Lena Chen's Articles

Reader Poll: What did you give up for Lent?

Overachiever that I am, I decided to be particularly ambitious this year for Lent. In addition to giving up greasy Mexican food and my guilty pleasure, Gawker, I made a vow to forgo sex for the next forty days. I claim temporary insanity.

So far, it's been less than a week and I'm ready to crack. Unless I develop a coke habit immediately, I'm not sure what I'm going to amuse myself with for the duration of February and March.

Day 1: Cleanse.

I wake up hungover, briefly recall the previous night's events, and realize (somewhat distraught) that Mardi Gras was the last hurrah. After a Fat Tuesday filled with booze, boobs, and boys, I am now on the first 24 hours of forty chaste days.

I am already regretting this decision when my friend Adia points to a stain on my comforter. "Um, is that what I think it is?" she asks.

I glance at the telltale spot and shrug, "I honestly don't remember."

"And uh, this?" Adia picks up half of a condom wrapper from the floor.

Well, then. It looks like it's time for some spring cleaning. I may have made a Lent resolution but everywhere I turn, there are a litany of reminders from my error-filled winter. I head to the laundry room. The remainder of Ash Wednesday is spent washing my sheets clean of a season's worth of mistakes.

This is a difficult time to be a woman in America. In the contradictory land of double 0s and “lady lumps,” every body part – from nose to neck to tummy to thigh – is scrutinized. For most of us, unfortunately, the perfect female form is about as attainable as a Pulitzer Prize for sex columning – not that I don’t aspire to both. I decided last summer that I would take one step toward achieving at least the former. I succumbed to the Brazilian trend. If the media was going to make me feel bad about my body on a daily basis, at least I could rest assured knowing that my vagina was up to snuff. And so I headed to the beauty salon. 

I know what you’re thinking. Devoting an entire column to the 15-minute ordeal my vagina underwent? Wouldn't some people call that tacky? Narcissistic? Entirely too much information? Check, check, and double-check. So for the queasy, stop reading now before I wax philosophical (not to be ironic) on a subject you'd rather not know more about.

Valentine's Day comes in a close second to Christmas as the most commercialized holiday in America. And by commercialized, I mean “dreaded like a herpes infection spread by one Hallmark card at a time.” Window decorations let you know that it's just about a month before gift-giving obligations find guys standing awkwardly outside Victoria’s Secret.

Since I’m decidedly single this year, I'm starting to sympathize with the plight of pagans in December. Let’s face it: "sex blogger" doesn’t crack the top ten list of Best Person to Take Out to Dinner. Take into account my morbid obesity by Asian girl standards and I’m out of luck when it comes to finding a date for the holiday of love. Finding a Kama Sutra partner is a different story.

At the end of the night, it’s not who you break bread with that counts– it’s who you break off. And there are definitely ways to score ass even if you’re single. This year, I’m finding Valentine’s Day action a little hard to come by. My hookup of choice has made the poor decision of spending the holiday with his girlfriend. Girlfriend? Sounds pretty lame to me. But hey, I’ve got it fairly easy as the proud owner of two boobs and three orifices. If I spread ‘em, they will come … where they’ll come is another matter.

Hey everyone, I'd like to welcome our new sex columnist, Lena, to the site.  Every week she'll be writing about her sexual adventures and giving you little hints to make that drunken grope fest as special as possible.  She comes to us from SexAndTheIvy.com. Enjoy!

-Street

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When CollegeHumor asked me to write a sex column, I wondered about the ramifications for my sex life. Then I realized that this would be the perfect vindictive measure against guys who offer unsatisfying romps in the sack.

I wanted to start off this baby with a bang – pun completely intended – but I’m surrounded by men committing major bedroom faux pas. So let’s examine my Saturday night and see what knowledge we can glean:

2:30am
Sam, Philadelphia fling, gives me a call. (Why of course I've been good since returning to Boston!)

3:00am
Will, Harvard dude I used to see, sends a questionable text message. (You mean you want to catch up at three in the morning after a month of silence? Me too!)

But the kicker comes when …