Under the covers: “Revealing yourself: Eve’s identity crisis”

Nearing the commencement 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.

When I first joined Facebook, during the summer before my junior year, I put up a picture of myself in modest khaki shorts and a brown tank top, a friendly smile on my face. Facebook was a baby at the time, a simple university networking system devised by an ambitious and inquisitive student at Harvard, looking for an alternative to freshmen information booklets.

By the time my junior year began, Facebook had become a horny teenager, raging with hormones and bad decisions. Around this time, a very cute boy who I met at the radio station “friended me.” I was excited, thinking it was his sly way of saying he wanted to know me better.

A few days later, when I brought up our new Facebook-friend status, he said to me, and I will never forget this, “Yeah, but you should change your picture.” I asked him why, thinking my khaki shorts and brown tank top were totally take-home-to-Mom-material. And he responded, “Because you just don’t look that . sexy.”

And that’s when I realized: Facebook was not for making friends! We already have friends. Facebook was supposed to make people want to sleep with you. I abruptly changed my picture to one of me dancing in a tight pink sundress, breasts thrust forward, legs spread provocatively in a sweet dance move I think some would call “the slut.” But hey, I got a bunch of sexy comments from guys I sort of knew. Since then, I have posted pictures of myself in a bikini, one of me wearing a Santa hat and little else, and, most recently, in a nighty and heart-shaped sunglasses a la Lolita. I am, officially, a Facebook sell-out.

For a while, I thought it was all fun and games. Facebook seemed a fun little flirting tool, where I could tease and taunt and double entendre my way right to men’s loins. But then, I started checking up on people’s statuses. I started reading their notes. I started checking the pictures of ex-boyfriends to see who, exactly, they were standing next to and whether or not she was hotter than I am. It became Stalkerbook.

I was not alone. What started as normal, flirtatious fodder for many of my friends became obsessions over boys they kissed last night writing something flirtatious (“Want to bone?”) on someone else’s wall. Other friends of mine, who are all normal, very attractive girls, started going to great lengths in order to discern whether or not their men were being faithful – emotionally, physically, and technologically.

My friend Babe put it well when she said, “Facebook magically creates this whole new level of paranoia. When it comes to someone you like, you get a peek into personal stuff that you probably are better to not know. That normal privacy is taken away. Our whole lives are there: pictures, what we did last night, who we are friends with, what we say to our friends, what we say to someone we flirt with.”

But is this actually true? How much of what we put on Facebook is actually real? I mean, I spend many hours detagging pictures of myself slack-jawed holding a solo cup so that my collection of pictures looks like the life I lead is as sweet, sexy, and un-trashy as can be. And yes, sometimes I wear a nighty and heart-shaped sunglasses around the apartment, but most of the time I’m in Pink’s pajama pants and my old cheerleading t-shirt. This is where Facebook becomes Liebook.

The paranoia over what’s lie and what’s truth, Babe says, can be overwhelming. When one ex-lover of hers joined Facebook, she said she was, “genuinely hurt when he did not friend me. I guess it goes back to that old who is meant to pay for dinner, who is to call first, but in cyber space, its about who is friending first. It’s completely weird but hurts the same.”

What I’ve come to realize, I suppose, is that what you see is not at all what you get when it comes to Face/Flirt/Stalker/Liebook. It is an excellent tool for flirtation (how scandalous does it feel when someone messages you instead of writing on your wall? The privacy of it amidst all the public notes is enough to make me sweat!), but a heinous detriment when it comes to relationships. Pink, as it happens, is not on Facebook, but I can safely say that everyone I know who uses Facebook to check up on his or her significant other is not in a happy relationship. Even the love of your life might detag and delete messages to the point that the profile itself is whittled down to some bizarre mold of who the person actually is. Do you really want to fall in (or out!) of love with someone based on who wrote what on whose wall when?

How can someone who has kept her identity secret for an entire school year criticize those who modify their Facebook identities, you ask? What right does “Eve” have, when we know damn well this whole column has been replete with pseudonyms and euphemisms?

Well, because I myself, am a guilty, guilty girl. Because I did not want to make all of my mistakes public, nor did I want friends who spoke with me about their sex lives to hold back, I chose to keep my identity secret. I also did not fully want to own up to my academic status at GW, which is another point entirely (let’s just say that “senior” is an abbreviated term). Also, I thought keeping it secret was kind of sexy. And you know how I feel about sexy.

But it’s time, now, to reveal to those who do not already know, that I am Jessica Elizabeth Smith. Some of you might know me from journalism class, others as the “Truth Fairy” from CI 2005 and some still just as that girl who breaks things at parties.

By day, I am actually a children’s book editor, if you can believe it. Pink is a very real, and very wonderful, boyfriend who has put up with quite a bit this year including (but not limited to) his girlfriend writing about his penis, his girlfriend writing about other people’s penises, being my perpetual editor and going by the pseudonym “Pink.” Boobs, Love, Babe, Blonde and Brown are the sexcellent names that I used to represent all of my wonderful, insightful friends that contributed quotes and dirty anecdotes. And, of course, Eve is me. I am a real girl who has some amazingly sexy readers, and who has had a wonderful time writing this column. I wish you all a supersized case of Summer Lovin’. Be sure to friend me on Facebook.

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