Berlin is no longer the city of my youth, an erotic wonderland of sinful nights and carefree adventures. All that changed when the National Socialist movement came into power in 1933.
I shall not speak of those later years, for I perceived and touched the Berlin of the 1920s, a confection of sexual delights lighter than air. And just as fleeting after the first taste.
What wild days. Heated arousal everywhere. In the cabarets, nightclubs, cafés. I rushed into torrid love affairs, dared to defy society with the use of intoxicants, bared my breasts as well as my soul when I danced and never looked back. I can say that I don’t regret anything I did.
To this day, I retain strong emotional ties with Berlin, a deep seated empathy for the struggle of my jaded youth to forge my way in a world uncertain of its future. This diary is filled with those memories and, though written in the past tense, it lives forever in me in the present.
Lady Eve Marlowe
I would like to share with you memorable moments from “The Berlin Sex Diary of Lady Eve Marlowe:”
From DAY 3:
Her body floated across the tiny nightclub floor with elegance and grace, her spirit ethereal and dreamlike, her steps as light as the gossamer notes of The Dying Swan played by the violinist, her art of dance shaped by a lifetime of diligence to her craft…but it was her passion that all who were there would never forget.
A beautiful swan who lives on…
From DAY 8:
I never forgot the Brownshirts and their raucous nighttime political rallies with flaming yellow torches, billowing banners and red armbands tightening the noose around anyone who did not follow them. The Nazis claimed to offer the workers a path to self-glory and urged the men to stand up and fight for the Fatherland.
But it would be the mothers like Else’s who suffered.
From DAY 11:
I noticed he made notes on the menu as he spoke, then he went about his business; but not before reminding me that giving away my youth to an older man without love was just as fruitless as keeping a butterfly in a glass jar.
I have never forgotten that.
His name was Vladimir Nabokov and years later he wrote a novel called Lolita.
From DAY 19:
I shivered, my wrists pulled up over my head and fastened to the iron bars of the cage, my blond hair frizzed by the lions’ hot breaths, my breasts heaving up and down. The audience cheered each time Jürgen cracked his whip, his white scarf whipping around him. He never thought about what may or may not happen in the cage, he told me, but that moment and nothing else.
From DAY 25:
I saw a man’s reflection in the store window that still haunts me to this day.
Broad-brimmed hat, long overcoat, black boots. Eyes shadowed in dark glasses with thick gold rims, oily black hair cut unevenly and curling around his large ears. His head bent to one side in what must have been a painful position.
A creature so covered in black deeds from head to toe it was as if he partook in a Satanic sex ceremony with every heaving breath he took. An exile from all that was good, a man whose soul was so polluted with mortal sins the Devil himself cringed when this denizen of lust walked through the portal to evil and never looked back…
The scourge of Berlin.
Coming tomorrow May 31, 2009:
“Cleopatra’s Perfume” video preview