Me: I mean, look at him. He’s beautiful in this strangely poetic, tortured kind of way.

ZAP: It’s called “home-schooled.”

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.

Someone threw up in our shared shower. I am pissed for two reasons:

1. It smells like shit and I can’t shower.
2. One of the ten girls who use this bathroom is having more fun than me. What the fuck?

Last night, as usual, was a bust. ZAP-3 bought me for a cool $50 at the Mather Date Auction — now I owe him sushi, sake, and sex. Which we were due for anyway, so whatev. Post-event, I went in search of drinks that didn’t taste like alcoholic candy tarts.

Kay and I hit up Happy Hour at the Crimson, then hung out in her dorm room popping breath mints like Adderall. A Felipe’s run later and we were back at Mather, bemoaning the state of the campus social life. To be fair, there was plenty going on. The Quad, Adams, Lowell … options abound! But we just weren’t feeling the dorm party scene and the one night we really craved herbal relief, none was in sight. For me, a first.

Last night’s hearty intake of beer and Mexican food makes up for my weight loss in the past month. Kay and I have both lost an extraordinary amount of weight despite not having worked out. Her ethnic organization is working her to death. And me? Between this website, I’m taking a full load of classes, involved in four extracurriculars, and handling three internships. One month in school and I’ve lost five pounds and counting … I’ll be at 115 again by Thanksgiving, no sweat. Literally.

I woke up this morning fairly pissed off. It’s 58 degrees and I want to wear something slutty. Solution for everything.

Yeah, I know. This is like my fourth post today. I can’t stop blogging. I think I’m addicted. This is basically worse than cocaine. Also, it’s 1am and I’m home. I really didn’t feel motivated enough to party with the blockmates. In case you didn’t get the memo, I’m no longer up for swapping spit with boys whose names I won’t remember come morn’.

Anyway, the point of this post: if any of you care, my life is basically over. As a result of this website and my apparent lack of discretion, everyone knows my business and I kind of want to go into hiding.

Maybe I should just get a new blog that no one knows about and start from scratch. Of course, if anyone came upon it, it would be exceedingly obvious who the writer was. Okay, this plan sucks. New plan. I’m moving to the Quad in the morning. ZAP-3 has a huge Currier single that’s practically a double. He can totally fit a boarder. If anyone at Mather doesn’t want me to leave (or if any Quadlings would rather me not show up), please let me know before I pack my bags. I mean, my blockmates certainly don’t care if I take off. They’re just waiting to turn my single into our third common room. But if you wish for me to continue wreaking havoc from close proximity, then wave hi. Email me. Call or text. I’ll be the girl cowering behind her tray at the dining hall.

Time for backstory: I have a love-hate relationship with Mather. On one hand, I think this is the coolest dorm ever. On the other hand, I know entirely too many people by reputation alone. During dinner the other night, a trip to retrieve dessert led to run-ins with a guy whose cherry my friend popped and two former hookups of yet another friend. It was 60 seconds to the fro-yo and the most awkward of my life. Everyone’s like, “Ooh, Mathercest!” I’m like, “Um, I can’t commit Mathercest. My friends have already fucked everyone in this dorm.” Spoke too soon. Never say never. I currently look both ways before I leave my suite. I sprint down hallways to minimize my chances of running into people. I never speak in the dining hall above a whisper. I probably sound paranoid but if there’s anyone I don’t want to encounter, it’s Matherites whose anatomy I’m familiar with via secondhand accounts. Or firsthand. Mad awkward.

And how I feel about Mather is kind of how I feel about Sex and the Ivy. On this website, I haven’t been speaking above a whisper. At least not about the things that count. I write about the eating disorder that hasn’t seriously plagued me in years. I write about ex-boyfriends who don’t live in the same city as I do. But all the current news? All the current guys? I’d rather stay mum because I can’t kiss and tell on someone who could potentially be in section with me. Which of course means I don’t write about anything personal at all, including whether or not the sex I had last night was good.

Okay, here’s a resolution: I think I’m going to throw caution to the wind. And with it, my reputation, but hey, that’s already shot to death. Privacy policies still stand. If you’re my friend and I blog about you, I’ll remove said post/reference at request. Other than that, no holds barred. What’s the point of having a Mather single and a sex blog if you can’t have sex in your single and write about it?