A raucous party. Boy and girl lock eyes across the crowded room. An eyebrow cocked, a smile in return, a head-tilt toward a secluded corner. Boy and girl wade through the crowd, evading friendly interceptions, making a beeline for the meeting place.

The scene that takes place any given weekend in a fraternity basement is the beginning of one of the greatest “love” stories ever told. The party in Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet” happens to be set in a mansion in Verona, but the principle is the same.

There’s no getting around it: Romeo and Juliet’s relationship is founded on lust.

Love, if it exists, plays no part in “R&J.” From the start, Shakespeare’s masterpiece is about two fickle, foolish teens in _lust_ to a senseless and disgusting degree.

Let’s be honest: Until the middle of the first act, Romeo is obsessed with another girl. He paces and frets about Rosaline refusing to speak to him, taking a vow of chastity, etc., etc. He’s too “lovesick” to function, yet miraculously forgets all about Rosaline the minute he lays eyes of Juliet. Yeah, right.

Of course Romeo falls “in love” with Juliet without once speaking to her. Of course little miss never-been-kissed is thrilled with the attention and swept up in a whirl of giddy excitement. Of course she sneaks around her parents and delights in their secret balcony-side meeting, but she can _hardly_ claim to _love_ her young suitor.

But they get married and that means they love each other, right? Wrong. These days, their sham of a marriage is akin to your kid sister and her flaky first boyfriend running off to the pastor after their first kiss. Juliet only forces the matter to sinlessly consecrate the nuptials the next night (More than can be said for campus party animals, but still…).

The fallout doesn’t exactly do them credit either, particularly Romeo’s running out the next morning because he’s killed Juliet’s cousin Tybalt — like he didn’t think that would have some negative consequences for their relationship?

And sure, maybe they do knock themselves off in the end, but at that point there’s little alternative.

Say you’re Romeo. You’ve just ridden dramatically in from the countryside, killed Paris (that’s two strikes against you, you’ll assuredly be put to death for murder), and leapt into the grave of your teenage slampiece. You can’t go back to your family, you can’t flee due to lack of funding and the only thing that would make up for either outcome is apparently dead at the bottom of a pit… so you take the easy out and poison yourself. Really, it’s what anyone would do.

Granted, Juliet has a marginally better head on her shoulders. She might have felt something for fickle dimwit Romeo, but she doesn’t know Paris is dead. Marry that gross old guy? After finding out how great sex can potentially be? Never. *stab*

Thus ends Shakespeare’s tragic masterpiece — the tale of two hapless teenagers and their quest to get some.