Is this what love feels like? I mean, I just want to lay here in your arms, listening to your words echoing mine as they come out of your mouth. I’m looking deeply into your eyes. Well, I guess I’m looking sideways at these black panties and not really at you. But we can pretend. I just wish I could hold you the way you are holding me. And by me, I mean this newspaper. I still love you though …
It was an honor to be The Sun’s first male sex columnist. Reading Jenna B.’s columns, it’s obvious why people still talk about how great her articles were. But soon, all of the people who were around for her columns are going to be graduates. I don’t think I’ll fill the void of that great sex columnist to talk about, but who knows? I see myself fading into obscurity, like Jeffrey Maier or the guy from the first season of American Idol who isn’t Ryan Seacrest.
I just shot the shit this semester and maybe I didn’t even say anything substantive, but at least I said it, and for the most part, I meant it (especially the grilled cheese references). Maybe something I said meant something to you. Maybe I said something and didn’t follow my own advice. That’s happened. I probably said some things that were just flat out incorrect. Or maybe what I said made you realize what you believe in, which is probably the complete opposite of what I said. Maybe it was entertaining. Maybe you angrily e-mailed me this semester or gave me a big “Fuck you!” at Dunbar’s the week after my first column came out, but then made out with me anyway a couple weeks later. Maybe you threw a pie in my face on Ho Plaza. Maybe you sat on my porch and told me what everyone “really thinks about me” and that I’m incredibly full of myself. But for all of you out there in TV Land with an opposing viewpoint, do know that I tried to understand your opinion, even if you couldn’t understand mine.
I tried to be fair and adapt so as not to hurt anyone and to do the right thing. I’m not a terrible person … I just write terribly, according to the fake Dan Barry of The New York Times that e-mailed me telling me I was forever blackballed from journalism. Maybe you thought I was offensive. Well I’m sorry because Cornell already has enough fences. Look, I can be topical. To the people that found some kind of inspiration in my writing (other than fucking anything that moves) thank you for your e-mails, encouraging words and free shots.
Thank you to my four extremely sexy female roommates — whose vaginas are the biblical equivalent of climbing Jacob’s Ladder — for blowing my cover by introducing me as the sex columnist wherever we are, giving me insight on women and for putting up with me constantly nagging you to read my articles to gauge your opinions as you made me grilled cheese sandwiches and thus a very happy boy. So thanks Alina, Jamie, Erica and Maxine (yes, I know that there are four of you unlike when I was offering suggestions for our Halloween costumes) and for providing good content from your lives for my columns.
In that vein, if you are in an abusive relationship, I hope you know that your friends are there for you. People are like centuries in that you don’t see them change often, so if you are in a bad relationship, don’t wait for the person to change. Get out and get on while your friends are still there. There’s only so long someone can slap their forehead (or feel like they’re getting slapped in the face).
Thank you Sammy for sitting down with me, my article, and 40s (if you’re even going to drink that one from our first meeting that’s sitting on the desk) to make sure my i’s were dotted, t’s crossed, commas not Oxford, race/sex/age/etc./ism did not (rampantly) exist. And thanks Tony for doing these same things, but letting me edit with you via the interwebz because I was too drunk to drive down to the Sun offices. It’s not my fault we edit on the heaviest drinking day of the week … Wednesday.
Thank you women — for sleeping me with before the column and still sleeping with me during my tenure. You are my muses. Don’t get your panties in a bunch and think this is all I think women are good for, but I don’t write a column about folding laundry or birthing children. Anti-thank you to people who just don’t get sarcasm.
Thank you to my parents and brother for reading my articles independent of each other, but all sending me text messages referencing the same part you all liked in common (cheese), unbeknownst to each other. Oh, and for still being proud of me. Sorry you came in basically sixth place in the thank-you list if you count “women” as one entry. Thank you to all of my friends who texted me Thursday mornings upon getting The Sun to tell me they enjoyed what they read, even if they were just blowing smoke up my ass. Probably the best one: (607): “I read your article while taking a shit. Best shit ever.”
Thank you to my fraternity brothers for letting me have sex in your rooms. All of your rooms. Unbeknownst to (some of) you. Yes, Jeremy, every time I told you I had sex on your futon and then said I was kidding, I wasn’t.
Thank you “Jess H.” (if that’s even your name!) for being the better-looking sex columnist (or at least the sex columnist with the hardest nipples) and always thinking it was me who would waste the time to send you the super-awkward e-mails (or flowers) you would get. Thanks to Joe and Len for the good drinks, good laughs and the realization that there are other sick bastards besides me out there. Thanks to all my neighbors on Catherine, Eddy and Linden for accepting me for just walking into your homes uninvited — I learned my social etiquette from sitcoms.
Thank you to all the girls who haven’t had sex with me yet but are planning on doing it during Senior Week because it’s your last chance and now you feel comfortable because there’s no threat of me writing about you.
Most importantly thank you to everyone who read this column this semester. You gave me something to look forward to doing and a challenge to try and please the masses (in print that is). But if this column didn’t get you wet then so be it, I guess we can’t all be winners. As my closing pearl of wisdom I’ll leave you with this:
Like Reese’s, there’s almost no wrong way to have sex. Make the most of everything because the train keeps running whether or not you’re on it.
Thanks for this wild ride. And if I forgot you, I’m sorry. There’s always the graduation speech …
Jeff K. is a senior in the College of Engineering. He may be reached, for sexual encounters or otherwise, at firstname.lastname@example.org. Come Inside appeared alternate Thursdays this semester.