No Man's Land

I, along with every other student that just finished their first year of college, recently made the transition from being independent at school to being back at square one in my hometown. After what I can only describe as a hormonally eventful year, I was relieved to be going home and taking a hiatus from the craziness of college. As can be inferred from the prior posts, I’ve been consumed in random hookups gone awry with different characters from weekend to weekend, and while that’s been something of major aspect of my life, it’s been absolutely exhausting. At home, I wouldn’t have to worry about running into the person I hooked up with the night before while eating breakfast in the safety of my own kitchen, or having to walk back to my room in the morning with heels in hand then see my professor drive past me. A return to blandency was exactly what I needed, just for the summer, so I could return to school with a fresh energy and enthusiasm for making deplorable decisions. I finished my last final Thursday afternoon, packed the rest of my suitcases midday, and then took a redeye that night from LAX to JFK, finally arriving back home at 6 am Friday morning, where I immediately retreated to my TV room and let the rest of the prozac from the flight wear off. I spent the entire day with my practically lifeless body larding out on the couch catching up on the Glee my tivo had so faithfully recorded for me, I couldn’t have been more asexual if I’d tried.
But, my calculations for my desired asexuality dosage had been flawed. The degree of sexual boredom I thought I’d need an entire summer to fulfill I achieved in only seven hours of teenage drama and dancing. Whereas hours earlier I was slumped in a sexless state, I was now sitting with my posture erect fantasizing about hooking up with Mr. Schuester. I finished the last episode and immediately began scrolling through my contacts looking for the old numbers I used to booty-text, and it wasn’t until I was in the E’s that I stopped myself. If I hit up one of the old numbers I used to text in high school then I’d be stooping, and everyone knows it’s better to declare a literal boy-cott than to stoop. One minute you’re scrolling through your contacts when you find the number of the first guy to ever touch your boobs freshman year, then the next thing you know you've wasted your entire summer hooking up with some fresh-off-the-freshman-fifteen boy who peaked in high school where the only thing that keeps you getting off is the fact that you can keep your eyes closed while you’re hooking up and think about how sexy he looked in his yearbook picture from junior year.
I refused to let all the tall, chiseled progress I’d made in college go to waste, so I took the battery out of my phone, walked into the bathroom, and splashed some cold water on my face. “I’m taking a break from men for myself. I’m taking a break from men for myself,” I repeated the phrase with feigning conviction in attempt to prove my self-righteousness to my reflection. In order to declare a successful boy-cott, you need to convince yourself that your “break from men” was your own choice, and not something being thrust upon you.
“I’m taking a break from men for myself.”
I give it a week, my reflection told me with the roll of her eyes.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”