My Sexy Plan For a Sexy Spring Break (Hint: I Will Have Sex)

As Spring Break season approaches, and I rewatch the Girls Gone Wild VHS tapes my father thought he hid so well, I feel particularly inspired to do something CRAZY this Spring Break. Something that says, “I’m probably peaking in life right now no matter how much I hate myself,” and I’m simply ready to do something I will definitely regret later. I have to have sex with a Florida Man.

After spending the weekend browsing through thousands of “Florida Man” headlines, I honed in on one guy that I developed such an incredible lust for. I absolutely had to track down and fuck “Florida Man Asks Public For Help Looking For 18-Foot Banana.” Obviously, I knew I could help him find it. I assumed he might have been a high school dropout, since clearly anyone would know it’d be in his pants, but who cares?! I had to get to Miami Beach and track him down. So I packed my obnoxiously small tees and swimsuits and boarded Frontier flight #225, wearing my baby blue sweatsuit that spelt out “Juicy” on the ass. My first goal while in the Sunshine State was to secure a super sexy pair of open-toed footwear. There’s no way he wouldn’t want me if I had neon pink platform flip-flops. On the flight, I was approached by multiple non-Florida men who were interested in a quickie but I swiftly responded, telling them, “No, I’m saving myself for the man with an 18-foot banana.” This tended to be followed by dirty looks, but who cares? I knew what I wanted, and I would’ve stopped at nothing to have it.

I hopped off the plane at MIA, with a dream but unfortunately no cardigan. The “cozy studio with an ocean view” My Airbnb rental turned out to be someone’s roach-infested room at a Motel 6. The “ocean view”? I had a view of the street corner a sex worker named Ocean worked on. I asked her if she’d seen a man with an 18-foot banana, and she responded, “Seen him? Honey, I’ve seen IT.” She referred me to a Hustler Hollywood that may have had the sexy sandals I was looking for as well as a bar named Tap That on South Beach, where she last saw my Banana Man. I thanked her and slipped her a twenty, and made my way over to Hustler. I unfortunately had to settle for a pair of 10-inch clear stiletto heels, and then I was on my way to reach Tap That (which I hoped I’d be able to do by the end of the night). By the time I reached the bar at 2:27 A.M., they were closed and refused to let me in. But, off to the side, sitting against a grimey brick wall in an alley drinking vodka straight from the bottle, was my knight in shining armor (I emphasize “shining” due to the fact that he was completely drenched in baby oil from head to toe). His unkempt dirt brown locks, layered salmon and cyan popped-collar polos, stained khaki Vineyard Vines cargo shorts, and thrashed Sperry topsider boating shoes had me nearly swooning! I barely mustered up the courage to falteringly tell him, “I’d like to help you find your banana–” but before I could even finish, his eyes widened, he jumped up and kissed me on the lips and told me, indebtedly, “Thank you so much, my sweet lemon! Please take me to see my colossal banana!” I thought to myself, “Wow, I can only hope his ego is as big as his dick!” and led him back to my Airbnb/shitty motel room.

Once we arrived, I could tell immediately from the look on the face that he was disappointed. I didn’t like the room all that much either, but at least the roaches were friendly! In an attempt to ease the tension, I pointed to the friendliest roach, whom I named Tootsie, and said “Hey, it’s not so bad I swear, they helped me figure out how to use the TV–” but was immediately interrupted by my Florida Man, who asked, “Where’s my banana?!? I need to see my banana!” I picked up what he was putting down, and reached to unzip his pants, but he slapped my hand and jumped back, shouting, “What the fuck is wrong with you!” He stared at me with a look of scorn, to which I replied, “I just wanted to see your 18-foot banana–” to which he interjected, “Me too, princess! I haven’t seen that banana since people gave a shit about American Idol!” He then pulled out his phone (a limited-edition T-Mobile Sidekick LX Tony Hawk Edition from 2008) and showed me an image of his ginormous, unwieldy banana. Unfortunately, this 13-foot banana was just that: a sculpture of a banana (the fruit!) made entirely out of cardboard. This triggered an extreme emotional response that led me to sucker punch him in the face. Seventeen times, to be exact. I then bursted out of the room in tears, and click-clacked my way to the Miami International Airport in my 10-inch heels.

All in all, I feel I learned a lot from my sexy spring break: a “banana” is also a fruit and not just a phallic reference, Florida isn’t all it’s shaped up to be, roaches and sex workers make great pals, and most regrettably, we can’t all have sex during a sexy spring break. But, on the bright side, I was able to become a member of the Mile High Club during Spirit flight #2374 with the man in seat 32B! He was from Florida too, but it didn’t count since he was from Northern Florida.

Better luck for me next year!