(The help of numerous Radcliffe girls in this project is acknowledged, without whose sporadic help the ways of women would probably have remained a mystery anyway. Investigating sex at Radcliffe is like making Tom Collinses out of warm water and lemon peels, but they're girls--you can't take that away from them.) little murmurs which could be either pure despair, pure pleasure, or any mixture thereof.

This delicious ambiguity, designed to keep the boy in continual tension, is one of the refinements we collegians have added to what was once a pretty straightforward game. Trying to be honest for once, you let escape a blissful sigh. There went that date, daddy-o. "You beast! You're enjoying it!" She recoils like a snake. Remember the rules: you decide what to do, but she decides how.

Love is the most grotesque thing of all. Cinemascopic-stercophonic exaltation and benign stupidity mix indiscriminately to produce a tangle which, if either you or the girl friend should call it into doubt, is inscrutable.

Love cannot be safely defined except as a "will to believe" in each other, but you're sure to leap at the most popular working definition among us intellectuals: "What is love? This is love!" When you've said that, since you're in the intertwined state wherein thoughts flow freely, she'll start wondering if it isn't just sex. Then you'll wonder if sex isn't enough (better not say it aloud).

Soon you'll both be wondering whether this is the "right person" whether for such mixed up minds anybody could be the "right one;" whether perhaps romance is hokum and anybody could be the "right one;" whether today's confused Youth can make sane decisions about the appropriateness of love, of sex, of marriage (pause for breath); whether all this decision stuff isn't negation of the basically inspirational quality of the Perfect Love; or whether maybe sex isn't everything but it's a hell of a lot easier than all this stuff; and so on around again.

All Perfect Loves end in Marriage, which, as we all know, is the crashing finish of a mad race in which the winners and losers are never announced.

Whatever you do about girls this fall, remember that it will end badly. There's really no sense in going out at all. The advice below is for those who can't help themselves:

In the first place, you fool, you have to know what you want. And you don't, and probably never will. This puts you at a distinct disadvantage with the ladies, who know exactly what they want: lots of fun, lots of laughs, a bachelor's degree, and an intelligent, strong, pliable husband. Secondly, you have to know how to get what you're after (if anything)--which is the most difficult part. Every victory turns to defeat, and the spoils of victory vanish without a trace. They'll tromp on you, boy, they'll pluck your heart out and crack it like an egg. But they mean well, and the fault is yours--you asked for a date