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Postkarte aus Tarragona	By : runningnakedinthepark Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 1740 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Rammstein. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Let it swim

Him - his slim white body lying under me, his chest shaken by the waves of his climax, those guttural moans as he was cumming. All in my imagination, all only in my imagination. Why did he have him, while I wasn't allowed to?

But he had him that way - his body all a spasm, the slick, slippery layer of sweat making his whiteness gleam. For the first time, many, many years ago. I knew all these things like they were my own memories. I could close my eyes and re-live them. Till's country house... It's a feeling, something more than just a sensation - those walls, the wooden floors, the specific scent of old country houses. That's where it happened, their first time. Christoph was that oh, so young guy, skinny, freckles on his face, with that curly, blondish hair, and his blue eyes - charming. Such an innocence of course lured the beast in Till; he had to have him.

And he did. And then he told me all about it. How his house was full of people, most of them he didn't even know. But they were having a party - loud music and lots and lots of drinking. Till was usually a recluse, yet the restless, noisy world of punk musicians, crazy artists, and anarchists found him, and from time to time stopped at his place. And he just welcomed them, and let them have their fun, and he enjoyed it for the few hours that it lasted. It was his way of taking a break from the real world of his own problems.

Who am I to judge?

They would both lay in that bed, in the darkness, hidden away from the noise and loud music. I know it started with a timid touch, a shy caress; fingers testing the ground, getting bolder, bit by bit, expanding the territory of skin they were conquering. Then his palm cupped over the roundness of his thigh, shoving his fingers between his legs. And he didn't protest, he just waited patiently, and then opened himself slowly for that shy, exploring hand. He had known him with his eyes, now his tactile sense had to draw the contours of that map - this new land-body that had to be charted. And this new territory was warm, covered with soft skin, under which his muscles would tense and move. This new territory smelled salty, sweet and sweaty. That kind of sweat scent one enjoys to inhale.

He parted his legs to allow his hand to touch him better there... Yes, there! He laid a bit on his back and the other one - that hungry, impatient tiger - jumped onto him, his insatiable mouth devouring his lips forcefully, not allowing any place for retreat. But he let him; he answered to his kiss, because it was, in a way, what he had always secretly hoped for since he had first laid eyes on him.

He allowed those rushed palms to sneak under the fabric of his shirt, just as his own hands cupped over the sides of his torso - his turn to feel the other’s skin, slightly perspired, yet wonderful to touch. And those rushed hands got him out of that shirt, as he helped him to get out of his own. Skin on skin, lips covering him in kisses, his face, his neck, his chest. The first time. Always in the first times, there's this inner hunger devouring you, making you want to devour the other. Of course they didn't get to do much that time, but that first kiss, those first touches remain as if tattooed in your conscience. Of course, there would follow tens, if not more of other times, but these first times - we wear them as badges, sometimes as scars in our souls.

Right in two...

Of course that is what he had always waited for, since he had first laid eyes on him. Those blue eyes... No matter what others think they know about you, they never know squat, in fact. And most of the time you, yourself, have no idea what lies within you. Even if you sense it, you have to first acknowledge it, and then accept it.

I crouched down and touched the wet edge of the rocks washed by the sea. It felt soft. A thin layer of liquid silk. I smiled to myself, watching this middle-aged couple on the same tongue of land with me. There's always this seed of hope inside you that you'll finally find someone that you'll keep for the rest of your days, and that when you get older you'll explore new places, hand in hand, and walk on a rocky sea shore, under an endless blue sky. There are some days when you give up on this hope, desperate, exasperated, frustrated - you try to tear it from your mind, but it hurts and the more you struggle to tear it off, the stronger it sticks to you.

One day you realize you are different, and then comes another day when you have to accept that. Life offers you a lizard and you have to swallow it whole, alive. No, it's not "life", it is you that does that. And this way you become disappointed in yourself. In God. In those two people who conceived and gave birth to you in this way. In the whole world that is different than you and rejects you.

How do you know, anyway? It's when you see that guy there, and your glance - instead of sliding furtively over him - it slows down to take in his shapes, all those millions of tiny details about him, as if he would split into so many infinite pieces that you have to study, to turn over on all their sides and look at them attentively. And, with your breath still short, you start wondering "Why?". What's so special about this guy? And, damn it, why does it have to be a guy ? No, it must be a mistake.

Well, it's not.

I turned my glance to the shore, to those railway tracks, those ancient ruins and the buildings afar... I still didn't know where I was. It still didn't make any sense. I had to go check.

I'm your passenger...

Ancient ruins?

It can't be!

This couldn't... that meant that I wasn't in the States!

Then?

I started to walk fast, almost running, heading to the shore, to the railway tracks, to the city.

My thoughts were running through my head even faster.

Palm trees. Florida. California. But they don't have ruins like that there. I mean... I hoped I was imagining things.

What if...

I was back on the shore.

...those are just...

I walked to where the sand ended, and there was this wall made of stone holding the railroad tracks.

...imitations, something like...

I was walking, following the tracks to my right and above.

...an amusement park or some sort of decoration?

I thought that I should go up there, to the road. To those ruins.

It takes many hours to get from New York to California or Florida, but...

I turned and got under that bridge where a way to the road started.

I was realizing that I was starting to figure out where this place was, but I was refusing to admit it. Because it didn't make any sense. But I was becoming more and more aware of it. It was without logic though.

Then it struck me - what if I wouldn't go there and check what those ruins were? What if I wouldn't see what place was this?

I shook my head, chasing away these stupid thoughts. I had stuff to do... home... in New York. You know, things. My life there. My recordings, my friends.

Who cares who sees anything?

I was walking on the street that morning, with that cardboard cup in my hand. Only when I got to the States for the first time in my life did I realized that those cups, with their brown cardboard rings, were really fit for that place. No matter where I am in the world, when I hold in my hand one of those cardboard coffee cups, it feels like I'm holding a piece of this country. Do I want it to become my country too?

I am the outsider. I have a fresh look over it. I perceive more acutely all those fine differences, starting with the tan on people's faces... For an artist, I have to keep this ability to perceive things.

Sometimes I feel alone, but then again, it feels like I am by myself in a new adventure.

The boy they kept locked in his room.

So I was walking on the street, windy and rather cold, but I was enjoying it. I was tired, as usual, because I barely had any sleep, but I felt content. Actually, as I was walking along the road, I realized that I didn't know how I felt that day. In New York. But I realized back then that I was there, alive, living only when I saw that quivering image of that piece of paper that the wind was playing with. A feather of an angel’s wing. The wing of a mutilated white night butterfly.

I put the tip of my foot on it, just a bit, just to hold it straight so I could see what it read. Then I crouched and lifted it, not believing my eyes. It felt as if I had laid down on the ground and put my ear against the cement chest of this city, listening to its heart. I had the name for my project.

A wonderful day for the banana-fish!

The boy everyone used to say wouldn’t achieve anything in his life.

Still and breathless...

But he did. He climbed high, and is still not pleased with it. While we are taught that competitiveness is good, we are told to keep our heads low. Boldness equals arrogance, for some. Or many.

Who cares? The ruins were there, and I was looking at them not believing my eyes. But there was something more than that huge amphitheater and that arch made of old, yellowed by time stones. Through that rounded shape I could see the blueness of either the sky or the sea. No, it wasn't all that. It was the flags... red and yellow and blue, that blue flag with the circle of stars, that told me the impossible – this was Europe.

How?

I stood there, in the middle of the street, the breeze throwing specks of sand into my eyes and my hair, yet I couldn't even blink. I stared at those flags, like an idiot; my hands searched my pockets until they found the pack of ciggies. I took one out and lit it, my eyes still on those flags. Someone must have been playing a huge prank on me.

Mirrored sideways...

Sometimes you just know. There's like this obviousness – it felt logical, I didn't even wonder about how it came to me, I just knew what Till was into. He was my friend. He was more than a friend. More like a brother. Someone you're born with in your life and then you have to put up with all the happiness and suffering he brings to you.

They say that you can choose your friends, but not your family. So, yeah, I'd rate him as a brother. And, also, he put up with my shit. And with all the grief we caused each other, we always returned to each other.

Maybe that's why we never could... you know. Not that we haven't tried. Not that we haven't had all those wonderful opportunities.

“Do you know how to kiss?” He asked.

What's the age difference between us? I was still like a kid, no matter how mature I wanted to appear to be.

I only shook my head.

“Come here,” he said simply.

And it felt so normal to do so, to lift my face toward his, to put my lips over his. I just closed my eyes and I enjoyed it. I savored the warm and moist taste of his mouth, the movements of his tongue in my mouth. No touches, no caresses, not even a moan.

We parted. Lesson over! Class dismissed.

To be continued...
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Postkarte aus Tarragona