Sprechen sie Deutsche?

Everybody looks the same, or so the song says. But European travel – which I hadn’t done for a few years – proves it.

A few years ago one could go to a typical Spanish, Greek, Italian or French hotel/complex and be able to pinpoint, from hairstyles and clothes alone, a person’s nationality. Now we all merge into one – men with shaved heads and a collection of tattoos, women in bikinis with pierced belly buttons and their own bits of body art. Even people’s t-shirts don’t give a clue – many, whether they are British, Danish, German or Swedish seem to have English language slogans on their tops. Apart from actually attempting a conversation, the only way to recognise a person’s lingo is to zoom in close to see what books or magazines they are reading.

The other question addling my brain since I returned from such a trip is when did all the men go bald? A quick head count in the immediate vicinity of the baby pool puts the percentage of baldies at around 60. Or at least from where I was sitting. Maybe the stress of fatherhood these days is far greater than it was.

Being a single mum forced to holiday with her 70-odd mother and two children, there is very little mischief I can get up to in such a setting. Even my drinks were limited to one substandard glass of red per evening, from a push-button dispenser, with my all-inclusive buffet meal. It was then bed at about 9pm with the kids sprawled out on sofa beds in the next room.

So, all I could do was distract myself with a holiday crush for the week and use him to fantasise as I lay staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep for the whirr of the air conditioning, the Spanish guitarist playing by the pool and my brain’s refusal to cease activities.

This is what got me started on the uniformity of nationalities. I thought he was English. He had shaved head, a few slightly more tasteful tattoos than some of the others, a slim but muscular physique and pale blue eyes. He also had an attractive girlfriend with short dark hair and a two-year-old daughter. But this was just a private crush, so no harm done, readers.

So, I was standing on the edge of the baby pool making sure my toddler didn’t make off with other children’s toys (again) and he was nearby, watching his daughter. There was a bit of grey, slimy-looking grating all around the pool. He lifted it up and looked underneath, slightly disgusted.

“What is that?” I thought he asked. I replied: “It’s just slimy.” Not one of my sparkling retorts, I admit. He then just walked off without responding.

I thought he was rather rude and was a little hurt. But later on I overheard a conversation and realised he was actually German. “Was ist das” does sound a lot like “what is that”.

So, I started noticing him a little more, as he was always around when we were around i.e. stuck around the baby pool with a toddler who likes to make a run for it now and then. He smiled at my little boy when he waved to him, he crawled around the pool with his little girl on his back, he chopped up her food at tea time. His girlfriend seemed to be on a break from childcare.

I am not sure whether I was just attracted to his fatherly enthusiasm – many other men were doing similar stuff around me – or that he had a really handsome face, despite his bald head turning a deeper crimson each day in the sun. Maybe it was teen nostalgia – he looked a bit like Matt Goss (remember the band Bros from the late 1980s?), pre hair transplant. There was just something about German Guy that had a little extra sparkle.

So, dozing off to the air conditioning whirr, as the Spanish guitar finally stopped, I would imagine sneaking out of the buffet restaurant (once the kids were settled with their chips and my mum was sitting with them). I would wait in some shadowy area, a safe distance from the hotel kitchen, possibly near a lemon tree.

German Guy would appear a couple of minutes later. We would not utter a word between us as he kissed me slowly, stroked my cheek and neck, his hands moving down to my breasts as he fondled and stroked them. He pressed me against the wall and kissed more deeply and I felt his breathing getting heavier and the hard bulge in his trousers pressing against me.

I stroked it from the outside of his trousers and hesitated over the zip. He was surer and took a hand straight up my dress and into my knickers – going right for the target. I gasped with excitement at the sudden, but welcome intrusion. If he was going straight in there, so would I. I fumbled down his zip, grabbing the warm, solid, ample member inside.  I wanted to taste every ounce of him, but we were short on time and people would start looking for us soon.

I crouched down and sucked and flicked my tongue along his beautiful penis. He moaned and swayed, and pulled me up before he lost control. He pressed me deeper into the wall and I took one foot out of my knickers as I realised this had to happen now or never.

German Guy held me still and thrust deep into me. I gasped again. We urgently, hungrily, passionately fucked. I stroked his firm buttocks, tasted his sweat and smelt the faint scent of Jasmine in the air.

I could have done this for hours, but we were disturbed by the sound of someone coming out of the kitchen around the corner and clicking a cigarette lighter. Quickly, we pulled up our underclothes, shared a lingering kiss and crept back to the dining room, me a few seconds ahead of him, sitting back down with our families.

Really, I was still lying in the dark, listening to the whirr of the air con. He was probably humping his girlfriend somewhere down the corridor.

 

Check out my blog – drunkenslutmum.co.uk

 

 

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