Читать книгу Guys around the Globe - Chloe G. Wilde - Страница 3

This is where it all began a long time ago. With all the clumsy (quasi)sexual experiences that led to many future disasters. When you are a (female) teenager, you are brainwashed that your first sexual experience should be a special occasion and that your virginity is something that should be sacred to you as it increases your value on the marriage market for some odd reason (and let’s not fool ourselves here, this doesn’t only happen in what some may refer to as ‘backward and undeveloped’ cultures, it applies to many western cultures as well). As a teenage girl you are told that the first time is a special occasion you should share with ‘THE ONE’, preferably the guy you’ll marry one day. Paradoxically enough, if you were a ‘proper’ girl, you shouldn’t even have slept with him before getting married because he might think you’re a slut and never marry you, even if he was the one who ‘deflowered’ you. Go figure.

But nobody actually tells you how disappointing the first time can be. Maybe I’m not a romantic soul and too much of a realist or simply too sarcastic, but how can this ‘deflowering’ (where did this word come from, anyway?) be anything special?!? Ok, at least it’s better if you get deflowered voluntarily (even with lots of alcohol it’s still voluntary) instead of your mother-in-law getting in there with a napkin wrapped around (who knows how many) fingers to steal your virginity and to prove that her son just married a chaste woman. Yes, it happens in certain cultures, and some women who have had sex prior to getting married end up seeing a doctor to have their hymen stitched up again before facing their mother-in-laws in their wedding night, which is pure masochism, if you ask me. Why go through the pain of having your hymen pierced all over again? And what if the doctor who is stitching it up again wants to teach you a lesson and triple-stitches it as punishment? Or would it make a woman extra-chaste if her hymen can’t be pierced at all?

Virginity is highly overrated. Let’s be realistic, when you acquire a car or house, you don’t go for the first option, right? It’s the ne plus ultra of business to check out all options, to shop around, and marriage is a business undertaking, so why would you ever want to buy a pig in a poke?

What’s all the fuss about? Why would anyone want to marry a virgin anyway? Is it a trophy thing? Oh please. What about complete incompatibility in the sack? Then the trophy wife might be degraded to the role of mother and wife, and the hubby gets to have all the fun and a girlfriend (not that men need sexual incompetence with their wives to chase other skirts)? Yes, this certainly is a blatant generalization. But there is some truth even in blatant generalizations. I find it quite lame how many men want a ‘proper’ woman at home, someone who won’t talk back and has no a life of her own, willing to do his laundry and raise his kids while accepting the fact that he sleeps with anything willing to endure him, and while he goes out and shags all those women he has the hots for, but can’t actually handle in reality.

For some such wives, their social status and some luxury gifts will suffice to remain in an unfulfilling marriage, while family/society pressure will keep others in an unhappy union, others might not have a choice. I am admittedly slightly radical when it comes to the whole issue of relationships and marriage in particular, and some might even be so bitchy as to remark that it’s no surprise I am single and haven’t had kids despite the fact that time is running out for me on the hourglass of fertility and as my value as a woman is further decreasing in the opinion of the small-minded. But at least I can do whatever I want and I don’t need anyone’s permission to do so. Of course I miss waking up and falling asleep next to someone, but if I have to choose between peace of mind and nerve-racking, between complete independence and whining, pooping children and a life of household chore slavery, I’ll definitely opt for the former. This way I also get to choose who spends the night with me, and trust me, that person will think twice before farting in front of me or leaving his dirty laundry all over the place for it to be picked up by a miraculous, invisible fairy and to be returned spotlessly clean directly into his closet. He will never even consider forming a habit of sitting on the couch in his sweatpants, scratching his balls and working on his beer belly, because if he doesn’t have the feeling that he has fully conquered me yet, he will continue to make an effort to go for the kill. Once you’ve been conquered, why should he make any more efforts? Since when do predators care about their prey once they started mauling and digesting it? They move on to other prey, don’t they?

The same actually applies to me, I will also continue to make an effort to stay in shape and look good if I don’t have a guy by the short and curlies. If I know that some guy will stick to me for the rest of my life because of social rules and family ties, why torture myself with a Brazilian bikini wax and similarly painful procedures to keep enticing him? Oh please. Men want their woman to stay hot and sexy (this blatant generalization is nothing but the truth, admit it), but the same should apply to them as well. Just remember how people start making an effort again when they have an affair, so why is it so difficult to keep it up throughout? I believe it’s actually better to have some ‘fresh meat’ here and there instead of sticking with the same ‘rotting flesh’ for ages. Who ever came up with the notion that humans are monogamous beings?

A couple of hundred of years back I would’ve been burned at the stake for my blasphemous (what a relative term) and sacrilegious (equally as relative) statements, but luckily I was born at a time when I am allowed to speak my mind more or less frankly. Maybe reincarnation is possible after all and after suffering above-described fate long time ago I have returned with a vengeance? Like some sort of female terminator here to avenge … what?

But before I get carried away here with my theories on philandering men, submissive and docile women and the plight of relationships, let me try to remember my “big day” (or was that supposed to be the day I got married?). My first time happened simply because I was fed up with being a virgin, without a clue as to what my friends who had already slept with a guy were talking about and why they kept telling me that I had to get it over with. As simple as that, no fancy butterflies flying around my tummy, I just wanted to get it over with. So I came up with an action plan and what came out of it? My math tutor. A guy who was actually quite cool considering he was a math tutor had the honor to ‘initiate’ me into the world of love, well, the world of sex. Or something like that. He had no idea what he was getting into, poor guy, and he never managed to teach me math either, but he served a good cause.

I still vividly remember my disappointment when it was over, I was like “That’s it?!?”, and I kept asking myself why everyone was so mad about sex, why everyone made such a big deal out of it. But I was happy not to be a virgin any longer and never slept with the guy again. So my first time was actually a one-night-stand, and I was/am very okay with that.

Since the math tutor had completed his contribution to the realization of my action plan, and since I was quite disappointed, I didn’t want to see him again. Since I was useless when it came to math and since I wasn’t really all that into the guy, I convinced my parents that I no longer needed any more ‘tutoring’. Luckily they had other things to worry about instead of inquiring about the reasons for my sudden change of mind.

But the guy also worked as a DJ at the hottest club in town, so I kept bumping into him, and I have to admit that for a while I thought I might be infatuated with him. Looking at it from today’s perspective I realized that spoiled me probably merely wanted attention. Soon I became very good at ignoring him and today I don’t even remember his last name or what he looked like.

***

My next German actually did manage to leave a lasting impression because he holds a unique record amongst my men. But let’s start at the beginning, which shows how strange life can be. The first time I saw this guy was in a magazine article about him as a well-known party organizer, and I thought to myself that I’d love to meet this guy. I still remember the picture accompanying the article, a bald guy with an Indian-style cap on his head and an army-style satchel, an intelligent face with mischievous eyes grinning into the camera. An eclectic mix of various styles, but cool in his own strange way. And sure enough, a couple of weeks later a friend of mine took me to some random party, and out of all people, who did she introduce me to? That very guy, whom I will refer to as Goya, for reasons to be explained later on. We clicked right away and I liked him because he was different. Little did I know how different…

After a couple of dates we ended up at his place, which was a slight shock, to say the least. He lived in a single room and shared his toilet and bathroom with the rest of the tenants on his floor (yuck). I will spare you the details about the state of the bathroom/toilet and his immediate neighbors, but something like this was the last thing I had expected from someone who gave off such a cool vibe. So much for the impression people give off and the cold truth behind the façade. It’s all about good marketing, I suppose. Granted, I had not expected him to live in a penthouse, but I had certainly not pictured this type of scenario.

However, the next shock was to follow soon after, namely once his boxers came off: the size of his you-know-what. And this is where he holds a sovereign record: the record for the smallest penis ever! To this day I wonder whether my utter astonishment and disappointment showed on my face when he took off his boxers, although I did try really hard to conceal my disappointment. At that point I was still very inexperienced when it comes to sex, but I knew that 3 – 4cm in an erect state was not good. Yes, size is only one factor when it comes to good sex, I agree, technique is far more important. But in this case not even technique helped considering that I didn’t even feel anything when he was inside me. Nada, zero, zilch. I was trying hard to feel his movements inside me, but even with my wildest imagination… Nothing! Meanwhile he was fascinated by my curves and kept saying that I looked like a woman out of a Goya painting, hence his nickname.

And here I would like to award myself an Oscar for best lead actress in the show I put on, pretending that I was enjoying myself while I wasn’t even sure whether the guy was inside me! Now try to moan rhythmically without hearing the beat of the background music (in this case, without feeling his movements inside you). Somehow I managed to pull it off, and I even returned one more time in the hope of … I don’t actually know what I was hoping for. Overnight penis enlargement? We stayed in touch for some time, but needless to say, the sexual part was over, thus his guest appearance in this book has also come to an end.

***

German specimen No. 3 was in his prime when I met him, good-looking and fit, a tennis instructor and party animal. I met him while he was a bartender in a bar where I spent a lot of time, I loved the naughty expression in his eyes and his insolent manner and humor. It took a while before we ended up in bed together, I actually don’t remember how it happened, but it did happen. It happened a number of times, but I don’t remember the actual acts as much as the complete mess in his room. From tennis rackets and dirty socks, to random items strewn all over the floor, an utter mess. Funnily enough the rest of the flat was neat and tidy thanks to his roommate. I also remember that he was extremely annoyed by the fact that I could never spend the night at his place because of my parents. I was still living at home at that point, and staying out all night was a no-go in my proper catholic home, with parents still hoping for a chaste daugther.

The guy, let’s call him Bartender, was a lot of fun, unless he talked about his best (female) friend by the name of S. It drove me up the wall to hear “S. this, S. that” as he constantly talked about her. He kept assuring me that there was nothing but friendship, which I believe now, but which, of course, fell on deaf ears then, in the midst of my possessive tantrums. The two of them were constantly together, and when I had to go back home after a night out together, they would stay out and party together till dawn, which drove me mad, needless to say.

Bartender and I dated for a bit, I was growing ever more annoyed by his relationship with his best friend and his love for cocaine, while he got ever more annoyed by the fact that I wasn’t free to stay at his place all night and that I hated his best friend (fyi, she hated me equally as well). I broke up with him after a couple of months because the relationship simply wasn’t going anywhere and his coke habit was seriously getting out of hand. He was all cool about the break-up, no reconciliation attempt, which admittedly hurt. I know he cared, but at the same time he was too caught up in his party world to be bothered. But in light of the pain that I was to experience years later, this ‘lovesickness’ was nothing when looking at it from today’s perspective.

I kept bumping into him whenever I went out since he was omnipresent in the nightlife scene in that particular town, and there was always a spark between us and lots of flirting going on, but we never actually went back together. Many years later he admitted that it had been his fault that the relationship had ended and that he regretted it. C’est la vie, as the French would say… Soon after our relationship ended, I left Germany (for good, as it turned out), and whenever I would come back for a visit we’d meet up, but it was never the same again. He certainly tried to rekindle the flame, but the well-shaped, hot tennis player had slowly turned into an enormous mass of fat! I have nothing against fat people, but I simply cannot be sexually attracted to a guy with a huge, wobbly gut who is breathing heavily at the merest exertion and who shoves absurd amounts of food into his face while producing disgusting sounds.

Although Bartender was aware of the fact that he had grown out of proportion and even cracked jokes about his obesity, he obviously still thought that he was hot, which baffled me, to say the least. Whenever we’d meet up, he would hit on me, make sexual allusions or try to kiss me. I really don’t think I’m shallow and superficial, but his attempts to touch and kiss me made me feel sick to my stomach and I’d shrink away from him as if he were a leper. He must have noticed, but his self-confidence was as enormous as his body, so he didn’t give up.

When I was working on my thesis, I had to spend a week in the German city Bartender lived in, so he offered that I could stay at his place. I accepted the offer because he was living with a (female) roommate and because I had my own room. My room was right across the hallway from his room, and I did consider locking my door at night, but figured he wasn’t the type of guy to attack me in the middle of the night, and luckily I was right. But as the days of my stay at his place advanced, I grew ever more uncomfortable around him and ever more disgusted by him, and I was very happy when my research came to an end. It’s not like he was cornering me or trying to rape me, but he kept making insinuating remarks, he tried to be physically close to me and I was constantly making sure that my body language and hormones clearly told him to stay away. It was tiring to keep a three-tonner in check.

Now, instead of calling me arrogant and insensitive, do me a favor and picture the following scenario: Picture one of your exes who was hot and slim at one point (male or female), and now picture that same person being a complete slob, someone who grunts like a walrus while moving around, who loves to drench obscene amounts of food in ketchup, then heaves his enormous corpse onto the bed, places the plate on his (or her, although her breasts would get in the way?) enormous gut and noisily shoves the food in its mouth (‘its’ was intentionally used here due to the lack of human characteristics during the food inhalation). And now imagine (sound effects included) this huge mass of wobbly flesh attempting to have sex with you. Now you tell me whether I am being superficial!

For some odd reason he absolutely loved to walk around in his ribbed undershirt and boxers, and it literally made me gag to watch all that fat move around as if it had a life of its own. He had this certain familiarity around me many people probably have when being around their exes, but to me it seemed outrageous that I had ever had sex with someone like this. Granted, back when we used to be in a sexual relationship, he hadn’t been fat, on the contrary, but at this point I was so disgusted that I couldn’t even remember what he had looked like as a fit tennis trainer.

Bartender also had this urge for physical contact, which I avoided like the plague, of course. During my stay at his place he’d hug me whenever possible, he’d drop himself on my bed, which sent me screaming (and shock waves through the mattress). Well, I wasn’t literally screaming, but inwardly I was winning a screaming contest. The highlight of my entire stay, however, where my jaw just dropped and I was unable to react (which doesn’t happen often), where I was not sure whether I should start laughing hysterically or vomit, happened a couple of days before my departure. He was watching TV in his bed, I was leaving my room to go to the kitchen for some water, so I asked him whether he needed anything. His reply: “A massage and a blowjob”. I simply continued towards the kitchen.

He also had this typical German humor, which isn’t humor, if you ask me, and even in his late 30s he deemed it funny to crack the same misogynist jokes he used to love 16 years ago when I met him. Maturity is a relative term, I suppose. He doesn’t have much to boast of in terms of relationships with women, and at one point even his roommate, a model, couldn’t take his demeaning jokes any longer, sarcastically commenting on yet another one of his sexist remarks that he was such an expert on the subject of relationships considering his extensive relationship experience. Which shut him up, cracked me up and which will end his role in this book.

***

This category includes the smallest penis and the fattest ex boyfriend, so I might as well bring up the ugliest guy I have ever had since he belongs to this chapter. I won’t comment much on him because there is not much interesting to say about him and I don’t want to reminisce about him too much. He’s into erotic photography, which supplied him with an endless amount of fresh meat despite his ugliness, he has a very good eye and he was my first contact with kinky sex. That’s all I have to say on this subject matter.

This chapter will also include experiences with other native German speakers, so my one and luckily only Austrian experience to date belongs here as well. I met him when I was living in Balkania, where he worked as an expat, well, as the director of a car leasing company that carries the name of one of my favorite cars (you will have to read the following chapters to find out which brand that might be).

He contacted me via a social networking site which has played a big role in my dating life, I must admit, after he had seen on my profile that I spoke German, which he told me was very important to him. We met for drinks, he was civilized and we had a nice conversation, although I found it a bit annoying that he mainly talked about himself. Yes, when people meet for the first time, they are supposed to talk about themselves to get to know each other, but this should also include bilateral communication and shouldn’t consist of mere soliloquies. During his monologues I caught myself a number of times as I was thinking about something completely different or trying to stifle a yawn. Had his stories been a bit more interesting, I might not have drifted off, but listening to someone tell me about his childhood in the Austrian pampa (yawn), how he is all proud of himself for having obtained a PhD (woohoo) and how he had been forced to live with roommates when he went back to school in his late 20s (so?) just isn’t something that will knock me off my feet. But hey, I didn’t want to be too demanding and arrogant, so I decided to nevertheless give him a chance. Maybe pampa boy had some hidden qualities fate wanted me to discover? He certainly smelled yummy and was very well dressed, hence I turned a blind eye to the fact that he was my height, i.e. not too tall.

After a couple of days of intense text messaging, he invited me on a day trip to go see some famous waterfalls the following weekend, which I accepted. We had a great day, I was psyched to drive his absolutely fabulous sports car, and I dare say that both of us enjoyed the day and each other’s company. The confusing thing, however, was that I kept having the impression that he wanted to grab and kiss me a couple of times, but didn’t, which was odd, but what to say, maybe he was shy? It did occur to me that I should maybe just take over and kiss him, but something held me back because I had trouble ‘reading’ the guy. He kept paying me compliments, but I still couldn’t decipher him.

After our weekend trip, our communication boiled down to text messaging. Excessive text messaging. He simply loved to write messages, mostly with sexual content, which I found quite lame after a while because I’m more of a ‘hands-on’ person than a theoretician, especially since he was practically my neighbor, so why tell me your sexual fantasies via text messages if you can just visit your neighbor and live them out? Well, some at least. His behavior was strange, why would someone openly flirt like that without even trying to kiss me? Maybe he had issues? Size issues? Sexual issues? Disease issues??? At one point I even asked him whether he actually liked me, to which he replied asking how someone this smart and beautiful could ask such stupid questions. Hello? What kind of answer is that? I soon got bored by his Neanderthal approach and the failed communication attempts and cut all communication.

After about 1.5 years without a word from him, after I had already forgotten about him, I suddenly received a message from him on the social networking site where we had met initially. He wrote that he hoped I wasn’t upset any longer and that he would like to see me again, that he could explain his behavior in the past and that we should go out for dinner, to a restaurant of my choice, regardless of the price range, he’d cover the bill. An odd statement, wouldn’t you say? Where I come from, it’s self-understood that you pick up the bill when you invite a woman to dinner, so why point it out? It started making sense later on though.

I answered by first setting him straight and telling him that I had never been upset, merely annoyed, and there’s a big difference between the two, if you ask me. Then I agreed to meet him for dinner. He replied that what had happened in the past didn’t matter, all that mattered now was that we had gotten in touch again and that I pick up my present in April. Present?!? My birthday is in April, so I assumed he was referring to that, and of course I love presents, who doesn’t, but this odd approach must be some sort of Austrian rite to try to charm a woman…

We went out for dinner and his explanation went as follows: When he contacted me the very first time, he was going through a rough time because of an affair he had had with a subordinate of his and he didn’t want to involve me in the whole mess. Why contact me in the first place if you are in such a mess? Because he wanted something new to help him get over the other mess. Very flattering.

He also told me how he had tried to find me a couple of times over the past 1.5 years, how he had come to the address where he had picked me up the last time, but my name was not at the door (which is true), how he had googled me to find my phone number (which he had lost mysteriously), and how he had seen me in our neighborhood one day, loaded with shopping bags. When I asked why he hadn’t stopped to say hi or to help me with the bags at least, he said that he hadn’t been sure it was me. So what did the Austrian do in this situation? Even though he had left above-mentioned social networking site in the meantime, he signed up again to contact me. Aaaaaaw, how very romantic, isn’t it? I nevertheless gave him credit for his attempts, if he ever really undertook them. And of course the bottle of wine we consumed in record time during our reunion dinner helped us relax and it brought back the mutual liking we had experienced the last time we had spent time together.

On the way home he then asked out of the nowhere whether we would go to his place or mine, and I must say that it was a real pleasure to reject him. Did he really think he could just show up like that after 1.5 years and get me into his bed? My ass! I gave him a kiss on the cheek and went home. He showered me with text messages that night and the next day, and since I hadn’t had sex in months, I agreed to meet him the following evening, when I literally went over to my neighbor’s for sex. As simple as that. Romance is sometimes highly overrated, and there is something to shagging one’s neighbor, I must admit.

The following day both of us went out of town for the weekend, and it was nice to be all excited about a new lover, waiting to see him again. But I already knew I didn’t want a relationship with him, even though I couldn’t yet pinpoint why. After both of us had returned from our weekend trips, we met again for dinner. At the restaurant, the waiter asked whether we wanted to start with a glass of champagne, to which… Hm. I just realized that I haven’t given him a name yet, so let’s call him Dr. Freak – the academic title because he loved to point out that he had a PhD, while the name best describes what I think of him now.

So Dr. Freak suggested we order a whole bottle of champagne of my choice. Alright. I chose. And over the following ten days I was reprimanded repeatedly for my choice, believe it or not. The waiter gave me three options in terms of bubbly, and I chose the brand I like, which is Dom Perignon and which happened to be the most expensive champagne on the list, although I didn’t know that. I was given the choice, so I chose. He didn’t say anything that night, but brought it up the next day in a text message, talking about the fortune he had paid for the champagne. WTF?

Although he ‘scolded’ me jokingly, I didn’t find it the least bit funny. And on top of it he told me that it was ok because it had been a special occasion, i.e. his birthday. At that point I still refused to comment on his moronic behavior, still hoping that he would turn out to be normal after all. It’s not like I deliberately chose the most expensive champagne in the restaurant, I chose the one I like because I had been given the choice. And it’s not like the guy doesn’t have money, he certainly does as he loves to brag about his possessions and the amounts he paid for them. The expression on his face when he’d boast about his acquisitions was quite hilarious. While stating how much he’d paid for something, he’d stare at me with the expression of a calf, wide open eyes staring at me expectantly, waiting for some sort of approval, I assume? But instead of admiring him and ooooohing and aaaaahing I was trying hard to keep my sarcastic remarks to myself. It takes a lot more to impress me than dropping names and price tags. So I simply stared back at him with the same calf-like expression.

The freakiest thing, however, was what ensued that same night at his place. Just as I was about to drift off to sleep, he started mumbling some incomprehensible things in a very strange voice. It sounded like a warped version of a stupidly giggling Beavis or Butthead, it was utterly creepy and I was about to get out of bed and run home. And I am so not kidding or exaggerating. I asked him what on earth was wrong with him, and he replied that he had only been joking. I’ve certainly met my fair share of freaks in my life, but this gave me some serious chills as I sensed that this wasn’t merely a seemingly über-proper businessman in his 40s goofing around. He probably sensed that I was about to leap out of the window and decided to hid his multiple personalities for the time being.

The next morning, as he was opening the bedroom door to go make coffee, he once again started talking with that strange voice, telling some imaginary crowd (addressing them in plural voice with his Arnold accent) to move out of the way. Was this Austrian humor I didn’t understand or signs of complete and utter mental derangement?

Apart from huge differences in our mental health, the two of us were on a completely different wavelength in every way. Although I might be ‘unusual’ (as one of my exes once described me), at least I am not insane. I am a strong-willed person, and I like men who are equally as strong-willed and who are unusual, but I am not into deranged freaks. I am also not a morning person, but Dr. Freak would usually wake up around 5 a.m. to go running or biking, even if the temperature outside is far below zero. Obviously he didn’t go running when I spent the night at his place, but he was hyperactive way too early, which drove me up the wall. But even though I might be a bit grumpy in the morning, I am polite enough to reply to a “Good morning”. He remarked once that I was so sweet to reply to his morning greeting, his ex would usually only order a coffee and light a cigarette without replying to his morning greeting. And why would I want to know that? Would you tell something like this to a person you basically just met?

But the best announcement was yet to come (and this is still the morning after the champagne and voice incidents), when he proudly announced that he was ready to have a relationship with me! That certainly woke me up, and I told him straight to his face that I didn’t want a relationship. At first he was quiet, then he said it was alright, we could just get together here and there and have sex, plus we could travel together, or as he defined it later on in a text message, we could be ‘fuck bodies’. Perfect! Little did I know that his hurt ego could not handle my rejection of a relationship so generously offered to me on his part.

So we started our ‘fuck bodies’ relationship, and slowly his behavior started to change, he became less attentive and extremely cold. I brought up his cold behavior once and he replied that I simply couldn’t expect all the goodies since we were merely fuck buddies. And if that statement wasn’t already pathetic enough, he added that I was such a nice person that he felt sorry for hurting me deliberately!?! Basically he was punishing me for not wanting a relationship by treating me like a cheap whore. He was probably hoping that I would change my mind and run into his arms, begging him to become his official girlfriend. Well, he can wait for all eternity, for all I’m concerned.

But the freak show was far from over yet. At one point I had a friend in town and Dr. Freak invited us out for dinner one night. Since my friend was here on business, she brought along a Greek colleague, and when I asked the Austrian nutter whether he would mind if her colleague joined us for dinner, he joked that he had no problems with financially supporting Greece (Greece was experiencing a huge financial crisis at that point). Huh? I was still trying to make sense of his very odd sense of humor, but obviously we don’t live on the same plane.

The evening went fine, despite the fact that Dr. Freak immediately told the Greek guy in detail how we’d met, basically claiming his stake so the Greek guy wouldn’t get any ideas. I found this extremely annoying considering that we were not in a relationship, but I was still trying to stay positive and not make a fuss. As I’ve been getting older, I have learned to control my temper and to give people a second chance, so I was really holding onto myself during the dinner not to kick him in the ribs during the dinner. Dr. Freak insisted that he pay for the dinner. Great. But like the champagne bottle, this was not the last I was to hear about the fact that he had paid for the dinner. How stingy can you be? Don’t pretend to be some big shot by paying the bill and then rub it in a dozen times. If you’re stingy, fine, but don’t pretend to be generous.

The first week after our initial sexual encounter, while he probably still believed that we would end up in a relationship, Dr. Freak had proposed a weekend at the coast, to which I agreed and which I looked forward to. The weekend before the scheduled trip we spent a whole afternoon together, which included lots of sex (because that was the only department where we got along very well), but also lots of talk, including references to the dinner with my friend. I told him straight-out that he shouldn’t have insisted on paying if he didn’t want to and that he should stop going on about it. This shut him up, but a bit later he began a monologue about his ex, how he had bought her two Louis Vuitton purses (although the number varied from two to four in his subsequent story-telling), how he had gone to Cyprus with her and how she had drunk 1,500 euros worth of champagne in five days and that it was just ridiculous, that she was a golddigger, bla, bla, bla... So? Why would I want to hear about that?

He went on and on, and after a while I asked him whether he had finished with his monologue. I told him that I didn’t want to hear any more about his ex, nor did I want him to compare me to her constantly. He started apologizing immediately, telling me that I was right and that I was incomparable. Yes, I know, you moron. By that point I already had the feeling that everything I said was being weighed and compared to his ex, which is quite an annoying feeling. He had issues with Balkan women in general, to him they are all golddiggers and whores, and inwardly he kept comparing our time together to all of his negative experiences with his exes from this region.

Now you might be wondering how I know what went on inside his head. Well, he didn’t hide the fact that he was comparing me to his negative Balkan experiences, he did it openly, telling me how great I was, that I was different and so on. I won’t go into more details here, because it’s simply stupid. At one point I got so fed up that I told him that if I were a golddigger, I certainly wouldn’t have chosen him. Yes, this was harsh, but he deserved it and somebody had to bring him back down to earth. He replied to my statement with his favorite calf stare.

Above monologue also included the remark “Man ist ja sparsam aufgewachsen”, which basically means that his family was very frugal, careful with money and all about saving money, proper German/Austrian attributes, of course. But the whole phrase itself is extremely annoying to me because of the subject “man”. There is no equivalent for it in English, in French it would probably be ‘on’, it’s the third person singular not denoting anyone in particular, an empty phrase, as empty as the things he was saying. To me, the mere use of this empty ‘man’ showed his narrow-mindedness and limited world-view. It’s difficult to explain this, but for me his statement simply brought back many negative memories linked to my childhood as an immigrant in Germany and it reminded me why I had left the country many years ago. This, however, would be a good topic for an entirely different book, so let’s move on.

The following morning I felt sick, like a truck had run over me, which might have been a psychosomatic reaction to his bourgeois bullshit or simply a cold. We merely exchanged a couple of text messages that day since I had cut the use of this communication channel as I found it quite boring. Given his excessive texting he obviously doesn’t have much work to do during the day and sexual fantasies seem to be his favorite topic, preferably described in coarse slang. What a stark contrast to his proper, square appearance and attire. He frequently fantasized about threesomes with another woman, he kept searching the web for escort girls all over Europe and kept sending me pictures of them, describing in graphic details what he would do to them. It never became reality, of course, despite the freezing temperatures. You find this last remark strange? How odd would you find it if a guy told you that he could not get a hard-on if the outside temperature is above +25C? That’s exactly what he told me at one point and I almost fell off my chair laughing, but I suppose he was serious. Luckily my Austrian experience came to an end before the summer.

We didn’t communicate until the next day (so it’s Tuesday and we’re supposed to leave for the coast on Friday), when he asked me whether I was feeling better. I told him that I still felt like hell, and he immediately asked whether we should cancel our trip to the coast, which I found a bit odd. But at this point everything in relation to him had become odd. I told him that it was up to him if we should cancel the trip, to which he replied that he had just cancelled our hotel. I answered that it was fine with me if that’s what he wanted, and the melodrama began.

He asked me why I was so upset with him (once again I wasn’t upset, but annoyed) and that he hoped that I’d tell him the reason one day, but that he was annoyed now. He went on and on, until I asked him what had possessed him to come up with this imaginary scenario in his head. His only reply was “It doesn’t matter. Forget it”. Which is what I did. He had probably expected that I would start running after him, declaring my endless love and need for him, but he got the wrong person for that. At our ‘reunion’ dinner he had told me that he liked me a lot because I was not as ‘clingy’ as most other women who wanted to get married immediately. But obviously he didn’t believe his own words and obviously he had hoped that I was just bullshitting when I said I didn’t want a relationship. Too bad I mean what I say. Well, most of the time. I deleted him from my life, and two days later I got another text in which he wanted to know whether I was doing better and that he hoped we’d stay in touch. My only reply was that he was obviously crackers, which he blessed with an “ok”.

But it wasn’t over yet, because for the next 1.5 months we were off and on. You might wonder why (and I’m still wondering myself), but the only explanation I have is that the sex was actually very good with him. And it might have gone on longer if it hadn’t been for his asshole behavior and sudden mood changes, for his arrogant episodes. During these episodes he’d bitch about the country he was living in and where he was making a great living (the country of my ancestors), to him Balkans were all stupid monkeys and golddiggers. It’s not like he’s stupid, far from it, certainly no IQ issues there, only some serious EQ deficiencies. I’m not even sure if I would describe him as merely ignorant, but he does have some sort of mental condition, if you ask me. But what to expect from a person who claims at the age of 42 that he learned everything he knows from Asterix and Obelix. Another equally as irritating statement was the straw that finally broke the camel’s back and set a new record: the quickest quarrel and subsequent breakup ever.

We had just started out on a day trip to the coast, he was once again in his ‘I am-a-superior-Arian’ mood and was trashing what is essentially my country. The night before a friend had organized a champagne tasting party at her place, and as Freak and I hit the road that morning, he asked me how last night had been. So I started telling him how we had tried out Serbian and Russian champagne, to which Fritzl replied immediately that it was typical once again how Balkan women referred to anything bubbly as champagne, how they have no idea what genuine champagne is, bla, bla, bla… Basically the same old crap all over again.

First I reminded him how he himself had referred to some weird Austrian bubbly as champagne, and I was about to bring up the Dom Perignon incident, but rather chose to counter using his own weapon, namely blatant generalization. I told him that all Austrians are narrow-minded and have a limited horizon. I have no idea what had possessed him that morning (and thankfully, I’ll never know), whether he was being a complete dick because he didn’t want to go to the coast, but he retorted immediately that we should cancel the trip, that he’d turn around and drive me back home, which I deemed a great idea.

I was seething and couldn’t stand to be around him any longer, so at the next red light I told him that Balkan women also knew how to ride a tram and got out in the middle of the road. The new record set here was the fact that this entire fight took place over a stretch of road of no more than 1.5km! We had just embarked on our trip and managed to end this mindfuck within 10 minutes. Not bad, huh?

And this is how little wimpy aquarius tried to tame the bull, but little did he accomplish. Honestly, there is nothing worse than some moron who acts like a child who didn’t get his favorite lollipop. I’m not being arrogant here, but I’ve been around, I’ve lived in many different places and I’ve seen a lot, so for some little Austrian country boy to start playing games with me and to think that he can get me that way is simply pathetic. I did feel sorry for him many times and I gave him a number of chances, but then I’d remember some of his stupid, derogative comments and I would be no longer sorry. Or I’d remember his pathetic attempts to impress me by promising me a ride in a Porsche or by announcing that he would buy me Louboutin heels for my birthday. Nice gesture, right? That’s what I thought until he added that he would buy them because he was a big fan of ‘bed shoes’, which is Austrian pampa slang for ultra-high heels, and that he wanted to see me in them. All of this might fly with some dumb little maiden from some alpine pasture, and with his kind of attitude he needs to find himself some Heidi who is willing to hang out with him in the Alps, where they can jointly bitch about all those inferior people around them. Amen.

Overall opinion: German guys are quite emancipated, which I like, but in terms of passion and humor they have as much to offer as a celery stick. Needless to say that I’m not too impressed. And I am not too impressed by the memory that many German guys make you pay for your own drinks on dates.

As for Austrians in particular: Please name one sane Austrian you know. It’s not that easy, is it? Freud was Austrian, but considering the vast amounts of cocaine he used, he’d be more known for rehab visits than for his couch today. Schwarzenegger? No comment. Alright, there were a few good composers, but I am not surprised that this culture produced monsters such as Fritzl, for example.