Summer in Berlin

By Irfan The Writer

Published on Jul 10, 2017

Gay

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  • IRFAN *

Standing in the cavernous train hall in Freiberg, I nervously await Armin's arrival. I'm not sure where to stand. Inside near the food vendors, or outside at the taxi stand? I'm not sure why I'm feeling jittery now. I mean, I did just meet this guy two weeks ago. At a sex club. Am I being too crazy and risky here?

The train I came on pulls away, taking with it any prospect of my riding away on it. I left a piece of paper on my desk back in Berlin, with my mom's phone number back in the USA, and Armin's name and phone numbers. Just in case. Precautionary.

I step outside into the air of the first German city besides Berlin that I have now visited. Here seems quieter, and with fewer people walking around, but it still shares a laid-back vibe with Berlin.

I stand near the taxi stand. I'm suddenly aware, too, that I'm in a part of Germany where neo-Nazism has gained more popularity. As a brown guy, I've been cautioned by other Berliners to be careful here. Just in case. Precautionary.

I see a familiar dark blue BMW car drive up to the main curb. It's him. A wave of tingles sweep up my arms and chest. Here we go. I approach the car, tentatively, but trying to appear confident. I toss my backpack into the backseat and get in on the passenger's side.

"So good to see you, my baby. So sorry I'm late," he tells me as he leans over and kisses me on the cheek, and then confidently plants an additional kiss on my lips. I accept his affection, as he explains the overeager colleague who stopped him on his way out of the office.

I think back to the last time we saw each other, right next to this car at Berlin. We had just finished breakfast; he had to go to the archives for research work, and I had to bike home and contemplate which other Pride parties I wanted to attend.

That moment when we were standing next to each other lingered. Birds sung as young men and women awoke to their hangovers from the previous night's parties. That moment melded uncertain continuation with unexpressed desires.

The moment broke after we made eye contact. He leaned closer to me, his soft lips brushing against mine. The sight of his endearing grey-hazel eyes blurred out of focus, as my eyes closed. And we kissed. A lingering, perfect kiss, calling upon time to freeze as my desires expanded. I remembered how delicious his lips tasted. I will always remember this moment, I decided. Then we broke apart, and the reality of the moment's departure set back in.

"See you soon," he told me after giving me one last hug. As I began my bike ride home, I looked back once more to see him through the car window as he drove off, leaving me lots to wonder.

Now I look out the same window, but from the inside of the car. As we begin our journey to nature, Armin is telling me about how he admires that I've gone off the hookup apps, and that he is trying to do the same. Our conversation wanders around the role of technology in gay men's sex and love lives, around desire and addiction.

"I love that I can go to the saunas or even the Sex Palace in Berlin and meet guys that way," I share. "Just messaging guys on apps feels so unsatisfying. So isolating."

"And I'm happy that we met that way," he retorts, smiling.

I notice I get a bit aroused, my cock stiffening inside my jeans, thinking about the dripping, sweaty sex all around me on that night Armin and I met. I look to my side at the man whose two invitations I've said yes to: one to spending the night at his hotel, and one for a weekend getaway in the mountains. What other invitations might come? Is this too fast? I wonder, doubting myself.

A week ago, I was relaxing in my apartment, and my flatmate passed me an envelope. I turned it over and saw it was from Armin. I opened it up, and there appeared a train ticket folded within a single sheet of white paper. On the paper, he wrote a brief message to "his sweet baby," that he is awaiting my arrival in a week and sending me hugs and kisses.

He signed the letter, "Your daddy," referencing my open secret and desire that I expressed to him while we were lying next to each other that night in the hotel bed. "I feel that it's important that I'm older than you," he comments, as we pass other German cars on the Autobahn. "Is it true?"

How did this guy see into me like that? I let the silence linger a moment as I wonder about our age difference, which is a relatively mere seven years. Nothing near the age gap between me and my boyfriend Kamil back in New York, who is nearly twice my age. But somehow, I view Armin's comments as cutting beneath surface-level pleasantries. His perceptiveness surprises me, but I find myself liking it.

"Maybe" is the only word I can utter in that moment, the only step I can take towards achieving some greater certainty in actualizing my desires that I have trouble even owning. I watch the willow trees zip by, their yellow-green leaves clinging onto each other and drooping downwards, almost as if they are hiding secrets that they must protect at all odds.

"So I have to say," Armin begins, shifting the conversation, "that I was surprised that you're not a bottom. You have such a sweet baby face, from the beginning when I saw you I thought you were a passive."

Oh. This topic. How much could I really talk about this? Could I tell him that despite my past relationship of two years, where I was the top to my self-professed, 100% bottom ex-boyfriend, that the few times we tried me bottoming, I had actually really enjoyed it? That I loved that his cock was small, because I felt no pain, just pleasure of a new and unfamiliar sensation within me?

Could I talk about how the prospect of bottoming scares me, how in my HIV/AIDS college seminar, we learned that transmission risks are much higher for bottoms than for tops, so if you want to minimize risk of STD transmission, better to be safe and top?

Or that lying down and taking it just feels so challenging, that even though I might have to forget about pre-programmed roles around masculinity, the prospect of bottoming, of giving up control to a sexy piece of man titillates me endlessly?

Never mind my fears of hygienic mess, that growing up Muslim, we are taught that any shit on your person is BAD, even unholy. With water, we wash all the shit off our bums completely after taking a #2. Shit is dirty, unclean. Our asses are dirty, unclean. How can I psychologically let go of the resistance of something entering the hole of the unclean? Into MY unclean hole?

Then there's the pain. A handful of overexcited guys have pushed their fat cocks into my tight hole before I was ready, and nerve pains shot up and down my body, refusing entry. My hole's closed for business! Maybe I'm weak, but the risk of that kind of pain is enough for me to say no to future attempts. No pleasure could be worth that kind of pain, right?

Yes, I have way too much baggage around bottoming. It's often felt safer just to say that I'm not really a bottom, than delving into all this. It's too much to deal with. But Armin seems genuinely interested and curious. I figure I should keep trying this approach of honesty that I have taken with him. Let's see how that goes.

"Well, I did say that," I begin, shifting in my seat, looking away from him. Should I tell him my truths? Why not? I'm spending at least a few days with him here. If things feel weird or I feel judged, it'll at least be over soon. I take a breath, and continue, "but the truth is, I have a lot of fears around bottoming."

He instantly replies, "Like what?"

Okay, just be honest, Irfan. "Honestly, that I'll make a mess." Now I await judgment or skepticism. As a gay man, I should be a seasoned practitioner of the anal arts, right? He'll be disappointed, or at least turned off. Right?

"Oh, I see," he replies, sounding more reassured than turned off. "Well you know, even though a little shit doesn't bother me, it can become an issue with fisting, and I learned a great technique to clean!" How? "You take the shower hose, and then bend over, sticking the hose onto your pussy," he explains as he mimics the positions using his free hand. "Fill yourself with some water, then go over to the toilet and push out. Then you repeat as many times until the water comes out clear. Starting out you might have to repeat 7-10 times as you learn, but usually this process takes just 10 minutes for me now."

Wow, this guy really thought this through! As he describes his hygiene process, I visualize how it works. I especially appreciate how open he is, how nonchalant he is about the aspects of anal hygiene that gay men don't seem to talk about as much as they maybe should.

"And after you do it," he continues, his eyes eagerly glowing and voice quickening with excitement, "your pussy gets warm, and you can stick your finger in and it feels so nice. Almost like a real pussy!" I wouldn't know. But then he offers, "I can show you at the hotel, if you want."

Again, wow. The idea of his showing me his anal cleansing ritual seems way too intimate way too fast. But then again, I'm on a trip to the mountains in Germany with a guy I only met once at a sex club. Maybe fast is the name of the game here. What am I resisting? How do I know what to say yes to, and what to say no to?

Easily navigating the highway turns and merges, as silent but comfortable pauses fill the space between us, Armin tells me about his family upbringing, how his father passed away when he was in college, and how Catholicism impacted his identity. He had wanted to be a priest when he was 17, but his parents objected sternly. Years later, when his mom and sister found out he was gay, they objected yet again, saying how wrong it is. How wrong he is. He needs to meet a nice girl, get married, have babies.

I am surprised to hear the story, and realize that my own Muslim family has been more tolerant overall than his. Though it took my mom nine years to accept my gayness, she eventually told me, through tears over the phone, that she accepts me as much as any of the rest of her children. That comment helped pull me out of a depression into which I was helplessly spiraling.

The sky's daylight starts to wane, as the sun begins its descent into its rest. We pull up to the quaint family-owned cottage. As Armin checks us in, I look out to the view of the precipitous yet friendly-looking mountains. Overlooking expansive fields of green in every way the eye can see, I notice the outdoor patio for meals, a bench, and a garden. This feels good, open, promising. I'm amazed to be here.

Armin is checking in at the counter. As he speaks German to the clerk, I look at his bearded jawline, his dark eyes filled with certainty and romance as he occasionally sneaks glances at me. We carry our belongings to the room, enter through the small entryway, and then drop our things.

He brought a case of assorted German juices, after he asked me what kind of beverages I like to drink. I told him I'm not much of an alcohol-drinker, and would prefer some special German juices. I feel touched that he has made such an effort to accommodate my requests, especially in the land of Bier. I pick up a sour cherry juice – one of my favorite kinds that I recently discovered in Germany – and pour some into a glass.

As I'm drinking, casually occupying myself by looking at a wall painting, he steps towards me from behind. His hands find my back, then slowly caress my sides, and loop around my stomach. He squeezes gently, making me feel comforted, safe. Our slow breaths are the only sounds I can hear, as he breathes onto my neck and ear. Feeling his mouth's caress on the back of my neck, and within his strong embrace, I just want to melt into this man.

Seconds stretch into years as I turn my head sideways, feeling his beard rub gently against my own. My breathing gets heavier, as my blood rushes to my skin. His touch causes electricity to flow through my nerve endings all over my arms and body.

My mouth searches for his, finds it, and our lips meet one another in delicious ecstasy. We kiss, softly and slowly, as I close my eyes and breathe in his masculine, woodsy scent. Our breathing slows, and we hold hands. I turn around to face him, and we gaze into each other's eyes.

He softly whispers for us to go have dinner now, as the kitchen closes soon. I am trying my best, in this moment, to let go of any expectations I have of this weekend, and to be open for whatever is yet to come.

We return to our room, it's 10 PM, and I'm exhausted and ready for bed. The energy of anticipation and the day's travels left me feeling exhausted. But I notice Armin is still buzzing with energy; I gather that he doesn't want to go to bed just yet.

"I want us to play a bit," he insists, smiling devilishly. I'm still getting to know him, I figure. I don't want to displease him, too. So I acquiesce. What's a little play before bed with a guy you have chemistry with?

He brings out the familiar black Mr. Leather bag that I remember perched on the chair in his hotel room from our first night together. My heart rate increases, between a mix of excitement but also a slight self-imposed pressure to perform. I tend to put that pressure onto myself – especially with new guys.

I told him I fisted a guy once and liked it. Armin then talked about how much he enjoyed fisting, but I didn't expect he would ask me to try it with him so soon.

With the dramatic swiftness of a magician's hand, he begins pulling out toys from his leather bag. First comes out a relatively small butt plug, maybe 4-5 inches long, fat at the base, and narrow at the top. "I thought it would be bigger when I ordered it," he tells me. I nod but can't help thinking that the plug is already big enough for me!

Then he pulls out a massive cock-shaped dildo. It is black and veiny in texture, all the way down to the scrotum. Maybe 9-10 inches long, it has the girth of a plump cucumber, and only slightly bigger than Armin's cock.

My mind is racing, barely accommodating the possible uses for these toys, when he pulls out yet another one. Even fatter than the dildo, this one didn't look like a penis at all. Rather, it was shaped like an elongated hand grenade, with thick ridges circumscribing it all the way down to its base. I couldn't even imagine that thing entering anyone. I'm not sure my hand would even be able to wrap around its huge girth.

Armin's face took on excitement and pleasure, as he lay the toys out onto a towel atop the bed. He excused himself to go prep in the bathroom, and as I waited for him, I thought about what was going to happen. I have fingered some guys before, but I never used a dildo on someone. I'm always open to new experiences, so trying dildos with Armin seemed like an interesting and worthwhile endeavor.

I hadn't quite experienced this ardently-determined side of Armin before, although I have caught glimpses of it before: the way he fucked that guy in the Sex Palace, the way he came up to me and invited me to his hotel, the aggressive way he later fucked my mouth, forcing me to take his cock deep to my throat's hilt. Even my coming to the mountains with him was a result of his determined efforts. This is a man who, when faced with a personal goal, attacks it like a lion.

I hear the click of the bathroom door opening, and Armin steps out. He's naked, the lower half of his body slightly dripping with beads of water, his cock hanging beautifully downward like an elephant's tusk. The harsh hotel light casts shadows around his soft white skin, dropping shadows that enhance this moment of mystery, of the unknown of what is to come. He stands without shame in his body, and his confidence is what I find so damn sexy and appealing.

He thoughtfully arranges pillows onto the bed, so he can be comfortable in a doggy-style position. He instructs me to sit on the bed with my back against the headboard, so that I don't get too tired from sitting long. He lays out all the dildos onto the nearby nightstand, when I notice another tool I hadn't seen before. It was a metallic device that I might expect to see in a doctor's office or operating room.

"It's called a speculum," Armin points out, noticing my curiosity. "You use it to open the pussy wider." It had two hinged parts connected to each other, looking like a duck's beak. When it's closed, you insert it into the hole, then once it's inside, you slowly turn the screw mechanism to open the two parts. With every turn, it increases its width – as if the duck is opening its beak widely, slowly – and the pussy opens widely. This is what Armin wants me to use on him.

I gulp, as he explains the process: Put on the black gloves and take some regular lube or J-lube, which is a special lube made from powder mix. He put the latter in a plastic sports drink bottle. Then play with his hole and use the devices. Simple enough. I agree to his ask, unsure of whether I'll be able to deliver on it. He gets into position, and I put on the gloves. I take the bottle of J-lube off the nightstand and squirt it in his hole. He relaxes his hole, as I wonder what I've gotten myself into.

I start fingering his hole. I only can compare this experience to the one guy in New York I had fisted earlier this year. I remember his hole opened so quickly. Right now, though, Armin's hole seems tight. I am not sure what I'm doing, and just keep trying to open his hole with my fingers. So far two go in, but three seems too much. Is this giving him pleasure? For me, missionary position is my favorite because I can connect with someone's face, looking into each other's eyes. Maybe it's because I'm so visual and sensual, but in this doggy-style position, I'm not sure I'm doing anything actually pleasurable for Armin.

As I get into more of a rhythm, the two fingers on my right hand now alternating with those on my left, I simultaneously feel an increasing sense of doubt. So much of pleasure is empathy – how you pleasure your partner is how you would receive pleasure. All of us are unique in what gets us off though, so sometimes it might be hard to know if something you're doing is pleasuring someone if that thing doesn't really get you off.

That's how I felt here, now. Thinking about myself in his position, this act doesn't seem particularly enjoyable to me. Yet he requested it, and we're here now in this hotel room. The burdens of my mind become heavier, and I slow down the pace of my fingering. He's too tight for more fingers to enter, and I feel my hands getting tired. When I tell him that his hole isn't really opening that much, he calls out to me to use one of the tools, perhaps the speculum.

I release the hold his tight sphincter had on my fingers, and then lean over to grab the speculum from the nightstand. The lube is sticky, with the consistency of maple syrup, so I try not to let it drip all over the place. "Close the speculum first before putting it inside," he reminds me. We're being gradual here. I make sure the speculum is closed, like a duck's beak firmly shut, and then position it to his hole. I lather some more lube onto the device, then gradually push it into his hole. Without seeing his face, I still can't tell if he's really enjoying this, but I continue doing what he asks of me.

The speculum enters pretty easily, the rectal muscles swallowing it in till the base, where the speculum flares out and stays securely in place. Now is the interesting part: turning the screw. I tell him I'm opening it up, and he grunts in confirmation. The hinges of the speculum slowly open, wider and wider. It's getting pretty wide! I ask him how wide I should open it. He says just a little more. So I turn the screw more, and the speculum opens to about a full 30 degrees, and about 4 inches deep. Wow! "Touch it inside, if you want," he encourages me.

With my black glove still on, I insert an index finger into the recess, the cave-like opening pulsing with heat. I touch the bottom lining of his rectum, where the metal of the speculum is absent, and I run my finger across the bumpy surface of his hole's inside. This feels so intimate, so intense, the touching of body parts that most people probably don't ever imagine even seeing.

"Now put the dildo in," he instructs me. Holding the speculum in place with my left hand, I use the other to grab the big cock-like dildo. I squirt lube on it, too, and then begin inserting it into his hole, with the speculum still in place. I felt like a doctor doing some intricate rectal operation, but he seems to be enjoying it the prospect of the dildo entering. I try to put it in, but I realize that the speculum hasn't actually opened wide enough. He hasn't opened wide enough. I feel bad because I don't want to disappoint this man who has graciously invited me for this trip away. But I'm exhausted, unsure what I'm doing, and just way too much over my head with this.

"Keep trying," he tells me. But at this point, if I push it in, I think I would hurt him. I don't want to do that. "I don't think this will work now," I admit aloud.

I can tell he feels frustrated that he's not opening up enough for the dildo, for the level of play he was desperately seeking. He told me he likes fisting play because it's about the journey; it's not just a quick act of passion, but rather an intimate process over the course of many hours. Today, right now though, it doesn't feel like what I want. And I feel sad that he feels frustrated.

Perhaps sensing my exhaustion, he says, "Okay, you can stop now." He quietly crouches back on the bed, then puts aside the remaining toys and supplies, just enough to give him space to sleep on the Queen-size bed.

I don't know if I should apologize, so I just stay silent. Without a word, he gets under the covers. I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash up, then return to lie next to him in the bed in my t-shirt and shorts. The night's silence overwhelms the room as I switch off the light. Distance deepens between us, as I hear him lightly snore already. As I join his slumber, feelings of doubt creep into me, placing me in wonder about whether I made the right decision at all, coming to the mountains with Armin.


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