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.

Readers, this entry requires your active participation. Especially if you’re boys. My blockmates and I were discussing our taste in men this evening and we realized that we (luckily) don’t share too many commonalities in that arena. In fact, each of us has kind of carved out her own niche. Unfortunately, we’ve all been suffering from lack of play as of late. Email one of these lusty ladies if you fit their standard.

BLOCKMATES

MAGGIE
maggie@sexandtheivy.com
Prior history. White (mostly), tall (always).
Gotta be. Fun but slightly reserved. Athlete but not jock.
Don’t even try if … you’re a frat boy.

TERRA
terra@sexandtheivy.com
Prior history. White (usually), tall (always).
Gotta be. Chivalry a must. Gentlemen please. The Brit’s got class.
Don’t even try if … you don’t have money.

SUE
sue@sexandtheivy.com
Prior history. One word: Asian.
Gotta be. The quintessential nice guy for the Californian sweetie.
Don’t even try if … you’re a stoner.

JB
jb@sexandtheivy.com
Prior history. Jewish, please. Gay, obviously.
Gotta be. Soul optional. Tops only.
Don’t even try if … you’ve got melanin.

GAL PALS

KAY
kay@sexandtheivy.com
Prior history. Brown, skinny, undeserving.
Gotta be. Less awkward than the predecessors. Willing to go to coffee, really.
Don’t even try if … you’re in a final club.

ADIA
adia@sexandtheivy.com
Prior history. Kosher meat only.
Gotta be. Eager to spoil, willing to wait. This gal’s flower ain’t gonna be plucked.
Don’t even try if … you’re not Jewish.

INDIANA
indiana@sexandtheivy.com
Prior history. Big and black.
Gotta be. Built with endurance to spare. She’s got a queen-sized bed and a Quad single.
Don’t even try if … you’re otherwise committed.

AND OBVIOUSLY …

ELLE
elle@sexandtheivy.com
Prior history. Older, taller, whiter. Everything I’m not.
Gotta be. Liberal, well-endowed, and emotionally available (please). Masochistic enough to date me.
Don’t even try if … you don’t want to be blogged about.

Boys, start your engines. Email these gals now.

For the readers out there who aren’t interested in responding, leave in the comments what your ideal partner is. I’m interested in finding out. Let’s not get PC here. Be honest. If you don’t dig the brown boys, own up (ahem, Maggie). If you don’t dig the white ones, ditto (ahem, Jess). Ready, set, go.

This entry will be less party log, more stream-of-consciousness. I am 48 hours removed from a night when I was severely under the influence, so half this stuff I’m probably making up.

Roundup of destinations: Mather, Mt. Auburn, Adams, Quad, Mt. Auburn, Lowell, Mather.

Roundup of events: With Canada as the goal, my blockies and I went everywhere but. And in between, lots of old friends and new ones.

Best Drunken Run-In: Reconnecting with seven or eight Mather boys in the Lowell courtyard after being separated post-pre-game. Everyone was the perfect level of drunk.

Worst Judgment: A toss-up between 1) getting stuck for half an hour on a shuttle to the Canada party that was no more, and 2) smoking without washing my hair immediately after. (Our bathroom smelled suspiciously herbal the next morning.)

New Best Friends: Random HLS students whose alma mater (Yale) I made a face at. “Well, at least you ended up here,” I told the three alums.

Most Awkward Moment: “Hi! Did we sit next to each other in History?” –Me, to someone better identified as a guy I hooked up. (Obviously, this was only awkward to him.)

Most Embarassing Moment: Being checked up on by not one but two blockmates, because I often appear drunker than I actually am.

Hottest Moment: Making out with Sue in the middle of Mass Ave., possibly the best kiss of the evening. Of three. Don’t even ask me how I end up in these situations.

In conclusion, three shots are perfect for my newly lightweight self. And I was, to some extent, successful in my attempts to hook up with the hottest Asian girl in Mather — my blockmate (much to the excitement of yellow fever infected boys like Damon). I am such the sketchy upperclassmen guy.