The Last Radical Lifestyle Choice

"Of all the sexual aberrations, chastity is the strangest" -- Anatole France

A petite middle-aged female lies swinging in a market stall, trying out a leather sling. Well-built and well-oiled German men with beer brand labels tattooed on their pectorals hand out drink tickets. Carefree kids laugh, scream and run about while their parents munch bratwurst and Eis (ice cream, even in winter a Deutsch favorite). Men dressed as nuns act out an array of vaudeville schtick. A tattooed butch man in chaps sits cooling himself off with an oversize Geisha girl fan. And lording it over the whole affair, in spirit anyway, an openly gay mayor, Klaus Wowereit, whose motto is "“Ich bin schwul – und das ist auch gut so." ("I am gay, and that's not a bad thing.")

My German pals and I sweep through the streets of the Schöneberg district of Berlin, absorbing the sensations of the annual Christopher Street Day Strassenfest, the Deutsche permutation of gay pride. One thing is apparent: gay culture here is nothing if not inclusive. There is a studied nonchalance to this acceptance; it's not jaded, but insouciant, good-natured and welcomes just about every persuasion this side of NAMBLA.

The attitude towards different orientations and gender identities here in general is so laissez-faire that the gay pride festivities might be redundant if they weren't so much fun. This attitude is manifested in a large banner strung across a tinsel-studded stage, reading "Sexualität Demokratie," and it also encompasses (gasp!) -- families, and their redefinition under any rubric. Although gays cannot legally wed in Germany, and adoption is difficult for any couple, gay or straight, there is a tacit unquestioned acceptance of gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender people of all ages and stripes as normal.

Contrasted with the histrionic chest-thumping and identity-mongering of North American queer tribes, I feel as if I've gone down the rabbit hole, noshed on the caterpillar's proffered mushroom and am now experiencing lysergic visions of Utopia. Outside the colossal neo-classical gay club Goya, identical skater boy "twins" roll around kissing and cuddling on a patch of grass, looking like this year's over-the-top auditions for a particularly provocative edition of the A & F catalog. Like the Peppermint Schnapps swigged from the bottle by a group of lei-sporting baby dykes and their straight male pals, it all goes down smooth here in Berlin. Today -- hell, every day in this city -- revealing leather shorts are to Motzstrasse as suits are to Wall Street. Even the Turkish merchants from Kreuzberg have decamped their stalls here, and it all adds to the communal, multicultural spirit.

Eccentricity is the order of the day, normalcy is relative. As my roommate Jan and I make our progression through the streets -- which follows a temporal arc music-wise from 80's kitsch classics to jittery 90's techno -- I don't see anything particularly new, simply new modes of expression of the age-old desire to be oneself. At one intersection a few desultory dancers shuffle their feet to Schläger music (cheesy German oldies). The music ceases and an addled looking old longhair in a kilt fashioned from leather fringe makes announcements from a microphone -- wait, that's no microphone, he's merely pantomiming , clenched fist poking at the air, spinning around to the Karaoke DJ in his mind. We collapse in gales of laughter and head down an arterial street.

As we penetrate the next sector of the Strassenfest, an attractive female twentysomething thrusts a pamphlet into my hand, the pink cover of which reads: "Asexualität: nicht jeder steht auf sex." Translation: "Asexuality: not everyone is into sex."

Jan crumples his pamphlet, a dubious gift, into my palm, shooting me an amused glance.

"The asexual woman was very pretty," he observes.

"What a waste!" I say, unable to resist the urge to facilely invert (no pun intended) the old cliche about gay men.

Glib remarks aside, the tract inside essays a paradoxically passionate, but vague, explanation of this lifestyle. It's a plea for understanding on the part of society 's latest “category” of pariah, the citizen who chooses to live ohne Sex. Pertinent questions are answered. A few myths are exploded, but the reality seems nebulous. It's more of an opportunity to say "We exist." We explore hitherto unanswered questions, for example, does asexuality necessarily mean abstinence or a solitary lifestyle? The answer to both is unequivocally "Nein."

The mind reels at this assertion, giving rise to yet further questions. Does this mean that asexuals will be splitting off into ideological factions, for example "True asexuals" and "Asexuals who have sex" (AHS)? Will there be infighting among said factions (remember the plushies and furries a few years back)? Is asexuality simply a matter of choice?

What about the advent of "anti-fetish" wear such as coke bottle glasses, braces, hearing aids and pocket protectors? Will this yield to the appearance on the catwalks of watered-down versions of "asexual chic" featuring faux dowdy and dumpy models, causing friction between "serious asexuals" and "mere poseurs"? Will some be accused of hewing to stereotypes? Today, at least, the asexual tribe chose an emissary who doesn't fit the mold.

Seems to me the important thing to these people isn't simply being acknowledged as a sexual orientation, but to be given a platform to define themselves and to express the valid point that in a society so oversaturated with sex, we can be damning of those who choose not to have their life revolve around it. In fact, according to the pamphlet, asexual Volk are often approached by concerned family members, the assumption being they need clinical treatment, both psychological and physical.

The most poignant section in the asexual lit poses the question: "What does an asexual relationship look like?" A whole litany of virtuous non-sexual traits is given, including security, understanding and emotional intimacy. It's true that many of these characteristics have been left behind in the ever-expanding quest for sexual liberation, ironically, placing them perhaps further out of reach for the sexual "outlaw" (even this phrase seems quaint now, when everything is permissible). The catch is that none of these things seem particularly desirable on their own when sex is taken out of the equation in a relationship. Therein lies the conundrum of the asexual "Partnerschaft."

The more I thought about it, I reckoned that this movement could be considered, in theory, a logical conclusion to the sexual revolution, drawing full circle the tendency to push the envelope further with ever more leather, rubber, uniforms and all manner of polymorphous perversity. Not that sex -- kinky or vanilla -- and love are mutually exclusive. But, in a city where Colt butt plugs the size of infants are displayed proudly in boutique windows, and where a sex museum stands cheek by jowl with one of the major train stations (Zoologischer Garten), a declaration of asexuality is an inherently radical act, perhaps the ultimate perversion. The problem is that it is only a few paces out of the starting gate from radical act to blithe public indifference. Hence the bemused stares, rather than judgmental looks, of passers-by who have seen it all.

Then there is the elusiveness of the asexual herself. The more I read about asexuals, the less of a grip I had on the definition. It kept slipping through my fingers like mercury, going this way and that. The literature states that many studies have been done in the last year, but statistically anyway, the asexual seems to be a bit of a cipher. In a society where everything has a label, and labels are often used as a means of control, this could be a most subversive quality.

In the end, though, it's really all about freedom of choice and upholding the principles of a sexual democracy. Something tells me -- in Berlin, at least -- there will always be a place at the table for whatever version of "asexual" one chooses to be, as long as the asexual isn't harming anyone while not doing it.

Hall of Mirrors

About a millenium ago (just before the millenium actually: 1999) I posed as a model for a great Surrealist-style collage piece (part of a dream sequence) by my old friend, artist Mina Luxa. It was based on a Northern Renaissance rendering of the Deposition by Van Der Weben. This is me (right) standing next to a copy, which I stumbled on nearly ten years later in the Bode Museum in Berlin. The original is in the Prado in Madrid. On the left is the original work of Mina...ironically in the series was arranged as if I had stepped into the painting, and here it looks as if I have. Certainly added to the martyr complex I had at the time. In fact, for a while I thought I was Jesus Christ...

City of Ruins

I recently discovered not far from my Friedrichshain digs an enormous old abandoned Kraftwerk, or power station (exterior shot in the previous post), which could double as a horror movie set. The place is unglaublich, or unbelievable. This ruin (and potential squat) now plays host to a thousand graffiti artists, the curious and the daring (gay porn is filmed here, too). The inner sanctum can only be accessed by a small hole in the outer wall through which one must propel oneself after a dicey ascent over stacked concrete blocks. Once inside one encounters a labyrinth of staircases, cavernous filthy rooms and one elevator shaft straight from hell.

After much debate, curiosity won out and Jan and I were on our way up. Once up there, we made some new friends, and I took about 75 pics.

Sonntag in Berlin

The Soul of Man Under Social Democracy

I recently read a web article which postulated that if the progenitors of Communism had sexed it up a little, the political system would have been more palatable to the masses, perhaps yielding a longer shelf life. As someone who identifies more with Oscar Wilde's voluptuously naive treatise "The Soul of Man Under Socialism" than anything Karl Marx ever put forth, I second that emotion. Wilde's scrupulously Utopian vision of the abolition of private property makes Socialism seem like nothing less than a mass orgy. One cannot live on borscht and bread, a pig and an acre alone. Such slender means only leaves one spiritually hungry. Marx should have taken a page from the book of Wilde, instead of confusing abundance with excess.

Living in the former East Berlin I see the ghosts of the GDR daily amidst the ever-moving cranes and ever-mutating graffiti . Not to mention the Lego-style old commie housing estates (Altbauen), which, though admittedly sterile, do harbor a certain edge. Our hostess informs us with sang-froid that she has on numerous occasions found blood in the elevators.

In recent years the regulation and standardization of social systems such as medicine and the pension plan have been deleterious to the economy, contributing to unemployment and the rise of darker elements of Deutsche Gesellschaft, such as Neo-Nazis.

The equal and opposing force to the ubiquity of rules and order is what my German friends call the "German craziness", and though there are many more rules here than in the USA, there is a controlled chaos beneath the surface. For instance, there are no open container laws here, so the denizens of Berlin freely roam the streets and subways, ein Bier (oder zwei) in hand. But I've never seen things get out of control.

Maybe I'm talking about two different phenomena here, but bear with me. The Deutsche need for rules is concomitant to the passion for ordnung, in meine Meinung. Centuries of instability and lack of identity have plagued the Germans to the extent that they have fashioned a society built on order and anything less threatens that sense of identity. Hence the punks and the Polizei are friendly with each other, fastidiously kept historical buildings stand cheek by jowl with ugly squats. Respect and Hoflichkeit are key.

Last Saturday I jumped at the chance to attend my first German barbecue, over in Lichtenfield, a tram ride about two miles east from my Friedrichshain flat. The flat was on the tenth floor of one of the old Soviet era high rises. As we entered the claustrophobic steel trap to the top, our host, Andrea, ominously groused about frequently seeing blood there.

Once inside, der Balkon looked out over a Lego city lousy with graffiti but lush with leafy green avenues. Andrea was proud of her recent purchase of a George Forman smokeless grill, as smoke on the balcony was strictly verboten. The whole affair was incredibly gemutlich (an important German idiom closest to the English "cozy"). The spread featured every kind of Wurst known to man, Auflauf (casserole) and Salatguerke (cucumber salad), along with verschieden stinky cheeses. Orange lighting warmed an economical Ikea-furnished flat riddled with Punkten (polka dots), everything just-so. As I settled into my comfy butterfly chair with an oversized warm beer, Andrea flicked on the widescreen TV and we began to watch the Eurovision song contest. This is unheard of in the US, but is an annual kitsch favorite over here. Andrea, ever the hostess, came over and crouched beside me.

"I hope you enjoy. This is very European."

The voting was interminable but the contest itself a hoot. This year, Russia won over Scandinavian heavy metal groups, Spice Girls copies from Serbia, and French surrealist pop. The common denominator here was showmanship. You cannot vote for your own country, so callers voted for their neighboring countries with unbridled nepotism.

I sat back in my chair with a sigh of contentment. It was all so civilized, but fun. When Russia won with a sappy ballad, fireworks went off of one of the other balconies.

Auf Deutsch, my roommate Jan said: "I think one of your neighbors is Russian."

Andrea responded, "Ich glaube dass, es so ist." (I believe so)

If only Karl Marx had had George Foreman smokeless grills, and Eurovision.

Meinen Bekannten

Shooting Fish in a Barrel

Indubitably in the throes of culture shock, I mentioned jokingly in an earlier post that the sheer amount of stupidity, or Dummheit, in my life had reached critical mass, a statement which, like an eternal returning, keeps coming back to haunt me. Now these lame brains who conspire to make my life a living hell may come in all stripes, but es ist egal , because I'm an equal opportunity misanthrope. But there is a particularly insidious form of American obtuseness which really roasts my bratwurst, and it comes in the comely shape of the blonde California airhead. I had been privvy to the Airhead diaspora, being an erstwhile resident of the West Coast, and having seen firsthand the kind of havoc these apathetic, self-involved nattering nabobs can wreak, yammering away about their gym memberships or the fruits of their nail salon sallies, their yoga dalliances and their ersatz bronzing sessions. Not to mention the hotchpotch spirituality ("Did you know you could send Reiki healing long distance?"), spreading shallowness over everything like Nutella clinging to a crepe.

Having crossed the Atlantic to avoid such phenomena, you would think I would be reasonably safe in the island of icy Euro-hauteur that is Berlin. Unfortunately, one of these gold-tinted turds washed ashore...in Deutschkurs, yet, flattening her vowels in a nasal LA whine, and lazily making no attempt whatsoever at a Deutsch accent . Even my good friend Yumiko, always the dipomat, couldn't resist making a dig, doing a spot-on impersonation which had them rolling in the aisles. Which is funny because, what with Yumiko's stark Japananese accent (although she is way advanced for the erste stufel) I can barely understand her at the best of times.

So one day this monstrosity in flip-flops comes into class, chunky sunglasses fused to her head like Chanel antennae. Alex, a student who comes aus den Schweiz, is proudly announcing to the class that he has smoked his first joint in a gay bar the night before. Then for some reason this girl, we'll call her "J", looks at me and expostulates: "I really want Brian to take me to a gay bar!" I have no idea why she would focus on me, I mean don't think I had told anyone in the class I was gay, but certainly wouldn't deny it. It's not that have any hang-ups about gay, in fact I have never been in the closet, but I was just riding that German wave of not talking about anything private. In Berlin, for the most part, it's a non-issue, and frankly, I was enjoying the anonymity. Some Americans, once they learn you're a bona-fide fudge-packer, try to control you, and I wasn't having any of that. For some reason her gaydar homed in on me, though frankly I am no more or less effeminate than most red-blooded, foulard-sporting European men, gay or straight (danke Gott). Then she starts blathering on about gay pride parades, as if this is going to somehow curry favor, but it only aroused disgust in me. As if gay life is some kind of cake walk as her life as a California spoonie had been, an excuse to party. Frankly, I am not some fucking porthole into a gay universe for some dumb-as-a-box-of-bricks debutante, and at this point I would have loved to have taken her to a gay bar -- for instance a heavy leather/fisting night at a gay S and M club, and see if she ever wants to go to a "gay bar" after that. Talk about throwing fresh meat in with the piranhas.

Now don't get me wrong here, leute, I'm no separatist -- some of my best friends are "straight" (although, truth be told, I know no one who is 100 percent so). In fact I have taken some of them to leather bars. No problem, when you're cool and you're not shouting about it (not that you have to be "cool" to attend one -- oh, no. Just not simultaneously kicking us in the teeth and wanting to take part in the fun). I definitely think a mixed environment is healthy, but if society is moving past the point of labelling people (as I believe Berlin has for the most part), then why the need for shouting "Gay gay gay!" all the time? One day, these silly pride parades will fade out, everyone will be outed as the polymorphous peverts they are, and Clueless gal won't see us through her microscope as these exotic fauna who really know how to party. Snooze.

Anyway, Miriam, our Lehrerin -- who I believe is one of Sappho's Sluggers, if only because she once referred to her other half as "lieblingspartner" (although I guess this habit is spreading, as in America, to the heterosexual "community") -- clearly took umbrage at J's aggressively patronizing ignorance and transparent culture-vulture-ism in this area, but took pains to patiently explain that "in Deutschland, sind die gay Bars ein Treffpunkt fur die Schwules leute..nicht fur die anderen zu beobachten." In other words, if you want to watch the wildlife, go to the fucking zoo!

Cut to my farewell luncheon a couple of weeks later. Leider, somehow J piggybacked on the einladung. We're sat there at a corner Mexican restaurant in deepest Kreuzberg (which, oddly, doesn't have margaritas) and J, during an unrelated conversation, for no apparent reason fairly leaps out of her chair:

"HEY! When are we going to ein GayBar?"

Yumiko, god bless her, remembering our dialogue with Miriam, with near-disdain and one eyeball on me, slipping into the role of firm diplomat, points an explicative finger at the offender: "Das ist unhoflich. Die Gay bars sind Treffpunkt. Nicht fur anderen."

"Aber, in die USA, konnen alles zu die Gay Bars gehen. Viel spass!"

"Nein. Das ist nur ein Treffpunkt fur die schwules Leute."

Lurching into full-on Trickster mode:

"Why would you ask me and not someone else to take you to a gay bar anyway? Why would you assume that I'm gay?"

Awkward pause. Then lamely: "Varum nicht?" (auf Englisch, why not?)

Yumiko again asks why she would want to go to a gay bar.

Switching gears a little, I'm willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"Vielleicht mochtet sie die lesbichen Lebensstil probierien" (Perhaps she would like to sample the lesbian lifestyle) I opine.

Everyone laughs out loud. J is demonstrably horrifed, reddening visibly -- as if I'd accused her of a Crimie. "Varum? Varum sagst du das?" she asks, reviving the issue of homophobia with the raising of eyebrows.

"Varum nicht?"