I Love Tomboys
When I was twelve years old and I was stroking my very first so-called girlfriend’s naked, hairy ass in our homemade secret hideout somewhere among cardboard boxes, rat poison, and industrial pallets, I knew what to expect for the rest of my life. Because she wasn’t one of those normal girls who at some point started slapping makeup on their faces like crazy, going for pedicures and shaving their legs, but my best buddy. For several years now.
We jumped over sandbags as Power Rangers, beat each other black and blue in the woods, and watched our first porn movies on TM3 late at night with her little brothers, only to laugh at her own flesh and blood and push her down the stairs with hooting and hollering. I admired Maria with every fiber of my being. She was my first tomboy.
Three years later, we had sex for the first time. She had just come up to her room from waitressing at her mother’s restaurant, and we talked all night. About crazy dreams and the future and Xavier Naidoo. With a flick of my hand, I slipped her light yellow panties off her body and rummaged through her hairy lower abdomen.
A good friend was sleeping next to me, smiling, the full moon shining into the room—how romantic it was. The fact that she confessed to me a year later that she was actually a lesbian and had already wanted Liesl and Beate to hug her during nap time in kindergarten didn’t stop me from continuing this love for female buddies.
In fact, I’ve never been into annoying chicks. With their high heels and handbags and glittery lips. Although I did date some of them. To test them out. What I wanted were girls with brains. And directness. And a sense of roughness. I liked the ones who wore boxer shorts instead of thongs. Who got bloody knees on skateboards instead of burning in tanning beds.
Who could assert themselves and were cheeky and had their own opinions and would rather fuck life than let it penetrate them. Who you got to know as good friends and who suddenly stood in front of you with plump tits and ready pussies, smiling, but who hadn’t changed. And then tried out what was new. Like with Maria. Or Anastasia. Or Wenke.
A good friend once told me that I like this type of girl because I grew up without a father. And that’s why I try to regain lost authority by any means necessary. That may be true, but it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t stand girls who say yes and amen to everything. Who have to conform to the prevailing ideal of beauty. And who giggle and twinkle and never fart or grunt or hit. How boring. I might as well be with a doll.
That’s why I’ve always had the most beautiful and possibly also the most educational times of my life with female beings who were more like buddies than girlfriends. With whom I could drink and do coke and puke and bawl at night, only to be allowed to fuck them on the balcony while Muse played at full volume—because it was summer and the city was threatening to melt in the heat. The small, firm breasts with those insanely great, puffy nipples because God was undecided until the last second about what gender he should give them for his own sake. And I was infinitely grateful to him for that.
And who first went next door to loudly defecate during sex, only to return a few minutes later grinning, recounting their abstruse and crazy adventures on the toilet, and then continuing to copulate with a greasy salami sandwich and a freshly opened bottle of beer in their mouths. Then they took photos of themselves with a crappy digital camera from the discount store and sent them to another one of our buddies the next day. That’s true love, far removed from all the crappy Disney movies and Bravo photo love stories and picture book advice guides. What a load of crap.
So I continue to live my life as normal, occasionally sleeping with boring people whose stories have been told a thousand times before, and secretly hoping that one day I’ll fall head over heels for a cheeky, crazy, uninhibited, burping, farting, beer-drinking, dirty-laughing, makeup-free, small-breasted, self-confident buddy type with freckles and a pretty vagina and a mischievous smile and abstruse experiences, and vice versa, who isn’t afraid of life and laughs just as disgustingly as I do at every hollow blonde joke.
Someone who has a past to dive into. With ups and downs and favorite movies and songs that are so great you want to kneel down and worship them. Who spent more time with other boys on the soccer field than in the Barbie dream house. And who is a she, and you know at first glance: Dude, with her, the rest of your life will be a big mix of sex and beer pong and beating up loudmouths and going on trips and setting cars on fire and admiring the sunset and listening to Slipknot and throwing money around and partying and splashing around naked in the lake and shoving bottles down each other’s throats and smiling at each other with that very specific grin that you only know when you’re fucking your best friend. That’s the best thing. About life. I promise.