Confessions of an Author

Chapter Five. I TAKE A MISTRESS, RENEW AN ACQUAINTANCE, AND FIND SUCCESS

I had arrived in Zurich and found myself with nothing to do. Out of sheer boredom I decided to become an author. I wrote — truth and fantasy skillfully mixed together — a novel about my mother. And I was quite successful because its appearance in my homeland was greeted with a book burning and its further publication was forbidden.

While I was writing my novel I became acquainted with a very nice lady, the wife of a public official. She was suffering terribly from both moral restrictions and her husband's inability. When I met her, she had just bidden farewell to her last lover. She admitted that quite calmly and when I asked her, “When will you say good-bye to me?” she answered with a sweet smile, “How do I know now what I will feel for you tomorrow?”

I liked that answer and she became my mistress. I must admit, to do her full justice, that she was the most accommodating mistress I have ever had. Every morning between nine and ten she visited me at my apartment. Fortunately, it was easy for her to come and see me without fear of detection, and moreover I had given her a key to the front door. Usually I was still in bed that early in the morning and I had grown accustomed to waiting for the moment when she would peek around the door to my bedroom with her poodle hairdo and call out, “I am not here to say good-bye to you!”

Whenever she was later a certain uneasiness would well up in me … she has given me her silent farewell. I was neither very sad nor truly upset when this thought would occur to me. “One of these days she will stay away and I will have to go out and look for another one. I am sure there are women enough who are available for a little changing of partners. After all, they love to do it.”

And then, when she showed up after all, everything would be fine. She had the habit of lifting her skirt and petticoat the moment she entered the room and, since it was easier for her not to wear any other undergarments at all, I was afforded a good look at her firm thighs and a small portion of her belly. She then undulated toward my bed and, as first part of the ritual, I had to kiss her mound of shame.

She would then undress as quickly as a little monkey and the real kissing would get underway. First the mouth, which lasted for a long time, thereupon eyes and throat. She would become very excited and by the time I had reached her ears she would twitter like a little bird, try to escape me and immediately turn her other ear toward my lips. Next her bosom. It was very firm and small, “A handful is enough, anything more is strictly for the pigs,” is a saying of my countrymen with which I do not entirely agree. By the time I started to kiss the nipples of her breasts she would completely relax and sink next to me on the bed; once I had reached her inner thighs, her entire body would shudder and shake.

That is how it all usually was done. Sometimes she would lie down immediately, especially after she had had an exceptionally exciting dream. And when the sacrifice had been made she would invariably turn her little round behind toward me and I had to give it a firm smack. “You know, I always pretend that my husband hits me, and then the whole affair is all right.”

I asked her once why she was unfaithful to her husband, if she suffered every day again from pangs of conscience.

“It has to be that way,” she countered, “because he comes to me every Saturday and he says that that is enough … you know what happens at our place on Saturdays?” She laughed like an excited schoolgirl. “Do you believe that my husband has never seen me naked? And my body is surely beautiful, but he has not once, not even in pitch dark, stretched out his hands and touched it. Well, anyhow, on Saturdays we go to the theater and afterwards we visit a restaurant. He orders half a bottle of red wine and drinks it. His face will become more and more serious and he starts pressing his knees together. That is a sure sign. I know he has not forgotten that it is Saturday. And, after about a half-hour, he will say, 'Well!' That's all. Nothing else. And we leave.

“On the way home we don't talk, probably because that would make his desire disappear. Another fifteen minutes and we are in bed, in our pitch dark bedroom and I hear him say again, 'Well!' Of course, sometimes it takes a little longer before he utters this invitation, because sometimes it takes him simply a little longer to get an erection. I have to giggle, and I am on my back, tickling myself with my fingers. And then … put, put, put … and he's ready and crawls, without even kissing me, back into his own bed. And with the same regularity he tells me, 'The preventative is not torn, but I think it is better when you take a douche. Good night!'

“So you see, those are my nights of love … the Saturday nights. Oh, in the beginning they were terrible, because I had nothing else and I would often think that I would die out of sheer misery. I never became passionate till after he was ready. So, I started out with my fingers and later on with a candle. And later on, I became a little bit smarter. At a girl friend's house I saw one of those rubber things.

She put it on, rubbed it with some oil and then … my God, was that ever an experience. And then, when she became tired of it, I assumed the role of the man. I went to see her as often as I could, but one Saturday I had spent the entire afternoon with her till I was sore inside and out. I could have done without my husband's put-put-put that night. But finally that playing around with the rubber thing was no longer pleasant. It did not give me the satisfaction I wanted. So I thought: To hell with all this so-called decency, and I took a lover. After all, the natural thing is still the best, and I can't help myself, I have to have what I need.”

And, I'm sure, that's what the little one has always had. Before me and since me and, if she's still alive, which I fervently hope though she must be a matron by now, for all I know she is still having it. She did not, like Rita for instance, belong to the unsatiable ones, though she did have one thing in common with Rita: her delight in her own nudity.

Once she told me happily: “You know what? Tomorrow I can spend the entire day with you. Be sure to have some cold cuts and candies, will you?”

It must have sounded terribly ungrateful and coarse when I did not seem enthusiastic at all by asking with surprise, “All day?”

She pouted a little. The poor thing had so much enjoyed the prospect. Her husband had to go to some convention or other and she had already given the maid a day's leave. I took her into my arms and said, “But of course, darling, don't be so disappointed, tomorrow you'll be with me all day and I'll simply postpone my work till the day after tomorrow.”

“You mean you have to work?”

I told her that at the moment I was working on a theatrical play. It was my first play, by far my most outspoken one, but the only one which had not been attacked by a howling mob of moralists, mainly because nobody had ever produced it.

She embraced me, kissed me and clapped her hands like a little excited girl. She was happy to find out that I had a profession, and especially the one I had. “I will stay with you, you will have to read passages to me and you will also have to do some work on it. I want to be your muse!” she exclaimed while turning a pirouette. Doing that, she had excited me so greatly that I did not want her to go yet. But she was very firm about it and said, “No, not today … tomorrow!”

And she walked away.

The next day was more than just charming. She arrived at her regular time and was very carefully dressed. I was still in bed, waiting for her, as usual. But this time she did not lift her skirt when she closed the door and she also did not undulate up to the bed. Instead she exclaimed happily, “Mister poet, why don't you get up and wash your face while I fix your breakfast in the other room!”

She hurried over to me, gave me a quick kiss and whispered in my ear, “But you don't have to put your clothes on.”

And she disappeared.

When I walked into the adjoining room, I noticed that the curtains were drawn and the lights on. The table was set and next to it, on its iron stand, stood the samovar. Only I did not see my little one. Suddenly she called out, “Peek-a-boo!” Her poodle hairdo came from under the table and the next moment she was in my arms, as naked as I was. I was extremely passionate but she did not want it yet.

“First our breakfast!”

She pressed herself against me, her body quivered with desire … I tried to master her, but she tore herself loose and started to pour tea.

“First our tea, that will make us even hotter!” she said, panting heavily.

Breakfast did not take long, what followed took considerably longer. She had hauled all the heavy feather blankets and pillows out of the bedroom and we threw ourselves upon them. We did not leave much time for kissing, but that day, for the first time since Marie, I found woman again.

And then my little one said, “So, and now you are going to read to me, aren't you?”

She nestled herself, nude as she was, in one of the easy chairs and I had to sit down on one of the stools, and read to her from my manuscript. She experienced so vividly what I was reading to her that her thighs became rather moist and now and then she would dip a finger in her little triangle. It made a deep impression upon me. I kissed her fingers, her lips and her little triangle, but she pooh-poohed me and said, “What are you doing, lips are for being kissed, down below is reserved for something else … please, read on.”

And, really, she allowed me to conquer her again only after I had finished reading.

Then we ate the nice things that I had bought the previous afternoon and took with our lips the morsels from one another's mouth. She did not allow me any other extravaganzas, even though I would have been capable of almost anything now that my usual vigor and desire had fully returned. She really was only a very unspoiled and naturally sensitive woman. We rolled around once more on the feather blankets and then we fell asleep, holding each other closely, our lips welded together.

She insisted that I should work in the afternoon. She sat down upon my desk, wholly nude, spread her legs apart, giving me a beautiful view of her love-nest. My manuscript was between her thighs and I managed to write a full scene that way. There were, indeed, a few interruptions. I kissed her thighs, her belly or I took her poodle head between my hands and let my tongue explore her mouth. Once there was a larger interruption which made her very, very happy “because it lasts longer when you do it for the third or fourth time,” as she naively put it.

She made me laugh when she was ready to leave. She was such a true housewife, because she carefully put my entire home in order. And she kissed the sheets while she was making my bed, “Whoever could stay with you in them forever …” she whispered and I noticed that her eyes became moist. But she straightened herself and managed a smile. “Don't pay any attention to me. Whenever I have as much as I had today, I become very sentimental.” She fondled and caressed me, softly, the way a mother caresses her baby. She suddenly stopped and looked at me very seriously.

“Do you know what suddenly occurs to me? The way it was today must be the last time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to be sad?”

“About what?”

“Now, look … more beautiful than beautiful is impossible, right? The best that could happen to us is that a day like today would repeat itself. As long as you have never reached the top there is always the expectation. One waits for the big day like I have waited for this one. But now it is over …”

“And now you believe you have to look for new expectations … in the arms of someone else?”

She embraced me and the poodle hairdo was against my chest, her eyes looking up at me. “You will make many girls happy. Anyhow, we have possessed each other!”

She went toward the door, turned around and impishly winked at me to come closer. But her words had upset me and I hesitated. She looked very surprised and said, “Do you want me once more?” starting to unbutton her white silken blouse.

I shook my head. Now it was her turn to be surprised and she ran out of the apartment.

The next morning, when I awoke, my little one was sitting at the edge of my bed, naked as a jaybird. I had not heard her come into the apartment, and I also did not wake up while she was taking off her clothes in my bedroom. She threw herself upon me and kissed like a maniac. After about an hour she quickly dressed and left.

At the breakfast table which she, as usual, had set, I found the key to my rooms and a handwritten note:

“You spurned me yesterday and I could not stand the idea. But in the meantime I have betrayed you, too. Last night. I was so passionate, I had to do it.

“You won't be alone for long, about that I am sure. Just look for someone who is as pretty as I am. And especially, look for someone who is healthy. By the way, you don't have to worry, the one I had last night was definitely healthy, too.”

That was the end of the affair.

I cannot honestly say that I was deeply hurt, but it had been a very pleasant habit. It used to be so nice to wake up every morning and have the little one at my side. And it was rather handy, too. Really, I was thinking all morning about how I was going to do it from now on.

I started my little walks again, something which had not happened for quite some time. In the afternoon I made a mistake, walked into the wrong restaurant and had such a miserable meal that I made up my mind immediately to leave Switzerland.

Since I had no other visits scheduled than a call on my first publisher, I could make all travel arrangements very quickly. While I was doing this I had to admit to myself that every time an affair with some woman was ended, I packed up bag and baggage and left. Actually I think it is quite normal. Not because a trip soothes the “pain,” but simply because a change of towns makes it less possible to run into a former mistress with all the resultant little embarrassments. This slight feeling of embarrassment has really never left me, though it is not as strong as it used to be.

Anyhow, I went to Munich.

One of the first evenings in the new town, I was sitting in the Peterhof, where a Viennese Ladies' Orchestra was giving a concert. The lady conductor was a young girl, a blonde with rather angular movements and a pale face. The pianist was a stocky older man, obviously the slave owner of these eight to ten girls. I saw that man for the first time that evening but I hated him immediately. I started paying attention to him when I noticed that he reproached one of the girls, a violin player, rather abruptly — it was the first time I noticed her — by hissing at her, “Flirting is all these women can do; their music is plain shit.”

And then I noticed that the girl was staring in my direction. She was neither young nor especially beautiful, rather thin, but her breasts were remarkably large. I knew at once that I had seen her before but could not place her at all. She must have noticed that I was thinking deeply but she, too, did not seem to trust her memory and she made no attempt at contacting me. I went to the back of the hall and, calling one of the flower girls, bought a handful of red roses, asking the girl to bring them to the violin player with the message if we had not previously met somewhere. The flower girl returned with the following message, “I should only tell you Olga and piano lessons,” and she also mentioned the name of my home town.

But naturally! Now I remembered. My piano teacher Miss Olga who rewarded my fingering the keys with her fingering me! And then she had to leave suddenly because she had gotten ill or something. Without thinking that I might cause her to be embarrassed, I walked toward the podium and shook hands with her. The poor girl turned deep red but I noticed that she was overjoyed. To appease the slave driver, I asked him to play Blue Danube and put a gold piece on his piano. The man positively sniveled with servility. I made a date with Olga to get together after the concert. I was rather quiet when I returned to my table because meeting her caused a lot of memories to come back to me which made me sort of sad, mainly because I thought about how much I had experienced and how young I still was and Lord knows how much I had yet to learn.

The flower girl walked up to my table and gave me the message that Miss Olga would await me right after the concert, ready to leave whenever I wanted, at the last table on the right. I really became excited and sort of nervous; I was finally getting together with the girl who had made love to me when I was still a little boy. I had to smile at the thought that I was actually only acquainted with her hand. But I was also glad that I had an adventure ahead of me without really having looked for one.

From where I sat I could easily see the table which the flower girl had indicated. In her dark street clothes Olga looked even slimmer and more large-bosomed than she did up on the stage. And her face really was no longer not very pretty. Possibly it was because I happened to have reached the stage where almost every woman turns into a Helen. But Olga was not alone. She was with a girl that had a wonderful profile, smaller than her and with a better figure. Definitely not a member of the musical team, because I would have noticed her instantly.

When I got up to walk over to their table, Olga arose also. She had noticed me and walked rapidly toward me. “Oh, my sweet little laddy,” she whispered when she took my hands, and we smiled knowingly at each other as if the years between had never happened.

“Do you want to go to the park?”

“Don't you want to go somewhere else? But you're not alone.” I turned toward the other girl who was a lot better looking. She had a very strange but, at the same time, charmingly intriguing expression on her face.

“My friend, Cathy,” said Olga, “does not like to go into the park because all the gentlemen artists strolling around there walk up to her and don't give her a moment's rest.” She exchanged a quick glance with her girl friend and said softly, “Isn't she beautiful?”

I had a very strange feeling which I could not put into words. It was odd to meet my friend Olga after so many years, and especially at a moment when I felt rather lonely, but nevertheless, the presence of another person was not at all unwelcome. I had absolutely no objections against Cathy coming along with us.

Out in the street I had one on my left and the other on my right side. We walked toward a certain street which had a small but very renowned little tavern. “Exquisite and very expensive,” said Cathy, looking at me as if this disclosure might scare me off. But Olga immediately countered with “Oh, laddy, laddy, we've got it!”

I would have loved to ask at that point what it was supposed to be they had in mind. But I had the feeling that something special was about to happen and I also darkly suspected that someone in the know would not have asked such a question. And since I did not want to be taken for an ignoramus, I decided to keep my mouth shut. The small, very renowned, little, exquisite and very expensive tavern also was rather cheap and common. A long corridor with cheap reproductions in even cheaper frames and a lot of doors on either side. Obviously toward the separate chambers. A Jewish waiter with a white towel around his waist, pretending to be Viennese, asked with a leering smile what my pleasure would be. I did not like his urgent confidence at all and was rather flustered till Olga advised me to take three rooms. So, I took three rooms. The miserable waiter grinned and said, “You can have more, you can have 'em all … there ain't nobody here!”

The rooms looked as shabby as some of the front rooms in one of those streets in Vienna where the lowest females ply their trade and where I once used to make a furtive visit or two.

I forced myself to be gay and happy, argued with the waiter who had brought us the wine list and finally threw him out of the room. Olga laughed. She embraced me and tried to make a whirl around the room with me. “Don't be jealous at him,” she called out to her friend. “He is my very own sweet little laddy! It's because of him that I became pregnant, when he was about eleven or twelve years old, right? — Oh, but of course, you couldn't know about that. Jesus, I was always so damned excited after our piano lessons that one day I couldn't stand it any longer and I went to bed with my older brother. And, boom … it happened right then and there.” She threw off her jacket and lifted her remarkably large breasts with both hands, “And ever since, these have been pretty big. Remember, laddy, when you used to press your face against them … always your little nose on my titties.”

Cathy had taken a seat on the large sofa which stood in the corner of the room and it seemed as if she did not notice us. But suddenly she asked, “Aren't I a little bit superfluous?”

Olga walked over to her and took her face in both hands, “Don't be silly,” she exclaimed laughingly. “He does not take anything away from you. Aw, come on, Cathy, be nice!” And she took the girl by the ankles, threw her quickly backwards upon the sofa. Then she leaned over the girl and kissed Cathy till the girl started to groan. “He won't take me away from you,” she repeated.

They separated quickly when someone knocked on the door. The waiter brought in the ice bucket and a tray. He turned around just before he left and said with a leering smirk, “If you need any help, I recommend myself highly.” I could not even smile about this insolence. As a matter of fact, I was rather out of whatever mood I had been in, completely. If I had not been ashamed in front of the girls, I think I would have left. I noticed that the two girl friends were in a heated whispering conversation and Cathy seemed to disagree violently with something.

“Oh, come on, you only live once,” Olga exclaimed and poured herself a full glass. “Here we go … to you and you!” She emptied the miserable foaming wine in one gulp and turned around to me. “Hurry, laddy, order two more buckets before we get going and then the waiter won't have to disturb us!”

She rang herself. The waiter brought her order. Olga locked the doors to the three rooms and when she walked up to me again, she had opened the buttons of her blouse. She stretched out her arms and her breasts slowly popped out of their imprisonment. Cathy stared at them as if hypnotized. Suddenly she jumped up and started to nibble on them furiously till Olga groaned and cried out voluptuously. Both disrobed in no time and soon they were only wearing their petticoats. “Come here, laddy,” Olga called to me. “Come on over here and look how sweet she is,” and she lifted the other's petticoat.

I must admit that those were the most beautiful legs and thighs I had ever seen. Furiously, Cathy tried to cover them. She looked at me and a dark red flooded her face.

“Jesus, isn't she cute? Look at her, she's blushing,” Olga cried. Then she grabbed me and started to tug at my clothes, pulling off my jacket, and whispering, “It's getting too hot in here.”

I told myself very clearly that, since I had gotten this far, I should not be a spoilsport. I might as well take the dive, even if it were kneedeep into the mud. I threw off my clothes. Since my affair with little poodle-head in Switzerland I had learned to enjoy nudity and soon the three of us threw off our last item of clothing. Olga cried out with sheer pleasure. Cathy grabbed hold of her. But I embraced the two of them and led them toward the sofa where I started to tickle them. I suddenly noticed to my horror that Cathy had a member! She was a hermaphrodite with an enormous tickler and she had an erection as if she had a penis.

“Look, laddy,” Olga groaned as she turned on her back, spreading her thighs widely, making the poor old sofa creak and groan.

Cathy seemed totally oblivious to my presence. Her eyes were glazed, her entire body quivered and she allowed Olga to tug and pull her till she was positioned on top of Olga. It seemed as if she had lost all willpower. Olga lifted up her enormous breasts toward Cathy's face. The girl let her face fall down upon them. Suddenly, crying out so loud that I jumped, she grabbed the large, rather welkin breasts with both hands, held on to them and licked, bit and sucked them furiously. Judging by Olga's moans and groans, it seemed that the hermaphrodite had succeeded in penetrating Olga with her erect tickler. And, indeed, Cathy moved up and down like a man.

“And you, you,” Olga moaned at me, “come, laddy, come.”

And the other one's breath started to pant and cough, quicker and quicker till she collapsed with a painful whimpering, without any strength left, completely lifeless. Olga embraced her and caressed her and talked to her as if she were a little baby.

Curious, and even today I cannot fully understand this sort of behavior. At first I just looked as if the whole affair was none of my business, then I had to stifle a completely involuntary laughing fit, and finally I started to get sick. I was still sitting without moving in the creaky old club chair when the two girls regained their composure and started all over again to find their pleasure in each other. They kissed each other loudly and finally one turned around on top of the other and they worked each others private parts with their tongues. Without the girls noticing it, I took my clothing and went into the other room, dressed quietly, put a hundred-mark bill on the table and quietly opened the door, sneaking into the narrow corridor with its horrible pictures. The miserable waiter had been listening on the middle door to the groaning and moaning which again was reaching a fever pitch. He raised an eyebrow but presented me with the bill, which I quickly paid and a minute later was standing in the street, breathing freely.

I felt as if I could never touch another woman again and not only did I feel miserable at that moment but also for the next few hours and the entire next day.

I gave up my intentions to stay in Munich for any prolonged period of time. I decided to leave as soon as possible.

My few remaining days in Munich were spent mainly with avoiding beer halls and pubs. I found a small hotel where I put the finishing touches on my play. Occasionally I spent a few hours in an art gallery or I went to see a church. The day before my departure from Munich I had a little experience in Saint Peter's Church. I loved this monumental building and had already been in it three times. That particular day I longed to see it once more before I left Munich …

In passing the front door I had noticed a girl's head to my right, though I really did not pay too much attention. The thought of female company still did not give me any pleasure.

I went into the church and was soon completely under the spell of this fabulous monument. I did not know whether anyone else besides me dwelled in the House of the Lord, but about ten minutes after I had entered, the same girl was standing next to me and it was obvious that she was trying to attract my attention. It is possible that, absentmindedly, I looked at her longer than one normally looks at another person, though I swear that my gaze was quite unintentional. She asked, “Did you go up in the choir loft yet? There are stairs …”

I was flabbergasted. “If you want me to, I will show you the way … and if you're nice, I'll show you much more,” she added boldly, lifting her gray skirts so high that I could see her stockings. The look on my face must have registered utter surprise. “There is nothing to be afraid of upstairs … nobody ever gets up there, and if you don't feel safe, we can always lock the door. We can save ourselves the cost of a hotel room.”

She went up the stairs to the choir loft and lifted her skirt so high that I could see her thighs and her belly. “Well, come on, what are you waiting for!” she called impatiently. I don't know what came over me at that particular moment, but I walked over to her, quite calmly, and spat squarely between her legs on her belly, turned around and quietly walked out of the church, the whore whose “femininity” had been insulted belching the meanest gutter-words from the choir.

I told myself that I had had enough. I said, as long as you can't find anything decent, leave the people alone and don't mix with them. But I knew that my desire for female company had become quite overwhelming. I would have leaped with joy if I would have met Rita that particular evening and the thought of Marie … I thought quite often about her … made my knees buckle. That night I did not go back to my hotel, because I had become afraid to be alone with myself.

It must have been around two o'clock in the morning when I was in a well-known artist's cafe, sitting in a quiet corner and working on a small novel I intended to have published as soon as possible.

Then a waitress walked over to my table and asked if I was not the author so and so, and she named my name.

I turned as red as a beet* Author! I felt completely exposed. I was embarrassed, and thus I said, “No!”

If it is really true that one must lose all inhibitions before one can become a true artist … well, I'll probably never become a true artist.

Isn't it really only inhibition which prevents me from putting my name on this manuscript? I know many who would love to brag that they had written it. Perhaps they should be envied.

Soon the waitress walked over to my corner again, this time to announce that I must be mistaken, because indeed I was the gentleman in question. And she handed me a letter. A pale-pink envelope, addressed in pencil and the handwriting was without any particular character, difficult to decide whether written by a man or a woman.

The waitress noticed my reluctance. She obviously was a woman of experience. She said, “If you write plays, don't be stupid and take this letter. She can help you and she can harm you anyway she wants. And if you don't need the theater then you can always tell her to go and get ….” She suddenly started to laugh without finishing her beautiful sentence, saying, “Oh, well, that's what she likes best anyway!”

I had not yet been hardened enough in the art of making blunt remarks not to be slightly upset. I knew that I had correctly guessed the essence of the expression, though I could not believe that such a thing was possible in Munich.

Finally I convinced myself that there may be something which I did not know about and which bore investigating (I was still young then, and considered myself fully matured in sexual matters, though in reality I had not experienced a thing). I opened the letter. Yes, there was something new! The letter was signed by a very famous actress of that time and it read,

“My dear, beautiful Sir:

I know you. Anton (and here followed the name of a famous journalist), who knows everybody, has assured me that you are an author. He even thinks you have talent and that old pig usually can never find a good word for anybody. But I've known your name for a long time because your father was one of my best friends when I was still an actress in your hometown. As a matter of fact, remembering your father right now has made me so hot and bothered that I would love to tear the clothes off your back right here and now. From where I am sitting I have an excellent view of your nice and muscular behind. Oh boy, I wish I could bury my face between its nice cheeks and bury my tongue way up your little bunghole. Why don't you come over to our table, I bet you have never experienced a thing like that. You don't have to do anything, I will do it all. Come directly over to my table and afterward we will go to my home for the experience of your life.”

I read the letter three times.

She had signed that letter with her full name!

I remembered the name, though today I can no longer recall it, as one of the most famous actresses and, once upon a time, the treasure of my hometown. And she had written a letter like this? She once was one of my father's best friends? I must admit that I had become somewhat curious. At least I had to see the woman. I arose, and at the same time a raucous female voice from the other side of the cafe penetrated the whole room. I saw a large and stately lady walk toward me, her expensive clothes slightly disheveled and her reddish countenance betrayed the fact that she was not entirely sober. “I thought I'd pick you up myself so that I don't have to send that damned waitress over here again.”

She offered me her hand which was covered with a glove that reached above her elbow and which was not entirely clean.

When I hesitated, she simply grabbed my hand.

“You've got to sit down before I can grope you.”

I resisted. Suddenly she became quite excited and almost shouted at me, “Don't be so goddamn stupid, or I'll make such a noise that everybody will come over here to look at what's going on.”

After the first impression that she made upon me I did not doubt for one moment that she would not carry out that threat, and since I had no desire for a scandal, I sat down. It was bad enough that I had been recognized. She tugged at me and soon I sat next to her. Another lady, and a few gentlemen to whom I was introduced (one of them was a very famous author who only came to Munich to get dead drunk on beer) occupied the same table. When the actress told the author that I also was a writer, he asked me, “Are you professional or do you just write for fun? Excuse me my ignorance, dear Sir, but as a matter of principle I refuse to read the shit the others pour out; I have enough trouble with my own!”

The other gentleman and the two ladies laughed out loud and called the author a character. But the actress used the interruption to squeeze my thighs with the one hand she had slipped under the table, whispering, “Open the two first buttons so I can get inside.” When I did no such thing, she tried to do it herself. It seemed to excite her terribly, because she suddenly bit me on the upper arm. The author had not missed a thing, because he suddenly said, “Oh God, the old pig is horny again!” and turning toward me, he asked, “Doesn't she make you puke?”

I must admit that I felt rather uneasy, but on the other hand I was also very curious. I did not resist when she let her hand wander around till it had found my member, and when she did find it she pressed herself against me and groaned out loudly. I really became meaner than I had ever been before in my life and I talked to her as if I were her pimp. But that seemed to excite her even more. She tried to wriggle her other hand under my behind, and when she finally succeeded she stuck her middle finger up my rear. That finally became too much for me to bear and I started to get up. The author, who had become very drunk, blurted, “Finally he's getting smart … 'Tis much better that the two of you finish that at home … but, beware, my boy, don't let her bite it off, I know that slut and she wants to take everything in her big mouth.”

I paid my check as fast as I could but I was not fast enough, because ere I had reached the exit, the actress was at my side again. “Oh, why didn't we stay a while longer,” and without any shame she put her arm around my middle. I finally decided that the time had come to inform the lady that I had no intentions whatsoever of continuing our acquaintance and she started to scream like a fishwife.

No, I beg indulgence from all fishwives, she sounded more like a lowdown whore in a cheap brandy fit. I fled into the nearest hansom and offered the coachman twice the fare if he could get me out of there as fast as possible. He turned around and said, “I see she's drunk again.”

I could still hear her voice when the cab turned around the corner, “You wanna be an author: hah, piss on you … bastard!” I had to smile when I entered the hotel, because in the lobby hung a life-size portrait poster of the lady, billing her as Ophelia.

The next morning I left Munich.