Well, here we are. End of the line. This is where I’m supposed to tell you all about what I’ve learned being a sex columnist, how my life has changed and pepper in some thoughts on Life and the Hereafter. Let’s make it quick.

What I’ve learned being a sex columnist: Everything that has ever been fucked, sucked or come upon has already been talked about, fought about and turned into an entire media enterprise. The very concept of the (inevitably) female or gay male sex writer has become a cliché in itself.

How my life has changed: I got pretty all right at frantic writing, and AEPi wants people to pay money to throw pies at me. Cream pies. Bless their hearts.

Thoughts on Life and the Hereafter? Keep on fuckin’.

Sometime in his illustrious and controversial career studying human sexuality, Alfred Kinsey said, “The only unnatural sexual act is that which you cannot perform.”

This Spring Break I went to my first strip club. It’s a trip that’s been a long time coming. I turned 18 and rather than looking forward to being able to buy a pack of smokes (I didn’t smoke) or get a lottery ticket (who cares) or buy porn (do people still do that?), I looked forward to going to a strip club. But it didn’t happen. So they’ve been shrouded in mystery to me for a while.

When I was a kid, every boy had cooties. Didn’t matter who he was or if we were friends. If a kid had a pee-pee, that kid had cooties. You couldn’t see cooties, and there was no cootie-indicator — it was just that boys had cooties, and girls didn’t, or vice versa. Cooties were a family of germs: microscopic, contagious and dangerous. Worse yet, you only had to touch someone to get them. (Thankfully cooties, at least in my neighborhood, were not airborne pathogens.)

This column is not about sex. But it is about vaginas. So I guess it’s about sex insofar as sometimes vaginas are involved in sex. I know I already spent time pontificating on my love for the vagina’s northern cousins, but this won’t be that kind of column either. This is a column about pussy monsters.

Maybe you’ve heard of a little production called The Vagina Monologues, a play in which pussy monsters are glorified in all sorts of terrible ways. You got ladies talking about touching and loving their pussy monsters. You got ladies talking about what their pussy monsters would wear or say. Most importantly, you got ladies talking about how pussy monsters around the world are being badly hurt — shit that has got to stop.

Beloved Cornell — Allow me to express my undying love for those things near and dear to my heart: boobies.

I’ve been thinking about them quite a bit recently. It seems wherever I go, breasts are waiting. I mean, they’re there all along. On me. And plenty of other women. But breasts are more than deposits of fat. They’re deposits of fun. They can change your mood — even your whole outlook on life. They’re a concept, for goodness sake, telling us to be soft but firm, gentle and resilient, perky when you feel like it and gosh darnit, saggy when you wanna.

So ladies: this one’s for you and your jigglers.

I’d like to preface this article with a potential trigger warning. If possibly humiliating sex acts upset or disturb you, turn the page.

If you’ve ever watched porn (you devil, you!), you’ve seen it. It starts with a tight shot on a usually enormous penis and a man or woman with a snake-like ability to unhinge their jaw. It ends with a bout of serious thrusting. Then the blowjob-ee­­ pulls his dick out of the mouth and blows a big old load right onto the blowjob-er’s face. And there you have it: the cumshot. The pop shot. The money shot. The facial.

As I write this, I have been awake for over 36 hours in the middle of a Hell Week more miserable than any other that I have experienced in my college career. I try to keep a cool head most of the time and hold on to an “It’ll get done eventually” attitude, but this week I’m all stress. I can hardly keep my eyeballs in my head with how much caffeine I’ve been ingesting, and from the looks of it, not many of you are doing too hot either.

So please: Masturbate.

Tuesday night I hung out with the boys of “What George Bush Told Me,” a weekly Slope Radio talk show. We shot the shit, they asked to see my armpits, I showed them (still haven’t shaved), they pretended to puke — it was cute. We took a couple phone calls, and after one guy called in asking how to make anal sex “less bloody” (seriously), we spoke with “Patricia.” Her call may or may not have been for real, but it sure was interesting.

There’s a new President-Elect! Awesome. But if you’re anything like me (bless your heart), you’re a little tired of the election babble. So let’s talk about what’s really important:

My boyfriend won’t fuck my armpit.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: This kid says he LOVES me, and he won’t perform this one little experiment of inserting his penis into a heretofore unexplored area of my body?! I’m as stunned as you are. But before we do anything rash, here’s a little background.