I used to live in Texas so on Spring Break from college I met a few old friends at a famous site for Spring outrageousness, Padre Island, in south Texas, on the Gulf coast. Partly it was fun and partly it was discouraging. I was at a party one evening -- almost every inch of the Island is one big constant party -- and managed to get a truly beautiful girl off to myself and fuck her. As soon as I started into her I realized I was taking sloppy seconds, at least. It was obvious she’d already been fucked. A fresh vagina is different than a well-used one. A few minutes later I saw the same girl going off with another guy. If she stayed sober enough to remember, I guess she was going to be able to brag to her friends about how she’d fucked five guys, or ten, or however many. On one hand I felt sorry for her. I mean she was truly beautiful. She could get any guy she wanted. Why would a girl like that do something like that? Then I realized, turn about is fair play. A guy bragging about how many girls he fucked wouldn’t be sad. So why is a girl doing the same thing bad?
The next day I was walking down a street -- admittedly a side street, not heavily traveled -- and I saw up ahead a girl laying sideways on the hood of a car, her legs spread, with a guy standing there shoving it into her. He then stepped back and another guy stepped into his place and started fucking her some more. About the time I got there, I could see this blond, with no panties and her skirt up around her waist, bare legged, and a guy pounding into her. He apparently finished and stepped back. She started calling out her need for another guy. “Hey, I need a fucker. C’mon guys, help me out.” I passed by quickly.
I suspect that back home, sober, neither of these girls -- or they guys fucking them -- would have behaved the same way. But somehow, I just didn’t care to be part of their excess. I have nothing against sex. I mean, I was one of some unknown number that fucked the one girl. I’m as guilty as she is. But I just didn’t like it. Another friend, in Austin, had asked me to visit, so I called him and made my way up there. Much calmer. Much closer to reality. The University of Texas was not on Spring Break -- I think it was the following week for them. So we palled around a day or so and then on my last night -- I was flying back East the next day -- we went to a local bar a couple blocks from his apartment.
This bar apparently is mainly the hangout for University of Texas students. Sort of a meat market, or “meet” market. A good place to pick up a date. It had a dance floor and canned music. It was packed. Lots of people. Lots of girls. The dance floor was constantly crowded. An interesting collection of dance music was played. A golden oldie, perhaps Sinatra, for slow, close dancing could be followed by a rock piece, where everyone just sort of moves and shakes at each other, and then a Texas two step, with lines of people all doing the drill. Ecelectic is the term, I guess.
I stood at the bar and looked around. There was a pretty blond that interested me. I saw her dance with two different guys and she seemed both attractive and outgoing with lots of smiles, looking like she was having a good time. So I went over and asked her to dance. She got up to join me.
“Mike Dunleavy,” I said as we started onto the floor.
She smiled and just answered, “Jenna.”
The music was fast and loud so we sort of moved and jerked to it, facing one another. I’ve never been a great dancer but this didn’t require much. Not like a Tango or Waltz might (neither of which I could be able to manage). To talk, we had to yell a little over the music and general din.
“Mike, “ she said, “You go to the University?”
“No, I replied. “I’m a student but just visiting a friend here. I used to live in Texas. I go to Yale.”
She smiled, “Yale? My sister goes there.”
“I’m just here on our Spring Break. Visiting a friend. I fly back East tomorrow.”
We danced a little more. Then she asked, “Why did you ask me to dance?” Emphasis on the me. Why pick her over any of the others.
“I thought you were the hottest girl here,” I said.
She grinned. “Hottest? Me?”
“Yeah, You’re attractive, good looking. You have a good body. Trim, probably firm, sort of athletic. You’ve got a great smile. Seem to be enjoying yourself. But there’s something about your eyes. I think you’re dirtier than you seem. Hornier.”
“Horny?” She laughed. “Flying out tomorrow? You’re looking for a one-night stand?”
I laughed. “I wouldn’t object. But, no I don’t expect that at all. I was just answering your question honestly. There’s some air about you that says you’re not the goody two-shoes that your clothes might imply.”