Rolf faced me. The devilish gleam in his eyes was unmistakable. “You are enjoying Deutschland?”
“So far. Except for that ticket.”
Rolf smirked. “Yes, that ticket. Perhaps you would prefer I speak only English?”
“Your English is excellent, not like my German.”
“You will learn. I spent time in America as a boy. And my last boyfriend was American. From Atlanta.”
“What was he like?”
“He was in the military. He was closeted. It was not a good situation.”
“Was he black?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering.”
“You think all German men like black men?”
“I’ve heard lots of stories.”
Rolf chuckled, staring at the ground while we continued to walk. “You Americans are all the same. You denounce stereotypes yet when you come to Deutschland all you want is to visit concentration camps and guzzle beer.” He exhaled a long breath then said, “Yes, he was black.”
“So you like black men, huh?”
His eyes lit up and he gave me a playful smack on the ass. We came to a flight of stairs in a hatch located between two buildings. A sign above the stairs read WC. Rolf said he had to pee. I followed him down the stairs, hoping to get a glimpse of his dick. The dimly lit restroom looked large enough to accommodate a dozen men but Rolf and I were the only ones there. The restroom’s spaciousness could be attributed to its lack of urinals; men relieved themselves on a decaying concrete wall, below a slim metal cistern affixed about seven feet from the ground. Water trickled from tiny holes in the cistern and down the wall into a two-inch reservoir where the wall met the floor, periodically flushing the piss into the sewer. Three grimy toilet stalls were located to the left of the wall. The whole place stunk of piss, shit and come.
Rolf and I approached the wall like gunslingers in the Old West, each eyeing the other warily to see not only who would make the first move but who packed the biggest piece. We unzipped, and our cocks flopped out—his uncut and thick as a cucumber; mine cut and semihard. Our piss streams—his amber, mine golden—pattered as they made contact with the wall. He looked over at my cock, raised an eyebrow and nodded approvingly. “Very nice.”
“Yours, too.” I breathed a little faster and licked my bottom lip. “Real thick.”
Once the last drops of pee piddled out of our piss slits, Rolf’s face enflamed, coming to life with lust. My cock pointed heavenward and I stroked it. He started tugging on his fat cock too, forcefully yanking the thick foreskin back and forth over the wide bullet head of his dick. When it was fully hard his prick was nearly as long as his forearm. Aside from being the largest cock I had ever seen, it looked as menacing and dangerous as Rolf did. I stopped jerking my own hard dick and stood transfixed by Rolf’s manhood. My mouth watered as I thought about the sloppy blow job I hankered to give him, but I felt phantom pains in my rectum when I imagined his cock pounding my hole. As threatening as Rolf appeared, I knew his cock was capable of more violence than both of his powerful hands. It was a cock designed to dole out punishments—more like a truncheon than a phallus—yet sheer pleasure, I reasoned, existed on the other side of that violence.
Rolf stared me down and curled his upper lip. “Suck me.”
My knees crashed on the damp asphalt and I widened my mouth to accommodate Rolf’s stiff member. I grasped his shaft as I laved his dick, taking in only the head at first. Though his penis was hard as steel, the skin was soft and smooth, free of any marks or scars. Light blond hairs covered his balls. I cupped them in my free hand; they were orbicular, full and heavy, more like the testicles of livestock than those of a man. Rolf raised his shirt over his head and behind his neck, exposing the globes of his shoulders, his hairy broad chest and flat, hard abdominal muscles. Blue-green veins crossed the landscape of his torso like rivers drawn on a map.
“You like my big cock?” he growled.
Rolf’s metallic accent made my anus pucker. I stroked his dick from midshaft up to the head, squeezing it just enough to allow his precome to ooze out and pool on my tongue.
He rubbed his stubby nipples while I sucked him off. The squelching sound from my mouth competed with the incessant trickling of water out of the cistern. Rolf slowly began to thrust his dick in and out of my mouth before he grunted something to himself in German: “Saugen Sie mich gutes.” Liberated by the sound of his native language echoing off the crumbling walls, Rolf put both hands on my head, as if grasping a basketball, and rammed his dick into my mouth as far as it could go. I gasped and gagged, fearing I would throw up. Instead, I relaxed the muscles of my throat and inhaled deeply. I glanced up and saw the wrathful face of the man who had ticketed me earlier that day. Rolf had become the brute again, the barbarian, mercilessly fucking my gaping wet mouth no matter what injury it caused me. My jaw ached and my lips became numb. I was powerless, kneeling at the altar of his pleasure.
Rolf’s hips swayed. He planted his left palm on top of my head and with his right hand tweaked one of his nipples. I gripped his ass, squeezing and pushing it as he forced himself in and out of my mouth. Beads of his sweat drizzled on me as he chugged like a steam engine, pumping into my mouth all the way to my tonsils. A frothy mix of saliva and precome lubricated his cock, slid down my chin and puddled on the floor.
“Sie mochten meinen Samen essen? Huh, baby? You eat hot German come, yes?”
Before I even thought of answering, he crammed my mouth with cock again. My body quaked as I stroked my own lead dick and anticipated Rolf’s gloppy load. He grunted and puffed as his thrusts quickened. Then his glutes clenched, he lifted himself on his toes and a deluge of briny come filled my mouth. I kept sucking his dick, determined to draw every drop of semen out of him. I breathed in the must saturating his pubic hair, the fetid restroom, the sharp odor of my own sweat. I jerked my cock until the skin chafed and the head turned red. I rolled Rolf’s come in my mouth, savoring its salty flavor, its viscid texture, yet I still couldn’t come. My lust was immured within me, trapped behind impenetrable layers of organs, bones and flesh.
Seeming to sense my difficulty, Rolf bent over and pinched my nipples hard then whispered, “Come for your man, baby. Ich wunsche Sie ejakulieren.”
They were the words my body had been waiting for, the tongue of the Fatherland, the language I couldn’t access yet longed to dwell within; the language that, to me, held the sleek, dark aura of a pair of steel-toed boots plodding on pavement, commanding, indifferent, inviolable. It was Daddy’s slap across the face and his loving embrace, his admonishment and his approval. Thunder in the night, a rain-soaked forest at dawn.
Rolf’s thick cock muffled my groans as I bucked and splattered the asphalt with bolts of come. When I jerked out the last remaining shots I looked behind Rolf and saw three men standing near the stairs watching us with their hands on their dicks, picking up where I left off.
The next day I decided to visit Hans Krieger again, hoping I would catch him in his office and persuade him to put me in touch with Dixon Weatherby. Weatherby’s novels had served as the genesis of my dissertation several years before. My plan was to draw on his work and that of Baldwin and other black gay writers for a book on black gay aesthetics in literature. His fiction focused on black gay men who unabashedly pursued their sexual desires with men of all races. They were stories of love and lust, race and identity, that unfolded in such varied settings as backwoods speakeasies in the deep South and posh hotels in the center of majestic European cities. I had already completed much of my work on the book, but I needed Weatherby’s insights, the story behind the story, and I wanted to get them while the eighty-five-year-old author was still alive and in good health.
Just after breakfast, with my backpack over my shoulder and a hot cup of coffee in hand, once again I raced to the Stras-senbaun just in time to catch it before it took off. I sipped my coffee and flipped through pages of Dixon Weatherby’s first novel when I heard a gruf
f voice ask, “Mag ich Ihre Farkarte?”
Rolf stood before me in his uniform, clean shaven, stone faced and humorless. The gold buttons on his blazer shined like tiny suns against his blue uniform.
I looked him up and down, and unable to mask the salacious delight I felt, gave my crotch a conspicuous tug. “Hey. You get home all right last night?”
“Ihre Farkarte, bitte.” He raised his voice and translated in a sanctimonious tone: “Your ticket, please.”
The tram slowed to a stop. Passengers disembarked and vanished among the network of aged stone buildings; new passengers boarded, looking just as washed out and colorless as the sky. Rolf stood out like a blot on a canvas. He frowned, locked his arms over his barrel chest and glared at me, his eyes as gray as Mannheim’s persistently gloomy weather.
Every good feeling I had slid off my face. I hung my head for a moment, not sure if I wanted to get off the train or throw my hot coffee in Rolf’s face. “I should have known,” I grumbled under my breath before I reached into my backpack and took out my ticket.
He took a quick look and handed the ticket back to me. “This is expired.”
“Say what?” My voice was weighed down with exasperation. “It can’t be. I just bought it.”
Rolf thrust the ticket in front of my face. Just as he said, it bore yesterday’s date in faded red print: the ticket I couldn’t find, the emblem of the miscommunication that brought us together.
“You require a new ticket, Sir.”
“Are you fucking kidding me, Rolf?”
“Die Strassenbahn ist nur fur zahlende Passagiere.”
I crossed my arms and leaned back in my seat, defiant as a child. “Well, I guess I don’t have a fucking ticket.”
He snatched his pad off his belt and scribbled, pressing so hard I could hear the pen traversing the page from edge to edge. He ripped off the ticket and handed it to me then hopped off the tram at the next stop.
In my apartment later than night I searched the Internet for the name and telephone number of someone in the Mannheim transit office I could file a complaint with. In spite of my attraction to him I thought Rolf should be censured in some way. In addition to getting a second fine on the tram, I was unable to persuade Hans Krieger to put me in contact with Dixon Weatherby. I sat in his ornate living room for over an hour while Krieger, a foppish seventy-year-old with a gray toupee, served me tea and crustless sandwiches as he passed lecherous glances over my body. When he sensed that I wouldn’t be going to bed with him he told me the possibility of meeting Weatherby was out of the question and that I should give up my quest and return to America. On my way home from Herr Krieger’s apartment I got caught in a cold rainstorm and ended up soaked. I arrived at my studio seething, fully prepared to pack my suitcases and catch the next available flight to Chicago. But first I wanted to exact revenge on Rolf.
I took off my wet clothes, put on T-shirt, boxers and socks, and sat on the edge of my bed assaulting the keys of my laptop as I thought about Rolf and his duplicity. I searched for words and phrases in my English-German dictionary while I typed a long angry email to the director of the transportation department, exposing Rolf as an egomaniac who preyed on Americans. In the midst of my cyber-screed, I heard pounding on my front door. I got up and looked through the peephole to see Rolf, still dressed in his uniform, standing in the hall. He stared back at me. I flung open the door.
“Gutenabend, Vaughn.”
“If you’re not here to apologize, Rolf, you need to go.”
“Gutenabend is ‘good evening’ in German. Gutenabend.”
“Look, whatever kind of games you’re playing I’m not interested.”
“Let me in.”
“You need to go.”
He stared at me hard and lowered his voice. “You can see I’m cold and wet from the rain. I’d like to talk to you. Let me in.”
Once I let him pass and closed the door he stood in the center of my apartment and with his back turned to me began to take off his hat and jacket. After he pitched them into a corner he yanked his long-sleeved, light blue shirt out of his trousers, unbuttoned it and tossed it on the pile. The wide span of his nude back enlivened my cold-shrunken penis. I didn’t want him to turn around and see my tumescent cock poking through my boxers, and I didn’t want him in my apartment either. I fought with my own body; it ignored me.
“Rolf, you need to leave.”
“Stoppen Sie zu sprechen und horen Sie. Be quiet.”
“Having a big dick and a hot body doesn’t mean you can fuck around with me. Are you on steroids or something?”
“I can fuck you when I like.”
Still facing away from me, he removed his trousers, black briefs and socks and stood completely naked in middle of the apartment. My eyes traveled up and down his gladiator’s physique: a plump, ample ass; hamstrings like sides of beef; bulbous calves that rested atop slim ankles. When he turned and faced me his dick was hard. Precome already jeweled the tip.
“Sie saugen.”
Rolf’s body took up most of the space in my small studio. The precome on his cock began to drip to the hardwood floor.
I hunched my shoulders and tried to conceal my erection with my hands.
“Come suck my cock.”
“Look, Rolf, last night was great, and I still think you’re hot, but you can’t…”
Rolf’s handsome, determined face suddenly metamorphosed into the manic expression of a madman. The color drained from his face and deep lines etched into his skin making sharp, dramatic contours beneath his cheekbones and on the sides of his mouth. He lowered his eyelids and clenched his jaw. The muscles of my back tightened and tingled and I braced myself against the front door as Rolf stomped toward me. “Saugen Sie es! Stop talking and suck!” He grasped the back of my neck and forced me to the floor. His large hard cock filled my mouth. When I tried to resist he smacked the back of my head and pushed his dick in harder. A rank yet slightly sweet odor—a mix of precum, soap, urine, perspiration and the day’s labor—saturated Rolf’s genitals and soft pubic hair.
I sucked and jerked his billy-club cock with gusto, abandoning all of my rational thoughts, even those of revenge. Rolf stepped back and planted one foot on the edge of my bed. I got down on my hands and knees. Rolf grasped his penis at the base and began to shove it down my throat.
“Pretty cocksucker,” he moaned. “Honey-brown ass.”
I arched my back and stuck my ass out. Two hard smacks stung my buttcheeks before I heard my boxers rip, then the sound of Rolf hawking. A gob of hot spit splashed my anus; another gob followed. His thick hands and pudgy fingers kneaded and probed my eager rump while my ministrations on his engorged cock kept him groaning and mumbling to himself in German.
He stood up straight and demanded, “Stehen Sie auf und verbiegen Sie vorbei. Bend over on the bed.”
I had my knees on the edge of the bed and my ass in the air instantly, offering Rolf my ass as if it was a bejeweled chalice filled with wine and he was a Roman solider about to go into battle. He slapped my humps a couple more times before he dipped his face between my quivering cheeks and lapped my hole with his tongue. His strong fingers dug into my fleshy mounds as he licked and flicked, slurped and slapped, grabbed and groped. My ass was his playground and he was as happy as a boy at recess.
He took off my socks, put both hands on the back of my T-shirt and ripped it from my torso. I wiggled my ass in front of him like a bitch in heat. “Get the lube,” I said. “Beside the—Aaaaggghhh!”
“My ass, my way.”
“Goddamn! Wait…I’m not ready….” The language I couldn’t access yet longed to dwell within.
“Süßer, fester Esel!”
Rolf mounted me and hopped on the bed, planting a foot on either side of my knees, and holding on to my trapezius muscle so I couldn’t break free. He wasted no time thrusting into my ass, filling my cavity with the full measure of his cock, shifting my body to accommodate his pleasure. Tears streaked my face an
d I couldn’t suppress the shrieks and wails that erupted from deep within me. No man had ever fucked me so hard with so little lubrication. No man had ever fucked me with such a big dick and such a lack of impunity.
Rolf pushed my upper body to the mattress and hoisted my ass higher, then hunkered down over me and held me in a full nelson. As his rhythmic thrusting quickened, his furry chest felt like a large Brillo pad scouring my back. His thighs, just as hairy and thick, collapsed on mine. The stabbing in my anus eventually gave way to pleasure and my agonizing shrieks and wails became mmms and ahhs of ecstasy.
Rolf panted in my ear. “You get fucked good, baby.”
“Wear my ass out.”
“Füllen Sie es auf, huh?”
“Yeah, baby, fill my ass up.” Black gay men who unabashedly pursued their sexual desires with men of all races.
“Fuck you like a dog. Uggghhh… Tight ass…!”
He rolled me on my back. My asshole had dried up, so he took the lube from the side of the bed, squirted nearly half the bottle into me then submerged his long brawny dick in the river of my asscrack. I held my legs back as far as I could as he began to pummel my asshole, his penis moving like a drill boring and busting the earth for oil. I held on to his round hard ass while his enormous body undulated over mine. He kissed my lips while he continued to fuck me. Sheets of Rolf’s sweat soaked my body and soon a lake of sweat and lube formed in the sheets beneath us.
“You like big white dick?” He grunted and swirled his hips.
“In German.” I licked his lips. “Sprechen Sie auf Deutsch.” In Deutschland you will speak Deutsch!
Rolf acknowledged me with a half smile. His hot breaths puffed in my face before his mouth closed over mine and his tongue coiled around my tongue.
“Sie wünschen Geschlecht die ganze Nacht?” Rolf asked.
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