4: Secrets and Interrogators

I was squinting against the bright sunlight, wiping the sweat from my eyes. I felt more than saw where Chris was—sitting on a tree trunk above the narrow path.

“Lovely to see you again, Old Man,” he chuckled when I collapsed next to him and bumped my shoulder.

“Shut it, brat,” I growled between gulps of breath. “I ran twelve—” wheeze “—kilometers this morning.” Wheeze, cough. “Had I known you’d drag me up Kaiserstuhl a few hours later…” I managed to unscrew the water bottle and took a gulp. My thighs and calves were on fire, and I felt the effects of the biting sun on my neck.

“It’s beautiful here,” Chris sighed. We were sitting above the valley, the vineyards spreading under our feet in a tile-like pattern. It looked like a painting from a children’s book. The trees had begun to gain more color, the yellow, orange, and deep red dotting the greenery. The sky was spotless, the sun still hot and high above. Dust was shimmering in the air, shiny silver, gold, and yellow spots, making the whole scene seem otherworldly.

I drank more water, watched the landscape—I couldn’t help but appreciate Christian’s profile against the lovely autumn colors. He was smiling, enjoying himself openly and unselfconsciously. His blond hair shone golden in the afternoon light; his sky-blue trekking shirt matched his eyes. He seemed brighter than the sun above him. He was beautiful when he was happy.

He caught me staring and smiled wider.

“Caught your breath?” he asked, one golden eyebrow arched.

“Next time you’ll go running with me, and I’ll gloat.”

He chuckled. “We could do that. It’d be fun.”

“I go at seven in the morning.”

“You are such an overachieving flagellant.” He poked my side with a finger and rolled his eyes dramatically.

“Oh, big words!”

“I have big words,” he said and then grew a little more serious. “I’m a big boy,” he added, squinting into the distance.

“So I’ve noticed,” I said. “You’re almost the same height as me.”

“I’m taller,” he stated.

“We’ll see about that!” I stood and hauled him to his feet. “Turn around!” I instructed and did the same. I inched back, until our backs touched, and reached above our heads, flattening my palm against the tops of our heads. “See? The same height.”

“Bullshit! The ground is uneven.”

I laughed and sat back down, squirming on my seat; his ass had brushed against mine when we were comparing our heights. I rooted in my backpack for a distraction and our sandwiches. Chris sank next to me.

“Turkey and cheese? Nice.”

He was easy to please. I liked that about him—his enthusiasm, easygoing smiles, and gratefulness.

He took a bite and chewed, humming contentedly. “So this is what we’re going to do here? Run around the hills?”

“Sometimes,” I said. “In winter, we can go skiing in the Black Forest.”

He hummed again, his mouth full.

“Can I see the kids sometimes?” he mumbled, catching breadcrumbs in his palm.

First, it took me completely off guard. My sister’s brats? Why? And then I remembered this was Christian. The nice boy from a nice family, who vacuumed his mother’s apartment every week, helped old ladies to cross the street, and occasionally liked to entertain small children.

“Yeah, sure. Those little rug rats give you energy. And then they suck it right out again. Leeches.”

Christian grinned at me. “I love a challenge.”

After that, we ate in silence. I was stuffing the trash back into my backpack when I heard Christian clear his throat.

He studied his shoes and scuffed one toe against the other. A question was coming. “You’re out at the university, right? The students, do they know?”

“I guess so. I’m making it easy for them. I’m like the big pink blob on everyone’s gaydar.” To enhance my point, I flipped my hand, queening it out.

Christian just shook his head at my theatrics. “Seriously.”

“Some people never notice. Some people only know me as the Schwule from the literature department.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“I can’t do anything about it.” It had taken me years to come to this point. But Christian was still young. He had that whole pile of shit to go through when it came to his sexuality. “Are you having trouble?”

“No. I don’t know. It’s a whole new group of people. At the dorm. At school. The study groups. I never know who to tell and when. Mostly, I feel like I shouldn’t have to tell anyone.”

I remembered the feeling. Sometimes I still felt like that—having to forcefully stop myself from wincing, gritting teeth, and checking the reaction when I told somebody new, and then reprimanding myself again, because I shouldn’t care. But some part of me always would. Christian was at the beginning of the steep climb to self-acceptance; I ached for him.

“Where’s this coming from?” I asked.

“Nothing serious. Just some strange vibes.”

“At the dorm?”

He nodded, his mouth curling a bit in disgust.

“Someone’s been giving you shit?” My chest tightened at the thought.

“Calm down, Avenger. Nothing like that.”

“What, then?”

“It’s so vague. I think half the time I must be imagining things. I hate the uncertainty. Doesn’t this person like me? Is it because I’m gay? Is he or she just a general asshole? Are they having a bad day?”

“Is it Dieter?” I fished, naming the only guy from Christian’s circle that I knew.

“No, Dieter’s cool. The others can be a bit odd sometimes. Like Jana, she’s a law student. I’ve never seen her in pajamas or sweats; she always leaves her room impeccably attired and with a full face of makeup. She even does her hair into these buns and braids every day like she’s going to prom or something.” He scoffed and scratched his nose; his eyebrows pulled together. “She has her own coffeemaker in her room because she thinks sharing one is gross.”

“She’s going to have a hard time in a law office one day,” I joked.

“No shit,” Christian confirmed. “She’s a bit of a bitch. Anyway, two days ago, Dieter and I were cooking, and she stomped into the kitchen, cleavage, boots, and all. Dieter was just saying something about us going out and getting laid. He had this idea he thought was brilliant; we should exchange wingman services because, according to him, gay guys know how to charm the ladies, and he needs all the help he can get because of his fugly face. He was just joking around. I laughed. Jana froze and stared at me like I was an alien. Then she ran back into her room and slammed the door. Loudly. She’s not a fan.”

I had to smile at that. “Chris, has it occurred to you that she might like you?”

“Like me?” He flinched away from me, genuinely horrified.

My grin broadened. “Yeah. She’s attracted to you and just found out you’re gay. It pissed her off. Or perhaps it made her sad.”

Christian stared into the distance and then shook his head self-deprecatingly. “I should make it an introductory phrase. Just to avoid confusion. ‘Hi, my name is Christian, I study medicine, I’m from Berlin, number six on the Kinsey scale, and mildly allergic to strawberries.’ Get it over with in the very first moment.”

I threw an arm around his shoulders. “It’s not your fault she was crushing on you. You’re a catch.”

He snorted and leaned his head on my shoulder. His hair tickled my chin. I inhaled. White roses dipped in honey.

“I hate that I’m still this insecure. I thought adulthood would come with some insight, some answers. Confidence. But nothing changes with age—everybody is still clueless, they just hide it better. When we grow older, we don’t find any answers. We stop asking the questions and pretend to know everything instead.”

“You want people to like you. That’s normal.”

“That’s it, though. I don’t need appreciation from people I don’t care about. I certainly don’t need their approval. I want to stop caring about the looks and eyebrow quirks, you know?”

I scrambled for something a wise, older guy would say. I came up empty. I was the last one who should advise Chris on confidence and authenticity. That I was out at work was one thing. But I was still hiding a huge part of myself in front of my closest friends and family because I was afraid they would judge me. And they would, no doubt about it.

I was silent too long because Chris sighed and lifted his head from my shoulder. “How’s writing?” he asked.

And he was at it again. “It’s fine. I have a routine. I’m productive.”

“When will you let me read something?”

Of course, Christian had been nagging about my books for years.

“Probably never.”

“That’s mean. Are you ashamed?”

“No,” I lied. Or was it a lie? I didn’t want Christian to read them, for two main reasons: firstly, it was porn, and there was a huge difference between porn and sex education, if you catch my drift. I didn’t write those books so innocent boys could explore their sexuality in safety. They were the creations of a bored pervert meant for the entertainment of his own damned self and other bored perverts. They were crass and mean. The second reason was petty, but it felt bigger, too. There was a world of as-yet unexplored pain and humiliation waiting behind that reason. It was the sore spot in my brain making me feel torn apart. Because I was not ashamed. I refused to feel shame for what I wrote. At the same time, I never wanted Chris to see me like that. And yes, I was aware of the paradox.

“I’ll just think you write romance for fourteen-year-old girls,” Christian teased. “With shapeshifters and vampires.”

“Of course I do.” I laughed, but it sounded strained. My literature was very unsuitable for fourteen-year-olds.

“Or porn. Like dungeon BDSM group orgies in animal masks,” he elaborated, chuckling at his joke. I tried to calm my throbbing heart.

“Give it up. I’ll never tell you.”

“I’ll find out on my own.”

“There’s no link online between my real name and my pen name. You have no chance.” Shit, I certainly hoped there wasn’t.

He lifted his head and smirked at me, glowing in the sun. “You want to bet?”

“No. I know you hate losing.”

He snorted again and stood. “C’mon, Old Man. We have some kilometers left. Better get going.”

I stood and felt my knees creak. Old Man, indeed.

Christian was mostly quiet for the rest of our hike. It was unusual for him, but I didn’t pay much attention to it, selfishly lost in my thoughts.

***

My knee was acting up again. It was a given, after a long descent, but still, it wasn’t like that when I was twenty-one. I washed my hands and tugged at my hair, passing the mirror without lifting my gaze. I wasn’t going to examine my receding hairline in the local pub’s restroom.

I loved spending time with Christian, our trips and hikes into the forests surrounding Freiburg, having a beer in town or watching a movie at my place. Those were the bright spots of my week. Autumn used to be dull, but not with Chris in town. However, an unpleasant side effect I hadn’t planned for was that he made me self-conscious about my age.

I’d never considered myself vain, yet the more time I spent with him, the more I spent staring into the mirror, tracing my wrinkles, evaluating and re-evaluating all the energy I’d wasted in my twenties and making useless plans to change my daily routine. I should either get used to growing older or do something drastic to boost my life above the constraints of middle-aged boredom. A new car wasn’t going to cut it.

Inadequate was the word. My writing was not good enough, my apartment felt empty, my friends were either paired up or depressed, and I was no longer excited about going on a vacation by myself. There was nothing specific I wanted, though.

I missed something, and I had no clue what.

Washing my face, I came up with an explanation. The strong beer after a day spent running and hiking went straight to my head. I would calm down again once sober.

When I made my way through the narrow hallway back into the pub, Christian was sitting in the farthest corner, staring out of the window. He caressed the half-empty glass of his lager in an automatic movement.

I hesitated. That was when I first noticed it. I remembered the word Lena had used with such disgust several months ago—weltschmerz. His bright-blue eyes seemed glassy and tired. The joy of the afternoon was gone, replaced by strain in the corners of his mouth. His gentle, beautiful features were sharp, his shoulders tense. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, then dropped his hand limply on the oak table. He stared unseeingly away from the people, away from where I stood. He was still, and his face seemed ageless, tired but darkly determined. And for some reason, it was suddenly painful to watch him. My breath hitched. Startled by my overdramatic thoughts, I felt like I was spying on him in a private moment he wouldn’t want me to see.

I had caught myself before he noticed, and I approached noisily. He lifted his eyes and plastered on a smile. I couldn’t believe I’d never noticed how desolate his eyes were when he smiled like that. The curve of his mouth was genuine—but so was the sad angle of his eyelids, his lashes drooping, casting soft shadows over his freckled cheeks.

“Everything okay?” I asked, not believing for a second he’d ever tell me. It was all over his face; Christian was hiding something from me. He used to tell me everything.

“Of course,” he quipped, looking away, and lifted the glass to his lips, draining the rest of the beer. “The train leaves in twenty minutes. We should probably settle up,” he added, all business.

“My treat,” I said.

“I’m not saying no to that, thanks.”

He stood and cleared his throat. I could see him steeling himself, building up the shield again. What had happened to Chris during the last six months to make him so guarded?

***

“Why are you still single?” he asked in the middle of the short walk to the train station.

“Huh?” I almost stumbled.

“You like living on your own?”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, an orange warning light blinked. “Most of the time,” I answered carefully.

Christian raised his eyebrows at me.

I composed my words, the slow tempo of my speech giving me away for sure. “I don’t know. I was a little tired of relationships when I moved to Freiburg. I wasn’t looking actively, so to say. And then I got used to it. Maybe. It doesn’t bother me enough to start online dating.” There. That was true and sounded harmless, right?

“And what about sex?”

Oh. “What about it?” I squirmed, unused to Christian being so…blunt.

“Don’t you miss it?”

“Well…I do have sex sometimes.”

“Casual?”

“Well…”

“So you keep telling me how important it is to have feelings for your bed partner, especially the first time, and here you are all casual about your sex life.” He smirked, but it looked edgy, almost angry. Didn’t I know him at all?

“I am not a good example, Christian.”

“But you are happy,” he began, expecting me to finish.

“I am content,” I amended.

“If you’re not happy, why aren’t you trying to meet someone?”

“I’m not unhappy,” I said more sharply than I’d intended.

“Either you are happy, or you aren’t.”

“Stop interrogating me. What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m not interrogating. I’m asking simple questions, and you keep avoiding giving me an honest answer.”

I was irritated, mostly because he was right.

We walked in silence for a while, Chris frowning into the distance. We never argued. I hated that things seemed to be changing between us in a way I didn’t understand.

“I’ve told you almost everything about myself,” he said. “You don’t talk to me about your writing or your dating. Both, I assume, are important parts of who you are. Shouldn’t friendship be a mutual exchange of private information in embarrassing detail? So that one wouldn’t have to feel more hopeless than the other?”

“I don’t want to make you feel hopeless, Squirrel.” I paused. He deserved more honesty. Maybe I’d forgotten along the way how to be honest. Whatever. I could try. For Christian. “I used to think it was unimportant. I figured I had time to find someone to settle with. I wanted to be able to travel and move without having to compromise. I’m picky and high maintenance—or so my exes have informed me. And then…I don’t know. Time went faster than I expected it to. I wish I’d paid more attention to people when I was younger. Maybe none of my relationships lasted because I didn’t pay enough attention to those men.” I stopped, not because there was nothing more to say; I didn’t know exactly how to explain. I’d barely gotten used to feeling lonely from time to time, and here he was asking me about it like it was nothing.

Christian mulled it over for a long minute while I struggled to untangle my monologue, trying to find the point where I might have put my foot in my mouth. What did I say?

“So you have fuck buddies, and that’s it? Because you think you are too old to find someone to have a real relationship with? You’re not even thirty-five!”

“Thirty-three. And no. Maybe. I haven’t met anyone interesting since I moved to Freiburg.”

“Have you been in love?”

For fuck’s sake! “I thought so, a few times.”

“How was it?”

“Will you believe me if I say I don’t remember?”

“Is it true?” Was it just me or were the questions coming faster and faster?

“I’m not lying to you. I remember thinking I had felt it. But I don’t remember how it felt. Does that make sense?”

“Surprisingly, yes.”

“What’s with all these questions? Are you trying to tell me something, Chris?”

“No.” Obviously defensive.

“Is it about Martin?” Luckily, Christian had left his unhealthy crush behind in Berlin.

“He’s called a few times. But I’m not thinking of him. Not anymore.”

“Good.” If I ever get my hands on that asswipe…

“I’m just curious about you,” he said, looking right at me, unblinking.

“Okay,” I answered warily. Just then, the station came alive with the approaching train. Unsettled, I turned away from Chris, pretending to look for empty seats through the windows.

***

I had trouble falling asleep that night. When I did, I dreamed of being old and sick and extremely skinny, unable to move my limbs, lying on a bed in a room furnished in shades of white. Christian visited me, dressed in a white suit; he looked stunning, and he watched me with the saddest blue eyes. He brought me a white bratwurst wrapped in a napkin, put it on the nightstand and said I couldn’t eat it because I would have a heart attack and die.

I woke up terrified, had a furious, life-affirming jerk-off in the shower and went running like mad, the picture of Christian in a white suit haunting me all day.

***

On Sunday, I took my sister’s brats to the playground. Christian spent a couple of hours with us, showing more imagination and patience with the girls than I’d ever have. At three p.m., he had to go—he said he had a pile of reading waiting for him at the dorm—so I bought the girls strawberry milkshakes and dropped them back home.

After the afternoon rush with my nieces, my evening felt suspiciously empty. I had a nagging feeling that I’d forgotten something. The reflex to check on my surroundings was there constantly, like a nervous tic—I almost expected a toddler to fall through the bathroom door when I opened it. But my place was empty. No sound, no tapping of tiny feet. Just a couple of empty rooms. I didn’t know when it started to feel lonely. One day I came home, and instead of being relieved that I was finally able to relax, I felt…superfluous.

***

The following Friday night, I stood in front of my mirror, leaning close. I angled my head to see the thatch of thinning hair on the top. It was awkward, but there it was.

I’d tried to postpone the inevitable for so long, averting my eyes, pretending. But it was time.

I took a step backward and examined the rest. I wasn’t a waxer; I trimmed; that was neat. And I ran. Despite being stocky and somehow, I don’t know, rounded, like a barrel, I wasn’t fat, though I could look fat from a wrong angle. My arms were nice enough, shoulders, too. An okay ass—not that I would post it online…but okay. I was more of a Mark Ruffalo than a Ryan Gosling if you know what I mean. But I still got phone numbers when I dressed to kill, and I could pull off the charming, nice guy flawlessly.

That evening, I saw myself with different eyes, like I skipped some frames in the time-lapse video of my adulthood. I was thirty-three. Out of nowhere. Bang! Thirty-three. Even Christian was convinced I must be lonely.

So, two days after my thirty-third birthday—which I did not celebrate and even dodged my sister’s phone call—my friend Mattias stood behind me with a trimmer firmly in his tattooed hand and asked, “Are we sure?”

There was an evil smirk on his face. His thick mop of almost-black hair was just the right amount of shaggy and just the exact hint of silk. I hated him for it.

I braced myself. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Six millimeters?”

“Three.”

“Your choice.”

I flinched when the machine buzzed to life. I grit my teeth. If I was on the highway to middle-aged land, I was going to own it.

***

“Yeah, boy, take it. Take that cock. You love it. You love that huge cock ramming your ass.”

“Yes! Fuck! Yes, fuck, yes! Fuuuck!”

“Yeah, take it!”

I scratched my nose and sniffled. My left nostril felt itchy. I caught myself recapping the last time I did the dusting in my apartment.

“That’s it, boy. Take that cock!”

Mattias was sprawled next to me. He crunched on a chip loudly and licked his thumb.

“This is just sad,” he commented.

The guys on the screen did the whole change-the-position-no-not-that-leg-move-the-arm-a-bit-that’s-it thing and, on cue, started moaning and cursing again.

“Shall I skip to the cum-shot?” I asked. Honestly, I just wanted to switch it off. The video was depressing.

“Not worth it.” Mattias sighed and rested his head on the back of the sofa, closing his eyes.

I slapped my laptop shut; the oohs and aahs quieted. I stretched my back, feeling the price for sitting too long in one position. “Who did you get the link from?” I asked.

“A guy at work. An anesthesiologist. We had breakfast together after a thirty-six-hour shift and talked nonsense. He swore I’d love it.”

“Well, I hate to say this, but your anesthesiologist friend is lame as fuck.”

Mattias’s sharp eyes flicked open in my direction, and he smirked. “He’s fifty and been in a relationship with the same guy for twenty years. They’re in Zurich for the weekend, walking around the galleries and having massages. I’d say we are the lame ones—two weirdos watching porn on a Sunday afternoon.”

“Whatever. My main point is, he has a terribly mainstream taste.”

“Amen to that.”

I ran my hand through my hair and realized for the hundredth time that day there was no hair. I scratched my shorn scalp and grimaced.

“This will take some getting used to,” I complained.

“You look hot. You should have done it a long time ago.”

“Meh.” The short carpet tickled my palms when I ran them back and forth and around my skull. It was not unpleasant. Just strange.

“Want me to suck you, or did that stuff completely turn you off?” Mattias asked.

I opened my mouth but never managed to answer. Instead, the shrill ringing of my phone echoed through the room.

“Hold that thought.” I snatched the phone from my coffee table.

Lena König calling.

I groaned. The woman had the worst timing ever.

“Hello, Lena, how are you?”

Mattias rolled his eyes and sank deeper into the sofa. I shrugged helplessly.

“Alex! I’m good, thank you. I was wondering if you’ve seen Christian this week.”

“I have.”

“Ah. Well. I spoke to him this morning, and he seemed subdued. I was wondering if you knew what is going on.”

Oh, hell. This was just… Aargh!

“He was fine yesterday. He complained about the course load but at the same time appreciated the challenge. He’s been very focused on his studies these past few weeks. I think the outing in the hills last week did him good.”

Mattias was grinning at me. I mouthed a “fuck you” at him.

I heard Lena sigh into the phone. It crackled. “Alex, do you think I am that gullible?”

I released the tension by scrunching up my face and exhaling slowly through my widened nostrils.

“Alex, I asked you a question.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought it was rhetorical.” I might have stepped in a turd there.

Mattias was chuckling merrily, watching the show from my sofa. The silence on the other end of the line was screaming loud.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Forgive me, Lena. That was childish and inappropriate. I assure you, I don’t know anything that would make me in any way apprehensive when it comes to Christian’s studies here in Freiburg. The dorms are a little dodgy, but he seems to be taking it in stride. He’s made some friends already even if he does spend most of his time at the university library. Admittedly, I can’t stalk him or force him to tell me stuff he doesn’t want to, but he seems fine to me.”

“I want to trust your judgment, Alex.” Her voice was frigidly serious. “I don’t have time for this now. I’ll call you later in the week.”

She hung up and left me standing in my living room, chewing on my lip. “Shit.” Yep, that summed it up nicely.

Mattias was smiling happily. “You suck as a nanny, Alex.”

I dialed Christian, but it went to voicemail.

“Hi, Squirrel. I might have pissed your mom off. Nothing serious, I just made an innocent joke into the phone. But she’s not a fan right now. I’m sorry. I’ll try to call her later and fix it. I just wanted to warn you in case she calls you, too. Um, call me or, send a pigeon or whatever. I’d like to know that you’re okay.”

Mattias watched me the whole time with a look of wry amusement.

“I guess we could go out and have a beer,” he said when I pocketed my phone.

“Yep.” If the pathetic porn didn’t make my dick crawl inside my underbelly, Lena sure would, and without any particular effort on her side.