content warning: coarse language, sexual references, violence, drug references

He’s surfacing.

Spluttering through split-second flashbacks: fucking in the snow; hand trembling, branded by the burning-hot Bic; screaming FUCK OFF! in his friend’s face as she’s trying to rescue him.

He rolls over. A hot flash of pain. He jackknifes.

In the mirror, his eye is an ugly, purple, swollen mess; his lip is cracked and bleeds when he touches it. Panicky, snapping questions — fucking what’s the?-when’s?-why-the-Fuck? Jammed Signals.

Face flashes up.

No. Fuck. Christ!

Hipster guy.

Drink…

*  *  * * *

- Ogodogodogod (he shudders) I love this city, this Stadt. I dance this fucking metro; Tango-fucking-Krump!  (He’s had a few.)

It’s the crazy mix of seriously dark history and baroque architecture; this heavy, scary, queer/suburban/domestic city that gets him revved. It’s the WARP: sexual, cultural — this international city with its strong dash of kink. The nostalgic hit of smoking in bars, and the heavy, dark-red, velvet curtains hanging at the entranceways, protecting the cosy. The click-clack on the grey cobblestones, the glint of die Stolpersteine – brass stones speaking the Nazi stain: animating history —

Name

year born

year deported

year murdered.

Remembering. Honouring. Fucking acknowledging.

And this, this is what he loves — the rollercoaster: one minute drunk as a fool, the next sobered by a slap from history, the next plunged into an ocean of fuck-off art.

S-Bahn, U-Bahn, a little trot through the winter night and he’s there: Zionskirche. He’s early. Stops at the church which gives the street its name. Clocks the glowing interior of the bar he’s headed for across the Platz. It’s etched against a falling, purple sky, and there’s the odd delicately-spiked snowflake spinning down. Top-shelf Europe.

He steps into a dark vestibule. There’s a faint drift of music and a thick stillness, so unlike the icy clarity of the winter sky outside. Slowly, carefully opens the heavy, interior door, then he hears it. A boys choir singing mediaeval vespers. He creeps in.

He expected robes.

This is boys in jeans and puffer jackets and beanies and scarves — a rehearsal? — lit by candles, flickering in the dark. A young man is conducting them. Small hands with fine, articulated fingers and perfect alabaster skin. Beautiful. Overwhelming.

-This music has been sung here, in this church, on these stones, for centuries. I am standing in the River of Time! I am Fucking Ecstatic!!

And then mid-phrase, a gentle sweep from the conductor brings the boys to concentrated silence. Murmured instructions in German, and they rise, singing again.

Radiant.

Bittersweet.

-Nothing lasts.

And he backs out reluctantly because it’s time.

The grey cobblestone Platz is now carpeted white, soft under his boots. The traffic sounds muffled by the acoustic miracle of falling snow.

*  *  * * *

Now he’s really awake. Hot and crackly. Loofah tongued. Eyes pins: sandy, salty. Undies up his crack, twisted around him leaving red, elastic tracks on his pudgy, swelling, white midriff. He’s feeling sunlight on his skin but it’s glaring and flat, burning a little. Up on elbows, head hanging low like a dog. He wills the headache to liquefy, disappear. Water? No… fuck. Falling, flopping, can’t.

And [-FUCK OFF] he can’t purge the image of his friend’s pleading eyes; her hand soft on his arm.

And [-FUCK OFF] the image of Hipster Guy’s lopsided eyes loops on repeat behind his lids.

And now he’s tasting something unfamiliar. It’s metallic with a sour, soapy finish that leaks from his soft-palate. His body won’t melt, won’t uncoil. Needs cool. Needs dark. Needs his heart to stop spasming like a just-sprayed blowfly.

And now that metal taste fills his mouth. Fly-paper tongue, everything wound tight, so ratcheted and crampy, he’s craving a big, relieving vomit: all the crap spurting out of his mouth, flushed away by a waterfall of cool, fresh water, sluicing him clean.

*  *  * * *

And the bar sings the song of this city. Skinny hipsters with soft beards and rumpled, sexy jeans; super-hot, snappily-dressed women. Everyone smoking. Ute is the bartender. She’s 20-something, handles everything with a mix of ferocious and intimate that turns him on. She’s also the DJ. There’s an 80s turn-table with a square, smoked-plastic lid at her elbow. LPs stacked in DDR-chic, fake-wood shelving against a green tiled wall.

The wine comes in a coffee glass. It's softer than the biff-in-the-face Australian reds that he’s used to, but it goes down sweet and easy.

Smoking. Dancing. Luscious.

And there’s an imperceptible declension from distinct thoughts, to flowing impulses, to gooey feelings. His synapses shift from sparky-electric-athletic to jerky-fumbly-befuddled. He lurches back from the toilet. His drink’s gone. Suddenly everyone’s strange. He’s staring at the spot where his drink used to be, trying to summon some brain function, when a hipster strokes him sexily on the tummy.

-       (devastatingly charming German accent) You lost? You need help?

-       (messy, stupidly sad) I’ve lost my drink.

-       (produces drink out of thin air) Here.

The drink is crisp and citrusy. Sharp, cool and refreshing in a heavy-bottomed glass with cylindrical ice-cubes. A wonder drink. The fog lifts. Neck lengthens and the outer edges of his skin sizzle. He lights a fresh cig and Ute fires up Twerk. A Dionysian shudder thwacks through his body and his heart floods open. He is Harvey Milk leading San Francisco Pride, Jesus strutting through Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, Queen Bey at Coachella.

There is dancing, kissing, there is a long, grappling, passionate interlude in a tiny courtyard. The friend he came with left — hours ago? — something’s scratching at the edge of memory — obliterate it!

And then there is blur. Hours go by, here comes the sun. Ute gently edging him on to the pavement. Smiling sympathetically from the other side of the glass as she wraps a long chain around and around the crash-bar door-handle.

*  *  * * *

Walking. Alone now, fast. Pounding walking, pounding head ache. Coffee, water, walk. Until home.

Snuggled under his doona, he sniffs his body — strange chemical reek, cigs, alcohol cheap coffee and stale sausage: underneath, the loamier scents of sweat, shit and cum.

Weird clips on YouTube.

Music.

Food.

Descent.