuttles and planes. You’re the one motivating my applications for visiting student programs at other universities. You’re the one who is more threat to my sanity than hurt to my heart. When I leave town, I’m really leaving you.

There was a moment when you initially broke my heart that I thought I could fall right over the edge of reason. Every day since, I have taken a step back and I am now a safe distance from it. I intend to stay here, ice my wounds numb, and enjoy the indifference of not feeling anything in the places that count. You taught me to expect disappointment in a way that my father never did. Or maybe you built on lessons already learned.

I’m sorry that I will never tell you how I feel in person, though certainly, I owe you that much. But I can’t even bear to call you out by name. My overwhelming desire for you to understand is overshadowed by my fear that you’ll recognize yourself between these lines and actually demand honesty of me. But the truth is too much and not something either of us really wants, I think. It was what got us in trouble in the first place. And now that I am wary, it is much more than what I can offer.

The reason I never look you in the eye is because it makes it easier for me to lie about how I feel. I’m convinced that eye contact will push me right back on that edge, or at the very least, force the tips of my toes to teeter there precariously, just close enough to death for me to realize how foolish I am to tempt it. It will be a long time before I am willing lock eyes with you again. It will be a long time before I am brave enough to peer over the edge.