Springtime at Yale is the time of year where the act of sizing-someone-up becomes a highly ritualized Zen art form.

In the name of internships, room draws, hush-hush societays or spring cleaning the ol’ booty call list, everyone is conducting some sort of subliminal-Spanish-inquisition-type-interrogation to determine, “who are you?” and “why should I care?”

Alas, we Elis are not allowed to employ the tried and true canine butt sniff/leg hump in order to size-up fellow students — at least not in public anyhow. Without the compatibility canine test at our disposal, we all seem to have honed the super power of: Asking-innocuous-questions-and-then-making-major-analytical-deductions.

I applaud such abstract processes of judging others, however, I contend that the key to unlocking the ultimate truth about another person lies in knowing about one thing and one thing only: Masturbation. The way, where, when and what the f***?! of someone else’s self-gratification habits reveals their past, present and future more accurately than any astrology chart or tea leaf divination.

Come dear friends — no pun intended — and let us clarify the correlation between how someone gets off and just how well the two of you will get along:

Goal-Oriented Militancy: For some, masturbation is anything but playtime. With military precision these Yalies pencil in no more than three to five minutes for self-satisfaction. Each and every time it is a furiously paced sprint to climax. Anything over one minute and 30 seconds is considered a disappointing display. With a warm glow in their cheeks, they reach for the Purell and then cross off “Self” on their post-it note “To Do” List. These folks know exactly what they want and get it every time: first the Orgasm, then the World!

History of the Stimulation Sprinter: They continue to fear that their parents’ will catch them mid rub and then disown them, often leaving our half-satisfied over-o-chiever alone and blind on the mean streets of suburbia.

Free-Spirited Hands in Motion: For others among us it is all about the journey, not the destination. Oh they will most certainly get to O-town, but who is to say just what detours might delay them on the way. The free spirited crotch touchers out there do not consider masturbation a task to be completed, but rather a lifestyle to be lived. It is totally unexpected and unclear as to what might inspire them to stick their hands down their pants and grab their genitals: a spring day spent commando, a warm up before drinks at Sullivan’s or a cool down before bed.

History of the Touchy Feely Free Spirit: They completely bought into the whole “self-exploration” rhetoric of liberal sex education and grew up with the “The Joy of Sex” book located one shelf above the Encyclopedia Britannicas.

Accessorizing for the Event: One never knows where the basic sexual accoutrement ends–porn, the odd vibrator or dildo, a packet of KYwarming lub — and the silk shrouded, pink feathered wand devices begin. More than judging someone’s toys of choice (and please do judge and run to tell me if it is something illegal or totally mutant), it is always prudent to be aware of the variety and extent of someone’s collection. I myself am totally comfortable with almost anything contained in a drawer or box, however, I begin to get nervous when the device is prominently displayed in an altar-like glass case, resembles unstable hammock rigging, or is furry and alive.

History of the Toy Toters: Whether we like to admit it or not each one of us had some type of childhood fabric friend — blankie the rag, jingles the dog, snuggles the bear — who would inevitably end up all rubbed in our nether regions by the end of naptime. Hopefully, all of us had to eventually go through the painful process of being forced to break things off with our naughty naptime companion … some of us got over it and some of us still have serious separation anxiety to work through.

N…N….Not Gonna Happen: There are some Yalies who, straight up, never masturbate. We are not talking “never” like, “oh my god, I would never cheat on you,” but for-serious-sanctions-below-the-waist: no fly zone, do not pass zipper, do not collect $200, never ever ever touch themselves for pleasure. I am constantly afraid these people might just spontaneously combust. Or, that should I trip and get too close their angry, unloved genitals, they might just jump out of their pants and kiss-of-death, X-Men-Rogue-style. These are the people who in our lifetime will be elected to public office because they’ve never done anything remotely compromising — like give change to the homeless people — and will then under the gamma rays of political power morph into totally kinky sexual predators.

History of the No-Touch Clan: It is my belief that these people actually have either detachable sexual organs or they are a part of an elite NASA program to freeze dry and preserve their “untouchables'” should the human race ever need to repopulate with boring, power-hungry sexually inept folk.

This column is a far cry from the in-depth probe necessary to fully explore the extent of our self-satisfying behavior. I encourage you all to initiate local fieldwork of your own: Why does your roommate really own that pet snake? Does the girl across the hall merely appear frigid or is the temperature of her box actually absolute zero as a result of neglect? And most importantly, what does your masturbation say about you?

Forget the animal logos on collared shirts — it’s how you put your hands on yourself that really tells the world something about you.

Jana Sikdar owns all the “be my Rogue” get-some-action figures.