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.