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?

Single ain’t so bad on Valentine’s. In the past 24 hours, I’ve traded “I love you’s” with Summer Guy, walked out of a lecture to talk to Sam, and exchanged greetings with a New Yorker I plan on seeing this weekend. I met two boys for the first time (separately, both for coffee), received messages from readers (thanks!), and also managed to piss off Peter via text message. No small feat considering the wonderful timing.

I think it’s fantastic that every guy who remotely gives a shit about me is currently at least 200 miles from Boston.

It’s been a quiet day. Save for my meeting at the Agassiz (I’m producing a show there, can you believe it?) I didn’t do anything terribly productive. I’m sure the weather’s to blame. For dinner, Nate (see left, in better weather) and I went to Tanjore where I ordered Aloo Mutter and lamented my lack of flowers. But what’s really sad is my lack of sex.

I haven’t had sex in a week and a half. I expect to break out into a rash at any second. I suppose I could make a phone call to a local hookup if I really wanted to (and trust me, Valentine’s is the day to do it) but I’m utterly disappointed with the hos in this area code. Then again, pretty much every guy on my current roster — Bostonian or not — has some major failing (be it commitmentphobia or Republicanism).

Just about the only person who doesn’t continually frustrate me is Kyle and that’s probably because my expectations for him are exceedingly low. I was telling my roommates last night that Kyle’s unabashed sleaziness is infinitely better than the shit I encounter from guys like Mark who disappear and reappear at whim or guys like Summer Guy who admit they love me in the same breath they deny our romantic possibility. Kyle may be no saint but at least I know exactly what to expect — nothing.

I think the real cause of my frustrations is the fact that I’ve been playing around with the same five guys since mid November/early December. Like my black leather boots, they’re a season old. But unlike my boots, they don’t complement me better as the winter goes on. If anything, things have stagnated. And by “things,” I mean everything — sex, relationships, conversations, etc. It is February 15 and it might as well be 2006 again. I’m just bored and not even in a self-indulgent, “I have a short attention span, so interest me” kind of way. I’m bored from desperately wanting passion and ending up with excuses about distance and lack of time and youth and bullshit.

I’m tired of bullshit.

Maggie, JB, and I discussed the boundaries of monogamy last night. Both vehemently disagreed that a sexually open relationship could work. But honestly, I see such a clear separation between my physical and emotional needs. The latter can easily be fulfilled at long-distance. The former — though something I’m certainly willing to compromise — obviously necessitates regular interaction. Though I’m quite fond of Summer Guy, I don’t particularly care if he dates or sleeps with other women. It doesn’t make me love him less. The one thing we’re missing is a relationship label, and even then, I can’t tell you if that would dramatically alter the way we relate to one another or my feelings toward physical intimacy with other people. Sex doesn’t mean a damn thing.

I am almost convinced that Sam is this happy medium between all the madness. He’s not in Boston, but close enough for visits. The distance makes him attentive in a conveniently non-intrusive way. He’s older (which I prefer) but a student (which is easy to relate to). Sex is great, even orgasmic. And the big one: he’s emotionally available — almost unbelievably so. Just about his only flaw is his fiscal conservatism, and I’m sure I can fix that with time.

So why am I second-guessing his motives all the time? Probably because I’m more used to 20-something boys than I am 20-something men.

We’ll see what the four-day trip away brings. New York tomorrow night. Philly this weekend if I’m feeling spontaneous. See you Monday, Harvard.

I’m supposed to be writing a short piece for The Crimson to include in a compilation of opinions about Primal Scream, a mass streaking event that kicks off on the midnight before the first day of finals. I told the Crimed in charge that I’d be writing about body image (you know, because mine is oh-so-positive). At only 120 words, this should be a piece of cake and a fun opportunity to take cheap shots at my favorite target: myself. But I’ve been trying to start this thing since Saturday night and there are no witty observations that come to mind.

Though I ran Primal Scream my freshman spring, I was less than certain about giving it a second go. I had to coach myself through the experience this time, especially when I realized that there would be much more strolling than jogging thanks to the overwhelming number of participants. I was also hand-in-hand with a petite girlfriend, not the multiple, tall male friends who accompanied and shielded me last semester. Thankfully, I found the run more exhilarating than intimidating. Caught up in the moment, I even felt secure about my body, positive about how I looked. But that was it – a moment. Once completed, this defiant act had little lasting impact.

I want to write that Primal Scream permanently changed the way I view myself physically, that it inspired some remarkable epiphany about how self-perception is all that matters. But the truth is that after the deed was done, my clothes came back on and with them, my insecurities. Perhaps that’s why it’s so difficult to articulate my feelings on the subject, because all the liberation it afforded only lasted 180 seconds.

Or perhaps I’m experiencing writer’s block because the only thing I can think or write about is not Primal Scream but what happened afterward.

Four hours after I streaked alongside my peers, I stripped down for a second time in front of Peter, a guy I’ve been seeing. A bit drunk and more than a bit horny, the two of us had practically been going at it moments earlier in front of his friend and my gal pal Kay. Those two got the hint and ducked out early, leaving us alone in his apartment. In no time, we made it in bed. He was lying on top of me when he broke away from our kiss and sat up, staring at me wordlessly.

After a few seconds of silence, I asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just looking at you …” His voice trailed off.

“Uh, why?”

“You look perfect like this.”

I laughed. “Um, okay. You’re making me feel really self-conscious.”

“No, really. You look perfect.”

I bit my lip, mildly bewildered, and watched him watching me. I couldn’t decide if I believed him or not. We were about to have sex after all. Attraction was presumed. Besides, I wasn’t exactly a stranger to pre-intercourse compliments and have no problem taking them. But this felt different, almost uncomfortable. Maybe because he used the word “perfect” instead of “hot” or “sexy” or another overtly sexual adjective. Maybe because he was one of the few men I’d grown fond of this term.

Regardless, I think I’ve pinpointed the cause of my writer’s block. For all the supposed liberation streaking ought to bring, it is really just a showcase of the human body and where’s the meaning in that? Though empowering, my jaunt around the Yard wasn’t nearly as memorable an experience as my encounter with Peter later that night. However he looked at me — sexually or not — there was a sense of appreciation that transcended lust, that made me feel like I wasn’t merely on exhibition for spectators or lying on his bed for carnal consumption. I was bared twice on the night of Primal Scream, but Peter saw far more of me than most of my classmates ever will.

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.