A message from MASTER BERLIN:

“dear american girl living in lichterfelde,

i’m a dominant master in my 50s in n________. i liked your story and wanted to tell you about me.

I wake up thinking of her again. It seems strange to me that I never wrote about her while we were together. It seems that each day my memory gets ever hazier. I want to relive the sweetness of our fucking… I wonder if I’ll never come that way again, so fully. I remember the frenzy of those hormone filled days at our college (a women’s college whose name I won’t stain with my own sexual exploits). I remember waiting like a puppy for her return outside her dorm room. Waiting for her to come back and hold my pussy in one hand and my throat in the other. “You come harder this way,” she told me one day, with her hand possessively on my neck. After that day she began experimenting with my breathing, telling me when and how to breathe. And every time we fucked I came like a landslide, as many times as she saw fit. Slowly, leisurely in the sun-stream morning when neither of us had class, unreservedly, sometimes hurried, sometimes slow in the afternoon, quickly in the evening before her roommate was due back from her class off-campus, silently in the middle of the night with her hand across my mouth to enjoin me to hush as she tortured my slick clit and slit ever-so-slowly with her finger. We fucked in her college regulation twin bed, on the couch in the common room, on the pool table in the student center, underneath a tree on College Green, on tables and desk-chairs in the classrooms after hours, in the small study cells in the library and even on the window seat in front of the picture windows in the formal common room, on the top bunk of my bunk bed when my roommate was out of town.

I remember tagging along with her to the library and finding a small room in the basement. She would bend her head studiously to her task, putting her great brain to the service of Biology or Chemistry, while I sat watching her or stroking her long black hair. I had work of my own to do, but not as much as she did; after all, she was a Junior, and I was only a lowly Freshman. While I should have put my own great brain to the service of some Bach counterpoint, instead I sat under the table where Amy worked, nuzzling my face into her crotch. Never shifting her focus, never ceasing her steady reading and note-taking, she would find my pussy with her small foot and wriggle her sock-clad toes against my underwear. I ground myself on her foot and ankle until I couldn’t bear it any longer and she suggested I touch myself until she reached the end of her task. I was never very good at masturbating back then. I’m still not too hot at it now. She tried her best with me, but loved fucking me too much to watch my ineffectual attempts for long. When she fucked me, she always took off her class ring for me to put on, so as to keep it clean, out of the way of my freely flowing wetness. She began conducting experiments on me. I was an endlessly fascinating, endlessly coming specimen. She gave me her ring and checked my wetness immediately then remarked, “You have a Pavlovian response to putting on my ring. I haven’t even touched you and you’re already wet.”

She whispered dirty fantasies in my ear as she made me come. I’ll never forget the time she told me that I was naked on a table in a large room, blind folded and tied down. She told me she was demonstrating the wares (me) to a crowd of interested buyers—gentlemen with glasses of whiskey and cigars. The men were sitting around, watching me, murmuring to each other, then they were coming up and testing my responsiveness. They were patting my flanks and poking my ass, slapping it and observing the resulting wobble of flesh. They were pinching my nipples overly hard to make me gasp and slapping my small breasts, trying to decide whether the lack of size was made up for in sensitivity. They were laughing as one man pressed his cold whiskey glass to the inside of my leg and I yelped. They were examining my mouth, checking the straightness and quality of my teeth, putting their fingers unceremoniously in my mouth and either letting me suck them or pulling at my lips and cheeks, giving me no agency in their perusal of that organ by turns. They were stroking the hair on my head and the hair on my pussy, chuckling at my arousal. One of them covered my mouth and nose to see how I reacted without air while another put his thumb on my slit, spreading the wetness around and up to my clit. Another man was probing my tight asshole, another began rubbing my clit, all of them observing me, watching me, deciding whether or not to buy, listening to my moans and scrutinizing them by their own metrics of pleasure. Laughing when I gasped or whimpered in pain, and at last filling up my wet, weeping cunt with their cocks, one by one, all giving my pussy a try, seeing if I was tight enough for them, if I felt good, some began to try out my mouth and throat, choking me on their giant cocks, others slapped my face with their cocks or gripped my thighs painfully hard. “She likes it, look how wet she is,” they were saying to each other. “The little slut likes it. Listen to her moan.” I was theirs to consume. With my eyes closed, I was there in that stark room, being probed and fucked, although all the time it was Amy, pumping her hand skillfully in and out of my wet pussy, it was Amy, touching my clit just so with her other hand or licking it with her deft tongue or whispering in my ear or covering my mouth and nose, expertly recreating the experience of many hard and examining hands on my body.

Amy cannot know what depths of strange erotic desires she has awoken in me. Who could love me? Who could love my strange fucked up sexual self? Who would walk in this bleak place?

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.

Back in the US I call up an old friend, a friend who once liked me, a man. We get coffee, and it’s all very civilized. We discuss ex-lovers, his foot fetish, my submissiveness, our favorite seafood recipes, and the flawed concept of romance. Back at his place, we make cupcakes and then put frosting on each other. When I ask him where the bedroom is, he  tells me he’s actually a romantic and still loves his ex-girlfriend who lives in Virginia. Fair enough. But then why did you let yourself put pink frosting on my nipples and lick it off?

Suffice to say, I’m glad to get back on the plane and head back to Berlin, gray though it may be. At least every week I get to see Ulrike. Her shining hair, her slim fingers, so much longer than mine, her knobby knees.

I miss Amy. But I must forget her.

It’s night here in Berlin. I have just purchased a sleek-looking blue silicon vibrator from FunFactory. Embarrassed by the FunFactory bag, I hid the evidence of my multi-faceted sexuality and high libido in a plain canvas bag. I have been masturbating for days on end with no orgasm in sight… I have been waiting to do this for as long as I have been a sentiently sexual being. Now that I have, I have my misgivings–my sole advice giver for affairs such as these is my ex-girlfriend. I realize belatedly that I have chosen electric blue, as if in homage to her color preferences. Only yesterday she was saying to me how she wished her vibrator was electric blue. (And yes, we are still close enough to share experiences like the color of her vibrator.) I realize also that many of my ideas lately are influenced by the almost invisible and certainly un-purposeful hand of my ex-girlfriend: the fact that I have purchased a vibrator at all, and one from FunFactory, and an electric blue one, rechargeable. She would approve. She will approve, for I’m bound to tell her. My last absurd hair idea was to dye my hair blue. But how much of this style move would be the result of Amy’s influence? I never wanted to dye my hair before I met her. O fie. O spite. O hell, as the characters in Midsummernights Dream would say.

I am fidgety on the hour long S-Bahn ride back home. I want to try my new toy. I want to see if it will be the solution to my masturbation problem. I carefully practiced what to say before I left for my journey to the FunFactory in Hackeschermarkt. “Ich masturbiere studenlang, aber ich komme nie. Bitte helfen Sie mir, ich bin fast verrueckt.” But I didn’t have to say those desperate words. After a brief and professional overview of the toys, I was left alone with my desperation to choose shape and color. I chose the ‘ocean’ model (as I have said, in electric blue). It is petite (perhaps too petite) with two stylized wave-like bumps attached to a short hilt. When I finally get home (one wrong S-Bahn and several other trains and buses later) I can hardly wait to tear open the packaging. No one is home in the apartment. Fortuitous fate! While I wait for the vibe to charge, I tab over to my new sex-blog obsession “Leah lays London,” in which the writer posts sexual ads to craigslistlondon in search of “casual kink,” an idea that has taken me by force. Sex, without the usual torturous dating process… and kinky sex, at that. A dangerous risk, most likely. But it appeals on so many different levels. An hour or two later, moist in my panties and gagging for release, I roll over to check on the vibrator… which still flashes its red light of unavailability at me. I finally cave and read the directions, which inform me that 6-8 hours are required to fully charge the vibe. Resigned, I close the smut tab and dedicate myself to my musical pursuits. But in the evening after dinner, I see that the vibe is ready. I put on loud music with long songs (which already feels strange and artificial… but my walls are thin and I do not want to be overheard, especially if I don’t come). Overly excited mentally, and not at all excited physically, I make a cursory attempt to whet my appetite (wet myself, actually), which amounts to very little. But with lube and a little bit of patience, I come within 20 minutes. It is perhaps 10 percent capacity, but I am satisfied for now with this outcome. The lube is sticky and sweet, a strange flavor when combined with my salty, sweaty animal musk. I resolve to prepare myself more thoroughly in my next experiment, so that I do not have to taste the incongruity once again.

Inexplicably (or perhaps too terribly explicably) and suddenly, I miss my ex-girlfriend. I am angry that coming has this effect on me. I am angry that I have no one to tell about my little death. I am angry that my vibrator is electric blue. I am angry that I have no one to report this purchase to, other than Amy. I want to fall in love quite desperately. Anyone will do. Woman seeks lovable pair of fingers. Woman seeks all-consuming sex with disembodied cock. Woman seeks a warm body, to help her forget. When these things are not found, as they inevitably are not, woman seeks alcohol, vibrator, and lube. I may cry tonight.

Awoke myself this morning with the vibe. I am of course still hungry for more, but I can’t justify spending the day with my vibrator in bed, especially because I fear the magic ending. I fear the day when I wake up and the vibrator is no longer strong enough for my dulled clitoris. I fear the day when I wake up and no partner is able to satisfy me like my vibrator. In fear of that day, I try not to overuse the power I have been given. But it is so tempting. After 11 months of not coming, I am finally getting some measure of release. But I remind myself that a lover is what I’m looking for, not a toy. Using the toy gives me a grim sort of panic. I must find a lover. Sooner, rather than later.

Perhaps my thoughts should turn to something other than sex now. It may be an indication to you of the magnitude of my preoccupation with sex, that I can think of no other interesting topic.

Berlin today is dull and gray and cold no doubt. Light snow is predicted. It is April. Where others are enjoying the blooming of spring, we remain mired in fog and snow and clouds and sadness. It is true that Berlin has only two seasons. Summer and winter. And what a long winter it has been.

Maybe today I will flip a coin to decide whether or not I will post a craigslist ad. What’s the worst that can happen? I post the ad and all the responses are creepy. Or, I post the ad and the responses are creepy, but I don’t realize, and end up going on dates with creeps. Dangerous days. My subconscious is overflowing with sex. I dreamt last night of nude male models being photographed brazenly in a restaurant.

Now is the time for me to be doing dangerous things. When will I have this chance again?

I dreamt last night of pressing my round ass into a man’s hard penis. He would shy away, embarrassed, but I was brazen and laughing like a young goddess.