ALICE, ALICE, ANTI-PHALLUS

As she left the dorm room, the girl squeezed Alice's hand. "You have to understand why it's hush-hush. My dad is Pierson Pipkin, general counsel at Grayson, Garrett and Winn, I might be a summer associate there and he would—"

But Alice wasn't really listening. This girl has no qualms about girl-girl fun, MORALLY; she just doesn't want her dad to know because he's a big shot at Wuddyacallit Corporation. And Bette is afraid she's going to Hell for wanting to munch my carpet.

Alice waved as her recent conquest drove off in a shiny blue Miata. Freakin' weird. But some of the most repressed ones seemed to be the wildest in bed. Alice had had a girlfriend last summer, a junior from Smith College who'd told Alice she was a SLUG—Smith Lesbian Until Graduation.

You can just turn it on and off? Alice liked boys, and she had an occasional roll in the hay with one or two, but it didn't really have the oomph that she got from making love to a woman.

Alice left the dorm and strolled across the quadrangle, looking around. Oh, Jesus. There's Bette with one of her—yes, that's the one she's seeing, his name is Thaddeus or Horace or something. Pudgy, balding, hopeful. Bette looked miserable, or maybe that was just Alice projecting.

There hadn't been any more kissing and what-all since they'd had their talk, but Alice was sure if she could just get Bette to focus, she'd…oh, enough woolgathering. Should I go and say hi?

Thaddeus/Horace/Walter (maybe) was now trying to hold Bette's hand, so well behaved. Alice sighed. Wouldn't it be easier in life if we could just like the ones who liked us? So much easier.

Alice remembered a really, really old "Cathy" comic strip, that her mom had up on the fridge when Alice was a child. In this cartoon segment Emerson, Cathy's geeky admirer was telling Cathy how special she was and how much he cared for her, and then came Cathy's thought bubble: "Why do all the right words come out of the wrong mouth?"

BETTE PORTER, ATTEMPTING HETEROSEXUALITY

Bette smiled at Stanton, who squeezed her hand. God, his hands are so sweaty. There's Alice, across the quad. Should she wave? But she was trying so hard, like the group said to avoid temptation.

She was really trying not to hurl, he had apparently swathed himself in some fragrance that was making Bette remember when Mommy used a cheap plastering service to put on wallpaper in the bathroom.

Stanton smiled. He had capped teeth. Could you get your teeth capped at nineteen? Seems like an early time to give up on orthodontia.

"I…I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about last night in the car." Stanton said, smiling his capped grin. "I—I tried too soon, I guess."

Oh God, the kiss. Well, he'd taken her to dinner twice, a movie, and the symphony. That's three dates. I guess that's when guys feel like they're owed. God he STANK.

Perspiring, Stanton smiled. "I really think you're special, Bette, and I hope I haven't misread the signals—"

Signals? What kind of signals do you send Elmer Fudd?

Stanton bit his lip and began a speech about his grandfather's farm, and some romantic wisdom he'd picked up standing by the cows.

Bette knew she was being unfair. Stanton wasn't gorgeous, but most good-looking guys, awash in pretty women, easily read her not-interested signals and moved on…and Bette wasn't interested in ANY guys, probably because she was mentally ill, if not tempted by Satan.

"Hey, Bette!" Alice Piezecki danced up, so feminine in a pretty sundress with cherries. How could such a girly girl be a stone dyke? And if she was, why were gays bad? I mean, really.

"Oh, Alice, this is Stanton Polinger, Stan, Alice Piezecki." After Bette's hasty introduction, Stanton actually looked a little relieved that someone had come to take the burden of affection off.

STANTON, STANTON, PHEREMONE PHANTOM

"Kid, three things I've learned. When a woman's mad at you, it's usually her plumbing, or her brasseire's too tight, the next thing is, don't go camping with a chick if she's on her period, 'cause the smell a' the blood will attract mountain lions and such, and the third is, the artist types go wild between the sheets!"

Stan wasn't sure what to do about all this. Initially he'd asked Bette Porter out because she was cute, and Stan's Uncle Anton had advised that artist types were really wild in bed, and "unscrupulous". Was this true?

He knew he must be luring her in somewhat because he'd borrowed his dad's 1964 Brut Faberge, which drove girls wild. Maybe Stan hadn't put enough on…he'd also mascara'd some chest hair on, because he tended to not grow much. Should he have worn a medallion?

But Uncle Anton had insisted that artsy girls were promiscuous because they had no values. "You fool around with the flaky types, and then marry a nice business like girl from an Episcopal Church."

Stan's roommate was sleeping with an fairly sedate Econ major, an Anglican bishop's daughter who was going into international banking and a registered Young Republican, and Staycie probably was as conservative as they came, but she and Larry were always using the room, four, five nights a week, and Stan, relegated to the couch in the living room, had wondered about his romantic future.

Logically, if Uncle Anton was right, if an Econ major could be this rambunctious, an artist would be even more exciting…Stanton had predicted three-ways in his future when he'd begun scoping out the girls in the Fine Arts department.

But his first conquest, a Creative Writing major with poor skin, she'd peed in Stan's contact lens solution when he'd insisted she blow him.

And now Bette who was part-black (you'd think she'd be "monkey hungry" or something) treated Stan's gentlemanly advances as if he had typhoid. Stan wondered if possibly she had some mental block against touching other people, some kind of "I need my space" thing (Stan had been getting that from chicks since high school).

But if this was true, why was Bette holding hands with this ditzy blonde while they were talking?