Spring Break is, ideally, a gigantic powwow of not-yet-adults baring their bodies and rubbing their skin together as it drips with clear ocean water like they are in a Gatorade commercial (and maybe they are), while muffled hip hop surrounds their souls like an ecstatic Stockholm Syndrome and colors flash in the sunlight that never goes away and beer cascades through the air in slow-motion. But that isn’t what my spring break was, exactly. By the time my bud Dirk and I arrived at the beach in Miami, large swaths of it were closed off, most people had packed up and left, and it was colder than you’d ever think, all because our college lets out for spring about a week and a half later than everywhere else. By the time we got to the beach, we just stood there, staring. Dirk said; “Let’s go to the hotel.” We did, and we slept. The next day was a little more interesting. We stood in a Tiki bar talking with two girls. One of them was Adrienne, who was a senior at Florida State University, where she studied creative writing. The other was Anjali. She was doing an internship with a law firm down here in Miami. Her college was in California. She was originally from India, but she had no accent, so she must have moved here at a young age. She wore a blue blouse and bluer jeans, with a tear on one leg. I recognized the tear in her jeans was a desperate plea for male attention. Her hair was black enough to create dark contours against the tacky brown oak of the bar. Whenever a drink flashed in the light, her hair countered it. I was playing it low-key. I started off with Adrienne, but Dirk consistently elbowed his way in there, and ultimately I gave him the ground. While I sipped my Jack and Coke (don’t even ask if they bother checking IDs in Florida), Anjali said to me; “So, like, do you get free passes to concerts and stuff?” I’d told her I was a roadie for The Dave Matthews Band. She loved it. I’d guessed she would. “No,” I said. “Not really. Dave and I don’t get along too great.” “Why’s that?” I sighed while I came up with something. “Oh, you know, me and his daughter,” I said. “We may or may not have had something going on. It’s all good now and me and her are totally friends. It’s just, when her Dad found out, you know…” Her eyes bugged out enough to stick to the ceiling. “Oh my God,” she said. “You can’t be serious.” I nodded. “Let’s just say I keep a bat in my apartment.” The more I told her about Dave Matthews being a deranged psycho, the closer she moved toward me. As soon as it got to the point where I came back from the bar with two drinks and slid my hand down her shoulder after handing her drink over, I could see the deal was sealed. At around this time, Dirk and Adrienne split. Dirk’s a pro. Anjali and I sat on the steps outside the bar, passing a joint. “I just, I can’t believe it,” she giggled. “My Mom would flip her shit if she knew I smoked pot. If she knew that I’ve already had three boyfriends and actually had…you know, relations with them…she’d kill me.” Three boyfriends. I took a puff and pushed back a strand of her hair. A tear was in her eye. “You seem like such a special person,” I said. “An interesting woman, with such big ambitions. How could your Mom possibly not see that? Everything will work out fine.” She kissed me and her breath smelled of alcohol and something like breath-spray. Women’s lingerie kind of fascinates me. How do they manage it? I can imagine this silk or cotton thing pressing in to my skin, strapped on my chest all day, getting to be itchy and annoying as shit. That’s why, before I fucked Anjali that night, I instructed her, after I pulled her panties down her slim dark legs with my teeth, to leave her bra on. I planned on removing it myself. She took her hands away from her back and scooped them under my head and pulled me up to her mouth. I ran my hand across her un-groomed mound and slid two fingers inside. She was already wet. She jerked her head away from mine as if totally surprised that any guy would finger her. Her wide-eyed expression—not far off from her Dave Matthews expression—compelled me to slide in a third finger. I swished my index finger far enough up the folds of her clit until I felt the ridged area near the back and it was like Columbus discovering America. I’m convinced that not all girls have a G-Spot. Anjali did, and I doubt she knew it herself until then. I stroked the ridge with my finger and she gripped the nape of my neck like she was holding on to a ship’s mast and moaned and panted as if making a confession. I stroked until her G-spot swelled in to a blob pushing against my fingers. My pinky was missing out on all the action, so I changed up my fingers, giving the index finger some fresh air. I pressed against her G-spot and she shook. She bowed her head to my ear to tell me a secret. It was aaah aaaah! Aaaaaahhhh. She reached between her legs and grabbed my wrist and pulled my fingers away. “You’re going to make me cum if you keep doing that,” she whispered. She stepped backwards to her bed, eyes shut, and half fell, half-lay down on her back. Her vagina glistened messy in the dark light, agape from the work of my fingers. I heard the sounds of a female moaning the next room over. It was Adrienne. Dirk and Adrienne were at it. “Oh God, I can hear them,” Anjali whispered with a grin, eyes still shut. I took the condom out of my pocket and rolled it on. I stepped toward her. “This is awkward,” she laughed, reaching out to me as I leaned in to her. “It’s not awkward at all,” I said. As I heard the springs of the bed in the next room creak and Adrienne’s noises, I thought, This is war, Dirk. As I entered her Anjali, I stared down at her bra-enclosed tits. She wore a crimson red bra which was tight against the dark skin of her tits, probably a perfect D cup. I was inside her and holding her hip with one hand, but I barely focused on what my cock felt like in her pussy. I focused on how to get that bra off, what to do with it, and how to beat Dirk. Adrienne was loud as shit. Dirk himself was kind of loud. Anjali only sighed and breathed in and out, nervously enjoying herself. When I heard Dirk growl “Come on,” I knew he was talking more to me than to his dick. I slid my hands under Anjali’s back like I was caressing her. The redness of her bra betrayed how super-insecure she was; I knew she would let me do what I was going to do. She arched upward and shut her eyes tighter, and said Ooooh! Ooooh. I felt around her skin until my fingers pinched the rough bulge of the clasp on her bra. I flicked my thumb against the clasp—just as Dirk had shown me years before—and the hooks unfastened. I took one strap in one hand and she extended her arm to help me remove it. I yanked it off the other arm and held it in the air to my right like a trophy for a few moments while I kissed her and shifted forward so I moved deeper in to her and felt her legs curl around my waist. I almost said something like “You can thank me later,” but that would have been gay. I buried my face in between both her tits while I moved harder and she got a little louder. In the other room, it sounded like Dirk had gotten Adrienne to yell Daddy, so I knew I had to move. I slid the bra between our stomachs and curved it around where my groin met her’s. I stuffed it down on the sheets and the silk grazed her pussy. I maneuvered it right under my balls and when I felt it grazing my balls, I knew it would be tickling her. Anjali was busy tightening her arms around my back. She began giggling, trembling upward from her legs with shivers. It was working. She opened her mouth wide and I stared straight down her throat while she began screaming in excitement. I knew she wasn’t faking her orgasm by the way she jerked her head upward and opened her mouth wider, and even wider, in total silence, before curling in to a ball as she rubbed her face against my chest and said Oh God again and again between spasms and sighs. She bit my nipple. Adrienne screamed louder. Someone banged on the wall. I wasn’t sure if it was Dirk or Adrienne. My body had moved away from Anjali’s crumpled bra by this point, but I still pulled out of her while still shooting my load and smacked my condomed cock on her sheet and when I moved backwards I felt my balls and cock flutter against wrinkled, stringy silk; her bra. I lay my head on her chest. My nose faced the direction of her vagina and I smelled sex drying on her and listened to her heart rate return to normal. “I think,” she said after several minutes, “that my bra was really…tickling me.” “Damn,” I said. “That’s what that was? I’m sorry, babe.” “No,” she said, caressing my head. “It felt so, so good.” I stood in her bathroom and flexed my muscles as I looked in her mirror. Now at least my ribcage was no longer visible; I’d been eating more fattening dining hall food at school. But my abs did jut out, if not quite enough. I backed up and flexed my legs. They were the strongest part of my body. My cock was sore and red, tired of being inserted in to vaginas. I hadn’t masturbated in over a month; that was the kind of spree I was on and I had no intention of stopping. I tore off some toilet paper and rubbed the sticky condom glaze off my cock, threw the condom in the toilet, put on my boxers and went back to Anjali’s bed, where I passed out. Anjali sat on the edge of the bed, looking in the mirror, playing with her hair.