In her last column, Sun sex columnists Jess. H. clears up what she believes, and says her goodbyes.

Anal accidents ... ambiguous orgasms ... not-so-sexy Viagra. Sex columnist Jess H. '10 discusses all these and more in her penultimate column.

“So, uh, do I get anything?”

We’ve all heard it before. A guy has just finished pleasuring you and now is demanding something in return. Sometimes it’s verbal, or sometimes it’s the much less subtle sticking his fingers in your mouth or pushing your head towards his groin. Guess what? Just because you chose to pleasure her does not mean that she owes you anything. While I believe that all is fair in love, I don’t think a mandatory clit-for-tat is ever fair. Being a male generous oral lover is rare and awesome.

It seems counter-intuitive that a sex columnist would devote 800 words to virginity. But the virgin population deserves some love from the sex column, just as anyone else. After all, I don’t discriminate.

This past Saturday, something happened that left me simultaneously speechless, thrilled and totally frustrated. Something that has never happened to me in my 22 years of life, nor did I ever expect to happen. I received an anonymous bouquet of flowers with a love poem.

Two weeks ago, the sorority women of Cornell spent hours primping and priming ourselves: we painted our nails, cut our hair and faked our tans, not to go out and meet guys, but to stay indoors and talk to other women for the five day girl-flirting marathon that is Rush Week. But there is one part of the girl grooming ritual that isn’t covered in the Pi Phi recruitment dress manual: pubic hair. After all, this is Cornell. The last time we gave thought to our bikini lines was our swim test. But for girls, grooming the hair down there requires extensive decision-making, foresight, strategy and a tool kit (think baby scissors, wax and/or specially designed bikini razors) that could rival any sorority’s six-page dress code.

A couple of summers ago, I found myself in the back of my Jeep with a Canadian, rebounding out of a very serious relationship. Things were heating up and hands were starting to venture south. I slowly undid his belt, then the button and zipper on his jeans. I reached my hand inside his pants and grabbed on. But something seemed different … there was a lot of skin down there. I poked around for a hot second, then quickly removed my hand. Being the nice Jewish girl that I am, I went home that night to Google and typed in the nine letters I hoped would prove me wrong: f-o-r-e-s-k-i-n.

Congratulations — you did it. You got that guy or girl of your dreams to agree to come back to your place and sleep with you. Lucky, lucky. However, there is etiquette that one must adhere to when participating in a one night stand — one night standiquette, if you will. It will help you avoid making the awkward pre-walk of shame morning-breath goodbye kiss any more awkward (assuming that your partner was kind enough to stay the night).

The sex columnists in the past have usually focused on the crazy things they have done in the bedroom or their own sexual mishaps. Not me. Today I’m writing about what no man on Cornell’s campus wants to admit happens. That’s right, it’s time to talk about erectile dysfunction. One would think from Viagra and Cialis commercials that penis fail only happens to middle-aged men. You’re wrong. It’s about as prevalent at Cornell as dinosaur jokes or apples.

In my experience, there are three distinct types of penis fail:

Type One: The Drunk Dick