It's a bit after one in the morning when he approaches me in the club, clad in sleek fuchsia vinyl leggings and a black velvet vest. More interestingly, he carries a half-litre tumbler of Franziskaner in his hand and a smile on his freshly-painted lips -- both fully intended to put me at ease as much as possible. I grin thankfully, flattered by his cordiality but impressed nonetheless, and invite him to join my isolated booth near the pinball machines.

He introduces himself as Uwe, a name common enough to easily forget after the befuddling haze of this night's impending debaucheries, yet somehow it still sticks out to this day. He's solidly built, with a frame that could have belonged to that of a high-stamina footballer or swimmer, though he was, by his own admission, no athlete. He was from Würzburg, originally, with a light, barely noticable trill to his "r's" pointing to his otherwise indeterminable southern heritage. Despite this, he showed himself to be a very bright boy throughout the early stages of our encounter, lending his words an educated, yet colloquial bent to them, and taking pause when necessary to gather himself, to express himself as sucinctly and articulately as possible. Therefore it should come as no surprise that Uwe turned out to be in university, a Diplomstudent in nearby Tübingen, earning decent marks in sociology and (*chuckle*) gender studies.

The dregs of the heavy, flavourful beer having vanished in a whirlwind of frothy head down my throat, we decide to make the most of the night by lining up some shots of tequila. In those salad days I could have probably drunk paint thinner all night, bashed my head with a cinder block until the morning, and still have been ready to show up for work on time, so my digestive system offers little to no protest to the 4 centiliters of low-grade poison. Uwe, though, isn't quite as seasoned the alcoholic as I; matching me shot for shot brings on the telltale puckered mouth and twitchy mien of a boy who has never experienced the full effect of hard liquor.

Fortunately, the recovery of his composure gives us enough pause for each of us to size the other up, after which follows one of those nice, interminable eye-to-eye stares, the kind of intimacy you can only really capture during a first date with somebody, when everything about them, above all, the potential of their feelings for you, is still a mystery waiting to be uncovered. Emboldened by the half-litre and now three shots under my belt, I lean in carefully, encircle his pale wrist with with my slender thumb and forefinger, and make the inevitable proposal that's been swimming about in our alcohol- and hormone-addled central nervous systems for the past couple of minutes.

Half an hour later, we are crammed in an unheated, sickly lit stall in the train station toilet, with me straddling him from above. A couple of stumblebums looking for a place to shoot up, as well as a Turkish custodian, have wandered in here, but none has disturbed us -- they know what function a public men's room serves after midnight. We kiss and caress in the fluorescent miasma, oblivious to absolutely everything around us and completely focused on the carnal pleasures directly at hand. Finally, I can stand it no longer and unbuckle my belt, lowering my trousers to the greasy, urine-soaked floor. Uwe readies himself in gleeful anticipations, fingers clenched around my hips like I am a a human airplane joystick.

Until my underwear is removed and the full, unobstructed view of my nether regions sees for the first time the dim light of the restroom. For a while after the operation, the doctors had told me I might expect some retroactive growth in the area around my urethra (firmly secured with a metal clip) that might necessitate removal. Fortunately, these predictions turned out to be false. Directly below the said area, however, I managed, with the help of some black market undifferentiated tissue, to form a nice elastic "pocket" in the recesses of my pelvic cavity. Sensation is still not quite what it was when my God-given bits were still in place, but it's more than enough to achieve a decent orgasm, which is the only thing left on my mind as I rasp heavily in my shocked consort's ear:

...fick mich in meine Tasche!

This has been a nodeshell rescue by Deckard97. Hope you enjoyed it!

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