Another Saturday breakfast on my own as Tante Inga fusses with Onkel Horst in their bedroom above. Onkel Horst is dying and has been doing so for months. All of last year I watched as my mother lingered, each day nearer to death, and I have come to Germany just to live it all over again. There is nothing here in the house but that–waiting for death. No room for and anything to say other than how Onkel Horst fares, what is the likelihood he will live through the day? I have been there, endured that. I go to the hallway and gather up my painting supplies and easel. I call up the stairs that I am going out to the nearby park, Munich’s Alter Botanischer Garten. But if anyone hears me, they do not respond.
We live on Dachauser Strasse not far from the gardens, where, when another session starts up, I can attend the Munich Academy of Fine Arts. I have come here from Savanah, Georgia, where I was studying art at the Savanah College of Art and Design. I have come too late to be enrolled in an art school here now. I must wait. So, I go to the park to paint while I wait–while I wait to enroll in art school; while I wait for Onkel Horst to die; while I wait for my life to start again. I do so this morning, thinking of life and of how empty it is, the waiting for Onkel Horst to die. I don’t want him to die. He and Tante Inga have been good to me. But they didn’t have children of their own. They don’t know what to do with me, a nephew from America without living parents. So, they do nothing.
In the park I pass the bench where Onkel Horst’s friend, Herr Auger, is sitting, reading his newspaper. He is here every Saturday morning, reading his paper, letting it drop a bit, and smiling at me as I pass by. Herr Auger is about the only one who speaks to me this summer while I am out of school. He is old, like Onkel Horst, but he is robust. He is not ready to die. He is friendly too, the only one who asks how I am doing–what I am doing with my time.
When I have set up my paints, he will come and stand behind me and murmur his pleasure at what I am capturing on the canvas. Tanta Inga and Onkel Horst never ask about my artwork. They are consumed by Onkel Horst dying. I understand, but it makes me lonely. I don’t speak enough German yet to fit in and I haven’t formed the circle of friends here I had in Savannah. Herr Auger makes an attempt to talk to me–and he admires my painting.
Seeking inspiration for a painting, I walk on the pathways in the Alter Botanischer Garten, all paths leading back around to where Herr Auger is sitting. He greets me, by name, Gregor, with a smile, on one pass but then he is gone when I last walk by. It is the first time in two days that I have heard someone speak to me by name–who has spoken to me at all. I walk over to the Park Café on the edge of the garden, on the Sophienstrasse side. Herr Auger is sitting at the café, as I knew he would be. Every Saturday morning it is the same with him. I sit down at the curb and look around for a subject to paint.
“Komm her. Hab einege Kaffee und Kuchen, Gregor–Come here. Have some coffee and cake, Gregor,” I hear a voice say.
It is, as I expected, Herr Auger, inviting me to his table at the café. I join him, and as I share coffee and cake with him, we talk. It is the first time since the previous Saturday that I have had a conversation with anyone. He asks about Onkel Horst’s health and how Tante Inga is doing. He and his wife were good friends of Horst’s and Inga’s when Horst was well and Herr Auger’s wife was alive. He knew my father, Onkel Horst’s brother, when he was young, before he went to the States, married my mother, had a son, and then died, with me knowing little of his life in Germany. Herr Auger tells me stories of my father I’ve never heard before and asks me about when my art school starts again and about what a newly arrived nineteen-year-old does in the summer in a land foreign to him where he understands so little of the language, the language of the father he hardly ever knew. They are questions that neither my uncle nor my aunt have thought to ask me, as much attention as my uncle needs.
I don’t do what most of the young nineteen-year-old men here do–at least not this summer. I don’t have any friends my age yet. I came to Tante Inga and Onkel Horst at the beginning of the summer, after the art school session here had let out, when my mother died, my unfamiliar aunt and uncle in Germany had offered me a home, and my art professor had told me that attending the Academy of Art in Munich would be a great opportunity for me. Onkel Horst already was sick and getting worse and Tante Inga’s time and attention were taken up with him. It was good of them to take me in under the conditions they faced. And they had never had children of their own.
I came too late to be enrolled in any summer activities or sports here, so it is a lonely summer for me. I like books and science, so I have lost myself in that–and in keeping up with art by going to the park to paint. It was at the park where I first met Herr Auger and we learned we had Tante Inga and Onkel Horst in common–and loneliness–and some other interests as well.
After I met Herr Auger in the park, I rushed home to tell Onkel Horst and Tante Inga about the meeting, expecting them to tell me about their friendship with Herr Auger and for us to have connections and stories we then could share. But, after an initial “Das ist nett–that’s nice,” they returned to their own problems and showed no interest in any new friendships I might be developing in Germany.
So, it is a summer of losing my mother and my life in the States, living with serious sickness in the house, practicing my art, and waiting for life to begin again–and Herr Auger. Above all else it is the summer of Herr Auger.
As we talk at the café table, he reaches over and lightly strokes my forearm with his fingers. He has done so before, and it is the only intimate touch I have received from another human being this summer. He looks at me and I nod. Again I nod, knowing what that means, what I am agreeing to–as I did the previous Saturday and the Saturday before that, here in this café. Herr Auger isn’t surprised. I have followed him from the garden park to the café.
“Ich verstehen–I understand,” he says to me. “Manchmal bin ich auch einsam–sometimes I too am lonely.” It means much to me that he shares that with me.
In Savannah, there was another young man, Scott. We were developing a relationship and awareness of ourselves and each other, moving toward intimacy–well, more intimacy. But then my mother died and my life in Savannah crumbled. I left for Germany, unfulfilled, uninitiated–but in need and becoming aware. I sense with Herr Auger that need for intimacy as well. I certainly feel the need for intimacy with someone–with a man.
When the bill comes, Herr Auger takes his billfold out and lays fifteen euros on the table for the waiter and hands fifty euros to me. I don’t need the money, but he’d said, that first time, that he needed me to take the money. So, I do. I palm the money and put it in my pocket. When my hand comes back to the tabletop, Herr Auger takes it in his hand and strokes the back of my hand with his fingers. He looks into my eyes, and I can see the loneliness in them fading away into an expression of gratitude. I know exactly how he feels.
I know what he wants to be grateful for. I know what will dispel his loneliness, if only for a brief time, and, knowing loneliness myself, I want to be a comfort to him.
We walk, me following him–not beside him, but in sight of him–back to the bank of flats on Karlstrasse where he lives–all alone in the same flat where he and his now-gone wife lived. In the vestibule of his flat, I sit on a bench and Herr Auger kneels in front of me, unlaces my boots, and takes them off my feet. He looks up into my face as he slowly glides his hands up my legs and under the hem of my shorts–and higher, his fingers meeting at the quick of me. I sigh, spread the stance of my legs wider, and lean my shoulder blades back against the wall. The first time, with Scott, I was frightened and apprehensive; this time I’m not. I know that for the next hour I will not be lonely–I will receive attention and I will feel.
He is giving me attention, grasping me under the material of my shorts and briefs, stroking me. I engorge for him and feel tingly all over. I am panting in low, shallow breaths, and Herr Auger is looking into my eyes, all of his need and desire on display. I remain open, vulnerable to his touch, letting him stroke me within the material of my shorts. I am afraid I will come for him if he doesn’t stop. But I know that he won’t stop until I do come for him.
No one has even noticed I have been here all summer–no one but Herr Auger. I lift my legs as he slips my shorts and briefs off and then raise my arms for him to pull my T-shirt over my head. He lowers his head to my lap, and I give a little gasp and jerk as he takes me inside his mouth. I close my eyes and lay back, against the wall, and run my hands through the dark hair, shot with gray, on his head as his hands move everywhere on my body.
He is old–an old man my uncle and aunt’s age. It isn’t that he’s bad looking, because he isn’t, that I feel I should not be doing this. It’s because he’s not of my generation. He is old; he’s been married. He should not be doing this. I should not be letting an old man do this with me–to me. But he is doing it, and I am letting him do it. He murmurs of his need. I need this too.
I had thoughts of this in Savannah, and I approached it–the beaded curtain through which I emotionally wanted to pass–but it went no further than that one touching, stroking with hands, and a bit of kissing… and that one release–with Scott. Then my mother died, and I left Savannah–unfulfilled.
But now I am possessed by thoughts of sex–constant thoughts of doing it, and increasingly because it is the summer of Herr Auger, think of doing it with men. At this age I have, of course, gained experience in getting hard and climaxing by my own hand. But now I have another man to give me attention to–and to show me new methods of pleasuring–pleasuring myself, but of being pleasured by and giving pleasure to other men, as well. I do all those things, have all of these thoughts–the arguments with myself and the weakness of my capitulation–my cock in his throat, the old man’s throat, in the vestibule of Herr Auger’s flat as he pleasures himself and me with what he does with my body, his hands moving everywhere on my body as his mouth sucks my cock, bringing me to a throbbing erection, and, relentlessly, to a climax.
When I have come for him, he rises, gives a sigh, and moves into his sitting room, where a sofa faces a fireplace with a flat-screen TV above it. He moves to the sofa and sits on it, taking his shoes off, unbuttoning his shirt, and unzipping and flaring his trousers as I go through the stack of DVDs on a small table by the fireplace. He lets me pick out what will play on the screen and we will watch, at least initially. I pick one out and put it on. Then I go to the sofa and sink down on my knees between Herr Auger’s spread legs.
It has begun. There is no fighting it or wondering about it anymore. I am here. I have had sex with Herr Auger. I will have more sex with Herr Auger. Whatever he wants–here, today, now. I will not fight it. For now, I am not lonely. Somehow I will make it through this otherwise empty summer. I will do what this man wants–let him have whatever he wants.
It is my turn to lower my head to his lap and take him into my mouth as he lies back into the sofa, sighing and moaning, and runs his fingers through my golden curls, grasping my head between his hands lightly, and guiding my head as he wishes.
He, like I, becomes naked, his body muscular and hard for a man his age, as he raises and turns me, my cheek and chest pressing to the floor in front of the sofa, my arms reaching out along the floor toward where, I having picked out a movie to mirror the attention I am getting, an older man is fucking a younger man my age on the screen. Like in the posing on the screen, my body is streaming back up onto Herr Auger’s muscular, slightly hirsute torso.
“Legst du Ihre Knöchel auf meine Schultern–Put your ankles on my shoulders,” he murmurs, and, when I have, I am totally under his control.
He kneads and squeezes my buttocks cheeks, and I sigh for him. I am panting. He strikes one cheek with the open palm of his hand and I jerk and give a little cry of surprise and pain. And then he slaps me on the other cheek and I exclaim again but no longer in surprise. Then again and again and I writhe under him, trying to suppress sobs. It hurts, but I feel so alive. The pain tells me I am alive, in the world–that someone notices me. That Herr Auger notices me. It isn’t right what we’re doing here, but we are sharing our loneliness and fighting against it–together. He is taking control and everything that happens here is because I am a submissive and he is a dominator, and he takes responsibility for it all. He is giving me pain because he knows I want to feel fully alive.
Could it also because he is angry–with himself for what he can’t fight against and with me for being the temptation? I don’t want to think about it. I just want to feel something–anything–in this long, empty summer.
He strikes me a few more time. My flesh smarts, but I am hard again for him now. I feel one of his fingers penetrate and move inside me while he’s striking me with the other hand. I writhe on the finger, but he holds me close with the pressure of his knees on my sides. I feel myself loosen “down there” on his probing finger, and he mutters, “Gut, gut–good. Gib es mir–Give it to me.” When he can hear me sobbing, he stops, withdraws the finger, leans over, and kisses where he has struck.
“Sehr gut. Guter Junge–very good. Good boy,” I hear him murmur. “Gebst du sich voll und ganz zu mir–Give yourself fully to me.” And I do. I will let him have anything he wants, as long as he gives me attention, as long as, for this brief time, I no longer feel lonely.
Herr Auger buries his face in the crack of my buttocks and feasts on me, opening me to his needs, as I gasp and moan and languidly writhe under his attention. I can feel the hardness of him poking at my belly. Then it no longer is poking at my belly but is moving down, into position. He crouches over me, half rising.
“Gib mir deine Handgelenke–Give me your wrists,” he says, and he grasps my wrists as I raise and move my arms back toward him.
He settles back into the sofa, raising my body so that it juts out over the carpet in front of the sofa, my ankles on his shoulders, my arms bowed back, my torso arched. I cry out as he penetrates me and moves up into my channel. He is a thick man. Pulling and releasing on my wrists, he moves me on his shaft as I gasp and groan and moan, filled by him, the two of us no longer separate, but joined, and moving together as one. Fucking.
All loneliness dispelled.
In, out; back, forth; in, out, he fucks me and fucks me and fucks me, bringing me off a second time. He is experienced and controlled. He doesn’t come. I know there is more.
The movie has ended and he lets me slowly collapse to the floor in front of the sofa to rise and pad back to the fireplace to put another DVD on. When I return to the sofa, he has stretched out on it on his back. He grasps his cock, still in angry erection, and watches me move toward him.
“Setzst du sich darauf. Ritt meinen Schwanz–Put yourself on it. Ride my cock.”
I climb onto the sofa and atop him, positioning myself astride his pelvis. I slowly descend my channel on the cock, taking it all inside me. Total surrender.
“Gut. Gut. Ritt mich. Ritt mich–Good. Good. Ride me. Ride me.”
Leaning over him, palms pressing to his breasts, and looking down into his eyes–at least for the moment reflecting lust rather than loneliness–I rise and fall on the cock, the speed and intensity increasing until I am wildly gyrating on him–and he comes, deep inside me.
I collapse on him, and we both turn our faces to the TV screen, watching an older man fucking a young man of my age, blond and slender as I am.
At length, he stirs and sighs. He moves from under me. The movie has finished. He gathers me up in his arms and carries me into his bedroom, to his bed, lays me on my back at the foot of the bed, raises and spreads my legs, mounts me, and fucks me again. I won’t get back to the Dachauser Strasse house until almost supper time. Neither Onkel Horst nor Tante Inga will have noticed I’ve been gone most of the day.
I will return a little less lonely than I was when I left the house of sickness and dying that morning. I am already looking forward to the next Saturday.
* * * *
That Saturday spins out to a series of Saturdays of the summer spent with Herr Auger in his apartment. On the first Saturday in September, when I am leaving Herr Auger’s apartment, I brush against a young, handsome, Nordic blond man in the hallway who is chaining up his bicycle.
“Sorry,” I say as he goes a bit off balance, and he looks up at me and smiles.
“You speak English?” he says, his accent thick but understandable. I immediately wish I come speak other languages as the Europeans seem to be able to do.
“Yes,” I answered. “I am an American. I’ve recently come to Germany.” I don’t tell him of how lonely and isolated I’ve felt until I came under Herr Auger.
“You are an art student?” he asks, seeing that I am carrying my sketch pad and charcoals. That’s not all he sees. I have dropped the sketch pad and it has opened to a sketch of a young man–a young man masturbating–a self-portrait.
“Yes,” I answer, picking the sketch pad up from the floor and closing it. “I was going to art school in the States. I will enroll at the Munich Academy of Fine Arts in the fall. I start next week. Summer is almost over.”
“Oh, that is where I go,” he says. Then he gives me a little knowing smile and says, “Is that Herr Auger’s flat I have seen you come from?”
I instinctively know that he is aware of what I have been doing in Herr Auger’s flat. Has he been a visitor to Herr Auger’s flat too–as I have been? I wonder who else Herr Auger has brought to his flat and seduced–what other lonely soul like I was. I answer, though, with a slight blush, “Yes.”
Dieter takes the sketch book out of my hand that I have retrieved from the floor and goes through it. It is a sketchpad that I have drawn to, first out of sexual frustration, and, in the last week, in the wake of my sexual awakening–my journey through the beaded curtain in my summer of Herr Auger. The sketches, of course, are very explicit. I am a good artist, so he knows that the sketches are of me.
“Would you like to come into my flat with me?” he asks. I don’t need him to tell me why. He has extended a hand to me, touching my arm with long, sensitive fingers, connecting with me, making all loneliness dissipate.
“Yes,” I say.
I don’t leave his apartment until the next morning. I don’t think that Onkel Horst and Tanta Inga even realize I had not come home on Saturday night. I don’t resent that; I am happy not to have to explain. I am very happy, because I am leaving the summer of Herr Auger and entering the fall of Dieter Schmidt.