I gatecrashed, broke laws, shivered, ate, and stayed up too late with Julia Allison, Time Out New York’s newest dating columnist and my favorite bad influence. This is actually the fourth dating/sex-related column for the “notorious figure with a notorious figure.” I’m waiting for her to come out with The New, New Rules.

Anyway, the gal’s so busy corrupting the young (wait, am I even corruptible at this point?) that her latest effort’s gone unnamed. Manhattanites, send in suggestions for a clever title to Julia’s column and win a dinner-for-two in the city. If you’re lucky, it’ll be as classy as the meal we shared last night.

Radar party: Julia is not actually as short as pictured.

12 hours ago, I was in Manhattan. Now I’m in Hanover, New Hampshire. Big difference. Cece was right: there really isn’t anything to do at Dartmouth except study, drink, and fuck.

In other news, the only thing weirder than getting recognized at Harvard parties is meeting people who have read about you on Gawker.

Sorry, Harvard. I’m missing Primal Scream this year. I’ll be in Manhattan all day tomorrow to attend meetings and find a sublet. I’m spending the night before heading off to Dartmouth on Friday for Green Key Weekend. New Yorkers and Dartmouthians, give me a call!

Still 25+ pages worth of papers to write before departing in 24 hours …

EDIT: Just kidding. I didn’t realize at the time of posting that Primal Scream was tonight, not tomorrow night. Totally ran that shit.

What you’ve done becomes the judge of what you’re going to do - especially in other people’s minds. When you’re traveling, you are what you are right there and then. People don’t have your past to hold against you. No yesterdays on the road.

–William Least Heat Moon, Blue Highways

I am continually surprised by how much I enjoy my trips away from Harvard. Every time I return, my immediate instinct is to not unpack so I can embark on another adventure on a moment’s notice. My favorite new activity has been plotting my little escapes. A weekend in New York here, a jaunt to the Cape there. With enough determination and income, I could leave campus twice a month.

Besides, distance makes the heart grow fonder, and I feel most loved when missed. On campus, eating a meal alone is disappointing. Being canceled on for dinners and coffee dates frustrates me to no end. Even my instant messages go unreturned when midterms rear their ugly head. I hesitate to call my friends “fair-weather” but our interaction is dictated by the exam schedule.

But away from Harvard, I stop being the one who makes effort. My friends at school are interested in who I’m seeing, where I’m going, and when I return. They call to ask about my trip and I am the one who does not return their instant messages. As an out-of-town visitor, I rarely get canceled on because people want to see me while I’m actually around. But most importantly, it doesn’t matter if I don’t have someone to hang out with. Sometimes I take my meals alone and have a perfectly enjoyable time. I have no expectations for constant company. And without classes or roommates, I wake when I like and retire when I like (often, early). I dictate my day.

Solitude is what I most appreciate. Four-hour busrides (five on a bad day) to New York are not too long when shared with a laptop and a book. I jot notes about writing projects and organize my to-do lists while riding the subway. I am more observant walking Philadelphia and Manhattan streets alone than I ever am in Cambridge. For some reason, life moves much more slowly when I’m away, like I’ve put Harvard on time-freeze as I’ve left to enjoy another place. It is as if this school puts my already quick-paced life on fast-forward and I have to break out of the frame in order to regain some sanity.

Maybe what I like best about leaving is that a new environment with new people offers a clarity impossible to attain when close to the familiar. I feel like the truest form of myself when removed from my friends, family, and the academic institution that has hijacked my identity and dreams. I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life when I’m on campus. For the past six months, most of the goals I’ve made have been formulated hundreds of miles from Cambridge. Here, I can only think of banking and consulting and grades and GPAs. Harvard kids function under so many expectations that their neuroses could constitute a new chapter in the DSM-IV.

Leaving is dreaming of what life without Harvard could be like: impulsive, unconventional, different. Returning is a reminder of what I’m giving up on the road less taken: a cubicle gig, a cushy salary, and guaranteed success. All you have to do is follow the plan.

It’s a scary trade-off. Who wants to give up a sure thing?

I didn’t want to back in autumn. And I still wouldn’t if I stayed put at Harvard and never ventured beyond our Ivy gates. If it weren’t for my leaving so many times this winter, becoming friends with people who have taken risks, meeting others who couldn’t fathom choosing corporate over creative, then I don’t think I’d be writing this blog anymore. There has been hours and hours of travel, who knows how much in airfare and bus tickets, and all the stress that comes with planning a trip. Worth it? Just as much as four years and tuition.

My blockmate Terra said to someone yesterday that I just don’t do Harvard guys (and I mean “do” in an all-purpose, not entirely sexual sense). I can’t deny that she’s right. With the exception of early sophomore fall and the occasional drunk makeoutfest, I’ve stayed away from Harvard undergrads when it comes to both dating and sexing. I just don’t like the way college boys feel. Too young, too inexperienced, too disappointing. My most satisfying experiences have been with older guys — at least four years removed. One exception: I lucked out as a freshman with my first college fuck buddy. Despite being a virgin, he was miraculously savvy in the sack. I’ve yet to encounter such blow-my-mind manual dexterity in the year and a half since.

Is it any wonder that of the guys I have hooked up with, the overwhelming majority are from this year’s graduating class? It’s not as if two-year’s difference means terribly much but the difference, however minute, is enough. At the very least, I’m no one’s first drunken error and the guy has a condom if I don’t and he will actually attempt oral sex somewhat successfully. But I’m being completely critical at the moment, generalizing about an entire population, and not exactly offering helpful tips. So I’ll cease.

The reason I write all this is that I recently spent the night with an undergrad who was actually responsive to my needs, respectful, and not entirely awkward come dawn. I left feeling like he was a decent individual, which is not what can be said for 90% of similar situations I’ve been in. It made me wonder why hooking up couldn’t always be like this, and especially why hooking up in college, at Harvard, couldn’t be like this. From this, I formed the conclusion that there are some universal rules to abide by:

1. Phone calls aren’t expected after one-night stands, but acknowledge the other party in public instead of conveniently looking at your shuttle schedule when they pass by.

2. Unless they’re about to puke on you, let your hookup spend the night. You took them home; it’s polite.

3. Do spend the night if offered. It’s polite. (At least pretend that you weren’t just over for the orgasm).

4. Straight couples: if the girl insists on going home anyway, walk her even if it’s 3 a.m. Just do it. Gay couples: not so sure on the etiquette — call cab? Either way, muggings are not so sexy.

5. Reciprocate. Especially when it comes to oral.

If everyone would just do stuff like this, it would make the entire hookup scene more pleasant and less awkward.

On a tangent, I’d also like to take a moment to clear my name. My atrocious behavior last weekend (not reciprocating after receiving oral sex — and in fact, only kissing the guy) wasn’t that bad when considering the context. First, I told him before I even went home with him that I wouldn’t “be doing a damn thing” for or with him so I was already going further than promised. Second, he got off on going down on me anyway. Win-win. Besides, getting oral sex is far from consent to give it. It may not be terribly polite to deny the other party (after all, I’m breaking my own rule), but there is certainly no obligation. Also, this instance is most definitely a first and will not be repeated. Not that he should be holding his breath.