and it's name is...
I thought it might be a bit creepy to name my hymen although in a world where Vampire love, skype sex and paying for those little see through bags to put your toiletries in at airports have become somewhat normalized, what IS creepy really?
My absence has been due to some non-hymen related incidents, the details of which I won't bore you with. Ok maybe just a bit then.
It was winter and there was snow everywhere. Not the shitty London "can't decide between rain and snow" snow, but proper snow. To get a true idea of what I mean you should compare the inside of your freezer to a scene in Dr Zhivago, a good one with crying women and Omar Sharif looking broodily into the distance. Now conjure up a winter's day in Stratford and pound it over the head with one of people dressed in elaborate furs in Siberia. So there I was (in the latter scene), ploughing through the snow uphill with my inadequate London shoes and my inadequate Middle-Eastern eyes frozen to a slushy pulp inside my skull. Annoying Norwegians whizzing past me in their adequate clothing and their appropriate Scandinavian attitudes. Smug and non-communicative and infinitely successful in all of their endeavors. I couldn't beat them, or join them, so I left them.
If you've lost the plot then that makes three of us. Me, you and my hymen. I think I was trying to say that I was somewhat distracted from the world of blogging and of informing you all of how crucial hymen preservation is. But fear not hymen enthusiasts for I am in Berlin now. There aren't many hymens here but the weather is nice and the falafels are cheap.
Like the missionaries who freed the savages of the world from their primitive religious beliefs, I come to this strange and colorful land bearing superior ideas about morality and sex (or lack thereof). In return I sway gently to the sound of their crazy old people shouting on the trains. Their melodic cries of "incestuous foreigners" running warmly through my body and brightening my days substantially. Sometimes I take a deep breath on the U-Bahn, trying to identify the different smells which erupt from the armpits of commuters. What's that today then I hear you ask? Gouda? A hint of Parsley mingling with chicken soup? Marvelous. Marvelous I tell you.
I started my trip here talking to a woman who didn't even remember having a hymen. I felt needed and worthwhile. As I stepped over the carcasses of the homeless in Kreuzberg and skipped past the destitute in Charlottenberg I saw strange woman, dressed as men and kissing each other, as if it were normal. I felt then as I do now, that much work needs to be done here. I just didn't know where to start.
but like a falafel and halloumi sandwich with sauerkraut, sometimes the fusion of otherwise incompatible ingredients is the key to unlocking life's little secrets. Those women who copulate with each other do so without damaging their hymens. We should remember that and hold true to the sentiment- Gay is (somewhat) ok. Let them copulate until its time to get married and engage with real life again.
Similarly men do not have hymens (I am told by my worldly friends), so gay men can't be bad actually. We must remember, in this crazy and mixed up world, that if there is no danger to our hymens, no ill intentions should be harbored for those around us. Berlin has taught me this and so much more...
Signing off until next time, me and my hymen.
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