Ingrid

Now it's time to tell you about Ingrid. Astrid and I had split up and the annual Cats party was about to happen. This was basically an excuse for every desirable (and some not-so-desirable) young ladies to put on a short black number and get up on a makeshift stage and sing to the inebriated masses. Not everyone was a performer, though; the usherettes came along, too, and were often much more 'talented' than their stage-dwelling counterparts. There weren't many straight men in the production in those days, but we'd all noticed this one: she looked innocent and debauched in equal measure; large, green eyes, long, unkempt hair and an enormous mouth. Her off-duty dresses were often even more provocative than her musky allure. In short, she was fascinating, and nobody really knew how best to approach her. The answer was, of course, the simple, direct way, but more on that, later.

I turned up at the party with Uli. He'd made the acquaintance of a certain Frauke, who'd already indicated her interest in his mind by tossing him off just outside the stage door. Discretely, of course, but all the same. So up they turned and we got talking. Various Grizabellas, Bombalurinas and Rumpleteezers strutted their stuff on stage while I looked around for company. There she stood, alone, tending a drink, looking innocent, lost and yet debauched in aforementioned equal measure. The time was right. I walked over to her and picked her up. Literally. Scooped her up off the floor and carried her, Rhett Butler-style, into the stairwell. 'What are you doing? And who are you?' Her questions were certainly legitimate, so I told her: 'I'm *****, and I've been wanting to do this all evening. What's your name?' 'Ingrid'. We started to kiss, then laid down on the floor, where our nascent relationship became ever more 'caring'. Various party revellers stepped over us, around us or just plain waited until we'd finished. This was, after all, a showbiz party and no behaviour was deemed excessive. Or unexpected.

I eventually ran Ingrid home. It was 5am and I was so drunk I had to drive with one eye closed. I had her phone number, but knew I'd see her in the theatre before long, anyway. I had some free time coming up, so thought 'what the hell'. When I saw her next, we went off after the show to Meyer Lansky's (any Hamburger worth his salt knows this bar), ordered a couple of Pisco sours and sealed the deal to go to Paris for a week. We could catch up with P, my friend from Koblenz. He was now a dancer at the Lido, living with his girlfriend, a Dutch girl called Wilma, who was the vedette at the Paradis Latin. All we needed was a pair of train tickets; we'd sort everything else out once we got there. After all, it wasn't going to be high season.

Ingrid and I got to know each other pretty well in the time leading up to our departure. She loved sex, had no inhibitions, and sucked and swallowed with the best of them. Apart from anything else, she would also want to do it at the drop of a hat. We spent hours in her garret, inhaling each other's pleasure and scents, our desires and urges. We managed to hold off in the couchette department of the train, but christened our hotel room very rapidly. It was located in the 12th arrondissement; I found it over breakfast that morning, just after we got into Gare de l'Est.

We met up with P shortly after, round at his place in the 15th. 'Jeez, mate, where did you find her? Hitchhiking?' P was, to put it mildly, a bit dubious about Ingrid. True, she had gypsy blood but was an honest as the next man, so to speak. He ended up getting on very well with her, though. In my mind, nothing was ever going to come of the relationship; she and I were together for the sake of fun; I had no intention of settling down. Germany was not my country and there I would not stay; so primitive were my thought processes at the time. An Ingrid, an Astrid, or, indeed, an Anyone, was never going to tie me down. This changed, of course, and sooner than I imagined, but that didn't work out, either. Anyhow, that's a much later post.

Ingrid and I stayed together fr a while after Paris. None of the relationships of that time seemed particularly serious: the women weren't pushy until the chips were down, the men cruised through life from day to day without much heed for the morrow. Each union had a 24-hour flashpoint period, then life went on as normal. It culminated in her coming round to my flat one evening and leaving a livid note on my desk. My poor flatmate had already fielded two other women that evening, and, for my sins, I can't even remember why, save for the fact I do recall dating three women at the same time. For some incredible reason, they all learned of each other's existence on the same day. I was lucky to get off so lightly, but maybe I say that with the consciousness of a now faithful, married, risk-averse father. This all happened half my life ago, so to speak; it's incredible to think how much we can change.