This holiday, one lucky reader will receive the Womolia Heat ($99.95) from Emotional Bliss, a line of intimate massagers developed and manufactured in the U.K. The Womolia is the only vibrator on the market that heats up when used and warms to the speed and frequency selected. Rechargable (so you can forget batteries) and curved for comfort, the Womolia also contains a unique antibacterial agent that sterilizes the massager after it is wiped with water.

To enter, comment on this entry with the best (worst?) catcalling story you can tell in under 600 words. (If you need an example, I recently blogged about an incident that led to me kicking a guy’s BMW in retaliation for some lewd remarks.) I’ll select one of the respondents at random as the winner of the Womolia. Enter by July 10th at 11:59 EST to win!

I’m incredibly scared of loss. And I know I shouldn’t feel like I lose something by sleeping with someone, but I do. I decided to stop having sex because I was sick of giving away all these pieces of myself and subsequently worrying about unintentional attachment, ill-advised yearning. It felt like I had no control.

I rarely reread entries on this blog, but tonight, I clicked on this link on the sidebar. I feel so far away from this girl, and yet, I think I finally understand what people mean when they tell me that my blog entries make them wish that they could give me a hug. Lame as it sounds, I wish I could give 19-year-old Lena a hug.

I wrote this when I was in New York the summer after my sophomore year of college. I lived across the street from Tompkins Square Park and spent as little time as possible with other Harvard kids (pretty easy, since they all worked in finance). I had spent four months forgoing sex after dating two guys in a row who both turned out to have girlfriends. I stopped trusting men almost completely, and I say “almost” only because my best friend is a guy (albeit one with zero sexual interest in me). It was pretty much impossible to sleep with me, and I’m certain that I was an insufferable date. I didn’t even go on dates with the goal of falling in love or whatever it is people hope for when they set up contrived meetings with total strangers. I dated out of boredom, and I genuinely didn’t care when I didn’t get called back. If a guy had told me he wanted a relationship, I would’ve laughed in his face. Who do you think you are? Who do you think I am?

Now, when I read myself, I feel sad. I feel sad that I was so utterly broken that I was incapable of experiencing any sort of emotion toward men. I had made up my mind at this point that this blog meant more to me than social acceptance, that what I stood for was more important than the existence of a love life, and that there was no possibility of love in any case since no man would willingly sign up for this. It’s not true, of course. There are plenty of progressive, open-minded men. I knew some even then. But I wouldn’t have sex with even those guys, because I could no longer differentiate the bad apples from the entire population. When I said “no”, it meant, “No, I don’t need any of you.” I was miserly with trust, and once I had mentally checked out of the dating game, no one had any chance of penetrating my emotional armor or anything else for that matter. And yet, as closed off as I was, I was undeniably happy that summer and happy to go back to school and happy to be alone. I was finally free of seemingly endless heartbreaks and disappointments, because I had ceased to hope. And in a strange, satisfying way, I was incredibly at peace for the first time in a long time. In the back of my mind, I thought, “I’m going to be alone forever, and this suits me just fine.”

It’s strange to read words I wrote years ago, but even stranger to think about the subjects of my stories and the people they’ve become. For an extremely public blog, I did a damn good job of not letting anyone’s identity get revealed, which is why it still boggles my mind that someone out there managed to figure out, spread rumors about, and viciously attack who I was dating. Patrick is the first and only man I’ve ever named, and obviously, not by choice in this case. Him aside, I suppose I’m grateful that the only person who ever got hurt from Sex and the Ivy was me. But even after the controversy subsided, I never did put much of my relationship with Patrick down into words. In retrospect, it was because he meant more to me than anyone ever had, and transcribing my feelings to text suggested a permanence I wasn’t ready for. It’d be admitting that he meant something to me, and even if he didn’t know it and my readers didn’t know it, I would certainly know it.

I met Patrick during what was probably the most emotionally tumultuous period of my life. I was so utterly terrified of loss, of losing Kennedy, of losing my family’s support (if they found out about this blog), of losing him, and honestly, of losing myself in him. I was so afraid of losing the ability to be alone and happy at the cusp of 20. And while I desperately wanted this to work out, I simply couldn’t envision a future with him. I couldn’t envision a future with anyone, because I had become so fully cynical in my views about love. It took me months to admit to myself that he cared about me. I spent half of our relationship in doubt.

To some extent, I regret never recording our beginning, if only because the compulsive chronicler in me feels like memories will slip away unless I jot them down in the moment. But on the other hand, I’m glad there won’t be a Patrick to reread years from now. I don’t want him frozen in time, unchanged from sheer force of will. I refuse to turn him into a character, even if it means preserving his memory. When we have problems, I don’t think to write them down. When we’re happy, I don’t think to write it down either. That impulse has simply disappeared, in part because the unstated goal of blogging was always to figure out who I was and who I wanted to become. Now that I know … well, this blog will never be what it once was, because I’m not who I once was. To be honest, I hope I never feel compelled to write here again. It’s an artifact from a time when I was unsure about many things, most of all my worthiness of being loved. Years from now, whether we work out or not, I don’t want to read about Patrick. I’m certain of that much. If we’re still together, then this version of him will seem like such a distant representation of who he later becomes. And if we’re not, then I don’t want anyone — least of all myself — reminding me that I was once in love. Living it will have been enough.

Two weeks before I first went out with Patrick, I met up with a guy named Paul Janka, a Harvard grad best known for writing a guide to getting laid in New York. It turned out that this “guide” was more like an e-book. And by “e-book”, I mean “PDF file”. As for Paul, his seduction strategy apparently consisted of booze, diligence, and a generous interpretation of the word “no”. Nonetheless, I thought he would make for an interesting column; Paul thought I would make for a good conquest. In the end, neither of us got what we wanted. I got much closer to being assaulted than I ever did to selling the story, and I left his apartment wondering exactly what kind of hell my love life had become for me to subject myself to sadistic experiments like this one. Anyway, I volunteer this information not just because I volunteer information about every aspect of my life, but because it demonstrates precisely how dire my romantic mindset was at the time. I was resorting to gimmicks to keep my love life interesting. It’s like what happens when a television show on its way toward a slow death decides to start airing “special episodes”. Paul was a special episode.

I was pretty sure Patrick was going to be a special episode too. At the time, I’d pretty much given up on dating altogether, or at least taking dates seriously. Guys were just around to keep life interesting, and sex was just a reason to get dressed up on weekends. (And by junior year at Harvard, I realized that I didn’t even really need to get dressed up to get laid.) I was starting to date and fuck like a freshman again, or maybe just like a man, and I kind of loved it in this really cynical way. That’s why I had no qualms about ditching Valentine’s Day for a trip to New York with a newly single gal pal. That’s why I figured I might as well go on a date with a known douchebag while I was in town if it meant a potential byline. Expecting nothing from no one was, after all, far better than not seeing a sex scandal coming because you fucked the wrong asshole (see: January 2008 of my life).

The same weekend I met Paul, I had brunch with my friend Julia, who is the Gawker poster girl for the Overshared Life. Talking to her confirmed all my suspicions about why my love life had gone awry. Julia, like me, found that her blog was a death warrant for any blossoming romance. Even if a guy were the first to be interested, even if they had fantastic chemistry, even if the initial dates were perfect, his interest waned immediately when he learned of her online reputation. In Boston, I was dealing with near-identical no-mances. For women like us, it seemed like the possibility of love was laughable at best.

My non-blogger friends, on the other hand, hated my pessimistic attitude. They told me that rejection was a blessing in disguise since I wouldn’t be settling for someone too insecure to date a sexually confident woman. They assured me that I deserved someone who would be willing to handle the complications that came with dating me and that I would certainly be meeting him in the very near future. (Like maybe as soon as grad school! Yay?) But seriously, I wasn’t expecting life partnership here. I just wanted one normal romance that didn’t begin with a drunken introduction and end abruptly after a Google search. At this point, it’d been two years since I started my blog and my longest relationship since then was a two-month affair that led to eight months of stalking and naked photos splattered across the Internet. So what was a Carrie 2.0 to do but to resort to pessimism? Not only was I scaring off my Mr. Bigs, but the guys who I did go out with scared me. It appeared that girls like Julia and me had two options: 1) men like Paul Janka or 2) perpetual singledom. After my brief brush with date rape, I was ready to opt for the latter.

Then a couple weeks after my trip to New York, I found myself at dinner with a guy I mostly remembered for his inability to keep me awake during statistics. Patrick was eight years older, German, and a Ph.D candidate in my department. He also happened to be the most attractive person who’d ever been in charge of my grading me. Over the previous year and a half, my best friend Jason and I took three classes with Patrick, and though I’d like to say that it was because I found him impossibly charming, I was mostly just fulfilling sociology requirements. Nonetheless, I silently rejoiced every time I was assigned to his section, especially after I realized my piece of eyecandy was a rather efficient and helpful teaching instructor and not merely a hot guy with a funny accent. To Patrick, however, I was then just a sleepy student. Statistics, which I got a C+ in, was a particularly harrowing experience. I recall Jason pinching me a lot in that class … and really not much else.

By the time Patrick and I finally went out, it’d been over two months since I last saw him and even longer since he graded one of my mediocre papers. The prelude to the actual date was fairly undramatic. Following a thinly veiled public declaration of my affection, initial contact was made over email and the date was suggested over text message. Well, actually, I suggested hooking up over text message. But Patrick, for some crazy reason I’ve still yet to figure out, thought that dinner would be more acceptable. I was pretty much thinking, “Yeah, this really isn’t necessary. Can we just fuck?” I somehow suppressed the urge to reveal this thought and along with it, my slutty nature. It would certainly be revealed soon enough.

I immediately gloated to Jason who called me crazy more than once and insisted that I was completely misinterpreting the situation and  going to make things extremely awkward with a former TF who we actually might want to take classes with in the future. Basically, Jason had the mindset of someone who wanted to get into law school. I had the mindset of someone who wanted an interesting story to tell at post-grad cocktail parties. I was already getting started by telling every friend in close proximity about the TF fantasy-turned-reality and spent the day feeling rather smug about myself, despite a looming deadline for some mediocre paper I had not yet written. I probably would’ve taken out an announcement in The Crimson if possible. After all, it’s not everyday you get to fulfill a crush three semesters in the making.

Yet somehow, about an hour before the actual date, my excitement over going out with and potentially fucking my former TF turned into total trepidation over going out with and potentially fucking my former TF. What the hell was I getting myself into? I knew next-to-nothing about Patrick, even less about what to expect out of the evening, and I was pretty sure that Jason was right when it came to me totally misinterpreting the situation. By the time I got off the train to meet Patrick, I was ready to get right back on. In fact, I felt a mild wave of nausea, then panic, followed by paralyzing fear. Um, I had a date in five minutes and I was on the verge of an anxiety attack. After taking several deep breaths, I called Jason and told him, “I can’t do this. I’m about to hyperventilate.” Jason, ever so reasonable and probably fearful of jeopardizing his letter of recommendation by association with a whore whore slut, suggested calmly that I tell Patrick I was sick and then go home. Discouragement was exactly what I needed to snap out of it. “That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” I declared. “You’re totally useless. I’ll call you when the date is over.”

About 30 seconds after the exchange with my truly unadventurous best friend, I found myself face-to-face with Patrick who looked considerably taller than I remembered and was dressed in decidedly un-academic clothing. He looked hot, and not even in a scholarly kind of way. Given our previously limited interaction and his non-American background, I didn’t have any idea how to read him. Maybe he thought that I’d be an easy lay, but then again, he always seemed so proper in class. No, it was more likely that his intentions were genuine, which was almost endearing. Here was a semi-awkward foreign grad student too culturally unaware to realize that asking out a former student is a mildly scandalous affair. Poor thing. Also, I thought: he so does not know about my sex blog. It occurs to me in retrospect that I was being extremely condescending, but in all likelihood, I probably employed every defense mechanism available to stay calm and feel in control. Surprisingly, as soon as we got into a cab and started talking, my anxiety dissipated along with my theory that Patrick was awkward with women and clueless about American prudishness. We compared frat life at Yale (where he did undergrad) to the final club scene at Harvard and discussed the “athletic” rivalry between our schools. Patrick actually seemed normal, and my stomach seemed calm. It appeared as if I was not going to puke after all.

Dinner was at a South End establishment with live music and dim lighting, the key facilitators to close-up conversation, which is like the foreplay to foreplay. It was a relatively grown-up venue given my recent romps in fraternity houses and dorm rooms, and I realized early in the evening that I felt uncharacteristically nervous. Typically on dates, I acted self-assured and liked to challenge guys by teasing them or being playfully argumentative. With Patrick, however, I couldn’t muster up my usual feistiness. I was so used to viewing him as an instructor that it seemed inappropriate to treat him like a peer. For the first time in a long while, I actually felt flustered. Patrick, on the other hand, was completely at ease which only disarmed me further. When I failed to look him in the eye while clinking glasses, he said to me, “You know what that means, right? Seven years of bad sex.” I almost choked on my drink. My TF just the word “sex” in a reference to me. Thankfully, my nerves were nothing alcohol couldn’t fix. I rarely drank but on this night, I happily chugged glass after glass of wine. Liquid courage along with Patrick’s disarming attitude made for surprisingly entertaining conversation. I was regaining my confidence and ten-fold at that. Two hours and several courses into the date, I put my hand on his knee and leaned in closer. I wanted to kiss him and was too drunk to even be subtle about it.

All in all, the turnaround from initial email to his cock in my mouth took about 24 hours. We had sex that first night. And again the next night. And then he went away to New York for two days, picked up the pair of flats I left at  a West Village repair place during that miserable Valentine’s weekend, and returned them to me first thing when he got back, not even stopping by his apartment beforehand. I spent spring bouncing from my Harvard Square dorm to his place in Beacon Hill and summer bouncing from Kennedy’s Heidelberg flat to his home in Osnabrück. When September came, I paid a full month’s rent for a sublet I never moved into. I cancelled it and have been in Beacon Hill ever since.

Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t like we went out and it was happily ever after that, not unless your fairy tales include Internet sex scandals advanced by overzealous online stalkers or unprecedented emotional outbursts from yours truly. The path toward cohabitation has hardly been a smooth one, but slowly, I infiltrated Patrick’s life and apartment to the point where breaking up would have been both awkward and inconvenient. And now, here we are today: me, Patrick, Hamlet, and two suitcases of my stuff under the bed! It’s more than I ever could’ve hoped for. And to think, all I wanted on our first date was to get laid.

I write all this because a year ago, I really, truly didn’t believe in the possibility of love (at least not for myself) and it wasn’t just because I was single during Valentine’s Day. My blog was a legitimate barrier to meeting guys, and as the nude photo leak and subsequent breakdown suggested, it was perhaps a barrier to, um, life. Maybe if my friends were different people, they would’ve told me to shut it down instead of insisting that I was lovable, blog or no blog. Maybe if I were a different person, I would’ve listened. I’m glad I didn’t, not just because my friends were right, but because I would’ve always thought from then on that the only desirable version of myself was the sanitized version. The fact that I’m now happily playing house with the Adorno-spouting, bulldog-owning German of my dreams indicates that there is hope for pretty much ANYONE out there. If I can finagle a boyfriend with my reputation and dismissive attitude toward dating “rules”, then love is a possibility for everyone.

Basically, this was a really long and corny way of saying that I know how much it sucks to be alone on Valentine’s Day, even if the holiday is largely a fabrication of the jewelry industry. So ONE of the two grand prizes is reserved for a reader who’s single. Of course, this is totally an honor code thing but I trust that you guys will tell the truth. (And who is really screwed up enough to deny the existence of a significant other anyway?) Now let’s get to the good (i.e. free) stuff:

GRAND PRIZES (TWO WINNERS!)
Njoy Pure Wand with Good Clean Love Almost Naked Organic Lubricant

OR
OhMiBod Naughtibod with Yes Water-Based Organic Lubricant

FIRST RUNNER UP
Stuff Made From Stuff Computer Hard Drive Clock
AND
Good Clean Love Weekend Getaway Oil Sampler Pack

SECOND RUNNER UP
Stella Marie Soap bundle with Mango Glow, Grapefruit Moon, Lavender & Eucalyptus
AND
Good Clean Love Passion Candle

THIRD RUNNER UP
Twin Syndrome Custom High Rise Panty

HONORABLE MENTIONS
CPR Gear Tee
AND
Just In Case Red Compact

To enter the giveaway, send an email to elle[at]sexandtheivy[dot]com with the following information:

1. Your name, age, occupation, and relationship status
2. How you found out about the giveaway
3. Your preference in sex toy if you win (for anatomical reasons, the Naughtibod vibrator is only compatible with ladyparts but the Pure Wand dildo is unisex)
4. An answer to ONE of the two following questions:
a) What is your craziest first date experience?
b) You are talking to someone who has not gone on a date in months. Every time they meet someone, they get their face spat on, their heart stomped on, and their nether regions infested with an itchy sensation. Why should they continue to believe in love?

DEADLINE: FEBRUARY 10TH AT 12AM EST

Entries will be judged on creativity and entertainment value (seriously!). Winners will be chosen and tiebreakers will be broken during a sleepover by a committee of my depressed, single friends who will only cheer up if you infuse them with HOPE a la Obama. (Oh, wait, he’s “change”, isn’t he? Whatever.) Oh, and I’m totally not kidding about this. You will actually stand the best chance of winning if you can make my jaded pals laugh. They were so damn hopeful on my behalf last year that the least I can do is return the favor now. Happy early Valentine’s Day, and stay tuned for the winners!

Ideally, we’d give up presents altogether for holidays like Christmas and Valentine’s which mandate unnecessary consumption to an appalling extent. But seeing as how that’s unlikely, I’ve written up a guide to sex- and earth-positive gifts, most of which are made by independent designers themselves or workers paid a living wage. Plus, tomorrow, I’ll be announcing the details for a giveaway of several featured products, including the Njoy Pure Wand and OhMiBod’s Naughtibod!

FOR THE LOVEMAKING, WAR-HATING PROTESTOR

WeVibe
The first-ever vibrator that can be used during intercourse, the We-Vibe was invented as an alternative to the poorly designed, cheap, and sometimes toxic sex toys on the market. Made from 100% medical grade silicone, the flexibility and innovative shape of the product allows for simultaneous clitoral and G-spot stimulation. After testing one, I can testify that the small device packs a powerful punch and is surprisingly comfortable even during penetration (though sadly, my We-Vibe is no longer functional thanks to an encounter with a European outlet!). Powered by a rechargeable battery, it is also made in strict adherence to health and environmental guidelines.

Yes Pure Intimacy
Yes, “the world’s only certified organic intimate lubricant”, is formulated from plant-based ingredients that nourish rather than irritate your most intimate areas. Made ethically so that it won’t stain your conscience or your bed sheets, Yes is also the only approved paraben-free product on the market for breast cancer patients who can’t use the traditional drugstore options. Check out their website to see how Yes stacks up against brands like Durex and K-Y Jelly. Their water-based formula ($34), one of the prizes in my giveaway, is safe to use with all condoms, while their oil-based lubricant ($34) doubles as massage oil.

JimmyJane
JimmyJane just released the new pink version of their waterproof FORM 6 massager ($185), pictured right, which won the prestigious IDEA Award from BusinessWeek and the Industrial Designers Society of America. Fully submersible and bath-friendly, it’s one of the only vibrating massagers in the world that is both rechargeable and waterproof. In honor of Valentine’s Day, they’re giving away a pink FORM 6 on Facebook. To enter the contest, go to their Facebook page before February 11th, become a fan, and leave a comment about a favorite product (or dream product) from JimmyJane.

Good Clean Love
The “cleanest, truly natural, water-based personal lubricants on the market”, Good Clean Love is as pure as you can get. The water-based formula ($16) is infused with real herbs and flowers to create a deep scent and blended with aloe vera and seaweed for a smooth, long-lasting glide that responds to your natural lubrication. Safe to use with condoms and toys, it’s also 99.9% vegan with no animal products or animal testing. You can win a bunch of products from their line in my giveaway!

Just In Case
Made with a mirror and a hidden condom compartment, these discreet condom holders from Just In Case double as sleek compacts. The company, which is run by a mother-daughter team, donates a percentage of their profits to AIDS research and women’s health charities. Ten percent of every sale of their special JUST IN CASE® YouthAIDS RendezVous Red compact ($20) goes directly to YouthAids, an HIV/AIDS education andprevention initiative of the global health organization PSI. In the upcoming giveaway, you can win one too!

GothFox
Hoping to turn your bedroom into Amateur Night? Drop her a hint with an item from GothFox’s range of nipple pasties ($14-35) which include heart-shaped, feathered, and rhinestone designs. Each pair is hand made to order, tassels included! Even if you’re not dating a burlesque dancer, the company promises that these “will look fabulous either onstage or in the bedroom.”

Urban Fox
Victoria’s real secret? Appalling labor practices. Luckily, the makers of Urban Fox have come out with a line of sustainable undies ($35-40) which should leave your booty unconflicted. Made from soft bamboo and organic cotton fabric, these vintage-inspired, locally-produced creations mimic classic pinup styles. As UrbanFox says, “Being green and being sexy are not mutually exclusive.”

FOR THE PUNK ROCK PRINCESS

EveryLittleCounts
“Love Songs Vol. 1″ is LA-based fashion label Every Little Counts’ newest collection, a nostalgic tribute to classic love songs. Released just in time for Valentine’s Day, this limited edition line is a wearable mix tape featuring favorites like “Feel Like Making Love” (left) to “I Can’t Fight This Feeling” ($32 each). Sex and the Ivy readers can get 10% off with the promo code “IVY”.

OhMiBod
Founder Suki Dunham told me that she started OhMiBod two years ago with the goal of making the “first socially acceptable vibrator by making [her] products women friendly and approachable.” The smaller version of OhMiBod, the Naughtibod ($69) is travel-friendly and purse-sized but its orgasmic potential is just as impressive. Though best used with iPods and iPhones, it’s also compatible with other MP3 players, laptops, home stereos, CD players (old school!), and even electric guitars! With a dual end cap, you can enjoy the Naughtibod even when your iPod’s out of juice. I’ll be testing one and giving another away to one of two lucky grand prize winners!

The Virgins
One of my favorite bands, The Virgins, are storming the Great Scott stage in Boston with their amped-up tunes and electro-pop madness on Saturday, February 7th. Thanks to the reader who gave me the tip-off, I’ll be in attendance, and so should you. For an early Valentine’s gift, get tickets ($10) here.

FOR THE ANTI-SWEATSHOP FASHIONISTA

Sublet Clothing
Conceived by two designers who met through a sublet, Sublet Clothing offers locally-produced garments made from organic cotton and bamboo (a fast-growing, sustainable resource). Written up by fashion mags and green bloggers alike, Sublet demonstrates that sustainable can be glamorous. The Becca top ($89) pictured above is available online or at Camilla boutique in Brooklyn.

Mollie Dash
Independent jewelry makers like Mollie Dash offer an important alternative to consumers who don’t want to support a jewelry industry that obtains its precious metals and stones from industrial mining, which causes severe environmental damage and exploits developing world workers. Mollie, who works from her studio in Brooklyn, uses “discarded, thrifted, donated, and yard sale-derived materials” and limits her use of new stones to create her line of one-of-a-kind eco-friendly jewelry and keychains ($14-100+) like these made from skeleton keys. Written up in New York Magazine and NYLON, her work is sold online through her website, her Etsy shop, and Clothespin (an indie sample sale site that also stocks Sublet).

Latish Angeline
Originally started for an event benefitting an animal rescue organization, Latish Angeline Designs has come a long way from dog necklaces. Nowadays, designer Natalie lives in the oldest wildlife refuge in North America, where she makes feathered hairclips ($20-22), better known as “fascinators”, inspired by the variety of exotic birds around her home.

Twin Syndrome
The product of a one-night-stand between a corset and a leotard, Twin Syndrome’s high-rise undies ($20) can be worn under lowrise jeans to avoid inadvertent crack-attacks or under slinky dresses for a smooth look. With a rise that goes past the natural waistline, the look is way more pin-up than granny. Sex and the Ivy readers can get 25% of their purchase price refunded if they quote “SEXANDTHEIVY” in the “Note To Seller” box when they buy. Plus, I’m giving one pair away to a reader!

Wonderwear
After she quit her job at an environmental nonprofit, Monica started Wonderwear, selling creations like this adorable “Love at First Look” heart scarf ($32) hand-stitched from felted wool, fleece, and upcycled snaps. Every piece she produces is one of a kind and made from upcycled/recycled material.

FOR THE ASS-KICKING, NAME-TAKING FEMINIST

Moonlight Bindery
Inspired by the collection of papers she had amassed over the years, Katie started Moonlight Bindery and designed high-quality handbound books and photo albums out of repurposed material. Her New Yorker journals ($37) are created from actual covers of magazines and are filled with 100% recycled paper from the family-owned French Paper Mill. Sex and the Ivy readers can get free shipping by mentioning “SEXANDTHEIVY” in the “Note To Seller” box.

FOR MEN AGAINST “THE MAN”

London Particulars
Hand-fashioned from vintage watch movements, these cufflinks ($60) from London Particulars are made by a husband-wife team inspired by the steampunk aesthetic. Quirky and one-of-a-kind, they’re perfect for the sleeves of gentlemen rebels and fathers alike (my friend just purchased one for her dad!). Sex and the Ivy readers qualify for free shipping on all London Particulars jewelry.

CPR Gear
American Apparel meets New England sports in this new line of athletic apparel made with both fashion and fan in mind. Boston-based CPR Gear (which stands for the Celtics, Patriots, and Red Sox) calls itself “the heartbeat of New England”. Lightly printed on label-less tees, these vintage style shirts ($32) look as good at the stadium as they do at dinner. (And for the ladies, shirts are cut in a more slimming and flattering shape!) I have three of these shirts for winning entries in my giveaway.

Stuff Made From Stuff
Using actual computer hard drives as the basis for his creations, designer Allan takes apart and converts them into these quirky clocks ($32+). By obtaining materials through donations or dumpster diving expeditions, Allan hopes to reuse other people’s discarded items to “postpone the life of retired modern gadgets”. All hand made by the designer himself, the clocks are a perfect addition to the desk of your favorite tech geek. Sex and the Ivy readers qualify for a 20% discount the entire month of February and can win a clock in my giveaway.

Njoy Toys
Recommended to me by a reader, the Pure Wand ($110), like all Njoy products, is designed to be gender-neutral and is made from recycled medical-grade steel by Chinese workers who are paid a living wage (in yuan). Co-founder Greg DeLong told me that the Pure Wand is “equally effective for both g-spot massage and prostate massage” and has “garnered quite a reputation for helping to induce female ejaculation”. Currently the top-selling dildo at Babeland, it’s the perfect gift for enlightened boyfriends who appreciate prostate-induced orgasms. The other grand prize winner will get be getting one of these in the mail! (I’ll also be testing a Pure Wand out myself.) Not a winner? Snag one of these babies or any Njoy product for 10% off by mentioning “SEXANDTHEIVY” on their website.

FOR THE DOMESTICATED-BY-CHOICE (BUT EDUCATED-IN-CASE) HOMEMAKER

Gleena
Gleena (Russian for “clay”) offers up beautiful, nature-inspired porcelain pieces like these dessert plates ($35). Handmade in Rhode Island, Gleena products have been featured in publications like Food & Wine, O, and Body + Soul. Unfortunately, orders won’t be filled until after February 17th as the woman in this one-woman operation is currently off on a romantic holiday.

Everyday Housewife Aprons
Don’t just kiss the chef; clothe her! Fashionable cooking attire isn’t easy to come by, but these sexy aprons from Everyday Housewife are both functional and feminine. Joan personally makes each and every one of these aprons from high quality, designer fabrics and offers them at an extremely affordable price ($25-30). Previously featured on Good Morning America and HGTV, they’ll be next appearing in my kitchen.

FOR THE ANIMAL-LOVING BEAUTY JUNKIE

Stella Marie Soaps
Unlike what’s offered at the grocery store, handmade soaps don’t contain detergents that irritate your skin and pollute it with chemicals. Stella Marie, named after owner Kim Gonzaga’s two grandmothers, offers products like this Choc-o-rotic (Chocolate Mint) Massage Bar ($4) which are both skin-friendly and delicious-smelling. According to Kim, her products are 98% natural, save for cosmetic grade fragrance and skin safe dye.

Alchemic Muse
These handcrafted olive-oil based soaps, like the Chelsea Garden Spa Soap ($6) pictured left, are as tantalizing to smell as they are to look at. Using ingredients like coconut oil and shea butter, owner Karen creates her completely vegetarian soaps in small batches. The Mini Candy Trio (limited edition for Valentine’s) is already nearly sold out.

If you asked me last January how I felt about the upcoming year, I probably would’ve kicked you in the face. I was naked on the Internet (literally and figuratively), lying to my mother, and dating out of spite. I spent the holidays calling police departments in three different cities and crying hysterically in airports. In what can only be accurately described as a “total breakdown”, I killed Sex and the Ivy, retreated from campus, and ran off to Switzerland with two of my best girlfriends to have recuperative sex and ponder my lack of future career options.

Then for six spectacular months, I lived in constant elation (because I was falling in love with Patrick) and constant fear (because I thought my best friend was going to off herself).

Now, I’m cohabitating in a Beacon Hill one-bedroom with less closet space than my previous dorm. I’ve shed the 20 pounds I gained in freshman year, but not my freshman year friends, who have long outlasted the fairweather acquaintances from my partying days. My flakiness as a student has me on academic probation until fall, but my mom is — against all odds — not freaking out, since I’ve finally come clean about the last two years of my life. And now that Wall St. has been virtually wiped out, my friends are actually jealous that I have an entire extra 12 months to figure out my life, since it’s not like going corporate is an option for anyone anymore — sex bloggers or not. But though I might seem incredibly unemployable according to my Google search results, I still managed to land a completely legitimate non-profit job that I happen to love. Who would’ve thought that graduating later would actually be a sanity-saving move? Who would’ve thought that I actually developed marketable skills from my blogging experience?

Like I wrote back in March, about a month after Patrick and I started dating, “I’ve moved on.” I grew up and grew out of the blog that defined so much of my time at Harvard. In some ways, I’ve grown out of Harvard. When I return, I think I’ll feel much less like a student and much more like a person who studies (and hopefully there will be lots of studying, since I do need to graduate). Despite the occasionally traumatizing consequences, I’ll never regret my decision to write this blog, because now I have undeniable proof that writing is worth it. I wanted my experiences, fuck-ups and all, to resonate with people. I wanted to not feel so alone despite being the only Harvard kid I knew to admit that I sometimes hated this place we were supposed to be so proud of. I wanted to be sure again, the way I was at 8, at 12, at 16, of what I wanted to do in life.

Freshman year, I was a small fish from a small pond, too naive to be anything but impressed by the money and prestige of my Ivy League peers. I drank straight from vodka bottles and forgot myself in a riot-proof dorm in the Yard. Every day since then has been about remembering. Thanks to the two years I devoted to this blog and the year I spent not writing it, not only do I finally recall the girl I used to be, but I think I now know who I want to become.

- “I’m not advocating that women go back to the Stone Age. I just think you might want to be realistic in how capable you are of changing the primordial impulses that drive all of human nature.”
- “We did an incredibly unscientific poll where we polled twenty of our male friends (ranging from ages twenty-six to forty-five), who are in serious long-term relationships. Not one of their relationships started with the woman asking them out first. One guy even said that if she had, ‘It would have spoiled all the fun.’”
- “Just because you like to lead doesn’t mean he wants to dance. Some traditions are born of nature and last through time for a reason.”

This is like The Rules for my generation. Too young to remember The Rules? Yeah, me too. I was 8 when it was published, but luckily, nothing has changed since then. Here are some of the authors’ “time-tested secrets for capturing the heart of Mr. Right”:

- Don’t Stare at Men or Talk Too Much
- Don’t Meet Him Halfway or Go Dutch on a Date
- Don’t Call Him & Rarely Return His Calls
- Don’t Accept a Saturday Night Date after Wednesday
- Don’t See Him More than Once or Twice a Week
- No More than Casual Kissing on the First Date
- Do The Rules, Even when Your Friends & Parents Think It’s Nuts
- Don’t Discuss The Rules with Your Therapist

In other words, be an unavailable, frigid bitch!

Note that The Rules was published in 1995 and He’s Just Not That Into You was published in 2004, which is indicative of how little has changed in the past decade. Not only were both books bestsellers but He’s Just Not That Into You is being released as a movie next month. This means that 1) the quack authors are further profiting from women’s insecurities, and 2) that they’ll be reaching even more people with this film.

I’ve said this before, and I’ll continue to say this as many times as necessary for people to get the message:

Anyone who claims they’re an expert on sex or dating probably isn’t someone worth getting advice from.

This sentiment comes from someone who has been pegged as an expert on sex and dating (even though I’ve made my many relationship follies quite public). For the past two years, I’ve fielded countless email requests for advice. I’ve never felt entirely comfortable receiving these notes, and for the most part, these requests go unanswered. Why am I not more eager to give my “expert opinion”? Well, first of all, I’m 21, and secondly, I’m not even opinionated enough to register with a political party (or maybe I’m too opinionated, whatever). But more importantly, I just don’t have the answers.

Frankly, I’m often in need of sex and relationship advice myself, and for that, I go to real experts. These real experts don’t call themselves “experts”; they call themselves counselors or therapists, because they hold legitimate occupations that require demonstrated skill. “Expert” isn’t an occupation. It’s a made-up marketing term for people with no real credentials.

If you can barely operate a microwave, you probably have no business writing a cookbook. Likewise, if you have no psychology background and wind up separating from your husband (like a certain co-author of The Rules), then you have no business telling other people how to date, not fuck, and marry. It’s preposterous that millions of people accept amateur relationship “advice” from sexism-spouting laymen, but will balk at the prospect of therapy. We have standards for open heart surgeons, rocket scientists, etc., so why don’t we have standards for those who teach us how to navigate our interpersonal relationships?

That’s the only piece of advice I’ll be offering anytime soon: Don’t fall for the quacks. Consult a professional whose viewpoints are based on empirical studies and not on gimmicks designed to move bookstore inventory.

But apparently, I used to have sex with lots of different people. And since my conquests are so numerous that I inevitably never get around to writing up all of them, I thought I should share some items from a year ago.

In late 2007, I was flirting/going out with six men simultaneously and getting laid by (almost) none of them. I think I only had sex four times last winter. #1 took place on my friend Zac’s 21st birthday after I brought some dude along and we mutually got obliterated at the Kong. Classy. #2 took place in a fraternity house of all places, but it was MIT so I think I can safely say that I’ve managed to avoid becoming a total college cliche. #3 took place post-nudie-pic scandal in Los Angeles with some dude I barely knew, while my girlfriend sat in his living room watching, um, cartoons (I think?) with his friend. AWKWARD. And I met/fucked #4 approximately five days before I went on my first date with Patrick. Little did I know then that it would be my last gasp of promiscuity for many many many months (and counting … yippee).

There might’ve been a fifth guy at some point, but I obviously don’t remember. If you’re him: it’s not that you’re insignificant; you just didn’t leave any traces in my Gmail/Facebook inbox. Sorry, dude.

This list, of course, does not count September or early fall which was a shitshow of recycled ex-hookups. Old lovers get much of the credit for keeping my sex life sustainable (pun alert!) over the years. After my sex-deprived summer in New York, I was determined to get laid as quickly as possible. Former flings are terribly effective solutions. And in general, I went out and went down almost every weekend so my abstinent streak ended pretty immediately.

Junior fall/winter was also the first time I rejoiced in singledom. I usually hated dating and hooking up because I was constantly attaching, detaching, reattaching myself to men. Last year, I was so cynical about the prospect of a long-term relationship that I spent the majority of my non-fucking time making condescending remarks about the guys I was fucking. (To be clear, these were not remarks said to their faces, but rather, to my friends or uh, blog readers.) This says a lot more about me than the guys, and to be fair to my friends, they were becoming increasingly alarmed at my utter pessimism, which I framed then as “realism”. (But even today, post-monogamy, I would still say that I am, for the most part, undateable. Or at least, my blog is understandably a huge red flag for potential suitors. So there you go, I am still a realist.)

Now I am months-deep in a relationship — free doggie included! — and routinely turn down date/sex offers from the boys who used to make my blog/life so interesting. In exchange, I get walks along the Charles, unsolicited career advice, solicited foot massages, and the assurance that I won’t contract herpes even if we forgo condoms. On the downside, this means I can’t throw him out of my dorm room every time we have a fight. Mostly because I live in his apartment and not a dorm room.

I feel like a younger, more Asian version of Jessica Cutler, the sex-blogging D.C. staffer turned housewife. It’s kind of like I spent the last year in a cocoon. I entered as a filthy, whorish caterpillar and now I’ve exited as a butterfly with remarkably domestic tendencies and a desire to mate for life.

In conclusion, this is why I don’t update my sex blog anymore.

“I mean, look at all these rich nerds with fetching Asian ladies on their arms. We don’t want to sound “offensive” but it’s just a thing, you know?”

—Gawker: Following Hallowed Nerd Tradition, Michael Phelps Dates Asian Chick

And in the comments:

“Asian is the last stop before Gay.” #

“My wife already knows when she’s tired of me and kicks me out that my next wife will come from Korea or Sri Lanka.” #

“Mr. Butterfly Champion gets his Madame Butterfly*.” #

“He so horny**!” #

“White nerds dating Asian girls is a trend. I don’t think it’s offensive to point it out.” #

SERIOUSLY?!

- My friends and I make plenty of offensive comments about each other’s race/sexual orientation/etc. but we do so in private. So though I’ve been referred to as a Madame Butterfly, these things are said in jest and directed toward me specifically by my friends specifically, not directed at an entire group of people by anonymous commenters who don’t know them.
- Some argue that there’s truth to some stereotypes like “Asians are the last stop to Gay”. However, I can think of lots of stereotypes out there (”Blacks are thugs,” “Gays are diseased,” “Fat people are lazy”, etc.) that shouldn’t ever be said out loud. Why? Oh, that’s right. Because they’re stereotypes, which by definition, means that they have no empirical basis.
- Interracial relationships are not “trends”. Trends go out of style. I’m pretty sure this isn’t just a hot commodity for the season.
- People have no filter on the Internet, especially not on websites like Gawker, because they mistake “being offensive” for “being controversial”. A racist remark isn’t snarky humor, it’s just racist.

Call this an overreaction, but I’m seriously disturbed by some of these comments. The Gawker article is offensive, sure, but considering the website’s habitual outrage at other people’s displays of ignorance, I’m going to chalk this up to a poor attempt at humor. The commenters, though? I guess they demonstrate that some people out there — educated or not — clearly need a crash course on racism and its seemingly harmless manifestations.

* For those unfamiliar with the opera, Madame Butterfly depicts the relationship between a condescending American and a self-sacrificing, exoticized Japanese woman, who gets abandoned (after marriage, mind you) for a new and improved American wife.

** A reference to the Vietnamese prostitute in Full Metal Jacket. Everyone’s heard “Me so horny. Me love you long time”; no one ever knows where it’s from. Now you do.

(reposted from Tumblr)

BUSY? SKIP TO THE EXECUTIVE SUMMARY AT THE END.

1. When the polls close:

(map from Huffington Post)

2. What states matter:

According to the prediction models at Fivethirtyeight.com, McCain absolutely can’t win without Florida, Georgia, Missouri, Indiana and Montana. He has less chance of winning without taking both Ohio and North Carolina than you do of wearing a condom and getting HIV.

3. What states matter in what order:

I distilled this from 538’s Nate Silver:

At 6 PM EST, most of Indiana’s polls close. An early call for McCain means hold onto your butts (because it indicates unpredicted McCain support); an early call for Obama means pop the champagne (for the inverse reason).

At 7, the rest of Indiana closes and a McCain win isn’t as meaningful. But at the same time Virginia, Georgia, and most of Florida close. If Virginia goes Obama, again, champagne. Same for Florida. If Obama wins his long-shot Georgia because of the record number of black early voters, then call a Republican and do your best Nelson “Ha ha!” because this whole map’s going blue.

At 7:30, Ohio and North Carolina close. Bad voter turnout here actually helps Obama, thanks to his huge lead in early votes. Either way, by now McCain probably has to win both or…finally…champagne.

At 8, Pennsylvania wraps up. But the projections may be off depending on which votes are counted first. Again, if you’re still holding onto your butts, keep a grip.

At 9, if Obama is still struggling, he’d better win Colorado. But not much chance it’ll come down to this.

EXECUTIVE SUMMARY
AT THIS TIME, IF OBAMA HASN’T SWEPT:
6 PM: McCain needs to not already lose Indiana.

7 PM: McCain needs Florida and Virginia.

7:30: McCain needs Ohio and North Carolina.

8: McCain probably needs Pennsylvania.

9: McCain needs Colorado.

In terms of the presidential election, my absentee ballot will probably mean nada, but it’ll count quite a bit toward the vote against Prop 8. Despite some optimistic forecasts, I’m inclined to think that there’s more contention than being reported and at least one media source finds the majority in support of the ban on same-sex marriage.

As a staunch atheist, I have a simple — some might call it simplistic — opinion on the issue: don’t let the state have any say on what “marriage” is at all. In the ideal world, everyone could have civil unions and obtain the same rights historically associated with marriage. Those who actually care about the sanctity of the marriage label can go harass their church about who’s allowed slap that sticker on their forehead. Granted, there’s a cultural attachment to the word and idea of “marriage” (thanks for the early conditioning, media!), but I’m sure America can overcome that along with terrorism and its close cousin paganism.

Unfortunately, in the world we actually live in, people want their personal definition of marriage to prevail — and this is something both left and right are guilty of. The term “marriage” itself isn’t worth defense by anyone (no, not even LGBT activists). It’s a moot point after all. As a non-religious person, the title “domestic partner” means as much to me as the title of wife and let’s face it, there are greater things to fight for than technical terms here. What same-sex couples really need are equal legal consideration and societal tolerance. There wouldn’t even be a debate about “marriage” if those goals were achieved.

And by the way, I’m not even remotely interested in the idea of getting married in any official sense so maybe I just don’t care enough about marriage to defend it against the evil homosexuals. Knowing me, I’d be too lazy to plan the damn wedding and would probably even put off the city hall trip for a licensel. And given my blasé attitude on these matters, I’m supposed to think that my chick-dude relationship is somehow superior to same-sex couplings simply because I, like millions of women before me, can biologically produce squealing brats who will surely ruin my life? Please. Let someone else get married. Let them adopt the product of my womb. They will surely do as good — if not a better — job with both.

likepolishingfirewood:

new rule: you can’t volunteer to make someone a mixed tape like some john cusack circa “Say Anything” indie God out of my dreams, and then not respond to a fucking text message. it’s just MEAN.

Kennedy has a new blog on Tumblr, a new life in Seattle, and a new distrust for men. (Thanks flaky dude from last weekend!) We were discussing her most recent date and she asked me what I thought she should do regarding this maybe-interested/maybe-not guy. My advice:

I, being the type to not trust men, say you are one of many girls he is pursuing concurrently using the unfortunately effective technology of mass text messaging and copy/paste. My advice is to maximize orgasms while minimizing pain. I suggest dating as many people as possible at the same time so any single man’s attention is irrelevant since you are too busy anyway. Basically, don’t get invested. Men are shit.* Let’s not forget that just because one of us is operating under some sort of romantic delusion at the moment.

I should’ve probably added the disclaimer that following the above advice is the first step to lifelong commitmentphobia, but I figure Kennedy’s already well on her way toward that.

Anyway, it was interesting to talk about boys because I haven’t done it for months. Literally, months. The people I have been keeping in touch with in the States are mostly in serious relationships, so no one’s gushing about their drunken error in judgment from last weekend. You have to understand, I used to relish in drunken errors! And yes, I do mean my own. Everyone else was mostly horrified but I loved my crazy dating antics (almost as much as I love myself), so ever since I went off the market and stopped being so damn entertaining (to myself), I’ve been dying to live vicariously and single-y through someone else.

Until Kennedy and I chatted, at least. Then I remembered that dating was largely a complicated, terrible affair. Being single itself wasn’t so bad (and often times, it rocked), but when you were sick and tired of being alone and decided to get out there and look for someone with whom you could share takeout bills and pregnancy scares, the process for finding said partner came with so many rules and expectations that you would’ve thought “dating” was something invented by a particularly heinous schoolteacher. For example, what’s with waiting to call and not seeing each other on consecutive days? Or the do’s and don’ts of first date hanky-panky? Or generally keeping your feelings for someone guarded until he hands you a big rock? For reasons that escape me, playing hard to get has been marketed as the key to getting a mate, despite its incompatibility with our biological impulses and all evolutionary theory. On one hand, it reduces men to masochistic idiots who want the unattainable. On the other, it encourages women to behave manipulatively. Way to fulfill a stereotype!

The only thing that’s worse than playing hard to get is doing the opposite: pretending you like someone you don’t have the least bit of interest in, which actually seems to be a dating maxim itself. I’ve done this before and I’ve had it done to me, and my theory is that this behavior occurs when the disinterested party is afraid of offending the uninteresting one. (Like, what are you supposed to say, “I’ve been dating you for the water pressure”?) Also, I sometimes date guys for longer than I should simply for lack of other options. DO NOT DO THIS. I am terrible at breaking up with people, but seriously, suck it up and deal with being alone, because if you don’t, this is what will happen: Invariably, a more attractive option will come along. You will be forced to kill off your dalliance of the past few weeks without much warning. Your victim will go through all five stages of grief as their dreams of cohabitation slowly disintegrate while you watch on somewhat embarrassed by how long you took part in this charade. No one is happy, and if you fail to give adequate notice, you may even have a recent ex-lover phoning you at 2 a.m. while you try to play Just The Tip with the person you dumped them for. All in all, not hot.

Oh, last reason off the top of my head for why dating sucks: “dating” is a favorite activity of assholes with girlfriends. (Another possible theory, Kennedy. Take notes!)

Okay, let’s end this baby on a positive note since I’ve just spent several paragraphs criticizing an institution in which I no longer have to take part and everyone’s probably like, “Hypocrite!” So I would like to recap by saying that although I stick to the claim that dating is a sham, my last two relationships did start with first dates — the traditional kind that comes with dinner and ends in 69 — but that being said, let’s not attribute the successful outcum  to the dating process. After all, any non-kissing action on the first date is supposed to be a romance killer. Thus, I’m pretty sure the relationships evolved in spite of the rules and expectations, not because of them. So you see? It’s actually all in your hands! Be a maverick! Don’t wait to fuck! Answer your goddamn text messages as soon as you receive them! And stop listening to dating advice from oversexed college girls! Seriously, I don’t know jack.

* Men not actually shit.

And it’s not just memories either. It’s skills like how to use JSTOR (thank you, high school debate) or how to swim (thank you, community pool) that I must relearn because I’ve somehow magically forgotten despite everyone’s insistence that there are some things, like riding a bike, that you remember forever. Well, trust me, if there were ever a person who could forget, it’d be me. In Ibiza, for example, this was precisely my problem. Here I was with miles of unpolluted ocean before me, and I was terrified of wading too far out because I hadn’t swum in years. I was always scared to go into pools as a kid until I braved swimming lessons during early elementary school. Then I promptly forgot and had to learn again, this time during a summer around age 10. I don’t think I’ve really swum again since. Eventually in Ibiza, I gave it a go at a shallow beach but I conceded defeat after several gulpfuls of seawater. This was a performance from someone who used to relish jumping off diving boards several yards above her head.

And so I consider my life history a sort of project. Narcissistic it may be, but most of my writing concerns relationships; and my knowledge of relationships is inseparable from my understanding of myself. It’s too bad my mental timeline starts somewhere at last week. To help myself remember the important things, I sift through blog entries from high school, reread old instant messaging conversations, or simply ask questions to people who were paying attention when life was happening. I am endlessly recording and recalling the details of my existence in hopes that turning my laptop into a life library will offer some permanence to my fleeting memories. Last summer, I even paid a friend $40 to transcribe 200+ text messages. This spring, I requested from Harvard my mental health records from 2006 to 2007. It’d been a tumultuous year, and I thought these logs might come in handy some day, not just for “memoir research” (the reason I cited on my request form) but for … well, me. When I go home for the holidays, I dig up paper diaries of my youth and old notes passed from friends to my middle and high school self. I actually still have plenty, including mean ones that declared me a slut at as young an age as 12 and nice ones from girls who are still some of my closest friends today. I’m the type of person who doesn’t throw things away, despite easily blocking out large chunks of my childhood. I’m pretty sure that none of these habits are common, that I am straddling a fine line between forgetfulness and repression,that I likely appear crazy or self-obsessed or both . (That last one may be a correct assessment, since I am, after all, applying journalistic techniques to research my favorite subject: myself.)

The funny thing about reexamining the past is that I always find something new. I have a hard time remembering, and so the Lena of yesterday never seems familiar. I might as well be going through the personal documents of a stranger. Besides, I’ve changed so much that it’s hard to get a grasp of who I was or wanted to be at any given point in time. It’s a good thing that I do a better job than most of keeping track of feelings and thoughts in the moment or else my account of my life would begin somewhere at 17. Luckily, I’ve maintained multiple blogs for the past five years in which I have a record of everything from my adolescent sexual experiences to college admission anxieties to freshman year disillusionment to first loves and last loves. The girl preserved reads like a fictional character to me. Whoever I was then is always too far removed for me to get a good hold on her now. And it’s sad. It’s tragic that I forget.

It’s tragic because forgetting means throwing out the good along with the bad and though I think leaving behind the latter is a matter of self-preservation, it’s the former that makes life worth living, isn’t it? Besides, there are lessons I could learn from myself if only I had the will to remember them. I must admit that there are some things I did better at 15 than I do now. Somehow, things seemed clearer then, even when it came to what I wanted to accomplish with my writing. There are other things I’ve simply stopped knowing how to do, like letting myself fall in love without worrying about what risks it might entail.

Last night, while trying to dig up resume drafts from my inbox, I found an old email exchange with an ex-boyfriend I dated two summers ago. In it, Summer Guy (his pseudonym on my blog) said one of the most important things anyone has ever told me: “Your writing is beautiful; don’t ever stop.” To which I responded, “I’m more flattered than if you had said I was beautiful. Thank you.” The rest of the emails were about our relationship, about falling hard and fast, about — as I called it then — “love … or its short-term equivalent.” We were writing at the height of our passion for each other, and I found what I said to him remarkable because for once, reading the old Lena brought about a feeling of nostalgia, a sense that I had indeed felt that way in that moment. I remembered her. This hasn’t happened in a long time for me. Recognition of my former self, in place of embarrassment at who she was — or even worse, bafflement — has largely been rare, and yet last night, I could recall what it felt like to love someone.

I don’t love him anymore. At least not in the way that I used to. And though I consider us good friends, I enjoy Summer Guy’s company most from afar … or preferably in short spurts with breaks for good measure. But despite only harboring platonic feelings for him nowadays, recalling how much I once loved him made me smile. It reminded me that relationships are great, and believe it or not, I need the reminder. I’ve been spending the past month trying to convince myself that relationships are the precise opposite of great. Instead, they are emotionally precarious, troublesome, and unnecessary. Maybe I’m clinging desperately to my independence for fear that I will lose some part of myself in the process of falling for someone else. Maybe I simply don’t know how to respond to someone who exceeds the expectations I’ve habitually lowered in light of attached suitors and so-called liberal lovers who later balk at my ideals. Maybe I’m not willing to run the risk of abandonment. But though I’ve been afraid for weeks to make this concession, I must say: by and large, love is worth it. The fact that an email from a former boyfriend can conjure up this rare spark of recognition of the feeling is proof enough.

Love didn’t used to terrify me, and I certainly didn’t think I was scared of it but reading those emails I wrote to Summer Guy made me see how differently I am now behaving in this relationship. Because unlike the community pool, love is more like swimming in the ocean. Once you’re far out, there are no lifeguards or railings, and more often than not, your final destination is not forward but back from where you came. For the girl who used to throw herself headfirst into the water without hesitation, it seems like I’ve taken one too many steps away from the sand to remember that the view is worth it, that drowning is more fear than real possibility, that even those who never properly learned how to swim — or who have long forgotten — are capable of staying afloat.

And though this is beside the point, I think I’ve made it fairly obvious that the majority of my time here thus far has been spent in an un-air-conditioned dorm room with my sometimes-suicidal best friend. Her roommates are probably wondering when the hell I’m going to leave. It’s not like I’m rocking out in lavish hotels. I’m essentially a squatter in student housing, not the Marie Antoinette these online snarks are looking to stone. I mean, when I was hungry today, I had to go into the kitchen to steal someone else’s cake and eat it. Seriously.

Anyway, I’m writing this somewhat defensive entry because I find it irritating that there’s a stereotype of Harvard kids as being spoiled brats who have had everything handed to them in life. Certainly, this holds true for a portion of the population, but on the whole, the students here are probably some of the hardest workers I’ve ever seen, and there are plenty of them who aren’t working for money but rather for causes and beliefs that don’t even benefit them. Occasional pretension aside, my peers deserve a lot of credit for that. Of course, plenty of us — even someone like me whose annual family income qualified her for free school lunches back in the day — have had inherent advantages, be they particularly supportive parents or the necessary college prep classes. Still, those advantages shouldn’t discredit the many things we have earned for ourselves. In my case, I think this summer of travel has been well-earned, given the fact that it’s the first leisurely summer I’ve had since … just about ever.

Unlike comments about my sexual history, I take criticism about perceived privilege and exorbitant spending (of other people’s money) very personally. I consider “brat” far more insulting than “slut”, because though I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with sexual appetite, I do think that ignorant wastefulness and entitlement are major character flaws. Besides, the truth is that I do feel bad about not working this summer. I put myself through enough guilt without needing commenters to remind me about it. And this guilt is definitely an irrational manifestation of the capitalistic, work-a-holic system in which I grew up. Why do Americans feel so bad about taking a vacation!

This autumn, it’ll be back to work for me … and it’ll be much more work than usual too. I’m taking the year off from Harvard, and I’ll be the Boston area, close to friends and lover (note: that was singular, not plural). I’m looking for a part-time gig to balance out my freelancing. Having my own hours as a writer is fantastic but at my age, at least, it’s no way to pay the bills on the regular. So ideally, I’d like to be working at a non-profit that deals with women’s issues, LGBT advocacy, or disadvantaged youth. Come September, I’ll be more than ready for real life and the comfort of work. I wouldn’t trade this summer for anything, but I wouldn’t extend it either. Besides, when traveling becomes a full-time occupation, it ceases to be a vacation.

I didn’t expect anyone with any modicum of common sense to disseminate these rumors further than they’ve already been disseminated, but clearly I was wrong. It’s bad that completely anonymous strangers with no stake in my life have chosen to so thoroughly gut it and put it on display on my behalf. It’s worse that perfectly intelligent people believe what they say and encourage this rumor-mongering by reposting the defamatory content. You guys work for thisrecording. Don’t you have to fact-check or something before you just post something to the Internet? Anyway, that’s enough, now. I’ve been ignoring this mess for two months and it’s time for an explanation. A long one.

Even Julia Allison, who epitomizes the trials and triumphs of blogebrity, said after a tumultuous Tumblr run that “none of this has been worth it.” I don’t know what I’ll eventually get out of Sex and the Ivy, or out of The Chicktionary for that matter, but I’m also reaching the point where I can no longer see any benefit to doing what I have been doing for the past 22 months. A book deal? A reality TV show? A job at some “edgy” new media company too self-congratulatory to actually be edgy? None of these options — and all of them have been offered — are terribly interesting to me, perhaps because they require that I sacrifice my independence and creative control. What I’d really like to do is to graduate and to become a nomad, to read what I want to read and to write what I want to write, and (most of all) to just be left alone, at least as far as my personal life is concerned.

That last thing has always been the problem from the beginning: people misunderstand my choice to reveal certain elements of my life. It does not entitle them to dig for the parts I do not share or to actively interfere in events that have nothing to do with them. That’s why it’s not worth it anymore, or at least, that’s why I’m approaching a point where things are no longer worth it. I used to get irritated by the harassing emails that ruined my day; I used to get angry when other people — be they Gawker or my classmates — just didn’t understand me. But those things I eventually got used to. Something far more sinister is happening now, a line I didn’t even know existed is being crossed, and it makes everything that has preceded it seem awfully trivial in comparison. I wrote in a letter to Kennedy recently:

I wonder, of course, if this is all worth it. I wonder this all the time, from the beginning really, since the stakes rose with every month and it seemed like any given moment in time was a huge risk, that that moment was really it, really as bad as it was going to get for me and was I in or was I out?

Well, nearly two years later, I’m pretty sure that that moment is, in fact, this one.

I started blogging publicly two years ago in August 2006. I had just been dumped by a Republican investment banker, was living at home in LA with my mother and then-14-year-old sister, and worked 40 hours a week at marketing and PR internships. Freshman year at Harvard sucked. I considered that summer recuperation. I was certain sophomore year would get better. I had, after all, just gotten out of my first adult relationship. Did I really need further preparation than that for my 19th year?

The answer was a resounding yes. I had no idea what my blog would turn into. People ask, “But you had to know. With a name like Sex and the Ivy, what did you expect?” Not this. I’m on the verge of 21 and this is not at all what I had in mind. Actually, I couldn’t have predicted Year 2 of the Blogging Life even after Year 1. Because the first 12 months, bipolar and destabilizing as they were, were still exciting and educational once you subtracted the agonizing heartbreak and emotional dysregulation that came with dead-end boys and public scrutiny. The second 12 months? Pretty smooth sailing except for the nagging feeling that my world could crumble at any second. And it did. Once, twice, and again.

Two of those apocalypses have been blog-induced. The first was the naked photo debacle. The second has been the systematic deconstruction of my most recent relationship in online forums. Actually, “systematic deconstruction” sounds much too fair for the circumstances. It sounds like some of the commentary might even have merit. In reality, trolls on my blogs are accusing the guy I’m dating of sexual harassment, assault, and general unethical behavior despite having nothing to go on but a blog entry with a disclaimer. Patrick’s identity (as in, pertinent information like his full name, address, and occupation) wasn’t even public until someone conducted a witchhunt and posted that information on Juicy Campus. Up until then, the most I showed of him on my blog had been the back of his head. And then various gossip blogs were emailed about our supposedly illicit affair (luckily, they had the good sense to ignore these “tips”). The rumor mill continued churning. Posters on the notoriously defamatory AutoAdmit decided to dismantle his entire life, our entire relationship. They took my blog posts about aggressive, consensual sex to mean that I was being coerced or assaulted when I’ve never so much as fought with Patrick or heard him raise his voice. The funny thing is, no one is actually concerned about my well-being, even if they pretend as if this “investigation” into my relationship is for my own good. How do I know their intentions? Well, for one, Patrick has received multiple emails telling him what an awful person he is. I’ve received nothing, and I’m supposed to be the grateful victim of this rescue effort. I ignored it all and assumed that anyone remotely relevant would never read the trash being written. Then the trolls began emailing people in Harvard’s sociology department, people in the administration, people Patrick works with. Strangers I only knew through names on course catalogs and official announcements read skewed accounts that portrayed Patrick like a predator. I can deal with criticism. This is complete invasion of privacy. This is defamation.

Why the hoopla? He is a graduate student and he used to be my teaching assistant, which makes our relationship about as scandalous as a senior dating a freshman. Nonetheless, it’s a fact that the Internet ate up, distorted, and spat back out. Google the mess. There are more pages than I care to read about this matter. This is the first time I’ve blogged about how we met or how we know each other. I assumed that doing so would just encourage rumors and inaccuracies, but now that things have escalated, there’s no reason to protect an open secret. So these are the facts: He’s 28, a Ph.D candidate in my department (sociology), and German by birth and citizenship. He owns a bulldog. He went to Yale. He used to lead my discussion sections and grade my papers. By the time we went out on our first date, it’d been months since he last did either. Far from punishing him, all university sources consulted in the ugly PR aftermath are on his side, have confirmed that he has broken no rules, and believe he probably has a case for libel. Contrary to internet speculation, he was not removed from the Graduate Student Council but resigned after a two-year term. His name is Patrick and the only error in judgment he’s made in this entire ordeal is dating a girl who writes a blog with detractors vile enough to not just interfere in her life but also in his.

Is that enough? Here’s more: We met in 2006 during my sophomore fall. My best friend and I whispered about the cute TF in between taking lecture notes, but Patrick was just a distraction from my 10-11am on Mondays and Wednesdays, not an actual fixation. He never made a move on me when I was his student. He had a girlfriend and was, after all, my TF. It wasn’t a possibility either of us considered. Our only personal interaction was office hours, where I first met his dog Hamlet. A year and a half later, neither ethical barrier remained. He found out about my crush by coincidence through a Q&A in The Crimson. Our first date was at The Beehive in Boston’s South End. I saw him again the next night. That first week, I spent four nights with him. And so on until we got to where we are now. What else? He makes me soy lattes in the morning. Half my life is currently stored in his basement. The only photos of us together are on Polaroids. We do grocery shopping at Deluca’s on Charles Street. We give each other books to read. He met Kennedy when he visited Germany last month and held me the numerous times I cried about her this spring. He is an atheist. What more do you want to know? He takes photos of me with a Leica M6. His sister is an artist. Enough? Or more? How much am I supposed to give to prove there is nothing to hide?

I have a blog where I write more of the truth than most people are ever willing to admit, but whatever I keep private is construed as controversy and scandal. I can’t date someone without being worried that his name will be published, and Patrick is not even the first to get “outed”. For all of the above reasons and many others, I see suicide on the horizon. Sex and the Ivy is not dead, but it’s on its way there. Two weeks ago, Bluehost shut down Sex and the Ivy because my scripts were running inefficiently (whatever that means). Patrick twiddled on my control panel, upgraded my Wordpress, called customer service for me, and convinced them to put it back up again. The guy whose reputation I’m ruining helped me fix the website that’s made him infamous by association. Think about that for a second.

I don’t know how many Patricks there are in the world, but I’m going to guess not many. And my friends? It might not seem too difficult to be buds with the local sex blogger, but acquaintances dropped like flies after I started blogging. Nowadays, I have a pretty good idea of who my real friends are, and their job is not easy. So I’m tired of making their lives even harder. I’m tired of making my own life harder. I’m tired of the word “libel” in bed, of forwarding each other defamatory emails and links, of discussing “legal options” over dinner. I’m tired of having to check Google alerts on his name. I’m not a masochist, and I’m certainly not a sadist. I can’t give anything anymore because people then expect everything. I’ll always write but I doubt Lena the Sex Blogger will survive the year, and as far as suicides go, this is one that will hardly be mourned.

I told him in the very beginning that I didn’t want to make his life complicated. I tried to explain about my blog, about the drama that had already ensued. He didn’t believe that it could get so bad. “What are you,” he teased. “Like E-list celebrity?” I laughed. I agreed it was ludicrous. But I’d been in the game long enough to know that people fixate on the most asinine things. I prepared him for the worst case scenario, but no amount of preparation could ready someone for the type of fallout that occurred here. If he left, it would be easy for me to be sad or bitter and to blame my blog for ruining my life. But he hasn’t left and if he does, it won’t be because of this. And so I find myself with an odd kind of burden. I can’t simply be sad or bitter. I have to do everything I can to make things as right as possible. Because caring about me is far harder than it should be, and yet still, he makes me soy lattes in the morning.

I talked to Susannah Breslin today about what it’s like in college nowadays and what I think about what others think and how I handle all the shit that’s thrown at my blog and views on sexuality. Mid-interview, I verbalized for the first time something that I didn’t realize until recently. I don’t care anymore what people think.This hasn’t always been the case. I used to care what my friends thought, then I cared what my readers thought, then I cared what agents and producers and capitalist goons thought. And I’ve always cared what reporters and other bloggers thought. (But maybe that’s because I give more credit to those who write.)

Now? Hm. I pretty much only consult with Patrick and Kennedy about what I write, which is essentially consulting with myself (since I live at the former’s apartment and speak with the latter on a near hourly basis). I don’t get upset when commenters hate on me, or when other bloggers hate on me, or when I realize I am completely un-marketable and most likely going to be poor for a very long time.

I think that’s the point. Having no options, that is. I wrote a sex blog for nearly two years and during this time, not only did I write explicitly about sexual acts and depression and all my fuck-ups but also, I had a crazy ex who leaked my naked photos on the Internet. I mean, I’m not marketable in love and not marketable in the labor force and not marketable in civilized society, really. And when you begin to realize that you are the antithesis of everything acceptable or American, that your Ivy League resume is chock full of life experience but nothing more, that the only people who will love you are the rare ones who forgive first impressions, it’s then that you stop giving a shit and start living the way you want to live.

Because here is the thing: there is so much shit said about me on the Internet that I couldn’t wake up everyday worrying about it or I probably would’ve offed myself by now. I have no option but to stop caring and when I stopped caring, I realized something incredible: I don’t have to care. Whether someone thinks I’m a slut should make no difference to me. Why is that something I should cry about? Why should any of us care what anyone else thinks? It’s both hilarious and sad that in order to love myself fully and completely, to be totally comfortable with the decisions I make, it took everyone else hating me and deriding my choices.

Also? I may be a whore by societal standards, but I am not an attention whore. I go to Harvard for chrissakes. Do you think I don’t realize that the only reason anyone gives my blog the time of day is because I am a living, walking, subversive abomination that they expect to crash and burn? Do you think I’m so deluded as to believe that most people are cheering me on? I may be egotistic, but I’m not quite that naive. So I realize that the majority of “attention” I get is negative. Why in the world would I court that? Google Adsense profits of an incredible $1/day? I don’t think so. It’s not about money. It’s not about all publicity being good publicity. It’s about I can so I will.

Here’s a summation for the critics: this is just how I am and this is just how I’d be, whether or not you’re reading. I don’t care for your attention anymore than you care for my whoring. The difference between us is a matter of liberation. I can fuck whoever and live however I like and feel fine about it all at the end of the day. But even those who despise me find it hard to look away or to bite their tongue or to not personally intervene and yell “NO YOU ARE WRONG”. Think about that for a second, and tell me: which one of us is captive?