Yesterday I saw a guy jerking off on my way to work.
The tram came and I got in at the front. From my house until Hackischer Markt I had to stand (it gets pretty packed in the mornings...it turns out that in reality, some people DO have jobs in Berlin). After the Hackischer Markt dump-out, I decided to move to the back where there were more seats, and so I'd be closer to the cash machine at Friedrichstrasse. Then I'd hit the Dunkin' Donuts.
I was sitting at the very back of the Tram on the right side. It was before eight in the morning, as I had to be at the opera for lighting the entire day. My brain was still swimming in morning coma (not induced but, say, assisted by a Palast der Republik stumble with Tomz the night before)...annoyed at the fact I didn't have enough cash on me to buy coffee before I got on the Straßenbahn.
The Tram stopped at U-Bahn Orianienburger Tor. My absent staring was molested, literally, by an oddly familar rhythm somewhere up and to the left. There, in the lower right window of the Velvet Hotel Alcatel (1st floor in Germany, 2nd floor a la Americaine) was a guy, totally naked, laid out on his bed jerking off his cock.
For some reason that I can only blame on God's hatred of jews, the Tram stopped there for about 5 minutes.
Plainly visible from the chest down, the guy's head was behind some curtains. They looked to be at least partially sheer...so maybe he knew and liked that people were watching. Sheer or not, purposefully displayed or not, the man picked possibly one of the most busy and conspicuous beat-off locations in all of Berlin.
At first I was totally giddy at the discovery, like dumb-kid style. Like when the most mature of your girlfriends wears a tank top, displaying her first armpit pube and you spend all day in class waiting for a glimpse of it...privately willing her to get ambitious and try to answer more questions. Raise your hand, bitch, raise it...
I even said, after confirming what I was seeing, "Hey, check it out, there's a naked guy masturbating over there!" to the girl sitting across from me. She looked to be about my age, or just older, with office-y clothes. She gave me a glare such as if I myself had started fisting myself right there on the Tram. "No, really-" I offered weakly, pointing in the direction of the rhythmic motion.
Perhaps such things are better experienced privately...which, coincidentally, is exactly what I would have said to the guy, if I'd had the chance.
Maybe I'll use a guy in my next production, frantically beating his cock. It could be a very useful and provocative device. In the first minute, titillating. Then moving swiftly through tasteless, assaultive, and pathological in rapid succession--before arriving at sad. If we're using yesterday morning for inspiration, we shouldn't forget tiny and generally soft.
I mention this only because the remainder of my day yesterday is, in comparison, hardly worth mentioning.
I spent the four days before yesterday in Barcelona.
Just a beautiful, gorgeous, accidental four days. It was one of those rare times when I can sit back and look at my life here...and realize how spectactularly, unspeakably lucky I am.
Rebecca, Rechi, Alberto, Calixto, Alfons, Pablo...are the Spanish wing of the small army of fabulous and brillian people that pepper my life.
I have no money. My job can be boring and spirit-crushing. Still, I'm here, surrounded by beautiful things, people, music and ideas.
Sometimes I can see that.
Sometimes.
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