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.

People love to warn you about what you’ll miss when you’re abroad: family and friends, cable, CTB, linguistic fluency or the ability to take a hot shower without waiting an hour and wasting half a pond-ful of water. But of all the things I thought I’d be homesick for, I never thought my own chest would be one of them.

It’s been 21 days since I’ve last seen my breasts. By the time this column is printed, it will have been a month since the world, including myself, will have had more than a passing glance at my chest, neck, shoulders, upper arms, legs and about 3/4 of my collarbones.

Think of a bra. Think of the last one you saw, whether it was in your own dresser drawer, on someone else or in the media. What did it look like? What did it offer in terms of feel and appearance? Inspired by a conversation with my friend Allison, I took up this seemingly anachronistic feminist topic by abstaining from bra use for a week. In doing so, I confirmed my suspicion that for the most part, bras are a socially prescribed accessory rather than something women actually need.

As I write this, I’m talking to my partner in crime, a Cornell graduate who happens to be a man, with whom I happen to be in a very serious, very committed, monogamous relationship.

Say it with me: muh-NAH-ga-muss.

Weird, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I be out in the world banging as many people as possible to gain fodder for my writing? Last fall, that’s exactly what I would have been doing. But now here I am, attached — long-distance, even! — to a frat boy. How did it happen? The Torso Boob Face.

Two Fridays ago I ran into a problem I run into most Fridays around 11 p.m. I had imbibed one too many drinks before leaving the house (during an event some might call a “pre-game”). Damn Cornell’s campus for making any destination annoyingly out of reach, because wouldn’t you have known it!, 300 yards out the door, and I I realized I had to use the restroom.

I wrecked my car this weekend. Like, obliterated, totaled, I-cried-a-little, gone. My only “injury” was a scrape on the side of my nose where the airbag hit my face and shot my sunglasses off, but the whole thing was pretty scary.

It was the first time in a while that my mind held no thought — not even a tiny spark —about sex. For real? It took a CAR CRASH to make me stop thinking about fucking? Believe me when I say I’m only kind of exaggerating — and as soon as I got out, I made sure I wasn’t hurt anywhere that would hinder humping.

In honor of Women’s Awareness Month, a pair of intrepid female reporters at The Sun chose to take on two big topics in one bra: cleavage.

Spotted in Libe Café: a blonde be-Ugg-ed sister cleaving big time, distracting the docile, all-business evening coffee crowd from, well, everything. On such a sloshy, wintry Tuesday, this girl’s chest was ostensibly on its milky way to exposing a bit of her caramel-colored niblets — and even in a sea of turtleneck-clad breasts that would make Joshua Hartnett proud, all eyes seemed to be fixated on the single plunging neckline.

No, really, he was. It was Saturday night and I sat at the Common Ground drenched from another one of Ithaca’s torrential downpours and watched as one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever had the fortune of being within ten feet of dance naked in the name of art. The show was called Queer Love Shoefest, and the performer of the first piece was completely naked. Did I mention that already?

The way my housemates tell the story, the final Saturday morning of the spring semester in our two-story, six-bedroom Collegetown palace developed much like a busted game of Clue.

The crime scene: a pair of blue boxers found bathing in the late morning sunlight at the bottom of the stairs.

The suspects: five heterosexual females and one heterosexual male.

Which one of them got laid last night?