Traumfrau

I was obsessed with Nina Bott when I was younger. Completely, unambiguously obsessed. She was on this German soap called Alles was zählt, and I watched it for years, not because the show was good, but because she was in it. When she moved to other projects, I followed. Terrible TV movies, low-budget productions that aired at weird times on channels I’d never normally watch—”Ein unverbesserlicher Dickkopf,” Die Sturmflut, some forgettable thing where she seduced a guy with a serious problem. None of it mattered. If she was in it, I watched it.

I was that person for a while. The kind of guy with a completely unreasonable type, absolutely shameless about the pursuit. Pure horniness. Pure devotion to a face on a screen you’ll never touch.

She’s done Playboy a few times now. Got work done on her chest at some point—it felt like a betrayal when that happened, the way these things do, because the fantasy is always about a specific person, not perfect anatomy. But she’s Nina Bott. She can do whatever she wants. She always could.

That was never really the point anyway.