Sexpat and the City: Ain’t complaining…

by Mr. Sexpat

Mr. Sexpat is a twentysomething English expat living, and occasionally loving, in Berlin. Join us as we follow him into the seamy underbelly of the city’s single scene.

“Breaking news: I’ve met someone.

APPLAUSE!

She has a boyfriend.

Don’t worry, I have met someone else. What staggering luck right?!

CHEERING!

She lives in a different country.

GROAN.

Normally we’d go round a third time in this fashion but I sense that you are beginning to recognise a pattern forming. I am here today to tell you about a new nadir reached by this particular single male – Friends Visiting Friends In Berlin (or, as I like to call it, Shooting Yourself In The Penis).

As many of you have had chums rocking up for long, debauched weekends of tourism, sleeping in your bed and crawling along Weserstrasse, I’m sure you can understand what a tempting honeypot this can be for the desperate among us.

At first your friend’s friends seem super-attractive because you already have a lot in common (a shared language, some sexual organs, etc) and the fact that these beautiful vacationers are one Kevin Bacon away on the social ladder means a certain amount of trust XP is gained. Plus you get to play the single cool guy making it in Berlin yeeeah! I mean if this isn’t the plot for a sexy scene in a German porno then I don’t know what is!

Having double double checked with your fellow Berlinerpat pal that said target is single, many a European dollar is spent plying them with alcohol mixed with more guile than it would take to fuck a snake charmer. Even heading to White Trash at 2am seems like a good idea… until your target casually drops one infamous and awful word into a sentence: “My boyfriend loves this band!”

I am Napolean Bonaparte’s tortured ex-testicle.

Pictures from Paris

Amazingly I fall for this every. Fucking. Time. I find it hard being polite to new people as it is, but I figure if my friend’s fit friend thinks I’m a “nice guy” then within the space of the weekend they’ll pity me enough to give me a blowjob in the Bassy toilets or at least a sympathetic handjob while waiting for the N27.

But once the B-word is uttered a soul-destroying look glazes over my eyes and I suppress a very natural urge to break my own spine on the nearest table edge. Once out of the psychological danger zone, I attempt to transform the tears in my empty wallet into real cash money so that I can then purchase eleven thousand Berliner Kindl, smoke an entire pack of Nil Weiss and watch the sun come up while drowning in a lonely pool of my own sick.

Basically kids, it’s a losing situation at the Loss Factory in Loserville. Do single people even exist anymore?! According to 2012 they don’t. And what lesson have we learned? Either: Don’t bother leaving your WG unless it’s for food/to escape a gas leak OR Stop trying to mack on the mates of your mates, and start looking for love in all the right places.

Whatever it is, try looking up FML in the Urban Dictionary and you’ll find a picture of me, eating my own limbs.”