The oldest groupie in Weimar

Well, this was unexpected. 

My heart (or ego) was still smarting from Frenchie, although what niggled the most was not knowing his story – Girlfriend? Drug habit? Holiday? Dead? – so me and my friend Earl went to a folk/anti-folk/whatever-the-folk you want to call it festival on the banks of the Spree.

There was a singer there who had played at a UK festival a few years back. His voice is loud and strong and beautiful, plumbing places that don’t normally dare lest you fall to the floor. Which he often ended up doing, half mad preacher-man, half poet.

He asked for requests and I requested a song about a girl he used to be in love with that reminded me of a boy I used to be in love with.

We got talking after the gig, and he was Southern charm personified – he would make Satan himself seem like a tongue-tied teenager. The next day he asked if I wanted to hang out instead of learning German modal verbs. I got my shoes on. 

We wandered round Gorlitzer, got a beer, shot the shit, walked inexorably to my place. He made what happened next seem so obvious and natural it was as if it had been my intention all along. And I swear to God, for once the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. Not really.

Over the next week we hung out, went on a road trip to Weimar where I took some photos of his gig. Which made me feel like the oldest groupie in town. I probably was. Weimar’s pretty quiet.

Whatever. I was under no illusions about the nature of this relationship – he’s a true wanderer, swapping company and music for sex and laundry.

Wherever The Singer went, people fell were happy to be in his orbit, basking in his good vibrations. Hell, he even met my mother, whose first visit to Berlin happened smack-bang in the middle of the romance. Needless to say he charmed to pants off of her too (and dear Lord, I do mean that figuratively).

Dysfunctionalfuckwits.com

This domain name was still available last time I checked. And I’m seriously thinking of registering it. Imagine a dating site where everyone approached their profile with dispassionate honesty.

• French sociopath, secret fatty. Rides a child’s bike. Pathological liar who will create an entire persona just to fuck (with) you before doing a Kaiser Sozay.

My bullshit detector is usually pretty well calibrated, but Mon Dieu, Frenchie completely blindsided me. I’m not averse to a joyful, meaningless romp if everyone’s cards are on the table, but Fatty Depp was playing with a completely different deck.

I have sent one text message, a voicemail and three emails over the last two weeks – the last one just asking him to tell me he was all right and hadn’t had an accident (I actually imagined his tiny bike, bent and broken, one wheel spinning to a tragic stop on the cobbles of an unlit Berlin street). 

Nothing. Nada. Nowt. De rein. Fuckwit. Dotcom.

Feeling a little French

A message from a pensioner in Talahassee, a picture of a black guy’s six-pack, an invitation to a threesome from a creepily anonymous profile… and a sweet, erudite message from a Frenchman who looks like Johnny Depp and who reads Neil Gaiman. After an agonising nanosecond, I decided to trip down La Rue Deppish.

We met Volkspark Frederichsain – he was late, funny, charming, short and ramshackle, with a thick accent and a peculiarly Anglophile outlook. He told me the history of the park, filling in the boring bits with Gallic “blahblahblah”s, and I thought him very funny. I also liked the fact that he suggested a stroll rather than a drink and that I had the exit strategy of a language class, even though I was actually loathe to leave.

We met over the following week for a series of activities that reads like a dream-date montage in a romcom – mini golf, a bike ride, a picnic on the riverside, falling asleep watching Arsenic and Old Lace, breakfast in bed. It was perfect. There was eye-gazing, there was smiling, there was crazy-wild sex, there were declarations on both sides that this was totally unexpected but utterly awesome. There was a tiny little chink in my heart that filled with light for the first time in three years.

We parted reluctantly after a trip round Boxhagener Fleamarket with him promising call me the next day.

And then he disappeared.

Not-so OKCupid

I’ve done it. In the spirit of new frontiers and due to my incredibly tiny, albeit charming, social circle, I’ve dipped my first tentative toe into the online dating pool. So has it been a dark and murky experience or am I now basking in the Blue Lagoon of TRUE LOVE? 

I think you can guess the answer. To be honest, it’s been a bit like one of those funny fish pedicures  – lots of little nibbles but nothing short of peculiar.

I know I’m late to the game, but after nine years with the same partner (prior this sordid blog, obviously) I simply haven’t a clue how to go about finding a mate. Berlin appears to be the capital of casual sex (a theory reinforced by the massive public AIDS campaign that’s running here currently), but I do, ultimately, want to find… a someone.

So, after some judicious picture selection and an agonising night of profile-writing I was ONLINE.

A week later and I’m off on my first date with an apparently  tall, funny, charming and quite easy-on-the-eye Londoner.

Well, he *was* tall.

I’ll spare you the details of the boorish banter, the swagger, aided – as swaggers so often are – by the weighting of a solidly protruding beer belly, and the shouting match with a German lady who politely asked him to keep his stupid big English mouth shut (my words, not hers). 

It certainly has been a week of firsts – first time online, first online date, first time I’ve actually RAN away at the end of an evening.

 

Lesson learned – in case of emergency… leg it!

"Are you a dirty girl?"

So there’s been a silence as I have moved to Berlin.

I had a slow start of sleeping days and hiding indoors at nights in a bit of a dazed depression, but the Blue-Haired psychologist came to the rescue again, with a sunny Friday afternoon in Gorlitzer Park, some beer, some cocktails, some wine, some ketamine, some woozy sex. He has a wonderful heart I think – I feel us both entering Friendzone and I know he’ll be one of the good ‘uns.

So to a party on Saturday night. Cycling through Neukölln, humid air slipping over my skin, the evening – this city – feels full of possibility. So much so that when I spot a slight, bearded figure in a black T-shirt checking his phone on the street I think: “Maybe *you’re* my future husband, who knows?” Idle thoughts to pass the time.

Turns out beardy is a guest at the party, he was checking his phone for the address. He’s an artist and from Croatia. So he will be known as The Croatian Artist.

He knows the hosts as they both helped out at an event cooking a veggie dinner for some homeless Germans (although I’d have thought a bit of wurst would protect better against the elements better than some puy lentils).

A good “Pros” list so far: an artist, sensitive, altruistic, beard, not British. I imagined a night of wistful caresses, wordless understanding… maybe even some light sketching. Despite my charm being on half-beam, I got him back to Kreuzberg, keine problem.

Where it turned into some hilarious Eurotrash porn. Firstly, the B_A_D kissing – the hard little pokey tongue, insistent and intrusive like a snail on a suicide mission.

Oh, but then – the commentary. I wish I could have recorded it if only to play back to the Kooky Canadian. I think we both might have actually shat with mirth. A Euro accent with a hint of American: “Vat sort of girrl are you, hmmm?” “Are you a dirry girl?” “You are a dirry girl!” (no, not *really*, I just have pretty ordinary sexual needs)

"Oh, you’re so tight, you hevehn’t been with a guy for a while, no?" "You hevehn’t bin fucked for a while". (again, none too accurate: I had sex that very morning, just with someone who understands the concept of foreplay).

"Oh, maybe you can’t handle me, I am so big". 

I thought it impolite to start shaking with laughter. So, to hell with it – when in Berlin…

"Oh, you’re SO big, you are amazing. You Adonis. You God. Fuck me, Daddy!"

I think the Daddy comment was a bit too much. He left in the morning without even taking his bag :) But we had a nice coffee and a civilised chat when he came to collect it as if the whole smutty tombola had been a figment of a fevered Berlin night. Which I kind of think it was.

Lesson No 3 – never judge a lover by his cover

"Have your adventures, make your mistakes, and choose your friends poorly — all these make for great stories."

— Chuck Palahniuk (via dailystendhalnitesaudade)

(via thelandlockedmariner-deactivate)

Not-so OKCupid

I’ve done it. In the spirit of new frontiers and due to my incredibly tiny, albeit charming, social circle, I’ve dipped my first tentative toe into the online dating pool. So has it been a dark and murky experience or am I now basking in the Blue Lagoon of TRUE LOVE? 

I think you can guess the answer. To be honest, it’s been a bit like one of those funny fish pedicures  – lots of little nibbles but nothing short of peculiar.

I know I’m late to the game, but after nine years with the same partner (prior this sordid blog, obviously) I simply haven’t a clue how to go about finding a mate. Berlin appears to be the capital of casual sex (a theory reinforced by the massive public AIDS campaign that’s running here currently), but I do, ultimately, want to find… a someone.

So, after some judicious picture selection and an agonising night of profile-writing I was ONLINE.

A week later and I’m off on my first date with an apparently  tall, funny, charming and quite easy-on-the-eye Londoner.

Well, he *was* tall.

I’ll spare you the details of the boorish banter, the swagger, aided – as swaggers so often are – by the weighting of a solidly protruding beer belly, and the shouting match with a German lady who politely asked him to keep his stupid big English mouth shut (my words, not hers). 

It certainly has been a week of firsts – first time online, first online date, first time I’ve actually RAN away at the end of an evening.

 

Lesson learned – in case of emergency… leg it!

"I love heavily tattooed women. I imagine their lives are filled with sensuality and excess, madness and generosity, impulsive natures and fights. They look like they have endured much pain and sadness, yet have the ability to transcend all of it by documenting it on the body."

— Margaret Cho (via dailystendhalnitesaudade)

(via cupcakes-and-lithium)

This is work by Duncan X. He is tattooing me in October.
I have a bit of a crush on him. He draws incredibly well, with a wit and vision I haven’t seen in many tattooists. He’s also extremely lovely and non-judgemental. He could so easily be a prick given how popular he is.

This is work by Duncan X. He is tattooing me in October.

I have a bit of a crush on him. He draws incredibly well, with a wit and vision I haven’t seen in many tattooists. He’s also extremely lovely and non-judgemental. He could so easily be a prick given how popular he is.

The ginger and Dr Gräfenberg

Saturday night was a blind date of sorts. In that we were previously so high on MDMA that neither of us could remember our exact encounter. And who said that romance was dead?

So – a text during the week from someone who says that they “thought” they met me at a club the previous Friday. After some frantic emailing to friends more lucid than me that evening, no (single) candidate was forthcoming. I could remember neither speaking to anyone, let alone managing to communicate a string of 11 digits to them.

SO – I was intrigued. After hooking up on Facebook, I discovered that he was a) moderately attractive b) the same nationality as me and c) we had a friend in common. An email from said friend claiming that he was “a loveable rogue” made me decide… you guessed it ‘yes’.

The date went well. Drinks were drank, laughs were had and while sparks didn’t exactly fly, it was good to speak to someone from the old country – we’re an easy bunch to get on with.

But oh dear, us lot, we *do* love to drink.  

So, from vowing to take it easy and NOT sleep with every single person who expresses a remote interest in me to snogging Ginger in the street, on the bus, in my lounge, in my bedroom…

… where things got a bit amazing. I wondered why he was so cocksure – nothing to do with the size of his cock (small to medium and planted in a cloud of fiery red) – but down to the fact that he was amazingly skilled in the sack. Small and lithe enough to change it up lots, dominant enough to bend me to his will and ‘blessed’ with the dogged arrogance of a man who regards giving you an orgasm as some sort of win, like a goal in FIFA 2011.

The dominance was sublime – unlike the Blue-Haired Psychologist’s BDSM by hanky-spanky numbers, this was much darker for having no props other than his voice and his complete control of the situation.

The flipside was that he was also a bit of a wanker in real life. There had been a few signs of it throughout the evening – berating me for not closing my curtains, threatening to leave when I talked to another man in the bar.

But the one that took the cake was insisting in the morning that I hadn’t had an orgasm during penetrative sex in my entire (and not inconsiderable) sexual history, due to the fact that no-one had found my G-spot yet. Including the owner of the body for 36 years apparently.

What sort of delusional piece of work thinks that a woman doesn’t know her own physiology enough to know what gets her off? And to think that if only they’d had the awesome Ginger Ninja experience they’d be swinging from the chandeliers, ejaculating madly.

It shows ignorance as well as arrogance. Just chatting to most women would throw up massively different views on the subject. And even a cursory glance at Wikipedia supplies this:

Dr. Petra Boynton, a British scientist who has written extensively on this debate,[33] states:[13]

We’re all different. Some women will have a certain area within the vagina which will be very sensitive, and some won’t — but they won’t necessarily be in the area called the G-Spot. 

I was so furious that I deliberately didn’t come until he was almost about to expire with effort. 

 • Lesson No 2 – never date a man with white shoes •