True Berlin Dating Stories #2: Femme Tinder is Fake

Resident writer LUCKY is back with short stories exploring memory, the myths of gender, how Femme Tinder is fake, and how you shouldn't fuck somebody who doesn't read books.

Who’s Going to Die First, Me or My Breast?


Everyone in Germany, whether German or not is stuck on the concept of memory, myself included. I remember being the first girl in my second grade class to wear a training bra. I remember being so afraid of my breast I would lock Ben out of his own room and refuse to let him in until I squeezed my nipples so hard they clumped together like they do in the cold.

I remember his reaction the next year in theatre class when learning a dance ensemble we both looked in the mirror at my breast and he said something along the lines of

“Jesus Christ your boobs have gotten huge, dude”,

and not being angry with him, because I too had just now noticed the growth.

I remember him cheating on me with the skinny white blonde girl and knowing then that even my boobs could not save me. I remember Schorl referring to them as my large mammaries and Ari falling asleep easiest with one in his hand. In fact I remember standing on the scale as Ari held my breast and seeing the weight drop seven pounds. I remember getting the first bra to fit me my senior year of highschool. I remember getting fitted for a F but feeling more comfortable in a G. In simpler terms, I wear a quadruple D. It cost 80 dollars. I remember going vegan and being afraid of losing my breast. I remember feeling ashamed I ascribed so much of my identity to them.

So I remember coming to terms with my blackness and then undoing those terms, because not even black people get to be black nowadays. I remember the first time I straightened my hair at eight years old and only then did the boy I had a crush on flirt with me. I remember writing on my Facebook wall at twelve years old, “So what do you think about black people?” And having my own response be fried chicken and kool-aid.

I remember my Mexican grandmother being the only person to make and give me kool-aid. I remember her dying from breast cancer and thinking

“Who’s going to die first, me or my breast?”

I remember seeing black people on the street and finding refuge in their eyes, both of us giving thank you, thank you, thank you’s just by a quick smile on the street. But none of this suits me in Germany, I am American first and everything else after, if anything at all.

I am not a cigarette smoker but by the time I leave Wirtschaftswunder I have laid at least five to rest in the ashtray. I feel encouraged too by the new friend Sophia and I make that night, Thilo, a cute, sweet French boy who approached me at the bar. If he wasn’t gay I would have assumed he was flirting with me, but I appreciate a genuine conversation with no ulterior motives. We discuss American politics and I speak about the necessity to move away from the identities ascribed to us. I explain my adoration for the term queer, queerness does not put me in a hierarchy to the phallocentric figure, the heteronormative assumption, it allows me to step outside of those frameworks, to exist in the metonymic relationship of life.

He says “Right, this is especially important since you are a black woman!”

And I think “Yes, I almost forgot.”


Courtesy of Dirk Mueller (Flickr Creative Commons)



In Mein Haus am See, I sit next to a girl on purpose. The conversation starts off with a discussion on the complications of heterosexual dating on purpose. I say, “I don’t really even date, mostly because I feel as though the universe will align we with who I am supposed to meet or be with,” on purpose. She agrees on purpose. I make an effort to inform her that I am queer early on into the conversation, on purpose. The table orders a pitcher of beer, on purpose. We drink the beer, on purpose. She is from Germany originally, but spent some time living in Israel, a year in New York, and now in Berlin, on purpose. I bring up the topic of German history in relation to American history when she asks me how I’m liking Berlin, on purpose. I say, “It feels different to be in a place that remembers their history”, on purpose.

She says, “They do?”


You Should Never Fuck Someone Who Doesn’t Read Books


Keanu’s floor is covered in Sylvia Plath, Albert Camus, a book on neural science, on Hinduism, English novels translated to Turkish, and Turkish books I don’t understand the name of. The neighborhood he’s just moved into translates to “The Nice Mountain,” from German. There are no mountains in sight, but there is Cecilian Garten, a rectangular garden that sits in the middle of his block with two large sculptures of naked women facing each other from opposite sides of the park.

One of his flatmates is a French gay with amazing style, whose boyfriend is a head full of curly blonde hair. We make small talk in the small kitchen as they finish their cigarettes and Lady Gaga music video before saying goodnight, leaving us alone over a plate of eggs with mushrooms and a bottle of cheap red wine. Sophia stayed home this time.

Keanu says the hardest part about learning English is the use of gender. In Turkish there is no gender, just ‘O’ which apparently causes frequent disputes in heterosexual relationships. I suggest the use of “they/them” when he is unsure of what pronouns to use, but also to offer gender neutral pronouns for gender non-conforming people. This confuses him even more.

“But if I use ‘they’ isn’t that also plural?” Yes.

“So people use the pronoun they?” He starts laughing. “This is so funny to me. This is like if I were to be talking to ‘they’ and a choir answered back.”

I start laughing too, because I think this a beautiful metaphor for gender. They, not merely a pronoun, but the choir within me that cannot be tied down to one voice, song, or spirit. I grin big with wine stained lips.


Courtesy of Silke Krieg (Flickr Creative Commons)

Femme Tinder, More like False Tinder


When I got to Berlin I thought, finally I can live my best queer life. Turns out most gay bars are still male-dominated, and let’s not forget, femme tinder is fake. It’s not until I buzz my hair and dye it blonde that I start matching all the queer baddies, but even then it’s a waiting game for who will message who first. Being that I’m uninterested in dating in the first place, I honestly don’t care enough to make the first move. I guess that’s the issue, we’re all too unconcerned to start the conversation.

Could this be due to our one assumed “benefit” in patriarchy, that most of the time we don’t have to work hard for what we want when it comes to securing a mate? That is of course for the people who choose to have sex with cis men. Either way, patriarchy lurks its way into even the most queer spaces. You don’t need cis straight men to perpetuate it, which unfortunately means that it’s working.


Front page of Mais Porno Por Favor Zine by Bini Adamczak

In Mais Porno Por Favor!, Berlin based writer Bini Adamczak meditates on the necessity to change vocabulary related to sex, writing,

“I wish to propose to you a new term…’circlusion’, It denotes the antonym of penetration. It refers to the same physical process, but from the opposite perspective. Penetration means pushing something— a shaft or nipple— into something else— a nipple or a shaft. Circlusion means pushing something— a ring or a tube— onto something else— a nipple or a shaft. The ring and the shaft are rendered active. That’s all there is to it.”

Lately I’ve been questioning what constitutes as queer sex, if queer sex is something I can still engage in even if it involves the opposite sex. If gender is a bunch of hodgepodge anyway, what really makes the mark for sex that is inherently queer? What we know as queer sex has always been what’s not willing to be considered mainstream sex, and definitely not the type of sex you learn about in sex-ed, if taught sex-ed at all.

Even the “queer” sex that I have had has been eerily homosexual in nature. I always seem to get the role of the “man,” I say man because in most instances, I am having sex with women who have sex with cis men, therefore expecting a certain type of sex, where I have to do all of the work and make the moves. Where I’m expected to be good and they’re only expected to lie there and take it. It hurts not only my sex drive, but the identity I am trying to shape within my queerness.

Sadly, even in what I thought was supposed to be the queer capital of the world, has failed me. Who knows, maybe I’m too young to really know what’s going on around here? Sure there’s plenty of sex extravaganzas where queer sex lives on only with five dudes standing around them jerking off into the biss. But when it comes to real, intimate queer sex, I’m left in the dark.

Where are you future girlfriend, temporary lover, queer one night stand? I’m waiting for those who are ready to practice the act of circlusion, those that have queered their mind and not just their sexual habits. I have no memory to collect from to help me here. It seems I’m on the waiting list to be blessed by the queer Gods of Berlin.



Read more of Lucky’s short stories in the first episode:
No One Wants to see My Tits in Berlin, and More Short Stories

Lucky - is a soul who lives to heal through writing, music, and food. As someone who oberserves their surroundings with an empathic body and mind, they use this talent to archive the histories of the communities they belong to with both humor and vigor.