Spring Break is a rite of passage in American culture.
It's not a vacation. It's not a time for relaxation. It's an all-out assault on traditional values. It's a time when young men and women unleash their pent-up sexual energy and spend a drunken week looking for anyone to "satisfy" them. Standards are thrown out the window.
The Spring Break I took during my senior year in college fits this very definition.
Picture this; two of my buddies, Marc and Ben, join me in Cancun for what we expect to be the equivalent of a week-long party at the Playboy Mansion. Everyone should get plenty of ass from plenty of horny, gorgeous coeds. No sweat. What is it gonna take to score? Very little effort...we think.
We arrive late at night, venture to the beach where our hotel sits, and the first thing we see is some chick ridin' some dude. "See, just like we figured," I say to my boys.
The first night out is kinda slow. I try hitting on the shot girls and female bartenders because they are the hottest chicks in the place. No luck though. I fall for all of their sales tricks. As soon as they take my money, they walk away.
The second night out is fun, but we all get too drunk to have any shot of hooking up. Making out with random women on the dance floor doesn't count as a hook-up in our book.
By night four, none of us has gotten any ass. Our resting heart-rates hover around 150, and our blood alcohol levels haven't reached a "sober" level in 96 hours. We're complete physical wrecks. That evening I made a deal with myself -- I was gonna get some no matter what happened. Whatzitgonnatake? I'll do it, ladies.
Night four sees us hop on a ferry along with 500 other coeds and settle down on an island where there is to be a wet t-shirt contest. As word spreads about the pending wet t-shirt contest, Marc, Ben and I hustle to the stage to get a great seat. We decide to sit on the first row, but on the corner of the stage because the women will end up facing us when they get sprayed down. "We're a bunch of geniuses. Look at those douche bags in the front row," says Marc. He's right.
As the crowd descends, two blondes approach and ask us to watch their shoes and bags because they are competing in the wet t-shirt contest. We look like nice guys, so we've won points with the ladies already. Ben looks at Marc and I and says, "This is so money. Tonight's the night, fellas." Don't jinx it.
The contest begins and it's fantastic. Wet t-shirt contests on Spring Break are legendary and this one is no different. Shirts come off immediately. Pants hit the floor too. It's 10 women in thongs on stage. If I had been suddenly gunned down at that very moment, I would have died the happiest man alive. My apologies to Lou Gehrig. As each girl gets voted out, they exit the stage right where we're standing. We're able to get up-close views of each chick. It's great. The site of wet tits is fantastic. The contest ends and the two blondes come to collect their shoes and bags. Neither of 'em won, but who cares. They introduce themselves and stand next to us as additional games commence. I get picked for a game. I have to pick one chick out of the crowd, so I go with the blonde with the D-cup "bombs" who is standing next to Marc and Ben. I'm trying to win points with this girl, and what better way to do so than to convince the crowd we look good together. She appears a little more outgoing than her friend. We lose the game, which requires the girl to get on her knees and suck a baby's bottle that's between my legs, but I learned enough about this girl to know she's a freak.
The contests end, the crowd disperses and I stay with my D-cup partner. And why not, right? We dance for a little while, take a few shots and then hop back on the stage to dance for the masses that have reassembled near the main stage. I'm not hammered—but I'm not nearly sober either—so I have no problem flaunting my "wood" to the crowd as me and my girl grind on stage. "I'll never see these people again," I think.
