You’re all getting Nexted. I’m leaving you and running away with the Cunnilingus Cowboy, the fine feminist gentleman who penned the illuminating “My Night with Jenna B.” on Friday. Everyone knows a girl simply cannot resist a man who rates her fellatio skills on a 10-point scale. I’d make an educated guess he’s been haunted by that particular number (5.75) quite a bit lately, as it is precisely the length of time, in seconds, it took him to — oh, easy digs on helpless, faceless dudes: how I’ll miss you.

Still, thanks for all your letters of support after the article ran. And no thank you to those of you who seemed intent on crushing my delusions of literary greatness by accusing me of penning that shit myself (Hello, do I write like that? I mean, really?). And, yes, my fabulously-eye-linered eyes had the opportunity to examine the gem beforehand, and my impeccably-glossed lips encouraged Hustler Magaz — er, I mean, The Sun — to publish it.

Check out the article again: although my neener does usually come close to falling out of my top by 11 p.m., the article’s much more than a play-by-play account of a typical hook, line and screw-her evening with Sister Sloppy. It actually sheds some light on some of my shortcomings as Cornell’s sex columnist.

See, at first — at my most naïve — I believed what I was doing in this space was big and significant and magical; that 2400 words a month next to the crossword was going to profoundly influence the C.U. community’s attitudes about sex. I chopped off my last name in the interest of preventing Google-fuck-age, got a bikini wax and a nicer laptop, and set out on my mission.

First, as I’ve said many times, I was infuriated that guys often viewed a woman with an immense collection of notches on her bedpost as an unfit candidate for a relationship — and I thought that addressing those stereotypes and reclaiming the word “slut” would challenge those age-old assumptions and double standards.

I was wrong. We’ve still got a long way to go. The number of “Yo this girl iz a slut OMFG” threads I encountered on JuicyCampus was disheartening, and my own experiences as the self-appointed poster girl for promiscuous Cornell women were even more so. For instance, whenever I stuck my palm out to shake a dude’s hand in the fart-scented steam-bath we know as the basement of Rulloffs, my other hand was always death-gripping my plastic cup of vodka and soda waiting for a reaction — curiosity, terror, surprise — this dude knows I’m a slut, how will he handle it? In a handful of cases, I found that I was no longer a generic blonde with a skanky top and too much eyeliner. I was The Sex Columnist — an objective that, when attained, would give this college boy license to brag over breakfast.

But to most guys, it seemed as though my appeal was on par with the pinto beans in the dumpster behind That Burrito Place. And you know what? That means I probably didn’t change many attitudes out there. I felt empowered whenever my columns were published, but was I? I mean, I also once thought white leggings would look good on me. Sometimes, we set out with major ambitions and fail.

This position was at times quite trying. And this sort of attention gets a bit lonely. But when you use yourself as an example in your work (and when your work is a sex column in the campus daily), you develop a certain relationship with readers. And you cannot reasonably expect a dude to want to be intimate with a woman whose vagina lies exposed on every table at Trillium on Thursdays.

That’s not to say I was alone on Friday nights — I had sex. I never made up any stories. But for the most part, the dudes I have been sexually (and sometimes emotionally) involved with throughout this school year all had something significant that seemed to draw them to me. Often, that “something significant” was not moxie or musical talent or charisma or a sense of humor, but something a bit less appealing: a significant other, a significant sense of entitlement, a significantly busted ulterior motive or an ego that was significantly larger than my own.

My second goal was to make sure I was as honest as possible to get people talking. I was constantly hoping someone out there would be able to relate to my latest humiliating bedroom screw-up. Truly, I was afraid of reader responses like, “that’s yo’ problem, not mine” — I thought I might be inadvertently imposing my own limitations on everyone else.

But no. Turns out, shit happens to everyone.

And I was enormously successful in getting people to talk about things they would have otherwise ignored. I’ll be the first to tell you that I have never second-guessed myself more than the day “A Red Hot Mess” ran, but people still discuss it. So: a victory.

Sex is not particularly glamorous in college. It’s an embarrassing body part; a stupid decision; a night so lubricated by warm, flat beer that somehow a penis slips into a vagina and the evening out of recollection. We start out as a bunch of horny 18-year-olds finally wrest free of our parents’ watchful eyes — and, surprise: when you mix hormones, sweet liberation and bitter Natty Light, sex happens. Eventually, we grow into slightly heavier 22-year-olds, reluctant to face the future and determined to pack as many wild stories as possible into our last collegiate months. Sex happens there, too. In between, we’ve hopefully experienced serious relationships, struggled with (and conquered) sincere heartbreak and had some sobering morning-after incidents — and we should be talking about it. In that sense, I was successful as a sex columnist.

Finally, I gave it to you straight. I mean — literally. My column was heteronormative, and I apologize. But honestly, I know I cannot speak with any authority on subjects outside my realm of experience. It would have been sort of like those girls who wear shirts that say “Geekette.” They don’t even know what HTML stands for; they’re just tryin’ to get laid at the Apple store, you know?

So, that’s it. I could not have done this without you, my darling readers. You have clung to your fierce loyalty and, more often, your fiery hatred with admirable determination. Your feedback — the positive letters as well as the select digital gems to remind me I’m a “sloppy ho” — has been invaluable.

I sure as shit wouldn’t have been anything more than a loose lady with a loud mouth without the leadership of the incredible folks on the Sun: Carlos, Morisy, Olivia, Jonny, Julie B. and Dave. I know I’ve probably been the most high-maintenance columnist the Sun has seen since Charlie Niesenbaum ’07.5, and I am forever indebted to all of you for your boundless patience, guidance, life-coaching and good humor.

More thank yous to people and entities who are unlikely to acknowledge the shout-out: Danielle, Ashley and Brett, the Statler Power Corner, the 2008 cast of the Vagina Monologues, KD, Rulloff’s, Pixel, CIVR, and the lovely Laura Weiss and the CUWRC board. Finally, a big, wet kiss goes out to every dude ever mentioned in this column — you were good sports.

Last, my parents. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I hope this column didn’t make you lose hair or sleep or friends or anything. I know that I’m constantly demanding money, attention, money, technology and money from you, but I guess you’d never have expected that I would come to demand your dignity as well. It means the world to me that you were willing to be supportive (or at least tolerant) of “Bedroom Eyes,” and despite my college escapades, I want you to know that the two of you and your 28 years of marriage have always given me faith in true love. Yes, readers: my parents have read everything I’ve ever written, right down to the last “wrinklebeast.”

Jenna B. is a senior. She can be contacted at opinion@cornellsun.com. Bedroom Eyes appeared alternate Thursdays this semester.