Sexual capitalism and capitalist sexuality

People call me (der) Dre, but I was born Andreas Peter Muller in a hospital in East-Germany. I am 23 years old and I was subjected to the wickedness of woman. I have something to tell and though it’s not even a real story, more like a long anecdote, the events I will describe are of some importance to me. So try not to laugh, even though I suspect it's hilarious to a high degree.

When I was eighteen years old I decided to join the army. Fighting against the great monster of capitalism seemed like a worthy cause. In the end it proved not to be, but it’s easy to see things clearly once they’re over. I first realized the pointlessness of the entire thing when they pulled me out of my bed in the middle of the night because I didn’t brush my boots properly. We had to put them outside of our rooms at night so the sergeant could inspect them while we were sleeping. I thought there wasn’t a crumb of dirt on mine, but I must have been wrong about it. The sergeant didn’t think they were clean. He screamed at me and put me on cleaning duty for the rest of the week.

As I was brushing the floor with a ludicrously small brush I thought: “What the hell am I doing? Thinking I should fight capitalism? I’ve never met a capitalist in my life.” So I decided to get out of the army. It really was that simple.
At least, in my mind it was simple. The administration of the army, a thoroughly bureaucratic example of the worst of the nomenklatura, wasn’t very prone on letting a young soldier slip out of their grip. The liaison officer, a gentle guy with a good human heart and a warm voice, tried to persuade me.

“What are you going to do outside, Dre?”, he inquired softly, “Work in a factory? I can assure you factories are harder than the Nationale Volksarmee. You have got nowhere to go, you’re not skilled in the sciences and from the look of it you’re not made for a life of hard physical labour. Am I right?”
I told him he might be right but that it was besides the point. I told him I had come to the army with a mission, an attempt to mean something, to fight for a just cause, to be. Not to brush stairs with a toothbrush or to obey absurd commands. He just smiled.

“Hey, this is the NVA, not the Sovjet-army, and you better be glad about it.”, he said, “Those beasts kill each other for a penny. Believe me. I know. I was in the war.”

I shrugged. He touched my shoulder. “Go drink a bit, visit a prostitute, think about what you’re supposed to do.” After this he left, still smiling.

That night I drank until I almost popped, and afterwards I visited a prostitute. I learned that ideals can’t bother you anymore once you just forget about them. Nihilism is just profound forgetfulness, nothing more.

Truth was, I realized there really was nothing waiting for me on the outside. My mother was a sad old hag and my father was a drunk. I had sisters nor brothers. My friends were bastards who’d betray you for a sausage or, more likely, for a piece of tail. The one girlfriend I had was a retarded cunt who thought you should marry before fucking. One desperate night, I touched her pussy and she started crying.
The prostitute I visited was called, rather predictably, Molly and she was the first woman I ever fucked. Sex didn’t strike me as anything special. I thought it was just about swapping juices in a space of almost unbearable closeness. Of course I didn’t know about love back then, not yet.

Molly was nice. She treated me like a mother would treat a young pale looking kid that feels not at all welcome in the world. She asked me why I was so shy. She also told me I was handsome. After this I took my pants of and I fucked her. We really didn’t care about aids yet, back then. Getting the clap was just a part of growing up. When I was finished she smiled again, the moans disappearing from her face. Something told me not all hookers were so friendly. I have always been blessed with the gift of intuition.

I don’t know if it were the words of the liaison officer or not, but anyway I didn’t leave the army. In the autumn of 1981 we almost invaded Poland. It was the closest thing to a real military expedition I ever got. By the end of 1982 I found myself still in the army, and entirely uninterested in anything but drinking and fucking hookers. Of course they should’ve fired me from the service, since it was more probable I’d shoot myself in the foot than defend our country, but they didn’t. I guess nobody gave a big enough fuck.

I don’t want to sound pathetic and I am not saying this to arouse love or sympathy, but nobody really ever cared about me, back then. Nobody that mattered, anyway. There was the cunt that didn’t want to fuck me until I married her, but she was stale, ugly and predictable. There was still another one, but I didn’t really like her either. When I dumped her she cried and pulled my clothes. I felt like a bastard for days. The feeling passed. I think I really am not a bastard. Then again that’s what Hitler must have thought.

Momma didn’t care, she just cared for daddy, had eyes only for him. But he didn’t have a clue how much she loved him because he was drunk all of the time. The fucking bastard. They should’ve castrated him and hung him from the highest tree. He used to hit me. Always drinking and talking about the war and how great things used to be. Didn’t do one bloody useful thing in his entire life. A bum by any standard, even a kid’s.

When I got to the age of 21 I was almost exactly like him. Only I wasn’t in any war, ever. I drank all night and slept all day. On the rare occasions I did have something to do I complained to everyone about it. My complaining attracted some attention, and the brass must have thought it was a sign of great vitality. They promoted me to corporal. I was a regular asshole, a real pain in the butt, somebody who didn’t give a fuck about anybody but himself. But I was honest and predictable in my depravity, so people liked me.

So what the heck, why waste more words about what could be said in a couple of sentences. I fell in love, finally, intensely and fatally. What did you expect? A goddamned religious crisis? Her name was Hilde and she was the wife of a lieutenant that was rather fond of me. His name was Jürgen Brekbacker and he thought I was a real funny guy. We met during an exercise near Rostock.

During the expedition there was a rather unsettling accident with some explosives. Some young guy didn’t wire the explosives properly and the whole thing blew up a couple meters from his face. Luckily he was wearing a protective suit, but still he was charred pretty badly. When we took off his helmet we could smell the protruding aroma of burning flesh. His face looked like a piece of shredded salami.

Nobody really knew what to say so I remarked that the aroma would’ve been nice at a barbecue. One of the senior officers heard me and went bonkers. He asked if I was out of my ‘vollgescheissenes’ mind. I told him that maybe I was. He didn’t think I was being funny. The wounded man got carried off to a hospital. I was still cracking jokes. Finally the officer pointed his fat finger in my face and ran off, rather sourly. Hard to find a military man with a good sense of humour. Hard to find any man with a good sense of humour,as a matter of fact.

Whatever you can say about lieutenant Brekbacker, he did have a good sense of humour. When he found out I was fucking his wife he just told me I was lucky she didn’t steal my credit card.

After the incident with the explosives and the rancorous officer Brekbacker suddenly spoke to me at the dining table, as if my rudeness had turned me from a spector into a real human being. “That was some ugly stuff back there, but I takes courage to take things so lightly at such a time”, he said. I told him the guy never had a nice face anyway.

“Don’t you feel any sympathy for your fellow soldiers?”, he asked.
“No fucker that blows up his own face has my sympathy.Next time he might blow up my ass”, I said. Brekbacker thought that was hilarious.

The next time he saw me at the base in Berlin he invited me to go drinking with him. I didn’t mind going drinking with him so I went with him to a bar in Kreuzberg. It wasn’t a nice place.
“What a crappy shithole”, I told him.
He shrugged.
“Whiskey’s good, though”, he said. You couldn't argue with that.

We became friends. He thought I was funny and I admired his tactical indifference, which consisted of a vast and impenetrable strategy of not caring. One night he invited me into his house to meet ‘the old ball and chain’, which I did. I fell in love with Hilde the moment she touched my hand to shake it. It wasn’t like me to fall in love like that. I could hardly be described as a romantic. But I did fall in love. She said Jürgen had told her a lot about me and I just grinned like an idiot. I was already imagining nailing her in her husband’s bedroom. I imagined she had a nice juicy cunt. She said everything was ready for dinner. “We are eating coq au vin”, she said. I thought it was poetry.

We ate coq au vin that night. During the long stories about nasty battles the lieutenant had never personally fought I tried to steal a glance from her. But I didn’t get as much as even a haughty look. I was growing more and more resigned to my fate of being ignored by Hilde until the lieutenant left the room to take a quick sanitary break. In this short pause between stories and in the absence of her spouse she looked at me daringly and temptingly. I thought she was going to devour me with her eyes. Her husband returned and during the remainders of the meal she treated me quite coolly, as if I didn’t exist. A mere spectre in a house that held her delicate material presence.

As I returned home I wondered if I had been imagining things. Did she really look at me in a sexual way? Hadn’t I mistaken her shame in being alone with me for a want of fornication?

I started visiting their house at regular times, but never without an invitation of the husband. Every time she got alone with me I had the impression she wanted me in a non-platonic kind of way. Every time I was going home I wondered if I had been imagining things.

One night the three of us were eating with another officer, a rather old major that had never visited the house of the lieutenant before. The two indulged in a quite technical talk about the use of bayonets and the likes on the battlefield and as the lieutenant had an extensive collection of exactly these things they left the room to take a look at them. I found myself alone with Hilde once again.
She began by giving me one of her long wanting stares, not saying a word. She smiled and I smiled, she looked down and I stared, she stared and I looked away. Suddenly she looked at me in a determined way. She said: ”Jurgen mustn’t find out.” I asked her what she was talking about, but she said I knew damned well what she was talking about. I said I really didn’t know but she didn’t say anything back. The men returned and she got back into her blanket of white silence.

The next day I took a day of leave and I walked to their house. I stood on the sidewalk for some time, doubting whether I was a fool or not. I pulled myself together. I knocked on the door and she opened it.
“Is Jürgen there?”, I asked. I knew he wasn’t.
“What if he is?”, she said.
“Can I come in?”
“Why would you want to come in?”
I didn’t have a reply for that. She let me in anyway. She closed the door behind me and took my hand. “You must always remember I am not one of your filthy prostitutes”, she said. She put my hand on her bosom.

She turned out to be quite the lay, especially for a woman that was about a decade older than me. During our intercourse she liked to squeeze my balls and hurt me a little. After some time she always forgot about her face and limbs and she became an enormous dripping wet and throbbing pussy. We met five times like this and we fucked about fifteen times. That's a pretty nice fuck/visit-ratio.

Despite of the lucky numbers, my life quickly became hell to me, because I was so freaking obsessed with her. I thought about her all the time and couldn’t concentrate on even the simplest tasks anymore. When I saw her I was in heaven, as I was about to leave I felt terribly down in the dumps. I didn’t feel guilty towards Jürgen once.

After my fifth visit to his wife however he came to me looking rather sourly. I suspected at once he had found out. We went to a bar and starting drinking whisky at an insane pace. We really slammed them inside our throats like madmen.

He turned to me and looked at me with eyes that were cross and red from all of the drinking.
“You have been fucking my wife”, he suddenly screamed, loud enough to be heard even outside. I was too stunned to respond to his statement. He took my silence as an affirmation of what he had just shouted. He looked like he was going to kick me in the nose, a movement I really didn't feel for, but, to my surprise,he started laughing.

“You’re lucky she hasn’t stolen your credit card", he giggled, "That woman is the most expensive thing a man can own.” I felt slightly offended that he had said he owned her but I immediately changed my mind and felt disgusted that I seemed to be rapidly becoming a feminist.

“How have you found out?”, I asked him.
He smiled, took a cigarette out of his pocket and lighted it with a match.
“You’re so fucking young”, he grinned, “ I bet you have a fat old pecker.”
He sighed as the music in the bar changed into a melancholy Russian song.
“She’s a nympho, Dré and a damn looker too. She just told me she was fucking you. It’s all a game to her”, he told me. I couldn’t believe it. As we both left the bar in a drunken haze, he told me he wouldn’t be friends with me anymore. “Why not?”, I asked.

“What do you think? You fucked my wife”, he said and he left.

The next day I quickly ran to their house and as she opened the door I shouted to her Jürgen had found out. She motioned with her arms to be quiet and she led me into the house. As I looked into her blue eyes in her pale skinny face and told her again Jürgen knew I saw an icy stare. No more warmth radiated from her face and I all at once knew she was a lost cause.

“I told you, you shouldn’t let Jürgen find out”, she said.
“But you told him yourself!”, I objected. She admitted she did. She also said it was best for me to leave. At first I didn’t want to and I told her she’d have to fucking shove me out of the door. Now she also seemed to think I was a funny guy. I could stand her rejection but I couldn’t bear her derision. As she gently shoved me out the front door she said, “it was nice fucking you.”

There I was on the pavement, alone, a man abused. I felt the need to brush my teeth. I went home and washed myself three times after which I felt a bit better. I visited Molly and told her what I had been through. She laughed and told me I was still very young.

“Sexually, everybody is a capitalist, my young Marxist friend”, she said.
I thought about that for a while and decided it was the truth. I swore to the new ideal of fighting sexual capitalism in the hearts of women. After this I dropped my pants and fucked the whore in her snatch. It seemed like the right thing to do.