A few weeks ago, my crew went to Munich for Oktoberfest. The tent in which we spent most of our waking hours was flooded with debauched 19-to-22-year-olds from the States as well as university students (and others) from across the continent. Only the painfully unadventurous donned their street clothes; the rest of us went outfitted in traditional German dress — dirndls for the girls, lederhosen for the boys. Needless to say, lechery ensued promptly at 9am on Friday and didn’t dissipate until the last drunkard boarded their return flight on Sunday. The most well-rested soul in the tent ran on maybe five hours of sleep, and still, everyone’s energy seemed boundless. The vibe was incredible — unforgettable, even — and, unfortunately, kind of indescribable. If you’ve never gone and one day find yourself with the time and the means to go, I suggest you seize the opportunity, because it’s a fucking blast.
Unsurprisingly, the beer festival doubled as a reunion venue for college kids and their lower, middle, and high school friends (or more-than-friends) past. And, naturally, the lecherous atmosphere fueled many a heated sexual encounter between long-lost lovers; two of my friends from home hooked up with their Brick Church schoolmates, I ‘reconnected’ with someone I hadn’t seen since we did a program at Columbia the summer before 10th grade, and, of course, countless broken up college couples got back together (for the weekend). Blake, a friend I made while abroad, and one of her college flames were among said couples.
Blake and Nate have hooked up (intermittently) since they got to Wesleyan. I’d heard all about Nate before we met at Oktoberfest; he’s the lacrosse-playing, Vineyard Vines-wearing, Obama-hating economics major with whom Blake — the leather-jacketed, Los Angeles-born art history enthusiast–is hopelessly and inexplicably infatuated. He’s one of three guys whom Blake’s ever wanted to lock down, so obviously, he’s one of three guys who’s been less interested in her than she in him. Minutes after they saw each other for the first time since May, they were making out. They spent all of Friday together, and when the day’s festivities came to a close, Blake wound up in Nate’s hotel room. And Saturday, everything went smashingly. Again, they spent the whole day attached to one another like a bonafide couple in love; they drank, shared lunch, and went from carnival ride to carnival ride with Nate carrying Blake around on his back. He even took her to dinner, where they played a passionate hourlong game of footsie under their brätwurst.
After their meal, they walked around the city center, where they started to talk about ‘them.’ Eager to hear that he wanted to give their relationship a real shot when they return to school in January, Blake asked him the question she’d been waiting 24 hours to ask, “what are we?”
“Blake… I can’t answer that. Let’s just play it by ear when we get back to Wesleyan.”
It was a nonresponse, and Blake was determined to coax an honest answer out of him.
“Listen, you know I care about you and I think you care about me, and I’m usually not the one to push for something more than sex, but I can’t keep doing the ‘playing it by ear’ thing. It sucks.”
After what seemed like minutes of cinematic silence, Nate left her with yet another annoying cliffhanger, “I don’t know how to say this. You’re going to be upset.”
“What? Just say it.”
“It’s… I can’t…”
“You’ve slept with too many people, OK? That’s what it’s always been. That’s why I can’t date you. You’ve just slept with too many people, and I can’t do it. I can’t.”
Keep in mind, readers, this noble confession came after he’d humbly accepted head from her in the courtyard of a church. But, God knows, he’s just a cool, cleancut Romney supporter who basically falls victim to blowjobs from unclean skanks like Blake.
“…you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
There it was. The ultimate slut-shaming, comparable only to Blair’s post-fucking-Chuck exile in the first season of Gossip Girl. And honestly, it was the best thing he could’ve done for her. Because with that nauseating divulgence, she finally saw that she was far too smart, kind, and good for him, and she walked away from him for the last time.
It was unfortunate truth told for the better — the wake of which was the perfect, self-emancipatory close to a surreal weekend.
To Oktoberfest, to European deliverance, and of course, to sluts.