My Berlin blind date takes place just after my second visit to Malta, which isn’t worth writing about. Normally I would not go to Berlin just for a blind date, but in this case it is Sepehr who has, since we met, consistently suggested the idea to both me and his best friend.
I figure that a Berlin blind date with a young Persian hottie has to be a good idea.
I don’t usually know whether I am attracted to people until we meet and exchange conversation and energy. At the moment, though, I am super into Persians, and I assume that this will override everything. I am so into them that it seems to me, at the time, that I am attracted to 100% of Persian men under 30, as long as they originate in Iran.
I have since learned the folly of this logic, but for the moment it’s what drives me, and I fly across Europe to meet Hassan for the first time.
Hassan lives in Dresden, and has to travel to Berlin himself. I rent a hotel room and he pays for half of it. At no time do I think to myself “hey, what if I’m not into this dude?”.
I’ve noted how he and Sepehr talk to each other on each other’s social media, and I love it. They are loving and supportive and build one another up constantly. This kind of platonic love between men is unheard of in the US, and it’s one of the things that makes them both hot to me.
So, I arrive in Berlin for my Berlin blind date.
I check into the room, and take a short walk. It’s my second time in Berlin in as many years. The time before I was there to meet up with one of my dear friends, on a family vacation with his own family and two more. Somehow he and his mother and I end up at the hippest spot on the Spree to watch the last game in the World Cup. We are saving seats for twenty-five Americans, and, needless to say, the Germans hate us.
Repeatedly, in English, I shoo them away from the three tables at the front that we have secured for the group. There is some protest. They hate moving. We can’t save that much space. It’s five minutes before the game and there’s still no one who has arrived to relieve us.
I am incredibly uncomfortable. I message my best friend during it, glaring back at the Germans who are staring at me. He responds:
“STAND YOUR GROUND, MARINE!”
At least there is humor in this world.
I remember my first trip to Berlin, some twenty years earlier. The Berlin wall has fallen less than five years hence, and Berlin is still heavily divided into East and West. I get on the train and take it to the Easternmost stop. I get off and walk through some sort of mall. It feels like having gone back in time 15 years, the products and the styles and the way people behave. It’s my first time in an Eastern Bloc place as an adult, and it leaves an impression.
This visit to Berlin, I don’t end up seeing much. I can see the one stretch of the Berlin wall that remains from my hotel room.
Hassan arrives and takes a shower and applies too much cologne. In my book, any cologne is too much cologne. He smells like he’s gone at himself with body spray.
He’s a little taller than I am, broad shoulders, thick body, but not overweight. Dark hair and grows a shadow within hours after shaving, like many Persians do.
We talk for a little, and then kiss. He’s a terrible kisser. I feel at this point like I’m supposed to follow through with this, but am already very much not into it. There’s just no chemistry.
His breathing turns me off. He gets on top of me in bed and grunts and groans. Snuffles like a pig snorting.
“Oh yeah. Yeah.” he vocalizes, repeatedly.
We make out. At some point during it I realize that he is soft. He’s clearly not turned on. I try not to be insulted by it, because it’s mutual. Our clothing doesn’t even come off before we give up entirely on the idea, without really talking about it. No orgasms are had. It’s a huge disappointment.
We spent the next two nights as roommates. I wear earplugs to deal with his snoring. We try to spend time together. I mainly give him advice, because he’s an idiot.
He takes me to a Persian party the next day to meet some friends of his.
We all hang out in the park. They’re all speaking Persian. I try to meet people. It’s here where my Persian pursuit begins to wane. I am not attracted to any of the men at the party.
For a while, I decide that it must be Germany. That those two nationalities are not the recipe for hotness, it’s only Persians who make it to the United States that I find attractive. Eventually I’m forced to admit that just because Sepehr and Bardia are super hot does not mean that every Persian man I meet will be.
Thus ends the brief phase where I had a “type”, and my Berlin blind date.
More of the hot Persian pursuit:
1: How we met: Young Persian Lover
2: Bardia on Drugs: Babysitter
3: Meeting in Boston: Hot Cougar Roleplay
4: Meeting in Cambridge: The Persian Lovers: Bardia at Cambridge