The 2006-07 school year has contained multitudes. In fact, it may just be the most eventful year Columbia's had since... well, the year before. Remember Matthew Fox? The Chung-Diamond "scandal"? "Don't Be a Pussy"? "Epilogue to Our Crime & Punishment: A Petition"? Bwog certainly does, so step into the Wayback machine - you're about to relive nine months of Columbia in a single post.

August

First-years move in. Orientation yields a legendary (to Bwog's mind, at least) week-long burst of posting. Addison Anderson went to a bunch of bars in the name of "journalism." Most literary post: "And now for some disorientation," which reads like early Bret Easton Ellis, if he knew about Koronet's. Orientation week was the best.

September

Facebook went literally insane. Then calmed down somewhat. Harvard abandoned ED; Columbia did not. Columbia Football had as-yet uncrushed high hopes, later crushed. Seth Flaxman declared victory. Best villains: Zuckerberg! Murphy! Ahmadinejad! You know, one of those.

October

Everything was coming up roses for Mark Modesitt. 1968 spirit was invoked by Jim Gilchrist. The fallout was immense - shady disciplinary letters, "news" coverage of all sorts (Jon Stewart, Fox News). Even Bwog had an opinion. But October wasn't all about relevant television coverage of Columbia issues with high production values - we also had "The Gates"!
Best correspondence to Bwog: "Subject: terrorists. your worse then the mooselums who flew the planes into the buildings"

Belle Jar has been busy for the last, oh, two months. But she's back, this time tackling that most challenging of the bedroom arts: cunnilingus. As always, send comments, questions, and propositions to bwogsex@gmail.com.

To any straight man reading this: count yourself lucky, because it won't happen again. It's no small thing for a lesbian to reveal the keys to cunnilingus. This is the pussy card—the major advantage any lesbian has over any straight man, the one we deal to pick up the bicurious and girls in sexual crisis. Once she's had a chick, she'll never want a dick. I'm telling you trade secrets here; I am giving you our Ace.

First, a caveat: I do not presume to speak for all women. There are enough vaginas in the world for the variations in style and taste to overwhelm even the most thorough of instructors. This is more of a small-scale survey piece, a dialogue—half notes, half creative license—of how-to-steps culled from the sharpest female minds (with the aid of a little wine). Thank you kindly, ladies.

The Warm Up

Curly*: Here's instruction number one: you're probably going to suck. A woman will inevitably be better than you.

Mo*: Agreed. Men, inevitably, will be slow on the uptake. They're dealing with equipment they don't own.

Curly: Ok, so, from the beginning.

Mo: A very good place to start.

Curly: Let's begin with positions. The girl, ideally, is up against the headboard—at least for me, that's what works.

Mo: Or on her back. Legs over your shoulders.

Curly: Or sitting in a chair. Or on her hands and knees and being licked from behind. Or kneeling over your face.

Mo: I love to watch the person, it's like "oh my god, that person is licking my vagina." Complete turn-on.

Curly: The key throughout all of this is communication, at every turn. You're in there, and you have to be vocal. The best thing is if the person you're going down on is being vocal and saying, yes, that's good, but assuming they're not, you've got to ask. If you don't, it can get awkward.

*not their real names, obviously

You'll never know who she is, but you'll read her anyway. Send questions, propositions, and fan mail to bwogsex@gmail.com. Welcome to the Belle Jar.

I dedicate this Valentines Day to Lisa Nowak. Some people can go the distance for love.

Walking across campus last night, I counted eight guys and girls carrying flowers to their objects of love, regard, and obsession. Beneath scarves and ski masks, their eyes spoke volumes: "I've got someone, I'm going to see them, O'Keefe this motherfuckah." The clock struck twelve, and it was Valentines Day. It was sweet.

Well, at least until I remembered that these people were probably in relationships. Close friends and anonymous hookups rarely buy each other flowers. Flowers are a big symbol. They're innocence; they're passion; they're female genitals. That kind of baggage is awkward in a friendship. But LOVE, love knows no bounds, and that's basically the problem. If relationships and the people in them could restrain themselves, today and every other day would be a lot easier. Consider the following a guide to being the two-wheeler that makes other people want to be your third.

The Face-Munchers:

Public displays of affection are endearing on a distant, detached, entirely impersonal level. You laugh when dogs sniff each others' behinds, and maybe, on a nice spring day, you smile at a kissing couple. (Unless they're both hideous.) But there are those who overstep these bounds, plunging you and your vision into a state of great turmoil. Perhaps, like Oedipus, you too reach for the dress pins. I like to go up to these people and gently ask them to part--leave room for Jesus.

You'll never know who she is, but you'll read her anyway. Send questions, propositions, and fan mail to bwogsex@gmail.com. Welcome to the Belle Jar.

Singles Awareness Day (February 14) approaches and already, I overheard someone bitching about lacking a date. Problems like this are often best dealt with by reminding the offender about Darfur or telling them that they're fat, but this time I actually stopped and considered the person's complaint. It got me thinking about singlehood, and how it manifests itself differently in all of us. What follows is not a celebration of that diversity so much as a guide to how to be a good single person; how to wear your solitude—sorry, "freedom"—well.

The Whiner:

You know this person. In fact, you probably know 50 of these people or 49 plus vous. He or she won't go to Hot Jazz without a date, is bitter about relationships without being entertaining, and will insist on buying a full body pillow and naming it after an unrequited love (who was probably less of a sexual being than the pillow). This person has clearly forgotten that they were born alone and will probably die alone. Try reminding them of that and if they cry, let them cry alone.

This will sound harsh, but indulging this person's belief that they can't be complete without another person is a betrayal of their friendship. You can't grow a backbone for someone else, but pointedly ignoring their spinelessness is the next best thing. Comfort them and run the risk of conversing with a person—probably decent and intelligent most of the time—who speaks with more whine than words. Screech back at them and maybe they'll realize they sound like a creep.

I fully support the idea that anyone who constantly complains about being single should be penalized with another month of singledom. This generally happens anyway because the more you complain about being single, the more unattractive you become.

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.

I 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.