Good evening, dear sir – would you permit me the modest pleasure of your company on this grey and rather unpleasant Berlin night? One rarely encounters countrymen here, and if one does, they usually hurry to turn into the nearest side street – most often out of embarrassment that they might be mistaken for one of them. The noise, you understand? The gesturing, the excited talking, all that Balkan exoticism which the newcomers wear openly, before they’ve learned to hide it.

Oh, you know that feeling too? A kindred spirit – my intuition hasn’t failed me. No doubt about it, I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance. Believe me, what I’m doing now is a great exception. I don’t know why I dared speak to you – perhaps nostalgia hangs especially thick in this part of the city, particularly now, around the twentieth anniversary that some are celebrating and others cursing.

Besides, I haven’t seen a Bulgarian newspaper in ages – believe me.

Heh, heh – haven’t missed much, you say? Maybe so, maybe so … Still, some things change flavor when one hasn’t touched them in so long.

Would you allow me a quick look?

In exchange, I promise to recommend a few local delicacies you might find rather interesting. Have you tried, for example, the original Berlin-style jellied pig’s trotters? With sauerkraut and potatoes, of course. Completely unhealthy – and quite literally finger-licking. And under no circumstances should you order Berliner Pilsner with them. Awful beer, I assure you. Made by butchers for butchers – sharp and brutish in taste, good only for making one run to the toilet frequently.

If you’d like to try some of the finer pilsners from around here, I recommend those from the north – Lübzer, Jever, perhaps even Beck’s, though drinking an export beer here doesn’t exactly speak of refinement. Magnificent – sharply-cutting and bitterly masculine in flavor, by the way – nothing like the perfume sold here under that name, to avoid using a more precise word.

Ah, who cares anyway?

I personally despise dark beers, but I adore wheat ones. Only, with them, the opposite rule applies: Go South, if I may put it that way. The best wheat beers come from Munich, of course – Erdinger, Löwenbräu, Paulaner …

Oh, thank you! Yes, I’d be happy to accept the invitation. I’m not overly proud, and, as you may have noticed, my best days – my prime – are somewhat behind me, unfortunately.

But you honor me greatly – would you mind if I repay you with a story?

I’m glad – glad to hear that.

I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but people reveal their souls and destinies most easily to strangers. There’s something endlessly inviting in that mix of anonymity and – if you’ll allow the word – gentle intimacy that simply calls the soul and body to open up.

Women adore it – trust someone who’s passed through quite a few female thresholds.

If you’ve ever wondered what the secret of quick success is, it’s that blend of anonymity and intimacy – which most of them simply can’t resist. One just needs to know how to offer it.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Cheers – to your health!

Oh, thank you. I usually avoid toasting to my own health – it sounds a bit … futile. But anyway.

Ohhh, splendid.

I adore the icy clarity of German beer. Nothing represents the German soul more than this clean, rational, ice-cold taste.

Long live the frozen German soul, my friend – if you’ll allow me to call you that. It has given the world such marvelous, classically frostbitten delights. Beer and Nietzsche – I know no greater combination, though I don’t insist on forcing my tastes on anyone.

Cheers, cheers.

Ooh, that flavor.

There’s something very feminine about pig’s trotters, don’t you think?

The way they present themselves to the tongue, melting almost the moment you touch them to the roof of your mouth. That astonishing combination of voluptuous substance and sublime, sublimating pleasure.

Ah, women. If only they knew what a true connoisseur they’d lost in me – the poor things …

But I’m getting carried away again, skipping a few steps.

Yes, yes – as promised, all in due order.

I suppose that, looking at me now, in my current condition, you’d hardly imagine that women could ever have taken much interest in me, would you? Oh, no need to be polite – my appearance doesn’t lie. I am indeed what people, in more sentimental moments, call “a human ruin.” The unhealthy pallor, the patchy hair, the brokenness of this body… All of it speaks for itself, and I don’t resist it. Why would I? But believe me, it wasn’t always this way. When I came here, more than twenty years ago, I looked quite different – I’d even say entirely different. Ah, sweet youth. At the time, I had a body I wouldn’t have hesitated to show off anywhere. A reasonable body, as a university friend of mine used to put it. A body shaped according to Plato’s principle – something that ought to be perfect not because it matters, but simply to leave the mind in peace, to allow it to focus on the truly important things in life. Like women, for instance. Amazing how much a well-shaped body can help, even in situations that would otherwise seem hopeless, if not downright depressing… But I’ll try to be more concise from here on. The story I promised you is as short as it is – I hope – instructive. In any case, I believe it deserves to be told, especially in such pleasant and refined company.

So let’s begin about ten years ago, or maybe less. Berlin at the start of the new millennium. I adore this city, even now – even as I increasingly see it more as a tomb than a place to live. Unruly, wild, brimming with life and rebellion. Nothing like Munich, with its pretentious and moldy dignity, for all its wealth and southern grace. Hamburg, too, despite its vast publishing and commercial industries, is still just a tucked-away German province – trust me. No German city compares to Berlin – in fact, it has little to do with Germany at all, thanks to the fortunate accident of being razed to the ground and governed for so long by foreigners. I fear that over time, the good Germans will manage to grind down and flatten everything that makes this city so different, so unique. But for now, it is still livable – despite the new snobbery of Prenzlauer Berg and Friedrichshain. Kreuzberg, at least, remains a place where one can still experience raw, authentic vitality…

Ah, I’m rambling again? Yes, yes – Berlin at the dawn of the new millennium. Colorful, unpredictable, free from restraints and prejudices, cynical, poetic, ruthless – and so, so alive… Do you have any idea what the nightlife of this city used to be, my friend? I don’t either – not anymore… But back then, it was my craft. In what line of work? Just a moment – I’ll get to that. Or why not now? My field – the only one I’ve ever truly known – is women, my friend. Or rather, not women so much as young girls. There was a time I considered any woman over twenty-four hopelessly overripe – whatever that means. You’re smiling? Of course – I would too in your place. Who could believe that this human ruin was ever something else? But it was – oh, how it was!

Have you ever wondered what perfect seduction might look like, my friend? No, not the classical kind – not something out of Dangerous Liaisons. Have you ever tried to imagine a modern seduction, one so effective that none of its targets could resist? Carefully selected targets, of course. I admit my method wouldn’t work on every woman – most would probably call it revolting – but its effectiveness is beyond question.

Have I piqued your curiosity? Heh – that gives me a vain sort of pleasure, I admit. Yes, yes – I’ll reveal the secret to you now. No real secret, in fact. It’s all perfectly logical, perfectly comprehensible. So, if you want to make sure that no girl – no woman – who falls within your field of influence can say no to you, you simply have to convince her that she’s doing something logical, comprehensible, and right. Yes – that simple. Women are astonishingly rational beings, believe me. Contrary to every cliché and prejudice. Once they are persuaded that something is proper – hat seine Richtigkeit, as the kind Germans say – they yield to it all the more readily, especially if it brings pleasure. All they need is permission from their own dear and exquisitely well-functioning little minds. After that, everything becomes more than easy.

You see, at that time I was working in what Americans – always ready with a euphemism – like to call the adult industry. I’m endlessly grateful to them for that polite turn of phrase; I’ve always hated the crude bluntness of the word pornography. “Description of prostitution” – how tasteless, really. And how far from the truth. The adult industry, dear friend, is something that nowadays involves an astonishing number of people – most of whom would probably scratch your eyes out if you dared mention the word prostitution.

Have you ever found yourself admiring some delightful, young creature dressed in a gossamer Versace or Prada outfit, and wondered where such a delicate, ethereal being gets the money for such a life? And did you ever scold yourself for being cynical when the thought crossed your mind – perhaps...?

Well, you can ease your conscience from now on, because most of these creatures do get their means of existence from exactly the source you first suspected, my friend. The adult industry and banking are today the two most rapidly growing sectors of every modern economy – without exception. With one small difference, of course – the adult industry can’t go bankrupt.

But let’s return to my story. You know, I’ve always been quite sober in assessing my own abilities and I usually strive for objectivity and rationality in my self-evaluations, but when I think about this particular idea of mine – this invention – I just can’t avoid the word brilliant. Such simplicity, such grace and efficiency... The concept, which I kept refining, turned out to be so effective that I seriously considered whether there might be a way to patent it. The Secret of Don Juan, though not by Castaneda, of course.

Alright, alright – I won’t torture your curiosity any longer. So, what I did back then were interviews for actresses. Special actresses, of course – no need to explain further. A short ad on a few popular websites (MySpace worked best – that’s why I still remember it):

“Talent agency conducting interviews with young ladies (19–24) interested in working in the adult industry.”

Short and clear. Nothing more – aside from my phone number, naturally. And a small office, furnished as spartanly as possible: a comfortable leather couch (must be leather – absolutely essential), a large, sturdy desk almost completely free of clutter except for a computer monitor – as small as possible, so it wouldn’t dominate the scene. Almost nothing else, just a few unopened cardboard boxes with postal stamps tossed in the corners, enough to give the impression of some kind of ongoing work.

Ah, yes – and the three video cameras, of course. Placed in the most conspicuous spots – two on tripods and one handheld – which were, in fact, the key part of the setup.

The most brilliant ideas in the world are always the simplest, my friend. Mine was no exception. Every time a client called, I scheduled a meeting (only one per day, for obvious reasons). From there, everything ran like clockwork...

Actually, maybe the easiest way to give you a real sense of how the whole thing worked is to describe one particular video session. I remember – this must’ve been during the time when I had perfected all the psychological prep and the system was working completely, flawlessly – around then, this girl showed up... wait, what was her name?

Ah, yes. Hannah. A delicate 19-year-old blossom, first-year university student, beautiful, intelligent, maddeningly nervous – temptation incarnate. Don’t ask me why girls like that end up seeking such work. My own answer is that all women are the same once you get them behind a closed door. But that’s probably not the point.

The point is: Hannah showed up in my office, determined to prove that no one could mess with her, that she could make her way in the business without dancing to anyone’s tune – that sort of thing. Delightful, long-legged, red-haired, wearing a burgundy camisole over a small but exquisitely shaped bust, a short pleated skirt fluttering around the most beautifully sculpted thighs one could imagine, with an obviously intelligent face and eyes burning with a thirst for challenge and conquest.

Poor, sweet Hannah...

I started with the standard questions – everything was rehearsed to perfection, as I already explained. So:

“What makes you want to work as a model in this industry?”
(the choice of words, as well as the demeanor – authoritative and professional, with not even a hint of familiarity or cynicism – are extremely important if you don’t want to scare off most of the interesting girls who show up).

“Oh, I’ve got a lot of free time and I’m looking for something to fill it. Something to make some money with, I mean.”
“Ah, very good. I was just about to ask whether your motivation is the money or the fame.”
“Well, you know, I come from a pretty conservative family and I’d prefer not to get too famous. Although the idea is tempting, I admit.”

I loved these conversations to the point of obsession, ecstasy, even rapture, dear friend. The sweet, delicate little fly who thinks she’s flying free, while I’m perfectly aware of the fact that the moment she walked into that office, she was already mine… Absolutely, unquestionably, completely mine. Without the slightest bit of coercion, of course – all by the power of persuasion and plain reason. Her reason, not mine, of course – I myself couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly at the thought of what a one-sided deal we were making...

But let’s continue:

“Excellent, Hannah. You see, this is precisely my specialty – finding work for girls like you. What I do here is prepare material that I then send to producers all over the world, who in turn arrange jobs that pay between one and five thousand dollars a day.”

A pause – to give her time to picture the sums – then a short question:

“How does that sound to you?”

To which the reply was almost always something like “Sounds pretty good” or “I think that’s fine,” delivered with the flattest possible expression, as if to mask how utterly shocked the young lady really was by the prospect of earning that kind of money in a single day. I had chosen those sums carefully – impressive enough, but not absurd – and the effect was always the same: the sweet young things would begin to breathe a little faster, maybe even start getting wet, if you’ll forgive the graphic remark.

Hannah was particularly delightful because she gestured constantly in a very expressive way. Her hands were beautiful – she clearly knew it – and she’d make all sorts of shapes with them, offering them to the viewer. Oh, this girl was definitely starting to drive me mad...

“Now, Hannah, here’s how things work: as you can see, I record the entire interview on video. You’re okay with the cameras, right?”

“Oh, of course.”
“So, as I said, I send the video material to various producers. Naturally, in this business, they need to see what you look like naked first. Would you mind standing up, please?”

A faint flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, a microscopic hesitation. Oh, how I adore the authenticity of that hesitation, the truth of that entire scene! You see, my friend, if there’s any sense in which the adult industry does perhaps deserve the ugly name pornography, it is precisely in the fact that it’s so fake, so utterly unreal.

People talk about passion, but feel no passion.
They tell each other they want something, but in fact they don’t – it’s completely indifferent to them.
They perform certain acts, accompanied by certain sounds, but the acts and the sounds are fake too – there’s not a trace of credibility in them.

And if the whole thing still works so flawlessly, it’s only because it activates our internal hardware – it compels us to begin experiencing certain emotions, or more precisely, certain arousals, regardless of our will. There’s no doubt about this, since modern research shows that even people who claim that such things don’t provoke any reaction in them – most often women – have in fact already begun reacting in the way nature programmed them to: at the very least through that specific kind of secretion...

So the mechanism is ironclad – nearly independent of one’s will.

And yet, the entire industry is a complete fraud. There’s nothing true in it, and that’s just as true as the fact that its effect is absolutely inescapable.

Well then. Try to imagine pornography – oh God, listen to me, I don’t even notice the words I’m using anymore – in which everything is real, absolutely unfeigned, authentic, documentary. Because that’s exactly what my films were, my friend. Absolutely unfeigned, absolutely authentic. The main actresses were always more than convincing, and as for me...

But let’s go in order. So – Hanna stood up, looking at me questioningly, with that exquisite tension that’s impossible to conceal.

“Would you please take off your top?”

She hesitated, then decided to push back.

“You mean – just like that? With a little flourish?”

I looked at her calmly, wordlessly, letting her make the decision herself. Silence is more effective than any words in moments like these.

“Do I need to make any kind of special moves?” she asked, a bit more uncertainly. She was starting to yield.

“No, just take it off.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes, just like that.”

“Well… alright.”

She took it off, revealing a pair of lovely small breasts, marked faintly by a bikini top. Then she crossed her arms over her chest. Beautiful, all of it so beautiful.

“Go on, please.”

She did – this time without more argument. We were slowly reaching the decisive phase. I gave her a few compliments, then picked up the handheld camera and moved slowly toward her.

“What do you think, Hanna – what comes next?”

She looked at me with wide eyes, not frightened, no. Her curiosity was clearly gnawing at her.

“It’s obvious that the people who’ll be assessing you will need some… specific… material. You understand what I mean?”

“I’m not entirely sure.”

“Well then, let’s speak plainly. What would you say to starting with oral?”

She tilted her head and gave me a mocking look. Come on, quit the bullshit. Please.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

“This is the adult industry. This is pornography. I hire girls. I hire girls based on what they demonstrate in this interview. Based on how well they perform.”

“This… this is serious, then?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

She placed her little fist under her chin, thinking.

“You’re saying… it’s like a fashion show, right? I’m walking the runway right now…”

“Exactly.”

She started laughing, a little nervously. I nearly lost control – this confident and yet so innocent creature excited me beyond reason. Still.

“Look, Hanna – if you were buying a car, you’d insist on a test drive, wouldn’t you?”

“Aha, so this is like a test drive?”

“Precisely.”

“So I have to prove I’m a standard model.”

“Well…”

A flicker of understanding lit her eyes. Ah, finally.

“So…”

“Alright – just come over here.”

She obeyed.

“Extend your right hand.”

Correct reaction again.

“…and start unbuttoning.”

“Alright, alright.”

The camera, of course, followed her every move. Without the camera, none of this would’ve been thinkable. I let her work for about five minutes, let her sweat a bit… everywhere. She wasn’t the most experienced, but that was precisely the charm of this session, naturally. Then I moved to the next phase. She tried again to ask questions, to delay or deflect, but it was already clear she was going along. Her little brain had already accepted everything that was happening as legitimate. These are the rules of the industry – this is how you enter. At some point she even began to get into it, like most of them – started to pose for the camera, act like the actresses she’d seen, moan. Oh, that moan! Delight, pure delight.

By the time we finished, it was quite late. I gave her the standard line – “Don’t call me, I’ll contact you once there’s news” – and sent her home.

Of course, I didn’t tell her that I wasn’t anyone’s agent, nor that there was any real job on offer. Those details, naturally, remained mine alone. The pleasure of the little spider trying out various juicy flies – you get it, don’t you?

***

Everything worked perfectly. Day after day, fly after fly. I remember, for instance, one incredible beauty – Stefanie – from an extremely well-known family, who had just turned eighteen. Honestly, to this day I believe it was loneliness that brought her to me; she looked like anything but one of those girls who need money. And the enthusiasm with which she embraced it all… Even now, my skin crawls when I think of that child.

Each of them was so unrepeatable, so unique. I could go on until tomorrow, recounting every detail. The girls who from the very beginning said they didn’t want Greek. The girls who agreed to everything. The ones who, in the end, looked like they wanted even more. Or the others, who could barely wait to slam the door behind them. Some cried – quietly, but obediently – doing everything I told them. Others seemed to enjoy it more than I did; sometimes I had to find excuses to get rid of one or another. Some had a bit of gristle at the entrance, others were soft and pliant, like sweet, lovely little sponges. Dozens and dozens, perhaps even hundreds of tiny, sweet flies. Ah, how beautiful it all was.

And so I kept working, earning fantastic money (all the videos were immediately uploaded online, where anyone could share in the pleasure – for a fee, of course). My site was becoming wildly popular; people clearly sensed that this was something different, something far more special than ordinary pornography… Life was beautiful. Even more than beautiful. Life was simply perfect.

Until one day… But would you be so kind, dear friend, as to order just a bit more of this magnificent liquid? I’m afraid I won’t be able to finish my story otherwise. Thank you – you’re very generous.

To this day I ask myself how I could fall into such a simple, such an elementary trap. Hubris precedes the fall, as the Germans say… How true. I suppose someone with more… dignity… would’ve long since killed himself in my place. But I can’t. I simply can’t. I’d miss the beer, I suppose. The beer – and Nietzsche, as I already mentioned.

Oh, what a pleasure! I haven’t enjoyed an evening this much in ages. Thank you once again. People here simply refuse to take human suffering seriously – and besides, my story sounds far less convincing when I try to tell it in German. Oh yes, yes – I’m continuing now…

So, on that day, I got a call from one of the girls. Gina – a 22-year-old nurse. Tall and pretty, though a bit straw-blonde. I remember she was very enthusiastic during the session; she seemed to take all my nonsense about a porn career quite seriously and genuinely tried – at one point I even felt sorry for her. More than a year had passed since then – that alone should’ve made me suspicious. Why would she be calling me again a year later, after she must have long since realized she’d been putting on a show for nothing? But back then, I wasn’t thinking about such things. I was at the peak of my success, the site was raking in insane money, the stream of little fools never dried up – nor did my appetite to sample them one by one, to suck them dry, slowly and with delight.

What exactly happened, you ask? The girl showed up for the session, then pulled a pistol out of her little handbag. I wasn’t sure whether it was real or a prop, but of course I couldn’t afford to take any chances. I tried to work on her, to get her little brain to click into gear – but for some reason, it didn’t work. Usually I’m very good at these things. Only later did I realize that she’d resisted my logic for one simple reason… Yeah. In short, she hadn’t come alone.

A few minutes later, more of them arrived at the office – how many exactly? Maybe ten or fifteen more, grimly silent, all with murderously serious eyes behind dark sunglasses...

They tied me to the desk. My own desk. Clearly, they had planned it all, carefully and at length. They brought everything with them – the scissors they used to cut my clothes so they wouldn’t have to undress me, the thin silk ropes they bound me with, the special gag ball, the instruments…

By the time I realized what they were about to do, it was already too late. I had hoped they might beat me, or torture me – but I’d hoped that would be the end of it. It was only when Gina began to take out the instruments from her little bag – when she unsealed a brand new scalpel and started preparing the local anesthetic – that I understood. Yes, then it was too much. Irreversibly too late.

I tried to resist, of course. I thrashed about, tried to stop her however I could, tried to protect what she was about to take from me… what all those filthy whores wanted to take from me. Forgive me – this part always gets to me, I lose control of my tongue…

The operation was short and almost entirely painless. Gina worked with surprising precision – shockingly precise for a nurse. I never did find out where she had learned all those techniques. It’s a strange feeling, listening to yourself being cut – but feeling nothing. Or almost nothing. I remember at one point I even calmed down and stopped resisting. Just like each of them, during my video sessions. In some strange way, they’d managed to convince me that what they were doing was the right thing. The human psyche is a strange thing, indeed.

When they left, they placed the two bloody lumps next to me – perhaps as a souvenir. They’d loosened the ropes enough so I could free myself after a while. Cautious bitches – clever. Even then, I wanted to tell them it wasn’t necessary, that I had no desire to fight or lash out anymore. It’s strange how strength leaves the body all at once – together with those two little lumps. Strength, and the will to fight – in fact, everything.

Ah yes, the night is well underway. I always lose track of time when I tell my little story. Probably because I slip back into a different time – a far more beautiful and happy one.

I’ve never tried to find them. Never tried to take revenge. I didn’t even go to the police, though I’m quite sure they would have helped me. But what for, really? Revenge – I’ve come to believe – won’t bring anything back. Least of all the happiness I lost. Or the thrill of knowing I was creating something unique. Ah yes – I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but some of my old clips are still floating around the net. That says something, doesn’t it? About a certain quality? Almost ten years later. Not a bad run in a business as fast-moving as mine… ex-business.

Thank you. Thank you once again. God bless you, my friend. Would you happen to have a spare euro on you? Life hasn’t been especially kind to me lately – forgive the imposition. Oh, thank you, you’re very generous.

God bless you, my friend. God bless you.