As UC Berkeley’s resident Edgar Allan Hoe, I have blessed this campus with enough dick debacles and anal autobiographies to last one whole glorious, gay semester. Writing this column has been quite a trip. Well, actually, multiple trips to be exact: to bedrooms, bathroom stalls and beyond. While I’m extremely grateful for all the support I’ve gotten from my readers, I have to be honest: Everyone’s kind words pale in comparison to the copious amounts of dick I’ve been getting lately.

This fall 2016: I eat, pray, love’d my way through the men of Berkeley, officially solidifying my status as UC Berkeley’s ultimate cock connoisseur.

Throughout my raunchy reign as Hairy Bradshaw, I have received an influx of hookup propositions from horny Golden Bears who have wanted to sexually experience the man behind the mugshot. With every recurring Tuesday publication came a new ass-ortment of men to select from, an endless well of testosterone from which I draw my slutty strength and column inspo. Apparently, the proliferation of my masturbatory memoirs has caused a plethora of erections to sprout up across the Berkeley campus, and I have been more than happy to help out by reaping my hard-earned harvest.

One of these very boners belonged to a freshman fan who requested I take his virginity, a tall order for someone of my stature who typically smashes more seasoned gays. Since my sexual debut, I’ve never served as the premier pioneer of another’s anus, nor has anyone even asked me to help with a ceremonial cherry popping. So I have to admit, I was a little bit nervous when I was selected to assume the new role of anal gaytekeeper, but as someone who is always eager to try new things (and new men), I was more than up to the challenge.

I entered Clark Kerr, a location I typically avoid, anxiously anticipating the opportunity to get my rocks off in a pristine, unpenetrated ass. His roommate, who was still lingering in their spacious double when I arrived, greeted me with a bewildered, “Wait … are you you-know-who?” After confirming my identity as “that guy,” an unspoken acknowledgement of what my presence entailed pervaded the room. He immediately left with the understanding that his roommate, who waited uncomfortably for his departure, just might end up featured in print.

As soon as the door shut, our hard-ons took full form while discussing the potential limits of our sexual interaction. Conclusion: There would be none. We stripped off every last article of clothing, pressed our bodies together, and began sloppily making out. When I noticed that he was kissing my chin, it became clear that he had no fucking clue what he was doing. So I made sure to teach him with the palm of my hand, the warmth of my throat and the length of my dick.

After passing my oral exam, it came time for the freshman to ace the cum-mulative final. I slowly inched my dick into the depths of his tight ass, pausing at each and every wince of pain. Eventually, as his tolerance increased, my cautious inserts turned into unabashed thrusts, and I swiftly stole his virginity like the sexual dementor I am.

Chris: 1. Virginity: 0.

Instead of implying that freshie “lost” his virginity, I would prefer to think that he acquired something (not herpes, don’t worry). The very language surrounding virginity implies that fucking for the first time results in a “loss.” I, on the contrary, believe that premier penetrations produce multiple gains. Whether it be a new sexual experience or a musky memory to spank bank to, a good fuck really gets you a bang for your buck!

The prevalent perception of virginity’s value, or, in extreme cases, its need to be “saved,” is conflated with the idea that sex is, by nature, sacred. Subscribers to sacred sex only spread their legs for someone special. I am by no means an orgasmic oligarchist — I believe that sex is something to be shared safely and consensually among many potential partners, not just a select few!

Not going to lie, I myself succumbed to this sexual idealism pre-Sex on Tuesday, although to a varying degree. Every no-strings-attached hookup of mine left me feeling a little bit empty afterward, and not because of the gaping anus my fuck buddies left behind for me to nurse. I actually wanted more than just my standard regimen of fuck ‘n’ chucks; some deep down suppressed part of Chris Cox wanted something “meaningful.”

Sex on Tuesday has been the best wingman a gal could ask for. It’s given me the cred I need on the streets to slide into all the boys’ sheets. After experiencing endless sexual satisfaction, I now realize that feelings are not an essential part of my fuck formula. And in conjunction with my heightened hookup schedule, the opportunity to publish smutty garbáge has just caused my love for consensual sex to grow even more.

I absolutely love to fuck. I hope you do, too.

Chris Cox writes the sex column on Tuesday. Contact him at [email protected] and follow him on Twitter at @chriscoxrox