Everyone and their sister (publication) has a sex columnist these days, and–being the blatantly imitative blog that we are–Bwog decided to get one of its own. There’s a lot we could say about this nameless muse…but we’ll let her introduce herself. Welcome to the Belle Jar.

Update, 1/23, 8:38 PM: You can e-mail the Belle Jar at bwogsex@gmail.com.

belle jarI am explicitly, absolutely, without a doubt, not a straight woman.

I’m not a member of the Columbia Queer Alliance, and I don’t play rugby—unless we’re talking euphemistically. If I you passed me on the street you’d have no idea I was gay (“lesbian” has too many syllables).

But here I am, anonymously, a Bwog sex columnist, at least until one of you delights me by creating a website about how I violate everything you hold dear.

Why am I writing this column?

What you want to hear: I have always dreamed of being a sex columnist.  Ever since I bought my first pair of Dr. Martens, learned to fire a gun and realized I wanted to be cuffed to a bedpost by Detective Olivia Benson on SVU, I’ve pined for this very moment.  My hero: Dan Savage, my enemy: Rick Santorum. I learned about dental dams at the age of 12. I’ve never used one, but I’m ready.

God’s honest truth: my editors thought this college should have a sex columnist who knew what it meant to be a feminist, to admire and understand women’s bodies, and to be slightly more enlightened than your average Druid dressed in Dolce.

I just thought it was funny as hell that they asked me.

You see, I don’t have regular sex; I have head on, high-speed collisions. I get whiplash and there’s usually broken glass. I take down insurance information, not phone numbers.  And I’ve never slept with a guy, although I know many, many people who have, and who have reported back.  I’ve thought about it the way I’ve thought about taking Econ—probably better for my financial future and legal rights but, at the moment, terribly tedious and likely soporific. It’s something I’ve been meaning to get around to doing and just haven’t had the time or willpower to accept or even correctly interpret an advance. 

I have slept with girls. Occasionally, I’ll have a drunken encounter with a vagina and more or less bullshit myself through it, which is truly amazing because you can’t talk about Kant with a clit.

I have problems with girls, I have problems with guys, but mostly, I have problems with people.  And this, according to my editors, is where I am oddly qualified for this position.  Last year, a staggering percentage of Columbia students sought psychological help at Health Services. I’d look up the actual number but it’s probably in the Spectator and what I lack in confidence I make up for in flagrantly ignoring sources. Sources are for pussies. Don’t be a pussy.

Anyway, at the end of this experience you were likely given anti-depression medication and pretzels and told to stop facebook poking your Ex. No?  We are not a sane people.  We, by and large, don’t really know how to interact with each other.  And amazingly enough, a large percentage of us believe that comparing anti-anxiety prescriptions and course schedules is foreplay.

In the simplified, digestible notion of the world, there are two types of people: those who are sex positive, and those who are not.  It is my greatest hope that this column is for both types (especially with the aim of turning the latter wannabe-saints into the former unrepentant sinners).  Because, let’s be honest, this college needs to get laid. Badly.

And I can relate. Columbia is full of neurotic people who can’t seem to have satisfying sex lives. Why would you want to read a column by someone who suffers from none of those problems?

But, rather than talk about myself, I’d like to make this a variety show of sorts.  I’d like to answer your questions, I’d like to occasionally interview friends and classmates about bizarre/awesome sexual experiences, and I’d like to take you on a literary tour of Japan’s love hotels. And I’d like to remain anonymous. Because this isn’t about me, it’s about you and your insignificant others, your conflations of power and romance, and your paralyzing mistakes—even through no one cares, at least it’s nice to know that someone’s been there before you.