I do not use real names on this blog for the men I’m involved with, not even those who have wronged me. (My friends are a different story, but the events concerning them are far less controversial.) Even when someone cheats or lies or manipulates, I avoid outing them and instead use generic first names and leave out identifying information like their job, education, age, or location. Instead, I bite my tongue, am vague about the details of how we became acquainted, swallow the words long before they ever make it to text, and shield these men as much as I shield those I love. However deserving they may be of the scrutiny, they don’t receive it … at least not from my readers, who at 1,000+ a day, could comprise quite the cyber lynch mob. If Gawker’s premise is that everyone is an asshole and should be called out for it, then mine thus far is that even assholes are entitled to their privacy.

But I’m not so sure I believe that any longer.

Lena Chen: do you think it’d be really bitchy for me to post the real name of a guy who tried to hook up with me even though he knew i was friends with his girlfriend? there are a number of people i could Google bomb this way
Scott: you’re in a unique position to dole out justice as you see fit
Lena Chen: yeah, i can play god
Scott: not quite god but as close as a college student can get
Lena Chen: i haven’t really exercised the option
Scott: are you planning to use his full name, or just his first name?
Lena Chen: i COULD use his full name, post a mugshot, do the whole vindictive thing, but i don’t think i will. people are just shitty sometimes. has he learned his lesson? probably not, but i think he’ll get his, and i don’t think i need to help out. although if i ever end my blog, it might be with a list of every douchebag i’ve ever encountered during college, their photos, and details about their jobs/lives.
Scott: that’s kinda harsh
Lena Chen: haha, maybe. they would all deserve it. here’s the thing. i’ve learned that human nature is pretty selfish and lends itself to shitty behavior, but most people are remorseful about it. the people who aren’t deserve to be called out.
Scott: i’m increasingly relieved that you have not deemed me a douchebag

For no reason beyond my greater visibility relative to most people, I have the ability to judge who deserves or doesn’t deserve to be ratted out and thrown to the cyber wolves. But I’m not God, and jokes about an explosive SATI ending aside, I am quite frankly very uncomfortable with the idea of being a vigilante, taking matters into my own hands, and sullying people’s names. So what if a David (and yes, this is a real name) tried to fuck me behind his girlfriend’s back even though she was my friend? Does that mean he should have his full name attached to that incident so that every person who Googles him finds out? Who am I to judge him? And perhaps most importantly, does his lack of remorse make him any more or less deserving?

You see, I don’t know who deserves it or not. Riley was someone who deceived me about having a girlfriend (who was another friend of mine) and yet I would never name him. I don’t think he deserves it, because he’s a good guy who fucked up in a big way and gave himself enough hell about it that he doesn’t need someone to force remorse down his throat. But if he didn’t feel so bad, should I have called him out publicly? Do I have the right to post people’s mistakes before a public audience if I was harmed in the process of their fuck-up and they didn’t say “sorry” in a way I deemed genuine enough?

My most recent freelance assignment is a column about being the “other girl”. It is a 700-word examination of the past year’s experience in attracting taken guys over and over and over and over … again. (Seven at last count). And when it comes to my professional writing, I like to name names. This is problematic, because despite the astonishing number of girlfriends who have already found out, there are plenty who are still clueless about their guys’ indiscretions. Given the context I offer in this piece, it wouldn’t be terribly difficult for a girl to recognize her boyfriend in my column. Does that mean I should withhold real names, or is that not my responsibility?  Should these guys have known better?  Or do I owe them the courtesy of keeping their moral lapses behind closed doors?

I don’t know. I really have no idea. For every David, there is a “Riley”, and I’m not sure if God himself could say just whether one deserved any more than the other to err in private.

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.

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?

So a funny thing happened today. A slightly unhinged ex posted a comment on my blog and I suddenly realized why I punched you in the face.

Because you wouldn’t hit me back.

I knew you wouldn’t strike in return, follow me around, harass me, or otherwise retaliate. You were a harmless target for my anger and I was so angry, almost uncontrollably so. You were number four in a string of men who were seeing other women while involved/trying to get involved with me. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right, and while the former couldn’t be fixed because life, by nature, just isn’t fair, I thought I could even the score on the latter with a few uppercuts.

Obviously, I was wrong.

You weren’t the person I was really mad at. See, here’s the thing: I think you’re a good guy. You made a mistake, you apologized, and you meant it. The fact that everyone fucks up is a more or less accepted fact. What makes a person a decent individual is their willingness to acknowledge wrongdoing when their fucking up hurts someone else. When it comes down to it, you made a serious mistake, but you don’t deserve to be called a bad person anymore than you deserve to be punched in the face.

The same couldn’t be said for the much-older man who preceded you, a compulsive liar insistent to the end that the girls he two-timed were the real liars — fooling each other and themselves in the process. Nor could the same be said for my friend’s boyfriend who justified his propositioning me in a hotel room with the excuse that her insecurities encouraged him to. They are just the icing.

I have encountered man after man irresponsible with my heart and disrespectful of my dignity. In the grand scheme of things, what you did was so magnificently minuscule, so juvenile in its error, that it hardly merited my reaction. I didn’t hit you because you deserved it. I hit you because it was safe to and I thought it would make me feel better.

But it didn’t make me feel any better. It just made your face numb and my knuckles sore, not too unlike my heart. I was too drunk at the time to realize it, too heartsick afterward to mull on it, but really, I was just hitting a boy who already felt sorry when what I really wanted to do was punish a man who didn’t feel at all.

So for that, I’m sorry.

* Jesus Christ, before I get ad boarded, I asked Riley for permission to punch him before actually punching him. Just a clarification. Also, there are a bunch of insane comments posted by an ex. I’m not deleting them (he’d probably cry censorship), but I don’t think they’re worth responding to, especially given the number of times I’d simply say, “Patent lie.”

Forgive me for the sickness-induced hiatus which has put me behind on schoolwork, freelance assignments, and even blogging. To make amends, I’m going to offer up my friends’ amorous musings for analysis. Inspired by the New York Magazine piece, this is a week in the sex life of an Ivy League student.

Four real Harvardians (and one Quaker), seven days of yearning from across the Yard, morning-after shuttle rides, and Facebook flirting. We are a campus of grade-grubbing, budding Manhattanites and whatever New Yorkers can do, we think can do better. But can we?

This week gal pals and fellow bloggers chronicled their deepest desires. For a preview of what can be expected once our juicy journals are compiled, check out a one day peek into the psyche of Ennui and Decadence, a Harvard soph, and take a look at seven days from my previous week:

THE JADED SEX BLOGGER
Female, sophomore, sociology concentrator, Mather House, “straight-flexible” and single

DAY 1
1 a.m. Headache all Sunday. Before bed, I write six Facebook messages to people I want to see in the next week. Two of them are to guys I’m interested in.
1 p.m. See Facebook response from ZAP’s friend, Riley. He likes my picture, call it “quite emotive.” I tell him I’m free Friday and proceed to pass out from fatigue.
9 p.m. Birth control alarm goes off. I’m out. Fuck.
10 p.m. Still headachey. Decide on a whim to Facebook message my friend Greg’s blockmate from the previous weekend: “don’t know if you recall but Greg intro’ed us at the sae party in currier. i commented, “Greg, you never told me you had such attractive blockmates!” totally meant it. we should grab coffee.” Pat myself on back for being charmingly forward.

(more…)