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.

As a considerate freshman, I rarely brought home my conquests for fear that our activity would disrupt my suitemates. Though I had three fuck buddies (not concurrently, mind you), none of them made it back to my suite more than once and only one had sex with me in my bedroom. Beyond the awkwardness of having to explain a random guy’s presence, fucking with my suitemates in close proximity never seemed like an appealing option. The alternative option — going home with guys was far less uncomfortable. Thus, my first year at Harvard was one long acquaintance with male roommates and grungy living conditions.

But this year, I’ve thrown etiquette out my dorm’s prison-sized window. With the exception of Aidan (whose room I frequented more often than he did mine), most guys I’ve hooked up with have come home with me. Perhaps it’s because I’m less hesitant to impose on my current roommates, who unlike last year are all close friends of mine. Perhaps I’m tired of repeating the Walk of Shame weekend after weekend, especially since my dorm is so far from all the other Houses. For one reason or another, autumn and early winter have brought an endless stream of strange men into our Mather home.

More often than not, my roommates know better than to walk into my bedroom without knocking. On most mornings after, they gingerly approach me over my vanity or mid-hallway and ask whisper-soft, “Is he still here?” Since most of my men are anonymous acquisitions, they escape without the burden of undergoing small talk or extensive scrutiny. The situation is all the more awkward when my hookup knows my roommates or is just acquainted enough to obligate a greeting. “How are things going?” is a far harder question to answer when the most honest response is “Orgasmically.”

And then there are all the unexpected burdens that come with entertaining overnight guests. Apparently, when I fuck a guy, I’m also fucking all his friends. For example, innocent making out with one pal of a pal has led to a couple “Don’t mess with my bro’”-style warnings. Disturbingly, the last time I was with Kyle, one of his homeboys (or whatever you kids call them these days) stormed into my suite at 5am, ran up our stairs, knocked violently on the bedroom door, and stormed out. Needless to say, we have now begun to regularly lock our doors. You never know considering the characters I bring home. While other gals host male visitors without incident, my hookups result in break-ins.

Of course, the aftermath is never a pretty sight. Guys can fuck and run, but I’ve got to stay and clean … especially if I plan on inviting a different guest over in just a few hours time. Condom wrappers, wrinkled clothes, scattered change, and yes, even used condoms, are just some of the things left littering my floor. I’ve recently gotten into the habit of warning my suitemates to watch out before entering my room barefooted. A wet surprise between their toes is significantly less welcome than on my lips.

The benefits, however, far outweigh the drawbacks of fucking at home. Come sunrise, my toothbrush is readily accessible (as is my shower) and I don’t have to get back into last night’s outfit (probably an inappropriate get-up for a morning jog). Most importantly, I’m not side-by-side with a stressed-out senior, nudging me out of bed at dawn so he can make it to an interview or early meeting. Often when my paramours leave, I simply roll over and go back to sleep, probably the best advantage to playing hostess. After all, if there’s anything at Harvard rarer a commodity than sex, it’s definitely slumber.

I’ve got hos in different area codes.

Or at least that’s what it seems like judging from my text message inbox. Barely in town for 24 hours and I’ve already gotten booty called twice. Let’s see how long I can resist the charms of corporate-by-day, hormonal-by-dark Manhattanites.

Meanwhile, check out this video of the AVN Expo by the guys over at Dog Rodeo (also Harvard grads).

Great news, blogosphere! Yours truly has been nominated for Best Sex Blog, Best Female Sex Blog, and Sexiest Sex Blogger in the 2006 Sex Blog Awards. Much thanks to my readers for rocking the vote! Who knew people actually listened to my self-promotional bullshit?

Winner of Best Sex Blog appears on Playboy Radio so click here to vote on the finalists. (Not that my “ingratiating” voice hasn’t already graced the airwaves…)

To showcase my erotica chops, here’s a “Best of Sex” on Sex and the Ivy:
Lead Me Not To Temptation
Giving It My All
Saying Yes Was Never So Easy

To showcase my assets, this picture has been taken just for the occasion — must prove that I’m not hideous after all. Do you see the amount of Crimson in this photo? I’m so full of school spirit I could burst.

I think Playboy recognition of the Ivy League is long overdue. No offense to the Rhodes Scholars out there, but isn’t it time one of us won an award that’s actually interesting? And wouldn’t a sex blogger be the best ambassador of Harvard?

Between the Sociology 25 exam tomorrow morning and my final presentation for a seminar Monday afternoon, I’m blatantly disregarding my need to study and research to head off to New York in search of sexy Manhattanites instead.

Wednesday — Upon my evening arrival, I’m attending an erotic reading series hosted by Village Voice sex columnist Rachel Kramer Bussel.

Thursday — An afternoon visit to AM New York’s “The Dating Life” columnist Julia Allison who is interviewing me for CO-ED Magazine.

Friday — Lunch date/gangbang in TriBeCa with the boys of CollegeHumor, for whom I’m selling my soul via a sex column that debuts next month. Perhaps a jaunt to the East Village to say hi to Ryan Iverson (Yale ‘02) who I stayed with over Thanksgiving.

Saturday — Late afternoon joe (the drink, not the man) with Viviane, sex blog mistress and tea party hostess.

Sunday — Back in Boston in time for brunch so I can work on my Monday presentation. Yikes!

In between and late at night, I’m whipping out my little black book of booty calls in the city. Kidding. Maybe. Hey, maybe if I sleep around enough, I won’t even have to look for accommodations! Kidding. Maybe.

Okay, really now. I don’t actually know where the hell I’m sleeping Wednesday. Friday and Saturday I’ll be living in Columbia sex columnist Miriam Datskovsky’s dorm room. Other accommodations yet to be acquired/confirmed, though I should probably get on that considering I’m leaving in 24 hours. Thus, my frantic Facebook status: “Lena is baking cookies for the first NYC gal to offer her a place to stay tomorrow night.” Emphasis on gal. Sex is really not on my immediate agenda.

When I come back on Monday, I’m doing my presentation (ends at 2 pm) and pretty much leaving right after for Philadelphia (getting on the T at 5:30 pm). It’ll be the shortest plane flight ever, unlike the 6.5-hour trips home to Los Angeles, and my longest mid-year trip at eight days. I am staying with the oh-so-sweet Jess Gold, founder of UPenn’s literary erotica magazine, Quake, and hanging with Eric Obenzinger, the cutest student journalist I’ve yet to screw.

I’ll blog in between I’m sure, but it’s adieu to Harvard and all my Boston boys until February 1st. Work hard and play safe without me, kids.