We’ve got a secret surprise hiding under our covers this year. The Hatchet will bring you an anonymous columnist, Delilah, to report on sex at GW.

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

The morning after my cowboy rumble, I quickly swooped my disheveled hair up into a ponytail and tiptoed down 23rd Street while the sun rose into the sky. As I walked away from my Lone Star sexpot, my satin mini dress swayed with my hips and my four-inch heels made for a clink-clank sound that should have been the perfect end to my Western fantasy.

Looking back on the night though, Lone Star turned out to be anything but the respectful wrangler I expected him to be.

That Saturday started out so-so with a dive bar, a pitcher of beer and a few random frat boys walking around. Just as my friends and I were starting to complain about the bouncer and the lack of hot men, my night quickly improved. As I grinded some red neck tunes, a gorgeous specimen from the Lone Star State walked up beside me and asked, “What are you suppose to be dressed up as?”

Initially I was a bit insulted by his question since I was really digging my satin mini dress, but he quickly followed up by saying, “Everyone is dressed on the red neck side, so you kind of stood out wearing something classy.”

The slight shag to his hair and the cotton shirt that rested effortlessly over his distinguishable muscles made me think he looked classy too.

When my girlfriends headed out of the bar they left with cheers and encouragements to stay a bit longer and reel in Lone Star, but by that time it was pretty obvious I was already biting hard on his fishing pole.

Several cigarettes and a few conversations later, Lone Star whipped out his gentlemanly hat and asked if he could walk me home. I never did make it back to my place, though and more drinks and conversations ensued back at his apartment.

“I just want to cut the bullshit; you’re not like most girls, are you?” Lonestar asked as he seductively leaned over my neck back at his room. Not knowing what to say, I giggled, but he was insistent. “Come on, Delilah, don’t be so modest. You’re not; I can tell. I mean, you’re smiley, you seem to say whatever you want and you’re sure as hell not like most girls I’ve talked to.”

His sweet words made me think that Lone Star had me pegged, and not just on his bed, so when the night came to an end (the next morning), I thought a long, slow, romantic goodbye kiss would seal me into his memory for good.

Needless to say, after a few minutes of this sensual electric kissing, Lone Star was not ready to part ways, and we retreated back to his bed for a few more electric things.

Though I walked away from my Lone Star in the early morning feeling confident that my white cowboy would ride back into my life and soon, I started to catch on to a different message when three days and several text messages elicited no reply.

Maybe he was rock climbing and left his phone on land? Maybe he was in the hospital with a rare case of a bacterial infection? Maybe he had his phone on silent?

As I read the two texts I sent him over and over again, I started to kind of feel like my phone was mocking me, just sitting there silently with no Lone Star on the line.

Why hadn’t he called? Did I say something out of color? Was it because I had Hanes her Way on under my mini dress?

Yep, the rejection was starting to set in, but luckily it didn’t sit there for long, thanks to my good girlfriends. As I sat on the couch with Wild Cherry and Sea Shells and a bag of Doritos, they reminded me that “he may have said you weren’t like other girls, but it looks like he was just like all the other guys who weren’t smart enough to pay you a phone call.”

They may not have known it at the time, but they gave me some of the wisest advice that I’ve gotten in a while. If I can leave you with one suggestion, my friends, it’s this: don’t eat a whole bag of chips over a guy not calling you back – he’s just not worth the calories.