He was living in a mostly Turkish housing project on the outskirts of the German city. I was living in Greenwich Village, NYC. For a period of ten years we commuted from Frankfurt a.m. to NY and from NY to Frankfurt.
He was a writer for German radio. I was a teacher.
“Ahmed, Ahmed” was often heard as if little Ahmed was never around. It was somebody's mother calling from one of the windows in the working class immigrant community. We smiled, talked, had sex and waited for the woman to call again.
"What do you know about them?"
Lots of talk and verbal confrontation were quite common events. He was not to forget his generation's uniqueness, out of the question: the upbringing of their parents, the war, the role played now and their commitment to social transformation.
Our evenings were - as aptly labeled by one of the self-appointed gurus of gay friendly hetero majority communal living - consciousness raising therapy group sessions. It was the eighties and gay relationships had moved from the constraints of either clandestine or assumed roles of middle class propriety into multiple possibilities.
More than one or two evenings were spent on vocal confrontation after confrontation: from the personal to the politico-personal; to be followed by beers and lots of more talk.
"What do you know about the war? Were you there?"
A strong sensual desire shaking your insides while intellectually challenging the target - the sexy other - is a very difficult to beat experience in the world of romantic conquests. Desire drives the conquering game; played against the one who is letting himself be conquered.
The verbal game: to be able to counter reason with reason, small sexual allegories, and back to reason, a challenge, a puzzle where each player is placing the parts without knowing how they will ever look as a whole.
"Does it matter? Who does the colonization? You, colonized?"
The smile and the brightening of the eyes can serve as evidence of being on the road to accomplishing the goal, and is enough reason to move from the chair to the sofa, to sit next to him. Smile and eyes can reveal the strength of the sensation, the joy of knowing that the body next to you will be yours.
"Why didn’t you ask about the camps near your house? How would she had known? Who knows how she would have behaved during the war?"
Body heat best describes the intensity of two highly charged thirty something testosterone carriers love affair. And a sofa is usually too small to hold all the heat generated by two men wanting to devour each other. A hand on the waist while pointing to the bedroom redirects the tremors, movements, erotic provocations to a smaller and darker space. Comfort and intimacy is determined by the searching bodies and their intentions.
"Food was scarce, have you ever been hungry? Have you?"
When two naked male bodies meet, undulated backs, necks and head-motions form continuous waves as the tip of a tongue melts into a slowly raising chest, a forest of pubic hair. Strong rounded ankles coming out from underneath rumpled bed sheets form a tent, a double tent, a sea of waves, white canyons made of cotton. A moan follows the coldness of oil being rubbed against each sensitive part. To taste a salty body can arouse much more than the palate. Loving bodies leave marks on the flat white sheets highlighted by the late summer evening rays. In Frankfurt no dogma was monolithic.
"A bed is not a nation. Have you ever fought against the power of a mass?"
“Ahmed, Ahmed” is the continous scream of the veiled muslim mother in the housing project while the two men next door talk and fuck.
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