Geil Berlin Jungen Männer

I haven’t talked about last weekend beyond the Berlin Hustlaball, so here is more.

Berlin is growing on me and Saturday I had a fantastic evening hanging out with the fabulous Snooker. We had sushi at Papa Nô on Oranienstraße. Papa Nô chief geographical feature is that it is a couple doors down from SO36, a famous dance club that I’ve been to before.

Saturday night though, SO36 was holding a concert with some group I’d never heard of, and one that Snooker did not know either, so it wasn’t on either of our personal agendas but as we sat at Papa Nô, I was looking out the window observing all these hot guys walking down the street toward SO36. And by hot, I mean, given the opportunity I would pull them off the street and have sex with them in the alley, failing to worry about privacy or cleanliness—focused only on, well, errr… uh… (as I blush), never mind.

These guys were seriously hot: Mohawks, multicolored spiky hair, earrings, and that seemingly bad-ass attitude that I find incredibly attractive and geil.

Which begs an interruption on attractive men: As I noted while talking about Hustlaball, I am really great at attracting the 1% of men that I actively find unattractive. The truth is that I don’t notice 98.5% of the men out there—yes, they are guys, but they are neither hot nor ugly, they just are there. 1% of the time I am negatively attracted to guys—creepy older men with enormous nose rings, for example; and finally that last 0.5% of the time, I find men handsome, attractive, and hot. This is similarly true for women—with slightly different percentages: most are bland and unnoticeable, a few are ugly, and a small subset I can identify as beautiful, even if I am not attracted to them.

After finishing our sushi, Snooker and I left Papa Nô, looking for a more congenial environment for a drink and to talk. Our path took us through (rather, into the street and around) the crowd of hot guys waiting to get into SO36. My hit rate was way above 0.5% in this crowd: more like one in four or five. Attractive enough that I commented upon it to Snooker before we stepped into the confines of Cake—an oddly named bar where she ordered a beer and I a Capirinhia (thus immediately fulfilling the Lesbian versus Gay stereotypes). At first we were the only customers, but we opened a minor avalanche of customers—two more groups entered, one including a tall guy wearing a sweater with a mohawk-like hair style—that group sit within easy viewing distance of me—he was drinking a Becks. Unfortunately his group only drank one drink before leaving the bar, and I am left with only memories of him.

Back in Weimar my hit rate isn’t so high—perhaps familiarity breeds disinterest. That said, Weimar really doesn’t have the punk scene with guys that I find so hot; like many of the places I’ve lived it is relatively rural and conservative. New York City, Berlin, Amsterdam, and London are places that allow and support these subcultures with guys I find hot.

After Snooker and I separated, I was still tired and opted to take a brief nap, undecided about what I was going to do the rest of the evening in Berlin. Unfortunately I was foolish enough not to set my alarm—and when I woke up, I guessed it was midnight. In truth it was 4:30.

As I replay the weekend in my mind, I wonder about SO36. I know I would have adored the eye-candy, but would I have been the creepy older guy in the crowd? I don’t have the right hair; I don’t have the right clothes; and I am clueless about the music scene.

Was I foolish? Did I read the crowd right?

I wish I had the answers.