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Like, A Virgin


Every couple of months, I swear off men. It usually happens not when I’ve actually been with someone, but when I’ve invested time and energy planning our hypothetical future together. Alas, despite our color-coordinated sweaters, it ends, sadly, with him hooking up with an acquaintance one of my guy friends has been into (see Second Hand Hook Up). I’ve had friends yell at me to “DISENGAGE;” to find faults rather than plan when he’ll meet my parents. This is when I’ll make the public service announcement that I’m done with boys at Penn, only to make out with someone twenty minutes later.

Only once did I officially declare BAV status. BAV, short for “Born Again Virgin,” is when a generally promiscuous individual (or sexually open, at minimum) makes a conscious decision to refrain from any sexual activity whatsoever. Suddenly, all complications are gone. Text messages don’t cause seizures, and your friends’ boy troubles sound idiotic. You roll your eyes, and promise a field trip to the Pleasure Chest tomorrow, complemented by Naked Chocolate, or Capogiro. Maybe all three -– I’m a crazy kid.

It occurred to me earlier as I practically climaxed at my thesis meeting that I’m about to return to my BAV status, and not exactly voluntarily.

The thesis has consumed so much of my semester that my pleasures have been reduced to Pottruck, sleeping, and Lady Gaga as I refrain from alcohol, boys, and eating to save time.

Recently, during my Pottruck break of the day, I ran into an old fling, who looked good. Really good. I realized as I broke my personal record in both time and distance on the treadmill, where all of my usually palpable sexual energy and chronic over analysis had been going. I suddenly saw clearly. No New York Times wedding announcements; no parentals at Distrito. Just pure, animal instinct.

I thought about the stacks. And the shower. And the floor. And how fucking good Gaga’s entire album is. I did not think about personality. Or handholding. Or even talking. Concluding that I can hold off for another two weeks when I embark on a spring break (and my 22nd birthday), entirely devoted to giving my offspring fetal alcohol syndrome, I returned to my number one man: Mac Book.