Cole And Ellen Do Spring Break

Being yesterday's hero took some getting used to. Cole Reynolds was no longer the star quarterback. No, at the tender age of eighteen, he was a has-been, already looking back with nostalgia at those thrilling Friday nights on the gridiron, sharing the heat of battle with his loyal teammates, cheered on by his adoring fans. But life goes on, and for him that meant getting through his last semester at Damascus High, applying for college and keeping himself in shape to perhaps play college ball. He had always planned to attend college, though he looked forward to it with some ambivalence. Some of his friends were joining the Marines to "fight those commies" in Vietnam. He had no qualms with the Johnson administration's Cold War thinking: If we don't stop "them" in Vietnam, all of Southeast Asia could go red—the domino theory in a nutshell. Cole harbored a strong sense of patriotism, felt that college and the student deferment that went with it might be shirking his duty to God and country, a duty his dad fulfilled in World War Two.

Then, of course, there was Ellen Goldfarb. She was his new main squeeze—still an unlikely one in the eyes of friends like Travis Callahan who still couldn't understand how he could have dumped hot Kayla Ranucci for her. Cole ignored their incredulity. In fact, he and Ellen got closer as winter went on. They ate together in the cafeteria and walked together in the halls, ignoring and sometimes laughing at those who still shook their heads in disbelief. On weekends they were inseparable. They saw movies together ("Thunderball" and "Doctor "Zhivago" among them), spent time over each other's houses and, as Cole once did with Kayla, cruised up and down the strip in Cole's GTO. The only thing they didn't do was what they did on New Year's Eve: go all the way. Oh, they wanted to. But, with parents and/or siblings who always seemed to be around, coupled with their negative feeling about doing it in the car, there wasn't much opportunity.

One exception was the Saturday night before Valentine's Day. Cole booked a room at the Grayson House, a Victorian era bed and breakfast a few miles from town. The cozy intimacy of the place and the light snow that fell throughout the night provided the perfect setting for romance. Even though the drinking age in their state was twenty-one, Cole managed to wrangle a bottle of pink champagne from a sympathetic liquor store clerk after telling the guy that he and Ellen were celebrating their engagement. "Hey, you're old enough to fight for your country, you should be old enough to vote and drink," the guy said. Following a candlelight steak dinner in the dining room, they went upstairs to their room, free at last to do what they had longed to do since New York.

After they dimmed the lights, they stood by the window, sipping champagne, watching the snowfall. The contrast between the view here and the one from high up in the Americana was striking. In New York, they were over forty floors above the street, gazing out at Gotham's amazing verticality, all lit up and busy with millions of people going about their business. Here, they were two floors up, their view confined to snow swirling over a brick roundabout, quaint and charming in the way small towns tend to be. They watched awhile before moving to the foot of their king-sized bed. Cole began to kiss her. He then opened her blouse and began to fondle her breasts, surprisingly small for such a big girl. Not that that bothered him. He loved her. More than loved her, he adored her. All of her. "Je t'aime," he said.

"If someone had told me a few months ago that I'd be at the Grayson House hearing those words from Cole Reynolds...in French yet..." She began to tear up.

He wrapped his arms around her. "And if someone had told me months ago that I'd be saying those words to Ellen Goldfarb..."

They didn't say much after that, couldn't say much, not with their lips and tongues locked together, then moving in, over and about each other's erogenous zones, confining their verbal communication to moans and shrieks of delight. Cole came well prepared with a couple packs of lambskin condoms, pricy but well worth it. Latex offered better protection against sexually transmitted diseases. However, you couldn't beat lambskin for sensitivity just shy of unprotected sex. Besides, the HIV scourge was years away and Cole's and Ellen's experience with intercourse had a short history; both had been virgins prior to New Year's. The nervous, tentative awkwardness of that first time had given way to a fluid, confident comfortableness. Ellen, ever scholarly and curious, had read up on the Kama Sutra; she had no trouble convincing Cole to try variations beyond missionary. Cole amazed Ellen with his staying power. He even amazed himself. He came four times that night, and that's with the champagne. He added a fifth for good measure the next morning. "You're an all around athlete," she joked.

"And I give most of the credit to you," he said, "the way you wrap those big powerful legs of yours around me, stay wet for hours on end and dirty talk me, so out of character but so fucking hot."

They held each other for most of the night and slept until ten. It was when Ellen had just changed into her short denim skirt that Cole once again got the urge. She was bending over, packing things in her travel bag. Stepping up behind her, Cole started to message the backs of her bare legs. When he began to dry hump her, she said, "Checkout time is eleven. But if it's a quickie you're after, I'm game." She then slipped her panties off, flipped her skirt up and bent over the bed. He dropped his drawers, slipped on a lambskin and slid inside her. "Oh, Cole, oh my, you're too much," she said, straining to keep her voice down, aware of people moving about, walking the halls, going up and down steps just a few feet from where they fucked from behind closed doors.

They followed up with a fancy brunch in the dining room, eggs Benedict with salmon and fried potatoes washed down with orange and tomato juice. The day was cold but sunny. The storm had passed, leaving the ground lightly snow covered. Ellen pulled a camera from her coat and asked a passerby to take their picture. They posed in front of the Grayson House, with its wrap-around porch and thick Mansard roof, Cole in his short suede jacket and dark, scrub denim jeans; Ellen in her blue, double-breasted coat, its brass buttons glistening in the bright sun.

"You've spoiled me, Cole Reynolds," Ellen said on the way back. "Please don't make me wait too long before we can do this again, before you make love to me again, before we can cuddle up like we did, just the two of us, naked and alone."

He squeezed her hand, keeping his eyes glued to the road. "How about next month during spring break? Fort Lauderdale is supposed to be wild. It's in the seventies and eighties in March and we won't have to make up stories to get alcohol because the drinking age is eighteen. Maybe we could even make love on the beach."

"Absolutely! When do we leave?"

************************************

Fort Lauderdale was indeed wild during spring break, thanks in part to a certain movie. Kids flocked to the place before then, but "Where the Boys Are" (1960) upped the human biomass faster than any chamber of commerce promo ever could. As in the movie, most of those who ventured into this bacchanalia showed up single, groups of gals and guys, hormones raging, playing out a teen mating ritual under sunny skies and cheap tequila.

Unlike Cole's parents, Ellen's mom and dad didn't take kindly to the idea of their daughter traveling a thousand miles with her boyfriend "just to drink and have sex," as her mom had put it. A couple nights in New York and a Valentine's Day overnight at the Grayson House were one thing; spring break in Lauderdale for a week was something else. Reluctantly, they let her go. After all, she was eighteen and they were very fond of Cole. "Just see that he takes good care of you," her dad had said.

So in mid-March they were off, heading south on I-95 in Cole's GTO, its trunk packed to the gills with luggage and with music blasting from the 8-track, an eclectic mix heavy on the Bs, from Beethoven and Bach, to The Beatles and Beach Boys. It was just when they crossed into North Carolina that Cole and Ellen had their first fight. Well, not a fight, really, more like a profound disagreement argued vociferously by both.

"So, it looks like we're in Vietnam to stay," Cole said.

"A huge foreign policy blunder," Ellen said. "We don't belong there."

"I say we do belong there. Communist aggression is a fact of life that needs to be contained."

"No, Cole, it's a civil war over there. None of our business. Don't tell me you believe in the domino theory?"

"Theory? Come on, El. Look at Eastern Europe. Red China. North Korea. Cuba. All mighty good evidence that it's more than just theory. Laos, Thailand and Cambodia could all be next. We've got to show our resolve in stopping communist aggression. Otherwise, we look weak in the eyes of our enemies as well as in the eyes of our friends. "

"Cole, the French got humiliated over there in their vain effort to subjugate an indigenous people that refused to be subjugated. The same will happen to us if we don't pull out."

"Ellen, you know where trying to appease Hitler got the British. If we don't do something about—"

"Please, Cole, Ho Chi Minh is no Hitler. Granted, he's a committed communist. But he's no threat to us."

"He's taking his cues from Moscow, Ellen, and those guys in the Kremlin ARE a threat to us."

Ellen didn't buy the idea that communism was some sort of monolithic movement controlled by Moscow. But she kept that to herself. She saw no point in trying to score debating points at the expense of ruining this trip. Following a tense silence, she said, "Cole, would you be willing to risk your life fighting over there? You had said something to me about joining the Marines after graduation."

"Haven't decided, but yeah, I can see it," he said just as they pulled into a Howard Johnson's. "Some of my friends plan to enlist." Ellen looked away and shook her head. Then she began to cry.

"Hey, come on," he said, throwing an arm around her. "We're here to have fun, not argue American foreign policy. Let's agree to disagree and drop it."

She nodded and hugged him. "I just don't ever want to lose you. The thought of losing you over there, of losing you period... " She cried harder over his shoulder.

He pulled away, kissed her and wiped tears from her cheeks. "You won't lose me. Not unless you wander off with some guy on the beach while I'm plastered, some crazy guy who digs tall, smart, sensitive girls with great legs."

She laughed through her sobs. "I wandered off with that crazy guy already. Then I fell in love with him. And I still love him even though his position on some stupid war is diametrically opposed to mine."

"Good, because I still love you too. Now let's get something to eat. We can at least agree on that."After some passionate makeup kisses, they went in to grab some lunch before hitting the road once again.

************************************

It took them two days to reach Lauderdale, arriving late in the afternoon. The streets were wet from a mid-day rain, but dark clouds were giving way to blue sky. Thousands of tourists were already there, mostly college kids but also those of high school age and older people on extended adolescence. Once off Broward Boulevard, Cole's GTO slowed to a crawl through the congestion. From there he drove mostly in second gear to The Beachcomber, a motel two blocks from the ocean.

Architecturally, it was a prime example of the type that sprang up at beach resorts everywhere following World War Two—a three-story, white-walled affair with balconies that overlooked a swimming pool on one side, the street on the other. A gaudy neon sign in front spelled out The Beachcomber in red, superimposed on a lime green palm tree. Cole found it listed in an AAA travel book. The price and accommodations seemed right (color TV in every room, AC, ice maker, fresh coffee in the lobby every morning), so he booked a five night stay on the first floor, room number 7. After checking in, he and Ellen hauled their luggage into their room, hit the AC and collapsed on the queen-sized bed.

Ellen, in pink shorts, threw a bare leg over Cole's waist. "I could jump your bones right now," she said.

Cole laughed. "Even after a ten hour drive? You've got some high octane energy, girl."

"Look who's talking about high octane energy—Mr. four times in one night."

"And a fifth banger-roo in the morning. Don't forget that one."

"Oh, I won't forget, me getting humped from behind in my denim skirt, trying to keep my moaning to a minimum in deference to all that hall traffic outside our room."

Cole pointed to the door. "And speaking of hall traffic..."

Even with the AC going, the sound of tourists dragging their luggage across the concrete flooring outside, interspersed with voices in party mode, came through loud and clear. In minutes, they were up, emptying their luggage and stuffing their clothing in the faux wood bureau drawers. "I hope you didn't forget the Trojans," Ellen said.

Cole pulled out three boxes of condoms in their distinctive brown and black package and grinned. "Never leave home without them. At least when I'm with you."

"Magnifico," Ellen said, making a circle with her thumb and forefinger. She then grabbed her hairbrush for some quick primping in the bathroom before dinner. She wore her dirty-blond locks just below her shoulders, banged in front, flipped up at the ends, nothing fancy but stylish enough for the times. Gone were the days when she didn't do anything with it, when it looked like a pile of straw thrown over her head. Also, she had gotten used to wearing contacts. Still, she sometimes wore glasses instead, usually when she was in too much of a hurry to put them in. Only recently did she start wearing those blue frame glasses around Cole. After all, he was the one who suggested she start wearing contacts. But when he told her that she looked prettier in contacts but somehow sexier in glasses, she lost her inhibition about wearing them.

By six, they were enjoying a nice dinner at Caffe Europa, a small Italian restaurant a few blocks away. The food gave them a second wind, but instead of guzzling beer at some club like many here did, they bought a bottle of Chardonnay, then returned to their room, first showering together, and then climbing into bed with the curtains drawn and the lights off. There was plenty of light from the pool area for them to see what they needed to see, though they did more feeling than seeing. Cole's tongue on Ellen's nipples and then her clit sent her into spasms of delight, eclipsed only by the rhythmic thrusts of his cock and the soft, soothing tone of his voice uttering words of love.

Cole kept to himself wistful thoughts of Kayla. He knew he shouldn't compare, but he somehow couldn't help himself during his and Ellen's "down time," when they held each other after climaxing, before they got ready to indulge themselves once again. He had loved Kayla, or at least thought he did when they were together, the "sweethearts of Damascus High," some called them, and not derisively either. She was so pretty, conventionally pretty, the kind of pretty that turned heads, male and female, some with admiration, others with envy, but more likely a mix of both. Their sex was confined to heavy make-outs and petting in the car and on sofas, usually above the waist. Kayla wouldn't blow him, nor would she give him but token access to her pussy. Even then it was finger jobs only. Intercourse? Pul-eze. This was a girl who talked about "saving herself" for marriage. Presumably, it was Cole she had in mind. They had talked about it, more in the abstract than anything else. But then Ellen entered his life. Or, more accurately, she entered his consciousness, first as a damsel in distress who needed to be shielded from the slings and arrows of outrageous bullies; and then as his significant other, someone on the same intellectual wavelength as he, who could talk about politics and such, who wasn't shy about letting her carnal desires known and then acting on them. That was Ellen, a chick he loved in the way he might have wanted to love Kayla, and one whose pyrotechnics under the sheets kept his wallet a little thinner from buying those gourmet lambskins.

He had just disposed of his second lambskin in as many hours. "I'll get some ice for this, Cole said, referring to the bottle of Chardonnay sitting in a bucket on the dresser.

Ellen rolled over on her side, smiled seductively with her hand between her legs. "And I'll keep the sheets warm for you. Hurry back."

After throwing on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, he descended a few steps to the ground, walked a few yards, and then turned a corner to see two people ahead of him at the ice machine, both women around his age. One was scooping out ice, while the other stood behind her. She wore skin-tight white slacks, a blue and white striped blouse and sandals. Her straight blond hair dropped to the middle of her back—generic image of the Surfer Girl, etched into the cultural Zeitgeist by the Beach Boys' song of the same name. Kayla fit that bill, her body, her face, her hair, not distinctive by the aesthetic standards of its "type," though distinctive enough, because most males would be hard pressed to deny that among the rabble of young females, very few looked that desirable. Even the "black is beautiful" crowd, if brutally honest with themselves, might have to surrender their aesthetic/carnal preferences to what they claimed were white racist standards of beauty.

Cole's attraction to said female aesthetic hadn't waned. Here it was close to ten at night; he had ten hours of drive time under his belt, plus two jacks in as many hours, not to mention a horny girl in his room who appeared as if she wanted at least one more. Yet here he was, staring at the blond, she with the deliciously perfect derrière, slim, taut waist and the legs of a gymnast or cheerleader. His cock began to stir. He had only to see her face for confirmation of what he expected her to look like, an expectation fulfilled when it was her turn at the machine, and she spun around to see who was behind her.

"Cole! Oh my god! What the...

"Kayla?!"

"Cole?!"

"I don't believe it."

"Small world, huh?"

"Isn't it though."

"Cole Reynolds, you followed me here. You must have."

"You WOULD believe that."

"I suppose that out of hundreds of thousands of kids on spring break, it's a coincidence that we both decided to come to Lauderdale to stay at The Beachcomber."

"Looks that way. Who are you here with?"

"A couple girlfriends. You?"

"I'm here with Ellen."

"Ellen. Of course. I should have known."

"Kayla, do you realize that these are the most words you've spoken to me since homecoming?"

"Hello would have been one more word I've said to you since then. So yeah, I know."

"You look great by the way, boss, totally boss."

"Thanks. But not TOTALLY BOSS enough apparently, for why else would you have dumped me for her, of all people."

"Looks aren't everything, Kayla."

"No, they sure aren't. Ellen's living proof of that."

"I'm sorry you hate me."

"I don't hate you. I just don't understand."

Cole could see her tearing up. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"But you did, damn you, you did."

"I'm sorry."

She sniffled and grabbed a ladle full of ice. "Look, my friends are waiting for me. And I'm sure you've got more exciting things to do than watch me cry."

He watched her fill her bucket, so tempted to hug her. Discipline prevailed. "See you around," he said after she finished.