Oh, Isla Vista… you devil, you. You always blow my mind. Need a light, baby? Another pillow? Before you turn over and snore, you sex beast of a town, there’s something I want to tell you.

Our rendezvous have been nothing short of a dream. To think that four years ago, I came to you as an eager virgin and asked you to touch me. And oh, you did. I didn’t quite know how to touch back: I gnawed you raw with my teeth, I made sparks fly off your dick with my dry hand, I nearly snapped you in half during careless position changes, I giggled with my friends over details of your anatomy, I threw a two-year-old-style temper tantrum when you told me you were seeing other people… but you weathered the storm, I.V., and whipped my novice ass into shape. Thanks to you, I’m no longer a health threat to the penis-wielding members of the species. In fact, I’ve been told I’m just the medicine they need. I’m fairly certain they’re not just saying that.

I don’t know how to say this, I.V., but this is our last time together. It’s not you; it’s me. See, there comes a time when a girl’s got to spread her wings, to see what the world has to offer her beyond balcony cat calls and dance-floor boners.

But oh, how I’ll miss you. Your alluring beer-and-frat-boy-vomit fragrance. The way you’d wait ’til I was well into love-making on your sandy shore to slap me with high tide. The way you’d wait ’til I was ass-up and mid-“FUCK YES” to have my roommate wander in the room. And, especially, the way you’d wait ’til I was good and sex-starving to give all the Belting Bonnies in the neighborhood something to scream about.

In all seriousness, my lovely town, you’ve enriched my life profoundly. You’ve taught me what I want in a sexual experience. You’ve taught me how to communicate my needs. You’ve taught me how to say no. Similarly, you’ve taught me how to make the quickest beeline from a party-creeper’s clutch, through a solid mass of wasted co-eds and out the front door without upsetting a single beverage. Serious skill.

You’ve also nursed me through some of the more staggering heartbreaks I’ve experienced: You provided me with sunrises, ocean breezes, best friends (who’d sit with me on street curbs and let my drunk ass cry it out) and no shortage of cute boys willing to throw an ego-boost my way on warm DP nights.

We had a great run, I.V. And although I’ll miss the shit out of you, I’m sure you won’t lose any sleep over me. After all, you’re nothing if not accommodating to an array of gorgeous women. They’re sexy, they’re smart, and I have no doubt you’ve honed them into powerful sexual beings who know exactly what they want. But you better keep up, I.V., lest they turn their interests elsewhere… to, say, men over the age of 25 who give a fuck about clits.

Our trysts haven’t been perfect – you’ve been premature, I’ve faked it a few (hundred) times – but in four years, we’ve learned each other’s ins and outs. And I know that nothing shrinks your boner like a stage-five clinger, I.V…. but I love you. I really do.

Heartfelt thanks to anyone who humped along with me every Wednesday. Thanks for the online comments, letters to the editor, Facebook messages and countless “celebrity” moments that confirmed someone, in fact, was reading. Your feedback and kind words made my year.

Thanks to all my interview subjects for spilling your juice to 20,000-plus people: You are brave souls, indeed. Thanks to Lt. Brian Olmstead for taking my concern for I.V. women to heart. Thanks to Sasha Grey for taking the topic of women’s authenticity in porn to fantastic heights – your perspective is valued. Thanks to all my friends for your undying support – especially Lara, for establishing a Hump fan base at Berkeley!

And last but not least, thanks to my wonderful boyfriend, Ben. You’ve been a great sport, invaluable proofreader and brilliant writing mentor. Plus, you’re pretty damn amazing in the sack. Thanks for being down for anything, anytime, anywhere. “Just remember, it’s that time of year…”

So long, my dear Gauchos. It was good for me; I hope it was good for you.

Oh, Isla Vista… you devil, you. You always blow my mind. Need a light, baby? Another pillow? Before you turn over and snore, you sex beast of a town, there’s something I want to tell you.

Our rendezvous have been nothing short of a dream. To think that four years ago, I came to you as an eager virgin and asked you to touch me. And oh, you did. I didn’t quite know how to touch back: I gnawed you raw with my teeth, I made sparks fly off your dick with my dry hand, I nearly snapped you in half during careless position changes, I giggled with my friends over details of your anatomy, I threw a two-year-old-style temper tantrum when you told me you were seeing other people… but you weathered the storm, I.V., and whipped my novice ass into shape. Thanks to you, I’m no longer a health threat to the penis-wielding members of the species. In fact, I’ve been told I’m just the medicine they need. I’m fairly certain they’re not just saying that.

I don’t know how to say this, I.V., but this is our last time together. It’s not you; it’s me. See, there comes a time when a girl’s got to spread her wings, to see what the world has to offer her beyond balcony cat calls and dance-floor boners.

But oh, how I’ll miss you. Your alluring beer-and-frat-boy-vomit fragrance. The way you’d wait ’til I was well into love-making on your sandy shore to slap me with high tide. The way you’d wait ’til I was ass-up and mid-“FUCK YES” to have my roommate wander in the room. And, especially, the way you’d wait ’til I was good and sex-starving to give all the Belting Bonnies in the neighborhood something to scream about.

In all seriousness, my lovely town, you’ve enriched my life profoundly. You’ve taught me what I want in a sexual experience. You’ve taught me how to communicate my needs. You’ve taught me how to say no. Similarly, you’ve taught me how to make the quickest beeline from a party-creeper’s clutch, through a solid mass of wasted co-eds and out the front door without upsetting a single beverage. Serious skill.

You’ve also nursed me through some of the more staggering heartbreaks I’ve experienced: You provided me with sunrises, ocean breezes, best friends (who’d sit with me on street curbs and let my drunk ass cry it out) and no shortage of cute boys willing to throw an ego-boost my way on warm DP nights.

We had a great run, I.V. And although I’ll miss the shit out of you, I’m sure you won’t lose any sleep over me. After all, you’re nothing if not accommodating to an array of gorgeous women. They’re sexy, they’re smart, and I have no doubt you’ve honed them into powerful sexual beings who know exactly what they want. But you better keep up, I.V., lest they turn their interests elsewhere… to, say, men over the age of 25 who give a fuck about clits.

Our trysts haven’t been perfect – you’ve been premature, I’ve faked it a few (hundred) times – but in four years, we’ve learned each other’s ins and outs. And I know that nothing shrinks your boner like a stage-five clinger, I.V…. but I love you. I really do.

Heartfelt thanks to anyone who humped along with me every Wednesday. Thanks for the online comments, letters to the editor, Facebook messages and countless “celebrity” moments that confirmed someone, in fact, was reading. Your feedback and kind words made my year.

Thanks to all my interview subjects for spilling your juice to 20,000-plus people: You are brave souls, indeed. Thanks to Lt. Brian Olmstead for taking my concern for I.V. women to heart. Thanks to Sasha Grey for taking the topic of women’s authenticity in porn to fantastic heights – your perspective is valued. Thanks to all my friends for your undying support – especially Lara, for establishing a Hump fan base at Berkeley!

And last but not least, thanks to my wonderful boyfriend, Ben. You’ve been a great sport, invaluable proofreader and brilliant writing mentor. Plus, you’re pretty damn amazing in the sack. Thanks for being down for anything, anytime, anywhere. “Just remember, it’s that time of year…”

So long, my dear Gauchos. It was good for me; I hope it was good for you.