It’s hard being British. Or maybe it’s not hard enough. The painful absence of Nina Love Anthony’s seminal sex columns have left a gaping void in our pasty, limey lives and have led us to the realization that we need more stiffness than can ever be provided by an upper lip. Despite forewarning, upon arrival at these new world shores, we were somewhat shocked to discover that the myths were more than true. Our seemingly mundane British accents were transformed into verbal Viagra. The phrase, “You’re British, wanna make babies?” rang in our ears from dawn to dusk. Some of us truly seized the day, wandering around I.V. preying on unsuspecting freshmen with lines like, “Does my accent make your spine shiver?” However, for many of us emasculated English, our newfound powers hung around our neck like an erotic albatross – in the words of Peter Parker, “With great power cums [sic] great responsibility.”

Wrenched from the missionary-obsessed motherland, we had to cast away our thermal underwear and penchant for pleasuring ourselves with boiled vegetables to embrace the way of “The Star-Spangled Boner.” Having been locked in single-sex boarding schools, having been forcibly overeducated, having spent all our youth studying Virgil rather than seducing virgins, we had to find a new language, a way of combining our unworldly academia with the underbelly of Del Playa. After many wasted weekends of research, we have painstakingly theorized the types of sexual behavior most common on a Saturday night.

The Primitivist: What we might deem the indigenous DP reveler – and not limited to only the male of the species. Always stay true to their Neanderthal instincts to hunt, gather and score some ass. Not the most creative in their approach, but dogged persistence means a surprising success ratio. Most likely to say, “Hey Blondie, wanna bounce?”

The Machiavellian: Duplicitous in their constant quest to seduce the unsuspecting. Will stop at nothing to become the Prince of the Puntang Clan, Rohypnol included. Most likely to be found watching your drink.

The Neo-Platonist: Otherwise known as the Romantic, seeking that sublime someone to take to transcendence twice in the night. Not to be confused with the Platonic “Let’s just hold hands” – they’re probably gay.

The Post-Structuralist: A master or mistress of misinterpretation. Will deconstruct even the most palpable put-down and reconfigure it as an unequivocal sex invite. Turn your back on them and they’ll try to “Foucault” you from behind. Most likely to think that everything you say adds up to 69.

The [Post]Modernist: Normally encountered later on in the night when everything begins to blur together. The Modernist laments into their red cup the fact that things have fallen apart, that they won’t get a chance to try out the shocker, let alone find a bun for their hot dog. However, for the more up-beat postmodern party-goer, fragments of frat talk and flashes of flesh form an internal masturbatory montage. They do not despair if they cannot get their freak on, safe in the knowledge that their crises in subjectivity can be cured by self-help and cyber-lovin’.

We intend to send our findings back to The Institute of Undersexed, Underprivileged and Rained-Upon Brits at Cambridge University.

Sam Solnick and Kate Wills are junior EAP students focusing in English at UCSB.