A massage table was said to be dirty. Two nights earlier, stern. It was only in the beginning of June that the so-called flat-rate brothel opened on the outskirts of Stuttgart and it had duly confused the Swabian world. The immoral offer worked: Men stuff their trousers and shirts into the metal lockers and hastily wrap the towel around their privates. Here β for the first time this morning β I can see naked flesh.
Never mind β after all, the 60 women lounging in the deep leather armchairs are also wearing almost nothing. But now, first of all, have a Coke at the counter and calmly take a deep breath. Next to me, someone already asks for his first beer.
The Swabians make a big difference between expensive, cheap and free. This illusion he shares with about men. And so the contact area is soon cleared like a bargain counter at the sales. While the Rhinelander is kneading my back muscles, he philosophizes on that southern tribe [the Swabians].
You can shake it. On the way to the brothel canteen I pass many rooms. Apparently, they also skimped on the doors. There are only strip curtains that obscure the view on the beds inadequately. One voluminous man wobbles around on a petite woman.
She looks to the door. I wave friendly, she waves back. He does not notice and continues wobbling. I put a couple of lukewarm fries, a chicken leg and a mixed pickles salad on my plastic plate and watch the dish a long time. No one but me is eating here. Soon after in the sauna, I am the only guest as well. Finally, on the rooftop terrace, I meet an exhausted man.
