47 - Read the Signs

47 - Read the Signs

Open marriage has many advantages. One of them is that, even at night, you can usually find someone to talk to—especially if you accidentally drink a triple espresso at 7 p.m., even though a cup of green tea after 6 already turns you into a sugar-rushed flying squirrel.

But when, at two in the morning, the last man had gone to bed, I’d already masturbated three times and still couldn’t sleep; desperation set in.

And boredom.

There was only one solution left:

Tinder.

So there I was, lying in my parents’ guest room, swiping my way through the local male population. Along the way, I came to two realizations.

First, there were far more poly people here than where I live.

Second: I hadn’t dated in German in ages.

After surviving a full week with my family in my hometown without the mister, a date felt like the perfect reward. Other women treat themselves to a bath or new shoes—but the mister says I already have enough of those.

So I treated myself to emotional confusion with strangers from the internet.

It was quickly arranged—with a guy who would have made the mister laugh. He was blond, had longer hair than my husband (current hair length: 2 mm—more beard than hairstyle), and blue eyes. Yes, okay—he was cliché-level German and came from a military family on top of it all. Despite his Prussian demeanor, he was poly and available. That was enough for one evening. And enough to make me feel like a teenager again—lying to my parents because of a date.

Typically German, he arrived too early—but for once, I was actually on time, thanks to unexpectedly good parking luck.

Time flew by. We talked about open relationships and our very different lives. To my astonishment, he’d been in an open relationship for eight years—and had never once had an HIV test. He, in turn, was amazed by our safety measures, which couldn’t have been more German unless our partners had to submit a form before sex.

I was completely thrown when he asked—what felt utterly out of context—whether I wanted to come back to his place.

My brain replayed the last ninety minutes:

No bedroom glances.

No compliments.

No physical contact.

Where was the foreplay?!

Had we skipped a step?

Is this how dating works in Germany?

And then it hit me—too late, of course.

A lyric from Wir sind Helden popped into my head—one of those painfully accurate pop diagnoses of German dating culture:

"Aurélie, so klappt das nie. Du erwartest viel zu viel. Die Deutschen flirten sehr subtil."

(Aurélie, this will never work. You expect far too much. Germans flirt very subtly.)

Oh man.

It was true.

And that’s… a little sad. Apparently German flirting is so subtle that even fluent German isn't enough to recognize it.

What did I learn from all this?

Given the choice, I'd rather sacrifice my mother tongue on a date than my temperament. In theory, my fluent German should have saved me from the night's unexpected ending.

It didn’t.

In my determination to be punctual, I had neglected to read the sign at the entrance to the underground parking garage. The gate wouldn't reopen until 9 a.m.

Which meant the me and the Prussian soldier met exactly the same fate:

Neither of us got in.

The mister was so amused that I could practically hear his grin warming up the phone battery. He suggested I use the taxi ride to come up with a superb explanation for my parents.

The next morning, I served them a very responsible excuse: That after a cocktail, I’d felt so strange that my best friend had driven me home just to be safe. They might not be able to put me under house arrest anymore.

But a lecture about who is allowed to go where, when, and with whom—with a wagging finger—would absolutely still be on the table.