Chapter 15

"SPRING BREAK NO MORE"

"What do Cancun, San Padre Island, and Daytona Beach have, that South Florida once had, but does not want again? The six-week ritual known as 'Spring Break.' Fort Lauderdale is no longer 'where the boys are, ' but where well-heeled Europeans, sophisticated Northerners and laid-back Mid-Westerners come to relax and vacation. From the late 1980's into the early 90's, Greater Fort Lauderdale was a destination in transition. The area's success at ridding itself of Spring Break has made it one of the fastest growing travel destinations in the United States." — Fort Lauderdale Chamber of Commerce Web Site

Honestly. I think the Fort Lauderdale Chamber of Commerce should have told the thousands of kids clogging the streets, beaches, bars, hotels, restaurants, miscellaneous attractions, and anyplace else, that they'd been successful at "ridding" themselves of Spring Break.

Debbie just laughed when I read it to her.

The Caribbean Shores Beach Resort was a bit upscale, and therefore, a little quieter than some of the more "student-friendly" (read: Beer, Sex, Loud Music) local beach hotels. I liked the quiet.

I checked us in, and got a lecture from the desk clerk regarding parties, drinking, noise, and half a dozen other things. He just went on and on. Most of the way through the lecture, Debbie walked up and rescued me.

"Honey?" she asked. "Do you think a keg would fit in the bath tub? They've got really big ice machines."

I laughed. (Oops.)

The clerk started to turn purple.

"Boo!" Debbie said to him. "We'll be good." Laughing, she turned to me. "Come on, Michael."

I'm not sure the clerk got the joke. Oh well.

Half an hour later, we were in shorts (and a bikini top, in Debbie's case), and on the beach.

I had checked in with Dad's attorney, and the reservation being held by Dad's credit card was set for Sunday check in, which gave Debbie and me at least Saturday night for fun.

If you've never been to Fort Lauderdale, or Miami, or any of the South Florida Atlantic destinations, it is hard to adequately describe it. First, even without the Spring Breakers, there are a lot of people: something like four million between Broward and Miami-Dade counties. So it's busy.

And expensive.

But it is the geography that draws people. From way north, all the way south to the Keys, Florida has a string of barrier islands. These islands are basically long, low lumps of sand that have built up just off shore from "mainland" Florida. As any sun-worshiping teen will tell you, long, low, lumps of sand are more popularly known as beaches.

That's where the action is. On one side you've got the Atlantic swells pounding in, pretty girls in teeny bikinis, surfing, Frisbee, volleyball, and sunbathing. On the other side, you have the Inter-Coastal Waterway, an inshore highway of sorts, for all kinds of watercraft, that separates the barrier islands from the mainland.

In Fort Lauderdale, the ICW is all about yachts. Big yachts like you see in magazines, and little ones like real people might own. As we had crossed over the waterway on our way to the hotel, and I'd had a chance to see all the boats, I couldn't help thinking that somewhere out there, maybe, one exactly like the one my dad owned was tied up, just waiting for me to find it — and him.

Our hotel was on the beach side of the sandy hump — along North Ocean Drive, south of Port Everglades.

After the cold (did I say cold?) winter in Laramie, it was nice to walk along the beach in the sun. We were as pale and sun starved as anybody on the beach, and we laughed at just how far from tan we were. We walked for about an hour, just on the edge of the hard sand. We smiled at people walking the other direction, and I (maybe) looked at one or two pretty girls lying in the late afternoon sun.

I can assure you that girls on the beach in Massachusetts do not wear as little as the girls in Florida. Wow. There was one stretch, where we walked past maybe forty or fifty girls (and probably twice that number of guys), and collectively, I don't think the girls had on a square yard of material...

"So," I said when we got back to our room. "After your spanking, what do you want to do this evening?"

"What spanking?" Debbie asked. "I've been a good girl, I have." Her eyes were twinkling.

"A blowjob on an airplane does not make you a good girl," I said. Yes it does.

"Does it make me a bad girl?"

"Maybe," I said.

"Do you like bad girls?" Debbie asked.

"I suppose it depends on just how bad they are," I said.

"I can be bad," Debbie said. Her eyes were twinkling.

"How bad?" I asked.

Debbie stepped up to me, pulled me into a tight hug, and gave me a heart-stopping kiss. "Bad enough," she told me. Another kiss.

I pulled the little string leading to the cute bow in the middle of her back. Debbie's pretty breasts popped right out. "Look who wants to play," I said, caressing and then tweaking the nipple on one.

Debbie leaned hard against me, and moaned, softly.

I kissed her forehead. "Too bad... we need to get dressed and head out."

Debbie pulled her head back and looked me in the eye. "You're just plain evil." She kissed me again. "Fancy or casual?"

"Definitely casual," I said. I reached down and adjusted my erection. "I'm just going to pull on a polo shirt."

"I'll pull on your pole," Debbie muttered as she turned to her suitcase. "And you'll like it, too."

Yes I would.

We took Hollywood Boulevard inland to Highway 1, and then turned north for downtown Ft. Lauderdale.

Las Olas Boulevard is a good reason to visit Fort Lauderdale. The slick marketing flyers will tell you, it is "chic," "trendy," and "stylish." You can read about the dozens of restaurants, bars, and shops.

But what all of the marketing misses, is that Las Olas Boulevard is a place that is fun to be. Debbie and I held hands, and wandered from an antique shop to clothing stores, to gift shops, and more. There is no place in Laramie like Las Olas Boulevard. Nor in the rest of Wyoming. Colorado. Montana. The Dakotas. Utah. Nebraska. You get the picture. It was a lot of fun being in a place so different than anything at home.

Yes. I did just call Laramie "home." Shoot me now. Please.

I honestly think that Debbie could have poked around the alleys and side streets around Las Olas forever.

Eventually, though, we found a small, quiet restaurant, and had a delicious meal. Afterwards, we wandered over to a dessert bar, and took our chances with Death by Chocolate (two forks).

As the evening became night the music pouring out of the doors of the clubs was louder, faster, and more energetic. Our internal clocks were still on Wyoming time, so it wasn't too late for us.

We found a club that let us in — me with an orange wrist band that announced I was too young to drink — and spent an hour or two dancing and sweating, and having fun. About midnight we located the car. Thirty-five minutes later, and after only one near miss on the road, we were back in our room.

It was good to be on vacation.

I woke up slowly Sunday morning. The sun was shining brightly outside, and if I listened hard enough, over the cars, planes, boats, and other background noise, I could just hear the surf on the beach. We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

I reached out and found the warm spot where Debbie had been, but no Debbie. I rolled over, and pulled her pillow over my head. I took a deep breath. Mmm. Debbie just smells good.

"Are you awake?" Debbie asked softly from the bathroom doorway.

Maybe. "Mrmph?" I said.

"Do you want breakfast? Or do you want to be lazy?"

This is a real question? "Laz... rmph," I said.

Debbie giggled. "I'll get us coffee." I heard her open and then shut the door, then I dozed back off.

The click of the door as Debbie returned was probably what woke me, but I didn't stir. Mmm. Coffee. Mmm. Salt air.

"Are you awake now?" Debbie asked.

Yes. I said nothing.

"Hmm," Debbie said. I don't think I fooled her even a moment. "Maybe a blowjob would wake him up."

It did. Traitorous organ. Just the thought and my erection was straining against the comforter.

Debbie giggled. "Of course, if he's asleep, he probably wouldn't enjoy it..."

I groaned into Debbie's pillow, which was still over my head.

The comforter began to slide down my body. Over the next couple of minutes, Debbie slowly stripped the bed, leaving me spread eagled, and naked with a pillow over my head.

Whoosh. I felt, more than heard, Debbie blowing air against my erection and testicles. I shivered. Whoosh. Goose bumps.

A giggle.

Woo-oosh and Debbie blew even harder. "There's your 'blowjob' lazy-bones, get up!" Debbie said.

I moaned, pulling the pillow off my face, and looking at Debbie for the first time that day. "God!" I looked closer. "You're beautiful." I shivered again. "Please?"

Debbie picked up her coffee and took a sip. "Please what?"

I looked down at my erection, and clenched the muscles in my groin, causing it to bob up and down. "Help?"

Debbie reached over, and took my erection in her hand, and then looked it over, almost clinically. "I don't know," she said. "Maybe you should 'help' yourself?"

"Deborah Ann Alexander!"

"Hmm? You seem to like it when I 'help' myself," Debbie pointed out.

I do. That's different. "Deb..."

She was still looking my erection over carefully. "It's kind of cute, isn't it?"

Ladies? Don't call your boyfriend's (or husband's) erect penis "kind of cute." Please? Use words like "intimidating," or "massive," or "strong," or even "sexy," but let's skip "cute" in the future. Okay? Thank you.

I closed my eyes and groaned. "And you said I was evil last night?" I asked.

Debbie giggled, her hand beginning to slowly caress, rather than examine.

I reached out and captured the waistband of her shorts, and pulled her to me. "Come here." When she was close enough, I used my other hand, and quickly unsnapped her shorts and pushed them down. I tugged the filmy panties until they dropped free, and then pulled Debbie all the way over and then on top of me, straddling my head. "Turn about is fair play," I told her just before pulling her hips down.