Never hook up with a twin. You will spend the rest of your life questioning your recognition skills when you bump into his brother.

On the bright side, I can tell definitely tell a former hook-up apart from his twin … even when the guy is fully clothed and I am both drunk and high. So drunk and high, in fact, that I blurt out loudly in front of a crowd, “See? I totally know what the guy I had sex with looks like!”

It was not exactly my proudest moment this weekend.

Related: Maggie, you suck. Thanks for totally psyching me out last night.

I can’t remember the last time I was infatuated with someone. Well, that’s an exaggeration. I can remember, but it was months ago and it turned out disastrously. I don’t miss infatuation one bit. It’s an attachment as unhealthy as nicotine. What I do miss, however, is feeling sparks. It’s been so long since I’ve met a guy who induces pre-date anxiety, first kiss bliss, and the kind of euphoria more suited to cinema than real life.

Not that immediate chemistry is something that’s happened to me often. For the most part, my post-high school relationships (largely short-term) have been spark-less and have occurred accidentally. That is, I ended up dating someone I wasn’t too keen on upon first encounter. Even my attraction to Summer Guy, a person I eventually fell in love with, was very much a gradual development. Unexciting as that is, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. After all, romantic relationships evolve, change, and deepen as much as platonic ones and friendships are rarely immediate.

Still, there is a palpable difference when you meet someone who you instantly hit it off with. My first meetings with both Kyle (in the autumn) and Riley (in the spring) left significant impressions. I was growing discontent with all things Harvard, the people included, and they were breaths of fresh air during periods of time when I would’ve liked nothing more than to leave school. In their own ways, they were the opposites of everyone in my life, and I could’ve talked to either of them all night.

And that is the movie version of romance, the kind written about and marketed to us, the connection people crave despite the overwhelming odds against its common existence. But then again, perhaps that’s what makes it so special and sought-after. It is rare to find someone who you can forge an instant understanding with. The few times that it does happen, it sets the bar remarkably high for the future and as much as common sense testifies to its rarity, it’s what we search for.

As far as sparks go, they’ve only happened a handful of times in the past year and only with Riley was it romantic. I struck up a great rapport with Kyle, had an instant girl crush on Jules, and felt unparalleled professional chemistry with my summer employer. And I don’t know if I really want sparks of the romantic variety at all. Without them, this summer has been incredibly freeing, if only because a crush hasn’t hijacked my every waking thought. In New York, I’ve gone out on a lot of unspectacular first dates and had a lot of good but not earth-shattering hookups. The person who occupies most of my thoughts is in fact Jules. She is the only one in this city I expect phone calls from or meals with. It is nice to not have a guy to miss or pine after. When they’re around, they’re a perk. But when they’re not, I have my girl.

So I guess there is a fear that I’ll eventually meet someone with whom there is that rare spark, who I cannot push into the corner of my mind after the bill is paid or the end credits played. How worth it is it to trade complacency for the possibility of whirlwind love? When it comes to risk versus caution, I usually err on the side of the former but I’m beginning to see the benefits of playing it safe. The popular notion of love at first date is not only overrated but hardly an indication of a successful future. In fact, I sometimes wonder if instant chemistry is actually a warning sign. Riley, after all, felt like puppy love and high school all over again and look how well that turned out. Is infatuation in the beginning an indication of a nuclear ending? If so, maybe I should eschew immediate sparks for a slow burn instead.

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?

Brain is fried.

I didn’t think it was possible to get sick of writing — or at least, writing about my favorite subject, myself — but it most certainly is. Hours upon hours on my current piece and I am still 1,000 words from done. It’s like climbing the stairs to my fifth-floor walkup; there’s no end in sight.

Back in January, I started writing this piece about Kyle. I never got around to finishing, but I revisited it throughout the semester. Now I’m finally sitting down and trying to fill in blanks. It’s harder than I thought it’d be. It’s also much, much lengthier than planned. Delving into our origin invariably means addressing what happened with Aidan. To adequately explain why I was so hurt from that, I have to talk about the fallout from the blog, the start of therapy, and the resentment I felt toward my friends. Kyle was both symptomatic of greater problems and ironically therapeutic.

I think that’s why I found him such an intriguing subject. In the midst of the insanity I was going through, here was this person who was just as unsure about what he was doing when it came to his future, his relationships, his everything. Beyond sex, I was just craving understanding. Empathy from everyone else rang hallow but for some reason, I actually took what Kyle said seriously. He was the least judgmental person in my life at that point.

Part of the problem I’m facing with finishing this piece is that there is no real conclusion to the story. Eight months later, things are more or less the same as they were when we met: he has a girlfriend, I am wary of all men, and neither of us is embarking on a particularly well-paying career. A happy ending this does not make. There’s not even a moral, except maybe “Don’t date Kyle/Lena attracts attached men”. I was so frustrated about the lack of a satisfying conclusion that on a couple occasions, I suggested to him that we hang out just so I could come up with something to write about. Obviously, life is organic, not fueled by my need for material.

I want to do this story justice and at 2,200 words, I’m still not satisfied. It is looking very likely that this will be my sample chapter.