all night long

where the stall door bottoms

~ i wrote ~

I found the real community-of-party design genius in the bathroom, where the stall door bottoms stop a good six or nine inches above the toilet seat, such that I imagine anyone with the inclination could get a good look at the user’s netherparts — the face is what’s kept private — which is not so excellent an arrangement for an uneasy American who has come alone and dressed all wrong (yoga clothes?? Backpacking I may be, but in hindsight it was the worst possible solution I could’ve settled on with the tools at my disposal) and is sweating at the ever-growing prospect that she will have to spend the night dancing sober with the cello-wrapped cardboard cartridge she fashioned to smuggle in a joint and some scraps of psychedelica lodged in her vagina because she cannot get it out and, without the aid of its contents, won’t have the disposition to solicit a stranger in this sort-of sex club for help.

It’s a fine length for taking drugs in a group in a standing position, though, and after I got the thing out and made some friends I partook of a few additional substances in a few additional stalls with a hardbodied oncologist wearing perfect Aryan features whom I later enjoyed watching in some kind of heated and highly homoerotic exchange with the Persian radiologist who’d initially drafted me into their circle, and later still after that, when Omar came to me and said, Dieter say maybe you like to go for threesome with us, I said, Why, yes, maybe I would. Because I mean, wow, that’s the dream. Hot boys who want to make out with each other and let me watch AND do stuff with me? Ja, bitte schön, und danke.

But it turned out that Dieter doesn’t actually like Omar that much, and that Omar is more like some sort of blowhard, a talker of big game, and in the cab ride — they ridiculed my wanting to walk — This isn’t New York, they said — they arrived, beyond my linguistic ken, at some agreement that, actually, Omar had to work in a few hours and would be bailing, and Dieter and I would be on our own. Regarding which I thought, Thank the gods, for going home with a man met on a night out has almost never gone well for me — they don’t understand! How rarely they understand — and this promised, actually, to be exactly that times two. And the titillating closeness of their bodies and faces as they smiled and argued in a hazy, throbbing toilet was a far cognitive cry from the 6 am silence and brilliance of Germany in June, and how on earth could I have found my way from the other back to the one?

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alone at last and also all of a sudden

~ i wrote ~

Amazingly, alone at last and also all of a sudden, Dieter and I found we actually sort of liked each other in the particular bewitchment of Berlin at dawn. We spent a long time standing in front of an old synagogue that’s now a gallery of Judaica, and I made him read to me over and over the historical signage in German with all its bone-chilling verbs as punchline, and then he started trying to coach me through it — Diese synagogue ist 100 Jahre alt und wurde am 9. November 1938 (and yes saying the year was too difficult) IN DER KRISTALLNACHT von den Nazis in Brand gesteckt — and then to teach me to count in German, but I kept getting to nine and forgetting the word for ten, and he suggested some associative conditioning and began hitting and shoving me, shouting zehn! zehn! and it was very, very sexy, an excellent fulfillment of whatever has been incubating since the tender age when I was made to watch all those movies of fearsome square-jawed Prussians. Anyway, at the end of it all, I’m thinking Sieben is an excellent name for a child.

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here is a montage of me

@lieffaxelrachelbank

Ebertbrücke

here is a montage of me trying to explain
the nuances of the word
cumbersome
beside the spree
in the very early hours of a day
photo credit: a german guy
i met at berghain
later he told me actually
he already understood cumbersome
it was all a photographic ruse
i appreciate being manipulated
to a point

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crash his mouth

~ i wrote ~

When we got to Dieter’s apartment — enormous — something like 130 sq meters overlooking the river in central Berlin, €2,000 a month — and gorgeous, just gorgeous, like something out of a design catalogue, thanks to the space itself and also I gather to his roommate the polymathic hematologist, he played me some classical piano and fed me a cucumber from the terrace garden and we each showered and got into his bed for what I, twitching from drugs and a day-and-night awake, hoped would be sleep. His whole body was shaved — more recently than his face, I noticed, but perhaps that was by design, for its shadow was the perfect chic length, except for the unseeable-by-him rim where deep chin becomes upper neck, where the hair was embarrassingly overlong — and the effect was one of all-over coarse, sandpapery stubble that I very much would have been up for having slowly slid over my amphetamine-alert skin, but he was determined to crash his mouth repeatedly into my general pubic area if we were to touch at all, which was just stupid and terrible; perhaps the concept of taking mutual tactile pleasure without specific orgasm-orientation per se doesn’t translate, or perhaps this particular guy was just too dumb. I mean, read the room, Man. After a while, I tired of fighting him off and got up and put my stinking yoga outfit back on and took the U5 three stops in the wrong direction, into the suburbs, and then I figured it out and got off that train and took another, inbound one back in to Alexanderplatz and walked to my digs, the hochparterre in Prenzlauer Berg where my grad school friend’s ex lives with his wife and baby when they are not in New Haven for her twentieth reunion and more, the closest thing I have here to home.

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metapizza

02h54

I am in some club — café is in the name but it is not one — with Beto and Slim and some musicmates of theirs. Everything is smeary and loud and terrific, especially the audio in here, and Beto is telling me he learned to dance real good in his life in New Orleans. I see it. Am I writing? I think yes. It is a labor, but important. It is my meaning.

Earlier on the phone with Darwin, an idea happened — I know it was an idea — I wanted a piece of pizza and I told him that I needed to stop our conversation temporarily so I could go get a piece of pizza and when I rounded the corner in that Barri Gòtic piso with the interior all white like cocaine where we are staying, I guess, to where the pizza was, there was Aurelio taking a picture of a tattoo on his ankle of a piece of pizza — but I don’t know what to do with it. This is a great idea. I can tell.

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