Lena and Paula: Chapter One
In my life there are really only a handful of future scenarios that fill me with genuine, animal-level dread and the occasional sleepless night. The first is earning more money than my asshole of a father. Because as far as I’m concerned it’s been empirically established: all those fucking zeros are why that idiot constantly jets from world capital to world capital with a whole army of blonde, anorexic secretaries no older than I am, leaving his loving family to draw the short straw every single time. That he’s fucking at least half of these soulless Barbie dolls is something my mother doesn’t know. Maybe doesn’t want to know.
Another fear I have, entirely uncontrollable, is small children. I don’t know how to deal with them, don’t know what you’re supposed to do with them, and I absolutely cannot process how it’s possible that eight-year-old gnomes in baggy pants with even bigger balls will either call me a slut or constantly grab at my ass at the bus stop. And if you smack one, suddenly they’re bawling and calling for their bull of a father, who then tears into you with a perfect blend of disgust and dripping arousal. Thanks. Beautiful morning.
But most of all—absolutely most of all—I dread the thought of losing my bikini top mid-jump at a pool or a lake. That’s exactly what happened to my best friend Paula last summer. Since then the entire school knows she has the smallest tits and the ugliest pubic hair in recorded history. And it’s not just those precocious little bitches from the fifth year who find this endlessly hilarious—Torsten, self-declared complete moron and natural frontrunner for BILD reader of the year, never misses a chance to ride that one.
Though in this particular moment Torsten was rather more occupied with riding me, making disgusting grunting noises, and nearly toppling off the bed in his failed attempt to finger me while simultaneously fucking me. He gave up on that. Which was genuinely better for both of us, since he was anyway just flopping around on my belly like a deranged idiot. At least I didn’t have to look him in the eyes during his very personal interpretation of World War II, which gave me the chance to stare out the open window on that sunny day into the park below and wonder whether Paula would actually come by this afternoon with my history homework and the Douglas voucher. There was a new Puma perfume I absolutely had to have—it smelled like a blend of vanilla and raspberry and apparently went incredibly well with my naturally phenomenal scent.
Turn around, you pig!
came from behind, and before I’d fully registered it I was already on my back, and Torsten’s miniature excuse for a cock was steering purposefully toward my nose.
The idea of going to Berlin—turning my life completely upside down and finally figuring out what I actually wanted to do with my existence—came to me a few minutes after this pivotal moment, in Torsten’s grimy bathroom. I’d just washed my face with warm water and was holding a towel in my hands when I accidentally stared directly into my own deep green eyes, which gazed back at me with something close to contempt. I examined my face slowly while post-romantic Rammstein drifted in from the living room. The smell of marijuana reached me. And in that moment it became clear: I was more than just a small redheaded girl whose sweet face existed as a cum dump. I had character. I was fucking creative. I was something. And I had great tits.
Armed with this revelation I walked into the living room, grabbed my clothes, ran past Torsten with a loud Adios, you wanker!
and stumbled out the door into the courtyard with something close to relief. The elderly deaf-mute couple sitting on the green bench against the wall seemed to be enjoying my outdoor striptease. I took my time getting dressed, pulled a cigarette from my jacket pocket, and made my way to the bus station. God help any gnome who was hanging around there.