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Confused Thoughts to later Hour 

A faint rumble sounds from afar. The day has been hot, and a thunderstorm is approaching.
I love that sound.
When the echo of thunder makes its seemingly endless way into the darkness of the night and nothing, absolutely nothing, can stop it.
Maybe I should create my own personal sound charts; thunder would definitely be right up there with me.
For a brief moment, the lighter I use to light a cigarette illuminates my room. It's five in the morning, and I'm sitting on my bed, letting my thoughts wander. A collage of memories from my last vacation, Fabian's birthday party that ended a few hours ago, my recently started internship at the local savings bank, and many other colorful, seemingly incongruous images and fragments of emotions swirl through my still-alcoholic head.
The rest of the town is sleeping the sleep of the just. Am I the only one who's unjust? Am I the only one who, instead of sleeping, is having completely exhausted thoughts at this hour?
Apparently I'm the only one.
I fall backward onto my bed, pressing the headphones tightly over my ears with my hands. Air's "All I Need" once again evokes a wistful feeling within me. A feeling that tries to rip apart the confines of the knight's armor I feel I'm stuck in. Why is it all so shitty? Okay. I can't really complain. It's not like I'm riding through the barren tundra of life like a lone rider.
I have my friends at school, my parents only want the best for me, and with Maria, Fabian's sister, I have unmistakable proof that I'm definitely noticed by women. And yet, I keep feeling like an alien, abandoned on this planet to observe the late-adolescent world of Klein Amelinghausen and sadly forgotten. Life swirls around me, and instead of letting myself be swept along like the others, I stand here alone in the eye of the storm, afraid that my whole life might rush past me if I continue like this.
Is it just me?
Apparently, this is just me. Apparently, I'm the only one.
They all safely traverse their little lives, through our little world, like comets in the vastness of space, about which I recently saw a report on television. Shouldn't they necessarily collide with each other? Or is it more of a mutual approach and then repulsion, in order to then have the energy to continue their flight? If I'm honest, I don't know anyone I could get momentum from in this little town.
except Fabian.
Shit!
What nonsense am I even thinking here?
Can alcohol actually make you crazy? I always thought only LSD-using hippies jumped off skyscrapers while completely psyched, believing gravity could suddenly no longer affect them.
My CD player dutifully follows the repeat function, and during the brief pause, I open my eyes and notice that the storm has come closer. The curtain in front of my wide-open window moves, letting the glow of the streetlight in front of our house into my room for a brief moment. In the brief seconds that the fluttering curtain allows me to glimpse outside, I watch a swarm of mosquitoes dancing in the lamplight as if at a techno party. The air is humid, and I take off my T-shirt. The lyrics of "All I Need" ring out again, expressing so many of my feelings in so few words.
All I need is a little time
To get behind this sun and cast my weight
All I need's a »peace« of this mind
Then I can celebrate
All in all there's something to give
All in all there's something to do
All in all there's something to live
With you...
Air »All I Need (1998)
The video for this number flashes before my eyes. How I wish I were as relaxed as the skaters in this clip. How I wish I were as cool, admired and respected by everyone. Maybe I should get myself some clothes like that in the next few days. Instead, I'm sitting here in this wilderness and...
Zack!
My room is bright as day. What a flash.
The thunder follows immediately and suddenly I am sitting in the dark.
The music has stopped, the street lamp, the only source of light, has gone out, and as the last echo of the thunder has slowly faded away, all I hear is
the monotonous patter of rain, which has now joined the thunderstorm.
A nice combination, I notice. The slowly rolling echo of thunder harmonizes perfectly with the arrhythmic patter of rain.
A bursting bedroom door interrupts the harmony, and my seven-year-old sister Inga storms in, howling, and jumps onto my bed. Trembling, she snuggles up to me, and I stroke her hair soothingly. A muffled "Lenny, I'm scared!" emerges from my pillow. I have to smile. When I was that little, I was always scared, too. Even when I was older. Unfortunately, my parents kicked me out of their bedroom at times like these. "Lennart, don't be such a girl!" I hear them say. No wonder little Inga prefers coming to me rather than my parents. The sniffling gradually subsides and gives way to regular breathing. I fall asleep, too, thinking that I actually envy her because, at her age, the world is still a good place.
»All I need is a little time...«

Confused awakening to earlier Hour 

What a lavish party! The guests are roaring Westernhagen's "Freiheit" (Freedom) and are apparently absolutely certain of it. Armed with a bottle of Becks, I'm sitting at the side, watching the deafening spectacle, when suddenly Fabian, the birthday boy, sits down next to me and grins.
“Awesome party, right?” he yells in my ear.
"Not bad," I shout back, but my expression leaves no doubt about the indifference of my answer.
"What's wrong?" Fabian's grin has disappeared.
"Nothing! Everything's fine," I reply, putting on a pained grin to disguise myself.
"I think I need to cheer you up a bit."
"Dude, he's crazy!" I think to myself when suddenly a hand starts fiddling with my waistband. Panicked, I try to defend myself, but suddenly I can't move anymore. I open my mouth and try to scream at him, but no sound comes out. What's happening? I'm getting scared. My heart is racing, beads of sweat are dripping from my hair and landing on my lips. Since when does sweat taste sweet? And what will people think? But they don't seem to notice Fabian's explicit hand movements at all.
"Silly!"
A guest I don't know tries to toast me and spills half his beer on the host, who is kneeling in front of me. The stranger notices his mishap, but not what's going on. After further, completely fruitless attempts to free myself, I collapse in confusion and begin to enjoy what Fabian is doing to me.
“That’s the limit!” I hear my father shout.
I open my eyes wide.
The music stops, and I suddenly find myself lying in bed. My alarm clock flashes midnight, and I feel my right arm go numb because my little sister is lying on it and also wakes up.
"Don't you have your own bed? Come on! Let's go! Breakfast is ready. We want to be at Grandma's by eleven. And you, my dear son, we'll talk soon."
My senses aren't quite there yet, and my arm is tingling like it's stuck in an anthill. What's going on here?
The fatherly sergeant begins to retreat, dragging my defenseless sister by the arm out of the room.
Are everyone here completely crazy? I sit up and rub my eyes. I hope I'll be out of here soon. I'll be eighteen next year. Then they can all have me. "It's the same drama every Sunday," I mumble as I collapse back onto my pillow and pull the covers over my ears.
"Lennart. Come on, get up. Your father doesn't tolerate tardiness, you know that."
My mother practically whispers so my father can't hear. He doesn't like it when my mother contradicts him or doesn't behave the way he thinks is right.
I peek out from under my covers and see my mother leaving the room. She didn't sound particularly cheerful, but at least she spoke to me in a pleasant tone. What a bright spot on what was, once again, a traditionally crappy Sunday morning.
I abruptly throw the covers aside and jump out of bed. The bulge in my shorts suddenly reminds me of the confused dream I was just torn from. As I sneak into the bathroom, I try to reconstruct the dream, but all I see are fragments. As the lukewarm water of the shower massages my tense neck, my brain finally starts working again. Still, I can't seem to make any connection between the individual scenes of my dream. The party at which my dream took place was definitely the one at Fabian's yesterday. But what the hell was he doing with my cock? When it suddenly becomes erect, the pleasant feeling of the shower stream mixes with the now returning feeling I felt at the end of the dream. And again, it is my father who tears me out of my feelings.
"Zack zack! Your mother still needs to put on her makeup. Get ready."
Shocked and caught, I reflexively let go of my cock. Luckily, no one can see through our shower stall, otherwise I would have fainted from shame.
I rinse the last traces of soap from my body and step out of the shower. Dripping, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and silently stare at my reflection. I actually think I'm quite cute. Maria seems to be right. For a brief moment, the final sequence of my dream flashes back to me as I finally grab my towel and dry myself off.
Minutes later, I'm sitting next to my sister at the breakfast table, wordlessly cramming a piece of jam and toast into my mouth, my gaze fixed on the kitschy, flowery plate in front of me. My parents are bustling around us, already preparing everything for our departure. The image of the eye of the hurricane comes to mind again. I even sit through the usual discussion about how I'm supposed to be getting home at three in the morning without comment.

Heartfelt Welcome at "Wish You a Son"! 

When we set off, it's only just after ten, but the temperatures are already heralding a sweltering late summer day ahead. The journey is peaceful. Even Inga stops complaining after a few minutes; a word from my father is enough, as always. The only one-sided communication consists of my father feeling he has to play tour guide and point out the sights (and lack thereof) of our homeland. Unlike him, though, I know the area more than just from driving past. After all, I've lived here in this wilderness for almost 18 years, while he spent his childhood in Silesia, which certainly wasn't any more exciting, apart from the turmoil of the war.
I'm trying to distract myself from the sonorous roar our car makes by reading "The Sorrows of Young Werther" for my German class. It's an unpleasant noise that certainly wouldn't have a chance on my sound charts. Even as a small child, I couldn't sleep during car rides, something many people can relate to from their own childhoods.
My grandmother lives 50 km away in a no less small village. When we arrived, she greeted us on the street. Despite her 84 years and the fact that my grandfather passed away almost 20 years ago, she is extremely spry and insists on still living in her own house. My uncle lives there with his family, but I always have the feeling that he only lives there so that he can grab the entire house and the sizable wooded property immediately after my dear grandmother's passing. I'm glad he and his family are away.
Sometimes I think my grandmother just adopted my father. People couldn't be more different. However, she always emphasizes that my father takes after my grandfather, who died shortly before I was born, so unfortunately I've never been able to check that. So my grandmother is the only person in our family, apart from my little sister Inga, who hugs us as a greeting. While I always enjoy it and don't mind her almost smothering me, my parents are much more reserved. I can't remember my father or mother ever hugging or kissing me. Am I also just adopted?
After the festive lunch of roast pork with Kliessla (Silesian potato dumplings), and a brilliant dessert, I sit contentedly in the garden under the large cherry tree and unwind. My sister is romping through the garden, and my father, as always, is nagging her not to make so much noise. Business as usual. As my sister suddenly dashes to the garden gate, I see my Aunt Gisela and Uncle Herbert entering the garden. Here, too, a very reserved greeting and a rather sparse smile from everyone present. My goodness, am I at a funeral?
A little later, we're sitting together in the garden with coffee and cake, exchanging the usual trivialities: Aunt Hedwig's new hip replacement, my other grandfather's incontinence (what a topic to bring up at dinner, and they're always accusing me of bad behavior...), and the fantastic final report card from my cousin Ralph, Gisela and Herbert's son, who is the same age as me.
"Our Ralph is such a gifted student. He actually brought home a 1.3 average," my aunt says with her fake grin that always makes me think her dentures are about to fall out.
"Oh, we can't complain about our Lennart either. He's got a one in front of the decimal point, right, Lenny?" my mother replies, giving me an expectant look with raised eyebrows.
“You do what you can,” I mumble into my nonexistent beard.
I can't stand this game. At every family gathering, we're compared. It's disgusting. And I have to play this game every time, even though my GPA this year is easily three times Ralph's. What a fake. I get up and go to the bathroom. There, I chat with my reflection for a while, debating whether I'm finally going to expose my mother today. When I return to the coffee party, my second favorite topic is on the agenda.
"Ralph couldn't come with us today because his girlfriend Anne wants to introduce him to her parents. They're such a cute couple. Wait, I even have a picture of them."
"To him his..." What German. Oh my God, the picture really is such a falsely idyllic shot taken by a family photographer. He's standing, she's sitting, he smartly dressed in a tie and collar, and his sweetheart in a floral summer dress.
Was the cream on the strawberry base bad or is the picture the trigger for my sudden nausea?
"Do you already have a steady girlfriend, Lennart?" and again that first-class grin with the second-class third teeth.
My mother's absolute highlight: "They're practically lining up for him. Right, Lenny? We just enrolled him in dance school. I'm so excited for the prom. Can your Ralph actually dance?"
"Our Ralph takes after his father. He's even completed the advanced course, where he met his Anne. Oh, I find that really romantic. I'm sure Lenny will find his future wife there, too."
If my mother knew that after the second dance lesson I was fed up with this shit and haven't been going since.
Aaargh! I have to get out of here.
"Lenny, you look so pale around the nose..."
"...and how thin you are. Tell me, Irmgard, don't you cook properly for your son?"
"Gisela, I think you're probably living it up. Of course, I cook for my family properly. Unlike you, I don't eat ready meals during the week."
"You're a housewife through and through. Everyone in our family has to do their bit to help me make a career."
Oh, my father seems to be chiming in. "Irmgard doesn't have to work. I bring home enough money."
"Children, don't you want to give your 84-year-old mother a quiet Sunday afternoon? Shame on you and take Lennart and Inga as an example. And now eat. I don't have anything left over," he said, serving me another piece of the delicious strawberry base.
When we get home in the evening, I quickly flee to my room. I even skip dinner, citing too much cake at Grandma's. So now I'm lying on my bed, headphones on, quietly singing along to the familiar lines:
»All I need is a little time...

The Practicum at GZSZ 

Bsssssst... Pock... Bsssssst... Pock... Bsssssst... Pock...
Bsssssst... Pock... Bsssssst... Pock...
Bsssssst... Pock...
Monday morning.
I am gently awakened by a bumblebee that has wandered into my room and keeps colliding with the window pane.
Bsssssst... Pock...
I throw back the covers, sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, and watch with blurry eyes the bumblebee outside and the bright blue sky beyond the window. When my brain wakes up, I get up and release the poor creature into the wild. A good deed every day. I should have been a Boy Scout.
Fuck!
What time is it, anyway? Why didn't my alarm clock wake me up? It just blinks an innocent 0:00 at me. I'm such a stubborn idiot. After the power outage, I didn't reset the time. I rush headlong down the stairs to the kitchen, where my mother is sitting at the kitchen table in her dressing gown, reading the newspaper.
"Not so loud, Lenny. Your father is still asleep. And anyway, did you fall out of bed? I thought you didn't have to get up until seven. It's only half past six."
"My alarm is still set to midnight after the power outage the night before last. I thought I overslept."
"Do you think your mother lets you oversleep?" she smiles at me in a very maternal way. A very rare moment. Maybe I should get into the habit of always getting up before my father from now on.
A weight has been lifted from my heart, and the rumbling sound beneath my heart isn't the result of the weight hitting me, but rather a damned empty stomach. So I hop in the shower.
When the door of the Marklohe district savings bank branch opens for me at 8:30 sharp, I enter, just like last week, a completely foreign world. My career-discovery internship, a required assignment in the twelfth grade of the Nienburg all-day high school I attend, could certainly have led me to more unpleasant places, because I'm definitely not killing myself here. Robert, my neighbor at school, told Fabian at his party that he's been forced to lug files around all day at a law firm because they're moving. I'm actually quite lucky.
And yet, this isn't my world. This internship has already fulfilled its purpose: I know I'm definitely not going to become a savings bank clerk. No matter how many times my parents try to steer me in that direction, it's not for me. Nor is being an insurance clerk. Those are both professions that require such a hardened mind that you'd be happy to sell your grandmother. I could never do that.
Like the slimy Mr. Lehmann, the deputy branch manager. Deputy is fine; the branch only has three employees and one trainee. The main thing is to have an impressive title on your business card. Just like my father. He actually reports to just another employee in the hardware department of a home improvement store, and yet he calls himself a department manager. I can't believe it.
So here I am, smartly dressed in dark jeans, a tie, and a collar, standing behind the savings bank counter, sorting bank statements. The tone here is amazingly friendly and courteous. Not just with customers, but also among colleagues. Everyone even addresses me formally, which I was incredibly proud of on my first day. Unfortunately, my pride in using formal language and my joy at the politeness quickly faded once I realized the calculating coolness and distance with which people interact with one another here. The deputy is competing with his colleague for promotion to branch manager, as the latter is about to retire.
I only found out on Friday how they were snitching on each other to the branch manager behind each other's backs, when Lehmann actually sabotaged his colleague Mischkowski's account for the computer terminal, and she, in turn, got a dressing down from the boss as to why she hadn't been processing her orders.
Alternatively, Ms. Mischkowski is courting the branch manager so much that sometimes I think I'm not at a savings bank but on the German soap opera GZSZ. They put on a nice front on the outside, but behind the scenes they behave like bastards. I hate this double standard. Whenever the boss comes by, Mischkowski always sticks out her tits like she has a bad back. And when the boss deliberately overlooks her again, I have to pay the price. Then her oversized breasts are swung in my direction, and a promising wink is probably supposed to signal something to me. This morning I escaped to the bathroom.
Are all adults actually so devious?

Foul at the Mini golf 

As a reward for completing my internship and to kick off the weekend, I had to spend yesterday at a boring, large discotheque in Nienburg with abysmally terrible chart music. For once, the numerous Jägermeisters I drank didn't give me a headache when I got up, and so now I have a beautiful late summer Sunday ahead of me, on which I'm on a mini-golf course with a few classmates and friends. I don't even know who came up with the idea of mini-golf, because I don't think I'm cut out for it. I hate sports in general, and sports that require skill in particular. My school grades aren't great on average anyway, but my sports grades always represent the ignominious end of my grade scale. Let's just delete the word "sport" and replace it with "game"; that sounds much more relaxing.
In addition to my best friends Fabian, Robert, and Sandra (called Sunny and together with Robert), Bernd (our class bully), his girlfriend Annika, and Thorsten (called Tweety, Bernd's underling) are also there. And of course, Maria can't be left out either.
"...and I thought my eyes were going to pop out. There were 32 moving boxes full of files. And now I was supposed to carry them into the house across the street," Robert says of his internship.
"That couldn't have happened to me."
Of course, something like that never happens to Bernd.
"Manuel from 12c also did an internship with us, so the hierarchy was already clear on the first day. He did the dirty work, and I put my feet up. That's how it should be, folks."
Typical Bernd.
Bernd is truly disgusting. I don't even know who invited him. No matter what anyone says, he always has and can do more: bigger, faster, further. And this smarmy attitude is reflected in every detail of his personality. Gold chains, Lacoste polo shirts with turned-up collars, the most expensive sneakers, and a shark-like grin that would rival even JR's. Next week he'll get his driver's license. Then the drama really starts. Well, what can I say, we're back on topic:
"...150 hp, I tell you. Lower, wider, harder. And I'll hang a VW badge on the tow hook so those shitty GTI drivers know right away where the frog's curls are."
"Really? Great. Will you give me a ride?"
That could only have come from Tweety, Bernd's personified doormat. The two always remind me of bad Hollywood comedies where a dimwitted crook has an even dimwitted lackey who keeps saying, "Yeah, boss, OK, boss, all right, boss, I'll do it, boss."
"No way, that's my territory. Besides, what does it look like when Bernd cruises around with a guy in an open Astra convertible? As if he doesn't have a girlfriend."
Which brings us to Annika, Bernd's girlfriend. She doesn't go to our school because she's training to be a bakery saleswoman. Another awesome title. Dumb as a cowpat, but breasts like Mrs. Mischkowski's from my old savings bank branch.
And "sharp as a dripping gravel truck," as Bernd always says. Of course, only when she's not around, because in her presence he's as tame as a stuffed animal. Then he always calls her "bunny" or "little snail." I always find it absolutely astonishing how men behave when they're talking to a woman, especially their woman. Bernd, for example, always looks at the display of his ringing cell phone before answering, so he can identify the caller. If it's a man, he answers as usual, ultra-cool and with his decidedly deep, masculine voice. But if it's Annika, his voice shoots up by at least three octaves, and you wouldn't believe that the supposedly coolest guy of the entire year is on the phone.
"Come on, do it! It's your turn!"
And so disaster struck. I naturally finished last. When the call comes for the second half of the race, I get out and make myself comfortable at the side of the track with a cool iced tea. Sunny, too, has lost interest and sits down next to me.
"Hey Lenny, isn't today your day, huh?"
"Fuck it."
"You were still busy on hole number five when Fabi had already won. Another record."
I roll my eyes: "Well, thanks."
Sunny grins at me and ruffles my hair: "Well, aren't we having fun today?"
Fabian, Robert, Sunny, and I have known each other since elementary school. We're basically an inseparable team, even though Fabian and I have been more on our own since Sunny and Robert started dating. But since the two of them fit together so well, we don't have a problem with that at all. Sunny wouldn't have been our type anyway.
"Larissa will be here soon," she says with wide-open eyes, and her deliberately droning voice gives this statement an absolutely ridiculous touch.
Unfortunately, I don't understand the point because I don't even know who this Larissa is.
"That's who?" I ask.
"What, you didn't notice that at Fabi's party last week? Oh yeah, you were outside the door with Robert because Fabian has a smoking ban."
Good cue. ZIPP! and the cigarette smolders. I take a drag on the cigarette and tilt my head to one side, looking at Sunny with interest.
"So? What did I miss?"
"Oh, nothing," she suddenly replies very curtly, jumps up and goes to the others.
I stay sitting on the grass and watch two guys in their late twenties on a side track who are acting even more stupidly at this game than I am. They don't seem to be concentrating on the game at all. Instead, they're joking around with each other in a way I've only ever seen couples in love in our schoolyard do. I stand up and throw away my iced tea can. When I return to my seat, I see the two of them kissing. I look away, embarrassed. Do they have to do this in public? My dad always gets upset when they show up on TV about some kind of gay pride parade like the Love Parade.
This usually leads to a heated discussion between my father and me about tolerance, but now that I'm witnessing two gay men kissing in person, I'm quite irritated.
My gaze continues to wander across the field and I spot Sunny and Robert whispering to each other and looking over at me. What's going on? First I make a fool of myself in this stupid sport, and then people start gossiping about me. My mood is visibly sinking.
"Hello," someone suddenly trills behind me. An unknown blonde with rolled-up jeans and a tight, cropped top enters the mini-golf course. As she glides past me, she shakes her long hair and then blows an annoying strand out of her face. My gaze falls on her tribal tattoo, visible on her bare back, uncovered by the top. That must be the legendary Larissa, who heads straight for Fabian, reaches out her hands to him, and gives him a big kiss on the mouth in greeting.
I feel hot and cold.
Quick, have a cigarette!
It glows... after 12 attempts!
I even had time for many more attempts, because they're still kissing.
Didn't I recently talk to Fabi about how everything is actually great the way it is now? "Women are just a nuisance!" I hear him say. And that's exactly how I see it. I don't have to let my passenger in my nonexistent car dictate to me, nor do I have to let my voice be pitched to me.
Nervously, I finger another cigarette out of my pack and actually manage to light it immediately.
Why didn't he tell me about it? Or does he think I know, like Sunny assumed? After the third cigarette in a row, my stomach starts to make itself known.
I hastily leave the lawn of the miniature golf course and head for the restroom. I lock myself in the toilet stall and try to vomit. Even though nothing comes out, I still don't dare stick my finger down my throat. Damn nicotine.
Exhausted, I finally sit on the toilet seat and try to stop the carousel of thoughts.
Everything is spinning.
Outside, I fill my hands with water and throw the contents in my face.
When my legs stop shaking so much, I quickly leave the mini golf course and angrily throw my almost full pack of cigarettes into a trash can as I walk past.
Like a madman, I jump onto my bike and, in my catapult start, I only narrowly miss a woman with her stroller.
"Lenny! Lenny, stop!"
Nothing happened to the woman with the stroller, so why should I stop? Only after I've left the village, slowing down a bit as I cross the harvested fields and meadows, and slowly regaining my senses, do I realize that the woman with the stroller couldn't possibly have known my name.

The sick video projectors in my defective brain 

As I lie in my bed in the evening, my efforts to fall asleep quickly are unfortunately not at all successful.
This night is also sweltering, and I take off my clothes. I lie naked on my duvet, trying to figure out the geometric properties of the rope systems that intersect directly above me.
The moon shines into my room. It's completely windless, and in the distance I can hear a rapidly departing motorcycle.
Gonggggg. Gonggggg. Gonggggg.
Our church clock tells me it's already three o'clock. I've been lying here for what seems like an eternity, and Fabian and this Larissa keep zipping past my eyes.
As if in a trance, I get up and stand by the open window to light a cigarette, but unfortunately fail. With a loud bang, the empty lighter lands in a corner of my room. Nervously, my teeth work on my lower lip and I take a deep breath. It's bearable here by the open window. Maybe I shouldn't go to sleep at all. Maybe I should never go to sleep again. Then I'll spare myself the confused thoughts that keep me from falling asleep. Someone in our class once mentioned something about speed or something, a drug that keeps you awake. Maybe I should try to get some of that.
After finally finding a lighter in my nightstand, I take another deep breath, only this time there's no fresh air filling my lungs. Two cigarettes later, I sneak back, sit on the edge of the bed, and turn on my stereo. With the headphones on, I drift off into another world. Unfortunately, the images of Fabian and Larissa can't be turned off here either.
Quite the opposite. I see them kissing in front of me. Ecstatically tearing off their clothes, and I notice that the image of Larissa projected in my mind is considerably blurrier than that of Fabian. Sure, I know what naked women look like, but the Playboy magazines Bernd brings to school don't get much attention from me. When it comes to naked boys, my imagination is considerably more precise. I mean, I only have to look in the mirror and I know what something like that looks like. That's also the reason why boys always appear in my masturbation fantasies. When I try to imagine girls, the images are always so blurry that you can't even make out their nipples. That will definitely change when I have my first real girlfriend. Should I try it with Maria? I don't know. She would certainly be overjoyed if I took the first step. But no matter how hard I try to imagine Maria's body in its most beautiful positions, Fabian keeps getting in the way.
Finally, I'm lying on the bed masturbating, imagining Larissa pleasuring Fabian with her mouth. He's stark naked, and she's in her rolled-up jeans and a tight, bare-assed top.
Larissa laughs while Fabian and I pour ourselves at the same time.
Sick.
This is all sick.
I finally fall asleep thinking about how best to approach Maria so that these sick images in my head will finally disappear and be replaced by lustful female fantasies.

---

The growling of a coffee machine is also a strong contender for a top spot in my sound charts. It can't be any more grumpy than my dad looks while watching breakfast TV with Cherno Jobatey.
The growling of a coffee machine seems to devour everything that tries to get in the way of a harmonious breakfast like an imaginary vacuum cleaner, and so I sit in the kitchen and enjoy what the vacuum cleaner has left behind.
"Don't we have any German presenters anymore? Do we have to fly in laborers from Africa now? Just look at those shoes. Sneakers and a suit. Only a bimbo could think of that," my father mutters into his large beard.
The vacuuming coffee machine is obviously failing.
"Dad, he's not from Africa. He's German."
"Nonsense! He's a Negro. How can he possibly be German?"
"Because he was born in Germany?"
"Who actually asked you? Do they put such nonsense into your head at school? That wouldn't have happened in my day. If I had spoken out against my father back in Silesia, I would have gotten a beating and nothing more."
I grab my backpack and jump from my chair towards the hallway.
With a loud crash, the chair I was just sitting on falls onto two empty milk bottles, which shatter into their individual pieces.
I turn around again, but I don't give a damn about the chair. Instead, I just hurl a
“As a Silesian, are you actually Polish or German?”
and leave the apartment with giant strides. I'm already too far from the house when I hear my father shouting something after me that I unfortunately can't understand anymore.
On the way to the school bus, I reflect on the last few minutes and realize how typical such situations have become in our everyday family life. The closer my father gets to retirement, the more petty-bourgeois his views become. My mother says yes and amen to everything anyway. Maybe I should do that again, then the family idyll would be restored. Like it used to be, when I was Inga's age and Bimbo was still an elephant with big ears and not a swear word to me—or was that elephant called Dumbo? Whatever.
Sitting on the bus, I plug my Walkman into my ears and play a tape I recorded of this year's Mayday broadcast on Viva. It's terrible quality, but the music is awesome. Unfortunately, you never get to hear that kind of thing up here in the country, so it's no wonder you have to drink your way to the music and girls in the disco. The way they walk around there, with meters of makeup and tons of jewelry, is no way they can lure me. Maria is once again a notable exception. Wearing simple jeans and her old-school Puma tracksuit jacket, she exudes far more charm than all the posh women put together.
I don't even remember which DJ played this mix, which I've been listening to over and over again for almost half a year now. The track he starts his set with is absolutely wicked. Dark and threatening sounds underscore a rather tangy lyric, and with every listen, I'm convinced the DJ must be from our village, because there's no better way to describe these philistines:
Whoever has never violated the laws of this society
and never rejects and never wants to reject,
he is sick.
And who still does not feel sick
in this time in which we have to live,
he is sick.
Whoever is not ashamed of his shame and does not caress it,
and does not caress the shame of others whom he loves without shame,
he is sick.
Anyone who is put off by those who call him sick,
and those who want to make him sick,
he is sick.
Whoever wants to be respected by those he despises,
if he has the courage to
he is sick.
Anyone who has no compassion for those he must disregard and fight,
to be healthy,
he is sick.
Whoever uses his compassion to avoid fighting the sick,
who make others around him sick,
he must be sick.
Whoever calls himself the Pope of Morality
and makes him the dictator of love,
He's as sick as the Pope.
Whoever believes that he can have peace,
or freedom, or love, or justice,
without fighting his own illness,
and to fight against his enemies and friends and his popes and doctors,
he is sick.
Who knows that because he is healthy he is a better person,
than the sick people around him,
he is sick.
Who in our world, where everything cries out for salvation,
sees no single way to save,
he is sick.
Paul Kalkbrenner »Sick« (2000)
(a musical interpretation of the poem »Krank« by Erich Fried)

Embarrassments should to fundamental rights become 

On a Monday morning at school, the first stop is the bulletin board, where, in addition to general and mostly uninteresting announcements, the new weekly cafeteria menu and the current substitute teacher schedule are posted. The week is off to a good start, culinary-wise: peppers stuffed with minced meat and rice. Very tasty. But the substitute teacher schedule is a bitter disappointment. Dr. Frings, our biology teacher, is back, and so is the odious Hansen, our art teacher. So, not a single class is canceled this week. What a bummer.
Due to the course system starting in 12th grade, I'm always the only one from our town who enters the school building at 8:00 a.m. on Monday mornings. Even though it usually bothers me a bit that the weekend gossip hasn't caught my attention, today I'm extremely happy to be able to postpone my first encounters with those present at the mini-golf debacle a little.
After two relaxing hours of advanced geography class, I try to escape as quickly as possible to the farthest corner of the schoolyard with a cigarette. But before I can even leave the school building, I run into Maria. Our hug is extremely brief and distant (has Maria ever hugged me?), and yet Maria looks at me with her very own, rather disarming grin. It's not really an unpleasant expression, but it's still somehow creepy.
"Good morning, my darling. You were in a hurry on Sunday. What was going on?"
"Oh, I haven't been feeling well. I guess lunch upset my stomach."
"So, so. And when Lennart feels sick, he basically has to stare at women, completely undress them with his eyes, and fuck them? Come on, your excuses have definitely been more creative."
"You didn't really say that, did you?"
"Oh, you heard right. Admit it, you were so horny for that stupid cunt that you were practically sweating. And because it wasn't you but my brother who was lucky enough to end up with her, you were jealous and fled the field. Am I right, or am I right?"
Wait, I think I need to sort this out first. Maria is accusing me of finding Larissa hot and being jealous of Fabian? That's pretty ridiculous. Could it be that Maria is jealous of Larissa, even though her own brother is dating her and I was just looking? That's super weird. Women are really too advanced for me. I know why I don't have any. And I thought she was going to ask me questions I can't even answer myself.
Maria's deep brown eyes fixate on me in a way that makes me feel hot and cold. I'm not aware of any guilt, yet she's trying to plant a guilty conscience in me that would surely be better off with her. Slowly, the corners of her mouth curl into a grin, and now she starts laughing, completely confusing me.
“You men are all the same!”
She ruffles my hair and just leaves me standing there. The bell ends the break, and in the physics class that follows, I'm bound to run into Fabian.
The reverberations of what I have just experienced mix with the dark premonitions for the next school lesson to form a sticky mess of emotions that apparently even sticks to the soles of my feet and makes me creep to the classroom in slow motion.
When I get there, I'm surprised that no one seems to be showing any signs of being upset. We greet each other as usual and chat normally about the past weekend, especially about the students in our parallel class who misbehaved so badly at the disco on Saturday.
You have to really dial down your own perception to detect even the slightest hint of reticence in Fabian. Yes, there it is again. He's avoiding my gaze. And every time the conversation gets too close to Sunday at the mini-golf course, the topic immediately shifts to a more innocuous direction.
Oh, Mr. Weiner, our physics teacher has arrived. Anyone who thinks the students' conversations will die down with his appearance is far from it. Mr. Weiner is a late-model hippie of the highest order. Shoulder-length hair, leather jacket, and traveling either on his motorcycle or his RV. His teaching methods are just as relaxed as his appearance. Unfortunately, this laissez-faire attitude can't disguise his actual incompetence as a teacher, and the real reason for choosing Mr. Weiner's physics class is that grades are practically thrown at you. The lessons themselves are rather boring, brightened only by the regular mishaps in his experiments, for which he has had his own section in the high school yearbooks for years. Unfortunately, I wasn't at this school when, years ago, he wanted to demonstrate the workings of a gasoline engine to a class and half the physics lab burned down. Since then, he has had to get approval from the principal for all his planned experiments.
As the noise level in the classroom gradually subsides and the lesson begins, I still can't quite concentrate on Mr. Weiner's highly interesting explanations about the temporary storage of kinetic energy in a deformed rubber ball.
Instead, I have to think about why Maria is the first to throw a jealous scene at me, and why Fabian is acting even more evasive than I expected. As is always the case, you always worry about things much more than necessary.
And yet I find Fabian and Maria's behavior almost weirder than my own, except for the fact that I unfortunately have no explanation for it at all.
Instead of lamenting here, maybe I should seize the opportunity and put the pedal to the metal with Maria. After all, her jealousy scene today was practically an invitation.
Second long break between German and advanced math classes. We're standing in the schoolyard in the bright sunshine, smoking a cigarette and sipping our coffee. Even though I'm a little uneasy about my classmates' behavior, I'm not expecting a confrontation about what happened at the mini-golf course today. Oh shit, Peter is coming.
"Hey guys, do you have any plans for the weekend after next?"
Peter and his amazing drinking parties, or does he have something special in store for once? After no clear answers came from those present, Peter asks again.
"My grandmother has a weekend house in the Lüneburg Heath. I could offer it as a party villa for a whole weekend."
"Cool, we could take the train there right after school on a Friday afternoon and have a good time until Sunday evening. That doesn't sound bad, does it?" Robert is the first to respond.
"Taking the train? That's not for real men. We'll drive there, of course. After all, I'm getting my driver's license tomorrow, and the car's already parked outside."
Bernd is and remains a fucking thug. Cars as a penis extension. Typical. Could it be possible that there are even people who take the train voluntarily? Well, let's be fair. I'm only waiting for my 18th birthday so I can finally drive a car. Still, I can't resist saying something:
"Tell me, Bernd, what kind of car will it be? It would have to be at least a van so we can all ride."
"Hehe, little one. Do I look like a family man? No, no, Astra Cabrio, I've told you a thousand times."
A thousand times too much, I would say.
"I've already knocked on my brother's door. He actually has a van, and he'd come along with his buddy and a few friends. That would just about fit the bedrooms," Bernd continues.
Oh my God. A weekend with two Bernds. I'm going to puke. Lennart, don't be a spoilsport. This is sure to be fun. This week passed like this, and before I knew it, it was Friday for the second time. Off into the weekend.

Directions
As agreed, we all meet on Friday afternoon at 5:00 p.m. at Peter's parents' farm. We'll bring only the bare essentials, but plenty of food and booze until we're done.
“Is everyone here?” Peter asks the group.
“Yes!” it sounds out in the most diverse directions and variations.
But someone is still missing. Larissa is missing, which you could have already seen from Fabian's expression. Anyone who can read has a clear advantage. Although I actually have a clear advantage, because what Fabian's expression lacks in joy, I seem to have more than enough of. Is it schadenfreude? No, I'm just happy to be able to spend a whole weekend with Fabian again. Without Larissa, like before.
Oh, here we go. The entire time we left the place, I was actually looking for a Larissa, who would come running after our cars, arms flailing wildly, and then change her mind. But I'm in luck. No Larissa anywhere in sight. Come on, Lenny, at least don't raise suspicion.
"What about Larissa?" I ask Fabian, who is sitting next to me in the exceptionally pleasantly narrow back seat of Peter's convertible.
"She's with her sister in Cologne. It's a shame she can't be there."
"Yes, it's really a shame."
Lennart, since when are you such a jealous bastard? At least cheer him up.
"Oh, Fabian, then be glad that you at least have a little distraction when she's not here."
"Yes, you're probably right. Why should I be sad? Let's celebrate."
Fabian opens his backpack, pulls out two bottles of Becks, opens them with a lighter, and gives me one of them.
"Cheers! To old times!"
“Clank!” it goes and we have the bottles around our necks.
“I hope nothing gets on my upholstery, girls!” someone complains from the driver’s seat.
"Pedda, you're just jealous because you have to drive."
"I'm not taking any chances. After all, I've waited long enough for my license. I'm certainly not going to jeopardize it with some stupid beer. I'll make up for it later."
My gaze wanders over the horizon, where a few gathering clouds are thwarting a romantic sunset.
"Tell me, Bernd, can we even have a barbecue there if it's raining? The sky doesn't look as pleasant as it did this afternoon," I ask him, leaning forward between the seats.
"Man, you have Dune flag. Fuck off! Yeah, that's definitely fine. Let me worry about that."
I lean back again and enjoy watching Annika (Bernd's girlfriend) awkwardly unfold a road map.
"Doesn't your miracle car have a navigation system?" This time it's Fabi who's making fun of Peter.
"It's sitting on the passenger seat. They're not quite ready yet, I read somewhere recently." I try to add another.
"Shut up in the cheap seats! I need to concentrate!" barks a voice from the front right.
»Stupid Fabi!«
»Good Lenny!«
»Sounded!«
The next beers are opened, and the advancing dusk means that all I can make out is Fabian's silhouette, which I repeatedly observe out of the corner of my eye until it's completely dark outside. The lighting of a city in the background creates a pale, reddish glow on the horizon, which is repeatedly obscured by trees scurrying past. I wait for the tree-free moments, because then Fabian's outline is there again.
My hopes for a pleasant, rain-free barbecue evening are now dashed. It's starting to rain. A distant flash of lightning illuminates the sky, making me flinch twice. The first time, I flinched because of the lightning, and the second time, because Fabian and I were staring directly into each other's faces. Is he watching me, too?
"Say, honey, are we in the right place? There was a sign just there, 23 kilometers to Braunschweig. Shouldn't we head toward Gifhorn and then keep left?"
"Don't worry, I've got everything under control. Besides, your brother, who's driving behind us, would have already called by cell phone if we were really that wrong."
"I'm not so sure about that!" slips out of my mouth and I curse myself before I've even finished the sentence.
"Then do it, Mr. Smartypants," counters the passenger seat.
"It was just a joke!" I try to apologize. Catfight alert...
"There's some truth in that!"
What, Peter and I agree? This is off to a good start.
The lightning is getting closer. Or we are, depending on your perspective. Like a gigantic streetlight, it allows us, for a fraction of a second, a glimpse into the woods we're currently crossing. Nevertheless, it's still pleasantly warm outside. I haven't given up on my hopes for the open-air barbecue yet.
I look ahead and see the haze dancing in the headlights. There, another flash.
"Now all we need are a few zombies and the scene will be perfect," I describe my perception and wait for the next flash of lightning, which always crowns this mood with its appearance.
"When we were children, my grandparents always told us the wildest horror stories when we stayed overnight in this house. We were always really scared."
What's wrong with Peter today? Not the strong man he usually is? Well, he was still little back then.
After a drive of more than two hours, we finally reach our destination. The rain has actually stopped, and the mist drifting over the road transforms the landscape into a wooded washroom. The entire town is actually a forest with a few houses scattered throughout, so our destination is also surrounded by large trees. The path from the road winds in complete darkness along a narrow path through densely packed conifers, which send a shiver down your neck with every touch. Once we've climbed the small hill on which the house stands, Peter hands me a flashlight.
"Shine the light on the front door!"

Arrival
The flashlight's beam reveals the first details of the house. Peter's grandparents seem to have money, that much is already clear.
"Welcome to Hermannsburg Estate. Come in!" Peter greets us.
The door is open, and the light in the hallway illuminates the front of the very spacious house. My admiration for this house continues.
We spent the first half hour checking into our rooms. I share a room with Fabian. Unfortunately, it doesn't have a double bed. Instead, it's lovingly furnished in an old-fashioned style with blue and white farmhouse furniture and plenty of knick-knacks. However, the term "holiday on a farm" wouldn't do this 10-room villa justice.
After everything is unpacked and everyone present agrees on the luxury of this house, we go outside to the terrace, where Peter's brother Hannes is already preparing for the barbecue. I'm incredibly happy and starving.
“Would you like another pilsner?” I hear Fabian ask behind me.
"Sure, I'm in! Or should we start with a beer?"
"But only one, the rest better after dinner. Otherwise I won't be able to see it, and I'll have bought it for nothing."
"Don't worry about it. There are sure to be enough grateful buyers for your meat here. Besides, Tweety messed up the shopping again. I'll go and get some jars."
And so I set off in search of the kitchen, so I can keep my mouth shut for a while. Bernd's grandparents have a fully equipped house here in the middle of Wallachia, with a kitchen that lacks nothing. Not even non-perishable supplies that should easily last for a few weeks.
Armed with two shot glasses, I head back to the terrace, sit down on a chair that's luckily still free next to Fabi, and pour us our first Jägermeister of the evening. What a weekend.
"Someone's happy, huh? Cheers!"
Fabian holds out his glass to me and grins as if the last few months, in which we've all changed so much, had never happened. As if there hadn't been any mini-golf games.
"Silly!"
I, too, grin with a grin I haven't seen in ages, and the festivities begin. By the time the actual barbecue is over and the alcoholic part of the evening begins, I'm already feeling quite dizzy. I get up, grab another Becks, and stand at the edge of the terrace. My gaze wanders over the adjacent forest, or rather, what the glow of the house lights leaves behind. Lost in thought, I light a cigarette, savoring the moment and hoping it won't end anytime soon; it seems so harmonious and perfect.
Fabian steps behind me.
"This is quite a hammer here, isn't it?"
I slowly turn to him and would love to hug him, but I don't dare.
"I was afraid it would be unbearable here with Peter, his brother, and their entourage, but I never expected it to be so beautiful. Cheers!"
"Cheers! Oh, Hannes and his people are actually quite peaceful. They're sitting inside and smoking a few rounds of weed! As long as they behave calmly, I don't care."
"Yeah, I expected that, though. Peter's been bringing that stuff around more and more lately. Well, to each his own."
»Remaining?«
»Keep going!«
We grab two chairs, point them toward the illuminated edge of the forest, and sit down in silence. Just sitting next to Fabian. Just being close to him. What an awesome weekend. Past scenes that Fabian and I experienced together blend with the background music to create an abstract, overlong video clip, interrupted by various advertisements for Marker Jägermeister.
Later...
»Fabi?«
"What's up, Lenny?"
"Let's stop with the Jägermeister before I lose count of the commercials and the stars orbiting around my head can no longer be accurately counted."
"Please? What for commercials? Lenny, you're drunk!"
Oops, I blurted it out. Usually when I have such confused thoughts, at least they stay in my head, but now I've spoken them out loud. It's a good thing Fabi blames it on the Jägermeister, because I'm definitely not drunk. Maybe a little tipsy, but definitely not "drunk."
"Please don't take me seriously today, Fabi."
"Lenny? You're drunk!"
"Hey! Tipsy maybe, but not drunk! You're drunk, Fabi!"
"After 6 Jägermeisters? Laughter!"
"Who knows? You hardly get a chance to do it these days."
And again I could slap myself.
"Um, Lenny, I think I'm getting tired. Tomorrow is another day. I'm going to head off to bed."
I hesitate and only answer when he's already standing on the terrace: "Wait, Fabi, I'm coming with you."
Leaving everything behind, I jump up and run after Fabian, who is already in the house and apparently hasn't heard me.

departure
“Hey, wait!” I call into the house.
"Are you afraid of being alone or something?"
Oh, he was being bitchy. What suddenly got into him?
"No, it's just..." I stammer to myself.
"It's just what?"
"Oh, nothing! Forget it!"
Fabian used to only react bitchy very rarely. If he did, it was only to responses like "Oh, never!" or "It doesn't matter." Now he doesn't react at all. There goes the distance again. Welcome to reality, Lenny.
In silence, we undress down to shorts and T-shirts and slip into the freshly made beds. I feel like I'm in a luxury hotel. Hesitantly, I wish Fabian a good night. The response is also slow in coming.
"I haven't been away from Larissa for a single night in the last few weeks. It's pretty unusual being alone in bed."
Does he want to make me jealous now?
"You can come over! Then you won't be alone anymore."
Shit! I'm not allowed to drink any more Jägermeister. He'll probably think I'm gay or something. Slap in the face. How many today? I can't count. Great, he's not even answering anymore, but there's a rustling sound. He's probably turning around and thinking something to himself.
»Slide a bit«
a voice suddenly whispers right in front of me.
Fabian.
My heart rate is increasing exponentially and should actually be quite audible in the form of a never-ending drum roll. Clearing the left half of my bed, I turn toward the wall. I'm too embarrassed if we lie face to face.
He sits down. He actually sits down and lies behind me, breathing quietly and regularly, in silence. I also remain silent and pretend to be asleep, even though I know full well that I certainly won't sleep a wink.
I feel his breath on my neck. Regular, like the comforter, which moves up and down a few centimeters in the same rhythm.
The brief flash of distance from before has completely vanished. Does negative distance actually exist? Even though we're not touching, contact has been established; we seem to be floating.
My cock is absolutely erect; I've never been so aroused in my life, never experienced anything so intense. How I'd love to check if Fabian behind me was also gripped by the same madness.
I feel dizzy, everything tingles, like thousands of Fabian's hands seem to be touching me.
My pulse has become even faster, causing my excited blood to pump in all directions.
I'm literally glowing, my cock is pulsing and would explode on the spot,
If I were to touch him now...
if he were to touch him now...
if he...
I him...
There's a rustling sound behind me again.
Is he withdrawing?
Please not now...
Please don't...
I feel his hand move to my stomach and remain there motionless.
"Oh Lenny..." is all I am able to perceive before
my cock gives in to the enormous pressure and I,
without laying a hand on me,
into my boxer shorts.
With glowing cheeks and an empty head, I lie there motionless, enjoying the final waves of my hands-free orgasm slipping out of my body.
When I come to, I can still feel the rhythmic breathing on my neck. It's slowed down. Fabian is asleep. Did he notice something? Did he also...? Nonsense. He's not gay. Am I gay? Nonsense. The same thing could have happened with Maria. Physical contact is physical contact.
I fall asleep over this mental dialogue of mine and only wake up again when someone suddenly opens the door to our room, blinds us with the light from the ceiling lamp and babbles into the room:
"Is there still room? I'm sharing a room with Holger, but he's having sex with Magda, the asshole! Oh, there's still a free bed. Weird, I thought it was all taken."
The lights go out, the door slams shut, and Tweety actually collapses onto Fabian's bed, fully clothed. It takes less than five minutes before he's snoring.
Just like Fabian, who didn't notice any of this.
The intense feeling from just now flashes up again and while my cock is already acting on its own again, I slip away into the land of dreams again with the intention of determining my own dreams tonight, which unfortunately could not be determined.

* * *
When I wake up the next morning, I am quite irritated.
Where am I? It's freezing cold! And who the hell is lying here...
Suddenly, my memory returns. Fabian. Last night. I feel completely different.
Wrapped up in my duvet, Fabian is lying in the fetal position with his back to me, snoring like Tweety, who's still sleeping in Fabian's bed. I, on the other hand, am lying completely uncovered on my back and only now notice my morning wood. In slow motion, I carefully climb over Fabian, get out of bed, and gather my things. Shit! A duvet rustles.
Phew! It was just Tweety rolling over in bed and being a little louder.
After I have silently closed the door from the outside, I sprint, still silently, to the bathroom and get ready to leave in record time.
Departure? Yes, I saw a small train station in one of the neighboring villages on my way there yesterday. There should surely be some kind of slow train leaving today to the next larger town, from where I'll definitely get home.
And so, just ten minutes later, I'm standing outside on the street, starting my walk to the next town. As I do, various fragments of yesterday's scenario flash through my mind.
I involuntarily increase my pace. The chaos of my thoughts also accelerates.
Now I'm already running, and my brain seems to be spinning faster and faster.
My stomach, my head, what's going on here.
Tears are shooting from my eyes, my nose is running, and so am I. And all this at top speed,
until the place where it all happened is out of reach, and I vomit into the nearest ditch. My tears mix with the snot flowing from my nose and eventually drip into the vomit at my feet.
When nothing else comes, I collapse and let myself fall into the flat grass at the side of the road.
What's going on here? What did I do? I had an orgasm because of Fabian's presence. Because of his mere presence. And it was awesome.
But was it good?
Was it right?
No!
Perhaps!
No?
Because what cannot be cannot be?