If you’re just tuning in, I’m at Oktoberfest in Munich, Germany. It’s Day one. I’ve been drinking with a couple of Guatemalans. After a great deal of waiting, I’m finally inside my second beer tent.
Tent # 2 is a goddamned madhouse. Every single person is standing on a table, or an elevated surface, towering over me like I’m an ant, one of those liter beer glasses swaying in their arms merrily. The crowd was so dense that it took no more five minutes for me to give up on trying to locate my friends. Even when I went up to the second floor and combed the crowd from there, I couldn’t identify anyone.
I figure, Well, might as well drain the lizard, but when I walk into the bathroom it’s fucking coed, and I can’t pee around the opposite gender, sorry girls. And thus I’m forced to run out of the tent that I’d waited an hour to get into and scamper into some little woodland area out back. An innocuous drizzle from the sky accompanies the drizzle from my man parts.
There’s a granite staircase next to my pee spot and it is littered with bodies–some of them conscious, some of them not, some of them laying next to/in a puddle of piss or puke. I step over some of these poor souls and climb to the top of the staircase, where there’s a statue of some German goddess. I take a seat at her feet and whip out my phone.
I turn on DATA ROAMING and call one half of the Guatemalan duo.
Monica answers cheerily, as if she hadn’t been missing for the past three hours. “Hola Darby! Estoy en Huckleberry!”
What the shit is Huckleberry? “De la manana,” she adds, and then hiccups grotesquely.
I thought back to the early morning parade. To the Paulaner beer tent we were all in together. Nothing rang a bell. And nothing showed up in my GPS. The closest idea I had was the train station we all came to at the start of the day, which was called Hackerbrucke.
And that’s where I found Monica.
Together, we go back to our Couchsurfing host Joerg’s place, where he provides more beers, plus a hand-drawn map for more beers: all of the best bars in Munich.
And then somehow we end up at McDonald’s. It’s time for a very late dinner.
And just in case the McDonald’s wouldn’t cause us to poop our pants, the other stuff definitely would: a couple of pills of Adderall. Which, as you know, is an ADHD medicine here in the US. Why did I bring Adderall to Oktoberfest? Because originally I didn’t have a place to stay. All hostels and hotels had filled up. If you didn’t book something six months in advance, you were fucked. So my plan was to pop an Addy and go on one big bender. Adderall has this amazing side effect of making you not sleep, days at a time if you so desire. But then in a last second twist this cool German dude Joerg reached out to me one day before the fest and was like “Yo, some of my Couchsurfers dropped out, you got a bed here if you want it.”
So I didn’t need to take the Adderall anymore. Not unless I wanted to, you know, not sleep and stay out drinking at the bars all night…
I take one pill; Monica takes the other.
The first two bars we attempt to enter both deny me entry because apparently my outfit is too radical for them. They were like, “Slow down there, we can’t have that much color inside our establishment.” Even though it was literally the greatest outfit at all of Oktoberfest.
The rain from earlier has picked up a bit, so we’re become less picky about our destination. We turn one corner and there’s strip clubs everywhere. “Uhhh…” I look at Monica and her eyes are rolling around like Chinese marbles. She looks like she’s high on ecstasy. It was in fact her first time taking Adderall, and I guess it could have that effect on people?
Sandwiched between a pair of strip clubs there’s some sort of hybrid dive bar/old-fashioned American diner. There’s some pretty unsavory characters inside, but I’ve given up on trying to find a respectable watering hole.
Monica orders a martini while I stick with beer. The clock behind the bar reads 2:57 AM. My hazy mind is having trouble comprehending this. With another 2 hours ’til the train starts running, our night is in need of a serious burst of energy. I lean across the table. Monica looks at me quizzically. Then in Spanish I ask: “What is… the… craziest place you’ve ever had sex?”
We share our stories about having sex in libraries and on playgrounds.
My follow-up question is, “Have you had sex during this vacation?”
Monica shakes her head disappointingly. “No.”
I lean in, just close enough to waft the martini olive on her breath and say, “Do you… want to?”
There is a long and palpable silence. And then comes the affirmative “Bueno.“
We pay and walk out right before a fight breaks out at the bar. The weather has worsened outside, forcing me to consult a map and locate a park. There was one just two blocks away. I take Monica’s hand and lead her there.
On one side of the park, there’s some liquored-up locals thumping their chests and making caveman sounds, sounds that would not be conducive to sexing. Fortunately there’s a single restaurant in the park, equipped with a cozy little outdoor patio. We lumber on up but some lights go on, and I’m not sure if they’re auto-lights or someone’s inside so we run off.
Then I spot a small church on the other side of the park. “How about the ledge of that chur–” but Monica was already shaking her head.
And then I see it: a tiny wooden bench, that for some reason is placed under a massive tree, like totally covered by this thing. We approach the tree and Monica ducks low under the soppy wet branches and I follow her tightly, face practically inside her ass. When we reach the bench, we both celebrate by standing up and pulling our pants down. I sit on the bench with my bare ass, and Monica sat on my cock with her bare snatch. The banging begins.
We haven’t even reached a full minute of banging and we’ve already got voyeur activity. On the opposite end of the park, there’s an old bearded guy on a bike. He’s pedaling way too slow to actually be going anywhere. I ignore him and he disappears, briefly. Only to do a lap and drive by a second time. This time I point at him and flip him the bird. He does not return for a third lap.
My ass starts going numb and I pull myself up to my feet and start banging her from behind, squatting down a bit to match our difference in heights. She puts her hands on her ankles and points her curvy Latin ass up for the taking. I fire off a couple of butt slaps to show my approval. And then I grab a tree branch overhead and use the extra leverage to pick up the thrusting speed.
Just as I get a firm grip on the branch, the most horrific thing happens:
Monica takes a SHIT on me.
I can feel it. It’s disgusting. Just a burst of wetness spilling on me all at once, painting my crotch and the inside of my thighs. And I respond how anyone would respond in this situation:
Why, I keep banging her of course. What?? I mean, she already shat on me. How could it get any worse? I do my best to ignore it, to keep going, to just focus on getting a nut off, to definitely not smell it…
But eventually my morbid curiosity overtakes me, and I take two fingers and rub my leg, right where the shit hit. And then I slowly raise those two fingers up and under my nose, where I hold it there a full eleven seconds before finally taking a tiny little mouse-like sniff. My stomach is prepared to lose its contents…
But incredibly, my fingers don’t smell like feces. It doesn’t smell like that McDonald’s McRib. It actually had no scent. Wait a sec… unscented shit… is that a thing? Is there a chance that she didn’t shit on me? Could it have been any other liquid falling from above? Could it have been rain water falling out of the tree from this branch I had been shaking…?
That was–and still is–my current theory.
“Ay, descansamos.” Monica wants a break, and it is on this break that we become aware the train is running again. So once again, it’s back to Hackerbrucke train station and back to Joerg’s house, where we slip in to the house with the stealth of ninjas. Ninjas that are trying to look like they weren’t just banging in a park. Monica peeks inside her bedroom and Jose, the other Guatemalan is in there, snoring like a monster truck engine. I give her a soft pinch between her legs and whisper, “Nos vemos aqui.” I point at the door to my bedroom. “Cinco minutos.“
Five minutes later, Monica came in my room. And then Monica came in my room. Without going too into details, there was squirting, cowgirl riding, puffy nipples, hair pulling, and me holding her hands behind her back like handcuffs. And when it was all done, she slid off my body and crawled out of my bedroom like a house cat that just got fucked by a mountain lion.
Like I said, not too many details.
The next day I decided to actually return to Oktoberfest–but just to take pics, not to drink. Besides, I had a bus to some place called Weimar later that afternoon.
Before I left my host’s house for good, I bumped into Jose and Monica in the kitchen. First time I’d seen him since he drunk-disappeared in the second tent. He tells me Monica and him are going to Prague, so farewell Darby, shame that we didn’t get to have more beers, but we all had fun, right? I look at Monica and wink covertly. “Oh yeah. Some of us had MORE FUN THAN EVER.” I hug them both and wish them luck in their travels.
I was back at Oktoberfest drinking a beer on a spinning carousel when I got a special message from Monica. It said, “Me pase increible contigo,” followed by a heart.
I flashed a smile at the screen of my phone. And then I said aloud, “Some of us come to Oktoberfest for the beer.
“And some of us… come here for the sausage.“
And then some Australian guy sitting at the carousel bar right next to me looked over and said, “What… the fuck did you just say?“
