I spend the entirety of our time together looking at him, catching glimpses at a man I think I could love, and wondering if I am just clinging to a false and desperate hope. He makes me believe that sometimes there are two people who under different circumstances might be right for each other, but in a cruel twist of fate are caught up in different points in life when they meet, with obligations that cannot be discarded. And it is a difficult truth to stomach, but he and I, content as we may be together, are not the only people who can bring about contentment for the other.

I am trying to determine the odds. How many months? Or is it weeks I’m dealing with? I want to graph the point at which maximum pain tolerance and length of relationship meet. How much longer can I wait before I reach that breaking point, before I have no choice but to pull out? If there isn’t room left in your life but you love someone enough, you make a place for them. You carve out a space, move obligations, shift priorities away from things you love less, and make room for this person to fit. He is not lifting a finger. I am convenient for him. I am a bundle of affection and company delivered by plane to his doorstep.

I think I want to remember as much about him as possible because I know we are nearly done here. He is on his way out and I want to take in every expression, every affection, every sigh, every eye roll, every term of endearment, every uniquely Sam-esque movement that cannot be attributed to anyone but him. I want to remember this. I want to keep the memory vivid and its lines crisp, because I believe he is important. He is important because I could love him, and I could love him if he would let me. He won’t. But that doesn’t change the possibility.

Fleeting as our engagement may be, he is significant for having made me feel, perhaps even more significant for what he has made me not feel. He is my first practice in control and I think, for the most part, I will be okay for the real thing. I will be prepared for real love.

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?

Sue’s Logitech camera works on my Powerbook now, thanks to the download sent to me by my tech-savvy readers. You guys, naturally, rock. In case you’re wondering, check out this site to convert your PC-only webcam to work on a Mac!

So this morning, Sam calls me at six fucking a.m. after getting home from barhopping with his friends. God knows how, but I wake up enough to turn on Skype. Hallelujah, he actually sees me on video! We proceed to chat for a couple hours before falling asleep (on webcam) and waking up (on webcam) to chat some more (on webcam). Lame, I know.

I’ve come to the conclusion that this is the most bearable way to deal with 100+ miles of physical separation. Modern technology — gotta love it.

I’m taking it quite easy this weekend. No alcohol or major partying. And next weekend is my show, so I’ve definitely got to be good until that’s over. Spring Break (for me, at least) starts March 22nd. I arrive in Philadelphia 6:30 p.m. that night with Adia to follow on Friday. As the first of my friends to meet Sam, she is pretty much guaranteed an insanely entertaining time. Can’t wait to see him and take on Philly part trois!

Reunited tonight with my favorite gal, Adia (not pictured — she doesn’t like cameras). Hurricanes, midnight snacks, and hot alums! Yay …

New York was both ridiculously great and ridiculously bad … all about the company.

* Thursday night, I checked into the New Yorker and spent the late night wandering Times Square with a Harvard ‘08er who held me steady in my ridiculous stiletto boots. Lessons learned: McDonald’s and porn are an unbeatable combo.

* On Friday, Sam came to the city and we found a cute hotel on 50th. Met up with his friends, had sushi for dinner, and made him order me embarassingly girly drinks. Spent a good portion of the evening observing and making fun of the other people (namely, the reeking-of-desperate men) at the bar in the W Hotel.

* Saturday was spent in Staten Island … which prompted JB to ask, “Why the hell did you decide to go to Jersey?”

* I devoted Sunday to a tour of the Whitney Museum, alongside the lovely Rachel Kramer Bussel. Among the exhibits were a single blinding light and a piano shattered to pieces with accompanying video tape of its destruction. Needless to say, I didn’t “get” it.

* Sunday night, I ended up in Philadelphia, where I stayed until Monday afternoon. Long story.

And now I’m home. For at least three weeks. I think. For the time being, I’ll have to rein in my wanderlust.

In other news, it’s officially Ash Wednesday and I’m giving up sex for Lent. Penance and all, you know? Or maybe I’m just waiting for someone worth it …

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.