This story happened about a month into our trip, back in April of 2012. It’s one of our most entertaining stories, but I haven’t had the balls to tell it until now. Anyway, here goes:
“I’ll take the floor,” Chris volunteered.
“Cool, I’ll take the couch. No complaints there,” I smirked.
Monica looked over quizzically. “Are you sure? Because I can take the couch and you can take the bed if you want. I sleep on the couch all the time.” She was slurring, wavering, and stone cold drunk. I hoped she would soon be out like a log.
“No, you should have your own bed. We’re only guests. I’ll take the couch.”
“But really? Because I sleep on the couch all the time.”
“Trust me, it’s fine.” Without another word I crawled onto the ratty floral-print sofa and started to fall asleep. She sighed and clonked onto her bed.
We had met Monica just a few hours earlier. When we’d cycled into Ulm, Germany, the first email I got was from our original couchsurfer cancelling—he’d had to leave town for the weekend. Monica was a backup host, so I got on the phone and explained the situation. She invited us over with one condition: we had to go to a party with her that night. She’d just finished her finals and wanted to celebrate. All I wanted to do was sleep, but a party seemed less painful than getting burned on a hotel. We headed over with a smile, where we piled our gear in her hallway and she welcomed us with some road beers.
The party was her and three other female math majors at wooden kitchen table, all of whom seemed so burned out on logic that they wouldn’t dare apply it to their alcohol consumption. Chris and I nursed beers. They matched us with vodka, shot for sip.
The drinking sprint made for a short evening, and we were all but carrying Monica (we changed her real name for this story) home 90 minutes after we arrived. The return was a journey. It started at a doner kebab stand. Then, at the base of Ulm’s famous cathedral, she flung herself on the ground in awe, staring upwards at the tall spire, contemplating God and babbling exultations and praise. Two blocks later, virtue forgotten, she made an earnest attempt of escape, apparently hoping to spend the evening with one of the stangers walking the other direction. We were saved only behind her stumbles.
But then we got her home, and finally we could sleep. I was out 15 seconds after hitting the couch. Monica woke me up less than five minutes later.
“Morgan, can you please take the bed? Because I really like the couch, and I want you to have the bed.”
In the foggy state I was in, I could barely believe my ears. How was she not passed out already?
“Fine.” I rolled off one, stumbled onto the other, and went back to sleep.
It was a matter of minutes before she got into the bed naked with me. The first thing I felt were her large breasts against my shoulder and her leg wrapping itself around my own. There are worse ways to be awoken.
I lay prone for a few moments, hosting the debate that every party going male has had at some point: should I?
She certainly had a fairly nice body, even if she wasn’t the kind of girl that would make me turn around in the quad. The enormous warm breasts sandwiching my shoulder were tantalizing. Body: check. But then there was the issue of Chris, who was lying perhaps five feet from the theatre of action. I sort of counted him out. I figured this kind of thing was bound to happen in two years of traveling together.
I was starting to loosen my shoulders when she rolled over to kiss me. It was a sloppy roll. She tried to grab the mattress with one hand and my ribs with the other for stability, and collapsed heavily upon me. She breathed, heavily, into my face. It was those deep stomach pants of a drunkard, the kind you think could turn into a belch at any moment. Her breath was putrid vodka and salty snacks.
I really woke up, and the reality of the situation settled on me. The debate went from Should I? to where is the nearest exit? But of course there were none, because I was in a foreign city without a hotel and had two bikes and a hundred pounds of gear parked in her apartment. Even the couch didn’t seem like an exit point. She was grabbing my arms with a determination that suggested she would follow me there.
I pushed her off me and retreated to the other side of the bed, putting my back against the wall and crossing my arms against my chest. She didn’t get the message. She kept coming. I gently stiff armed her and tried a “stop.” All that earned me was a few gropes. I tried a stronger “stop” and a stronger stiff arm, which was only matched with a more aggressive grope. This was evolving into a pitched battle.
“Monica, Stop! This is Rape!” I yelled. It got her to roll out of my perimeter. She lay there, looking at me, panting alcohol fumes across the bed. She seemed to lull off to sleep. I hung out for a moment, just to be sure.
Then she came back at me, attempting some sort of judo move neck submission I think she thought was going to be a kiss. I jumped out of bed, and made for the last refuge of quasi-safety. “I’m going to couch,” I yelled. “Don’t come.”
She didn’t come. She went full lunatic instead. She sat up in her bed and starting barking single words of German, knowing we understood none of it. Each word was followed by a cackle that sounded like the tryouts for Disney’s new evil witch. Chris and I were simply watching her at this point, dumbfounded and a little frightened. She finally fell asleep. I confirmed the bogey was down, then waited for a half hour before I let myself sleep.
Nobody mentioned anything the next morning. She got up early to make us a good German breakfast of muesli with German bread. Chris and I stayed for seconds, and did an admirable job cleaning out her breakfast supplies. I think I actually hugged her goodbye, but it was the weirdest hug of my life. We rode all the way out of the city before we could even bring ourselves to talk about it.