Like a Summer Daydream by GermanCut

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I had already noticed that I was being watched, before I even turned my eyes from the window and looked in his direction. He quickly averted his gaze. I smiled a little unconsciously.

It was already late in the evening, and I was on my way home. The bus drove over the Reeperbahn and already at the first stop many people got off to enter Hamburg's pubs, bars and clubs. All seats around me were now free.

The man who had just looked at me take a seat opposite me. It seemed to me as if it were an invitation to look at him.
That's what I did. I looked at a man who was maybe 10 years older than me (I've never been good at estimating someone's age), with tanned, strong legs in gray shorts and red and blue sneakers; he wore a blue checked short-sleeved shirt that stretched slightly over his chest; a dark blond crewcut with gray streaks; five o’clock shadow. With a single expression: a very masculine man.

Although he had just sat down, he got up again before the next stop. The bus door opened. He turned his head in my direction without really looking at me and got out. I hesitated for a moment, jumped up, got out as well and followed him.

He turned left, went straight ahead for a short distance and then turned into Talstraße. He walked past the gay sex cinemas and the Salvation Army building, of course. It would have been possible that he lived in this quarter and I had completely misinterpreted his behavior. But I didn't believe that. Then he stopped and entered a gay bar.

The bar was very crowded, but there was still space at the counter. I stood next to him. It's quite normal to take advantage of a free place, even if it's next to the greatest man you can imagine, isn't it?

We got our beer and drank in silence.

The bartender asked me something that I couldn't understand because of the music. So, I leaned on the counter for being closer to the bartender. Then I felt a hand running over the back of my thighs. After the third movement, it would have been clear to even the most obtuse man that this was not an oversight. I turned and looked into his marvelous blue eyes. His lips formed into a slightly mocking smile as he continued to caress me.
I put my arm lightly around his waist.

"Nice style!" he said and let his gaze glide up and down on me for a moment. I wore a white shirt that I had rolled up at the arms, gray jeans and white sneakers. "Thank you!" I replied. "I was at the evening mass in St. Mary's and afterwards a friend invited me to dinner." I almost sounded like I wanted to apologize. Anyone else would probably have replied, "Oh, you're Catholic?" and started a conversation about religion or asked in which restaurant I had been. But he said with a smile and a slight roll of his eyes: "Too much information now, my dear! I just wanted to tell you that I think it's nice when men dress with a certain elegance. I also like your hairstyle! By the way, I'm Frank."
"Hairstyle" may be an inappropriate expression if, like me, you have completely shaved off your hair. A few years ago, I decided to go bald. And I wear my bald head in combination with a beard that covered my chin and upper lip.
"Thanks for the compliment!" I said. "But I have to tell you: When I saw you on the bus earlier, I was left speechless at the sight of you."
"Oh, you've already noticed me on the bus?" Frank answered with feigned astonishment. "As if you didn’t intend it! Or am I mistaken?" I replied.

We drank our beer and ordered another one, but then we left the bar. We spent that night together at my place.

In the next time we met very often. Several times a week we slept together: sometimes at him, sometimes at me. Because Frank often had to go to work in the afternoon, but I had a normal office job, I sometimes wrote to him in the morning: "Today at my lunch break?" Since my office was only a few streets away from Frank's apartment, I sprinted to Frank while all my colleagues went to the canteen. As soon as I entered the door, I threw off my clothes. When I was asked "food or sex?", I usually chose "sex".

"Too much information now!" Frank had said to me in the bar and said it to me once or twice later. We knew each other's names, knew each other’s profession, how many siblings the other one had, but nothing more. We didn't tell each other anything about the work, at most we told the other: "I don't have time today, we have a lot to do right now." We didn't ask about the well-being of each other's family, we didn't talk about problems, we didn't talk about illnesses, we didn't talk about politics.

What was that between us? I liked Frank, but I wouldn't have called it love. We dressed mainly physically. I cannot say how much the soul was involved. It wasn’t without soul what happened between Frank and me, but the soul was probably not the driving force.

Nevertheless, we talked a lot with each other. Nothing profound, but rather what is called "pillow talk". Once Frank sent me a photo of himself. Someone had taken it as Frank was bending over a book. You could see his strong neck with a fine trace of very short hair. This photo was so sensual that I watched it many times and imagined myself touching that neck and feeling the short hair under my hand.
Frank told me that when we first met, he wasn't so much attracted to my style of clothing, but that my bald head had caught his eye first. "I often date bald men. I think it's the most erotic hairstyle ever. And I saw you sitting on the bus and looked just stunning."

We finally had a weekend together, which we spent in Frank's apartment. On Saturday morning, I was standing in the bathroom, dressed only in boxer shorts, lathering my head with the shaving brush when I heard the steps of bare feet on the floor. Frank came close to me.
"This sight is simply hot! You with your foamed head!" Frank whispered in my ear and ran his finger over my skull. He stuck out his tongue as if he wanted to lick the foam off his finger. But then he wiped it on my chest and grinned.
"May I watch you while you’re shaving your head?" he asked. "You’re welcome!" I answered. Frank sat down on the edge of the bathtub and watched with his mouth half open as I put the blade on my forehead and slowly ran it over my head. Then I shaved my sides and neck thoroughly. Back at the top of my head, I saw Frank grabbing his crotch. His boxer shorts hid little, and neither did mine, as I realized after a quick look down at myself. I lathered my head again to get a particularly smooth head. I heard Frank moan softly once.
Finally, I put my head under the tap, rinsed off the foam residue thoroughly, dried myself off and put on a lotion that refreshed my scalp and made it shine as if it were polished.
"That was a spectacle!" cried Frank. "But now hurry up, my sexy baldy!" And he pushed me in the direction of the bedroom.

We ate breakfast very late. Because it was a warm day, we afterwards sat down on the balcony in boxer shorts and with a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

"Tell me, Frank," I began: "Since you find bald heads so sexy... Have you ever been bald yourself?"
"No", he answered. "Two years ago, I had a buzzcut, but I've never shaved my bald head. I think I'd look weird with it."
"I don't think so at all," I replied. "Quite the opposite! I'm sure it would look very good on you."
"Hm", Frank said.
"Besides, you would love the feeling. You like to stroke my head so much. If you were bald yourself, you could always have the feeling when you touch your own bald head. We wouldn't have to meet at all! That would be much easier!"
Frank giggled. "I like to meet you", he said. "And I guess, I know what you intend, you crook!"
"Would you like to try it?" I asked.
Frank pondered. Then he took a deep drag from his cigarette, threw it over the balcony’s parapet, stood up and said: "Let's go! Let’s shave everything off!"

We went to the bathroom. I took his clipper out of the drawer, checked it and turned it to the lowest setting. I was very quick so that Frank wouldn't change his mind.
I put the hair clipper on his temple. The clippers went through the hair with a strong hum. Only a hair shadow remained at the shaved area.
"That's damn short!" said Frank with wide eyes.
"A bald head is always short," I stated.
"You don’t say so!" replied Frank.
I continued at the other temple and finally at the neck.

"We could leave it as it is or shorten it to a high and tigh on the top," I said conciliatory.
"No! All or nothing!" cried Frank. "I want you to run the machine over my entire head!"
I did so. His hair about four centimeters long, maybe five, fell from the top of his head to the bathroom floor.
Frank watched the progress in the mirror. His head was shaved strip by strip and began to reveal more and more skin. His face, which looked frightened first, changed. Finally, he regarded himself with satisfaction, if not with great benevolence.

"It doesn't look bad at all!" said Frank after I had switched off the clippers.
"'Not bad at all' is an understatement! I replied. "You look like the personified testosterone!"
Frank ran his hand over his skull to check the length of hair.
The five o’clock shadow now didn’t cover only his face, but also his head and let him appear even more masculine. He seemed like a guy who could only tame his heavy hair growth by using the clippers every day.
I fetched a brush and a shovel and swept up the hair on the floor.
"We haven’t finished yet!" cried Frank. "Now comes the second part!"
Frank was unstoppable. But I said: "Well, I think you look extremely hot already. A wet shave is not necessary at all."
"Yes!" said Frank: "I want the full program! I want to have my head just as smooth as yours."

Frank took a shower and let the warm water extensively run over his head. Finally, he stood naked in front of the mirror. I lathered his head with the shaving brush.
"Oh dude!" he moaned with pleasure. "It feels so good! And you lucky guy really feel this every morning!"
"It gets even better!" I said, took the razor blade and ran it over his head with relish. This time Frank didn't wear any boxer shorts that could have hidden anything.
I took my time. Again and again I ran my fingers over his skull for check. After the second shave, Frank didn't have a single hair on his head. It was immaculate smooth.

"That's awesome!" exclaimed Frank as he finally stroked his own head.
"And you look awesome!" I added. "You're one of the hottest bald heads I've ever seen!"
I didn't lie. Frank was a very handsome man, with hair and without hair.
After we had ended up in bed for the second time on this young day, Frank said euphorically: "I want to go out with the bald head. The world should see me like this!"

We put on only the bare essentials: white singlets, cargo shorts and flip-flops and left the house.
We felt a light wind on our almost naked bodies and on our heads.
"It's wonderful!" sighed Frank and ran his hand over his shaved head again.
I also stroked the smooth skin of his skull. He visibly shuddered, rubbed my head, hugged and kissed me.
We walked through the streets under a cloudless sky, and the sun shined our glossy bald heads.

The affair with Frank lasted only that summer. At some point we didn't meet anymore. Because we didn't aim for a long-term relationship from the beginning.
The relationship was too light, too floating, too irresponsible, it lacked seriousness. Love needs a certain heaviness for not flying away.
But I still think often of Frank and of that summer we had together: without any regrets, without melancholy, but with gratitude.

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