Overly bored, I enter into an intense staring contest with the guy to the right of me. Hot Shot has me flip my hair back and forth while I pull the fellow deeper under my spell with each batting eye. A second later, he rear-ends the car in front of him, bringing his lane to a complete halt, while mine keeps going.
Hot Shot (gloating): I love my mojo.
Several hours later, looking and smelling like a starlet, I prowl through the small alleys of old town Stuttgart. A group of men passes me by. From the corner of my eye, I watch how their heads turn to follow my silhouette. Wooing whistles fill the air. I hear one of the guys shouting, “Man, did you see her amazing eyes?”
Miss Vanity (elated): The hard work is paying off. I must be getting a lot closer to Goddess status.
~~~
Having become a recognizable fixture in a bunch of prestigious clubs over the years, I take pride in my ability to slip by nearly any of the tough-faced doorkeepers these days, even knowing many of them by name.
Miss Vanity, Hot Shot, and Big Shot Mama are all smiles when the bouncers single me out of the crowd and make room to get me inside before anyone else does, as if I were some kind of celebrity.
Miss Vanity: You paid your dues girl.
To my knowledge, what gets the portals to swing open easiest is to either be a hip and trendy knockout, a public figure, filthy rich, or a well-known regular. Sometimes though, it is simply “hit or miss.”
Inside the club tonight, the crowd has a particularly awesome vibe. A slave to good music, I trance out on the dance floor for two hours straight. I make my way over to the bar for a quick thirst quench.
Over to my right, I spot a tall black man with friendly brown eyes sitting in one of the lounge chairs that have tables in front of them. His mysterious energy and the funky, quite unusual New York-style gangster suit that he wears, draw me in at once.
Lustania (mumbling): Gosh, he’s hot. I want, I want, I want.
He smiles, gesturing me to come closer. Unwilling or, shall I say, unable to refuse the offer, I join his side. He introduces himself as Geronimo. We talk for a while.
“You don’t know who I am, do you?”
“Should I?”
He mentions his public figure status in the United Kingdom. Wha…? Now, it clicks.
“Oops. I apologize.”
Scaredy Cat: Damned, he’s an icon. How am I ever going to be enough for him?
Hot Shot: Don’t worry. I’ll make him fall for me.
Romy: Well, the best of luck. If you ask me, he looks like a real piece of work…albeit I am highly tempted to give him my heart.
Lulled by his charm and intrigued by his game, I take him home. His sexual performance puts most of my previous entanglements to shame.
Lustania: Credit to his incredible endowment.
Despite the load of fun though, the Big O still evades me.
“Mister Handsome” gets up around 8:00 Uhr.
I chuckle when I see him take a seat on the floor in the middle of the room. He bends himself into a cross-legged position and begins to meditate, something I know nothing about or ever saw anyone do during my time on this earth.
Hot Shot: He’s a weirdo.
Romy: It’s fascinating. He’s definitely a keeper.
The only problem is…he doesn’t care to be kept. On voicing my interest for serious companionship, he merely replies,
“My dear, I think you gotta take some time out at the pasture and see more of the world to find out who you are.”
Big Shot Mama: He’s definitely out of his mind. Does he have a clue who I am or where I’ve been?
Doubt Cloud: I am nothing but a ‘plaything’ to him, damned.
Romy: We make such a nice couple.
Hot Shot: Ah, forget him. I’ll find another guy in no time.
Geronimo and I meet two more times, but fairly soon after, the contact fades.
Flood Gates
Over the course of the following months, I stagger across luscious green grass nearly everywhere I go. Keeping the flood gates open, I indulge in a little taste of Henry, a well-built black army man; Axel, a beautiful white print model; Frederick, another model; Roberto, an Italian one-night stand; Karl, a bodybuilder from the nightclub; Ralf, a white guy from the grocery store; Justin, a professional dancer from the Far East; George, a George Michael look-alike, and probably a few more that do not come to mind this moment.
On a few occasions, while I’m busy screwing one of my many lovers inside my apartment, other contenders ring the doorbell downstairs.
Pretender Babe: Exulting.
Hot Shot: Yap. It feels good to be in such demand.
Thankfully, the men never collide in the hallway on their mission to rendezvous with me.
~~~
Surrendering to the urge of wanting to become one of the cool and much adored nightclub barmaids, I resign from my job at the office and get hired as a cocktail waitress and barista at the lively Ricochet Club on the downtown strip. I can feel Blushetta shake in her boots as I walk in to report for my first shift tonight.
The hours drag on as I battle to outgrow amateur status. I get home at five this morning. Terribly fatigued, I am ready to quit. I do not know what moves me to show up again this evening but I do, as well as the following night, and several nights the coming week.
I’m on shift number twenty, admiring my improvement in mixing drinks. I now move with the ease of a pro, I might add, juggling fully loaded trays from patron to patron in five-inch spike heels without batting an eyelash.
With alcohol no longer appealing to me, I pick up a compulsive habit of smoking cigarettes. Miss Vanity claims it goes well with my new hipster status so I puff away whenever there is downtime, easily going through a pack of smokes per day.
Much to Hot Shot’s elation, a smorgasbord of hunky males from many different places flocks to my station tonight. Oliver is the first who makes me gasp for air. Better looking than the pirate version of Johnny Depp, he qualifies as an instant showstopper.
Having learned that men are drawn to you more if you play hard to get, I force myself to put on a stone face of complete and utter disinterest, looking in the opposite direction from where he stands. A few times, I catch myself trying to track his whereabouts, longing to know whom he is talking to.
Lustania: I don’t care if it’s just for an hour. But I have to have that delicacy.
Miss Vanity frantically spurs me to sneak off into the restroom. A bit more lipstick here and a tad more perfume there, fluffing up the hairdo with my fingers, I take a quick last peep into the mirror to make sure my derrière looks perfect in the short purple sponge fabric skirt. Back at the bar, I move around like a busy bee, anything to distract myself from the irresistible pirate. I lose track of him, coming to accept that he must have left. My head shifts to the right. I feel jolted. There at the end of my counter he stands, signaling me to come by.
Doubt Cloud: I must be dreaming?
Romy: If they get any better looking, I think I’m gonna pass out.
My pulse rate shoots up now that I’m approaching the desirable cutie. I’m just glad it’s dark enough to hide Blushetta.
“Hi,” he says in a way that intoxicates me as I stand in front of him. “Can I get a screwdriver please?”
Romy: “Wow, he’s even more handsome up close.”
“Certainly. Be right back,” I reply, throwing a triple Lutz inside.
We flirt heavily throughout the night, landing at my apartment after shift’s end. Sex happens, but it disappoints.
Miss Vanity: Although I have no desire to renew his contract, I think I’ll keep him around for public appearances. You know, how much I enjoy seeing other women drool over something that belongs to me.
Big Bad Wolf Syndrome
On a quiet Tuesday evening, one of the slowest nights of the week, a rugged, masculine-to-the-core fellow takes a seat at my bar. I am instantly attracted to the dark, all-weather sailor type. In his presence, I feel like Little
Red Riding Hood in front of the big bad wolf that has come to devour her—just not in the conventional kind of way, if ya’ catch my drift. During the conversation I find out that we both have a mutual acquaintance.
“What are you doing tomorrow? I’m asking because I’d like you to come to the lake with me,” says T.
“I’ll go anywhere with you,” is at the tip of my tongue, but I bite it. Regaining my composure, I tell him that I’m delighted to get together.
Lustania (growling): Out of my way. Absolutely nothing is going to mess this one up.
Lying in bed tonight, I can barely get an eye shut because Fantasia keeps dealing me pictures of T and I as we wear each other out in bed.
When morning comes, I call up our mutual acquaintance. My jaw drops when the person shares with me that I am about to go on a date with evidently one of the most influential pimps in Stuttgart.
Lustania: Well, what do you know? Watch out because I long to tame that bad boy by giving it to him better than any woman ever has.
Hot Shot: If I can get him to fall for me, I’d earn the title of “Hottest babe on the planet.”
T and I meet at the proposed spot. My heart beats fast as he rolls up in the mysterious-looking, expensive, dark vehicle with tinted windows, you know, the kind Mafia bosses drive.
Big Shot Mama: That’s bitching awesome. Look at me. I am a ‘bad-assed’ chick with underground connections.
I jump into his ride and we take off for the lake. Time flies while we are having fun in the sun. Soon, we are headed back to the city. T takes me to dinner at an Italian restaurant. While trying to concentrate on the food, I sense Lustania’s struggle with sitting still.
Lustania: Oh, fuck dinner. I’d rather be screwing his brains out now. Now, now, nooowww.
We leave shortly after supper and arrive at my place within minutes. Once inside, we go at it as if a medal is to be won. The windows fog up as the loud animalistic show makes my make-believe climaxing appear so realistic that I almost convince myself of its legitimacy.
We arrange a couple more tête-à-têtes at my house this week. The more I see of T, the more Romy wants to seal the deal. I sure hope she wakes up to the reality that this man pimps women so that he can play the big shot. He probably sleeps with most, if not his entire stable of mares. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it apparently is NOT a duck.
Lustania: Who cares about what the situation is? I need this sex god right here…right now to do it to me just one more time.
A few days pass. Tired of barking up a hollow tree, I bury the connection to T for good. “So long, Big Bad Wolf.”
CHAPTER 10
Cave Dweller
Greatly relieved that Vicki severed her ties to H, we hang out at the Fantasmick club tonight. Upon entering, I immediately hit the dance floor. I watch Vic joining a bunch of people by the bar that she seems to be familiar with.
An hour goes by. I am still shaking a leg and Vicki is still engaged with the same group of people on the other side of the room. Looks like she’s having a good time and looking mightily involved in a dialogue with a tall, rugged guy who to me could be mistaken for someone who plays in a band. Unfortunately, I find out later that he is yet another “bad news” character, connected to the “milieu.”
Over the course of the weeks to come, I hear her tell many stories about the two of them. It’s clear to me that she’s fallen hopelessly under that fellow’s spell.
It’s a few weeks later. She calls me this morning, whining that the guy has a violent streak and beats her often. I long to scream at her, “I told you so,” but I keep quiet. From our conversation, I can tell that she wishes to leave him, but I instantly sense that she doesn’t know how.
“It’s complicated,” she says.
I get it. Too consumed by my own drama, I keep my advice to myself.
~~~
Around this time, the “adults” take on Stuttgart. They move into a structure approximately thirty minutes from where I live.
Ragelina: They better not fuck with me.
On a good note, I get to worry less about Vic. On another, I instantly retreat even further into the tightly sealed cave of my own making, resolute to close off nearly all avenues on the informational highway even more so than before.
As the weeks pass, I watch the “milieu” harden Vicki. Her street jargon worsens, and I find it increasingly more challenging to be in her company for more than five minutes. Eventually, our contact stops entirely.
~~~
More time zooms by. Otto calls me this afternoon saying Vicki attempted suicide several weeks ago, further disclosing that she is presently residing at a mental health facility or some place like that.
Scaredy Cat: Fuck…she must have been in tremendous pain to do a foolish thing like that. I hope she’s gonna be alright.
A swarm of emotions hits me. I feel helpless, numb, and definitely angry that as usual, I am the last person to get clued in on significant events, often long after the situation initially occurred. An incessant yearning to escape the wreckage of my past and present, Toby’s betrayal, and everything in between confirms again what I’ve been feeling all along. I must get away so far, that no one in my family, nor anyone else, would want to under-go the effort of seeking me out.
Hot Shot: Besides, modeling will be a whole lot easier in America.
CHAPTER 11
Dress Rehearsal
Los Angeles, California
Ron, my newly-acquired African-American pen pal who’s agreed to show me around while I spend a two-week vacation at his house, picks me up from Los Angeles International Airport this afternoon. Having hoped that we would hit it off romantically, I find that now that I see him in person, I am no longer attracted. Who could have known that photographs can be so deceiving? Yet, I am intensely grateful for his kindness to let me stay at his Santa Monica apartment and for his offer to drive me around.
The second night of sleeping in the same bed together, Ron makes a physical move on me. Tormented by guilt, thinking I need to repay him for his generosity, I allow him the use of my body. During the entire time, I lay stiff like a washboard. His increasing impatience over my non-participation becomes largely visible, especially now that he stops, turns on his bedside lamp, grabs a Bible, and begins reading aloud. A bunch of holy words fly at me, which I may mistake for phrases used to drive out demons during an exorcism.
Scaredy Cat: What a religious freak. Disgusting.
But thanks to Pretender Babe’s diplomatic skills, the vacation isn’t entirely ruined yet. The remaining ten days pass by fairly harmoniously without further exchange of sexual gratuities or bouts of Bible-thumping.
Pretender Babe: Do you want me to fake it so he’ll marry you to solve the green card problem?
Tough Gal: That won’t be necessary. I’d rather tough it out.
Romy: That’s right. I won’t settle for anything less than the ‘glass-slipper’ dream…and for sure only once.
One Last Hit
Back on German domain, I return to my old routine within days. Driven by the burning desire to move to America near the end of the year, I take on a catering assignment to save up enough to make my move. Meanwhile, a new pen pal offers that I can stay with him until I establish myself.
On my lunch break this afternoon, a gorgeous black American army man, whose stature reminds me of a Marine, wows me. I find out that he is stationed right outside Stuttgart. He goes by Darcel.
Romy: Just my luck. Couldn’t he have shown up before the decision to leave was made?
I take him home right after work. His sweetness and amazing skills in bed impress me so much that I feel tempted to call off my relocation plans.
Romy: Finally, someone I really like.
Whip Cracker: Trust me, he’s not worth it. You can find a million Darcels in L.A. I’ve got better plans for you. You will be a rarity in America. Men will stand in line to be with a fine European chick like you.
Okay…sold. Sa
ying good-bye to Darcel proves tremendously challenging. But once I do it, I don’t look back. Instead, I move ahead as planned, motivated by an inner certainty that fills me with the conviction that my destiny is not tied to this continent.
Exodus
I am spending my last night on German soil inside the “adult’s” guest room.
Immensely tired, yet driven by the excitement of getting a chance to find revival in a new land, I jump out of bed at four o’clock a.m. As I’m getting ready for the road, I sense Mother’s nervous energy encapsulate me. The look on her face reflects concern. The heck with it. There will be no stopping me, even if the whole world thinks I’m crazy for leaving. I gotta get away, or I’ll die.
I grab my oversized suitcase on wheels, the duffle bag, and a couple of carry-ons and schlep into the kitchen. Mother’s eyes fill with water as I utter a quick, detached “goodbye.” I try to access my feelings but can’t. But I do detect an inner well of bubbling relief.
“Call me,” says Mother as I am giving her a briefer than brief hug.
I leap for the door on imaginary springs. The cab driver in front of the house loads my belongings into the vehicle. Now that I’m sitting down, I sense an incredible lightness saturate me. My heart beats fast.
“To the airport, please,” I tell the chauffeur.
We arrive at the airport’s international terminal. I make my way inside.
Two hours pass. Head held high, temporary confidence dripping from every pore I strut down the tunnel-like ramp that leads inside the aircraft.
Scaredy Cat: I don’t know about this.
Doubt Cloud: Are you sure this is the right move?
Absolutely. Glorious, this day…absolutely glorious.
During lift off, I nervously flip through the pages of my Los Angeles guidebook.
Tough Gal: Relax. I’ve got your back. If all goes well, you should arrive in the land of the free within fifteen hours from now.
Dealing Flesh Page 10
