At the onset of her fourth year in college, Eve has learned quite a few things about sex. Eve, The Hatchet’s anonymous sex columnist, will share her observations and (sometimes dirty) thoughts about sex at GW with the population that fuels her fire.

Editor’s note: names have been changed to protect the naughty.

Just to set the record straight: Pink is an incredible boyfriend. He makes my eggs exactly how I like them (scrambled, slightly burnt, lots of ketchup), makes me laugh so hard I worry I’ll hurt myself (usually by quoting Will Ferrell movies) and is endlessly loyal (not to mention ridiculously good-looking).

That’s why most of you will be shocked to hear that he cheats on me. You will be even more shocked, perhaps, to know that I allow it. At first, it bothered me, but I now realize that his sexual deviance augments our relationship rather than detracts from it. In fact, the more he cheats, the better our sex life gets. That’s because he’s cheating on me with himself.

When I first discovered Pink masturbating, I was definitely distressed. Questions circled in my head … am I not enough? Does his hand feel better than my body? What is he fantasizing about? Worse, whom is he fantasizing about?

Everyone else, including Pink, seemed to think that continuing to masturbate while in a relationship was very normal. My lunch buddies Blonde and Brown were intensely puzzled when I asked them if I should be okay with my boyfriend’s extracurricular sex life, as though I was asking them why two plus two equaled four and not five.

Blonde told me, in all seriousness, that I should be happy he was using his hand and not one of my sorority sisters to “relieve himself,” as if I didn’t need more mental images of Pink enjoying sex without me.

But even my female friends seemed to understand the mystery of my masturbating man. My best friend Boobs, generally a highly methodical relationship analyzer, shrugged when I told her about my insecurities and said, “Guys brush their teeth. Guys masturbate.”

But I, like Pink, was unsatisfied with the basics. When he and I were having sex four or more times a week, why did he still need to masturbate?

So, like a good journalist (or a psycho girlfriend), I did some research. Turns out, my friends were right. Pink’s need to masturbate had little or nothing to do with how much I was satisfying him in the sack.

According to Louann Brizendine’s book “The Female Brain,” the sexual trigger for both sexes is testosterone, and men have on average 100 times more testosterone than women. Moreover, men have “two and a half times the brain space devoted to sexual drive as women do, as well as larger brain centers for action and aggression.” In short, Pink’s biology makes him a sex machine without an off-button.

I learned even more from the book, like that Pink is in the middle of his sexual peak, the apex of his horniness, if you will. He is literally standing on the top of a mountain of hormones and beating his chest like a sex-crazed caveman, and all because of his age.

We women are still about halfway up that mountain, and will not reach our own sexual peak until we’re in our mid-thirties, according to Brizendine. While it seems a cruel discrepancy to put male and female sexual peaks so far apart, it also makes sense. Just imagine if we all hit our sexual stride at the same moment. Can you say “international orgy”?

Certainly, there are claims to dispute Brizendine’s. There are plenty of relationships where the woman is more sexually aggressive than the man. But Brizendine’s research put my mind, and my libido, back in its place. Intimacy is a slippery slope, but Pink has had a relationship with his penis for far longer than he has had one with me. In some ways, he’s cheating on himself with me.

Now that I have come to terms with his masturbating, our sex life has changed a little bit. I am very turned on by the idea that he fantasizes about me when we cannot be together.

But I also feel more comfortable turning him down when I’m not in the mood, which Pink sees as an unwelcome new development. Telling him, “Honey, it’s just my biological make up,” when he’s harder than Chinese Algebra doesn’t always go over so well.

Sometimes, though, Pink uses my biology against me. He’ll say, “Just wait until we’re in our thirties and I turn you down, and you’re so horny you can’t stand it … ” Then we both blush at the fact that, hey, we might still be having sex with each other in our thirties. And that’s a thought that turns me on more than anything.