Lena Chen

I wrote this when I was 19 and not used to adult relationships. Thus, dating a lot of random dudes with random flaws who thought my immaturity was endearing. At the time, I was just starting to write Sex and the Ivy and still drinking equal amounts vodka and water. In other words, I had not yet acquired that oh-so-handy trait called “discretion”.

I dated an investment banker this summer in Los Angeles, and it was the best and worst decision of my life. At first, I found David’s (not his real name) Republicanism endearing and thought I could reform his soul. And despite his corporate job (being an “Excel monkey,” as he called it), I found our conversations witty enough to stomach dating a yuppie working for the Man.

It wasn’t until weeks later, when we began dating exclusively, that I realized what I found so strange about our interaction. He treated our relationship like a business transaction. He made notes on his Microsoft Outlook task list to get back to me. He signed all his e-mails with “Regards, David.” Like clockwork, he’d call every morning, lunch hour, and evening. He answered the phone with his full name. My boyfriend wasn’t predictable; he was robotic. We were sleeping together, but it was the most impersonal relationship I’d ever been in… [more]

A blast from the past found while vanity searching on Google. During my freshman year, I somehow wound up interviewing the Weezer frontman in Cabot dining hall. It was — as you can read for yourself — spectacularly uncontroversial. Perhaps because it’s super awkward to try to have a conversation with a stranger about his personal life.

A postcard to The Crimson on cooking Chinese food in Germany:

OSNABRÜCK, Germany — I started cooking last year after I moved off-campus to live with my boyfriend, who has an actual kitchen and uses it to make exactly three varieties of salad. When I decided that it was time for us to incorporate heat into our kitchen regimen, my mother saw it as a long-awaited opportunity to instruct me in Chinese cooking. [more]

A confessional about my greatest failing:

My inability to drive has become somewhat embarrassing and extremely inconvenient. When I want to visit my grandfather, who lives in a nursing facility two miles from my house, I have to jog there after sundown because it’s too hot to wait for a bus during the day. My mother regularly drops me off at lunch with my friends; she’s even offered to drive me to bars before. At the end of a night out, my pals jokingly yell “Not it!” when it comes time to decide who drives me home. Once, a kind girlfriend drove me to the other side of the county so that I could attend a meeting with a literary agent, while she waited downstairs at a Coffee Bean. As much as I wanted to pretend that it was sort of like being an executive with a car service, it really wasn’t. [more]

What happens when a gay man and a straight woman try to fake it as a couple for the summer? In the name of journalism, I chronicle my unorthodox three months in New York:

My roommate’s father thinks I’m a lesbian. It is the only way he’d allow me to live with his son who, unbeknownst to him, is actually the one who’s gay. But obtaining parental permission was just the initial hurdle of my New York rooming adventures with Kameron. In eight weeks, the two of us have gone through three apartments, multiple viewings and interviews, one roommate, two long-term guests, and many overnight visitors. We also work together. It seems a bit much, even for freshman year pals, but somehow, we’ve made it through the better part of the summer with our friendship intact… [more]

I first ran Primal Scream as an anonymous freshman, before I gained ten pounds and started a sex blog that turned my attractiveness into a matter of public debate. Yet despite multiple qualms last Friday night, I somehow found myself wearing nothing but sneakers among equally unclothed peers… [more]