2025-07-11, 07:39 PM
I knew right away that doing my best friend a favor was a completely stupid and perverse idea. Good heavens, I can really waste my time more usefully than watching guys doing stretches and kicking balls back and forth. I've rejected any form of sport with balls ever since I once got hit right in the face with a volleyball. I'm afraid of balls. My girlfriend (platonic) laughs at me for that. All the time. Just not right now. At the moment, she's gawking, rapt like a teenager, at the sweaty guys playing ring-a-roses. Of course, she fancies Ballack. She's already in her early thirties and has outgrown the two youngsters Podolski and Schweinsteiger. Besides, neither of them are particularly beautiful.
Not that anyone would think we're watching the German national team train in public. No, Tine won a meeting with the team in some stupid competition. I was simply dragged along because she was allowed to bring someone else with her and I'm probably her only friend. What do I know? In any case, she's incredibly excited because training is almost over and she'll finally get to meet the guys. Maybe she'll get Ballack to scribble an autograph right on the top of her breasts or something similarly embarrassing. I'm already ashamed! A camera crew is following us every step of the way. We're probably supposed to be on TV. Another reason to hate her and be ashamed. I don't want friends and acquaintances to see me with football idiots.
Ah...a blond guy is coming up to us. I know him...it's the coach. Klinsmann or whatever his name is. He gives us a friendly handshake and probably secretly finds it disgusting that we're bothering his team during the World Cup. But he doesn't let it show. His boys have gone to shower. Tine would certainly have loved to come along and scrub Ballack's back. Or his ass. Mr. Klinsmann refers us to his substitute coach and hastily says goodbye. He's not in the mood for us, the good man.
We're invited to the hotel. A cozy chat with... they're surely not allowed to drink alcohol, are they?! After all, they have to be fit for the next game against someone. I order myself a cocktail, though. With alcohol... and a sugar rim... and a pineapple star on the glass... and a paper umbrella! I can hardly stand it here sober. Mr. Löw is drinking water with lemon. Where are the footballers?! If they all show up here, it's going to be pretty crowded. There are at least eleven of them, if not more. Mr. Löw babbles about the World Cup and how the goal is to win. Well, if you want to lose, you probably don't even need to take part. Tine acts disgustingly interested.
Ahhhh...here they come. A few of them, anyway. Tine is beaming because Ballack is there. Podolski and Schweinsteiger too. I don't know the others. We're filmed together in various poses, Tine is allowed to ask all sorts of questions, there are autographs, two tickets for the final, and then the official part is over. Löw is already taking off. Now we could also discreetly make our escape. We could...but we don't. As soon as the film crew leaves, more players appear.
"Well, Miro...you've successfully ducked again, haven't you?" someone yells. I think it was Podolski.
The person addressed remains silent and sits down next to me because that is the only free seat.
“And this is where you always eat,” Tine notes intelligently.
I blush with embarrassment. Miro also looks a bit as if he's embarrassed, which I immediately like.
“Isn’t it terrible to be separated from your family for so long?” Tine asks the group.
Mr. Ballack says yes and talks about his children.
“Isn’t it terrible not having sex for so long?” I hear myself asking the group.
Oh dear...it's the alcohol. I'm already on my third cocktail, and the two before that were pretty heavy. My question seems to have gone down well, though, because everyone is laughing. Everyone except Miro. Maybe the lack of sex is really getting to him?!
“My best friend is my hand anyway,” giggles Poldi.
“I think your best friend is Bastian,” someone says.
“But not for that,” he coughs and makes a jerk-off gesture.
Uh...am I sitting here with the German national team and they're talking about masturbation?? I'm going crazy!
“Boys...,” warns Mr. Ballack, “we have a lady visiting, so please...”
BUAHAHAHA...Tine would certainly like to know more about his masturbation habits.
Anyway, I'm slowly starting to feel comfortable because the guys are all normal and nice. And because the alcohol is rushing through my body. Unfortunately, when I reach for my glass, something stupid happens. I knock Miro's drink over with my elbow, and a lot of it ends up on his pants.
“Damn,” he hisses.
The first word I hear from him.
“Ow, fuck...sorry,” I hiccup and wipe at his thigh.
“It’s okay, it’s just water,” he replies and flicks my hand away.
God, he has a great voice! And his fingers are...soft...mm...like cotton.
“Shouldn’t drink so much, huh?” he smiles.
"Could be," I nod, fighting back a growing bout of weakness. I think I've just fallen in love. With Miroslav Klose. This is so absurd that I start giggling uncontrollably.
“You can’t go anywhere with me,” Tine claims angrily.
If she knew that I'd just fallen in love with Miroslav Klose, she'd really shut up!
The man of my dreams stands up. "I need to change my pants," he explains.
“Yes, Miro...dry yourself off,” laughs Poldi.
"Are you coming back?" I ask, and Tine nudges me in the ribs. "What?"
“We should stop imposing ourselves.”
“But you won a whole day.”
"I won a meeting. The film people are gone, and the guys don't have to hang out with us at all anymore."
That cow! She only says that because her great Ballack keeps talking about his wife and the kids.
"But I still want Miro's autograph," I complain. "Besides, I'm going to pee."
"Then hurry up. I'll wait three minutes."
So I stagger off. But not to the bathroom. Because I don't need to! Unsteadily, I make my way through the hotel, feeling lucky. Miro comes down the hall.
“Are you lost?”
“I want your autograph,” I slur.
“We could have done that downstairs.”
"That's true." I reach into his shirt and pull him toward me. "But not this," I whisper and kiss him on the mouth.
He pushes me away roughly. "Are you drunk or something?" he hisses aggressively.
"A little, but that has nothing to do with it," I clarify, rubbing my sore arm. Miro slammed me against the wall while pushing me.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "You...what's your name anyway?"
"Daniel. Shit, I think I'm going to be sick." Yuck...a disgustingly urgent urge to vomit crawls up my throat.
"Oh man, don't puke on my feet. Can you make it to my room?"
“I'll try,” I burp.
So Miro drags me into his room, pushes me into the bathroom, where I immediately slump over the toilet bowl, bursting into the colors of the rainbow. The cocktails were very colorful! Afterward, I immediately feel better...a little. A single horrible thought flashes through my dazed head: I pooped in Miroslav Klose's toilet... while Miroslav Klose was standing right next to me! Hey, how embarrassing is that?! And to make matters worse, Miroslav Klose is now handing me a peppermint!
“Are you okay again?” he asks, slightly worried.
I nod and suck on my candy like crazy because the little devil alcohol whispers happily to me: Kiss him, you asshole!
That's not possible, I defend myself in my thoughts, he's going to hit me.
But first he sits down next to me on the bed.
“Are you actually married?”
“Yes, why?” he asks.
"Children?"
"Two."
"Injury."
“Huh?” he says, confused.
Fuck, when children are involved, things get disgusting. I'd have no qualms or moral reservations about ruining a marriage, but having sex with a family man is completely unacceptable!
“Sorry, I really didn’t want to kiss you,” I lie.
"No? Then why did you do it?"
Oh dear, when he's so close to me...and he's smiling so sweetly. "Well, I wanted to, but I shouldn't have taken you by surprise. That's not what you do."
"True," he nods, "you could have at least warned me. Or asked politely."
"You would have said no, Miro...uh...can I call you Miro?"
“Of course...you can call me that,” he grins.
My candy is licked. "May I kiss you, please?"
He takes a deep breath and exhales. "Okay."
Whatssssss?? "Really?"
"Clear."
“And what about your wife?”
He timidly tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "Do you want to kiss that too?"
“I like men.”
“Yes, I noticed,” he sighs.
“Do I seem that gay?”
“No,” he laughs, “but your hand has been on my thigh the whole time.”
Homeland!! Startled, I take my fin away. But a second later, Miro grabs my hand and places it back on his leg. A little higher than before. I can almost feel his... oh my God!!! Then I kiss him. That's right, with my tongue, and all the lights go out for me. Miro is totally shy and insecure. He's probably never kissed a man before me. So I slow down, nibble tenderly on his lips, gently nudge the tip of his tongue, and stroke his soft neck.
"Miro? Hey, did you see that little drunkard? He got lost somehow..." Mr. Ballack walked into the room, "oh, there he is."
Miro jumps up in horror. "Ahem...yes, he wasn't feeling well, so I...ahem..."
“I puked,” I explain stupidly.
“I’m sorry,” replies Mr. Ballack, turning to Miro, “did you give him a peppermint?”
“Uh, yeah,” he shakes his sweet head, irritated.
"Your girlfriend didn't want to wait any longer..."
“Tine is not my girlfriend.”
“In any case, she’s gone,” Mr. Ballack informs me.
“Then I should probably go too,” I say helplessly.
“But not if you’re still feeling sick,” protests Miro, “who knows what could happen.”
“I’ve been drunk worse.”
“Jürgen wants to discuss something with us, so...” urges Mr. Ballack, whom I immediately hate with all my heart.
“I’ll be right there,” Miro replies.
When the troublemaker has left, we stand awkwardly facing each other.
"You heard...meeting. I have to go there now."
“I want to see you again,” I say firmly.
“I want that too,” he whispers.
It seems like fortune is especially on my side today! "When?"
"I don't know." He scribbles something on a piece of paper and presses it into my hand. "Call me, okay?"
I stir my cocoa dreamily. Tine has been babbling about Ballack and my sudden disappearance from the hotel for two hours, and...she's a little annoyed, too.
"Man, I had to throw up. This takes longer than three minutes."
"You acted like a complete idiot. You totally embarrassed me and threw water at Miroslav Klose."
I did a lot more with that, baby!! "You dragged me along even though I didn't want to, so don't complain."
“Getting you so drunk,” she hisses angrily.
“When are we going to Berlin and...will the travel costs be paid for?” I change the subject.
"Huh?"
"Well, the final. That's in Berlin."
Tine grimaces. "You don't seriously think I'm going there with you."
“With whom else?”
„Saskia.“
Her best friend, whom I can't stand. Of course, I have reasons for that. Saskia has a thing against men. Just because she keeps getting dumped, which I can understand, because Saskia is just unbearable. Is Tine crazy, going to the soccer game with that bitch? I want to see Miro, damn it! He'll definitely make the final.
“You’re not serious, are you?”
"Absolutely."
“Please, Tine...I behave very well too and...”
“No chance,” she interrupts me.
“You old puke,” I bleat, storm out of the café and leave her with the bill.
The next day the old puke cow shows up at my door.
"What do you want here?" I ask wearily. I've been trying to reach Miro all night, but he apparently turned off his phone.
"Germany vs. Argentina is coming up. And who would I rather watch a football match with than my best friend, who hates football," she laughs.
Of course I hate football...but I love Miro. So I'm sitting down with Tine in front of the TV, and I'm kind of excited. Ah, there they are marching onto the pitch, each one a
A brat by the hand...even my Miro. He sings the anthem too. Isn't he Polish?
Ethnicity? Whatever. He looks AWESOME, I'm going crazy! If I were alone, I'd jerk off right now.
The game is boring because nothing's happening. Except for a goal for Argentina. I think Miro should score the equalizer. Before I've even finished thinking...Miro scores the equalizer. Oh dear, can I influence him with the power of my thoughts?! Let me try: I think Miro should hop on one leg! Nope, it doesn't work.
Tine nudges me. "Why are you so focused? And why haven't you made a single negative asshole comment yet?"
“Well, because I know a few of those guys now and I’m happy for them to win.”
“You’re becoming more and more scary to me, Dani,” she says.
“Besides, that thing...Klose doesn’t look so bad,” I explain, trying not to blush.
"Do you think so? Hmm, no, I don't know. Something bothers me about it. It looks so...Polish."
Before I argue with her, I'd rather keep my fingers crossed during the penalty shootout.
Lehmann saves two, Germany scores all of them. Semifinal!! I'm happy...for my sweetheart. He's probably very happy now, having scored a super important goal.
After Tine and I have duly celebrated the victory, I'm tipsy enough to call Miro again.
"Yes?", you blurted out.
"Hi, sweetie...it's me."
"Who?"
“Daniel,” I say, a little annoyed, “don’t you see my number on the display?”
“Yes, but not your name.”
"You won...are you happy?"
"You're drunk?"
“Yes.”
"You can only stand me when I'm drunk, huh?" Various people are chattering in the background. Sounds like a party. "Look, I can't talk like this right now. I'll call you tomorrow."
There's no point saying goodbye because he's already hung up. Great!
Well... Miro didn't call, of course. So I didn't waste any time and went to the team's residence. Getting in there is practically impossible. Security guards are lurking everywhere. The footballers are better guarded than Tokio Hotel, damn it!
“Yes?” a wardrobe man in a black suit asks me.
“I would like to see Mr. Klose,” I politely state my request.
The wardrobe looks at me pityingly. "Yeah, a lot of people want to go to him. And to Mr. Ballack, Mr. Podolski, Mr...."
"Do you want to list all the players now? I want to see Miroslav Klose. I'm an...acquaintance. He knows me. Quite well, in fact."
"Watch out, little one...you're not coming in here. No matter who you know."
I cross my arms in front of my chest and adopt a smug look. "You do realize you're about to lose your job, right? So if you don't want to apply for Hartz IV by tomorrow at the latest, let me in now... MIRO!!" I yell, flailing my arms wildly.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, quite annoyed.
"You didn't call me and..."
He grabs me by the collar, gives the wardrobe an okay sign and drags me
behind him into a quiet corner.
"Daniel, you can't just come here. What if someone sees you?"
“Let’s go to your room,” I suggest.
"I don't have time. I'm...working...here!"
"Around the clock?"
He shakes his head resignedly. "Fine. But only five minutes."
As soon as he closes the door behind us, I shove myself against him. There's no other way; he looks too good in his baggy workout clothes.
“THAT’S absolutely not possible right now,” he puffs.
My hands stroke his neck and ruffle his hair while I kiss him.
I ignore the fact that he resists a little. He only resists at first. When I put my tongue in his mouth, he's immediately excited...it's clear from the reaction of a certain part of his body. Mr. Klose has quite a hard-on! Wow, I have such an effect on him...
“I missed you,” I whisper.
“We hardly know each other,” he grumbles.
I shrug my shoulders, push him onto the bed and myself right next to him. And while I'm already lying on top of him, I grope him uncontrollably. Slide my hand under his shirt and
KNOCK KNOCK. Fuck, not again!
Miro wriggles out from under me as the door opens. Mr. Ballack! I feel like I'm at a comedy show.
"Uh, Miro...you..." he glances at me, "what's he doing here?"
My sweetheart remains silent, embarrassed. I don't really know what to say either.
Mr. Ballack thinks for a moment and points to Miro, then to me. "What's going on? Are you two having an affair?"
Miro turns horribly pale around the nose. "Micha, please don't tell anyone. I...I don't know what's wrong with me."
“Okay, but...are you guys having an affair?!”
"Well, sort of. I don't know," Miro admits.
"But you never said that you...and your wife? Oh shit," Ballack babbles, plopping down in an armchair.
"If this gets around, I can pack up. Besides, I knew it myself
not...exactly," my sweetheart murmurs unhappily.
“Hmm, I won’t say anything, don’t worry.”
I light a cigarette first. The two gentlemen seem to have forgotten that someone else is in the room.
“Smoking is prohibited here,” explains Ballack.
"Surely only for World Cup participants," I reply. "Congratulations on making it to the quarterfinals, by the way. That was a very exciting game. Hardly any scoring chances, but a cool defense. And what about the defense?" I fantasize.
“Miro...is he still drunk?”
“No,” grins my sweetheart, “I’m afraid that’s his normal state.”
“You can also speak to me personally, Mr. Ballack.”
“And you don’t have to address me formally and call me ‘Sir,’” he shakes his head.
"I know."
“Okay, so...what are you going to do now?”
“We were just about to have sex.”
“No, I mean...uh...forget it,” sighs Mr. Ballack.
By the way, Miro blushed when he mentioned the word sex. God, I love him!
Finally, Ballack stands up and goes to the door. "Well, have fun then. I hope you know what you're doing, Miro."
Oh, I hope so, too. And I hope he does it right now. Unfortunately, he's not making any move, just looking dejected.
“I’m very sorry for putting you in this situation.”
"Really? I think you're not worried at all," he replies bitchy.
That's mean. I guess I'm worried! Well, I would be, if I weren't so disgustingly attracted to him.
"You just show up, make out with me even though you know I have a family, tell Michael shit like we're having sex...are you out of your mind?"
Is he just blaming everything on me?! How rude! "If I'm so annoying and embarrassing to you...why did you give me your number? And didn't you tell me you wanted to see me again?"
He nervously runs his hand through his hair. "Yes, I can...but I can't. Daniel...it's not possible. There's just too much at stake."
"I don't want to fuck around with you in public. Nobody has to know. Okay, Mr. Ballack knows now, but that's not my fault. Why does he actually
Constantly coming into your room without asking? He's into you, isn't he?" I ask jealously.
Miro shakes his head. "You're crazy. But sweet," he smiles.
Ahhh, that's a start. I pull him onto the bed with me. "Let's make out."
So we do, and the shy, insecure Miro Klose is...unfortunately still shy and insecure. I have to direct him a lot when I touch him. No matter, his hands are wonderfully soft and ultimately do everything right. My hands wander over his bare torso, stroke his cute belly, and...
“This is going too fast for me,” he huffs as I try to put my hand down his pants.
Injury!!!
"I've never had anything like this before...with a...tell me, how old are you?"
“Just turned twenty-one,” I say proudly, running my fingers over his waistband.
"And...you've probably often..."
"Well...yes, quite often," I grin. "But that's not meant to put any pressure on you. I mean, we don't have to fuck right away. I can just jerk you off if you want."
Miro's cheeks are actually turning red again. Oh my goodness, that's so sweet!!
“Are you always so direct?”
“It’s important to say what you want, otherwise you’ll go home unsatisfied.”
“Yes...that makes sense.”
“Isn’t that right,” I nod and let my hand disappear into his pants.
Miro comes pretty quickly, which is unfortunate because I find it incredibly stimulating to do things like that with him. Besides, I would have loved to give him a blowjob. Oh well, next time then. First, though, I have to tell him that I naturally want to get my money's worth a little more. I'm just wondering how best to go about it. I don't want to scare the poor guy away again. But I don't need to say anything because he's already fiddling with my jeans.
"Should...well, I would...ugh...pretty difficult with a man," he states.
I notice that although he's unsure, he's still surprisingly skilled. Honestly, I'm almost seeing stars and it takes me a few minutes to reconnect with the world.
We get dressed in silence. Silently because we know it's time to say goodbye. After all, Miro isn't here on vacation, and I don't want to get caught by Mr. Ballack again. He's already getting on my nerves.
The dream of a World Cup title is over! Italy won, and my sweetheart is left with third place. Of course, I couldn't care less that Tine went to Berlin with her stupid Saskia bitch. Who cared about the final anymore?! The bad thing is, I can't reach Miro. He doesn't answer his cell phone or call me. He's probably too disappointed to talk to me... oh man, I'd love to comfort him. On the other hand, what should I say to him? I hate football and I can't imagine how he feels right now. But then again, an entire nation is behind its team... that's worth something, right? They shouldn't whine, they should be happy that they're so popular.
If 180,000,000,000 people were cheering for me...well, I'd be floating in heaven and shitting on a stupid trophy! Well, at that superb reception in Berlin, the guys didn't really look sad. Why should they? After all, they got to sing alongside Xavier Dingens and Sportfreunde Stiller. I really like the latter. I really have to ask Miro if they're really as nice and funny as they seem in the interviews. That is...if I ever see Miro again. He's probably on vacation with his wife and kids while I'm dying of longing here. Fuck, did I accidentally become his lover?! Maybe I was nothing more to Miro than a quick wank in between. A way to relieve the pressure and not have to get my hands dirty. I just wish I'd known that beforehand, then I could have prepared myself. So, of course, I thought...that it meant something to him. And I can't even talk to anyone about my heartbreak because no one can know that I gave Miro a handjob. Football players and having sex with a guy... for heaven's sake! That's even worse than being in a boy band and having a crush on guys. One more reason to hate football.
Out of desperation, I went online to find out something about my sweetheart. All I knew was that he's an absolute picture-perfect cutie, apparently a pretty good soccer player, and...a really good kisser. That his hair smells really nice, his skin too, that he has the most beautiful calves in the world, and is the only one who looks indescribably sexy in shorts and knee socks. Now I know everything... but I've already forgotten half of it. What do I care how many goals he's scored in so many games?! I've kept his disgusting taste in music. And that he loves his children. Normal, right? You don't bring kids into the world just to beat them up. Okay, that happens a lot, unfortunately, but Miro is definitely a really sweet dad. It makes me sick to my stomach. He'll never give up his family for me. Or his career, either. As much as I rave about him, I'm not kidding myself. The position I find myself in is incredibly unfortunate, bad, and shitty! I'm not just a lover, I'm a football groupie. I'm like a teenager who pines over his star and also wants to find out what toilet paper he uses. This realization hits me so hard that I get completely drunk. Getting drunk only helps in the short term, but it still helps.
The next morning, I deeply regret it. A mile-long freight train is racing through my skull, and the taste on my furry tongue is so revolting that it makes me nauseous. So I brush my teeth, gargle with Listerine, and pop some paracetamol. Afterward, I feel halfway human. But only until I take a look in the mirror. I look like a zombie, freshly risen from the grave. Dark circles all the way down to my eyes, my black hair sticking up in every direction, and...oh, my phone's ringing. Yeah...Miro!!
“Hello,” I clear my throat.
“Hey,” he whispers.
“Where are you?”
"At home."
“And before that?”
“Vacation,” he answers curtly.
"Great. How are your wife and kids?"
"Daniel...let's not get mean, okay?! You knew I had a family...we can't see each other anymore. I'm sorry."
"You called specifically to tell me that? A text to break up would have been enough."
"I don't owe you anything, Daniel. We never had a relationship or anything. We just..."
"A little fooling around," I interrupt, "sure. My best wishes to your wife."
With tears in my eyes, I push him away and, disgusted, throw my phone across the room. That's a good idea, that soccer star. He just dumped me after he'd had his fun. I should schedule an interview with Bild newspaper right away. Wouldn't that make a nice headline: World Cup top scorer is having sex with men!
The fired-off cell phone rings again. Miro?! Aha...he probably wants to apologize.
“What?” I say angrily.
He breathes heavily. "Daniel...can't we talk properly?"
"Fine by me. Speak up!"
"I...it was really nice but...it was a one-time thing for me. There's no other way. If it weren't for my family and football...then...maybe..."
“I understand,” I say sadly.
"You... ahem... you don't do anything stupid, do you?"
“What kind of nonsense?”
"Well... tell someone. The... wrong people."
Oh, that's where the wind's blowing! Mr. Klose is sweet-talking to save his ass. Stupid bum! "I'd love to chat some more, but I have to go. I have an important meeting with BILD."
To prevent him from calling me again, I turn off my cell phone. Of course, I'm not selling my story to the newspaper. But he should panic a little. I won't let myself be used and then thrown away like a rag. And I swear on everything I hold sacred: he'll get to know me!
“Ahhhhh...” I scream in shock, “how do you know where I live?”
“Can I tell you about it inside?” asks Miro, staring around as if at least a hundred paparazzi were on his heels.
I'm so surprised that I actually let him in. He looks at my messy little living room with interest. The bottle of Bailey's I swilled yesterday is still on the table. Now he probably thinks I'm a nasty drunk. And if so...after all, he made me one! Miro staggers over a stack of books and sits down on my dark green 70s porn couch. Incidentally, there's a burn hole in the backrest since yesterday, but only a small one. Still, I'm kind of embarrassed that Miro is the one watching me go home.
"Sorry, you're used to luxury, aren't you? We don't have it here."
He shakes his head. "I don't live in a mansion either, Daniel."
“But you probably have a little more money in your account than I do.”
“Is that important?”
"I don't know. You tell me."
“That’s not why I’m here.”
"I know why," I claim. My goodness...he looks hot even in normal clothes (jeans and a black shirt). "You were afraid I'd tell everyone you're gay, weren't you?"
"You told me...that doesn't mean I'm gay."
HAHAHAHA...he can't even say that I gave him a handjob! Unfortunately, I'm not mad at him anymore. Quite the opposite. I'm glad he's here. I really missed him. His cute smile, his voice...
“Don’t you want to take off your jacket?”
He looks at me like I'm completely crazy. "I'm not wearing..."
“I meant, do you want to take off your clothes?” I explain, groping him a little.
He pushes my hands away and stands up. "Daniel...we should..."
“Come, I’ll show you the bedroom!”
My bed may not be made, but at least it's fairly freshly made. However, I didn't really need the Nutella sheets that Tine gave me when I moved in. Oh well, nothing can be done about it.
“Okay, well... I better go now.”
“I don’t believe that,” I whisper and push him onto the bed.
Poor Miro can't resist me. Unfortunately, when we're kissing, I'm constantly afraid that Mr. Ballack will barge in, which is ridiculous because he definitely doesn't know where I live.
“You’re turning my whole world upside down,” he whispers sadly.
“Sorry,” I murmur, kissing his neck, “but I can’t help it.”
My hands have long since slipped under his shirt and are stroking his stomach. I'm not really into ripped, muscular guys. I prefer something a little softer. But Miro... mmm... he can be anything. Luckily, he's not that overly muscular, but you can tell he does a lot of exercise. Oh dear... and me with my flabby, saggy body! I may be relatively thin, but that doesn't mean I have muscles. No six-pack! Not even a hint. That doesn't seem to bother Miro, because he touches me and is obviously very impressed. I'm impressed too... Miro is incredibly good at touching!!
“I want to do more than just fool around today,” I say firmly.
My poor darling is so frightened that he moves away from me and looks at me in panic. "No, I... Daniel, please don't..."
"Oh shit, Miro, I don't intend to rape you." I gently stroke his hot cheek. "I want to sleep with you and... I promise I'll stop immediately if you don't like it."
But of course he likes it. Okay, at first he's a little tense... I was the first time too. I've never had to be as careful as I was with Miro, though. But I don't want to complain about the sex with him. I'd rather complain about the fact that he still hasn't separated from his wife to live with me without a husband! I won't say that out loud, though. Why ruin the beautiful moment, right?!
"I have to go home." Miro turns to me, his face still red. Red and sweaty. "Can I take a shower?"
"I don't know, just try it. It's not that difficult," I try to be funny, even though I don't really feel like it.
Miro disappears for twenty minutes. He's probably rubbing his skin to pieces so that there won't be any telltale traces of me left when he pleasures his wife later. When he returns, he's already fully dressed. I get up and sniff him.
"Everything's okay," I explain, to which he gives me a confused look. "Well, your bitch won't notice anything if you're messing with her."
He collapses onto the bed, panting. "I don't sleep with my wife anymore... not that it's any of your business."
"Do you think I'm stupid? After all, you have two children. Did the stork perhaps bring them?"
“A desperate attempt to save our relationship.”
I sit down next to him. "It's pretty perverse... having a baby just like that when things aren't going so well anymore."
Miro nervously runs his hand through his hair. "Maybe. But I still love my children."
"Yeah, but... if things get tense between you and your chick, the kids will notice eventually."
"It's not like we're always fighting or anything. We're... um, good friends, I'd say. We still love each other, we're just not in love anymore, you know?"
“Then why don’t you get a divorce?”
“Because there’s no reason for it.”
I suddenly have a huge lump in my throat. I mean, his answer says it all.
“Until now,” he says very quietly.
"What does this mean?"
"I don't know," he sighs. "I have to come to terms with the fact that I have a crush on a guy. That doesn't happen to me that often."
I'm feeling a little warm. Miro... has a crush on me... WOW!!
“Give me a little time, okay?”
I nod, wrap my arms around him and kiss his soft lips.
We've been meeting regularly for two months. Well, what does Miro call "regular"? As you know, I'm basically his top priority. Football is more important, children are more important, even his wife seems more important. I keep my mouth shut and play by his rules. I don't like it. But... what can I do? I just love the guy. When he's not with me, I'm a wreck. And when he is with me... I am too, sort of, but different. Naturally, we always end up in bed pretty quickly; we don't usually have that much time. That's what's killing me. Because I feel so disgustingly comfortable with him. Because he's sweet and funny and not the stupid guy you expect from footballers. Because I want to cuddle with him for hours, which of course isn't possible because "I have to go home." And because our relationship is a secret. I've never been part of that shit. Acting straight on the outside and secretly sleeping with men. I told my parents when I was sixteen that I was into boys. It didn't exactly suit them, but they couldn't change it. By now, they've...well, accepted would be putting it too positively. My friends, in any case, never wanted to meet them. Need I say more?!
So, I've put myself in a situation with Miro that I absolutely detest, even though I can understand him. Not regarding his absurd relationship with his wife, but regarding his soccer habit. Still, I have no idea how long things will last between us. A few hours of shagging a week is definitely not enough. Today, it's all particularly pissing me off because Miro just texted me that he can't make it over. When we'll see each other... God knows.
Before I get drunk alone, I'd rather call Tine, who is immediately ready to spend the evening with me.
"Oh shit... you look like vomit," she remarks, alarmed. "Are you sick? Then you'd better tell me right away so I can get out of here. You know how easily I catch it."
“But I’m not contagious,” I grumble.
“Then there’s a guy behind this,” she decides, sipping the cocktail I mixed.
“Everything is fine.”
Tine takes off her shoes and lounges comfortably on my couch. "Nonsense. What's going on?"
“Nothing,” I assure, licking the sugar rim of my cocktail shyly.
“The guy is straight,” she speculates.
“Stop that shit.”
“Or someone who sleeps with anyone he can get.”
“Can we please talk about something else?”
"No. I can see from the tip of your nose that you want to speak out," she grins.
“Then your contact lens has probably slipped.”
Tine downs her drink. "You haven't been in touch for weeks and suddenly you want to get drunk with me again. That must mean something. Do I know him?"
“Not really.”
"Aha! So there's someone there."
Sometimes I hate Tine. She can't just let things go. "If you absolutely must know... yes."
"And?"
“I can’t tell you any more.”
"Wow, how mysterious. Should I guess or what? Okay, so... you're in love but you're not glowing like the sun, what could be the reason? Let me think... Wait, I've got it... he is... he has..."
“He is married and has two children,” I interrupt, completely exasperated.
It's quiet for a few seconds. That is, I can hear my heart beating quite loudly.
"This is a joke. Please tell me you didn't get involved with such a hypocritical family man. Daniel, what the hell is wrong with you?"
"He doesn't love his wife anymore... not the way he should."
By the way, we've since switched to tequila by mutual consent. Tine sucks on her lemon, shaking her head. "Keep your hands off it when children are involved."
“It’s too late for that,” I murmur sadly.
"You're not secretly hoping he'll break up with you, are you? He's not. They never are. I know what I'm talking about."
Tine also had a fling with a married guy. He promised her the moon and kept her waiting for months until she lost her temper and sent the bum packing. But Miro is no bum, you can't compare the two.
“Where did you pick him up?”
"I do not know."
"Secretly lurking in a faggot bar, huh? Looking for a cute young boy."
I'm afraid Tine has completely the wrong idea. When she thinks of a family man, she probably thinks of a forty-year-old with thinning hair and a mustache. Unfortunately, I can't tell her that I've landed the cute Miroslav Klose. "It wasn't like that, and he's only twenty-eight."
"End it before it's too late. There's no future in this."
That's the end of the topic for now. Over the next few rounds of tequila, we chat about all sorts of things. Tine makes a very important point about how she can forget about Ballack now because she's into Jens Lehmann.
“But he’s already taken, right?” I ask.
"So what? At least he doesn't babble about his kids all the time like Ballack."
"Well, if I absolutely had to pick one player from the national team, Lehmann certainly wouldn't be my first choice. I mean, he's so... unimpressive."
"Those are the worst, the ones who sneak in and... oh man, he always has such an incredible smile. Lehmann... well, Lehmann is a really sweet little guy," she slurs.
“I think Miro is a much cuter mouse,” I hear myself slurring and feel the blood rushing to my head.
“No,” she contradicts, “he has that Polish face.”
Not that anyone would think we're watching the German national team train in public. No, Tine won a meeting with the team in some stupid competition. I was simply dragged along because she was allowed to bring someone else with her and I'm probably her only friend. What do I know? In any case, she's incredibly excited because training is almost over and she'll finally get to meet the guys. Maybe she'll get Ballack to scribble an autograph right on the top of her breasts or something similarly embarrassing. I'm already ashamed! A camera crew is following us every step of the way. We're probably supposed to be on TV. Another reason to hate her and be ashamed. I don't want friends and acquaintances to see me with football idiots.
Ah...a blond guy is coming up to us. I know him...it's the coach. Klinsmann or whatever his name is. He gives us a friendly handshake and probably secretly finds it disgusting that we're bothering his team during the World Cup. But he doesn't let it show. His boys have gone to shower. Tine would certainly have loved to come along and scrub Ballack's back. Or his ass. Mr. Klinsmann refers us to his substitute coach and hastily says goodbye. He's not in the mood for us, the good man.
We're invited to the hotel. A cozy chat with... they're surely not allowed to drink alcohol, are they?! After all, they have to be fit for the next game against someone. I order myself a cocktail, though. With alcohol... and a sugar rim... and a pineapple star on the glass... and a paper umbrella! I can hardly stand it here sober. Mr. Löw is drinking water with lemon. Where are the footballers?! If they all show up here, it's going to be pretty crowded. There are at least eleven of them, if not more. Mr. Löw babbles about the World Cup and how the goal is to win. Well, if you want to lose, you probably don't even need to take part. Tine acts disgustingly interested.
Ahhhh...here they come. A few of them, anyway. Tine is beaming because Ballack is there. Podolski and Schweinsteiger too. I don't know the others. We're filmed together in various poses, Tine is allowed to ask all sorts of questions, there are autographs, two tickets for the final, and then the official part is over. Löw is already taking off. Now we could also discreetly make our escape. We could...but we don't. As soon as the film crew leaves, more players appear.
"Well, Miro...you've successfully ducked again, haven't you?" someone yells. I think it was Podolski.
The person addressed remains silent and sits down next to me because that is the only free seat.
“And this is where you always eat,” Tine notes intelligently.
I blush with embarrassment. Miro also looks a bit as if he's embarrassed, which I immediately like.
“Isn’t it terrible to be separated from your family for so long?” Tine asks the group.
Mr. Ballack says yes and talks about his children.
“Isn’t it terrible not having sex for so long?” I hear myself asking the group.
Oh dear...it's the alcohol. I'm already on my third cocktail, and the two before that were pretty heavy. My question seems to have gone down well, though, because everyone is laughing. Everyone except Miro. Maybe the lack of sex is really getting to him?!
“My best friend is my hand anyway,” giggles Poldi.
“I think your best friend is Bastian,” someone says.
“But not for that,” he coughs and makes a jerk-off gesture.
Uh...am I sitting here with the German national team and they're talking about masturbation?? I'm going crazy!
“Boys...,” warns Mr. Ballack, “we have a lady visiting, so please...”
BUAHAHAHA...Tine would certainly like to know more about his masturbation habits.
Anyway, I'm slowly starting to feel comfortable because the guys are all normal and nice. And because the alcohol is rushing through my body. Unfortunately, when I reach for my glass, something stupid happens. I knock Miro's drink over with my elbow, and a lot of it ends up on his pants.
“Damn,” he hisses.
The first word I hear from him.
“Ow, fuck...sorry,” I hiccup and wipe at his thigh.
“It’s okay, it’s just water,” he replies and flicks my hand away.
God, he has a great voice! And his fingers are...soft...mm...like cotton.
“Shouldn’t drink so much, huh?” he smiles.
"Could be," I nod, fighting back a growing bout of weakness. I think I've just fallen in love. With Miroslav Klose. This is so absurd that I start giggling uncontrollably.
“You can’t go anywhere with me,” Tine claims angrily.
If she knew that I'd just fallen in love with Miroslav Klose, she'd really shut up!
The man of my dreams stands up. "I need to change my pants," he explains.
“Yes, Miro...dry yourself off,” laughs Poldi.
"Are you coming back?" I ask, and Tine nudges me in the ribs. "What?"
“We should stop imposing ourselves.”
“But you won a whole day.”
"I won a meeting. The film people are gone, and the guys don't have to hang out with us at all anymore."
That cow! She only says that because her great Ballack keeps talking about his wife and the kids.
"But I still want Miro's autograph," I complain. "Besides, I'm going to pee."
"Then hurry up. I'll wait three minutes."
So I stagger off. But not to the bathroom. Because I don't need to! Unsteadily, I make my way through the hotel, feeling lucky. Miro comes down the hall.
“Are you lost?”
“I want your autograph,” I slur.
“We could have done that downstairs.”
"That's true." I reach into his shirt and pull him toward me. "But not this," I whisper and kiss him on the mouth.
He pushes me away roughly. "Are you drunk or something?" he hisses aggressively.
"A little, but that has nothing to do with it," I clarify, rubbing my sore arm. Miro slammed me against the wall while pushing me.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "You...what's your name anyway?"
"Daniel. Shit, I think I'm going to be sick." Yuck...a disgustingly urgent urge to vomit crawls up my throat.
"Oh man, don't puke on my feet. Can you make it to my room?"
“I'll try,” I burp.
So Miro drags me into his room, pushes me into the bathroom, where I immediately slump over the toilet bowl, bursting into the colors of the rainbow. The cocktails were very colorful! Afterward, I immediately feel better...a little. A single horrible thought flashes through my dazed head: I pooped in Miroslav Klose's toilet... while Miroslav Klose was standing right next to me! Hey, how embarrassing is that?! And to make matters worse, Miroslav Klose is now handing me a peppermint!
“Are you okay again?” he asks, slightly worried.
I nod and suck on my candy like crazy because the little devil alcohol whispers happily to me: Kiss him, you asshole!
That's not possible, I defend myself in my thoughts, he's going to hit me.
But first he sits down next to me on the bed.
“Are you actually married?”
“Yes, why?” he asks.
"Children?"
"Two."
"Injury."
“Huh?” he says, confused.
Fuck, when children are involved, things get disgusting. I'd have no qualms or moral reservations about ruining a marriage, but having sex with a family man is completely unacceptable!
“Sorry, I really didn’t want to kiss you,” I lie.
"No? Then why did you do it?"
Oh dear, when he's so close to me...and he's smiling so sweetly. "Well, I wanted to, but I shouldn't have taken you by surprise. That's not what you do."
"True," he nods, "you could have at least warned me. Or asked politely."
"You would have said no, Miro...uh...can I call you Miro?"
“Of course...you can call me that,” he grins.
My candy is licked. "May I kiss you, please?"
He takes a deep breath and exhales. "Okay."
Whatssssss?? "Really?"
"Clear."
“And what about your wife?”
He timidly tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "Do you want to kiss that too?"
“I like men.”
“Yes, I noticed,” he sighs.
“Do I seem that gay?”
“No,” he laughs, “but your hand has been on my thigh the whole time.”
Homeland!! Startled, I take my fin away. But a second later, Miro grabs my hand and places it back on his leg. A little higher than before. I can almost feel his... oh my God!!! Then I kiss him. That's right, with my tongue, and all the lights go out for me. Miro is totally shy and insecure. He's probably never kissed a man before me. So I slow down, nibble tenderly on his lips, gently nudge the tip of his tongue, and stroke his soft neck.
"Miro? Hey, did you see that little drunkard? He got lost somehow..." Mr. Ballack walked into the room, "oh, there he is."
Miro jumps up in horror. "Ahem...yes, he wasn't feeling well, so I...ahem..."
“I puked,” I explain stupidly.
“I’m sorry,” replies Mr. Ballack, turning to Miro, “did you give him a peppermint?”
“Uh, yeah,” he shakes his sweet head, irritated.
"Your girlfriend didn't want to wait any longer..."
“Tine is not my girlfriend.”
“In any case, she’s gone,” Mr. Ballack informs me.
“Then I should probably go too,” I say helplessly.
“But not if you’re still feeling sick,” protests Miro, “who knows what could happen.”
“I’ve been drunk worse.”
“Jürgen wants to discuss something with us, so...” urges Mr. Ballack, whom I immediately hate with all my heart.
“I’ll be right there,” Miro replies.
When the troublemaker has left, we stand awkwardly facing each other.
"You heard...meeting. I have to go there now."
“I want to see you again,” I say firmly.
“I want that too,” he whispers.
It seems like fortune is especially on my side today! "When?"
"I don't know." He scribbles something on a piece of paper and presses it into my hand. "Call me, okay?"
I stir my cocoa dreamily. Tine has been babbling about Ballack and my sudden disappearance from the hotel for two hours, and...she's a little annoyed, too.
"Man, I had to throw up. This takes longer than three minutes."
"You acted like a complete idiot. You totally embarrassed me and threw water at Miroslav Klose."
I did a lot more with that, baby!! "You dragged me along even though I didn't want to, so don't complain."
“Getting you so drunk,” she hisses angrily.
“When are we going to Berlin and...will the travel costs be paid for?” I change the subject.
"Huh?"
"Well, the final. That's in Berlin."
Tine grimaces. "You don't seriously think I'm going there with you."
“With whom else?”
„Saskia.“
Her best friend, whom I can't stand. Of course, I have reasons for that. Saskia has a thing against men. Just because she keeps getting dumped, which I can understand, because Saskia is just unbearable. Is Tine crazy, going to the soccer game with that bitch? I want to see Miro, damn it! He'll definitely make the final.
“You’re not serious, are you?”
"Absolutely."
“Please, Tine...I behave very well too and...”
“No chance,” she interrupts me.
“You old puke,” I bleat, storm out of the café and leave her with the bill.
The next day the old puke cow shows up at my door.
"What do you want here?" I ask wearily. I've been trying to reach Miro all night, but he apparently turned off his phone.
"Germany vs. Argentina is coming up. And who would I rather watch a football match with than my best friend, who hates football," she laughs.
Of course I hate football...but I love Miro. So I'm sitting down with Tine in front of the TV, and I'm kind of excited. Ah, there they are marching onto the pitch, each one a
A brat by the hand...even my Miro. He sings the anthem too. Isn't he Polish?
Ethnicity? Whatever. He looks AWESOME, I'm going crazy! If I were alone, I'd jerk off right now.
The game is boring because nothing's happening. Except for a goal for Argentina. I think Miro should score the equalizer. Before I've even finished thinking...Miro scores the equalizer. Oh dear, can I influence him with the power of my thoughts?! Let me try: I think Miro should hop on one leg! Nope, it doesn't work.
Tine nudges me. "Why are you so focused? And why haven't you made a single negative asshole comment yet?"
“Well, because I know a few of those guys now and I’m happy for them to win.”
“You’re becoming more and more scary to me, Dani,” she says.
“Besides, that thing...Klose doesn’t look so bad,” I explain, trying not to blush.
"Do you think so? Hmm, no, I don't know. Something bothers me about it. It looks so...Polish."
Before I argue with her, I'd rather keep my fingers crossed during the penalty shootout.
Lehmann saves two, Germany scores all of them. Semifinal!! I'm happy...for my sweetheart. He's probably very happy now, having scored a super important goal.
After Tine and I have duly celebrated the victory, I'm tipsy enough to call Miro again.
"Yes?", you blurted out.
"Hi, sweetie...it's me."
"Who?"
“Daniel,” I say, a little annoyed, “don’t you see my number on the display?”
“Yes, but not your name.”
"You won...are you happy?"
"You're drunk?"
“Yes.”
"You can only stand me when I'm drunk, huh?" Various people are chattering in the background. Sounds like a party. "Look, I can't talk like this right now. I'll call you tomorrow."
There's no point saying goodbye because he's already hung up. Great!
Well... Miro didn't call, of course. So I didn't waste any time and went to the team's residence. Getting in there is practically impossible. Security guards are lurking everywhere. The footballers are better guarded than Tokio Hotel, damn it!
“Yes?” a wardrobe man in a black suit asks me.
“I would like to see Mr. Klose,” I politely state my request.
The wardrobe looks at me pityingly. "Yeah, a lot of people want to go to him. And to Mr. Ballack, Mr. Podolski, Mr...."
"Do you want to list all the players now? I want to see Miroslav Klose. I'm an...acquaintance. He knows me. Quite well, in fact."
"Watch out, little one...you're not coming in here. No matter who you know."
I cross my arms in front of my chest and adopt a smug look. "You do realize you're about to lose your job, right? So if you don't want to apply for Hartz IV by tomorrow at the latest, let me in now... MIRO!!" I yell, flailing my arms wildly.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, quite annoyed.
"You didn't call me and..."
He grabs me by the collar, gives the wardrobe an okay sign and drags me
behind him into a quiet corner.
"Daniel, you can't just come here. What if someone sees you?"
“Let’s go to your room,” I suggest.
"I don't have time. I'm...working...here!"
"Around the clock?"
He shakes his head resignedly. "Fine. But only five minutes."
As soon as he closes the door behind us, I shove myself against him. There's no other way; he looks too good in his baggy workout clothes.
“THAT’S absolutely not possible right now,” he puffs.
My hands stroke his neck and ruffle his hair while I kiss him.
I ignore the fact that he resists a little. He only resists at first. When I put my tongue in his mouth, he's immediately excited...it's clear from the reaction of a certain part of his body. Mr. Klose has quite a hard-on! Wow, I have such an effect on him...
“I missed you,” I whisper.
“We hardly know each other,” he grumbles.
I shrug my shoulders, push him onto the bed and myself right next to him. And while I'm already lying on top of him, I grope him uncontrollably. Slide my hand under his shirt and
KNOCK KNOCK. Fuck, not again!
Miro wriggles out from under me as the door opens. Mr. Ballack! I feel like I'm at a comedy show.
"Uh, Miro...you..." he glances at me, "what's he doing here?"
My sweetheart remains silent, embarrassed. I don't really know what to say either.
Mr. Ballack thinks for a moment and points to Miro, then to me. "What's going on? Are you two having an affair?"
Miro turns horribly pale around the nose. "Micha, please don't tell anyone. I...I don't know what's wrong with me."
“Okay, but...are you guys having an affair?!”
"Well, sort of. I don't know," Miro admits.
"But you never said that you...and your wife? Oh shit," Ballack babbles, plopping down in an armchair.
"If this gets around, I can pack up. Besides, I knew it myself
not...exactly," my sweetheart murmurs unhappily.
“Hmm, I won’t say anything, don’t worry.”
I light a cigarette first. The two gentlemen seem to have forgotten that someone else is in the room.
“Smoking is prohibited here,” explains Ballack.
"Surely only for World Cup participants," I reply. "Congratulations on making it to the quarterfinals, by the way. That was a very exciting game. Hardly any scoring chances, but a cool defense. And what about the defense?" I fantasize.
“Miro...is he still drunk?”
“No,” grins my sweetheart, “I’m afraid that’s his normal state.”
“You can also speak to me personally, Mr. Ballack.”
“And you don’t have to address me formally and call me ‘Sir,’” he shakes his head.
"I know."
“Okay, so...what are you going to do now?”
“We were just about to have sex.”
“No, I mean...uh...forget it,” sighs Mr. Ballack.
By the way, Miro blushed when he mentioned the word sex. God, I love him!
Finally, Ballack stands up and goes to the door. "Well, have fun then. I hope you know what you're doing, Miro."
Oh, I hope so, too. And I hope he does it right now. Unfortunately, he's not making any move, just looking dejected.
“I’m very sorry for putting you in this situation.”
"Really? I think you're not worried at all," he replies bitchy.
That's mean. I guess I'm worried! Well, I would be, if I weren't so disgustingly attracted to him.
"You just show up, make out with me even though you know I have a family, tell Michael shit like we're having sex...are you out of your mind?"
Is he just blaming everything on me?! How rude! "If I'm so annoying and embarrassing to you...why did you give me your number? And didn't you tell me you wanted to see me again?"
He nervously runs his hand through his hair. "Yes, I can...but I can't. Daniel...it's not possible. There's just too much at stake."
"I don't want to fuck around with you in public. Nobody has to know. Okay, Mr. Ballack knows now, but that's not my fault. Why does he actually
Constantly coming into your room without asking? He's into you, isn't he?" I ask jealously.
Miro shakes his head. "You're crazy. But sweet," he smiles.
Ahhh, that's a start. I pull him onto the bed with me. "Let's make out."
So we do, and the shy, insecure Miro Klose is...unfortunately still shy and insecure. I have to direct him a lot when I touch him. No matter, his hands are wonderfully soft and ultimately do everything right. My hands wander over his bare torso, stroke his cute belly, and...
“This is going too fast for me,” he huffs as I try to put my hand down his pants.
Injury!!!
"I've never had anything like this before...with a...tell me, how old are you?"
“Just turned twenty-one,” I say proudly, running my fingers over his waistband.
"And...you've probably often..."
"Well...yes, quite often," I grin. "But that's not meant to put any pressure on you. I mean, we don't have to fuck right away. I can just jerk you off if you want."
Miro's cheeks are actually turning red again. Oh my goodness, that's so sweet!!
“Are you always so direct?”
“It’s important to say what you want, otherwise you’ll go home unsatisfied.”
“Yes...that makes sense.”
“Isn’t that right,” I nod and let my hand disappear into his pants.
Miro comes pretty quickly, which is unfortunate because I find it incredibly stimulating to do things like that with him. Besides, I would have loved to give him a blowjob. Oh well, next time then. First, though, I have to tell him that I naturally want to get my money's worth a little more. I'm just wondering how best to go about it. I don't want to scare the poor guy away again. But I don't need to say anything because he's already fiddling with my jeans.
"Should...well, I would...ugh...pretty difficult with a man," he states.
I notice that although he's unsure, he's still surprisingly skilled. Honestly, I'm almost seeing stars and it takes me a few minutes to reconnect with the world.
We get dressed in silence. Silently because we know it's time to say goodbye. After all, Miro isn't here on vacation, and I don't want to get caught by Mr. Ballack again. He's already getting on my nerves.
The dream of a World Cup title is over! Italy won, and my sweetheart is left with third place. Of course, I couldn't care less that Tine went to Berlin with her stupid Saskia bitch. Who cared about the final anymore?! The bad thing is, I can't reach Miro. He doesn't answer his cell phone or call me. He's probably too disappointed to talk to me... oh man, I'd love to comfort him. On the other hand, what should I say to him? I hate football and I can't imagine how he feels right now. But then again, an entire nation is behind its team... that's worth something, right? They shouldn't whine, they should be happy that they're so popular.
If 180,000,000,000 people were cheering for me...well, I'd be floating in heaven and shitting on a stupid trophy! Well, at that superb reception in Berlin, the guys didn't really look sad. Why should they? After all, they got to sing alongside Xavier Dingens and Sportfreunde Stiller. I really like the latter. I really have to ask Miro if they're really as nice and funny as they seem in the interviews. That is...if I ever see Miro again. He's probably on vacation with his wife and kids while I'm dying of longing here. Fuck, did I accidentally become his lover?! Maybe I was nothing more to Miro than a quick wank in between. A way to relieve the pressure and not have to get my hands dirty. I just wish I'd known that beforehand, then I could have prepared myself. So, of course, I thought...that it meant something to him. And I can't even talk to anyone about my heartbreak because no one can know that I gave Miro a handjob. Football players and having sex with a guy... for heaven's sake! That's even worse than being in a boy band and having a crush on guys. One more reason to hate football.
Out of desperation, I went online to find out something about my sweetheart. All I knew was that he's an absolute picture-perfect cutie, apparently a pretty good soccer player, and...a really good kisser. That his hair smells really nice, his skin too, that he has the most beautiful calves in the world, and is the only one who looks indescribably sexy in shorts and knee socks. Now I know everything... but I've already forgotten half of it. What do I care how many goals he's scored in so many games?! I've kept his disgusting taste in music. And that he loves his children. Normal, right? You don't bring kids into the world just to beat them up. Okay, that happens a lot, unfortunately, but Miro is definitely a really sweet dad. It makes me sick to my stomach. He'll never give up his family for me. Or his career, either. As much as I rave about him, I'm not kidding myself. The position I find myself in is incredibly unfortunate, bad, and shitty! I'm not just a lover, I'm a football groupie. I'm like a teenager who pines over his star and also wants to find out what toilet paper he uses. This realization hits me so hard that I get completely drunk. Getting drunk only helps in the short term, but it still helps.
The next morning, I deeply regret it. A mile-long freight train is racing through my skull, and the taste on my furry tongue is so revolting that it makes me nauseous. So I brush my teeth, gargle with Listerine, and pop some paracetamol. Afterward, I feel halfway human. But only until I take a look in the mirror. I look like a zombie, freshly risen from the grave. Dark circles all the way down to my eyes, my black hair sticking up in every direction, and...oh, my phone's ringing. Yeah...Miro!!
“Hello,” I clear my throat.
“Hey,” he whispers.
“Where are you?”
"At home."
“And before that?”
“Vacation,” he answers curtly.
"Great. How are your wife and kids?"
"Daniel...let's not get mean, okay?! You knew I had a family...we can't see each other anymore. I'm sorry."
"You called specifically to tell me that? A text to break up would have been enough."
"I don't owe you anything, Daniel. We never had a relationship or anything. We just..."
"A little fooling around," I interrupt, "sure. My best wishes to your wife."
With tears in my eyes, I push him away and, disgusted, throw my phone across the room. That's a good idea, that soccer star. He just dumped me after he'd had his fun. I should schedule an interview with Bild newspaper right away. Wouldn't that make a nice headline: World Cup top scorer is having sex with men!
The fired-off cell phone rings again. Miro?! Aha...he probably wants to apologize.
“What?” I say angrily.
He breathes heavily. "Daniel...can't we talk properly?"
"Fine by me. Speak up!"
"I...it was really nice but...it was a one-time thing for me. There's no other way. If it weren't for my family and football...then...maybe..."
“I understand,” I say sadly.
"You... ahem... you don't do anything stupid, do you?"
“What kind of nonsense?”
"Well... tell someone. The... wrong people."
Oh, that's where the wind's blowing! Mr. Klose is sweet-talking to save his ass. Stupid bum! "I'd love to chat some more, but I have to go. I have an important meeting with BILD."
To prevent him from calling me again, I turn off my cell phone. Of course, I'm not selling my story to the newspaper. But he should panic a little. I won't let myself be used and then thrown away like a rag. And I swear on everything I hold sacred: he'll get to know me!
“Ahhhhh...” I scream in shock, “how do you know where I live?”
“Can I tell you about it inside?” asks Miro, staring around as if at least a hundred paparazzi were on his heels.
I'm so surprised that I actually let him in. He looks at my messy little living room with interest. The bottle of Bailey's I swilled yesterday is still on the table. Now he probably thinks I'm a nasty drunk. And if so...after all, he made me one! Miro staggers over a stack of books and sits down on my dark green 70s porn couch. Incidentally, there's a burn hole in the backrest since yesterday, but only a small one. Still, I'm kind of embarrassed that Miro is the one watching me go home.
"Sorry, you're used to luxury, aren't you? We don't have it here."
He shakes his head. "I don't live in a mansion either, Daniel."
“But you probably have a little more money in your account than I do.”
“Is that important?”
"I don't know. You tell me."
“That’s not why I’m here.”
"I know why," I claim. My goodness...he looks hot even in normal clothes (jeans and a black shirt). "You were afraid I'd tell everyone you're gay, weren't you?"
"You told me...that doesn't mean I'm gay."
HAHAHAHA...he can't even say that I gave him a handjob! Unfortunately, I'm not mad at him anymore. Quite the opposite. I'm glad he's here. I really missed him. His cute smile, his voice...
“Don’t you want to take off your jacket?”
He looks at me like I'm completely crazy. "I'm not wearing..."
“I meant, do you want to take off your clothes?” I explain, groping him a little.
He pushes my hands away and stands up. "Daniel...we should..."
“Come, I’ll show you the bedroom!”
My bed may not be made, but at least it's fairly freshly made. However, I didn't really need the Nutella sheets that Tine gave me when I moved in. Oh well, nothing can be done about it.
“Okay, well... I better go now.”
“I don’t believe that,” I whisper and push him onto the bed.
Poor Miro can't resist me. Unfortunately, when we're kissing, I'm constantly afraid that Mr. Ballack will barge in, which is ridiculous because he definitely doesn't know where I live.
“You’re turning my whole world upside down,” he whispers sadly.
“Sorry,” I murmur, kissing his neck, “but I can’t help it.”
My hands have long since slipped under his shirt and are stroking his stomach. I'm not really into ripped, muscular guys. I prefer something a little softer. But Miro... mmm... he can be anything. Luckily, he's not that overly muscular, but you can tell he does a lot of exercise. Oh dear... and me with my flabby, saggy body! I may be relatively thin, but that doesn't mean I have muscles. No six-pack! Not even a hint. That doesn't seem to bother Miro, because he touches me and is obviously very impressed. I'm impressed too... Miro is incredibly good at touching!!
“I want to do more than just fool around today,” I say firmly.
My poor darling is so frightened that he moves away from me and looks at me in panic. "No, I... Daniel, please don't..."
"Oh shit, Miro, I don't intend to rape you." I gently stroke his hot cheek. "I want to sleep with you and... I promise I'll stop immediately if you don't like it."
But of course he likes it. Okay, at first he's a little tense... I was the first time too. I've never had to be as careful as I was with Miro, though. But I don't want to complain about the sex with him. I'd rather complain about the fact that he still hasn't separated from his wife to live with me without a husband! I won't say that out loud, though. Why ruin the beautiful moment, right?!
"I have to go home." Miro turns to me, his face still red. Red and sweaty. "Can I take a shower?"
"I don't know, just try it. It's not that difficult," I try to be funny, even though I don't really feel like it.
Miro disappears for twenty minutes. He's probably rubbing his skin to pieces so that there won't be any telltale traces of me left when he pleasures his wife later. When he returns, he's already fully dressed. I get up and sniff him.
"Everything's okay," I explain, to which he gives me a confused look. "Well, your bitch won't notice anything if you're messing with her."
He collapses onto the bed, panting. "I don't sleep with my wife anymore... not that it's any of your business."
"Do you think I'm stupid? After all, you have two children. Did the stork perhaps bring them?"
“A desperate attempt to save our relationship.”
I sit down next to him. "It's pretty perverse... having a baby just like that when things aren't going so well anymore."
Miro nervously runs his hand through his hair. "Maybe. But I still love my children."
"Yeah, but... if things get tense between you and your chick, the kids will notice eventually."
"It's not like we're always fighting or anything. We're... um, good friends, I'd say. We still love each other, we're just not in love anymore, you know?"
“Then why don’t you get a divorce?”
“Because there’s no reason for it.”
I suddenly have a huge lump in my throat. I mean, his answer says it all.
“Until now,” he says very quietly.
"What does this mean?"
"I don't know," he sighs. "I have to come to terms with the fact that I have a crush on a guy. That doesn't happen to me that often."
I'm feeling a little warm. Miro... has a crush on me... WOW!!
“Give me a little time, okay?”
I nod, wrap my arms around him and kiss his soft lips.
We've been meeting regularly for two months. Well, what does Miro call "regular"? As you know, I'm basically his top priority. Football is more important, children are more important, even his wife seems more important. I keep my mouth shut and play by his rules. I don't like it. But... what can I do? I just love the guy. When he's not with me, I'm a wreck. And when he is with me... I am too, sort of, but different. Naturally, we always end up in bed pretty quickly; we don't usually have that much time. That's what's killing me. Because I feel so disgustingly comfortable with him. Because he's sweet and funny and not the stupid guy you expect from footballers. Because I want to cuddle with him for hours, which of course isn't possible because "I have to go home." And because our relationship is a secret. I've never been part of that shit. Acting straight on the outside and secretly sleeping with men. I told my parents when I was sixteen that I was into boys. It didn't exactly suit them, but they couldn't change it. By now, they've...well, accepted would be putting it too positively. My friends, in any case, never wanted to meet them. Need I say more?!
So, I've put myself in a situation with Miro that I absolutely detest, even though I can understand him. Not regarding his absurd relationship with his wife, but regarding his soccer habit. Still, I have no idea how long things will last between us. A few hours of shagging a week is definitely not enough. Today, it's all particularly pissing me off because Miro just texted me that he can't make it over. When we'll see each other... God knows.
Before I get drunk alone, I'd rather call Tine, who is immediately ready to spend the evening with me.
"Oh shit... you look like vomit," she remarks, alarmed. "Are you sick? Then you'd better tell me right away so I can get out of here. You know how easily I catch it."
“But I’m not contagious,” I grumble.
“Then there’s a guy behind this,” she decides, sipping the cocktail I mixed.
“Everything is fine.”
Tine takes off her shoes and lounges comfortably on my couch. "Nonsense. What's going on?"
“Nothing,” I assure, licking the sugar rim of my cocktail shyly.
“The guy is straight,” she speculates.
“Stop that shit.”
“Or someone who sleeps with anyone he can get.”
“Can we please talk about something else?”
"No. I can see from the tip of your nose that you want to speak out," she grins.
“Then your contact lens has probably slipped.”
Tine downs her drink. "You haven't been in touch for weeks and suddenly you want to get drunk with me again. That must mean something. Do I know him?"
“Not really.”
"Aha! So there's someone there."
Sometimes I hate Tine. She can't just let things go. "If you absolutely must know... yes."
"And?"
“I can’t tell you any more.”
"Wow, how mysterious. Should I guess or what? Okay, so... you're in love but you're not glowing like the sun, what could be the reason? Let me think... Wait, I've got it... he is... he has..."
“He is married and has two children,” I interrupt, completely exasperated.
It's quiet for a few seconds. That is, I can hear my heart beating quite loudly.
"This is a joke. Please tell me you didn't get involved with such a hypocritical family man. Daniel, what the hell is wrong with you?"
"He doesn't love his wife anymore... not the way he should."
By the way, we've since switched to tequila by mutual consent. Tine sucks on her lemon, shaking her head. "Keep your hands off it when children are involved."
“It’s too late for that,” I murmur sadly.
"You're not secretly hoping he'll break up with you, are you? He's not. They never are. I know what I'm talking about."
Tine also had a fling with a married guy. He promised her the moon and kept her waiting for months until she lost her temper and sent the bum packing. But Miro is no bum, you can't compare the two.
“Where did you pick him up?”
"I do not know."
"Secretly lurking in a faggot bar, huh? Looking for a cute young boy."
I'm afraid Tine has completely the wrong idea. When she thinks of a family man, she probably thinks of a forty-year-old with thinning hair and a mustache. Unfortunately, I can't tell her that I've landed the cute Miroslav Klose. "It wasn't like that, and he's only twenty-eight."
"End it before it's too late. There's no future in this."
That's the end of the topic for now. Over the next few rounds of tequila, we chat about all sorts of things. Tine makes a very important point about how she can forget about Ballack now because she's into Jens Lehmann.
“But he’s already taken, right?” I ask.
"So what? At least he doesn't babble about his kids all the time like Ballack."
"Well, if I absolutely had to pick one player from the national team, Lehmann certainly wouldn't be my first choice. I mean, he's so... unimpressive."
"Those are the worst, the ones who sneak in and... oh man, he always has such an incredible smile. Lehmann... well, Lehmann is a really sweet little guy," she slurs.
“I think Miro is a much cuter mouse,” I hear myself slurring and feel the blood rushing to my head.
“No,” she contradicts, “he has that Polish face.”