As the bleak days of winter drag on, those of college age continue to suffer. It’s just a terrible time of year. However, hope springs eternal, with Spring Break looming on the not-so-distant horizon. Oh, what a time it will be! No responsibilities. Binge drinking. Casual and particularly sloppy hookups. It just may be the greatest time of the year.

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Here's my personal tale of Spring Break fun.

During my senior year of high school, my friends and I went down to Florida for spring break. Growing up in the frozen tundra of northern Minnesota, we were incredibly excited to see the sun, drink without fear of repercussion, and find some slutty women to touch us.

I ended up getting more than I bargained for.

On the very first night, we went down to the beach around midnight to stumble around and act like idiots. We soon met a group of girls from THE Ohio State University. Immediately honing in on the one with the biggest breasts, I threw every trick in my very limited repertoire at her.

Up until that point, I hadn’t had a ton of success in the getting-laid department. Read: I was a virgin. So my hopes weren’t high.

Through the miracle of vodka, and perhaps desperation, she agreed to “hang out” after the rest of the group left. Craving privacy, we retired to the resort’s sauna and starting getting down to business.

Angling for a blow job, I began gently guiding her in that direction. My efforts were thwarted with a stern rebuke.

“I don’t do that whore shit,” she informed me.

My heart sank. Perhaps this wasn’t going to have a happy ending. I braced for the blue balls.

She then stood up, took off her bikini bottoms, assumed a crouched-over stance and implored me to “fuck her like a high schooler.” I hastily slapped on a condom and obliged.

As I reached my vinegar strokes, I felt a distinct snapping at the point of contact. It being my first time, I erroneously assumed this was normal. I’d come to find out a busted condom is not exactly par for the course.

After we finished, we had some sweaty and awkward small talk, exchanged Instant Messenger names and went on our way.

Recounting the life-changing experience to my friends the next day, they couldn’t help but point out that I might be in some trouble. I shook off the idea and went along with my life.

Two weeks later, the girl contacted me online using the screen name she’d provided me. There was a problem.

She was late, she said. And she was freaking out.

My heart stopped. We had a three-hour conversation. When it was over, I legitimately considered suicide.

I arrived at school the next day to find my locker decorated with a large banner and balloons congratulating me on becoming a father. My asshole friends had pulled off a Catfish long before it was popular.

Anger turned to relief as I realized I was in the clear.

Some of the same friends and I took the same trip the following year. Lo and behold, the busty Buckeye ran into each other. One thing led to another and we found ourselves in her hotel room.

I told her the story of my friends’ deception and she laughed.

“How about you just put it in my ass this time?” she suggested.

God, I miss spring break.

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