When I was in high school, watching MTV Spring Break, I always thought I would be the girl to win the wet t-shirt contest. But being a senior in college on my last spring break in the Bahamas, I felt for the innocent girls lashing off their bikini tops for MTV's retired "Real World" cast and an audience of Mr. Drunk and Mr. Mullet.
Witnessing these girls on stage and hearing the sober tales the following morning of naked scavenger hunts and thong contests, I was craving sweet and innocent na?vet?. As a freshman entering the college dating scene, boys used to tell me how sweet and innocent I looked with my big brown eyes and freckles. As a virgin, I could play that part quite well. Gradually, I resented being called innocent. To me, innocent meant inexperienced, it meant vulnerable to cheap, toxic lines to get me into bed, and even cheaper and stronger drinks to help these guys get me there.
I didn't fall for it as a freshman, and now the uncoordinated dance moves that looked like a seizure don't make me strip or donate a thong to some handsome, young, spring break stranger. So this year on the light sandy beaches of the Bahamas, I decided to play the role of that sweet and innocent girl with the freckles bridged across her nose and the curious look in her eye.
Innocence, or the concept of the unknowing and darling schoolgirl, conjures up images of the young, untainted woman ready and eager to learn. It is a fantasy dominated by submission, and it enhances the teacher-student dichotomy in the bedroom. On some level, man wants to sexually and romantically mold his student so he can say he was the first to claim the territory.
When were women brainwashed to believe that after a few drinks, it's socially acceptable to let go of all inhibitions and maybe their clothes? He may seem like a darling Southern football star, but he may just be another STD nest. And when he so diligently insists that he is a good guy as he tries to coax you into taking a little midnight tour of his one-bedroom shit shack, ask yourself whether if you were back in D.C., would the same man be so alluring. Would you go off to his humble abode in Glover Park? Since when are sun and surf an excuse to get naked and get into danger?
I didn't want this trashy fantasy or the anger that emerged in the pit of my stomach as I thought back to who trained me to want this. Now that I know better, I want to save these young Lolitas from shame and a possible pregnancy scare.
Just as I realized that to be in this Bacardi wonderland much longer I needed another drink and possibly some therapy, a man brushed by me and stopped staring straight through me. He was blond with defined shoulders and strong ocean eyes. He wore a cheap smile and a red baseball cap that said "I Lie to Girls." He was the epitome of the too-old-to-be-there, trashy and wasted spring break Cassanova that I had been ripping on all week.
"You're too cute," he said, making direct eye contact for just over the socially acceptable legal limit.
I stared at him straight in the eyes as he leaned in, kissing the corners of my mouth softly. I was simply too old for these spring break shenanigans.
"You are just too cute," he repeated. "My boat's right over if you get bored of this."
And then he disappeared into the crowd as I stood frozen. For a moment, all I wanted was to search the crowd, find my mysterious somewhat-trashy stranger, have him lead me on his boat and make love to me under the clear sky, like a scene stolen out of some wine cooler commercial. But I stayed with my girlfriends and kept most of my bikini on this spring break.
While I may have been tempted by the Wal-Mart fantasy of an intimate stranger having sex with me in a pool of moonlight, I didn't want STDs and I didn't want to end up in small pieces overboard. Frankly, I didn't want to give him a notch on my belt of sexual experience.
Spending the last few days of spring break with my two best girlfriends was more satisfying than any thong scavenger hunt or naked bingo game. At this point, I want men to know how savvy and educated I am instead of coaxing them into thinking that I am the last Jewish nun. My enticement now is with a man that can engage me, instead of one who exclusively wants to dominate me. As my tastes have evolved and I know that next year when the weather turns to spring, I'll glare out of a 17th-story window in Manhattan and fondle the memories of my last college spring break. Then I'll remember the itchy sunburn, the trashy mullet-men and know that spring break gave me plenty of good stories to gab about for years.
