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The gender imbalance may be a downer for the guys, but it's a treat for the hundred thousand-odd girls who saved up their allowances to come to PCB (for the Tennessee girls, it cost three hundred dollars each to spend the week). For the first time in many of these girls' lives, it makes no difference if they're short or tall, white or black, fat or thin: They are desired, even by captains of the football team, guys who normally wouldn't stoop to asking them about math homework in the cafeteria. And it's all because they were the type of girls who were wild enough to come down to spring break. "This has been the best two days of my life," says Alyson. "At least, my life so far."
"It's so fun here," agrees the Lauren Who Is a Twin. "Back in Maryville, there's nothing to do — we see movies and hang out with the same people we've been hanging out with since we were five. Here, there are so many things to do and all these guys to meet — these big, athletic guys who have the best bodies ever!"
Jessica may still be flirting with the guy from Georgia, but after a long day at the beach, most of the other girls have gone back to their room. Sprawled across the green-blanketed Days Inn beds, they're all either passed out or staring blankly into space as they sip the Hi-C and rum slushies that they made in Jenny's blender. MTV, as always, is blaring in the background. "What would you all do," muses Alyson over the blare of the new Nelly video, "If I had sex with a different guy every night?"
What you never see on the beach: someone reading a book or magazine, even a glossy one. What you see instead: the Miss Hawaiian Tropic Bikini Contest and the Nair perfect legs contest, or a game of "Musical Men" (the men are the chairs and the girls are the players). The wild girl enters some of these contests, or at least dirty dances with a guy, or two guys who sandwich her, as someone's boom-box blares Juvenile's "Back That Azz Up" in the background. Or if not with a guy, she'll dance with a girl, like when Twin Lauren caressed the taller Jessica's thighs and mimed eating her out while a bunch of guys looked on, pumping their fists in the air while they muttered, "Oh, shit. Oh, shit."
Being a wild girl means you drink all night and start up again first thing in the morning; there are no restaurants in the hotels and hardly any fast food joints have breakfast, so you can get a good buzz on by noon, especially if you're lying out on the beach in the semi-hot sun. "Lindsey, are you fucking
hammered?" Alyson asks, around 12:30 p.m.
Lindsey, lying face down on her lilac towel, doesn't answer.
"Yeah," says Alyson, eyes as shiny as her oiled thighs. "I'm pretty sure I am too."
Most importantly, however, being a wild girl means not walking away when guys start to chant, "Show your tits!"
"Show your tits!" chant guys on the sidewalk, while you drive down the strip.
"Show your tits!" chant guys in cars, while you walk on the strip.
"But I haven't got any," wails Twin Lauren, who's beautiful, ebullient, five-ten, with honey-blond hair and long legs but who, indeed, has no tits.
"Whaddya mean?" yells a spiky-haired guy in a yellow shirt that reads YOO-HOE, hanging out of an Explorer's passenger seat. "God didn't give you any titties?"
"Well — " she says, shifting her weight from foot to foot. The guy's eyes glint: She's not walking away.
As is true in New Orleans during Mardi Gras, it's tits for beads in this town, and so negotiations commence. Lauren inspects the ten plastic strands that hang around the guy's neck over his big silver cross. She wants the ones that are purple, but purple is the hardest to find in the bead stands and therefore most popular with girls, and the guy knows this as well as he knows that Lauren's chest really isn't that big. So he offers her green, in honor of the upcoming St. Patrick's Day. She says no way. He says he'll do the purple if she and her friend Sarah will both flash him, but Sarah's rather drunk and she's stumbling over to the curb and now, well, she's fallen down. Finally, an agreement is struck: Lauren will kiss the guy — with tongue — for two strings of beads, the green and a "groovy" red. She puts her hands on his shoulders.
"Wazzzzzup!" yell all the guys watching from the car, as they smooch laboriously.
"Wazzzzzup!" yell all Lauren's friends, all except Sarah, who is running up from the curb to get a closer look. "This is wild," Sarah manages to say.
"Wow, was that guy ugly," says Lauren, giggling as she walks away. "But I really wanted those beads."
"See, all these bitches want to show their titties," says a nineteen year old with a Kid Rock tattoo on his bicep who is watching this scene from his perch atop a garbage can, camcorder at the ready to catch any free-swinging breasts. "But they got to act all, 'No, no, I don't wanna.' 'Cause they're bitches."
It's a strange economy here at spring break, and it's not always clear what's being traded. If the girls give it up for nothing (no beads, no excuse), they're not wild; they're just sluts. They've got to tease and bargain to stay in the game. But one wrong turn in that negotiation, and they're not sluts, but something worse: cockteases, chicken, bitches. And though every girl will tell you that these kinds of guys are "disgusting," that girls who flash are "trash" and they're "not prostitutes, for Chrissakes," they don't always ignore the requests, and more often than not, they comply in some fashion — it's as if they think it's the least they can do for this bounty of male attention, all of which they soak up, whether it's gallant, crass or gape-mouthed with awe.
Some of the girls are less interested in attention than others. Like Jenny, for example, who goes hunting, thinks George W. Bush is "the shit" and doesn't drink as much as the other girls but "pretends that she does." Then there's the Jessica Who Is Not Best Dressed, a quiet, mild girl with a new belly button ring. Lauren Who Is Not a Twin professed not to want any part of the goings-on
until, one night, she saw a guy wearing some beads that she just couldn't resist.
Much wilder are Twin Lauren and Best Dressed Jessica, who will kiss guys they don't really know, enter most bikini contests and dance on any object elevated more than two feet off the floor. But even they can't compete with the wildest girls, the only girls on the beach bold enough to wear a thong — the professionals.
You find them mostly at the infamous wet T-shirt contest at PCB's Club La Vela, which bills itself as "The Biggest Club in the World!!!!" (It's not.) So wild are the girls here that the party organizers must remind them not to "skin to win": public nudity is  a three-hundred-dollar fine from the city, and they've been cracking down. "Remember, no showing your titties, and no showing your stuff," shouts an emcee with dyed blue hair who goes by the name of "Scotty the Party." A dozen ready, willing and well-endowed girls nod and shiver in the late-afternoon chill.
One by one, each woman walks onto a slightly raised plywood stage in the middle of a kidney-shaped pool, surrounded by a crowd that's mostly men but also features some whooping girls, dancing sexily in an attempt to mimic the moves onstage. A couple of the contestants here are college girls, from Indiana
or Kentucky, but most aren't. A few, like one blonde with an astounding body but light brown teeth, are professional strippers or otherwise involved in PCB's underbelly. ("See the brown teeth?" says one of Scotty the Party's minions. "That's from smoking crystal.") Most of them, however, are career partiers, spending their lives going from resort town to resort town, like
Shannon, a twenty-two year old in pigtails who says she's made ten thousand dollars for two months of shaking that ass. Contestant by day, nightclub promoter by night, Shannon spends most of her time selling fifteen-dollar club tickets in PCB's most populous section of strip — they call it "the war zone" because of the fierce competition among the Christian Crusaders and
panhandlers, T-shirt shills and Shannons.
Shannon takes the stage, and Scotty the Party shouts: "Say, 'Scotty the Party, make me wet please!'"
"Scotty the Party," says Shannon, drawling breathily and running the tip of her tongue over her top lip, "Would you pretty please make me wet?"
Scotty the Party douses her with baby oil. It's a better alternative to water, he's found, because the girls have to rub it in to their shirts to make them translucent, and they rub slowly and seductively, with hands exploring curves and lingering on nipples.
"Oh, yeah, this makes you feel good you're a man," he yells, nodding his blue head wildly, as Shannon, in only a pale pink velvet thong and a scrap of white T-shirt, expertly swishes her hips from side to side, then falls to her knees and spreads them wide apart. She lifts the shirt almost to the nipple, and the crowd goes wild. "Can I get an 'amen?'" shouts Scotty the Party.
"Amen!" shouts the crowd.
Shannon wins a cool one hundred dollars, plus another fifty for coming in second in a bikini contest earlier today.
"Alrighty, now let's all get back to what we all do best: drinking!" Scotty the Party shouts into the mike. "But don't forget to come back tomorrow, because it's the same time, same thing, every day." He grins. "Just different women."
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