A writer who identifying herself as “There Are Lots of Gorges At This School” wrote to syndicated advice column Savage Love last week:

I’m a 21-year-old female college student whose romantic (and social) life is slowly turning into shit and I need your advice. At the beginning of the fall semester, I signed on to write the sex column in my school’s daily, and I made the mistake of using my personal experiences to frame my advice (it’s not a Q&A column, it’s more like an “I need to tell you all something because this guy did a really poor job of eating me out last weekend” sort of thing). Since I started writing this thing, it seems like everyone I meet either wants to talk to me only about sex, wants to talk to me because they want to have sex with me, or they want to talk to my friends about whether or not they’ve had sex with me. Nobody has asked me out on a date in god knows how long and I just want to be treated like a normal person. I have one semester left to write this thing-is there anything I can do to get people to respect me a little bit more?

–There Are Lots of Gorges Here 

Jenna B., is that you? Since Jenna’s identity is something of an open secret on campus (since there is precisely one Jenna B. fitting her description on the Sun staff, we can’t imagine how her identity got out). Besides, she’s totally cute! Someone ask that girl out before she throws herself into a gorge.

UPDATE: Lena Chen covered this in her new non-SATI blog and verifies “There Are Lots” is Jenna B. How does she know? Because Jenna is a “personal friend,” which we take to mean that the unwritten rule of sex blogging is knowing every other sex blogger in the world, and having super-dishy gossip sessions about stuff like multi-day condom use and sexual positions unimaginable to mere mortals.

Looking to fill the void in your voyeuristic reading routine now that Sex and the Ivy is gone? The Cornell Sun would like you to meet “Jenna B.,” their anonymous biweekly sex columnist:

Twentyish dudes ago … my first sexual endeavor concluded with a condom floating around lost inside my body for two days.

Thinking back to the glorious moment when the rubbery, slimy souvenir surfaced from the murky depths of my vag a couple of mornings after the incident (putting a stop to the nightmares in which I gave birth to a baby who had this condom growing out of its face in place of a nose), I wish I’d had the presence of mind to throw the thing in a jar and save it. … On second thought, I’m glad I didn’t save it; it was kind of stinky.

Is that even possible? Superhuman physical feats aside, Jenna B. has hopped on the latest of Ivy daily trends: Uncomfortably vivid and rhapsodically grotesque descriptions of vaginas. You could make a whole college tour out of various campuses’ vagina metaphors of choice! Yale likes its pie served with papayas, while Dartmouth dines on sugarbush, and Cornell… well…

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