Love him or hate him, Jeff K. has undoubtedly got people talking as The Sun's first ever male sex columnist. At the end off his tenure, Jeff delivers his parting shots.

Taking a girl's V-card can be tricky business, here's some cardinal rules to follow in navigating these never-been-sailed-on waters.

You might think spitting on your hands and rubbing them on your dick is the cool and appropriate way to prep for anal sex based on that porno your dad had saved on his computer when you were back in seventh grade. It’s not. Especially if you’re the one being penetrated because then you just spit on your dick for no reason, which doesn’t make much sense. Maybe it does, I guess I’ve got to ask a bottom (Answer: “Jeff, you are an idiot. You know that it makes no sense, I don’t know why you even thought it valuable to ask me.” So, yeah, it doesn’t make sense).

Ah Spring is in the air and campus has more fences than the “All the Things She Said” video by t.A.T.u.  I wasn’t intending on writing a Spring Break article — and this really isn’t one … it’s just about a stupid occurrence coinciding with when I was on Spring Break — but some people (a person) from Colby College (who vacationed at IFA Villas Bavaro in Punta Cana, Dominican Republic) (during the week of Mar. 21-27) (who I met at the “circle bar”) (not being specific or anything) got me thinking. And I’m thinking I really like parenthesis.

I eat with my elbows on the table and often talk with food in my mouth. I have no idea what an artichoke even looks like, let alone how to eat one. Despite my complete barbarism, I hold a very high code of etiquette when it comes to the bedroom. Maybe I don’t hold up on my end (although my sheets were laundered a couple days ago, if that counts for something), but know that even in the morning the most minute detail must pass through my comprehensive, six-volume (unpublished) publication (that only exists in my mind), Systemma Connubialica (yes, I researched a dead language for my column. Some Sun columnists actually do include a little effort in their columns instead of waxing indignant about PowerPoint in size 150 font, or, even worse, vomiting out the worst approval matrix known to man. I’m sorry I’m not sorry. I’m a cocksman).

Sometimes I try to be a public servant. And no — that was not a typo — there was meant to be an “l” in “public.” Therefore as my duty to my gender and all that is hol(e)y, I must inform, promote and encourage others to observe the most under-appreciated, under-celebrated (and hopefully not undercooked), holiday of the year.

Sorry to burst your bubbles, my senior amigos and amigas, but our time here above Cayuga’s waters is coming to a close. Give my regards to Davy, Amy, Randy and all other seniors with names ending in ‘y.’ (At the moment I can’t even think of any seniors with those names. I guess shout-out to Brody and Emily then; some actual “y” seniors). Do a quick calculation right now. It’s Feb.

Welcome back, bitches. Flip through today’s Sun and notice the abundance of columns related to sex. Following Cornell’s sex-starved Winter Break it looks like coeds are ready to go Spring Break crazy a little early, packing Collegetown bars and slutting it up for the tide of mixers hitting the frat scene. I can’t help you get laid (unless you are an attractive female, in which case: let’s talk), but I can help you attain at least one of your goals this semester (the one just below “4.0 GPA” and above “not taking Basics Level 2”). Here’s some rock-solid advice on how you — yes, you! — can make it into this beloved little rag known as the sex column. Time to make Mom and Dad proud.

I broke up with my girlfriend at the beginning of this school year. Gasp! Don’t get me wrong, she was fun to hang out with and a beautiful girl, but starting a relationship based on who can drink more without blacking out on Spring Break is more typically a Maury Povich piece than a Cinderella story.

There she is again. That girl that you really like. That one you have such a good rapport with, that you see every day in Libe Café when she orders an iced skim vanilla latte (this is me putting a mundane, over-ordered drink by the majority of female café customers to make a random reader think that I am writing this article solely about them … or am I?) or that you share your text message joke-of-the-day with every week at your Cornell Cheese Club Exec Board Meeting.