AFTER ALL the times we’ve slept next to each other, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Kyle sleep so soundly as he did last night. Whenever I dozed off with him on my Mather twin, he never fell into deep sleep. He would lie there with his eyes closed, just skimming the surface of consciousness and ready to wake from the slightest movement.

My bed in New York is bigger than what we’re used to. The air is musky, laced with liquor from our breath. When I beckon him to bed, he comes fully clothed. I unbutton his shirt, unfasten his belt, pull off his shoes and his socks and finally — with a tug — his pants. I run my fingertips over his torso, resting them between the tufts of dark hair on his chest, and ask him to turn onto his stomach. He obliges.

I start to rub his shoulders for the first time in months. I ask about his girlfriend — or rather, his ex. They broke up recently, just a few weeks ago, and I actually believe him this time when he says it’s over. He confirms what I long assumed: his cheating on her with me was symptomatic of already existing problems, rather than their underlying cause. I think I needed to hear it from him to be sure.

“But she’d still flip a shit if she found out, right?” I ask.

“Of course.”

Everything feels displaced. All my friends I’m used to seeing in dorm rooms and dining halls are now running around New York nightclubs and office buildings instead. It changes things. I can’t imagine Kyle sitting in my common room and having a conversation with my Harvard roommates, but put us in a shabby chic one-bedroom across from Tompkins Square Park and suddenly, he’s making brunch plans with Kam. That was last night. Unfathomable. Were I at school, my blockmates (always the first to remind me of his transgressions) would have a difficult time mustering up cordial “hellos”. Maybe Kam is less judgmental. Or maybe it’s New York that’s forgiving.

YOU KNOW those nights when you enter a party slightly inebriated but completely pumped and hours slip by without you even noticing it? That was also last night. I walk into Aidan’s birthday celebration around 11:45pm with my friend Jules in tow. We dance, we laugh, we talk. Next thing I know, it’s pushing 4am, the club is emptying, and I’m getting into a cab with Aidan to drop off a drunk companion. I have no idea when everyone else left (though it’s clear they’re long gone), where my keys are (I drunkenly handed them to Jules), or how/with whom I’m ending the night. I can barely recall the last four hours. It feels like I just got there.

But I know I had a good time. I see it in the expression on Jules’ face. If her smile is any proof at all, then I must be damn pleased. I feel it too. Something about the rhythm of my heartbeat makes it feel like the last song played is still pumping through my veins. I am in such a good mood that I don’t even freak out in the cab when Aidan’s very drunk friend reaches up my dress, rubs me between my legs, and presses his lips against my thighs. I laugh uncomfortably and move his hands away. But I couldn’t get angry if I tried.

I stopped having sex after spring break. The last time was on March 29 with Sam in Philadelphia. A week later, I found out he’d been telling another girl that they were sexually exclusive and I ended things. I was about ready to give up on men altogether. Then Riley happened and if I had any doubts at that point, that fiasco cemented my feelings on the subject. I told myself and my friends that I didn’t want to sleep with anyone unless I was sure I could trust them or at least certain that they didn’t have secret girlfriends. That meant restricting sex to relationships.

In some ways, I looked forward to saying no. Most of the time, it wasn’t even difficult because I didn’t have any romantic feelings for the guy. It’s easier to disappoint someone who’s just a hookup. And with each successive encounter, my resolve strengthened, as if every refusal at the sight of a condom was a small victory in itself. Guys couldn’t argue. My reason for not having sex left no room for debate. The bottomline: if we’re not dating, we’re not fucking.

But the truth is more complicated.

I’m incredibly scared of loss. And I know I shouldn’t feel like I lose something by sleeping with someone, but I do. I decided to stop having sex because I was sick of giving away all these pieces of myself and subsequently worrying about unintentional attachment, ill-advised yearning. It felt like I had no control. It wasn’t my silly superstition about winding up with taken men (though certainly, the pattern started to worry me) so much as it was my wanting to wait for someone who made me feel safe.

I guess last night is as safe as it gets, even though some might say that sleeping with a previous partner doesn’t count. Let me tell you, after four months of forgoing sex, it counts. There are plenty of people it could’ve been, others who have made me feel safe, but something about yesterday’s circumstances allow for the situation to happen. It is organic. It didn’t feel right with the senior who I hooked up with on a near-daily basis over exam period, nor have any of the men in New York left enough of an impression to earn my trust. I was quite tempted to give in a couple weeks ago with Mark in the hotel but the place didn’t feel right even though he did. Thankfully, he didn’t push for it. I don’t know if I could’ve resisted.

It is easy to anticipate last night, even though I don’t really think it is going to happen until it actually does. We both have had a good deal to drink, but it isn’t the alcohol that convinces me. Often times, I’m most stubborn about this matter when I’m drunk. I don’t really need convincing at all. Everything is so familiar, like we have done it before — and we have — but need to remember again what it’s like. It all feels the same — his tongue against mine, the smell of his breath, the texture of his hair between my tugging fingers, the way his hands grip my waist. At the corner of my mind, I remember that Kam is in the living room, that I need to quiet my moans. But that thought is already drifting away.

I stroke his chest with my fingertips slowly, in circles — like I used to — before I lean down and stretch my lips wide to take him in my mouth. Even that is the same. He feels very, very familiar. Before he gets on top of me, he whispers a promise about not making the same infamous mistake we made the first time. I think that is what makes the difference. I laugh. I don’t care anymore.

When he finally pushes inside me, it hurts. It actually hurts. It’s been so long — not just since I’ve had sex but since we’ve had sex. Initially, the pain takes me by surprise, but then I remember that it always used to hurt.

Every.

Time.

I guess I forgot that part. After he finishes, he leans over, presses his cheek against mine, and sighs long and deep. I breathe hard. I can hear footsteps and the apartment door opening and Jules’ laugh.

IT’S JULY 29TH. Four months to the day. It’s been a pretty long self-imposed streak, if the lack of activity on the blog hasn’t already made this abundantly clear. This entire time, I thought that having sex again — just once — would end the whole mission, that I’d go right back to sleeping with men who I only vaguely trusted. I’m not entirely sure how I feel right now but if anything, I’m more firmly resolved to wait for a relationship than ever.

This morning, I wake up to the sound of storm and thunder. I can sense nausea on the horizon. Kyle is next to me in a surprisingly deep slumber, his chest rising and sinking steadily. Kam and Jules’ muffled voices filter in from the living room. I feel safe.

Consider this a sexy, condensed version of VH1’s Where Are They Now?

Some readers have inquired via email and comments about the missing men in my life, so I thought I’d offer up some explanations in semi-chronological order (not really). Hopefully, the following will help everyone understand why 1) these guys have dropped off the face of the earth — the planet being my blog — and 2) have left me single and disillusioned…

Berklee — When we last hooked up beginning of spring semester, he said, “I’m seeing a girl who reads your blog. Don’t identify me!” Fine. No more free sex. Let’s be friends.

Aidan — Exhibit A in “What Happens When You Blog About Transparent Cases of Housecest.” Or conversely, “How To Broadcast The Car Wreck That Is Your Love Life While Becoming a Celebrity in Three Weeks or Less!” Ahem, we’re friends. He’s also the only one currently within fucking distance.

Peter — Oh honey, we knew this wasn’t going anywhere anyway. We’re friends.

Kyle — Surprise! He had a girlfriend. We hooked up during an off-period and kept doing so after they were back on. I’m a bad person. We do not hook up anymore because I would like to stop being a bad person. We’re friends.

Sam — He had a kind-of girlfriend. Who I did NOT know about and who did NOT know about me. He told us both we were sexually exclusive. (I deserved this for the Kyle thing). NOT FRIENDS.

Riley — He had a girlfriend. Who I did not know about. And was my friend. And lived in a dorm five blocks from mine. Massive amounts of forgiveness (and a few punches!) later, we’re friends.

Mark — Good: Works too many hours to have a girlfriend, secret or otherwise. Bad: No time to blow money on me. Boo. His wallet and I are friends!

Summer Guy — Visited me in April. Always has a sort-of, kind-of, not-really girlfriend. Still talk all the time, still care deeply/want to have babies with him — but in a detached kind of way! And maybe ix-nay on the babies. We’re … you guessed it, friends.

In conclusion, I have a lot of friends I want to have sex with/take money from.

But kidding aside, Mark is my current fave, even if the possibility of this turning into something more is next to nil. And no, this has nothing to do with money, because I’m only a pretend golddigger.

Oh and the whole streak with guys who have girlfriends? Not broken. Number six was last weekend. Is there some kind of spray to deter taken men? Please?

CK: Always with the older men. Why don’t you play with children your own age?

Me: Because Aidan dumped sand on my ice cream cone.

CK: Aidan is just one boy. How many grown men have stomped the fuck out of your sand castle?

I’ve been bedridden and ailing since this weekend, so I’m incredibly behind on schoolwork and freelance assignments. No time to blog — nothing besides summer plans to blog about, anyway — so I dug up an old entry I never posted, because I feel guilty for slacking on the website. I wrote the following wayyy back in October. You can totally tell it’s dated: the guy, the newfound celebrity, the pre-meltdown indicators. Also, Kay makes an appearance, and when’s the last time I saw this girl? Oh yeah, last semester.

So here’s an oldie (but a goodie!) from when Lena was slightly unbalanced, still alcoholic, and actually sexually active …

Quite the weekend it’s been. Friday was basically a bust.

Kay and I parted ways on the corner of Mt. Auburn and Dunster with cheek kisses and assurances to do lunch. The soundtrack to my walk back home was Counting Crows’ “Mr. Jones,” blaring from inside the Fly and stuck in my mind the rest of the night.

Already, I was in no mood to deal with men. Friday had not been friendly to Kay and I. We called it quits early and made our way to Flat Patties at 1am. But the night wasn’t a complete loss. Over chili cheese fries, I caught her up on the entirety of October. I love the girl for sober moments like those.

Saturday was more eventful. I woke up the next morning dizzy and next to someone else. The standard issue college twin definitely does not facilitate premarital sex. Thank goodness I’m petite or Aidan and I would be subject to very dangerous sleeping scenarios. I remember crawling over him in in a semi-drunken stupor, stating indignantly, “I NEVER SLEEP ON THE INSIDE!” I think what I meant to convey was, “I think I’m going to roll off in the middle of the night, please help prevent this.”

The previous morning I nudged him awake, opened up his curtains, and made numerous threats to write unflattering blog entries if he didn’t get up. It was all to no avail. On Sunday morning, it was his turn to prod me relentlessly until I finally gave up all hope of sleeping in. How completely unfair, and obviously a result of territorial advantage. From now on, I will only hook up in my suite so I can sleep in as I please and the guy can trek it to his room at 2pm in his clothes from the night before. Boys have no shame.

Speaking of regrettable morning wardrobes, I made the very unwise decision to attend brunch in the same tiny top and skirt I donned hours ago at a party. Of course, I conveniently bumped into my sophomore adviser. She has the unfortunate luck of being assigned to me. Really, she couldn’t have asked for more of a handful. After she gently reminded me to see our Allston Burr Head Tutor, I reassured her that I would not sleep past yet another appointment, and would, in fact, make a personal visit to his office to assure him that I am not completely insane. Apparently, Mather House tutors have expressed concern for my well-being. I’m not surprised. In a school where everyone delivers, how do you tell people that you just can’t deal?

During brunch, a couple girls sitting in the table next to mine were discussing “Sex and the Ivy,” but promptly ceased their conversation when they realized my friend had alerted me. My life has devolved into something of a television show, at once comedic and dramatic. A dramedy, if you will.

I was telling someone just yesterday that my blog can be summed up by the following: “Hey guys, something really weird happened to me. Has this ever happened to you? No? Okay, then. I’m just a total fuckup. Thanks for the confirmation.”

This weekend was as low-key as they come, and still, I feel like life doesn’t quite turn out this way for anyone but me.

Reader Poll: Despite the pseudonyms, do you guys know who the boys and girls of this blog are? Just wondering about the visibility of recurring characters like Adia, Terra, and JB.

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No better way to spend Friday night than consuming large amounts of your least favorite alcohol. Call it an acquired taste, I just never got into tequila — though it still trumps whiskey (which I’ve never attempted again after an unfortunate post-graduation incident).But I digress. Let’s start from the top. Met up around nine with my favorite gal pal who was then denied entrance to Casino Night, a Mather-only event, so we naturally decided to drink alone. After taking Aidan’s martini back to my newly cleaned room for a “power half-hour”, we decided it was time for Crashing Events We Don’t Belong At: Take 2.

Success! Casino Night for the two of us included a “How many chips can you fit in your bra?” game with Matt as well as girl-on-girl action via an arm-wrestling challenge (we were manipulated by sick, sick men). Adia urged me to eat before I drank so I ate a handful of grapes in hopes that they would ferment during digestion. Between my outfit (nonexistent) and her liver (also nonexistent), we pretty much knew this night could only end in nasty hangovers and regrettable hookups. Possibly with each other.

So maybe not. But thanks to Mather golf (different drinks at every hole, i.e. dorm room), we did manage to get nice and drunk and make new BFFs — with boys too, because guys are totally the best drinking buddies. I’ve determined since last night that group drinking is an uber form of co-dependency. Sometime between my third and fourth tequila shot, Aidan stopped pouring drinks, looked me in the eye, and asked, “Lena, are you at your limit?” — a legitimate question considering the last time I golfed. I glanced at everyone else present, including the petite, susceptible-to-suggestion Adia. A dismissive, sober “no” later, and I was on shot number six. I knew I was going somewhere good even if my liver disagreed. Impromptu dance party ensued, Adia disappeared (as she often does), I flirted shamelessly with ‘09 boys (never happens when sober), and Nate made a surprise appearance an hour too late to regulate my ass.

Somehow, I ended in my bedroom, said a somewhat drunk hello to Sue, and heated up rice because it was the closest food in proximity. Adia came over to pick up her shit, I chatted with Matt for a few moments, and my night ended quite uneventfully save for a drunk dial from Summer Guy at 5 a.m. (Um, time difference, much?) Today I woke up with nary a regret. Well, maybe a couple, considering the secrets I spilled in my drunken state. But I’m hoping my conversation partners were too inebriated themselves to remember.

In conclusion, Friday night is what every night should be like for the next month: Adia, alcohol, and abstinence.