Since Googling myself is only so much fun, I decided to dig up my own dirt today. Fifteen Minutes, The Harvard Crimson’s weekend magazine, runs a gossip column called “Chatter”. It’s mentioned me on several occasions this year because I am apparently a coke addiction and pubic dye-job away from becoming Harvard’s Lindsay Lohan.

I’m actually elected to the magazine board but don’t contribute regularly to the paper … unless inappropriate sound bytes count. Anyhow, FM is the best part of The Crimson, Chatter is the best part of FM, and Lena-related gossip items are the best part of Chatter (naturally). Links follow, discretion does not (I mean, I don’t think anyone needs help identifying the blurbs about me):

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.

I have recently fallen in love with The Crimson. Specifically, Crimson parties, without which my weekends would be ever so dull. Despite having penned only one article (a FM Endpaper on dating investment banker Summer Guy), I’ve spent more time at 14 Plympton St. this semester than I did all of freshman year. It’s partly because HN and this blog have gotten me acquainted with entirely too many upperclassmen execs. It’s mostly because drinking with journalists is less random than a dorm party but just unfamiliar enough to still meet cute boys.

Unfortunately, most of these cute boys are gay, terrified of me, or roving reporters. As much as I love my new Crimed pals, I’m already a hag to more than enough fags (after Thursday’s jaunt to Embassy, Rody has officially claimed me as his). So after three months of partying with nary a glance from an interested straight male, I was less than expectant at last Friday’s event in the Sanctum. Still, all it takes is one too many shots for renewed hope.

Tipsy from self-made drinks hijacked at a Christmas party, HN and I threw down our coats in the FM office and I threw out my shame as I spent the better part of the evening sipping Oregon Trail-inspired cocktails while making eyes at the attractive guy across the room. After I gave him a full glance-over, got an introduction from our mutual acquaintance, and batted my eyelashes at him a couple more times, I finally asked for a cigarette. He looked like a smoker, and I was right. He directed me to his pal who supplied the three of us with our nicotine hit and supplied me with an excuse to get him alone on the roof. Rude to smoke inside, after all.

Clad in a thin sweater and seersucker skirt, my only saving grace that chilly evening was wearing black tights underneath and even they proved inadequate. Then again, it meant that I didn’t need to pretend when I told Smoker Boy that it was colder than expected. Liquid courage on my side, I leaned in close to him and shivered under his jacket, grazing his back with my fingertips. By the time I finished my cigarette, I was a few coughs from permanent lung damage and a few close calls from throwing myself at him completely.

But that was the extent of my flirtation. Not much later, I exited the party sans HN, sans Smoker Boy, and sans swipe access (the new staff director has got to get on that). Maybe I wasn’t forward enough. Maybe I should’ve offered him a standing invitation to drunkenly text me some time. After all, he was cute up close, sweet from what I could tell, and he wasn’t going to quote me in the morning. What more could you ask for from a guy you meet at The Crimson? Smoker Boy, I should’ve given you my phone number. Facebook me?

On the roof of 14 Plympton, a real-life Aidan said to me last Friday night, “Do you have any idea how much trouble your blog has caused? About 20 people have asked me if we’ve slept together.”

Oops.

I did not arrive to The Crimson Halloween party ready to face the news that I had sullied someone’s name. On the contrary — dressed festively as a pilot, I was more prepared to recruit crew members for the inaugural flight of Mile High Airlines. When I entered the Sanctum, I made a beeline for Kay and Adia who I met up with for all of two minutes before making the rounds. In the process, I became entrenched in several blogcentric discussions.

“In fact, we probably shouldn’t even be seen talking together right now,” continued real-life Aidan*.

Right. I imagine it’d be bad for shoot. Moving on, then.

(*Just kidding. Real-life Aidan would never give me the brush-off. We also slipped out when no one was looking and had mad sex in the FM office.)

Naturally, I ended up in the company of Ed Board boys who like other boys. Rody apologized for ditching me, and SM swore for about the fifth time that’d we’d do tea. Really. I dismissed the notion of a tea date ever happening and reminded the two that they were obligated to attend a grad school function with me on Thursday: open bar mixer with all the graduate school LGBT organizations. Crashing queer events? Story of my life.

I also fielded in-person criticism for the first time. “Whorish” is what the person called an uncomplimentary entry I wrote. Can’t blame him, though the in-my-face confrontation was a bit too much to handle. I would’ve stormed off if I were sober, but I stood my ground drunk and smiled politely at the tirade.

Actually, tirade or not, I probably wouldn’t have stayed at The Crimson as long as I did if I were sober. Without the assistance of six drinks at Mather Happy Hour, it would have been quite awkward to field as many blog-related inquiries as I did. Most of the people I’ve met in the building this year (and that night) already have an inkling of who I am. If it’s a daytime encounter — say in the middle of the journalism fair — shared laughs about the ridiculous blog and polite conversation ensues. But if it’s an acquaintance forged at night, that’s entirely another matter. No one thinks twice about asking inappropriate questions or gushing praise.

In fact, I’m kind of surprised (pleasantly so) that a massive Newstalk thread has not yet happened. Sex and the Ivy is prime discussion material, but I guess I’m afforded some courtesy since I’m a semi-active Crimed myself. It would suck to get trashed on the email list of an organization I belong to. Thankfully, everyone’s displayed an astonishing amount of tact. At least when it comes to email.

In person? Not so much. Especially in the case of a certain AR who met me last Friday and promptly posted a picture of the two of us on his Facebook profile. Other highlights: Harvard’s newest blogger (still underground) offered me a riding crop. A nice boy offered me a cigarette, but I don’t remember who (email me and I’ll thank you!). Someone offered me a a few smacks on the ass (email me and I’ll return the favor to your face). The hottest outfit was an Asian girl dressed as … an Asian girl. The most endearing costume belonged to one FM exec who attempted to pull a Che but looked more like a boy scout to me. A doable boy scout.

All in all, a memorable night in a building I should probably spend more time in. But for some reason, I don’t. The Crimson, especially last Friday, is the epitome of what this blog has done to my life. Everyone knows my name but the reciprocal does not hold true, nor does anyone really know me. I think it’s awfully telling that I left 14 Plympton the same way I arrived: alone.