THE OTHER VOICES
UTF started with my stories, memories, fuck-ups and questions.But it was never supposed to be only about me.So this is where other voices get a chair by the fire.You don’t have to be a writer. You don’t need a following, a clever angle or a fucking personal brand. You just need something worth telling.A FEW RULESTell the truth as you remember it.
Use your real name, a first name, a nickname or no name at all.
Sex, drugs, grief, stupidity, love, failure, shame, joy and all the other glorious mess are welcome.But there’s one rule that matters more than all the others:There has to be genuine humanity in it.
Show the fuckness. Just don’t add to it.Don’t use another human being merely as a prop to make yourself look bigger. Protect people who need protecting. Change names and details where necessary.Other than that?Pull up a chair. The fire’s on.
Ten Minutes in Hamburg
Stefan
I was eighteen and doing my civilian service for the German Muscular Dystrophy Association in Hamburg. My daily routine consisted of driving people with muscular dystrophy from A to B. Between trips, there was always some downtime. This story happened during one of those empty drives.
I was driving near the Atlantic Hotel.
Heavy traffic.
Five or six lanes.
Cars everywhere.
And then I noticed her.
She was sitting in a car in front of me.
Her hair pinned up.
A colorful necklace around her neck.
And a smile that immediately caught my attention.
The light turned red.
We stopped almost side by side.
I started gesturing until she noticed me.
She laughed.
I got out of the car and approached her.
To this day, I can't remember exactly what I said to her.
All I remember is that she gave me her phone number.
For the rest of the day, I was electrified.
At the time, I was living in a shared apartment with two friends.
We were eighteen. Our hormones dictated a large part of our lives, and our conversations revolved almost exclusively around women.
So I called my friend Murat.
“Dude, you won’t believe what just happened.”
I told him the whole story.
The woman in the car.
The phone number.
The date.
The anticipation.
After work, I drove home, jumped in the shower and put on my best clothes.
A pair of blue corduroy bell-bottoms.
An ancient T-shirt that belonged to my father.
Across the chest was the VfL Jesteburg logo in lettering that almost looked like runes.
And my red, yellow and green Rasta necklace.
I was perfectly prepared.
We met that same evening.
I picked her up.
And after only a few minutes, I realized that something wasn't right.
I was too restless.
Too direct.
Too focused on making the evening end a certain way.
Our entire date lasted maybe ten minutes.
Then she asked me to drive her home.
So I did.
The drive home was considerably longer than the date.
Samba in Cologne
Stefan
I was driving through Cologne in my ridiculously over-customized BMW when I saw her.
She was standing alone at a bus stop on the other side of the street.
Later, I found out that she was from Ecuador.
At the time, all I knew was that I wanted to meet her.
I made a U-turn, pulled up at the bus stop, rolled down the window and told her I had a question.
She walked over to the car.
“Can you dance Samba or Salsa? I’d really like to learn, but I don’t have the right dance partner. Would you teach me?”
She smiled.
“Sure.”
I asked for her phone number.
A few days later, we met at my place.
At the time, I was living in an apartment right next to Cologne Zoo.
Four-and-a-half-meter-high ceilings.
Big rooms.
Anyone walking through the door for the first time usually stopped for a moment.
I cooked.
Salmon.
Salad.
Dessert.
We sat on the balcony, ate, talked and drank wine.
You could hear the animals from the zoo. Strange calls echoed between the buildings through the warm evening air.
We talked about her home, about South America, and eventually about dancing.
So we got up.
She showed me the first steps.
Left.
Right.
Forward.
Back.
We laughed.
She corrected my posture.
I tried to follow her movements.
As I did, the distance between us naturally grew smaller.
Her hand was on my shoulder.
My hand was on her hip.
At some point, we kissed.
The evening ended considerably later than I had expected.
That evening turned into several months.
She was confident, sensual and had an unmistakable style. At the time, I found her breast implants incredibly attractive.
The physical attraction between us was enormous from the very beginning.
All in all, we probably danced together for maybe two minutes.