I Know Shes Fat But

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.

To recap, I'm positioning myself to sleep with this girl by A) guarding her shoes and bag during the wet t-shirt contest, B) partnering up with her on stage, C) dancing, D) taking multiple shots of watered-down tequila, and the key element, E) flaunting my "junk" without any regard for the public good. Now it gets interesting...

Typically, when men and women grind together the woman either faces the guy for a straight-on dry hump, or she turns around ass-to-crotch so the couple can simulate doggy-style. Me, well, I like to mix things up a little. I turn the tables and stick my ass into her crotch. Seems a little gay, right? Wrong. It's the perfect soft toss to a girl. She either gets freaked out, or let's the freak come out. My partner let her freak out. As we're grinding my ass against her crotch, she reaches her hand around and slides it up and down my...let's call it, Mr. Girth. She continues her strokes until I pull away to avoid losing it on the main stage.

Fast-forwarding an hour...

500 co-eds, totally inebriated trudge back on to the ferry. Standing in line, I ask her name, where she's from, what school she goes to, blah, blah, blah. I remember hearing that she's 26 and from West Virginia. I miss the part where she says her name. Details. My final question, upon hearing her age (I'm 21), is if she thinks she can teach a young guy like me anything. She responds with, "I don't think so." Not the kind of response I'm looking for. D-cup Diva and I board the ferry and meet up with Marc and Ben. Half way home Marc and I exchange glances. With this chick sitting next to me, I look Marc dead in the eye and say out-loud, "I know she's fat, but I don't care." It's my only factual statement all night.

Fast-forwarding an hour...

We're on a public bus, filled with drunken Spring Breakers, when the 26-year-old says that I'm coming back to her room. The bus stops. We exit. We enter her hotel room. And I'm harder than two bricks. She insists on washing her feet before we go to sleep, so I wait in her roach-infested hotel room praying I'll last longer than 2 minutes. Hey, it's been a slow week. She enters her bedroom wearing a little "nighty" and we hop into bed. The small talk is totally meaningless and I can't imagine I said anything relatively coherent. Then we go at it.

This big chick seems to get bigger as I launch into her. Her breasts are huge. Unfortunately, they are proportionate to the rest of her body. Missionary style doesn't last that long. Quickly, she orders me to my back. Once the new position is assumed she gets aggressive. We're talking Ray Lewis-aggressive, here. She's got one foot pivoting off the wall. One hand clenches my chest so hard I think she might rip off my pec. She demands a new position after a few minutes. "Get behind me," she declares. Like a puppy, I respond without hesitation. She slams Mr. Girth in. This position gives me time to look out the window and see that the sun has come up. Damn, I'm tired.

Fast-forwarding an hour...okay, fine...5 minutes...

Lying together she tries to start a conversation, but I'm too tired to speak. The only part I remember is her question, "Am I the first Peggy Sue you've been with?" What? Peggy Sue? Holy Shit, this girl's name is Peggy Sue. From West Virginia. And she's fat! Oh, I'll never live this down. I lean over, give her a quick 'goodbye' kiss, put on my clothes and get on the bus back to my hotel.

I'm alone on the bus. The bus driver doesn't speak much English, so I have time to reflect on the night. I just had sex with a 26-year-old fat chick from West Virginia named Peggy Sue. Do I get points in the game of life for that? At just after 7:00am I enter the hotel room where Marc and Ben are sleeping light enough to hear my entrance. Ben asks, "How was it?", to which I respond, "I need to quarantine my dick." Marc gives a half-asleep laugh and adds, "Did she tell you to just throw the condom in the pile in the corner?" Ben laughs. I cry.

Whatzitgonnatake to score on Spring Break? Low standards, a trustworthy look, some unconventional dance positions and a high tolerance for pain.

Peggy Sue where are you?