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?

Reading Period is upon us — nothing but studying, reading, writing, and tests. For at least the next week, real blog entries will come second to my three papers.

* Summer Guy returns. Well, technically I returned by going home to Los Angeles, where we dated and bickered a season ago. This holiday, we met up. Naturally, nothing good came out of that. Naturally, I will exploit our encounter for all its salacious, literary value. Note to self: return his angry voicemail.

* Speaking of soulless corporate drones, yuppie blog BankersBall (think: Gawker-meets-finance) reports that I’m less-than-titillating. Because you know, Excel is so much more interesting than descriptions of dry humping.

* New character, Peter, will be joining the cast as well as my speed dial. His debut is scheduled for intercession (late January) and he actually has real-life fans, unlike all the other boy toys who my pals hate with a passion. Not so with Peter! All my roommates want to steal him from me. Hands off, bitches. Especially you, Terra.

* Currently suffering from a sweet tooth and jungle fever as my graphic indicates. If you’re a black guy with cake, I will write your papers for you in exchange for dessert in my dorm. (Picture courtesy of Anne Taintor, whose art is featured prominently on my wall-to-wall corkboard. Love her work.)

* Productivity means hooking up four times since coming back Friday. Between blowjobs and dinner dates, I haven’t gotten any work done. Thus, I made a tough sacrifice and decided to skip out on an ex sex session with Berklee tonight in order to finish extracurricular commitments. But really, I should be on my knees in Stoughton, MA at the moment. Ah, another time.

* Introducing two new recurring features: “Things I Learned in Therapy” and “Things I Should Tell My Therapist”. These will be slightly more somber quick reads to accompany my haphazard “Quickies” and politically incorrect “Quotables“. (Confidential to hvd09 — I’ll let my therapist Sarah know about your suggestion — also, drop me an email).

* Sex and the Ivy needs an IT department. Or at least someone who can actually install/integrate plug-ins, set up a more organized comment system, and faciliate greater user feedback. Where does one solicit technical expertise? Craigslist? India? I’m lost when it comes to this stuff. Pre-frosh blogger Sam Jackson, Yale ‘11, asked me how I’d manage to make it so far. My answer: “Like you might with a virgin, slowly but surely.”

* Into international men? The Gadfly’s Sahil Mahtani ‘08 (SM to my readers) wouldn’t mind engaging in some S&M via Boredatlamont.com.

* Readers: I’m making a self-important FAQ section, but I pretty much only get asked four questions: “What’s it like to be famous?” “Who’s [insert name]?” and “You slut” (really more of a statement). To which my responses are typically hahahaha, you, and I know. I think I need to work with more material here. So readers — especially my girls — please send inquiries to elle@sexandtheivy.com.

* New feature: registered users can now rate my entries on a five-star system. If you want to play, sign up here or click on the link in my sidebar under “Etc.” (Don’t register if you’re a character. You should already have an account set up.)

* Nominate your favorite blogs for the Seventh Annual Weblog Awards. This is the only year Sex and the Ivy qualifies for Best Teen Weblog or Best New Weblog (other categories — writing, humor, etc. — can be up to individual judgment). My personal list of favorites includes: IvyGate (New, Humorous), Gawker (Entertainment, Humorous), Sam Jackson (Teen, New), Opinionistas (American, Writing), and others. Entries are due by tomorrow, January 10 at 10 p.m. EST. Show me some love.

Last week at Winthrop Stein Club, someone I met called me a “sex goddess.” Quite the compliment considering that he’s never so much as seen the inside of my bedroom. But I suppose he was making an educated remark, considering that I do write a sex blog after all. Unfortunately, he and most other people have no idea just how stale my sex life is. Other than my roommates, who are privy to what (and who) goes down, no one knows that I’m gunning for Santa’s nice list this year.

The common perception among readers seems to be that I have an uncommonly active and satisfying sex life, that I’m a tiger in the sack, and that I’m always up for more action. If only. While freshman girls have called me their “hero,” “idol,” and “role model” (actual quotes!), the truth is that my sophomore self really hasn’t done anything — or anyone — worth emulating. Believe it or not, my sex life is actually really boring.

I have had sex maybe five times in the past two months, possibly less but definitely not more. The number of partners? A grand total of two, one of whom is Berklee (an ex who really shouldn’t count because we slept together in the most platonic manner ever). Promiscuous? Hardly. Everyone seems to think that my hypothetical bedpost has been whittled down to nothing when it is actually several notches short of scandalous.

What’s even more unbelievable is that I haven’t even indulged in the occasional casual hookup. Apparently, kissing with tongue has became a huge deal to me, because I can no longer handle friendly lip-to-lip action, even when drunk. I’ve turned down every single guy who’s tried to hook up with me this semester, Aidan included. Call me a control freak, but I only let things happen on my own terms. This wasn’t last year’s mindset. Making out with someone never caused such a fuss before, yet the only person I’ve kissed without hesitation so far is the ever-sexy Miss Sue and I don’t think she counts.

Public hookups were my freshman forte, but kissing someone mid-dance floor now seems inconceivable. I don’t even grind with guys anymore. The only dance partners I’m comfortable getting dirty with are either gay (Rody), platonic (ZAP), or so-not-an-option (one of Aidan’s roommates) that my vagina doesn’t feel threatened. In fact, I’ve noticed that I purposely avoid situations where someone might try to hook up with me. Alone with a boy in his bedroom? Rare. Alone with a boy in mine? Never. When did I become such a prude?

Just about the only nights I do have sex are weekends, and usually I’m several sheets to the wind (i.e. drunk). Alcohol is my aphrodisiac, sad to say. Without it, I’d be hopeless. Maybe I have performance anxiety, but I’m just not particularly confident in my sexual prowess when sober, nor am I keen on initiating. But thanks to the liberating effects of liquid courage, I pounce without shame. I’m also much louder than usual — great for my partner, not so great for his roommates or my red-faced self come morning. I never had problems with summoning my inner minx before. Could it be that I’ve actually developed a sense of modesty? It’s a shame.

My blockmates are the ones who should really be writing a sex blog. They’re doing far better in bed than I am. One pal’s still in the honeymoon period with her new boyfriend so I can only imagine the ferocity with which they hook up. JB’s informed me that his sex sessions with the BU beau are quite … vocal. Hell, even Terra’s pulled crazier shit than I have this year. The Brit’s publicly made out with not one but two young gents from a certain club that will remain nameless.

What’s worse than my lack of activity is my lack of desire. Usually, I’m not horny at all. My sexual appetite has been crushed under the heavy weight of my extracurricular commitments. Sleep, not sex, is the prevailing desire nowadays. Even if I’ve got company in bed, I’m more apt to cuddle than I am to fuck. At the end of the night, who has the energy to engage in multi-hour romps when last-minute reading awaits in the morning?

So I guess my point is that my sex life is more myth than truth. To the girls out there: you’re probably better off looking up to one of my blockmates. And to the guys: sorry, I’m afraid I have an early section.

EVEN as he slid my panties off, I remained convinced that this was not going to end in a regrettable mess of bare limbs and sweat. So with my back to the bed and one less piece of clothing on, I lifted my head and reminded him, “You know, I’m not having sex with you.”

I figured this was the polite thing to do. My statement was not going to prevent blue balls, but at least he knew what was coming. Or rather, who wasn’t coming.

“Why not?” he asked, more inquisitive than aggressive. I said something indefinite in response. “I’m just not” or “because” or another half-hearted answer that sounded unpersuasive even to myself.

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to do a good job of convincing you.” And then he slipped his fingers between my legs and pressed down into the hot center.

BEFORE I met up with him at Canton Junction earlier that night, I boarded the commuter rail with a fistful of promises to myself and every intent to keep them all. As the sky darkened outside the windows and the train tumbled closer to my destination, I shivered at my seat. Reaching into my purse, I retrieved my lipstick and reapplied it as if my lips would matter this evening.

He pulled into the parking lot and got out of his car. By the time I walked close enough to get a good look at him, I noticed his hair was shorter than I remembered. And for once, he wasn’t wearing a baseball cap. Slight changes. I wondered if I looked any different to him. Older. Thinner. Any more beautiful in autumn than in the spring.

Our conversation moved easily like it always has. As we drove deeper into Canton and then Stoughton, my eyes followed the suburban world passing us by. Then the roads closed in between looming branches and leaves, the colonial residences grew larger with every mile, and Boston’s urban landscape became a distant memory.

A shred of self-doubt started forming as I climbed the stairs of his Stoughton apartment and realized that I still remembered all the right turns to take and doors to open. My resolve weakened when I met his new roommate Jeff, tsk tsked at their empty beer bottles, and found his dining table as cluttered with bills as it was months ago. But I didn’t break completely until Jeff’s dog pounced up at me eagerly – Abby was the least expected addition of all. She was a female companion in male territory, and I fell for her faster than I fell for him.

He poured two glasses of red wine, sat us down on the couch in front of an episode of Will & Grace, and rubbed his thumb against the small of my back. As his hands wandered, so did my attention.

“You’re getting fresh,” I teased as his fingers grazed my bare upper breast. He smiled and I turned my face toward his, catching his breath, his tongue, and his lips on my own. His freshly trimmed stubble scratched at my cheek and I pulled him closer.

WE drove to a jazz concert in Providence, the pretense for my visit this evening. Jazz is a foreign tongue to me, a language I tried to pick up when we dated. Still, I found some appreciation for the smooth tones that competed against the Yankees game for attention. And easily, the band won. In the dim glow of the bar, I caught sight of a dark spot on his throat and fingered it apologetically.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He shook his head at me. “I work with kids. I can’t talk to their parents with hickeys on my neck.”

I offered up a grimace and stole a sip of his beer, even though I had a feeling that I could’ve gotten away with ordering my own.

The telltale mark at the crux of his neck proved too tempting to resist once we were alone on the drive back. So I pulled at my seatbelt and leaned over for another taste.

“I bruise easily,” he warned, and I was quite happy to ignore him. “You know we’re going back to my place, right? I have to water my mint plants before I take you back. Very sensitive pH levels.”

I laughed, more than willing to indulge in his charade. The next morning, I would find an unwelcome splotch of red on my panties. Even when I lost my virginity, I didn’t bleed.

“YOU still have all your clothes on,” I said to him with a hint of indignation. The last of my outfit had finally made it onto the floor.

“Well, you haven’t done anything about them,” he retorted. Lying naked on his bed, I felt unusually comfortable. But in the interest of fairness, I made him strip down until he was as bare as I was.

By the time I felt him against my inner thighs, slowly nudging his way inside me, my protests had long ceased and my claims to chastity had fallen away like my clothes to the ground. He entered me with a sensation altogether familiar and unexpected. My eyes shut, and I moaned low and throaty.

His name was what I said the most, and I ground it out between my teeth with a ferocity reserved for sex that happened for sex’s sake. Behind me, he breathed hard and I squeezed my legs together and he sucked in his breath even harder. He was large and slick and filled me deeper than comfortable. But I liked it that way. Half-breathless he asked, “Is this okay?” and I silently winced but nodded at the courtesy. Straddling him would have made it easier, but the only time I was happy on top was when my mouth was on his cock, taking him down inch by inch and lapping him up again with the tip of my tongue. So instead, I found contentment on my stomach, on my back, and on my knees, as I dug deeper into his sheets and asked him, gasping, to fuck me harder.

Afterward, I sighed into his chest, let the hair dance between my fingers, and traced the long scar that ran between his ribs and under his navel, a remnant of the surgery that saved his life. “Your battle scar,” I murmured.

He picked up my earrings from the creases of his sheets and held them up to my face. I laughed and thought to myself, “He fucked me so hard my jewelry came off.”

WHEN he dropped me off on the corner of Plympton and Mt. Auburn, I left his car with a quick, chaste kiss and a hurried goodbye, stumbling out into the Cambridge cold on my unsteady stilettos and even less steady judgment.

He drove away as I ran off in the other direction, ready to face the night. Were he my boyfriend, I might’ve looked back to catch a last glimpse. But he wasn’t. So instead, I tugged at my skirt and flipped my hair out, readying myself for the festivities to come.

At the steps of the Phoenix, I greeted the bouncer’s familiar face with my right hand on his chest, a warm smile, and a “hey there.” He opened the door just wide enough for me to slip inside and I clutched at the oak of the staircase as the bass pulsed against my chest. The second the warm air and chatter engulfed me, it was like Stoughton and Providence and even Boston were worlds away.

Across the river, I lose myself.

I spent Sunday at Lora’s with the DD Squad (my friends from home), gorging myself on her homemade pho and The Transporter 2. The movie turned out to be surprisingly good, and I’m not a fan of action flicks at all.

Okay, so maybe I was less enamored with the actual film than I was with the male lead. The girls were all in agreement on this one: Jason Statham is hot shit. I’m not one to entertain celebrity crushes either; my last infatuation was with a Backstreet Boy at age 12, after which I grew out of teenybopper-esque infatuations altogether. But this was before the Transporter. Statham is another breed of man completely. It’s hard to pinpoint the exact qualities he exudes but his very presence is turn-on – from the accent to the attitude to the stoicism. Mostly though, I think it’s the stoicism. Bullets, bombs, boobs – he’s not fazed by anything.

Basically, I want to have sweaty, stoic sex with Mr. Statham.

That might actually be easier than it sounds. Last spring, I dated a musician who’s a deadringer for the actor. Not merely a singer, songwriter, and guitarist, Berklee happens to be a fairly passable Statham lookalike, give or take an inch of height and some muscle mass.

Berklee also holds a place on the very short list of guys I’ve slept with who continue to acknowledge my existence (as someone other than “the self-obsessed Asian feminazi from Harvard” that is). Because he was hands-down the coolest non-Harvardian I’ve met in Boston, I acted decidedly un-bitchy to him post-involvement. How uncharacteristic of me! Our friendly rapport since then means exchanging the occasional friendly (re: flirtatious) text message. Tonight, friendly (re: suggestive) texting led to a friendly (re: loaded with sexual innuendo) conversation, during which I remembered the first movie I saw Jason Statham in.

A shared memory, it turns out. Sometime last March-ish, Berklee and I rented Snatch. Since I recall the opening sequence but not much else, I can only assume that fantastic sex with the Statham doppelganger prevented me from fully appreciating the screen presence of Statham himself. Kind of a shame. Had I discovered his sexual appeal then, I could’ve used Berklee for fantasy fulfillment purposes months ago. Now I have to wait until September.

Speaking of which, we’ve been in negotiations for an early September booty call. I’m hesitant to engage in “ex sex” since I’ve only hooked up with an ex once, and that terrible decision caused a decent amount of heartbreak, drama, and estrangement. Then again, that was in high school three years ago and involved a good four or five other parties (it was an incestuous group, okay?) As far as I can tell, there’s no possibility of an equally disastrous result this time around. He can pretend to be the bulletproof, emotionally unavailable badass and I can be that Asian girl thrown over his shoulders. What could possibly go wrong?

For Berklee’s sake at least, any doubts I’ve had are now more or less eliminated by my reckless hormones. I’m fairly sure that tonight’s movie selection has sealed the deal for our fall term romp, though what the precise deal encompasses I’ve yet to decide …