I’m back. It’s been almost two years since I scampered around campus in too-tight tops with my mismatched breasties on display, banging out (ha) sex columns peppered with cutesy euphemisms and dishing the hot goss on my vag-about-town.

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.

My dear readers: you and I have only two awkward, uncomfortable mornings left together. I’m going to try to treat my second-to-last installment with the same ambition with which I approach my weekends by packing as much penis into this piece as possible. Plus, last week’s column — with all its bonerkilling talk of lovesickness and labels — was kind of a bummer, no?

Dear Cornell University: I am having more sex than you. People, I have had so much sex this week that I’m fairly certain some sort of anatomical disaster is about to occur; maybe a vaginal prolapse, a desensitized clitoris or, conceivably, death. I’m walking all bow-legged, every muscle in my body is sore and I think my uterus almost fell out while I was walking on Ho Plaza ten minutes ago. But it didn’t — so I had more sex just now. Yeah, I have been banging so many dudes lately that it took me two days to write those first four sentences . . . because I had to stop 27 times to have sex.

From the sheer volume of, um, feedback my last column generated, it looks like opinions are fairly polarized when it comes to sex during menstruation. To each his or her own — but hey, even if you only bothered to sit down at your keyboard for the sole purpose of letting me know that I’m a “SLOPPY HO,” at least I succeeded in prompting you to talk about leak week sex … suckas.

It seems like half of you are willing to enthusiastically get behind (or inside, as the case may be) a vagina hosting the Big Red for the week — and the rest of you are, sadly, mere fair weather friends of the cooter.

Last week, I surfaced from an exceedingly hellacious whirlwind of prelims, Ithaca Arctic Blasts and inconvenient obligations to drown my stresses and sorrows in cocktails and crowds. Things were sucking pretty badly — as they tend to do around this time of year at Cornell — and I had spent the week largely unshowered and unpleasant, forgoing shaving and hair-straightening in the interest of meeting deadlines and getting a bit of extra sleep.

Despite all the glowing, life-changing wisdom I dispense here in this magical space, I must confess that I don’t always employ that same solid logic in my own day-to-day life. For example, last week, I spent an evening sucking on many, many hard cocktails (ha) the night before an early class and was greeted in the morning by a whole world of searing pain, caked-on makeup and a tummy singing with the early rumblings of a vom attack. I could barely move.

I hate being late for things — parties, my period and early classes in particular — so after two Alka-Seltzer and Tylenol concoctions, things were still looking bleak at best; I knew I needed to take drastic measures if this 10:10 was going to happen.

Twentyish dudes ago, I was just another public school victim of my home state’s atrocious abstinence-only sex education program. Partly because I was cheated out of the whole condom-on-a-banana high school experience (and partly because my partner had serious delusions of grandeur and outfitted his ween with a Magnum), my first sexual endeavor concluded with a condom floating around lost inside my body for two days. It had slipped off during the sex and despite our best efforts to find it and drag it out, neither my tragically overconfident lovah nor my 16-year-old self emerged successful from our deep sea fishing mission.

love the guys at Cornell. They’re fantastic. In fact, despite my vast anthology of stories referencing men I’ve encountered that don’t quite do it for me, I get really defensive when girls whine about the selection of dudes our campus offers or the alleged crappiness of Cornell’s dating scene.

Call it whatever you want: growling at the badger, eating out, gamahuche, going down, munching on a boxed lunch. This holiday season, give your female partner the gift of oral sex.

You know what? Stop. The fact that I have to even say that pisses me off. I was all set to write a column about anal sex. But in conducting my professional interviews and scientific polls on the subject, several heterosexual women I spoke with admitted that anal sex did not appear as a regular fixture on the menu (as I expected) — and neither did cunnilingus.

What the hell? Where have all the cunnilingus cowboys gone?