As the Fall Quarter rolls in, unabated and disposed, new desires and wants creep into the heart and soul of every UCSB student. Every year, whether rain or drought, a fall harvest of ripe and delicious freshmen begins school. They strut in, newly liberated from the watchful eyes of parents. Ready to experience all that life has to offer in the sex department, they flaunt their sexuality in hopes of attracting that “fall crush.”

Like the seasons that change or the tide that swells and recedes, the fall crush is inevitable. Innocent and unsuspecting, my first crush hit me like a semi. He was a human work of art, crafted of muscle, skin and hot blood. He came nicely packaged in a tight-fitting ROTC uniform. His deep-blue eyes, regal profile and, of course, his uniform, were the focus of my attention. I would sit through lecture and try not to stare at him while fantasizing about the nasty things I wanted to do to him with my tongue and the things he would do to me with his. I spent way too many lectures in a lustful daze damn near hallucinating our nasty acts while my loins ached and moistened. I received the worst grade ever in college.

I must have been delusional from my crush combined with finals week because I decided that it was better to ask the guy out than to wonder what could’ve been. I knew he was out of my league. I knew he could date anyone he wanted. I knew he’d never call. I didn’t care. It was still better to ask him out and be rejected, than not ask him out and lose the possibility, however small, of getting a date.

After our final, I went up to him and introduced myself. I made small chat and finally gave him my number. Perhaps we could get some coffee or something, sometime. Maybe we could discuss the role that the military industrial complex plays in propagating war. We could talk about how current events affect the indigenous people of Brazil. Afterwards, maybe we could have the wildest, most sensual, exhilarating sex of our lives. He never called.

OK. Fine. I’ve been rejected before. But damn, the guy I never thought I’d see again after our final has an uncanny ability to bump into me at the worst possible moment. It seems every time I see him, my hair is in a ponytail, I’m wearing sweats, I have no makeup on, and I happen to be eating shit on my bike. How this happens, I don’t know. I am convinced there are rejection fairies that guide me into his path every time I wander the campus looking like shit. Whatever it is, it reminds me every time I see him that he never called.

It was just a matter of time before I realized that there were so many other people out there that were equally as desirable. And they don’t all need uniforms. There was the jock-with-an-opinion in a poli sci lecture that turned me on just because he was a Republican and stood for everything I raged against; nevertheless, I fantasized about the arguments we would have in order to “settle our differences.”

So as a new school year begins, I can’t help but wonder which class will be sabotaged by that hunk that sits in the back of the room. Guys, you’re not immune. You know the girl I’m talking about. You’ve had your eye on her at some point in time. Complete and utter infatuation. You think about what you would say to her. What you would do to her. She’s always there, so close, yet so far away.

As a senior, I’ve watched the fall leaves turn color and finally retire to a life of decomposition. I’ve seen the fall harvest – it comes year after year – and too many poor souls pining away at an impossible love. I guess that if I’ve learned anything, I’ve learned to appreciate the student body as a whole, and not pine after some probable Republican jerk whose uniform happens to fit him well. Besides, with looks like those, I bet he would have sucked in bed. Oh yeah, I’ve also learned to stay in my own league.

Christina Huff, unrequited humper and Daily Nexus sex columnist, makes your loins ache and moisten every Wednesday.