My name is Rainer Hausmann, and I am a Berliner. I live in Western Berlin, slowly reconstructing itself after the recent devastation inflicted on the world by that lunatic Hitler. Our city is divided into four sectors now – American, British, French and Russian – and, like so many other Berliners, I am taking advantage of the financial opportunities that offers. I work in a homosexual brothel. There seem to be hundreds of our occupiers eager to throw their dollars, francs and pounds at anyone willing to give them an hour of pleasure away from their duties. The Ivans never come into the American sector.
It seems as if it doesn't matter to these soldier boys whether the warm, soft mouth sucking them, and the tight hole they're fucking, belongs to a boy or a girl as long as it gives them satisfaction for a good price, and foreign currency can buy a tolerable lifestyle in the black market. I'm popular because I'm young, tall, slim, blond and, if I say so myself, beautiful. If I let my hair grow out I could easily be taken for a pretty girl. Until you see my 8-inch tool. Most of the men I entertain would be outraged if you suggested they were queer: "I ain't no fuckin' fag." As far as they're concerned it doesn't count as long as they're not the ones doing the sucking, or being fucked. That's one of the reasons why I enjoy cruising the cafés and bars around the Kurfürstendamm looking for pretty young men to pick up for my own pleasure.
I developed a particular taste for GIs one night in France during the war. My unit got into a fight with a group of Americans, and I hid in a bombed out farmhouse. I hadn't seen much action before and I was scared witless. One of the Yankees, cut off from his comrades, turned up there too and took me prisoner. I realised he was at least as scared as I was, I started talking to him and, well, to cut a long story short, I seduced him. We spent the night holding each other and making love, then in the morning I helped him find his way back to his own side.
Ever since then, the Americans who visit our little pleasure house have always been my favourites. Most of them are loud and brash, and like to show what manly guys they are, even as their cock sinks to the hilt into my ass. The ones I look for on my excursions tend to be quieter, more introspective, beautiful boys looking for something new in their lives, but not really sure what it is. I like the ones who think of themselves as 'normal', who've never been with a man before. I have a predator's instinct for spotting potential new lovers: often I can see that, deep down, they've got queer leanings before they even have the slightest suspicion of it themselves. My latest lover, though, I think he'd suspected it for a while, and just needed the chance to find out.
I saw him in one of my favourite bars just off the Ku'damm. It's popular with the occupying forces, and not too many Berliners use it. He was sitting with a group of four or five other GIs in their smart uniforms, yet somehow not with them. He didn't seem to be sharing their boisterous humour, seemed slightly apart from the group. The place was quite crowded, but I noticed him as soon as I walked in. He wasn't too tall, maybe five-eight (I'm just over six feet), but with a nice, solid body. He was, I guessed, 19 or 20, only a few years younger than me. He had a mop of curly dark hair, olive skin, and beautiful eyes: big and dark, with long eyelashes – they reminded me of a giraffe's eyes. They scanned the bar languidly, as he half listened to the ribald banter of his friends.
I watched him, that attractive young boy, and eventually his eyes scanned across me, like the beam of a lighthouse. They doubled back and met mine: not for long, but long enough for me to recognise an opportunity. After a couple of seconds he turned quickly back to his friends as if embarrassed at the intimacy of our momentary contact. Maybe a minute later his eyes flickered in my direction again, but he turned away instantly as he realised how intently I was scrutinising him, and I saw his dark cheeks blush. After perhaps another ten minutes he headed for the men's room. Downing my schnapps I ambled over – not to corner him at the urinal, that's not my game. As I saw him approaching the exit door I just happened to be going the other way, into the toilets. It was a narrow entrance, and our bodies rubbed together. Being a polite young American he glanced up to apologise – and I saw a look of recognition, then of shock, pass across his features. I gave him a smile – I would have spoken to him then, but one of his friends arrived to relieve himself and I lost my chance.
After a further twenty minutes I was beginning to curse myself, and wish I had approached him in the lavatory. He was still with his comrades, and I saw no way to get to talk to him, let alone make a move on him. I was just about to give it up as a lost opportunity when, miracle of miracles, the GIs got up to leave – all except my boy. There was some money counting and a fair amount of laughter, then one of them ruffled my target's hair and said, "Come on Mikey, Deena'll never find out." It was clear they were on their way to a whore house, and Mikey had decided not to go with them. After they left he wrapped his hands around his beer stein and stared into it. After a few seconds he glanced nervously in my direction, just for a moment. It probably wasn't an invitation, but I wasn't going to pass up the chance fate had tossed into my aroused lap.
I strolled over and, gesturing at an empty chair, said, "May I?"
He looked up, surprised, then, still remembering his manners, said, "Yeah, sure." He had a pleasant, quite light voice.
I eased into the seat. Seeing no point in playing too many games, I said, "I'm Rainer. So, you're Mikey and Deena is, what, your girlfriend? How long have you been lovers?"
He looked surprised again, but dismissed the fact that I knew such detail. Aft6er all, his friends had been very loud. "I'm Miguel Andrade." Despite the Latin name his accent was 100 per cent US of A. "Deena's my fiancée, we've been an item since 10th grade. She's not my lover – I mean, that is, we've never..." His voice trailed off in embarrassed confusion.
"But you miss her, yes?" He just stared into his beer. One of my friends always tells me that the last thing you want to remind a man of, when you're about to fuck him, is his sweetheart back home. I disagree: in my experience, play up what a fellow's missing out on and there's every chance he'll take the opportunity to relieve his frustrations with the first person who offers him the chance, knowing said sweetheart will never get to hear about it. I gently pressed my knee against Mikey's under the table. An innocent enough contact, at face value, and he didn't pull away. Adopting a slightly more seductive tone, I said, "But of course, you've had plenty of opportunity here to..."
He looked up, shocked. "No, I've never been with another woman. I don't do that; that's where those guys are going now."
This was getting better and better: it sounded as if he was a complete virgin. I signalled to a waitress. "Another schnapps for me, and another beer for my friend here." I turned back to Mikey. "So, how do you like my city?" As I said it, I rested my hand on his knee under the table. He tensed, but he didn't move away or brush my hand away. After a few seconds, with me still touching him, he said, clearly nervous, "I like Berlin just fine. It must have been very beautiful before the war."
