I left London to be with Catherine, I left it on a Saturday in a dirty old plane, and arrived in the pouring rain. I left London to be with Catherine, and instead, I fell in love with a bloody actor.
Catherine put me up in her flat; Catherine rubbed my cock a little when we tried sleeping together, but she'd moved on and I was confused. She'd given up on me already.
I met Florian on a Sunday at Schönbrunn castle, where the auditions for drama school were held. It was my first week in Vienna, the autumn after a hot summer, and my first taste of freedom. The first time too I had the conscious thought: yup, you could love a man, if you only dared. But I was young, so young, and so terribly shy. I never had the right words, never the right answer.
I walked alone through the Schönbrunn Park, trying to make up my mind what to do with my life. Studying languages was hardly a career, philosophy more a vocation. In those days people became bankers, programmers, economists -- they learned about money and greed, not about the nature of love and how to say that in Romanian. But then I was always a dreamer. I wanted to drive trains, or live on a boat and catch fish. I didn't want any part in the real world. I didn't see myself as a lawyer, or a doctor, or any other regular profession. I was inexorably drawn not to something, but away from something. Away from everything I knew and despised, and to something mysterious and beautiful. Something pulled me, something called me always.
Anything that would pay me money seemed base; everything done out of love utterly romantic. But that was an option in the 18th century, or for those in possession of family heirlooms, not for a boy from East London with a mother on disability pay and a German father who worked on a container ship, and was never home.
So here I was, drawn and pulled, following Catherine for no other reason than this: she gave hand-jobs, and knew well before I did that I might be into boys. I was nineteen that autumn, and completely lost. I was nineteen, and everything happened so bloody fast!
A queue had formed outside one of the buildings, in front of a side door with the sign AUDITIONS. At least a hundred young men and women stood waiting, with books and loose pages in their hands, learning their parts. Some had sat down on the grass in a circle, all with little green plaques with numbers -- some clutched in nervous fingers, others discarded almost, strewn about.
As the queue moved forward, a beautiful man came to sit next to me on the bench I was occupying, and smiled at me. He was like an apparition -- he seemed to come out of nowhere. His eyes had a mysterious quality; I knew at once that he was there for me -- because of me, even.
In precisely articulated High German, he asked me,
--Are you waiting too? Are you in line here?
I'd never heard anyone speak such beautiful German -- it was intoxicating.
--Waiting for what? The auditions? No! Oh, no, I'm just...
I had no explanation. I had no idea why I had wandered into the gardens of the castle that day.
--Not one of us then?
--Of you?
--Actors. Wannabe actors. You are not Austrian -- not with that intonation!
--No, sorry. My father is from Bavaria.
--/Ein Bayer, /he said, playing with the accent. But where are you from?
I told him; he was surprised.
--What are you auditioning for? I asked.
--The Raimund Seminar.
--Never heard of it.
--Never? It's only the best drama school in the German-speaking world.
--Ah.
--You could be an actor. You got the looks.
--I don't think I would be a very good actor. But thank you.
I blushed. Was he mad to compliment me on my looks? Or just polite? He seemed impossibly flawless in his crisply ironed shirt; he seemed so grown-up, so mature, so in charge of his life; he knew what he wanted, yet he could barely be older than I. He seemed so ... wonderfully complete.
And to say I was handsome? I was skinny, I had a pimple on my cheek, my eyebrows were much too large. I was nothing compared to him: dark hair, like an Italian, the sweetest face; his teeth were perfectly aligned and of a sparkling white. I took one look at him and knew he would at least make it as a TV actor.
--They'll take you, I am sure. You are ...
I couldn't quite tell another boy that he was bloody gorgeous; but it was what I wanted to do. I wanted to touch him.
--I am too short, he said immediately.
--Too short?
--Yes. I am only 1 m 72. I'll get into drama school to satisfy my father -- he is a Burgtheater actor, you know, and after one or two years, I can drop out and study medicine. I don't really want to be an actor, you see.
I must have looked surprised, and he must have enjoyed that. He was playing with me; he teased me with statements, and with the way he held his hand and opened the button on his shirt -- then he waited for my reaction.
--You must be the only one here then. They all seem so eager to be on a stage, so prepared. Have you got talent at all?
--What does that matter? Nowadays you can either become a theater actor and tour small cities no one has every heard of -- a rather breadless art, and a dying one -- or you can have the looks and connections and make it in America. There are, however 270'000 German actors for every one discovered by Hollywood. It's easier to make it as a chef. One chef in 140'000 gets his own TV show.
He turned towards the queue and said loudly,
--You should all go home and start cooking!
--You did the maths then.
--I tried to convince my father of the idiocy of enrolling here. But he insisted I at least try. Ironic, isn't it? Most parents would give anything for their children NOT to study an art subject. Most parents would tell you to study ... economics. Or engineering.
--Or law, I offered.
--Yes. Those who really don't know what's important in life, they become lawyers.
--Ha! It is funny, yes.
--You know that it is completely arbitrary if you are successful in life. The only thing that matters is who you know, and where you are -- by chance. Whether you've got talent for anything is totally irrelevant. Look at the last twenty famous actors or singers; they've all got no talent -- just connections. Even writers -- books don't get famous because they are good, they get read because they are bad, or rather -- mediocre. People -- the masses who can make you famous -- don't recognize talent if you shoved it down their throats.
--There's a saying... I started, but I couldn't remember it.
--Something like, mediocrity recognizes only itself, but talent recognizes genius immediately -- that one?
--Yes.
--That's why to make it in the arts, you must be mediocre. Only mediocrity sells. But then -- if you write books that are mediocre, or if you are a mediocre actor, dancer, anything -- how do you live with yourself?
He stared at me with bright eyes, a glib smile that said he wasn't really taking himself too seriously, but at the same time, I saw that he meant what he said. He meant it, really: he did think that he would only ever be mediocre, and he would not want to live a life of mediocrity. I recognized the courage and the wisdom, and that was the point I fell in love with him, utterly, I think. I suddenly respected him immensely, and I remember getting a boner. He was not much older, but he seemed a million times wiser.
--What's your name?
--Florian.
--Where're you from, originally. You don't sound ...
--Berlin. My father plays in Berlin and Vienna. He is ...
--I have never been to the Burgtheater.
--Neither have I, only as I child, when dad made me go to see his Faust, or Brecht, or his endless Thomas Bernhard.
--I've heard of him.
--Bernhard?
--Yes. The only real talent Austria has produced since the war. But, as always, nobody appreciates him.
--Because he isn't mediocre?
--Exactly.
He looked at me with intense eyes.
--You must never settle for anything mediocre!
I nodded. He said,
--We live in a shit world.
I let a few seconds pass, then said,
--It's not so bad.
--It is! It's terrible.
--It's not so bad -- it's got you in it.
I have no clue where that courage come from, that sudden urgency to hold on to him, to bind him to me and never let him go.
--Are you hitting on me? he said, as cold as ice, but smirking a little.
--What if I am?
--I'd tell you that ... I would like that. You are cute. Would you like a drink? Or shall we just go fuck somewhere?
--Aren't you waiting for your audition?
--I told you I don't want to be an actor. Any excuse to get out of here. I have a feeling about you...
--Very well. There is a pub two stops city-side on the U4 which is rather nice. They serve good coffee. After that -- I took all my courage and said -- we can ... no, I couldn't say it. Maybe I could, but it wouldn't sound right from my mouth. When he had said it, 'fuck somewhere,' it had seemed perfectly plausible. Yes. Let's meet on a park bench and then ... I'd never done that with a boy, anyway.
We strolled through the market first. Florian bought nuts and dried apricots, and we ended up at the pub an hour later.
--Your looks, I asked him just before we crossed the street, the dark hair, the ... you aren't really German, are you?
--My mother is only half Jewish; her father was an Arab, her mother German. My father is Italian-German. His grandparents are Lebanese.
--Fascinating. No wonder you are so good looking.
--Why?
--I've always thought mixed races were the best. You /should/ be an actor. With your racial background you can change the world. Make peace in the Middle East.
I pressed the handle, and realized the pub was closed.
Just then he said,
--I used to date a Polish girl. Well, two actually.
--Two? At the same time?
--Yes.
--Wow. Were they hot?
Suddenly he burst out laughing.
--I am gay, you know. I've had my coming out. You too -- you don't have to pretend you still like girls.
--I am not pretending.
--Yes you are. Everyone under twenty-five who calls himself bisexual is just ... scared.
I looked embarrassed.
--So, if it's closed, what do we do then?
--We go fuck.
--I live with a girl -- she's at home now, for sure. Where should we?
--Are you sleeping with her?
I shook my head.
He grabbed my arm, and pulled me down the alley. There were a couple of wheelie bins there which blocked the view from the main street. We slipped behind them, and before I knew it his mouth was on mine and he was kissing me.
He kissed me hot and long and wet, and with an urgency that seemed to want to take all doubts away. He kissed the gayness into me, and maybe all the Polish girls out of himself -- it seem so deliberate, so absolutely necessary that we did this here and now.
He also put his hand into my pants, just as a door opened and a woman emerged with a dog on a leash. We separated. Clearly, we couldn't fuck here then. We were both flustered, his face was glowing -- radiating.
When the woman was out of sight, he looked at his watch.
--I have to go, he said, to my surprise. But I want to see you again!
He put his lips on mine again. The only thing I could think of saying was, me too. I want to ...
--I mean it. I like you. It's not an excuse, I ...
He seemed nervous for a moment, then his hand reached for my hips; he pulled me closer.
Footsteps on the stairs disturbed us, and then he ran off. It stood there, dazed and helpless. And I knew at last that I would be gay. In this life, I knew, I would love men. Whatever I had experienced with girls so far was nothing compared to that kiss, behind those garbage containers, in that dirty little alley in that inhospitable city, that kiss, that feel of his arms around me. I was cured of all doubt then.
I couldn't sleep at all after meeting him. He'd run off so quickly, we had forgotten to exchange numbers.
Catherine and I didn't need to talk at all. She saw it in my behavior, she said later. I didn't hug her, I didn't kiss her anymore, and I closed the door to my room. Looking back, she said later, she was glad that I had finally found myself -- she had always hated sex with me, it had always been awkward. (I think she was lying though, I think she had been in love with me.)
On Wednesday after lunch, I told her about my dilemma. She had made leek soup.
--The stupid sod ran off, I don't have his numbers. How am I supposed to find him again?
Of course I knew the answer before I could finish the sentence. She just laughed at me. But honestly -- it had taken me three days just to realize what I had to do.
So I went back, and there he was, sitting on the grass; the narrow strip next to the entrance of the pub, reading a book.
--Fucking moron, how long did it take you to figure it out, he shouted at me, after looking up.
--Three days, I said. If today is Wednesday.
He smiled. I said I was sorry, but he laughed.
--I am sorry I ran off, but I really had to be somewhere. I really forgot to give you my number. Did you think ... ?
It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't -- I hadn't doubted him, not once. I hadn't thought -- oh, he wasn't serious. So I said it:
--You know, not once. I just really thought you ... had forgotten. I never doubted your word. I never thought you were just playing with me.
--Really? Oh, well, we must be in love then!
He stood up and kissed me. He held me close, as fifty cars at least passed us, drove out of the city, some honking: we were two nineteen-year-old boys, standing by the road, kissing. I was trembling; my knees were weak.
He seemed perfectly calm. He didn't care the least that all these people were watching us from their cars. He held me close, he licked my lips, he pushed his tongue back in, deeper, flagellating my teeth, and then he broke the kiss and said,
--I want the whole fucking world to know!
--Know what?
--My, you are daft! That I'm in love with you!
--With me?
--Of course.
--How...?
I couldn't finish the sentence, because he dragged me off, held his hand out, made a taxi stop, went on kissing me, holding me, touching me while we rode up the hill, sliding his hand under my shirt, across half the city, to /Lange Gasse,/ where we got out, walked through he yard, into an apartment that was damp and cold. He apologized.
--It's already autumn, you can feel it, he said. It's so fucking wet.
I was still in a trance.
--Do you mean it, you love me?
He kissed me again, then went over to the radiator and turned the knob.
--In this fucking town you need heating from September to May. I want to live in a place where it's warm all year round!
He took his sweater off nonetheless, and then pulled on mine, telling me to raise my arms, so he could strip it off me.
Half a minute later we were completely naked, shivering.
I looked at him: his body was so well formed. Not gym-formed, not hard and muscled, but so bloody perfect, like a drawing. He looked much younger naked. Our cocks -- about the same size -- were hard as porcelain.
--I don't fuck around, he said, mysteriously.
--What do you mean?
--I mean, I don't fuck around with guys. I don't ... I don't go out to places and pick up guys all the time. You know what I mean. I am not a slut.
--Good. I don't either.
--I thought so. You've never actually ... been with a guy, have you?
--Once, in high school.
--Oh well, baby, he said, coming closer, grabbing my cock, you are gay now! So gay!
Then he pulled me by the cock towards the sofa, and sat down on it, took my cock in his mouth. I almost passed out. There was a tingling that ran through my entire body, and then I shot my load. He swallowed it all. The whole affair lasted maybe two minutes.
--I am sorry. I am so sorry.
He laughed, stood up, wiped his mouth, then kissed me again. I could taste my own cum on his lips.
--The idea is, he said, his voice suddenly sounding deeper, the idea is that you and I -- we stay together, OK? And only fuck each other, OK? That way we can do that kind of stuff, like eating cum. You do know about AIDS?
I nodded.
--If it's only us -- if you want that, we can do anything. We can do piss too, have you done piss?
I shook my head.
--But most of all, we can do bareback. I want to fuck you and you fuck me -- we can fuck all day and night.
I nodded daftly.
--Well, is it OK then?
--Is what OK?
--Oh fuck, you are slow. So cute and so slow. Don't you realize that we have met?
--We met, yes ... so?
--No ... oh come on. We have met! You and I! It's a miracle -- you must see it! We met ... it was fate. I wanted to audition, you changed my career plans by sitting on that bench, my life, forever, and then ... you must see that it is fate! We are meant to be together. That was no accident.
--You mean be together ... like a couple? Forever?
He just grabbed my neck again and kissed me. Every time his tongue darted in, so wild, so thick, so fleshy ... I had the feeling that I would faint if he didn't stop immediately. I had the feeling that I couldn't live without him.
--We are a perfect match, he announced. I really like you. Even your smell -- it's exactly the type of smell I like on a guy.
I breathed in, trying to experience his smell. It was sweet, pleasant, and with a hint of apple.
--You must see it, that we are meant for each other! You must! If we stay together, we will never be mediocre! It's totally obvious!
He fell over me on the sofa, and started kissing me, down the neck, my chest, stomach, my legs; then he climbed off, knelt there and started licking my feet.
--Of course, it all depends on whether you are good with your cock.
--Good with my cock?
--Yes. Are you a good fucker? And will you let me fuck you? You see -- that's the beauty of being gay, fucking each other. Straight sex is so boring, always the same, man drills woman. Yawn!
--You want me to fuck you?
--And I want to fuck you!
--Now?
--Sure. The sooner the better. I'd like to stay in this room with you forever, until we are so sore we can't walk, or sit, or ... do anything!
--You are mad, you know that, I said, suddenly feeling elated, watching him lick my toes.
--It's almost the same.
--What is?
--Being in love, and being mad.
--So how do I know you are in love, and not mad?
--Well, because if I were mad, I'd be gone in a few days. Whereas if I am in love with you, I'll be here in twenty years, still on my knees -- he jumped up again to straddle me, kneading my cock -- or sitting on top of you, trying to get you hard again.
I did, and he spit in his palm, rubbed my dick, and then sat down on it. It slid in effortlessly; it felt perfect.
--You see, he said again, we are made for each other. Your dick is perfect up my ass.
I lifted my hips a little, thrust up four, five times, but it was too much; I could feel another orgasm approach. Suddenly he let my cock slide out, stood up, and got off. He grabbed my arm, pulling me up, kissing me again, then bending me over. Before I knew at all what was happening, I felt his cock wanting to enter me. Fear seized me, the fear of pain.
--Relax! he commanded, I don't really want to fuck you now, I just want to see ... there! Perfect. Does it hurt?
I said it did not -- there was no pain at all. I felt him push, and pull back, and push in again; it felt absolutely wonderful.
His movements became faster, he hugged me tightly from behind, and then only his hips moved, while our torsos melted together -- we were sweating, but I wanted nothing more than his sweat on me, his body pressed closer, closer, and his cock in my ass.
He nibbled my ear; seconds later, he came. I felt him convulse, I felt his cock erupt inside me. It was the most fulfilling sensation ever, having a man so close, so intensely connected with me.
--Bingo! he announced, pulling out.
I turned around. And now it was I, overcome with knowledge that he was right, that we were meant to be together. I pulled him closer, and while I felt his semen leak out of me, I kissed his mouth, with the same urgency he had earlier given me, the same desire that seemed at once unfulfillable, and yet there -- I was better. Kissing him made me feel better. At least until we were apart; then it was unbearable that we should be, and I pulled him closer again.
But then his urges took over, and we melded again, into one. I wanted his cock in my mouth, and inside me again -- so we danced like madmen, all over the apartment.
Two days later the phone rang. We still hadn't stopped making love, we couldn't! Once we'd been out to eat at /The Tunnel/-- and hadn't finished our salads, before rushing back again to be naked. Being dressed in his presence now seemed like an affront. I wanted him to see him like I was, naked, bare, all of me -- and his, as long as he would want me. I could not imagine how long it would be.
The phone rang, and he pulled out his cock at last. It could see its red tip -- we were already sore, both. He reached for the receiver.
He spoke to his father; I heard a stern voice on the other end, demanding answers.
--Oh the audition, dad?
Florian looked me straight in the eye
--The audition went great dad! I did get the part!
END
This story was intended to be part of my latest book "A Stranger in Triva", but never made the cut. A Stranger in Triva is available here http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004PYDHMK/
Or write to me webmarten@gmail.com if you want it in a different format or for free.
For more of Marten Weber's writing, please visit http://www.martenweber.com.