An Untimely Friend Request

The rain was loud and heavy on the car roof as we left the marina. Lothar received frequent instructions from the female GPS voice on his phone.

We were back on the main road when the rain stopped as abrupt as it had started.

"I'm afraid I'm going to need another one of these before we get to Hamburg, I said as I butted out my cigarette in the ashtray. "Could we stop at a filling station?"

"Sure," Lothar said with a smile.

"There's nothing better than driving a car while smoking. Almost nothing. You should try it," I said.

"No thanks. But I'll be glad to watch you smoke and drive. Would you like to drive my car?"

"Yeah. I'd like that. Before we had Miranda, I used to smoke when I was driving our VW Fox. Then I didn't want to smoke with a child in the car. And when we got the divorce, the parent who had the child also had the car. So I never got to smoke behind the wheel. It was such a relief when I got the BMW where I could fold down the roof."

"I can imagine. We can switch at the gas station."

A few minutes later, he turned into an Aral station. I went inside to buy ham and cheese sandwiches, soft drinks and cigarettes. I gave Lothar, who had moved to the passenger seat, the choice between Coke and Fanta and he turned out to be a Fanta kind-of-guy. Luckily, so I could have the Coke, which I placed in the cup holder, as I sat down in the driver's seat.

Lothar handed me the key.

"Okay. Back to Hamburg," I said and kicked off the flip-flops to drive barefoot.

"Actually...," Lothar hesitated.

"What?"

"I was wondering if you have any plans for the rest of the day."

I thought for a moment. What exactly was he asking?

"Not really. Just relaxing and getting ready for another workday at seven tomorrow morning," I answered in a noncommittal way.

"It's kind of warm in here. Would you like to go for a swim?"

I was all sweaty and having skipped the shower that morning, I would really like a swim.

"I really would. It's too bad I left my bikini at home."

"I know this lake a bit to the south of here where you won't need a bikini. We could eat our sandwiches there and swim. It's really secluded, it's the former DDR so it's mainly FKK," Lothar said in a persuasive tone, using the German abbreviations for Communist East Germany and skinny-dipping.

There was a moment's silence as I considered whether I wanted to swim in the nude with this 21-year-old that I'd just met and who probably had his hormones run wild at the thought of my naked body. Even though he was a little forward he seemed young innocent and definitely manageable. And divinely handsome, I might add.

Lothar spoke into the silence:

"It would give me a chance to see all the tattoos you keep talking about," he said with a grin.

"Okay. I guess I asked for this," I smiled at him. "Where do I go?"

His grin broadened:

"There's a road to the left about a kilometer ahead."

I opened the Camel Blue pack, picked a cigarette and lit it with my lighter. I blew smoke out the open window to my left, put the key into the ignition and left the job of handling my cigarette to my lips as I used my hands to drive.

Half an hour later Lothar was directing me down narrow roads with no asphalt and we ended at a stretch of sand and grass at an idyllic lakeside. We left the car, threw our clothes in the grass and ran into the lake that deepened surprisingly close to the bank.

We swam around for a few minutes, enjoying the water's cooling effect on our overheated, sweaty bodies. Then we left the water and ate our sandwiches in the grass, both lying naked to dry in the sun. We were alone at this amazing spot.

Lothar studied the Hamburg tattoos on my back and butt while I was lying on my belly.

"I really like your tattoos," he said. "And you can clearly identify each of the four Beatles by their faces. That's very well done."

"Yeah, isn't it?" I replied with my mouth full of sandwich. "I only get to see that one in mirrors and on pictures. But I really like it. I had it made by an old guy. He must be way past 80 now, at the Reeperbahn. He claimed he knew the Beatles back in their St. Pauli days."

"Really?"

"Yeah. But then again: A lot of old pimps and bartenders at the Reeperbahn claim to have been so close with the Beatles," I said and held up two fingers.

We were silent for a bit, chewing.

"I'm glad you like my tattoos," I continued. "Last year I went on a date with a guy who called them 'gaudy'. I don't think he meant that in any positive way and the date didn't make it to the main course."

"Gaudy?" Lothar said. "They're not gaudy. They're beautiful."

"It's nice of you to say so. But I guess some people find traditional sailors' tattoos, you know, old-fashioned Reeperbahn style like mine, kitschy. It's a question of taste. And I like my tattoos."

"Why did you get tattooed in the first place?"

"I got these two in high school," I explained, pulled my wet hair back and pointed to the stars at my ear. "Then I had this bad experience as a model..."

"What was bad about it?"

"I guess I felt... used."

"I guess that the tattoos were somehow a... way to take back control of my body. I figured I would only fit into a very narrow niche as a model if I got a lot of tattoos. Later my husband, my ex Andreas, who you just met, liked the idea and started giving me tattoos for my birthday and Christmas."

"When's your birthday?"

"It's December 6th. So during December I have traditionally spent a lot of hours in the tattooist's chair."

"Did you have your husband's name tattooed somewhere?"

I laughed:

"No. Luckily not. But I've got Miranda's just above my belly button. And I left a blank spot just below it in case I decide she should have a little sister or brother."

"Can I see?"

"Sure!" I said as I emptied my Coca-Cola can and reached for my cigarettes. I opened the pack, put a cigarette in my mouth and lit it before I rolled around.

"Then you'll also get a chance to study the fighting octopuses," I smiled as I brushed sand off my tits and continued:

"I must admit that the shape of the octopuses changed when I breastfed Miranda. They droop a bit, don't they? But what the hell!"

"Oh. They look very natural. Isn't that what octopuses are like? I mean very soft and...."

"...squidgy, you mean?" I interrupted him with a laugh.

He laughed back at me:

"I guess you could argue that squidgy is like the essence of being an octopus. Or a squid."

I noticed that his dick had grown remarkably, after I'd turned around although he was trying to casually hide it with his hand. Apparently, he liked tattooed tits.

We spend almost two hours in the grass during which I told Lothar the whole story of the photo shoot on Sylt in 2004, how I became a smoker and eventually the owner of a 1970s BMW (more about this in the story My Brief Career as a Smoking Model).

Lothar told me about his parents in Stade and his life between the fourth and fifth semester of studying at the faculty of law at Hamburg University.

Later we took small, picturesque countryside avenues back to the city where we arrived in mid-afternoon.

"Now let's have a look at that wheel that needs to be changed," Lothar said as I found a parking spot for his car.

"You really don't need to do that. You've helped me so much already."

"That's okay. I've done it before so it won't take long."

After the wheel change, my gratitude made it self-evident that I invited him inside for a drink and we spent the rest of the afternoon drinking cold Prosecco and eating salted peanuts in the sun on my balcony overlooking the lively street below.

As dinnertime approached, I invited Lothar to a nice tapas restaurant on the Hansaplatz. He was still in his running gear. I, however, withdrew to the bathroom and spent half an hour doing my makeup and choosing a short green dress from my Sylt collection. Front and back it had a very low neckline that revealed my Hamburger Deern statement and a lot of other eye-catching tattoos.

On a disciplined diet of black coffee, cigarettes and an occasional meal of raw vegetables, I had spent the previous six weeks successfully trying to lose enough weight to squeeze myself into the dresses from the photoshoot on Sylt in 2004 without looking like an elephant. I stepped into the stiletto sandals I had swaggered around in on Sylt, lit another cigarette and presented myself to Lothar.

"Wow! That's a model!" he commented from the balcony.

"I'm ready. Are you?" I asked and exhaled smoke from my cigarette.

He was. Walking across the neighbourhood I reached for Lothar's supportive hand a couple of times to keep my balance in the heels on the uneven cobblestones.

We found a nice table outside and sat down, glancing at the delicious menus.

At the table next to ours, there was a young, extremely pretty woman who was tattooed all over. Of her visible body parts just her hands, head and neck were not covered. She was wearing a tight, short halterneck dress, clearly designed to expose a maximum of skin, and stiletto sandals. Together with her husband or boyfriend, she was enjoying after dinner coffee and cigarettes. They spoke in a foreign language.

I couldn't help complimenting her for her tattoos. It turned out Matilde is a schoolteacher from Copenhagen who was spending the weekend in Hamburg with her photographer boyfriend Frederik (read more about Matilde and Frederik in the story Matilde in the World of Media and Art, which is part three of the Matilde trilogy).

Lothar and I ordered our food, and then Matilde and I exchanged tattoo experience over another cigarette. Her experimental jungle theme whole-body tattoo is truly what she refers to with the German word Gesamtkunstwerk while my tattoos are more incoherent and in the traditional Reeperbahn sailor style.

Matilde once even went to a tattoo artists' convention in Amsterdam to show the artwork on her.

As the Danish couple had to catch a ferry, Matilde and I got up and posed in front of Frederik's professional Nikon camera in the evening sun, laughing and displaying our tattoos with enticing smiles.

"Don't forget to send us the pictures," Lothar said as they were leaving for their car.

"I'll write down my e-mail address," I cut in, for a short while wondering why they would send the photos to "us" rather than to me who was on them.

"But just for personal use, right?" Matilde cautioned. "Don't put them on Facebook or anything. I have really bad experience with pictures of me showing up in the strangest places around the internet."

"So have I. I promise to keep them by myself," I replied and asked the waiter for pen and paper as I butted out my cigarette in the ashtray.

We'd only talked for about 15 minutes but I felt such a strong bond with Matilde. In spite of Covid-19 and all we couldn't help hugging each other as they left.

Lothar and I had the most delicious tapas and another bottle of wine. Afterwards I felt too drunk to walk on cobblestones in stilettos so I went barefoot, sandals in one hand, cigarette in the other, watching out for the inevitable broken beer bottles.

"Why don't I carry these?" Lothar asked, took my sandals and held my hand for the rest of the way home to my place. It felt good.

"I would really like to invite you back in," I said as we arrived at my door. "But I have this really early start tomorrow, so..."

"Do you always have to be at the hospital early in the morning?" Lothar asked.

"Not at all. It changes all the time. Tuesday I'm doing the evening shift so I won't have to be at the UKE until four in the afternoon."

"In that case I'd like to invite you to a restaurant tomorrow evening, Sara. In return for the nice dinner you've just paid for."

I smiled at the thought that this young boy assumed that a dinner date would necessarily lead to nocturnal activities that were only possible with a late start Tuesday. But I felt inside that was exactly what I wanted.

I took a deep inhale from my cigarette. Suddenly Lothar leant forward and kissed me on the mouth, trying to open it with his tongue. I badly wanted to kiss him goodnight but I didn't want to suffocate him with my smoke so I withdrew, and exhaled my smoke away from him.

"Wait a second. Let me just get rid of this," I said, laughing.

I threw the half-smoked cigarette on the pavement and almost stepped on it before I realized I was barefoot. When I had emptied my lungs completely of smoke, I gave Lothar a wet kiss on the mouth.

"That was nice! You taste good," he whispered as our lips parted after a while.

"You like my smoker's breath?"

"I do."

"See you tomorrow then!"

"Yeah. I'll text you the name of the restaurant. Is seven a good time?"

"It's perfect!" I smiled and kissed this boy, who could be my child, on the mouth again before I turned around and closed the entrance door behind me.

Monday

I spent that Monday at the hospital thinking about Lothar and looking forward to seeing him again. My warm, tingling feeling of anticipation got a boost when he sent me an SMS around two o'clock with the name and address of an Italian restaurant on a boat in one of the canals in Hamburg's Hafencity. I returned a red heart emoji as a confirmation.

I left the hospital promptly at four in my car and took it to my Turkish mechanic in Altona to have him repair the flat tyre. Restlessly I sat down with my phone in the waiting area along with two other customers who were, like me, wearing masks.

I started going through the friend requests on my Facebook account that I hadn't attended to all summer. I don't know about you but I keep getting a lot of requests from men I don't know, most of them with foreign names.

In my case, I think the phenomenon has to do with the fact that hundreds or thousands of photos from the 2004 shoot on Sylt are out there on the internet and that my name, Sara Cremers, is also somehow connected to the photos. And men, who like watching the 19-year-old version of me smoking cigarettes in body paint and panties, want to be my "friends" on Facebook.

I know I could block people I don't know from sending me friend requests but somehow the volume of this fascinates me. I keep a tight ship on my Facebook account and take care that all the personal stuff and private pictures are posted with a "friends only" symbol of two persons. Occasionally I post statements on German politics or share interesting articles about the nursing profession. And I gladly post those things under the globe symbol that means "public access". Unless I'm distracted and forget to pay attention and happen to share an occasional private picture with the public. In some of those cases, I've gotten hundreds of likes from unknown men within hours before I realize my mistake and change the status of the post. I have over 3.600 "followers", almost exclusively male and probably not because of their interest in nursing or my views on German politics.

I spent the waiting time going through the latest friend requests, removing them one by one -- and each time wondering if this guy could be someone I've actually met in real life and want to connect with.

I had removed way over a hundred requests when I finally saw a familiar face.

It was Lothar. I smiled back at his grinning face on my screen and was about to add him as a friend as I realized that his request dated back to mid-May.

I hesitated. How could he send me a friend request in May when we had only known each other since Sunday morning?

I went outside, pulled down my mask and lit a cigarette before I returned to my screen.

I thought of the last time I had made the mistake of publishing a private photo publicly. Soon I had found it. That was also back in May, around the time of Lothar's friend request. It was quite an innocent picture with me in the foreground, laughing and enjoying a cigarette and a beer and some of my IRL friends in the background. 266 likes it got during the around two hours it was public before I realized the mistake and restricted it. I went through the likes. And there Lothar was again. Liking the picture of me almost two months before we met.

I recapped Sunday's events in my mind. Lothar had been talking an awful lot about smoking, encouraging me to smoke in his car, wanting to watch me smoke while I was driving and when we kissed, he explicitly said he liked my smoker's breath.

If I'd ever met a smoking fetishist (and I have), Lothar was one of them.

I went back to our "accidental" encounter in the street early Sunday morning and wondered what Lothar had been doing in running gear with his car parked in front of a gateway before seven on a Sunday morning. I mean, if he hadn't been stalking me...

The voice of my friendly mechanic interrupted my thoughts:

"There was nothing wrong with that tyre. It just needed air."

"What? No puncture?"

"No. And the valve is all right. Maybe someone let out the air on purpose?" he suggested with a shrug.

"I don't think anyone would do that," I lied.

My mechanic presented me with a bill of 25 € which I paid right away and drove back home in deep thought through the heavy late afternoon traffic.

Back in my apartment at six, I had a cigarette on the balcony, pondering the situation.

As I butted out the cigarette in the ashtray, I had made a decision: I would meet Lothar at restaurant boat at the old warehouses and confront him with what he had done.

I took a long shower, brushed my teeth thoroughly to get rid of my apparently tasty smoker's breath, dressed androgynously in a neutral black T-shirt with a tight sports bra under it, blue Levi's jeans, white tennis socks and my worn-out Birkenstocks, performing the German specialty (and international fashion faux pas) of socks-in-sandals.

I put on no makeup and pulled my hair together in a ponytail. My only visible tattoo was the two discreet stars at my ear.

I pocketed only my keys, phone and credit card and the receipt from the mechanic. I left my cigarettes and lighter on the kitchen counter.

As I rode my bike through the streets of Hamburg's inner city, I realized two things: One: I badly needed another cigarette. And two: The weather had changed and the evening was too chilly for being outside in just a T-shirt.

I didn't exactly hurry, which was on purpose, and arrived 10 minutes late, immediately spotting Lothar who was waiving from a table on the deck of the restaurant ship with a bottle of wine in a cooler in front of him.

I locked my bike, entered the ship and walked towards Lothar who got up to greet me.

He was dressed for the occasion, wearing a nice suit, a white shirt but no tie. It made him look even younger, a bit like an oversized boy at his confirmation. If he'd been underdressed during our restaurant dinner on Sunday evening, I was the one being underdressed now.

I hugged him superficially and remained standing as he sat down again and reached out to invite me to grab the chair in front of him.

"I want to sit inside. It's cold," I protested, trying to be as obnoxious as possible.

"But yesterday you told me you always prefer to sit outside."

"Yesterday was yesterday. Yesterday is not today. Didn't you hear me? I'm cold!"

"I got this table for us so you can smoke, Sara."

"I don't want to smoke. I've quit!"

"You've what?"

Lothar tried to disguise what was definitely disappointment as surprise.

"I've given up smoking!"

"When?"

"Today!"

"Just like that? Cold turkey?"

"That's right!"

"Can you do that?"

"Sure! Why shouldn't I?"

"I heard you explain to your daughter yesterday that you were addicted and unable to quit."

"I quit when I got pregnant," I lied. (Truth be told, I never completely quit during my pregnancy. I cut down drastically but had at least one or two cigarettes every day, which I tried to keep a secret from Miranda's father.) "Why wouldn't I be able to quit again?"