Ireland is known for its drinkers and poets, not so much for its lovers. Whether or not those impressions are merited, none are dispelled in Boys and Girls, a sassy anticlimax of modern love, or what passes for it, amongst Dublin’s twenty-somethings, which headlines the annual “1st Irish” festival. Written in a disarmingly poetic, brashly crude prose built on alternately lush and facile rhymes, the text won author Dylan Coburn Gray the Fishamble Award for best new writing at the Dublin Fringe festival last year. The recognition was, in this case, merited, although more attention might instructively be paid to the context of Gray’s subject matter than to the lyrical Dublinese in which it is explored.

Boys and Girls is about what the opposite sexes do together, under the influence of hormones and alcohol. This being Ireland, even in the 21st century, sexuality is still apparently something to be feared and conquered and no respectable night out can conclude without some members of the party puking their guts out.  If ever a generation was sexually obsessed and socially insecure, the one to which Gray’s characters belong could make the short-list, if they weren’t so acutely aware of their, well, shortcomings, with a healthy dose of Irish irony.

Yet, these four anonymous, university-age men and women who monologize in turn their sexual histories are not alike in their ability to handle what appears to be inordinate social pressure to get laid (or “get the shift,” or “get the rocks off” [sic], etc, etc).  The overt cockiness (pun intended) of one boy is offset by the paralyzingly “enlightened” upbringing of another, and while one girl exhorts us to embrace the C-word and is not shy about getting sweaty with a willing lad, another is too accommodating of her boyfriend’s feelings to end a boring relationship. If these monologues are meant to present a spectrum of attitudes about sexuality, they are polarizing at best, repeating endlessly rehashed stereotypes of those who do and those who won’t and the social costs of both.

Why the choice is an either-or (that eludes the question of homosexuality and takes a poke at transgenders) likely cannot be separated from the fact that this is an Irish story, where virgins still ride unicorns in folklore and “end of the day what [women are] for is making sandwiches and blowjobs.” Gray cannot be understood to condone such benighted attitudes toward gender because his characters challenge them at every turn, and the play ends with an act of ethical samaritanism that flies in the face of easy physical gratification.

But at a recent performance, the play’s intentions were as inaccessible as its language, judging from the few laughs elicited by the fast-paced word play (hailed as “hilarious” by the Irish press). Or perhaps the blame lay with a lack of firm direction or a bad case of jet lag: the actors (students at Trinity College Dublin) were not always equal to the punch of their lines. Pure provocations like, “A pop-up offers a top-up on my penis, quick! hop up on the table and shazoom! ladies won’t be able to resist your mister’s va-va-voom!’ sounded dead serious.

For those able to follow the text, however, Gray’s writing is full of such nasty pleasures, paraphrasing Shakespeare and porn-sites with equal relish. The language used to talk about sex is as much his concern as the act itself, with dicks, cocks and “fannies” (lost in translation) all coming under his scrutiny. The gutter-talk is offensive enough to the PC-raised boy in the foursome to send him into a squirmish rant, one of innumerable examples of Gray’s spoken word prowess: “Can’t cope at all with the words motherfucker, ho harlot or bitch. Turn a mortified scarlet at the idea of coming on your tits. Let alone your face. I’d be disowned, disgraced, ‘no son of mine enacts hate with his ejaculation!’”

But when all is said and done, though it’s hard to out-power Gray’s fire hose aim, Boys and Girls misses its mark.