Longing to rid myself of too much thinking, I hurriedly rummage through the undergrowth in front of me. Ten feet away, surrounded by a cluster of medium-size trees, I spot a colorful object on the ground. As I walk towards it, the contours of a magazine take form. “Ach Du liebe Scheiße!” I mutter. It’s one of those mags that can be found in plentitude at my house, the kind that most people prefer to ogle in secret. The notion that someone might have placed it here to watch me while I react to it makes my adrenaline rise.
I should leave, I know, but I can’t stop staring at the cover’s close-up image of a female and two male naked private parts at play. The picture’s intensity serves my eleven-year-old girly existence such a rush that the rest of the world around me turns nebulous.
Yuck, don’t touch that Schmuddel paper, a barely noticeable whisper inside me warns as I attempt to grab it. I pause. Just do it. It’s exactly what you need, another voice urges. Determined to keep the warm, comforting sentience in my Muschie going, I swiftly snatch the thing off the ground and skim through the pages.
Ahhhhhh…mmmm…I admit that previously, I have never felt this elated. Just as I am beginning to obsess on the endless possibilities that await me in adulthood, Mr. Janssen, my teacher’s voice shrills through the megaphone from about eighty feet away. “Everybody, back on the bus…now.” I focus on loading more of that delicious feeling that eyeing the pictures provides. “Last call to board,” Janssen nags again sixty seconds later.
Shall I bring the material along? I really, really want to but on second thought, if I get busted, Blushetta is going to cause me living hell. With great reluctance, I toss the magazine into the trashcan several meters shy of where the bus is parked. Putting on the face of a Madonna, I blend into the line of my already waiting classmates. One by one, we board the bus. I move toward the end of the vehicle and plop into the velvet-covered window seat.
Within a minute, the bus settles into the fast lane. While I concentrate on the ever-changing scenery outside, objects whiz by my head at roughly 170 kilometers per hour as scenes of the busty woman who’s having nasty things done to her flood into my head again.
What wouldn’t I give to get them to stay? But the harder I try holding them in my brain, the quicker they disintegrate like chunks of ice under a stream of running water. Dammit.
Beware of T-Rex
I watch the movers transport our belongings to a spacious, leased townhouse in a nice part of town, a definite upgrade from where we have been living all these years. The building consists of two levels and a basement. The “adults’” floor houses the master bedroom, the kitchen, the office, and the family bathroom. The second story belongs entirely to Vicki and me. Our side-by-side rooms face a small narrow hallway. Now that Sis and I have our own rooms, I am hugely contented that I no longer have to get into territorial fights with her. I even embrace the fact that our floor has no bathroom but that each chamber does come equipped with a sink.
To steer clear of Mother’s wrath over complaining that we make noise too early and to avoid accidentally encountering Otto’s wagging member in the hallway, like one morning a couple of weeks ago, I occasionally opt for hopping onto the wall-mounted wash bowl inside my room to empty my aching bladder. On extremely high anxiety days, I defecate into a plastic sack, which I later dump into the yard’s trash bin.
~~~
I am on household duty this morning, tidying up the mess from last night’s adult “in house” gathering. While vacuuming around the coffee table, I bump into the all too familiar Bacardi Rum bottle that is once again neatly tucked away behind the leg closest to the couch. “Don’t move it, or he’s gonna get mad,” I recall Mother instructing me on prior occasions. Hence, I stay extra vigilant not to mess with Otto’s favorite drink in any way.
It’s a little after seven at night, and Vicki and I are goofing off in the foyer outside the living room.
“Who the fuck do they think they are? They need a good ass-whipping. Do something, honey,” I overhear Otto instruct Mother. Vic and I instantly bolt for the second floor to prepare for the inevitable. Sissy—her room being closest to the stairs—gets slapped with the wooden spoon first.
Tough Gal: Shall I climb out the window onto the roof?
Scaredy Cat: Ehh, no. I do-o-o-on’t think so.
Choked by indecisiveness, I opt for jumping into bed fully dressed. I frantically wrap the comforter around me, making it as tight as I can. A moment later, my door flies open. Within seconds, Mother yanks the cover off of me, pulls down my pants, moves my legs upward and lets me have it.
Later this month, Otto himself pays us a visit, and he whacks both Sis and me with a belt.
Ragelina: I hate him.
The second he leaves, I crawl back under my blanket, my thoughts honing in on visions of the devil, hellfire, and the Hänsel and Gretel fairytale.
In times like these, I contemplate running away permanently, but Scaredy Cat begs me not to. Instead, I submerge myself in captivating animal tales, stories narrated from the perspective of horses. Black Beauty and The Black Stallion become my heroes because their stories talk about their trials and tribulations, pains and desires. I also spend lots of time with Leon, my beloved green parakeet. I let him out of the cage, bathe him in the sink, and teach him to speak. His sweetness and cute ways always cheer me up.
This afternoon, as I get home from school, Mother tells me that my dear friend flew out the window while she was tidying my room. I feel smashed.
Ragelina: I hate her, too. I hate everyone in this house.
“Teufelsfratze” (painted in sixth grade art class)
~~~
Age Thirteen
The “adults” step out for the evening. Within minutes, Vicki and I rummage through the house. With boundless zeal, we work our way through the toys, magazines, and adult movies inside the large mirrored wardrobe of the master bedroom. While Sis is busy with discoveries of her own, I nervously sift through the pile of porn flicks in front of me. The pictures and storyline of one in particular instantly take me hostage. It shows two tall jocks, one fair-haired and the other with ebony tresses, seducing a woman on top of a wooden staircase.
Fantasia: I gotta see this.
Feverishly, I dig around inside the Schrankwand, jumping for joy, when I discover the projector that can play the film. After a few minutes of finagling with the technical aspects, the show begins. I watch the woman on the screen fight the men off initially, but as pleasure overwhelms her, she eagerly joins in, catering to the males’ every wish. I enter Woozyland, a place I do not care to return from, because it’s the happiest place I know. It’s the same intense thrill I remember having on the day I found the dirty magazine in the woods or the time I clamped down on the clothesline steel post as a small child. Although compared to those occasions, this current feeling surpasses them all. It is by far the hottest thing I have ever seen or felt. I’m wrapped in such brain fog that I almost miss the noise by the front door.
“Shit! They are back!” I yelp.
Knowing this often being the time a night the “adults” slip on their monster suits to battle each other, Vicki and I rapidly scramble to destroy the evidence. My pulse throbs against my temples as I hear the key twist inside the lock. We make it out just in time to greet the grown ups with facial expressions of kids who just watched Sesame Street. An overpowering urgency to reach adulthood burns in my veins.
Fantasia: Someday soon, I’ll rent that flick and indulge in it all day long where no one will bother me. Please, time…fly.
From here on out, raiding the “adult’s” bedroom for the latest porn turns into somewhat of a regular activity for me. Many days, it is effortless because a bunch of triple x-rated magazines are already sorted in with the stack of the usual weekly soft-core nudie Heftchen that grace the coffee table in our living room. As I sit on the couch scanning through this week’s stash that’s piled onto the small table next to me, I run into pictures of males having sex with school age girls. A
nother magazine shows a woman doing it with a huge stallion, tied with ropes to the horse’s belly - yikes. On the next page, a lady lets a dog lick her in private places, and worse. I cringe as I turn each page, yet I cannot put the poison down. There are other bizarre scenes that I’ve never ever laid eyes upon before.
On some days when Otto is around while I look at pictures inside those sleazy publications, he passes comments that make me freeze each time and turn speechless; other times, I just giggle or laugh it all off.
More time elapses. This afternoon, Otto involves me in a discussion about boys. I feel ill at ease when he uses the term Stecher to refer to men. It makes me instantly picture guys as horny wasps, flying around with long pointy appendages hanging from them, merely looking for a female they can prick between her legs and inject their venom into.
“What are you going to do when that button itches? You are going to get fucked, of course. You are powerless over that,” Otto exclaims.
I really do not want to know, but does anyone ever listen to me? Message received. Sex is the most important thing on the planet.
~~~
I head downstairs to grab a snack from the kitchen. The only way to get to the refrigerator is by going through the living room. I enter. Otto is sitting on the couch, his eyes glued to the television set. Mother stands just a few feet away, busy with housework by the dining room table. I pass by Otto and walk into the kitchenette to get something from the fridge. On my way back toward the exit, his raunchy sounding voice halts me in my tracks.
“Aww, look at that cunt, uhhmmm, yeah; and the tits on her? Mmmm…I’d like to have me some of that, uhhuhh,” he says with moaning undertone.
Feeling permanently stuck to the floor, I mutely turn to the screen which displays the image of a naked woman who appears to be a part of a non-pornographic feature film. Assuming a possum pose in my mind’s eye like I did in many similar instances in the past, I only have one desire – to be able to beam myself away like they do on Star Trek. Instead, more of Otto’s obscenities hammer down on me. I see Mother keeping busy with what she is doing.
Pristina: Mama. Heeelp me. Don’t you see the T-Rex? You have to do something, Mama. Now. Please. I need you.
Like always, Mother ignores the happenings around her. I sense Ragelina’s desire for having me run over to Otto, place my hands around his neck and squeeze so tight that no further sound will ever escape his throat again. While Otto keeps going with his spiel, I obsess on better days—days of freedom, of being grown up, of leaving this house for good, of finding love.
Romy: Hmmhhh, love. Now there is a hopeful word.
~~~
I lie in bed, a bunch of pillows stuffed behind my back to allow me to comfortably do my homework. This moment, the sound of breaking glass and loud quarreling voices from somewhere downstairs meet my ears. I pull the tweedy green comforter up over my head at once and fold myself into a ball while holding my ears shut. Doors slam with furious bangs, the kind that makes you think they dropped off the hinges. Mother’s pleading voice sweeps through the hallways, closely followed by the sound of screeching tires, which I know is Otto driving off in a rampant rage.
Vicki and I wait until things calm down before we sneak downstairs. Down in the living room, we find Mother sitting on the couch, crying in hysteria. In between each sob, swear words fall from her mouth. Once her emotional outburst lifts, I scrape together as many pennies as I can locate and rush over to the bakery at the end of the block where I buy myself the richest, creamiest piece of pie on display. I slam down the whole slice within seconds.
In the weeks to follow, the ruthless craving for sugar grows to such an extent that I feel inclined to raid Mother’s purse for cash. This habit turns into an almost daily affair.
Ragelina: If they raise my puny two Deutsch Mark bi-weekly allowance, I won’t have to go to such length.
Somehow though, I enjoy the rush to my head that hits me when I get away with stealing.
Weeks zoom by and with that, the guilt increases. About to go through Mother’s wallet again this morning, I am overcome with fear of getting caught and decide right after taking several coins from her purse to be done with it now and forever. And so it is.
~~~
I’m stretched out in my lounge chair reading when Vicki bursts unannounced into my room. She walks right up and batters down on me with her fists without warning. Overcome by mortal terror, I immediately put my hands on top of my head. My heart races faster than I can remember from any other time in the past. I hear Mother’s strong voice from below. The creaking of the stairs tells me she’s on the way. Vicki realizes this, too. She lets go of me at once and hurriedly proceeds to her quarters.
Scaredy Cat: You cannot trust anyone in this house, no matter what.
Doubt Cloud: They have it out for you. Watch your back at all times.
CHAPTER 3
The Groupie
A groupie is someone who gets a fix from dealing herself to a person of fame. The celebrity, in turn, deals himself to the fan, inducing that person’s high by allowing her to use him as her drug. The payoff for the famous person comes in the form of scoring a hit from taking advantage of the groupie’s admiration for him, getting both parties loaded on that invigorating cocktail of being the drug, the dealer and the user. Cheers.
Martina, who is fourteen just like me, lives a few blocks from me. I envy her shiny, long, black hair, emerald green eyes, and tall curvy figure. She says she can get us free front row tickets to one of my favorite rock groups in concert at the Lagerhaus downtown.
“Oh, ja…and by the way…we are going to head backstage afterward,” she proclaims with sly demeanor, making me a bit nervous.
Scaredy Cat: I am not cut out for that.
Blushetta: I’d say.
Miss Vanity: Of course, I’ll go. Let’s see. What am I gonna wear? I certainly can’t have anyone pass me by, overlook me, or label me a plain gray mouse.
The day to check out the rock stars arrives. Super jazzed but anxious at the same time, I pull a pair of black satin pants that fits me like a second skin off the hanger and slip into it. I cover my torso with a rhinestone-embellished classy white cotton top. The next five minutes I spend staring into the mirror inside my room, greatly intrigued by the enticing way the shirt hugs the contours of my barely existing boobs. I pile a bunch of make-up onto my visage, perfect it with a double layer of baby blue eye shadow, and voila, it’s a wrap.
~~~
We arrive at the packed stadium. I closely tailgate Martina while she scrambles through hundreds of emotionally-charged fans. Some of the people hold banners over their heads saying “I Love You.”
Miss Vanity: Hey. Heeeyy, folks…. Look at me. Aren’t I something? Isn’t this a bitchin’ denim jacket I’m wearing? Look at it, dammit. Loook. It has golden palettes in various places. You must admit…I’m ‘bad assed,’ ain’t I?
Multi-colored lasers pierce through the white smoke that fills the otherwise dark stage, closely followed by the first electric guitar solo. Trying to keep my excitement wrapped, I keep my eyes on Martina who clears the way towards the front row seats she’d promised.
I feel the masses move in excitement, get pulled in by their thundering rustle as the sounds of the lead singer’s distinct manly voice crank out some of the vocals of one of the band’s most famous songs. I look at the stage and spot him standing on top of an elevated shiny platform, wearing brown skintight leather pants and a white transparent satin shirt.
Martina wrangles me in next to her as we reach the stage. The seats are all taken, but I really don’t feel like sitting anyway.
“I can barely see!” I yell into her ear.
“Follow me,” she says.
Within seconds, both of us step up onto the lowest of the horizontal metal bars of the fence that separates the fans from the band.
“Much better.”
Euphoria smacks me, which I blame solely on the now bare-chested singer who just seconds ago to
re his shirt off of his torso, and who, off and on, gives me a look that makes me believe he is totally one hundred percent singing just for me.
The concert ends. I reach for Martina, but she’s no longer by my side. My eyes dive into the sea of people. I ultimately spot her talking to one of the bouncers on stage several feet away. I see her hand signaling me to come over. I elbow my way through a bunch of screaming females and unite with her.
“Komm mit. He is taking us backstage,” she shouts, almost blowing out my eardrum while simultaneously pointing at the tall, intimidating bodyguard above us. Within seconds, the muscle-packed dude in the black suit, who in all earnestness reminds me of an FBI agent with the many communication devices stuck to his body, lifts both of us up onto the upper surface while a couple of other guards fend off the rest of the girls who are desperately trying to get in on the action.
“Are you ready to meet the band, gals?”
Scaredy Cat: Hilfe. Nooo.
“Ja klar!” my friend and I yell out almost simultaneously.
“Follow me closely and quickly, please.”
He leads us through a brightly lit sterile-looking plywood tunnel with lots of twists and turns.
Big Shot Mama: Look at me…I’m V.I.P.…Ha-ha.
But no matter how important I feel this moment, my heart races, and I sense a pit in my stomach. The more distance that grows between the crowd and us, the tighter I clamp onto Martina’s jacket.
Doubt Cloud: They aren’t’ going to be satisfied with you. Turn around.
Hot Shot: Hush. You are not going to ruin my fun this time.
We keep moving forward. By now, the stage seems miles away – noise and turmoil no longer audible. All I hear is the clicking sound of our heels. My stomach churns as we enter the men’s private room. The space shows a large lounge area with several sofas positioned in an L-shape on the hardwood floor. I notice a buffet table with refreshments to my right. The long wall to my left holds several side-by side windows whose shades are drawn. Overall, this place reminds me a bit of the sterility inside a corporate conference chamber.
Dealing Flesh Page 3
