Livin' la Vida Culo

"Hola, amigo," I said to my friend Hector as he approached, carrying a bucket of cold Coronas.

"Hola." He chuckled at my joke. He knows I don't speak Spanish.

Nevertheless, we were in Mexico, relaxing on the beach in Puerta Vallarta. I met Hector two days earlier, when I found him mopping up a puddle of vomit left behind by some of my fraternity brothers. The Sig Ep boys know how to party, believe you me. Hector was our host. Well, janitor/waiter, to be specific.

"Hector," I mused, "what does it take for a guy to get laid in this country?"

"Forr two-huntret pesos--" he began.

"Without paying for it," I interrupted. "I've been spending enough on cervezas without paying for sex tambien."

"Señor Crístobal, may I say tat your Español has gotten mucho better since arriving heere two días ago."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Yoor Español--"

"Oh. It's Spanish. I told you never to speak that language around me. I'm asking you a question. Give me the inside scoop to getting laid in this ridiculous country."

"Verry well," he sighed. "The secret to finding a girl who will do it all is the arschenfeldt."

I raised my bamboo pole menacingly. "I told you never to speak that language around me," I whispered fiercely.

"No! No!" he cried. "It's German!"

I lowered my pole. "German? Tell me more!"

"The arschenfeldt is the tatuaje."

I hit him on the side of the head with my pole.

"Lo siento," he wailed.

I hit him again. "What did you say?"

"It is the tattoo! The tattoo!"

"What tattoo? What is the arschenfeldt?"

"Literally translated sir, it meens "ass antlers". It is tee tattoo, usually some kind of ridiculous tribal tattoo, although it could be a butterfly or some-ting."

I mulled this over, sipping my beer.

"This, Mr. Zane, is thee sign that a girl weel do any-ting. Especially taking it up tee butt. If you see this tell-tale sign, all you have to do is talk smoothly enough to get her into your schlafzimmer, I mean bedroom."

"So you're telling me, Hector, that all girls with the ass antlers are up for it all? Even the pooper?"

"Yees sir," he said proudly, glad to have been of help.

"That's interesting. Very interesting. Thanks a lot."

He stood there with a blank expression, his mouth open, his hands slack at his sides.

"That will be all, Hector."

"Yees sir."

"Hector," I said. "One more thing."

"Yees?"

"How do you know German? Where did you learn all this stuff?"

"Oh, that. I have my doctorate in German History from Uníversidad de Guadalajara."

I laughed loudly. "A lot of good that did you, ha ha!"

"Yees," he said, looking down. "I'll be back soon, Mr. Zane. I hear one of your friends just took a sheet on the floor of the waiting area of the hotel and then wiped it all over the walls."

"Those boys will do anything when they're stoned," I laughed.

Hector walked away. Just then, a lovely young Mexican girl walked by in a bikini. I waited until she passed. And there it was. A tribal tattoo, highlighted with two small butterflies on each end. I got up from my chair.

"Excuse me! Señorita!"

Today was going to be a good day.