Since I'd rather get down to the dirty stuff than spend time introducing myself, I'm going to keep this preface brief. I have always been attracted to the idea of doing this column, not just because I get to pose naked for a widely read publication, but because sex entertains me. I don't mean this in the physical sense (well, that too), but in the sense that college sex is utterly ridiculous and thus, fun to write about. And, as an awkward and lusty college student, I am proud to say that I, Julia Ingle, have a lot of sex.

Well … maybe. If you ask the pope, I'm a dirty whore whose list of mates is probably longer than the Tower of Babel. Under my own rules, however, I've just made a few forgivable mistakes. I may even classify as sexually starving on the promiscuity scale. This is not because I follow American Pie logic and divide my list by three (alas, it seems I could never come close to Tara Reid's level of innocence). This is because I, like most, hold a personalized definition for what counts as "sex".

Let's begin our analysis of what constitutes sex with the straight-up penetration designation: Simply stated, if he just put it in, you just put out. End of story.

Or is it? Inevitably, this definition can be stickier than what meets the eye (or squirts into the mouth). If your lab partner goes down on you in the middle of a frog dissection (or during a study sesh, if you like to keep it classy), is he or she a plus-one? Or let's say your boyfriend entices you to try out the exotic-sounding "Backwards Fuzzy Bunny Tail," fancy jargon he made up to get you to fulfill his anal sex fantasy. Does that make your Bambi de-Flowered? Even if you go by the banging books, not all penetration is considered equal.

To account for life's little "slip-ups," (euphemistic for bad, drunken or awkward sex), some of us prefer to re-write the rule, making the unfortunate experience a little less significant. Here's how I've rationalized myself into an almost-virgin …

First off, I never count sex with Dutchboys. No, I am not talking about anyone in the I-House or abroad. I'm talking about the much-adored tale of the little Dutch boy and his beloved dike. Like the little Dutch boy, you can't help but stick it in and keep it there. If there's no bodily movement, there's no bone. Dormant vaginal occupation is meant for tampons and IUDs-and who wants their penis to feel like an oversized (or maybe not, it's hard to tell when it's not moving) tampon?

For good measure, I also allow myself a Seven-Thrust Threshold. The Seven-Thrust Threshold was formulated by my friends circa 2004, also known as the Jailbait Era. Under this rule, there is a "free trial" period of sorts (think Home Shopping Network). This time allows my impaired mind to catch up with my horny body before the dreaded tally is marked.

By scientific calculation, it takes three thrusts for one to realize that 1) the sex is really really bad or 2) one's partner is of equal or lesser attractiveness than Kevin Bacon. Following this realization, it takes exactly four thrusts to decide how to stop the momentum and mitigate the awkwardness. A friendly reminder: Try to refrain from laughing whilst ceasing action, as this may cause irreversible damage to your partner's ego.

Let's just say that in general, I look at sex as more of a mindset than anything else. When I am desperate to clean my slate, I resort to the Madonna: No matter what, I am like a virgin and am chronically waiting to be touched for the very first time.

If this clearly stretched-out and ridiculous interpretation doesn't give me personal solace, it can at least come in handy when talking about the dirty deed with anyone who may have been involved in my birth. Exception: When your gynecologist happens to be your mother's gynecologist of 20 years. From personal experience, you probably do not want to get into this situation in the first place, as it can be uncomfortable having the "I was there when you crowned" conversation.

Julia is your second sex columnist. Keep score with her at sex@dailycal.org.