elena 3

True Berlin Dating Stories #1: No One Wants to see My Tits

Resident storyteller LUCKY writes a series following her dating adventures in Berlin. She writes about her tits, techno music and threesomes.

No One Wants to see my Tits in Berlin, but They’re All the Rave in the U.S.

 

If my tits were the wingwoman, I’d be the friend in need of romantic guidance. Before I get the chance to speak they have already made contact with the person of interest, asked them to buy me a drink, made allusions of undressing themselves. Which you can imagine makes it hard for me to match the expectation they present. I’ve learned to leave expectations behind, to stop setting myself up for disappointment. So I come to Berlin with big eyes, big breasts, and an even bigger intuition.

The Clash is black turtlenecks suffocating soft breasts with the smoke of cigarettes. I am a red triangle bra covered in a fishnet long sleeve with a cheetah print skirt and tights. By the way, people are looking you would have thought the whole bar was in the space between my boobs, women looking on with disgust, men with curiosity, either way, nothing to order here.

 

elena 2

 

Sophia is my partner in broke-bitch crimes. She only had about five euro to spare and I left my wallet at home altogether. She is the witness to my prayer under the dim light of the pinball machine. Dear Universe, I will not pay for my drinks tonight, I will also find someone who has weed. My faith wanes after Sophia buys the first round. But the pinball machine (or maybe it was my breast, maybe the prayer) brings over two Syrians and a German who ask if we are playing. Obviously, we’re not, the German puts fifty cents into the slot and DING DING DINGs the silver ball until his tries run out. He’s pretty good actually and Sophia and I look on from the sidelines.

He is the definition of German looking, built to be a short soldier or something, a blonde with a slight gap in his teeth, everything but my type. Sophia says don’t knock it till’ you try it, and I guess we are both giving each other eyes. It’s not long before he makes conversation with me. I compliment the lemon in his beer, he compliments my tattoos, and before you know it he’s asking me the real questions, do you smoke? He opens his phone to show me a picture of someone, do you know Lil Pump? Unfortunately, I do, and he proceeds to tell me he’s got more weed than the bag Lil Pump is holding over his shoulder. I pull up a photo from late December when I was back at a buddies house in California. I am holding an extra large mason jar, a 907.1 gram bag, and a sketchbook on my lap, all of which are filled or covered in weed.

I guess I’ve got more than the both of you.

Ah, She is like me.

After a spliff, he asks me if I want a drink.

Everything with the German guy feels like a movie. On our walk to the bar from the safe corner of the pinball machine he says hi to a friend who, at the direction of his hand going up into the air, immediately throws him his cue stick. And when we reach the billiard table, where magically everyone has stopped playing, he makes the one shot left to make, the eightball, and drops the stick like it’s nothing. At the bar he order’s himself a tequila shot and me a mexikaner, and then two beers ‘the way he likes it’.

 

Image 3-3-19 at 11.12 PM

 

He tells me about his five-story house at Rathaus Spandau, about his brother who owns a burger spot on Bergmannstraße. He tells me that most of the women here wouldn’t go out dressed like me because of the weather, but he likes girls who show off what they’ve got. It makes me think of the phrase “A hoe never gets cold,” but I’m not one, and I don’t want him to think I’m taking the trip to Rathaus Spandau to be the princess on the 5th floor of his castle. He offers to take me to a club I can dance at, I agree.

When we get to the club we skip the line and get in free because ‘we’re with him’. He pays for Sophia and I’s coat check, rolls another spliff, gets us more shots, says hello to more people.  The shots catch up to me and soon we’re kissing under the fog and bass. Kissing and bumping, and grinding, and gripping, and licking, and touching on the dance floor. It’s not long before my breasts are added into the equation. His hands are in the position you would make to imitate a lobster or an Italian man who has just completed a fabulous meal, and he locks them onto my chest repeating circular motions.

I feel like I owe it to him, feel like this was the unspoken agreement, close my eyes and focus on the smell of his cologne and taste of peppermint in his mouth. I feel disgusted at the pride that builds in my chest for being with the man that makes this kind of magic. Or maybe the fact that his magic is the only reason I kept tagging along for the adventure. Yet, aren’t we both here for our own selfish reasons? It all leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I guess some people do want to see my tits after all.

 

A Ringing Aphorism

 

At S.A.V.V.Y Contemporary museum Shuruq Harb says “Germans love to drink and party so much, but at some point, you must realize that’s apart of an escapist culture”.

 

Techno Music and my Ancestors Don’t Get Along

 

There is only one time I’ve felt like dying in Berlin, and can you guess what music was playing? Yes, the thump dump, mph, ump, bvvv, of techno. Although a favorite amongst the true Germans, I can’t seem to find the appeal.

The first night Sophia and I go to Zur Klappe, we are relieved the entry fee is only six euro. This is the first mistake. We happily make our way underground to what could be perceived as a prison dungeon. The DJ and coat check are behind small windows of metal bars, everything is dark concrete, and like a camera flash, one light on the dancefloor goes off every couple of minutes or so. It’s for the better that you can’t see everyone’s face, if the lights came on no one would be interacting as intimately.

I dance my way into the center of the darkness and look for shapes worth investigating. I spot a man with an Oompa Loompa-esque hairstyle who has begun talking to Sophia. From what I can see he looks cute in a different way, and with the repetitiveness of the techno, I was feeling rather attracted to the disparate type. He shouts something into Sophia’s ear, and like a game of telephone it makes its way to me, Do you want to get high? Assuming he was referencing weed, I eagerly say yes, until the three of us walk into the bathroom stall where he offers us Ketamine.

 

Image 3-3-19 at 9.53 PM

 

It is there in the light of the stall I can make out the Oompa Loompas real features. He’s what my mother would call ‘unfortunate looking,’ and as he pulls the small bag out of his pocket I make more sense of the situation at hand. Very rarely do I permit myself the opportunity to be young and dumb for fear of perpetuating the stereotype, but I figure I owe myself this one and hold Sophia’s hand as I snort the thin line off of the screen of his iPhone. This is the second mistake. When we leave the bathroom a man congratulates the Oompa Loompa for what he perceives as a freshly finished threeway, and upon my return to the dancefloor, a three-way would have been much more of a thrill.

I make the ugly man hold me amidst the swamp of bodies in the fear that my body will slip away.

It’s the de- evolution of time//the evolution itself//exactly the middle of it. It is finding yourself amidst the concept of “you” and then forgetting it completely. I sit on a plank of wood and try to get in touch with my higher self, but no thought sticks//thereareonlythethoughtsofhimsendingmetodarkness

And then comes the thoughts of him:

My ex-lover is always the river that broke the damn. He is the first source of both pleasurable and painful memory, our history consisting of the necessity to heal from our mistakes. I look around me to establish my surroundings, the coldness of the concrete, the suffocating darkness. Why is it that almost all clubs in Berlin never want to let the light in? Like Tresor, the popular club that translates to The Safe, or The Bunker, a former air raid shelter turned nightclub, now art foundation.

The past lives of these buildings haunt you like an ex-lover, but in the same breath, the German imagination of industrial strength. No wonder there’s a party where war used to ensue, everyone is dancing the memory away, having techno be the vibration that rids their bodies of such a past. Here I am underground in what used to be a postwar bathroom with the memories I can’t shake, a love I forbid myself to think about in the hopes it will erase the feeling. I begin to cry as I ask myself, am I attempting to escape from something?

 

Keanu Reeves and The Jewish Guy

 

In Berlin, it is easier to find a threesome than it is to find a water fountain. My third night here, a young, Turkish, Keanu Reeves drunkenly stumbles to my place at the bar. I am surprised that I spark the conversation with a flirtatious hey. He says hey back and places his hand on my leg, not to make a move but to support himself. Sophia is to my left, but I do most of the talking that brings us over to the foosball table in the back where his friend is waiting for him. He keeps asking us the same questions over and over again, “What is your name? What are you here for? How old are you? What is your name again? His looks are the only thing that keeps us interested, or maybe the fact that we’re a bit drunk too, and before we know it we are walking out the bar, I on one side and Sophia on the other holding him up heading in the direction if his hostel.

He gets a single room for the night and by the time I come out of the bathroom him and Sophia are already topless. We switch places, I get on top of him (you know how the rest goes). It’s not much of a threesome. Sophia got a call from her doctor earlier telling her she had a rare case of gonorrhea of the throat, which is not gonorrhea of the genitals, can not be transferred through kissing or sharing drinks, and presumably not through vaginal intercourse. We don’t take the chance anyway. She spends the rest of the night complaining about the assumed carrier of the virus. This is all the Jewish guys fault! She exclaims, until finally, Keanu says, “Why do you keep calling him the Jewish guy? He is just a guy?”

And it makes me think, why do we have to have a name for everything, can anything ever just be?

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.
FacebookTwitterWhatsApp