Drowning in Berlin
I had been living in West Berlin for over a year before I discovered how much I enjoyed anal. One evening after a busy night on the streets Danni took me back to her small flat in Kreuzberg and, after finishing off a bottle of cheap vodka and sniffing lines of coke, we had sex on her ticket narrow bed. We kissed, we did 69, and then she took a strap-on dildo out of her bedside cabinet. She showed it to me. Pushed her finger inside. It was hollow.
“I can’t get hard anymore, lovely, it’s the hormones. So I use this. I slip my lady cock inside and then I can fuck and bugger to my heart’s content.”
She laughed. I must have looked uncomfortable because she asked,
“Have you never had anyone up there?”
“It’s enjoyable, trust me and it’s good for business. You do get punters who want to fuck you. With a condom of course and its premium rate. 250 Marks. Blow them for 150, add on another 100 for kissing and it will be the best hour you ever spent earnings wise.”
“Kneel up and I’ll take you.”
I knelt up and felt cold lube around my hole then a finger, followed by the gentle push of the dildo. My muscles tightened to resist the intrusion then I relaxed, the vodka and coke did their work and I began to enjoy the sensation. Danni was gentle, she must have done this so often, and I knew I wanted to do this again.
I moved to Berlin in 1980 after leaving university in England. I knew West Berlin was cheap, it was a dying city that was ageing remorselessly as young people had to leave to make their lives in the Federal Republic. There were literally thousands of empty flats and one of them, surely, had my name on it. I had visions of remnants of Weimar decadence, of there being a place for me. I knew, even before I finished school, that I wanted to be a woman. In Berlin I soon found work in various bars, rented a flat in Wedding, not far from the Wall. I made myself a life, not one of Weimar decadence, but one in which I could walk the streets in dresses and heels. I grew my hair and, after a few months found a hairdresser who styled it into a bob which I dyed pink. But I was struggling to get the money together for hormones and it was this that got me into sex work.
I knew the strip, that bit of the Potsdamer Strasse where the “Nutten” stand and toit for business, I had been to watch, never having either money or courage to pay for sex but taking n the spectacle, wanking to it at home in my cold bed (I couldn’t afford to turn the heating on) and the realisation that some of the ladies were TVs with deep voices and, in a few cases, prominent Adam’s apples, excited me more. The idea of joining them became an obsession. I bought clothes I thought might attract punters. I dressed up in them, practised makeup that was both garish and hid the beard shadow, wrote NUTTE on my forehead in felt pen and sat for hours looking at myself in the mirror. Then, one evening in January when a casual shift in a club fell through, and I was faced with not having money to pay the rent, I decided to do it.
That first night it was cold, very cold. I put on a fake fur over a pink jumper, a PVC miniskirt and a cheap pair of thigh boots that were, I knew, tacky but I reasoned that a bit of tackiness went with the image of the shemale sex worker and I thought they looked good, very good in fact one I had learnt to walk on them. I walked from the U Bahn. It was still quite early when I arrived. I walked up and down nervously before picking a spot at a respectful distance from the other girls.
I had been there about an hour without the slightest sign of a punter bring interested in me when I met Danni.
“Hello lovely” he said, “I guess you are new to this.”
“Yes I am.”
“Just watch me and learn.”
So I did. I earned nothing that first night but watched how Danni approached men walking furtively along the street, how she spotted the men who were after the different experience she had to offer them but were scared to admit it.
The following night I wore the same clothes but walked with a swagger. A night of coke and vodka and anal fucking had given me confidence. I soon had my first client. He was a short balding man in spectacles. He looked terrified, probably as I had looked the previous night.
“Hello darling” I said stepping out in front of him, lowering the pitch of my voice so that he would be in no doubt as to what I had to offer.
“I want to have fun with you darling.” I smiled
He looked a little embarrassed and sad nothing so I continued
“Hand relief is 50 Marks, but I can blow you for 100, or 120 if you want it without.”
“Without what?” he asked innocently.
“A condom darling.”
“I’d like that…… please.”
I led him away to an unlit patch of waste ground in the shadow of the Wall. He counted out 120 marks and I tucked them inside my bra. I dropped to my knees, nipped his lies and pulled out his cock. I rubbed it, pulled back the foreskin to flick the end with my tongue, then stroked it gently, gently, until I felt it begin to get hard. Then I put it in my mouth, and as I sucked it grew big and I didn’t even have to work it with my tongue. He came in torrents that I swallowed. He let out a loud groan of satisfaction.
As I put his cock away and zipped up his flies he said,
“Can you jizz over me please?”
I thought quickly and said
“Eighty Marks” and he reached for his wallet and counted them out. He unbuttoned hs shirt to reveal a hairy chest that I really wasn’t expecting. He knelt and I lifted my skirt to extract my cock from underneath the thick tights. But it was difficult to gt hard, the hormones, the way it had been tucked away. I worked at it furiously, there was money at stake, but nothing. Then Danni appeared out of the shadows and said to the man
“You’re going to have to blow her if you want the jizz.”
I took a step forward and he took me in his mouth. His mouth was soft and he knew to keep his teeth out of the way, he had clearly done this before. He began to move his mouth backwards and forwards along the shaft. I was getting hard. I started to face fuck him and came almost straight away. I pulled out and drew back my foreskin to aim a stream of come over his hairy chest.
He was buttoning up his shirt when Danni walked up to him. She reached into her bag and pulled something out. I saw it glint in the light of a streetlamp. I started. It was a knife. A nasty looking one, too, with a serrated edge. She went up to my punter, put her right hand around his throat pushed him back against the wall. She held the knife in front of the terrified man’s face.
“Give me your wallet.”
“No one’s going to see us here darling. No one’s coming to your rescue.
He reached into his back pocket took it out. Danni removed a wad of notes, counted them out, 1,200 Deutschmarks.
“Silly boy, carrying so much cash with you. You just might get robbed.”
She panted a kiss on his lips. He froze. She counted off 400 and gave them to me. The rest she tucked away in her bag. She took his credit card, his official ID card and put those in her bag too. She tossed the empty wallet at his feet. He stood there saying nothing. I thought he was about to about to cry.
“Go on then have a cry you fucking loser!” I was high with the wrongness of tall. High with desire for Danni. We linked arms and walked away laughing, off to the all night shop for vodka and cigarettes.
We pulled that trick a few times and were making good money, and I was able to get the hormones I need and my breasts began to swell to the point where I needed bigger bras, and my tops moulded themselves even more tightly over my body. I grew in confidence. And on my nights off I could usually pull.
And then it all came to an end one night when the punter turned out to be an undercover policeman. As I lay face down in the mud, arms secured behind me, spiting out bits f gravel, waiting for the car to come to take me away, I looked around for Danni. She had gone. She had abandoned me.
I am now a year into my sentence in Moabit Prison. Male prison shirts and jackets barely fit over my D Cup breasts. I felt frightened and vulnerable as I was led into the wing and a chorus of wolf whistles echoed around the landings.
But prison has been all right. I have a protector, Dieter, a big ear of a man serving life for a brutal murder in which he…….I know what he did but you don’t talk about these things in prison. He pimps me out for tobacco and drugs and I even do a warder who smuggles in hormones for me. Being a sexual plaything isn’t the worst thing that can happen inside. Every day there are new cocks to suck, new tattooed bodies to jizz over. Last night, as I knelt up on my bunk while Dieter buggered me, a searchlight swing round and it up the cell. And in that moment I thought I could almost be happy.