For college students all over the nation, the words “Spring Break” mean two things: hard liquor and easy men and women.
So when mid-March comes around, sex-crazed students flock to our continent’s warm spots with the goal to get drunk and score with a stranger or two.
Though I am sex-crazed, I have some personal beliefs that make it awkward for me to fit in with the typical Spring Break crowd. Let me explain.
I’m usually the guy questioning the entertainment value of a “donkey show,” which one Chico State meathead suggested I check out two years ago as we relaxed in a cruise ship Jacuzzi.
He’s the kind of dude that would strut along the beach with a bottle of beer in each hand and impulsively decide to pay someone to tattoo a tribal band around his arm. Then, he would bump and grind with scantily clad girls at the bar at night until he found one as ready to get it on as he was. He’d have a wild night, sleep in until noon, and do the whole thing over again.
I, on the other hand, would make the rounds on the beach with a water bottle and might, if I’m feeling crazy enough, put some lemon juice in my hair. When night falls, I would sit around in the hot tub with my buddies and say things like, “Those girls were hot. Too bad we didn’t talk to them,” and “Those girls at Taco Bell were totally checking us out. Too bad they had to stay and work until midnight.”
Nevertheless, I thoroughly enjoy Spring Break for the sunshine, the relaxation and the entertainment. In fact, I’ve been Spring Breaking since high school. However, in all those years of superficial flirting, I have never once landed a hot honey.
This year, I thought, could be different. So I made the journey to sunny Southern California with high hopes that my love life would blossom like a Begonia.
The Mission Bay beach scene was heavenly. A slight breeze lightly tousled bikini babes’ sun-struck hair. Reclined females abounded, hypnotizing me with their golden skin and bodacious curves (they play so coy down there in their cute little sunglasses). Oh yeah, the sand and water were nice too.
Luckily, my friends and I had settled at a fortunate spot.
Two of our 14 bikini neighbors got into a bit of a catfight. I won’t get into all the details, but I was nearly panting by the time it ended, and one of the girls’ bikini tops was waving in the wind on a stick in the sand, a glorious emblem of what took place there just moments ago.
As I looked upon the awe-filled scene about 15 yards away, inspiration struck (that, and I remembered I had to have some material for this column).
I quickly ran over to the stick that held the bikini top, plucked it out of the sand and planted it right next to my towel.
The girls giggled and said, “Hey!” in their “don’t-do-it-but-I’m-glad-that-you-are-doing-it” voices. I felt like such a tease.
Seconds later, the beautiful blonde came running to retrieve what was hers with a smile (she was covered up for all of you who were worried), and playfully returned to her spot in the sand.
Though I never did approach her and the others for conversation, I felt that the bond we had forged through this clothes-napping experience was strong enough. I could return to Salt Lake City satisfied with the trip.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll see her next year during Spring Break. I’m sure I’ll recognize her. How could I forget? I’m sure she’ll recognize me too.
If the stars align and we do meet again at the beach, maybe this time I could get my buddy to take my swimsuit off in front of her.