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Chapter 5:
FKK Oceans Düsseldorf
A Feast During the Plague
Once, I was having a discussion with an acquaintance from Kuwait about the problem with women in Germany. He came to see me on business, and I tried to organize some leisure time for him—walks around Düsseldorf, little restaurants and cafés. But this issue didn’t interest him much. He grew up in the Muslim world, where nothing human is alien, and despite headscarves and centuries-old traditions, sex still exists. In the Arab world there are families and children, which means there is a future. He said he wanted to show me something. He called a taxi, and we drove off. I immediately noticed that we were leaving the city. When I asked where we were going, he didn’t answer—he said it was a surprise. We had a bit of whiskey in a restaurant and laughed with the taxi driver about what awaited us. The driver knew exactly where we were going. He knew that address by heart, because he drove a huge number of men there every day. It was a warm Saturday evening. When the car stopped, I saw a large square building with red windows. In the parking lot stood a huge helicopter (a monument) and many expensive cars. From some of the windows came sexual screams. I felt a rush of blood full of adrenaline. The warm summer air was filled with the smell of sex and freedom coming from this magical square castle. The taxi driver wished me luck.
It was a sex factory.
One of the most famous brothels in Düsseldorf.
Translated—Oceans.
In the lobby, behind the bar counter, stood a beautiful woman, clearly not German, who, in exchange for a small fee, handed out bath accessories: a robe, a towel, and keys to a locker where you could leave your belongings. Through the half-open gates of paradise came women’s laughter and light house music. The air smelled of expensive perfume and sex. My blood pressure was rising. At one moment, a completely naked goddess in high heels burst out of Eden, threw something onto the bar counter, and ran back in. She did not look like a martyr forced into prostitution by desperate circumstances. She was energized, happy, beautiful, well made-up, and full of life.
We did everything by the rules—changed clothes, took a shower, and went inside. I was stunned. My pulse was at its limit. My cheeks were flushed, the way they had last been in childhood, at the moment when I peeped into the women’s restroom. In a huge hall, on sofas, behind a long neon-lit bar, and on the dance floor, there were half-naked women. They laughed loudly, teased clients, showed their backsides, and drank champagne. Some of them danced on a podium like professional strippers, periodically replacing one another. There were about sixty to seventy of them. It was paradise on earth. In the neon twilight, these witches with straight black hair and huge eyelashes appeared suddenly right next to you.
By the way, some of them had blue eyes, which caused me brief paralysis. They talked to you, asked how you were doing with a strong Romanian accent, smiled, and invited you to a room. The drinks were free, but alcohol did not interest me at all. It seemed to me that they didn’t walk—they floated smoothly above the floor. They looked like kind witches from Transylvania. It was my first time in a brothel. There were many blondes as well. There is a belief that fair-haired men like women with dark hair. And as is known, Germans are mostly fair-haired. That’s why most girls dye their hair black and regularly visit tanning salons. It’s business.
I rushed straight into action. My friend held me back and told me not to hurry—there was a huge choice, and they weren’t going anywhere. For the most part, these were girls from Romania with good figures and European faces—not all of them, of course. But the choice was enormous. I chose the most beautiful one and started a conversation with her. I tried to court her, offered champagne, and joked. She was absolutely uninterested in my humor. What mattered to her was getting me to a room as quickly as possible. After a while, we went upstairs. In the center of the dark room stood a large bed with prepared napkins and rolls of kitchen paper towels on it. My bride instantly undressed and jumped onto the bed. I wanted romance, but I was hungry and angry. I gave her everything I knew how to give in bed. Everything I could give a woman. All my love, warmth, and tenderness—exactly what nobody in Germany was interested in. I was taking revenge on my ex-wife, whom I had never cheated on in twelve years. I was taking revenge on local women who had refused to get acquainted with me and told me they had a Freund.
Her name was Didi. Of course, it was a nickname. After my wife, she was my first woman in Germany—a prostitute. She was very beautiful and sexy. A dyed, tall blonde with a flawless figure and huge natural breasts. She worked on a flexible schedule—came, had sex for her own pleasure, got paid, and went home. After sex, “Didi” looked at me for a long time in the half-light and asked who I was, why I was alone, and where I had learned to do what I had done to her. I have never seen her again since then, of course. But I remembered her. Later, we drank vodka with Halit, laughed with some French guys, and watched a striptease.