We are always politically correct, cosmopolitan and tolerant. Always? On some days you quickly succumb to your own prejudices. In some places, we felt like Kriss Rudolphs Caught in a gloss. And you?
'But on the butterfly, a muscle man trains like he's written in the book. (pixelio.de)It's one of those good Mondays. You've had dinner with friends at the weekend, had a good chat, slept a lot - and you'd almost go as far as to say you enjoyed getting up early to go to work. Or to training, as the case may be. Early in the morning, the gym is pleasantly empty. But there's a real muscle man training on the butterfly. You wait and watch him. Sweat is dripping down his upper arms, which are as big as your thighs. Every movement is scrutinised in the mirror.
Then you know straight away: he's not only in love with himself, he's probably even married to himself because he thinks he's so horny.
It's strange that he doesn't wear a ring. At least not on his finger. How much longer does he need, you finally ask. Of course he can't hear anything because his iPhone is playing Lady Gaga so loudly. Or Helene Fischer. When he takes a short break to change the music, you move the pin from 65 to 90 kg unnoticed and hear him yelp as he walks away and the weights crash down with a loud thud. Punishment is a must. Can't he just train in the evening? It's hard to imagine him sitting at home reading a book.
To the underground after sport. The train arrives in three minutes. You take out the newspaper. A few metres away stands a guy with piercings on his face, looking at you with small red eyes. Yawning, he runs his fingers through his hair. You see the smudged stamp on the back of his hand. You ignore him, read a report about homophobia in Bosnia-Herzegovina and are happy to be living in Germany without being bothered.
'The train will be here in three minutes. (pixelio.de)In between, you look up and realise he's smiling at you. You look elsewhere. He's probably come straight from a fuck club where he spent hours rocking in a sling because he couldn't get his throat full, and now he thinks he can have a hot flirt with you here. He just shouldn't think he can have you so easily. Or to be able to have you at all. You're sure to get something else from him.
On the way to work, you quickly pop into the bakery to pick up a bread roll. A guy in front of you looks like he's been pulled out of a ball. His scarf is so long that it comfortably reaches to the Polish border. His voice sounds like Daisy Duck and you know straight away: someone who sits down to pee and probably shaves his balls twice a day. And after his orgasm, he wipes himself off and takes a shower. When he turns away after paying, the shop assistant rolls her eyes. You grin.
Shortly after ten, an internship candidate introduces himself. 21 - cute! You were once too, in a previous life. But you didn't have blonde hair then, and you wouldn't have thought of going to a job interview in a sleeveless shirt. But of course, otherwise nobody would see his tattoos or the three hairs on his chest. Or is it four? Does he really think you care about his youth? You know what you're talking about. That gays always have to sell themselves through sex. You're going to turn him down next week and give the Dutch philosophy student a chance instead.
One meeting and 27 phone calls later, lunch with a colleague from accounting. He whines to you that he misses his boyfriend, who is in San Francisco on business for a fortnight. The colleague complains that he hasn't had sex for four days. You spare him by pointing out that the last time you had sex, the FDP still achieved double-digit results in elections and even accidentally sat in the federal government. Instead, listen patiently to him rave about how it would be totally taboo for both of you to have sex outside of marriage. Of course it is. As if someone in one of the gayest cities in the world would go to bed alone.
In the afternoon, someone in the office tells you how he and his friend were spat at and verbally abused on the underground. You're outraged and glad that you've been spared something like that so far. On the other hand, you don't go out in public holding hands or snogging. So you shouldn't be surprised.
'The barman hands you a beer and looks at you pityingly. (pixelio.de) Two hours later, you call it a day. You want to meet a friend for a drink. He's late and doesn't turn up at all. He's probably torn himself open at Scruff's, so he saves himself the trip out and the 2.70 for the beer.
You're about to leave when you spot a cute guy in jeans and a lumberjack shirt standing next to you. How long has he been standing there? You strike up a conversation. Nice guy, works for an NGO. He has plans and a political opinion that's more definite than what you hear at the regulars' table or read in one of the free newspapers at the hairdresser. Recently moved here from the provinces. The big city hasn't spoilt him yet, you think. When he says goodbye, you ask if you'll see him again. He wants to know how old you are.
You quickly subtract a little in your head and say: 37. He plucks at one of the white hairs in your beard. I know all about that, he says. If you're still single at that age, you already have an opinion on everything and won't accept any others. No ability to compromise. Another fleeting kiss on the cheek and a whispered postscript: He already has a father, by the way. Then he's gone.
The barman puts a beer down for you and looks at you with pity. Bad thing, he says, marginalisation among gays. You nod, then hurriedly pay and drive home. The week is off to a good start.
