Almost 200 responses to my craigslist ad have consumed my consciousness. Every morning I wake up wondering what obscene propositions might be awaiting me. The cycle is never ending. I want so badly to spill this secret to Amy, to get her opinions about my internet swains, to laugh at the clichés and downright horrible messages, to mull over the promising ones. Yet I feel that this would be too much like getting her permission to date someone new. I am certain that she would attempt to dissuade me from my venture, and I know that I can only feel resentment if she is successful. I have very perfectly rationalized this craigslist ad in my mind: meeting someone from craigslist for a date (or sex) is infinitely safer than having a one night stand with a stranger in a bar, I assure myself, for at a bar one does not have the benefit of a thorough email screening process. I rationalize that OKCupid is in many ways equally as dangerous if not more: on OKCupid everyone is lying about their motives. At least on the casual encounters board it is clear to all that I am looking for sex of a particular kind. I am hoping that my open honesty inspires others to be honest… yet the suspicion that this venture is likely to get me raped, killed, or somehow otherwise injured still plagues me. I haven’t met any of the men yet. I actually have a blistering head and chest cold.
It’s sunny and blue skied today in Berlin. How could it be though? It seems it must be a surreal fantasy, a flight of the fancy. Last night I had 5 or 6 beers, beginning at 4pm and ending at 2am. Not a single beer did I pay for. I was sitting on Mariusz’s lap, experimenting with him. His arm wrapped around my waist, holding me in place. I nudged his legs with mine and moved my arm purposefully from its platonic place on his shoulder to a lower position. His response, whether conscious or unconscious, was to snake the arm a little firmer around my waist, to shift his grip on me. Unconsciously, he was taking possession of me. I wondered if he could feel the heat of my sex against his thigh, even through the layers of cloth. The day had been warmed by sun, but the night grew cold and I began to feel like my cunt was radiating warmth. I ran my hand through his hair occasionally, playing the exquisite game of touch and trying to gauge his reaction. I laugh as I retell this, because I will tell you reader, I am not attracted to Mariusz. He is a present and warm body. That seems to be all I need right now.
After I parted company with the internationals, I met up with Chris, one of my first Craigslist liaisons. My thigh high tights make me wanton. Sad as I am that the left one has a run in it, I have to admit that it made me all the bolder. I waited for Chris at the fountain by Rathaus Steglitz, playing with rubbing my stockinged legs together, attempting to find the position that displayed my legs at the best angle. I was only dimly aware of the danger I was in–a drunk girl sitting on a fountain in public in a big city on a Saturday night who has told no one where she is other than a strange man who knows of her only through her sex ad on the internet is a girl in danger. I could have been raped or picked up by any of the curious passerby, and if I called my craigslist meet up for help, who’s to say he wouldn’t just join in?
These concerns for my safety are far from my mind. I feel deliciously brave and dirty in my backless dress and thigh high tights. I cannot wait for summer to come at last, for the nights to become warm enough for sun dresses and bare legs and soft soft skin. I have my first jolt of panic and concern when Chris introduces himself to me.
What have I gotten myself into? I think. He is tall, with a big barrel of a chest and a tasteful haircut. Black-rimmed glasses give him an intellectual air. Beer number 5 is lending me all of its courage and social grace. We trip along to the bar Clandestine, discussing any number of innocuous topics. What he does, what I do, why craigslist, spontaneity, being young. We take possession of a low love seat in the bar and he laughs when he hears me speaking German. “It’s like I think I’m in America, and then suddenly you turn around and speak my mother tongue to somebody.” He’s impressed by my German–most people are when they hear that I’ve only studied for a year and a half. He orders some kind of rum based drink and I get a Fassbrause-Pilsner. Our knees are touching. I am hyper aware of this as I sip my Fassbrause and allow myself to expand upon the subject of my life. He asks a bit about my ex-girlfriend, perhaps because he’s interested, perhaps because it turns him on a little. I explain that we tried everything from light bondage to knifeplay. I explain the epiphanic moment of my first orgasm, being bathed in sunlight as my girlfriend works unknown magic on my cunt, the feeling of becoming the light that streams in on me, the realization that I will be chasing that moment for the rest of my life.
He agrees that the first orgasm will never be topped and shares his own sex-epiphany story (whose details I sadly can’t remember). It’s late and our drinks are finished. He says intensely,”Wanna find a hotel?” My skin jumps and my cunt warms and my eyes widen in surprise and uncertainty. My reaction is clearly written upon my face. He laughs, “You thought I was serious, didn’t you?”
Yes, yes I did. I peer at him in indecision, for I know that I would have said yes. He, in turn, becomes serious as well. “I would love to teach you about my cock,” he says. He begins to rub my neck distractingly. I am putty in his hands. Whatever he wants, I will do. I realize in this moment I would do anything to be fucked. The needs of my body make me weak of will. His hand on my neck is all I can concentrate on. It floods my nether regions with heat. “Are you horny right now?” he asks.
I laugh a little bit. “Always.”
I feel like I can do nothing but look at him, I feel unable to make this decision myself. Perhaps he sees that in my eyes. He runs his fingers through my hair. I am a gun with a sensitive trigger; the slightest touch will set me off. Yes my latent sexuality is a dangerous thing. My arousal is a ticking time bomb, waiting to go off.
He says, “Let’s go for a walk.” We traverse the familiar ways of Rathaus Steglitz. I walk in the direction of the bus, as is my habit. We pass a Best Western on the way, whose foyer is still lit. “We could be up there in 10 minutes,” he says.
I am tantalized and paralyzed by this idea. “Maybe I’ll just see how long the bus is going to take,” I say. He seems to be laughing inwardly, perhaps because I told him just how passive and poor a decision-maker I am. He walks me across the street. I look at him, most likely with the indecision scrawled across my face.
“I know you’re just waiting for me to make the decision, right?” he says. I laugh. Well, yes, actually. He admits that he has an appointment with his family in the morning and that he doesn’t want to catch my cold. He doesn’t think he’s the right person for what I need. A one night stand won’t be enough to teach me what I want to know. He’s right I suppose. Disappointed, but relieved and understanding. We embrace as a good bye and I get on the bus with wobbly legs and hot desire. Later, I masturbate, imagining myself on my knees in front of him. I imagine the hotel room, my naked form in the mirror as I kneel submissively before his cock, ready to be the best student I can, eager to learn how best to lick, suck, and be fucked. I come thinking of him, the handsome stranger I’ll never see again.