Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

The Year of Kasekuchen	By : kimbk Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 1566 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know any members of Rammstein. This is purely a work of fiction: it does not intend to reflect any aspect of the members' lives and I do not make any profit from this work.

Chapter List
- 1-The Year of Kasekuchen
- 1
The Year of Käsekuchen
Posted for my alt account on Deviantart where all the experimental styles I work with go. Murakami Haruki influences with a detailed recipe for cheesecake. Enjoy.
=========================================
Ten in the morning and I'm already set for today's baking. It's a cold April day; clouds are covering the horizon and when I lean by the kitchen window, my breath mists the cool glass ever so softly. Rain spattering the garden outside; the flowers could do with a drink, for sure.
I adjust my shirt and tie before getting to work, rolling up my sleeves. I should perhaps put on an apron, but I don't usually bother with one. The oven is heated up and ready.
Today is the 22nd and a Friday. The month is April and the year is 2002. For nearly every week so far in this year I've baked myself different treats amongst piano practice. I've had the time to bake, seeing as our band is in a hiatus after all. It's been cheesecake most times - chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, you name it, I've tried it out. New York style, German, Polish, I've tried different styles as well.
Why cheesecake in particular? No particular reason. It is one of the quintessential German cakes after all. I don't usually go for sweet food, but I have a fond weakness for a warm cheesecake fresh from the oven. It is the perfect treat, balanced in flavor; sweet with whatever flavor I've infused it with, but tart and sour with the cheese and cream. The creamy filling melting in the mouth smoothly, but contrasted with the firm resistance of the crust.
I think I'll go for a plain this time.
I clean my glasses with a cloth before washing my hands and getting to work. My fingers - slim, long and skilled from my choice in career - work fast and efficiently with the ingredients. The crust needs to be baked first, so I sift the flour and stir in baking powder with a pinch of salt. In my cupboard is a glass jar of sugar that I put two empty vanilla pods in a while ago; taking it out, I screw open the top and smile as the warm scent of vanilla sugar tickles my nose. A spoonful of that goes in the mixture. I could do with some lemon zest as well; taking out a lemon from the fridge, I scrape off a little bit of rind from it and toss that in the bowl too. Then comes the butter and egg. All of that is mixed three times clockwise with a wooden spoon before I put my hands to it and knead the dough together, smiling to myself as it's quickly manipulated to a smooth, even consistency. Then I wrap it in plastic and stick it in the fridge, setting a stopwatch to one hour.
Pausing there, I spend some time washing up and cleaning the counters. Turn on the radio to see if there's anything worth listening to; it's too early in the morning for that, though, and after searching around for a music station that I like and failing - the classical one I can usually fall back one isn't broadcasting right now - I shake my head and turn it off again. There's nothing wrong with the sound of rain, after all. The raindrops beat out a soothing rhythm against the glass as I take out the ingredients for the filling and wash my hands again.
No one can say that I'm not a stickler for hygiene.
My work is interrupted, though, when from the living room the phone starts ringing. I can't stand leaving the phone ringing for too long, so I walk towards it, drying my hands with a dishtowel, and pick up the receiver.
"Hallo?"
There is silence down the line. As per etiquette, I wait patiently for about five seconds for the other person to speak before trying again. "Hallo?"
"Zehn Minuten," a male voice, low, unfamiliar and drawling, speaks from the other end without as much as a greeting. I blink. "can you spare me ten minutes?"
"... Who is this?"
"All in good time. All I'm asking for is ten minutes of your time. I'm not calling for a charity and I'm not trying to sell you anything."
"Ten minutes of my time? What would you want with that?"
He sighs impatiently. "That's what we need the time for. It's the length of time that we need to discover each other. Das ist alles," his accent is thick but pleasant, but I raise my eyebrows and sit down. Play along, Flake. It's okay.
"I'm afraid I can't spare ten minutes right now."
"And why's that?"
"I'm in the middle of making some cheesecake. The ingredients are at the right temperature at this precise moment in time. They won't be in ten minutes."
"Cheesecake?" he repeats, sounding baffled and even vaguely irritable. "cheesecake? It's ten in the morning. What do you need to make cheesecake at this point in the day for?"
"Why not?"
He's got nothing to say to that. I just want to get on with cooking. "I need to go."
"Look, it's just a dessert. I'm sure ten minutes won't hurt it-"
"Yes, it will," I've always been firm about things like this. He falls silent. "making cheesecake is a delicate business. I need to go."
There is a long period of silence, and then a click at the other end as the phone is hung up. Satisfied, I put down the receiver and return to the kitchen before I remember that now that I've touched the phone, I've got to wash my hands again. Well, that was a waste. Sighing, I shake my head and get on with it.
Separate the eggs, whites in a cup and set aside for later, yolks in a bowl. Beat the yolks with sugar and some more of that vanilla sugar; under my steady hand, it quickly becomes pale and foamy. Then I add the butter, softened from earlier, and beat the mixture for precisely one more minute before adding the cream and repeating the process. This is the most important step - add quark and stir, the mixture becoming smooth and combined quickly.
This is the poetry of cooking. One might think it unmanly, but I love it so.
The stopwatch goes off at this point. Putting the mixture aside, I quickly take out the dough from the fridge and dust the countertop with a heavy coating of flour. Roll it out. Roll it into a ball again. Roll it out again with the rolling pin. The dough is very sticky and stubborn; this is my least favourite part of the ordeal, because of that alone. Nevertheless, by the time I press it into a spring form pan and shape it into a crust, I've forgotten it already.
Take the egg whites, whisk it with salt until stiff. Then I fold in the quark and cornstarch before the mixture sinks, keeping it at the desired consistency, before pouring everything into the crust shell and smoothing out the surface.
Only then does the whole thing go in the oven. Set the timer to sixty minutes.
My job is done. Now I wait.
==
"How's the cheesecake coming along?"
When the phone rings again, I pick up and am greeted with that before I can say anything at all. The same voice. He sounds very bemused.
"... Okay, I guess? It's in the oven. I'll be putting some cream on it after."
"Thank you for not putting the phone down."
"No... problem."
"What flavor?"
"Plain."
"Are you up for the ten minutes now?" the voice asks. I sigh.
"One moment."
Go to the kitchen, pick up the stopwatch. Then I return to the living room. "Yes. I suppose so. I'm just going to set this stopwatch to ten minutes now; after that, I'll say goodbye to you. I expect you to not call me again after."
"Actually timing it, are you? Fine. Quite anal-retentive, but then what else did I expect? Go ahead. We'll discover each other now."
I do. It starts counting down from ten minutes.
"You sound as if you expected me to pull out a stopwatch."
"I did. I know what you're like."
"Do you, now?"
"Of course. I know you. You might not believe me, but I do. I've known you for a long time."
Lean back and look at the ceiling. The paint is pristine and white as always. "All right. Who am I, then?"
"Christian Lorenz," the voice says in a tone that indicates that he might be reading off a list or something. "your name is Christian Lorenz. You're the keyboardist of Rammstein. You were born in November 1966, 16th and a Wednesday to be exact, and spent your childhood in East Berlin. One of the people who still suffer Ostalgia to this day, quite frankly, from the way you live your life. See, you aren't one for complexity. Socialism was bad, but you still miss the simple days of the East. Typical, really. You live alone in a house in Berlin, you aren't married nor have any pets-"
I say nothing, but stare ahead in shock. He wasn't joking. This person really does know me. "I think that's quite enough," I say slowly, cutting him off. "I don't think we engaged in this ten-minute conversation to list off things about myself."
"Well, you asked," he drawls quietly, before he lets out a short laugh like a bark. "and no. We didn't. Let's reverse the situation, then. Who do you think I am? Don't bother putting a name to me. You won't get it right. What kind of person do you think I am?"
The stopwatch is ticking. I want to hang up, but force myself to think. "Do you mean you want me to list off what I think your habits are, your hobbies, and such...?"
"Mmm."
I bite my lip as I think. "Let's see," I say slowly, frowning as I rest my hand on my forehead. "you're probably in your late thirties."
"Ja-ah," he draws out his syllable in a way I've never heard anyone else do before. "keep going."
"And you aren't married either. Maybe there's something about you that women don't find attractive. Maybe you tried once and didn't like it. Maybe you have a complex about yourself, like your limbs are too short compared to the rest of your body or you're too weak or you have a slight belly or something."
"Impressive. Keep going."
"Or maybe you just swing the other way. From the way you're calling me, I wouldn't be surprised. But hey, what do I know? As for the other things... I think you do have a pet. I don't know what it might be, though. Maybe a dog? You might also have children. Something about your voice tells me that you aren't easily understood and you've led a hard life."
"You're mostly right," he laughs. "I don't actually have a dog, but good guess. Only those who have lived like I have can guess to the extent you have. Wonderful job with the speculation as to which way I swing, by the way."
"Oh?"
"Oh yes. I'm naked right now. Can't you tell that?"
I groan. Phone sex disguised as a mysterious philosophical discussion. Just what I needed. "No. No, I don't think I would have. I can't see you."
"True."
Then there is silence for a very long time.

I almost think he's hung up on me, but I hear him breathing.
What's he doing?
"My hair is still damp," his voice finally speaks up. "I just took a shower and I didn't bother to get dressed. I'm lying on my bed and getting the sheets beneath me all wet as well, but who cares? They'll dry. The point is that I'm lying naked and wet in bed. Thinking about you. Talking to you. It's making me hard just hearing your voice. Incredibly hard."
Great, I think to myself. Here we go.
"Or would you like me to put on something sexy for you? Granted, I am a man and our species tends to be unfortunately disadvantaged when it comes to the sexy clothing department. There's also the fact that you can't see me, which lessens the effect significantly, but I'm talented when it comes to describing. Maybe you have something that you like. I've got leather straps, bit gags, some stockings and garter belts too if that's how you like it..."
Garter belts. Who wears garter belts in this day and age? I sigh. "Naked is fine."
There's a slight pause. Five minutes left on the stopwatch.
"You turn me on, you know. I've known you for years. I wish you'd speak up more often. It's not that your voice is sexy, it's just a voice of a German male approaching middle age, I'll be blunt about that. I've heard better voices. It's the things you say that arouse me."
"Listen, I-"
"I told you, I'm hard right now," the voice moans. "hard as a rock. I wish you could see me. Naked just for you. My body, hot and damp thinking of you, smelling of mint shower gel and shampoo. I have a nice body, you know. A very nice body. I wish you'd reach out and touch me. Feel my pulse through the skin of my neck, my thighs, my cock. My legs splayed open and my erection exposed to open air. It'd be about five past ten if I were a clock."
He's not lying, the tone of his voice tells me.

He really is lying naked on the bed, the receiver cradled between his shoulder and ear, his legs open to five past ten with his member stiff and hot to the touch.
"Reach out with those long deft fingers of yours. Press the tip of your index to the head, swirl it around a little, just beneath the foreskin - that's it, ahh. My precum clinging to your finger, clear and hot and sticky. I'm leaking already from that one touch. Oh. Mmm. Go ahead, touch it, grasp it all, hold me in your hand. That's it. Large and smooth as silk, isn't it? Trail downwards, cup me in both hands now - just like that, move your fingers, rub me just around the rim and head. Caress my slit," his breathing is hard and rapid, his voice growing faint at points. He's masturbating to the thought of me on the other end. "delve downwards if you want. Touch me with your tongue. Lick up my precum, caress my shaft - up and down - up and down - ahh, ah, just like that. I want to fill your mouth. See you lick me clean like a cat licking butter from its paw. I want to see you swallow it all, I want to pull you close and kiss you and taste my cream on your tongue. I'm completely at your mercy. Bob your head up and down, kiss the tip of my cock - reach up with those pianist fingers, stroke my chest - oh, how talented you are - tweak a nipple between your thumb and forefinger. Gently. Gently, just so, oh ja, until I'm about to come-"
I hang up. Three minutes left on the stopwatch. Then I get up from the sofa and go to the kitchen, pull out a chair and sit by the table, staring blankly outside at the rain. The phone rings again from the living room - it rings ten times and then stops. The oven timer then pings, showing a large zero; I turn it off but don't open the door. The cake needs to rest in there for a few more minutes.
Nearly midday. Fifteen minutes more. Then I'll take it out, cut out the first slice, and put that in the fridge for a few minutes more while I wash up.
Not long now.
==
An hour later I'm relaxing on the sofa with my slice of plain cheesecake, slicing off little bits with my silver fork and slowly savoring each bite. I even whipped up some cream to dab on top of it as an extra. The rain has stopped outside, and hum of fan oven has finally died down. The skies have cleared - it will be some hours before it begins to rain again. Putting my fork down, I pick up my cup of coffee to take a sip from it - sweet tartness of cheesecake matched perfectly with the dark rich bitterness of the coffee.
Everything needs balance. The strum of fingers on piano keys, the mix of dessert flavors, everything.
The phone rings again. I hesitate for only a second before picking up. "Hallo?"
"Hallo, Flake," a familiar voice says down the other end, and I relax.
"Hallo, Till. What brings you to call me at this hour?"
There's a little shuffling sound of newspapers from his end as he laughs. "I just finished having lunch and I felt like calling you. I've been having a really difficult time with my editor lately, he wants to save far too many of my poems for my liking."
"This is for your book?"
"Got it in one. I don't see any merit in some of them. He just thinks they're too good to throw away, whatever the hell that means. It makes me feel uncomfortable when people tell me things like that. One can't always create works of art. Sometimes it's just garbage that ends up being produced. That's just nature. Wouldn't you agree?"
Slice off more of the cake, nibble at it. "You undersell your talent, Till," I tell him dryly, although he's used to hearing that one to death. "but you wrote them. It's the same as what you do with our music and lyrics. Anything you don't think represents our voice, you discard. I guess it's not as easy doing that with books."
"Mmm. Anyway, that's neither here nor there. How are you?"
"Good."
"Just good?"
"Yes. I'm not sure what else you want me to say."
Till laughs again. "Just as literal minded as always. Had any luck with Rachmaninoff lately? The one you said you wanted to perfect by the end of summer."
"Oh. Concerto No. 3?"
"That one."
"It's coming along fine. Sight-reading is difficult, but Rachmaninoff isn't Rachmaninoff for nothing. I can't memorize it quite yet," sip the coffee. "ah, I needed that. Sorry, just drinking coffee at the moment. But I think I'll have it done by summer. I am a pianist by trade, after all."
He doesn't answer to this one for a long time. But by the sound of his slow, even breathing I know that he's listening and still at the other end. I wait patiently, licking at the tip of my fork, tasting cream and metal. "So," he finally speaks up. "so."
Close my eyes.
"... How's your cheesecake?"
Pause. Take another bite. Chew and swallow.
"Delicious," I say. "plain and delicious. I put cream on it and everything. But then I told you that already."
"Oh yes. Before you so rudely hung up on me, you cheeky bastard," but he suddenly falters there, sounding as if he's lost his train of thought. "... listen, Flake. About these calls-"
"About these calls, nothing," I say tiredly, cutting him off. "we went through this before. We've gone through this every single week since our hiatus. When are you going to get the message?"
"Never. As long as you will answer my calls. Which so far, may I remind you, has been every single time. Even if you never let me finish."
"You have a girlfriend."
"So do you."
Pause.
I sigh. I know I won't get through to him again. "... Talking dirty to me for ten minutes every week isn't going to change that, Till."
"It's not just pillow talk," he answers smoothly. "and I'm a little disappointed that you'd call it that."
"Good. Anything to make you stop this."
"It's a form of my appreciation for you. I've never met anyone who coaxes poetry from my lips as readily as you can. That alone fascinates me," I snort; I wouldn't call those calls 'poetry'. "don't laugh, Flake. I'm being deadly serious. You intrigue me. I know you aren't a fag, right, okay. Neither am I. What's wrong with us being - being not fags together, then?"
My cheesecake is almost finished. "Because you're making absolutely no sense, that's why."
"And yet you always pick up and play along, pretending as if you don't know what's going to happen, only hanging up at the point of climax. If that's not intentional cockteasing from your part, I have no idea what it is."
I have no idea what to say to that, so I don't say anything.

He might be onto something there, but I don't know myself, and I'm not about to find out right now.
"Remember," Till is still saying, his voice low, husky and erotic in my ear as before. "remember, Flake. I want to carry this on. Ten minutes every week, that's all I'm asking and have ever asked. It'll just be routine one day. Have I ever forced myself upon you in person? Have I ever forced you to take these calls?"
"No, and no."
"Das stimmt. And that's how it'll be from my part, no less, no more. If you want it to be more or less than that, make your move - and I'll accept. It's as simple as that."
"I see."
Then neither of us say anything for a long time. I look at the clock. Time to stop and carry on with my daily routine as usual. Lunchtime is over.
"I need to go."
"So do I. But remember that, my dove. I'll leave you be now. Have a good day, Flake."
"And you, Till."
He pauses for a little bit. "Say hello to your cheesecake for me."

Then he finally hangs up.
It's been like this for the past few months. I'll be relaxing on a Friday afternoon after piano practice, nibbling on something, and he'll call and interrupt my lunch with his intensely erotic speech. I'll let him carry on until it sounds like Till's about to come, then I hang up and keep eating. Then sometimes he calls me back again and we pretend nothing happened - I always go the longest when it comes to pretending, it's always Till who breaks down first and starts asking me about the calls.
Every time. I don't even know why I bother answering.
As I clear my plate, I think of our various stage performances. How me and Till are engaged in an on-stage war of pain and pleasure, him holding me in his iron grip as he pretends to sodomize me with a dildo, me kicking him away when he approaches me at my keyboards. How we laugh it all off afterwards with some beer and schnitzel, then go on to do it all over again the night after.
I think he misses that. I think he misses me. That's why he's taken to calling me, even though he knows I don't reciprocate outside of performances, creating yet another unique brand of sadomasochism to engage in. And whether I like it or not, I'm in it too.
If I just reciprocated, what then? Does he make love to me?

No, I don't think he would do that. That would be too simple. He says he longs for me, but he longs for me precisely because he can't have me. Not that easily, anyway.

And so we carry on, our words and feelings lost in distance and over phone lines.
There's a droplet of whipped cream left on my finger. I place it close to my lips and lick it off with my tongue, finishing off by sucking at the tip.

Somehow that makes me think of Till and I glance at the plate of leftover cheesecake on the kitchen table.
"Till says hello," I tell it. My voice comes out soft and quiet. When I pick the plate up, it's still warm from the heat of the oven.
It won't keep.
==
Quark. Mascarpone. Fromage frais.

Käsekuchen. Dolce al formaggio. Gâteau au fromage.
When the Europeans first developed the recipe for this perfect treat;

could they have known that what they were really creating-

- within creamy filling and crust-

- was an embodiment of longing?
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Year of Kasekuchen