Monday, January 1, 2007

Closing Time

I absolutely abhorr this whole fixed perspective that people seem to have regarding New Year's Eve, as if this was the one night of the entire year for us to look inwardly, and try to run up a tab of all that we are, have been and will be. The things that we've done and will do. The things we swear to never do again.

It's worse that the birthday syndrome.

The night began rather dull if optimistic on my part. I was slaving at the office until ten anyhow, and my left kidney was heavily yearning for a drink. Everyone was busy planning and pinning down the details of their festivities, but I mostly felt apathetic.

Kissing someone at midnight? Pure bullshit.
At last year's New Year's Eve party I was wiping away pointless tears at midnight, nursing the very first minutes of a then-traumatic breakup, and lord knows it was the beginning of the best year I've had in quite a while.

I figured, this year simply had to be better, no matter how I might sabotage it.

I said I'd be alone for an entire year. That was my goal, really.
Somehow, in the first week of the last month of this year of self-celebration, I found myself waking up in another bed, and not even sneaking off in the morning.

It was after a few tough weeks of emotional courtdates.
The defendant: yours truly. The plaintif: all the people I've found myself entangled with from cradle to present day. The jury: fuckign absent, that's what.

First there was the whole international angle. Sometimes summer flings are meant to be summer flings, sometimes more. I can't say that I ever committed to something back in Berlin, but I had been secretly worried that I had given off this impression, projected onto the sky like the goddamn Batman signal.

Suddenly there was a plane ticket in his hand. He was coming in a week's time.
I was still in bed with The Clarinet Player, wondering if again, I had botched shit up.
Making lists on how one might end things. It's not as easy as we'd all like to assume.

Then there was The Lukewarm Guitarist. We slept together on my ex's birthday, not so much because I found him particularly charming or because I was dying to get to know him, but more because I needed someone to take me out for a fucking drink after hearing about what The Evil One had told The Clarinet Player. I suppose that aside from being irritated with him for sticking his nose(hmph) where it doesn't belong - my sexlife - I was also just in need of someone to buy me a drink and give me a fun ride, so to speak.

So we met up on Allenby and after parking Baby on King George Street, we headed to his place, stopping by at th AMPM to pick up a bottle of wine. Now, I don't know - maybe it's just me - but if a girl comes over to your place to kill off a bottle of wine, what exactly makes you conclude that she'd want a relationship?

If she'd wanted that, she would have dragged your ass to one fo the overpriced bars this city is so annoyingly overpopulated with, and made you pay before proceeding to milk the cow. Speaking of which, why hurry to buy the cow if you just got the bloody milk for free?!

I honestly do not understand today's men.
And I know why that is...because today's men are yesterday's girls.

In any case, we fucked. Not anything too glorious, although it was an entertaining night to say the least. He was visibly drooling over my fishnets, adoring them. He said he'd just tumbled off the relationship wagon, which would have been an obvious sign to flee had I gotten my hands on this piece of info a bit earlier.

Say, before I ordered him to drop trou.

"So, are you ready for me to fuck you hard?" he asked.

I laughed, sat down on his chest and explained very clearly that I am used to being the big boss, and if anyone was to fuck anyone, it would be me.

"Okay then, go ahead and do whatever you like to me."

Music to my ears, it was true, but as things progressed, I couldn't help but feel somewhat bored. Things were just very...standard. Not anything too shaky on the Anna Gramm scale, if you feel me. And as I stared at the ceiling trying to figure out what the hell it was, it seemed impossible to pinpoint.

He was an okay fellow, really. He's good-looking, reasonably fit and in shape, owns a respectable chubby pecker, and did superbly from a technical standpoint. But there was just no yay-factor.
At all.

It's not that I could say anything negative about him, either. Well, except for the music that he makes, which I think is God-fucking-awful. The poster of his nominal Eighties Israeli rock band staring back at me from the wall was no great help, either.

Just as I was trying to explain to my shrink a week after, planted on her couch, explaining why I feel a teensy wee bad about politely telling this cat to sod off, it's not that there was anything so necessarily wrong about him.

It was just not it.

On the other hand, I didn't want to feel haunted by this notion that he'd keep asking himself over and over why he wasn't a keeper.

But the again, I never said I'd call. I never promised anything, painted any illusions... Social circumstances would not dictate that a guy in this situation would be obligated to call. So why was I suddenly getting upset phonecalls and accusations of screening his calls?

Oh well. That following Sunday night, I was due to meet R., but his bike died on him so he cancelled. In effect, this led to a drunken dial to Agent S., and what at first innocently appeared to be nothing but a marvelously sleazy encounter.

Only it wasn't.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Even Serial Killers Need to Network

I guess it wasn't too surprising to learn that Tom Stephens, of Suffolk serial killer fame, had a Myspace page as well. Not too popular though, the poor lad, with only seven friends, and that wanker Tom being one of them.

His mission statement, to take advantage of the site in order to improve in the tricky fields of "dating, serious relationships, [and] friends" apparently didn't take too well, huh?

What's a fellow to do?
Go out and murder a couple of hookers, I reckon.

Coincedentally or not, Mr. Stephens lists himself as a fan of 80's music, amongst other atrocities.

Oh, the humanity...

Remember, kids - every time you don't approve a friend request, you may be setting off a tragic chain of events that will ultimately lead to a CSI-esque finale.

Thursday, December 7, 2006

Looking Down The Well

When I left it last, the affair with The Clarinet Player was dizzily driving towards adead-end. Even while staring at him spread out on my bed, fully acknowledging that he is a sweet, good-hearted fellow with a satisfactory build, pleasantly skilled in the oral sex department, and a wonderful conversationalist, I knew it just wasn't it.

Not that I was or am looking for THE IT, as in Princess Bride-esque love or what have you, but more an animalistic it, a raw, chemical it, the kind of it that would lead me to call in sick to the office in order to spend more time between the sheets.

Yeah, this definitely wasn't it.

It was a darling tumble in the hay, as far as these go, because the sex was excellent and there was a very instinctual attraction. But it was like looking at an emptied candy wrapper. I had already marked the metaphoric "V" on the fantasy, and it left me content, but not addicted.

As he was still sleeping, I was thinking how to either elegantly break it off, or even better, keep him around on a low-presence basis. After all, neither of us had expressed explicit interest in a meaningful or even exclusive relationship.

Of course, when he woke up and I dangled this topic in front of him, all emo hell broke loose.

"Is that what it's about? You want to sleep with other people?" he asked, seemingly appalled.

I myself was squeamish, for the words "other people" when coined together in this manner, seemed to be an entry-level indication of a fledgeling relationship.

Oops, I did it again.

Hand me the aspirin, because this will leave me with a headache.

"That's not what I just said."
And it really wasn't.

I had simply made it clear that I was well on my way to celebrating a year of independence after finally ridding myself completely of what may turn out to be the prototype for the worst boyfriend ever, and that I was happy this way - on my own and at large.

As for exclusivity, we had never discussed it, so why would he expect it?

Fast forward to a week and some after the incident, and he is offended and backing away, brushing me off. I have enough people I regularly ignore in my life, I thought to myself, and picked up the phone to text him and make amends. Eran said that in this situation, much like with a frightened puppy, an SMS may be a safer choice than an actual phonecall.

Another brush-off, even when I text him in Hungarian(don't even ask). My efforts go unrewarded, until finally, this week, he rings me.

I don't know what the hell happened with us, whatever "us" was, but I know that just because I don't crave couplehood with him it doesn't mean we can't be cool with one another. I don't want him to take it that fucking hard, anyhow. I don't need more males in the 03 shit-talking about what a heartless bitch I am, thanks.

He says he's been having a difficult time, and that he didn't mean to ignore me or brush me off, and that he is trying to understand. We talk a little, and everything is swell, and I have a feeling that we may be walking towards an Oslo of sorts, a calm return to friendship with the open option of sporadic sexual encounters on the horizon, until it comes.

"So guess who I ran into?" he says.

"Benny Sela?" I venture. "I hear he's been trolling around our parts."

"No," he says slowly. "I ran into your ex."

"Who cares?" I scan my nails for any visible polish chips while praying for the subject to magically change.

"Well, he came up to me and we had a little talk..."

I already know I am about to get pissed off. The question is, to what degree?

"And...?" I milk him.

"And he said I've wronged him, and that it's not cool. He made faces at me, you know. Said he would have acted differently."

"Really?! You don't say...How have you wronged him, exactly?"

"He says I should have...checked with him first."

At this point, not only am I extremely pissed at The Evil One, who has poked his pathetic head into my world again in the form of a social cockblock, but also at this poor, wretched fellow, for being passive enough to go along with this guilt circus. He is losing cred with me, and fast.

"REALLY! Wow. I feel like stock at a cattle show! It's been a fucking year, so I don't know where he gets the nerve to come up with this melodrama bullshit. Like you or anyone else need his permission for anything...You're not even that close as far as casual friends go!"

I am enraged.

"I know."

"So why didn't you tell him to just fuck off?" I wonder aloud.

"Because he made me feel weird. He was, you know, making faces."

"Yes, you've already mentioned that. Anyway, he's a dick. I'm sorry you had to put up with his hallucinatory aggro bullshit. Talk to me if you wanna do something over the weekend."

And with that, I hung up, suddenly understanding a whole fucking lot.
And I already have a feeling he won't call, because he is a coward.

God, just when I begin to think that maybe Matan has cooled off and perhaps had managed to get over that evolutionary hurdle to becoming a true man, he proves me oh-so-wrong. Just when I thought maybe sometime in the near future we can be chill with each other again, instead of just plain chilly, he flashes the grand neon "IDIOT" sign again. Way to go, asshole.

I wonder just how much sex I am being denied because of his big mouth and apparent concern for the ever-flimsy Male Code.

Which is just as well, considering the fact that my time with The Clarinet Player also taught me a few things about what I need, thanks to the process of elimination. While the sex with him was great, there were a few things that I had become accustomed to in these past few months, that were thrown out the window with The Clarinet Player.

The sex was very much Vanilla, and any straying on my part led to a shocked expression on his face, in the least. And so, when I disrobed in front of him one afternoon and sweetly instructed him to get down on his knees and eat me out, his reply was the kind that Baby doesn't like to hear from the boys.

And to top it all off, he suggested that instead, I do him the favor.

Honestly, men...Come on. Sex should never be an act where you're keeping tabs and scores. It isn't your bank balance. And nothing turns me off more than this attitude, or in general, displaying lack of sincere love and respect for the regal pussy, the very core of the fucking fields in which we flower.

As I put my clothes back on, I thought of R., who would get down on his knees without question. Now here was a fellow that had respect for the feminine abyss in all its glory. And he was better at spoiling it silly, anyhow.

And, true, with him I had achieved an outlet for exploring some more aggressive sides of myself, something that dear old Matan could never handle, by the way. I found myself missing him, at least where sex was concerned.

So after a week of waiting to hear a cry of manly affirmation from The Clarinet Player, or any evidence that would be contrary to his being a total chickenshit, I found myself knocking on R.'s door. As luck would have it, I was wearing boots, a known soft-spot.

If before I had simply enjoyed the overall vibe of dominance, now I had more motive to actually kick it into full gear. I guess Joni Mitchell was right about not knowing what you've got until it's gone, or until you find yourself engaging in highly standard, conservative sex. It also helped me realize that the mental block I had encountered with R. thus far, of his niceness getting in the way of me fullfilling the nasty with him, had quickly dissolved.

All it took was one band geek, and I am soaring.

Wednesday, December 6, 2006

Of Mermaids & Malignancy

It has been a hopeless week I am climbing out of. I am still dripping wet with panic, but I am beginning to see a little bit of what people like to call the light at the end of the tunnel.

I am trying very hard to be an optimist, even though this tunnel is fucking never-ending. For over two decades I have been scratching at the surface. Like trying to dig out an escape route from prison using a miniature teaspoon. I don’t understand how people can tell me I have a pessimistic outlook on life when after so many years of disappointment and humiliation I am still here, fighting on, wasting ammunition on a battle where the outcome is never clear.

I am probably the most fucking optimistic person you have ever met.

The first sign to quit, after all, came pressing rather early, in kindergarten. But tumors get removed, and you limp on and re-learn your walk. The first time I understood that this might not be the world for me, it was when I was five or six and I realized, at last, that mermaids, unicorns and centaurs don’t really exist.

Ever since then, I’ve been trying to bring them back to life.
Maybe if we lump together enough tumors cut out from elastic flesh, we could make a mermaid.

They just wont leave you alone in this place. They will mark you with ballpoint pens, ripe for the cutting.

It may sound rotten, but when I was ten, I wasn’t concerned with the future, simply because I assumed the world would crumble to bits by then.

I am quite surprised, frankly, that we are all still here.

I wish we could talk, even though old lovers are of no use to me. What could you possibly say when you understand absolutely nothing?

I am trying to piece things back into form. Trying to heal this sickness, to scrub everything clean. I have even seriously considered quitting smoking. I like entertaining that idea, until the thoughts of my dwindling funds and nauseating duties to society pull me back to my usual pack-a-day habit. I have quit buying smokes, though. My room once more smells like it did in middle school, before I picked up the charming habit.

I wish it was still possible to build a tent from blankets and pillows to hide in. To build a fortress in my bed. It's funny how as beds get bigger, the options become smaller and smaller.

The morning news warns of an upcoming Big Bad, as a result of naughty play in Gaza. I almost can’t wait for the next war, Summer Session 2007. Carnage and carnations. Husky Eyes will be visiting soon. He may not be the most reasonable man, to come here, true, but if there is to be a war, I find nothing more fitting than for us to be sleeping together like we did during the last war.

Sex and war...It’s a little bit like asphyxiation and orgasms. When men feel that close to their final demise, to THE END, they come like they know this is their last chance, their greatest exit. Like they have to somehow push and live on through a wheezing, coughing climax, going into premature rigor mortis, cock-first.

Sex and war, liebe und anarchie. Kisses and katyushas, missiles and moans. That was summer, and I wasn’t even in the war zone for the better part of it all.

But even at a safe distance, it made me live intensely.

Now, in a time of national post-war coma and relative quiet(we are still at the gates of hell, its on every map) I am sporting a mysterious 38 fever that comes and goes, a guilt complex the size of the Vatican, and a long list of casualties.

No mermaids here.

It’s all a matter of trades and barters. Paralysis for action, panic for temporary love, silence for laughter because you’ve got naught better to do.

Tuesday, December 5, 2006

Oh My God, It's a Greek Tragedy!

Something green and blue is glittering at me from the sidewalk. I kneel down in order to peer, half in love with it already, only to discover to my horror that the regal glow belongs to a dead bird, one of those painfully beautiful ones with the metallic feathers.

When I was little I used to see them swoop by flowers, maybe they were getting their nectar jones out then, I don’t know. I used to have this craving to sneak up on them in order to see them from close up, but they being birds, were smart enough to flee before I ever had the chance.

Now, here was my big day. The poor thing was fucking glued straight to the pavement, as if it had tried to smash directly through it. The metallic green and blue feathers and sleek black beak were laced with little droplets of blood, and I was reminded of my nail polish bottles.

The bugs hadn’t yet gotten to the now-expired specimen, clearly. Must have not been dead for long. I looked and looked until finally I sighed loudly, stating mainly to myself that this was a sad, sad day.

No one gives a shit about a dead pigeon, but this...This was the goddamn pageant queen of birds, not that I knew it by name.

Beautiful things have no staying power.

For some reason this makes me think of The Clarinet Player and the sad, beautiful music he makes. Such hard work it makes his teeth shift in their place, he says. He has the most beautiful hands I have ever seen on a man, with crescent shaped white parts and everything. Smooth, without a ridge. Some women would be quite envious.

The saddest thing is I know we will never work out.

All signs point to yes, but my intuition is screaming no.

Our first big night out, I convince him to skip out on picking up his elderly father from the airport. "Come spend the night with me instead," I say. "Let him take a cab."

I sometimes don’t know if I say things because I really want them to happen, or I am simply checking just how far certain individuals are willing to go for me.

Wait, that’s not entirely true in this case. I want to go home with him. Not to any particular home, really, it’s more of a conceptual thing. I want to fuck like crazy. With him, yes. I don’t know if I could ever explain it, but with some people I just feel this insane, almost animal chemical compatibility, like all my systems are sounding off, MATE IMMEDIATELY. It all boils down to our immune systems and genetic baggage and what his genes have to offer mine, I know, but it’s in the goddamn air.

I convince him quite easily, obviously.
4 AM and in the arrivals terminal at Ben Gurion, a stranger landing from Budapest has to hitch a taxi home because I am holding his son captive.

A few nights afterwards, I sweep him home to my place. I was out earlier, with Little T., who handed me a see-through rock. We were doing lines in public bathrooms and plowing the city with jittery teeth.

He is so sweet, so simple, so pure. Much like the rock I slid into my Cover Girl compact. I don’t use foundation or powders, so it only seemed natural to dump out the original contents of the package and turn it into an easy, breezy parcel for the occasional lump, bud, rock, stamp, powder or pill. Inside I glued a picture from Coney Island, circa 1949. Post-war optimism. The New Look. Coiffed hairdos. A group of people is on an amusement ride of some kind. The women are throwing their hands upwards in exhilaration. Whee! What a fitting image for all that this compact has been through. On the other side, there is the mirror that came with it, adhered to the interior. $2.89 at Rite-Aid, somewhere in Maryland. Cheap thrills.

I am driving in a progressive state of lockjaw. I pick him up even though I suppose I shouldn’t even be driving. We are seated on my bed, and I dig out the compact from my purse.

No one ever says, hey baby, I’m bored and you seem sweet, wanna get lost?

Instead I crush the rock with my Wells Fargo card and offer him a neat line. It’s a little bit like in elementary school, where there are those kids who will go along with nearly anything you pitch them. It’s how we convinced Arthur to accompany us through the woods to the Hook Graveyard in fifth grade, even though he was an only child and was to be grounded for life.

It's how Nash and I always played hooky in summer camp and pocketed silver nail polish and went to smoke in the woods, and Molly was the tag-along. Elaborate plans require scapegoats. People will do almost anything to be accepted. I feel kinda bad thinking all of this about him, but no one makes choices for you. It all boils down to what kind of person you are.

He is nervous and excited, in this adorable way.

What’s it like? He asks. I mean, what does it do to you?

Not a fucking thing, it's what you do to you.

I give a quick presentation on the difference between uppers and downers. In case anything screws up too badly, I am armed with Diazepam, to knock us out for a bit. I shouldn’t be here doing lines with the classical clarinet player, I should be trying to land a new job. I am too smart to wait tables, indicates common Ashkenazi logic. I shouldn’t be out corrupting innocents, I should get my ass back to University and hurry the bloody fuck up with getting a real degree.

I shouldn’t be here with someone who I can already tell is pretty much infatuated with me, when I can’t feel anything for them. I am haunted by thoughts that have nothing to do with me. I am thinking of a difference in class, in upbringing, in our histories. How different we are, how I was raised by bigots and elitists to believe that I am much better than he is. How different we are, and yet here we are doing the exact same thing.

It’s my fault, I know.
We stay up for two days, talking. We only leave the bed for the occasional trip to the washroom, to splash our faces with water, or to the kitchen, to bring some tea. A big pot of tea reminds me of Husky Eyes and Berlin and talking to Claudi until I fell asleep.

He can’t stop talking; he is on the upper wave. He weaves his entire family history spanning four generations back, and this is the most fascinating stuff I’ve ever heard. World Wars, the Holocaust, gypsies, affairs, alcoholism, deception and trickery, insanity and uprooting. It’s like an Amir Kostariza movie, and I tell him I think he should write it all down.

It saddens me to think that he comes from all this. But the most interesting stories are usually the painful ones. Eventually we are coming down, and we fuck. It’s the first time I drag him past the hurdle that always seemed to exist there, Shiri. He emerges with his back marked almost entirely by my nails, little pink half-moons turning dark red as the minutes drag on. I had clawed at him. When it was all over, he was panting so hard it sounded almost like muffled weeping.

Afterwards, he finally crumpled into sleep, but my body was still reeling from the lines. Try as I did I couldn’t fall asleep. My hear rate was shot. I could hear the pulsating beats inside my head, right above my eyes. I tossed and turned and tried to find things to think about in order to avoid thinking of other things.

I am thinking of how Husky Eyes bought a ticket to Israel and how he will be here in a month. I’m thinking of what misconceptions he probably has regarding me and what went on between us. I am thinking of the clarinet player sleeping next to me, in love and unaware. I am thinking of how my grandmother is in the hospital and the doctors can’t seem to pinpoint what’s wrong. I am thinking of how I don’t have cash for gas or parking at the hospital, and how she must feel like she is rotting away and no one gives a shit. No one is coming to visit, and I am a shitty grandchild. I am thinking of how I just got fired, so any thought of leaving my second job at Café Hell is now moot. The things we do for money.

I am also thinking of R. and how I pretty much disappeared on him. Not that I owe him any explanations, really. It’s just that he was so kind to me and withstood a massive amount of unnecessary bullshit on my part. And more than that, worst than that, I miss him, even if only in the most physical of ways.

I never know what I want. And I didn’t know that there was so much to take that I didn’t, until I tried to take the same things from The Clarinet Player, only to encounter a naïve wall of resistance.

Monday, December 4, 2006

Breaking Point

It is a Tuesday and my knees are at breaking point. This is the most desperate I have ever felt, I think. Every time I feel the stinging pleas of my body to quit, to tell these poor, pitiful wankers to go fuck themselves while standing straight, I swallow hard(my pride, my pride) and force myself to think of situations where people had shit lined up much harder than I ever will. Say, the Holocaust.

Think of the showers. When you are about to cry tonight, in your own steamy washroom, rubbing your skin raw with a cloth until you nearly bleed, trying to cleanse yourself of this awful mess, think of the showers. Think of creaking sounds and the echoes of voices about to die. Think of the gas. Think of people stronger than you throwing themselves against the electric fences just to get the hell out of the game.

I would have definitely been one of those. There are just some people, you can tell. D., he is young and resourceful. Not the kind who would toss himself against any fence, electric or otherwise. Me, I am weak. I want to throw myself in front of a moving vehicle. But not really, right? Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here telling you all of this. I wouldn’t be here trying to remedy everything in the first place.

I don’t know what I want. It is a sad truth. Das Uberdog makes me scrub the patio chairs with bleach. Before assigning me this most important of tasks, he hands me a pair of latex gloves. To protect my hands. I don’t know if he is genuinely concerned about my tender digits or if this is just another one of his ways of mocking what he assumes to be my thus-far sheltered and spoiled existence.

Because he saw me wash the floors with rags, bent over like a scarecrow. Of course, as soon as I was done he proceeded to stomp all over the tiles. Black and brown with sooty mud and footprints, a size 43 like. Jurassic fucking Park, you know the kind.

Either way, the gloves he has given me are a few sizes too big and the bleach seeps in and gnaws at my nailbeds.

The look on my face must have said it all. Like I am counting the footprints.
You don’t mind doing it over, do you?
I lie through my teeth, like I do every night in this hologram of hell, even though there isn’t even a need for my lies. I would have to do it anyhow. No choice, no words, no liberty. No more porcelain life, as he calls it.

I don’t know what I want. You already know that.
I am waiting for my shift to end, for this brutal raping of my soul to slow down, and then finally cease. I am going to a show at a nearby club. I feel fifteen all over again. Not the fun parts of fifteen, either.

I invited the other employees at the café to come along, only I am thankful for their polite declines, since I hate them all anyway. I didn’t want them with me so much as I didn’t want to be alone. Cross that, maybe all I ever want to do is to be alone these days. I am going to see Brainville, but first I am going to transcend back in the evolutionary stages of me and go play band-girlfriend for The Clarinet Player. What the fuck, fuck, fuck am I doing.

He meets me outside. In the minutes it takes him to walk towards me I scan the crowd seated outside, disappointed to discover I recognize a long list of faces. He greets me with a kiss and I can feel people staring at me. People like The Solemn Drummer, who is probably fucking sick of seeing me make brief and painful cameos in his social circle, dating around like a vampire preying on his band mates as the years scratch along. I’m perfectly fine with that. I’m equally sick of seeing his oh-tormented-me crushed puppy look. There is the nationality factor kicking in, the fact that I don’t speak this language you have, but I understand enough of the mannerisms to know when an outsider is an outsider.

He says I’m silly because we are all outsiders here, and he is ten-fold the outsider because he is not even really of Russian descent. "Yes," I know, I say, "you’re a hick Hungarian. "

Feuding led to borders we set up in neat and orderly maps, and then wars led to crude redistribution. And people like you and yours were left stranded without clearly outlined roots, left to hang on newly drafted lines and names and treaties. Its okay, I don’t know what I am, either. I just don’t want to hang out here at night with my hands in pockets I don’t have because I am wearing a skirt and feeling quite fucking naked. I don’t care about identity, it is preconceptions I am wrapped around.

Whatever. I collect my guest pass and proceed along with the thirsty herd into the venue. I haven’t been here since...Ah yes, the previous boyfriend and his circus ego show. So you pick up a guitar and you think you can fuck like a god, do you? I suppose that even if you replace the guitar with a clarinet, it is still the same complex hiding underneath the floorboards, when the stage empties.

Whatever. I told you.

I watch the show. I watch people watching me. I watch guys who open their mouths to say things to me but I guess the expression I tend to wear after exiting a shift at the café causes the Pariah alarm to ring off in their heads like a blow to the balls, just in time for reason to kick in. Don’t talk to me. I don’t like anyone. This is a result of having liked everyone for much too long. This expression of lifelessness, with violence at the very core. Much like how something can hurt you long after it is dead. Much like memories of injuries and long lists of allergies and things you happen to hate. This expression, like a whore after a particularly busy day at the brothel.

My lips are burnt. It feels like the time I smoked crack with Narco Polo. near the old Central Station. I am a descendent of the Breslau clan, an Uber-Heeb, the offspring of courthouse heroes and enough MDs to operate a full-scale hospital, but I was spinning off crack in a beat-up car outside the lowest place in all of this wretched city. With a heroin addict. Did I mention that?

Anyway, this is real life, not the rerun. Right now I am in the Zappa, fetching a beer to calm my chapped lips. I suppose I just bit them too hard throughout the day, when I was trying not to disclose to customers just how much I fucking loathe them.

He told me to come to the backstage after the show. To the left of the stage, he said, like I hadn’t been here a million fucking times. I don’t go. In fact, I plant my feet firmly where I’ve been standing the whole time, in order to watch the main event. I don’t know who this supposed super-group is, I’m really far removed from anything relating to Sixties psychodelia, no matter how much acid I’ve shoved down.

I just don’t want to go backstage, to see people and talk and be offered a joint and attention I won't give a shit about.

The super-group takes the stage with British accents and senior citizen looks. A few lines into the second number, I am having the closest I have ever experienced to an acid flashback. Or maybe this is a panic attack.

Someone is giving me gummy worms. I am fifteen. Fifteen! I have yet to meet all the people who will have ruined my life. The love of my life left for a sunny state and I think things will be alright if only he would hurry the fuck up and come back to me already. A heartrate off the charts and an array of pretty colors.

Things change, people change.

The singer is bellowing, Who’s afraid of sex?

Probably not me, judging by the way I’ve been indulging.

Who’s afraid of the dark? Who’s afraid of dogs? Who’s afraid of food? Who’s afraid of looking stupid?

We all look fucking stupid, and I am quite afraid of everything.

Saturday, December 2, 2006

Going for the Gold

We have a second date tonight, if this is how it's to be labeled. I hate labels...And our first so-called date was rather impromptou and accidental, anyhow.

Because all I did was sit at home and from out of nowhere he picked me up. It's not like it was scheduled. I never penciled in anything. The Shesek...Oh, why do I do this to myself? He paid. What the fuck does that say? Imported beer.

You all know that moment when you know something is about to happen between you and They. It's not up to definition, really. I just knew when he took my hand and said he is fascinated by my fingers. I am always told I have beautiful hands, I know, I get offers to do hand modeling(previously I had always assumed that this occupation didn't really exist). So fucking what, right?

"I could stretch beyond an octave," was all I could really say, because I'm not good when it comes to accepting compliments.

Just smile and say thank you, dumbass.

The Sweatshop had ruined my once-perfect nails. I feel disfigured but he seems to see things through the Photoshop filter reserved for non-obsessive males.

Oh, to be like him.
I can't.

Anyway, I know that there may be a slight chance that this evening will end up with me straddling him. I just feel it, you know. I remind myself to be a good girl, and that I am often paranoid, so maybe I am just imagining this.

But I wanted to jump his bones when I was seventeen, I can't help it.

Why are we here, really? We've been friends for some years, via the on and off route. But I don't think we've gone out for a drink together since the last century.

I don't pull back my hand.Instead, I am wondering when they'll kick us out of here.
They finally do, at around 6:30 AM.

We float out into the sunshine.

"I don't feel like going home," he says.

"Neither do I."


"Well, I hope you're not thinking of going to an after, because I'm positively wrecked."
I know it's coming, but it's so me to fuck with his mind a little.

"No, I was thinking of something a little less grand," he finally says.

I really hope he's not about to suggest something disgustingly shmaltzy such as going for a walk on the beach. I hate the sand and I'm wearing really nice shoes.

The kiss goes off like a firing squad. I've had really fantasic lays in my ten months of renewed singledom, but no one has kissed me like that.

You're imagining, I tell myself, but it keeps getting clearer and clearer.

I see Shiri's face, inhaling a Marlboro 100 and telling me what a killer fuck he is. We were fifteen, maybe. What the fuck did we know.

She had woken up from a dream screaming that she loves him. They'd never met before.
Life is so...Fuck it.

I feel a little weird, because two blocks down there's a guy who's been waiting the entire week, looking forward to our usual encounter. There's another guy in Germany who's bought a goddamn ticket to come visit me here in a month's time.

And here I am, in all my indecisive glory.
Why is everything such a big fucking deal?

Shiri used to cheat on him and then call me hyperventilating to tell me all about it. God, we were terrible. I can't remove it from my mind.

I need to quit feeling so fucking responsible for everyone else.

We are now parked outside my place, and the sun is shining on us through the windshield. He wants me to come over tonight, but I never know what I want. I prefer my comfortable place on the fence. I do know that I don't want to leave the car just yet. I have that oh dear god I want to just sit on you sensation sweeping through me.

But there might be consequences. Like finding yourself in a relationship, for example.

I undo my safety belt, shift a little, and reposition myself on him, on the driver's seat. Frankly, I'm too aroused to let him go home, but having sex in a car is just too Degrassi for me.
Oh, the humanity.

"Why don't you come to rehearsal?"

"Because I'm not in a band," I smile. I've done this whole girlfriend-of thing too many times. Another goddamn musician. I need a cure.

"Then why don't you come over to my place tomorrow?" he says.

"Because it's morning. Tomorrow is actually today."

"Good, then come today."

"We'll see."

Of course, I never called.

Tonight is a door off its hinges. I see it slamming back and forth against the frames.
Volatile winds and mood swings. Candies tasting of pheromones.
He's picking me up at ten.

Friday, December 1, 2006

Life of Pause

Highschool is when you find yourself taking a second job in the slavery trade otherwise known as waitressing, when you have been working in high-tech for some time now.

Adulthood seems to be knowing that you're doing this because you need to get out of here, of this. You need to sign a waiver on your pride, to ignore the fact that those bossing you around have an IQ lower than the common insect's. It's having to smile when you are serving fancyass schmucks who also work in high-tech, but who have never had to wait tables in their life.

Highschool is finding yourself in the arms of your ex-best friend's legendary ex-boyfriend, and he's confessing that he's was hot for you when you were seventeen. Highschool is being really thankful that you and her are no longer on speaking terms, because let's face it, you fantasized about him when they were an item and you kinda always hoped this ridiculous scenario would take place. Highschool is to still think about her while he's kissing you.

Adulthood would be knowing that not everything that glittered at seventeen is still gold at 23. It's knowing that sure, he is probably a blessing in bed, but there's the future to think of. There's the fact that you come from insanely different backgrounds and cultures, for one. There's the fact that he's a musician, which is somehing you swore you wouldn't do again, not this time.

There's the fact that he doesn't have any of those things girls approaching their mid twenties seem to look for, because these things are after all the foundation for The Future that everyone seems to be so worried about.

Highschool is to go for it anyway, and enjoy every second. But what the fuck do I know, I am now but a simple waitress.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

Children of the Lenbach Platz

The next day, I go with Lori to pay a visit to the Lenbach Straße crew.

Everyone is at Noam's flat - the Germans I mostly remember from last time, a seemingly mute new roommate, and the Israeli technival contingent, consisting of Ehud, his broter Nir, Eitan the Invisible Officer, Tom and Lola.

I am trying to figure out how to get to Kreuzberg to Frederic's studio to pick up a set of keys to the flat. I am motivated to set forth on my own, but by the time I leave Noam's flat I am so disoriented thanks to local weed, that I am a tad afraid of finding myself passed out on a bench in the Turkish quarter.

Thanks to some heavy explaining, complete with drawings and internet maps, I safely make it through a couple of trams and find myself in front of Hard Wax studios. Frederic gives me a tour of the place and explains how records are mastered and cut. I stay for a joint and then head back to Noam's place, where I am congratulated on having survived the journey and treated to bonghits, a-la-Tel Aviv. I am so baked I spend the night on the floor, curled up like a dead kitten.

The next day, I manage to make initial contact with The Mute, who is of the female variety and goes by the name of Christina. Having heard of my extensive sewing skills, she excitedly shows me her sewing machine, and then points to a patch she designed on some footer material, and then motions towards a tank-top she would like to adhere it to.

With all this movement, it is a bit like communicating with a mime, or an airline stewardess going over the safety instructions.

She then solemnly directs her gaze towards the sewing machine.

"You want to learn how to thread it, then?" I ask.

She nods her head excitedly.

I can't even wrestle a Ja out of this girl.

"Okay," I say, "I'll be back in a few hours and we will master the machine."

Noam is content, hoping that perhaps this creative bonding will aid The Mute in emerging out of her shell. However, all hope to help the socially challenged goes out the window as soon as I go to the park with one of the other roommates, as our casual walk in the park eventually lands us on the other side of town, over the bridge in Kreuzberg.

We are at Claudi's house, drinking tea and betting on when the rain will start pounding down on us. There was talk of going to the Botanischer Gardens, but the prospect of rain took the punch out of the idea. So instead, we sit around smoking joint after joint, while my eyes wander off to survey Claudi's bookshelves.

I like her very much, and have since the first time I met her, when she visited Israel. There is something very brave about her, as quiet as she appears to be. We are joined by Ben of Jagermeister fame, and by Joni, Claudi's adorable boytoy from France.

I soon find myself tired from doing nothing but smoking.

Part of me is afraid of returning to the flat and facing the disappointed doe eyes of The Mute.

Ahhh, good old Berlin.

Saturday, November 18, 2006

Minimal Music, Maximum Drugging

I am still very much in shell shock just from being away from the Levant and its unbearable heat and lack of manners. Nearly 24 hours have passed, and not one hungry stare of an ape-like man tossed my way, not a single hiss or paralyzing catcall. The people here seem to fear initiating direct eye contact of the flirtaatious variety, and I am having a lot of fun with this. I have enough sexual aggression thrown at me back home. Here, I am the mistress of my own gender role playground. Leaving the spoils of our consumer outing at Lori's place, we head for Warschauer Straße to meet Frederic in order to go to the party at the Panoramabar. He's informed me that he is also bringing along a "ladyfriend", and through our brief but intense acquaintence, I can only imagine what kind of naughty ideas he's entertaining.

Killing time until Frederic's estimated time of arrival, Lori leads me to a pizza place near the station, where sometimes reggae parties are held unerground, past some sort of cartoonish passage. No reggae party here tonight, but we do make a brief dash to an EBM night across the street, where I spot many a fashion faux pas I find quite upsetting. To make matters worse, it starts raining, and I am wearing flip flops, since everyone had informed me that this was the most hellish summer Europe has seen in over 50 years.

Thank you, global warming. Fuck you, global warming.

Not much seems warm about tonight as I am freezing like a puppy soaked to the bone, wading through Berlin's puddles in frail summer footwear. We seek refuge in a Lebanese pizzaria, where the employees are nervously watching a live news broadcast on the escalating situation on the Israeli-Lebanese border. I try to appear disinterested, but I am carefully absorbing evry word and thinking of my brother. My grandmother must be heartbroken. She has to live through yet another war, her eldest grandson drafted for reserve duty in quicksand territory we'd supposedly abandoned long ago, and her granddaughter fleeing to the one country she'd vowed she'd never set foot in again. Until my grandfather passed away, not even Kinder chocolates were allowed in their home.

My American accent and New England mannerisms come to my rescue every time. I guess it isn't really a lie when the Lebanese clerk asks me where I'm from and I carelessly reply "D.C.". I'm not really from anywhere. I don't entertain those fantasies anymore.

"You American girls are so beautiful," he tells me.

I make a mental note to pass on the compliment to all the Alisons, Jessicas and Ashleys of the New World. Meanwhile, I indulge in Hawaiin pizza, trying to ignore the familiar names spewed out from the television set. They are bitig their nails to the quick, staring at the newscastor with anxiety. We are mixing MDMA into our bottled water in preparation for tonight.

Talk about escapism.

We down it on the train, trying to put on a brave front while battling the horrid metallic aftertaste. Thank goodness some of the Cinnaburst gum Roy sent me had made it with me to Berlin, otherwise my face would have been permanently screwed into that awful expression I take on after gulping a shot of cheap tequila.

We wait for Frederic at the station, and he punctually arrives with his friend, Katja. She looks barely 15 and a bit too fragile for anything remotely resembling Frederic's lifestyle of choice, but is nice and friendly enough. We hitch a taxi to the Panorama, a mega techno palace.

At the entrance, we are thoroughlyseached and patted down by some massive Brunhilda-esque amazona, before we are granted permission to proceed. The Panorama is usually home to massive gay parties on most nights, and a general Soddom & Gomorra vibe is quite apparent. I feel good about this, though. This means most of the sleaze tonight will not be directed at us ladies but rather at the bare-chested male populace who makes up roughly 80% of the club.

The place is huge, decorated in a stren and precise manner, and is packed with hot, toned male bodies writhing against each other. Normally I would feel a little out of place in such a merry orgy scene not geared towards my uterus and other anatomical favorites, but I'm just smiling like an idiot and looking on. The MDMA is starting to kick in, and I feel those floaty tingles normally associated with the ultimate love potion. Frederic finds us again and invites us upstairs to take some E, which he passes to me with a kiss, then proceeds to do the same for Lorca. I hope she isn't too taken aback by him, because it is quite obvious to me that by the end of the night he will probably invite her to take part in a threesome with us. Right now I am too focused on the fuzzy vibrations to stop and ponder if this is cheeky behavior on his part.

The music is very minimal techno. I can't dance to this shit, but I can certainly lean back and enjoy the chemical reactions battling like a pillow fight in my brain. I spill the beans to Lori about my wild night with my new friend, and she declares me a slag. Clearly, one of the signs of the coming apocalypse, along with Paris Hilton vowing to go celibate for an entire year. The MD seems to be doing the trick, as I find myself almost uncontainably happy and stroking the ledge of the sofa. Lori rises and throws up in the most elegant way I have ever seen, but says she feels much better now.

My body temperature is going schizo on me, and every few minutes there is a decision to either disrobe or pack on the layers once more. We are briefly pestered by a loud British fellow, clearly hopped up on something, and painfully unaware of the dominant sexual orientation in this particular club. We escape and take an enchanted tour of the premises, complete with cells for sex.


No wonder cameras are not allowed in here, not that it mattered to yours truly. The place looks like what a Village People video might haved looked, had they been immensely popular in the early 90's and heavily into BDSM.

As the sun rises, Frederic and Katja meet us in the downstairs lobby, and we split a cab home. Surely enough, Frederic had indeed pitched the threesome idea to Lori, who politely declined the invitation but congratulated him on having the balls to ask.

He and I go home, where he draws a hot bath for us. Aside from the obvious hygenics routine, there is also the fucking, very far from standard "vanilla sex". For his age, the fellow certainly has stamina.

We later stage a "Six Feet Under" marathon. I find it amusing just how annoyed Frederic gets with Brenda's promiscuous behavior on the show.

"So what is it that peeves you so much about Brenda," I ask as she fucks yet another stranger behind Nate's back. "The sex or the dishonesty?"

Frederic explains to me that he himself has a steady girlfriend, but he told her about my being a special guest in his home. "The bitch's dishonesty, of course," he smiles.

Of course.

We both cheer on Claire as she stumbles to find her own identity, and eventually drift off to sleep.

Friday, November 17, 2006

Of Flatmates and Things

At home, Frederic takes care of the cooking while I take care of personal hygeine and indulge in a revitalizing shower, surrounded by R2D2 and friends. Contrary to the bitter European experiences of my past, there is a generous flow of hot water. This also sits well with the general urban decadence of the flat and the beautiful complex it is nestled in.

We eat in the living room, staging an indoor picnic on the wooden floor. Through the two huge windows I can see the sun setting. The wine turns out to be an excellent choice, and I am reasonably buzzed by the time we crack open the second bottle. Frederic tells me about the times he has visited Tel-Aviv in order to play parties there, since he is quite an esteemed DJ. I actually recall a party he played at HaTzofeh(RIP), which was indeed a hell of a time.

We relax on the sofa, and I eventually succumb to a little nap, to be awakened by a very generous act being performed on me, the kind some would say "separates the boys from the men". The kind of act where I reckon it is hard to not wake up catching your breath as a result, so long as it is done right.

We end up having extremely kinky sex on the living room floor. What the fellow lacks in girth, he more than compensates fro with creativity. I suppose it is a good thing he landed a liberated houseguest such as myself, considering he is very much into dirty talk.

I actually had plans to attenda party at Ben's, who I favorably remember as the bringer of Jagermeister from the Various Aquarious party last winter, but I am literally too fucked to even consider going.

Frederic and I go for another round and then retire to sleep. I can't help but wonder what my Homeland Subby would think about all this, but I am quick to remind myself that we never discussed exclusivity(I certainly don't crave it at this point in time) and besides, fuck it, I'm on vacation.

I have come to Berlin with the intent of drinking their beer, eating their baked goods, and fucking some meshuggeneh goyim. It's simply that simple, so I try to live by it.

Frederic is like the very negative of any scenario I had under my belt at home, anyhow. Suddenly I am on the receiving end of orders and requests. Come morning, I am treated to a hearty German breakfast consisting of toast, eggs, ham, butter and a tray of cheeses. I'm more of a fruit and granola gal when it comes to the first meal of the day, but being a practical person on a limited budget, I dig in, hoping that this will aid me in avoiding a food-related financial splurge later in the day. Protein is protein, after all.

After the most important meal of the day has been consumed and done away with, I soon find myself in a spread-eagle position usually reserved for Dr. Rosenberg's exam table, balancing myself on a wooden beam in Frederic's kitchen. Nothing like a healthy serving of morning sex, or as Gabi's dad once colorfully illustrated, it's like a nooner, only sooner.

After a post-coital nicotine break, Frederic accompanies me to the tram station, and escorts me to Ostkreuz to meet Lori. Lori has been renting a gallery bed in the kitchen of two German students on Lenbachstrasse, Noam's street. Aside from finding herself in a conveniant spot, she also found Ehud Eighties living in a van beneath her newly adopted apartment building. Ehud has by now fully embraced the technival culture, following his life-altering experiences at Czech-Tek.

Fredric, Lori and I sit down for coffee at a cafe on Sonntagstrasse, and eventually we girls bid him farewell, making plans to hit a techno party later that evening. Because of his DJ status in these parts, free entry is guaranteed, as well as - or at least, as that practical side of me hopes - free drugs. Lori invites me to see her gallery bed before we move on to do what women are gentically programmed to excell at - shopping. I am relieved to find that her roommates are not the cannibalizing fiends I'd pictured them to be, although to be fair, I only met one of the two.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Start Anew

While I am still brushing myself off from my last tumble through the blogosphere, which - in addition to landing me drinks on other people's tabs and a loyal army of blogging minions - also got me sued, I am back.

It is rather unfortunate that relocating my blogging activities seems to be the closest thing to the Witness Protection Program one can get online, other than the obvious solution - to remove themselves from public blogging altogether.

However, I refuse to let legal threats made by individuals with badly cut hair and a few of their own skeletons in the closet to scare me off.

And so, here I am.
This time around, I'm armed with a lawyer.