{"id":26325,"date":"2026-06-18T16:00:00","date_gmt":"2026-06-18T14:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/de\/?post_type=stsp_text&#038;p=26325"},"modified":"2026-06-18T16:02:39","modified_gmt":"2026-06-18T14:02:39","slug":"age-of-consent","status":"publish","type":"stsp_text","link":"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/de\/text\/age-of-consent\/","title":{"rendered":"Age of Consent\u00a0"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<blockquote class=\"wp-block-quote is-layout-flow wp-block-quote-is-layout-flow\">\n<p class=\"has-text-align-right wp-block-paragraph\">(excerpt 2026)\u00a0<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Dad is standing at the bar in his grey leather jacket. The DJ slips a twelve-inch out of its sleeve and places it on the deck. The one-note intro, an electronic fist, pounds with so much reverb that he can feel it bouncing off his gums. His long fingers can\u2019t help tapping his gin and tonic, making the ice cubes jiggle, before he impulsively grabs Craig\u2019s hand and pulls him onto the dance floor. Craig has poppers in his back pocket, and they both take a sniff to loosen up. The music thumps like a pulse and a whoop goes up from the sweaty crowd who bounce a large red balloon over their heads from fingertip to fingertip. Heads sway, hips jerk. A searchlight swoops the dancefloor and picks out three men gyrating on stage, the middle one in a cowboy hat, flanked by two in black diamant\u00e9 thongs.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The all-male crowd on the dancefloor can be roughly divided into three types: those with cropped haircuts, Fred Perry shirts and jeans; those draped in baggy clothes like dresses with Boy George dreadlocks down their backs; and those in patent leather caps, Freddie Mercury moustaches and plaid shirts with coloured handkerchiefs stuck in their left or right pockets. Dad and Craig do not belong to any of these tribes. In plain jeans and shirts, they could fit in anywhere.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Here, in Heaven, a place of make-believe, it\u2019s impossible to tell a person\u2019s job or background. Class, status \u2013 all that\u2019s left at the door. Tax inspectors dance with brickies, office clerks with surgeons. During the week, they probably go about their regular lives like him, a beige week, followed by one or two colourful nights out, Right now, this Saturday night, the surging crowd around him makes him feel like they are one tribe. He smiles, and Craig smiles back.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Dad swings his hips and nods his head to the beat of the music, mimicking the Tanga Cowboys on stage. The poppers inflate his lungs like nitrous oxide; he giggles loudly. Frankie says: \u2018Relax.\u2019 Yeah, yeah, relax, thinks Dad. If only he could. To make up for the adolescence he never had.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">*&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Mine\u2019s just starting. The Sea Scouts have rented the community hall near my school for a toga party, and I\u2019m shuffling in my plastic stilettos, giving attitude. Black makeup sits heavy on my eyelids, arrows of blush jag my cheekbones, sharp enough to cut your fingers. In my torn-up bedsheet, kept in place with a belt, I look like a cross between Siouxsie Sioux and Athena. Underneath, I\u2019m wearing sheer black nylons and a lacy suspender belt from Etam. In a shared toilet cubicle just before we came in, the girl I\u2019m with \u2013 my new friend from French class who is more experienced and sensible than I can ever imagine being \u2013 laughed when she saw me struggling. The straps go <em>under <\/em>your knickers!&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I stand at the edge of the dancefloor and suddenly there\u2019s a boy in front of me asking for a dance. Does he mean me? My sensible friend gives me a nod of encouragement. The boy and I wave our hands about in time to the music. I can\u2019t move much in these shoes. What music do you like? he yells over the track. I like Marillion, he says. Do you know the lyrics <em>Singing psychedelic praises to the depths of a china bowl<\/em>? It\u2019s about puking. I just nod, and smile, and try to seem like dancing with a boy while dressed in a bedsheet is something I do every weekend.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Alcohol helps, of course. Earlier, my friend and I stowed a plastic bag with three bottles of Woodpecker under our coats by the racks, and whenever we can, we sneak out the back and guzzle some.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">When \u2018Relax\u2019 comes on, we all gyrate as best we can but I have to hold onto my belt to stop my toga slipping. None of us saw the music video before it was banned, so in our imaginations, it\u2019s truly filthy. When Spandau Ballet comes on for the slow dance, everyone glances around. Marillion Boy shows up again. Of course I say yes \u2013 anything so as not to stand around during a slow dance. It takes him thirty seconds to pull me in close. The toga-wearing crowd on the dance floor sways from one foot to another like Greek zombies. I close my eyes and remember the way Tony Hadley holds his mic, with four straight fingers covered in gold signet rings. I\u2019m obsessed with his fingers. Marillion boy\u2019s fingers now start wandering down my back. The zones he touches light up like neon signs in my mind \u2013 <em>bum! thighs! <\/em>Goosebumps ripple up my arms; my face lifts to his and I can smell his dad\u2019s aftershave.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">I didn\u2019t know I needed a boy to feel like a girl.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Too soon, the neon strip lighting flickers on overhead with a loud hum and the music stops abruptly. It\u2019s eleven o\u2019clock and the organisers are brutally punctual when it comes to closing. As if we\u2019ve been scorched, we automatically pull away from each other and I peer into my date\u2019s white, spotty face, feeling his sweat on my cheeks and wondering if he\u2019s smeared my make-up.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">*&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Somewhere along Highgate Road, Dad\u2019s driving Craig home; he\u2019s just under the limit, while Craig is well over. Craig\u2019s quite a lot younger than him. Heaven is very age-conscious and at fifty-three, even a well-kept fifty-three, Dad has to keep up. He\u2019s not sure what this young man sees in an older guy like him, but that\u2019s something he\u2019s trying to avoid examining too closely. Dad\u2019s never been one for regular sport. Badminton on a Thursday night in the school gym is about all he\u2019s ever managed. But even that\u2019s fallen by the wayside.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">He\u2019s not after some Adonis. He knows it can\u2019t last much longer \u2013 this phase of his, by which he means <em>sleeping around<\/em>. It\u2019s wearying to end up in bed with someone new every weekend who can\u2019t be relied on to have milk in the fridge for a cup of morning tea. He\u2019s looking for something more satisfying and long-lasting. And now that he\u2019s read the pamphlets and heard what\u2019s happening in the gay scene, he wants that even more.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">They stand outside Craig\u2019s flat while he fumbles in his bomber jacket for his keys, shivering slightly in the night air. It\u2019ll be easy to get home tomorrow from here, he thinks. Straight up the North Circular and onto the A1. Immediately, his mind drifts to work on Monday and his mood wilts. Assembly, kids singing <em>Morning has Broken<\/em>. He shakes his head slightly to delete that image. There\u2019s a slight twinge in his stomach \u2013 the ulcer, maybe. It\u2019s probably time he had it checked again.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">In Craig\u2019s bedroom, the lights go out. Hips rub against hips, ribs against ribs and a square jaw with stubble brushes Dad\u2019s chin. He hears gulping sounds and a sharp intake of breath, like someone being exquisitely cut with a knife. It takes a moment to realize that he\u2019s making the sound.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">He\u2019s still not used to this feeling of falling, like a vertigo that\u2019s been pulling him towards the edge for years and which he now gives into. He\u2019d forgotten the pleasant feel of square hips. <em>The right shape<\/em>, he finds himself thinking, <em>these are the right shape<\/em>. He\u2019s all water now, a loose arrangement of cells quivering under the man\u2019s touch. Dissolved, gone, all the identities he\u2019s carefully built up, replaced by vulnerability that feels as if his skin has been peeled back. Because, despite his swagger, he feels so na\u00efve.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u2018Like this?\u2019\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">It\u2019s connected to the most beautiful sensation. But he can\u2019t talk. Won\u2019t talk. It\u2019ll break the spell. Guides the hand instead, then the mouth, then the feeling of vertigo tips him over the edge.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">*&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Half an hour\u2019s drive away, I\u2019ve moved from the scout\u2019s hall to Marillion Boy\u2019s living room; his parents are in bed, and I\u2019m in new territory. Quietly, a record is playing \u2013 Marillion, of course. I even know from the artwork on the cover that it\u2019s not my kind of music, but I\u2019m trying for his sake to get into it. OK, perhaps for the sake of his nice legs, too. The thing is, we don\u2019t know what to say to each other, so at least the album cover gives us prompts. Why the jester? Why is he playing the violin with a feather, etc. etc.? The cover rests on the boy\u2019s thigh, which is only skimpily covered by the taut Adidas shorts he changed into when we got home. I have no idea how to get from being tongue-tied to French kissing, which is what I want to do most. At least I think I do. I don\u2019t feel like I\u2019ve made a choice, but isn\u2019t that what happens next? He makes an excuse to lean across me, and suddenly, his face is very close to mine. Then: we\u2019re kissing! My brain starts singing. Kissing, alone, without the excuse of a slow dance. First base, I think. Far enough for now! At some point, I push him back and mumble, \u2018I should probably go now.\u2019 He nods, relieved. Because that\u2019s exactly the sort of boy he wants to be: one who doesn\u2019t put pressure on a girl. And that\u2019s exactly the sort of girl I want to be: one who knows when to say no. Shortly afterwards, I\u2019m sitting on the bus home, still in my toga, grinning to myself as if I\u2019ve just passed a milestone.&nbsp;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>(excerpt 2026)\u00a0 Dad is standing at the bar in his grey leather jacket. The DJ slips a twelve-inch out of its sleeve and places it on the deck. The one-note intro, an electronic fist, pounds with so much reverb that he can feel it bouncing off his gums. His long fingers can\u2019t help tapping his [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":26496,"template":"","categories":[70,10],"class_list":["post-26325","stsp_text","type-stsp_text","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-issue-35","category-prosa"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.7 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>Age of Consent\u00a0 - stadtsprachen<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/de\/text\/age-of-consent\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"de_DE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale:alternate\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Age of Consent\u00a0 - stadtsprachen\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"(excerpt 2026)\u00a0 Dad is standing at the bar in his grey leather jacket. 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