We have a saying.

Patriarchy vice versa and everything is different? This weekly column is a thought experiment which treads a fine line between normality and absurdity. The events described here are fictitious. Any similarities to reality would be coincidental and unintentional.

Read at your own risk!

week 01 – partnership

We have a saying that goes like this: "Men!" When we say it, we laugh softly and shake our heads.

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is empty. There is no other side of the bed, actually. My better half, my "jewel" has his own room, we sleep separately. Two doors protect me from sleepless nights. When I get up, he has usually been standing in the kitchen for a while already. Freshly showered, his hair, still damp, his chin without a single stubble, that's how I like him best: smooth, smelling good and with rosy cheeks. He comes towards me and wraps his arms around me. I surrender to his arms for a while, then I've had enough and ask him to stop. I bought the ring on his right hand last week, after seeing some of my colleagues devouring him with their gazes. He is a handsome man, well-groomed, reserved, attentive, homely, frugal, rather average in everything, he is good for me. With the ring, I made it clear to him and everyone else that he belongs to me - my name is engraved thick and bold. With tears in his eyes, he blinked at me and said in a trembling voice that he is the happiest man in the world, that I make him so endlessly happy, that he loves being at my side. Had I already thought about when the marriage ceremony should take place?

"Men!", I said to the group as we sat together with girlfriends two days later and he proudly presented his ring, "... always immediately thinking about getting married. Before I can even think of marriage, I have so many more important things to do." My girlfriends raised their glasses in understanding, my “jewel” stormed out of the room in a huff. "He'll come around. He's a bit touchy today about the hairline." Everyone laughs. "Maybe instead of a wedding, I'll give him a hair implant."

On the way home he kept quiet for a long time and when he saw a dark rest area he steered the car to the right - he was driving because I have had too much to drink - and braked. Knowing the conversation to come, I asked him to wait a moment until I had had a pee. I squatted over the hole in the floor of the toilet cubicle and realised that my menstrual bleeding had started. I had taken the last 3 days off - during the premenstrual phase, work was the last thing on my mind. So, de facto, I actually knew that today was the first day of my period, and yet it still happened that I was surprised. As my cup was in my handbag and the handbag was on the passenger seat in the car, I chose from the vending machine to my right, "regular size tampon", inserted it, flushed and left the toilet. With the phrase, "I just got my period," our conversation was over before it had even begun. His gaze became first gentle, then consuming and finally he asked me to get in the car quickly. Suddenly he was in a hurry to get home. On the first night of my period, when I feel no need for penetration, he satisfies me orally. After the orgasm, I fell asleep. We have an agreement that he sleeps in his bed unless I say otherwise. There are definitely nights when I want him to sleep next to me.  

Now there is coffee on the table and fresh flowers that he bought for me at the corner downstairs after his morning run. As if by chance, there is also a stack of documents on the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as I pull them towards me to look at them more closely. "What it means to become a father - parenting education for the modern man". To my incredulous laughter, he responds with an offended "What?". I know that his greatest wish is to start a family, to take responsibility for "a little baby". He wants a mini version of me so badly that I ask him if I'm not enough. That's not the point, he says, but while I get satisfaction from my work, both creatively and intellectually, his half-job and housework just don't fulfill him one hundred per cent. For a child, or two, he would give up his job and shift the focus of his life to the family. Of course, he knew that a pregnancy would affect me most of all, but he had already made inquiries and by now, there are numerous alternatives: The uterus for the man or the direct emotional bridge from woman to man, which allows the man to experience all female emotions simultaneously (scientists have found that through this bridge the bond between father and child is no longer inferior to the mother-child relationship). While he doesn't stop explaining his arguments in detail, my thoughts wander to my friend M. M has four children by three partners. After adopting the first child, together with her girlfriend at the time, she became pregnant with the second one unplanned. During sex with an affair she had, the switch of the seminal vein valve (SLV) had been switched over unnoticed in the heat of the moment. When her period stopped and the pregnancy test in her hands confirmed her suspicions, the child's biological father joined in via the emotional bridge. Within two days it was clear that they would have the child together. The pregnancy could be easily integrated into her daily work routine and she could be sure that he would take care of the child emotionally as well as financially. Whenever she had pain, swollen feet or thin nerves, he knew exactly what she needed. He took a 9-month pregnancy break, during which he did the housework, cooked meals, took her to and from work and prepared everything for the child. At school, in first aid courses and later in the prenatal classes, they had attended several live births, even helped out, and yet their own birth had been incredibly draining and painful for both of them. During the whole time, he had not left the room once, had assisted the midwife and finally held the child in his arms. For the first few months, they lived together at her place, then he moved with the child one street away and she went back to work. Child three and four are twins, brought into her life by her gay boyfriend and current flatmate.

"You're not listening to me at all," he says, looking at me grimly. I press a kiss to his cheek, assure him I'm thinking about it but have to go to work now as I'm already late. He slams the door of the kitchen cupboard where he has just sorted the neatly ironed napkins and storms out of the kitchen. A minute later I hear Beyoncé singing from his room: Listen, I am alone at a crossroads. I'm not at home in my own home. And I've tried and tried to say what's on mind. You should have known. Followed by Beyoncé singing: If I were a boy, even just for a day. I'd roll outta bed in the mornin' and throw on what I wanted, then go. Finally, followed by the sound of the door opening again and his footsteps getting louder until he stands in front of me and apologises to me with moist eyes. He doesn't want to push me, doesn't want to impose his wish on me, he just loves me incredibly and wants to make me happy. If I'm happier without a child, that's okay with him, there are other options.

"Baby, I didn't say that, don't be so hysterical." He said he was afraid of losing me, and that he just doesn’t have anything to offer me. "You little silly.", I pull him onto my lap "Listen, I think it would do you good to get together with Ralph and Johann again. Why don't you have a really nice men's evening together again? Watch a funny film or go to the sauna. It would do you good to do something again," I tell him. He nodded his head, agrees with me, and since he himself doesn't get the idea to get up from my lap, I tenderly pat his tight butt, call him "my magnificent stallion" and stand up. Then I take my work bag, put on my coat and leave the flat.

T.L.

week 02 – work

To get to work, I look for a ride every morning. Today there is another woman and a man in the car beside the female driver. I always prefer female drivers, even if I take the bus, I always look first to see if there is a man or a woman at the wheel. It's not that I don't get into the car with male drivers, I just behave more carefully. I hold on tight throughout the journey and look out of the windscreen to observe the traffic. Women simply drive more carefully and cautiously. When I get in, the others greet me in a friendly manner, I already know the two women, the man is new. He sits on the back seat next to me and I start to check him out. I notice short, dark stubbles on his face and his eyes, which are unflatteringly enlarged by his glasses. He notices my gaze, his face turns pink and, ashamed, he takes off his glasses. I like him better now. His tight T-shirt clearly shows the switch of the spermatic cord valve. Our eyes cross, he has seen what I have seen and at my wink, a smile spreads across his face. He spends the rest of the car ride looking out of the window, which gives me the opportunity to look at him in more detail. He is young, his full black hair stretches far into his forehead, his large hands are graceful and long. His height is difficult to estimate sitting down, but my experience tells me that he is smaller, but a little heavier than the average man. His pants are also tight and skimpy, so nothing is left to my imagination. This man, I can tell right away, wants to please women. He's a 7/10. Just before we turn into the street where my studio is located, I hand him my business card with the words, "Call me if you ever feel like a drink!" and turning to the two women, I say, "You have to do everything yourself!" The other two laugh in agreement and simultaneously say: "Men!"

As part of the management team, I have the second-highest position after my boss Franziska in the Atelier. We are on first-name terms, we all know each other personally, the interaction is understanding, friendly. Strictly speaking, the Atelier is not really a studio, but rather a very ordinary medium-sized business. The name Atelier was established over time when Franziska, the boss, opened the upper floor to give more space to female creativity. These rooms are reserved exclusively for female employees, which has often gernerate discussion among male colleagues. Accusations of injustice and preferential treatment of women were raised. Being told that they were free to leave the company at any time, however, they fell silent again.

In addition to the studios on the upper floor, the business includes a kindergarten, various recreation rooms, wellness facilities and a sauna. In the canteen, several chefs strive to spoil us with culinary delights. As far as the company is concerned, it does not differ much from other companies of similar size, however, our company is one of the first to include a so-called male quota in the company concept. Since then, 30% of the management positions have been held by men, and not much has changed as a result, only the complaints have become fewer. Many men, according to their own statements, also simply feel comfortable in the passive role of employees. They don't have the ambition to make decisions, work overtime for the good of the company or make sacrifices at the expense of the family. A study showed that 81% of all men in Germany are satisfied with their role as fathers and househusbands, as this means they are actively involved in the future.

On my way to my desk, I see that Johanna's and Meredith's places are free, they are just taking their 3 days "Menstruation break" as we call the 3 paid vacation days that every female employee is entitled to due to their cycle. Behind them I see Linus, my boss's 50-year-old secretary. He arrives first every morning at 7:30 a.m., takes calls, sorts paper, and makes coffee for the entire office. He is the good soul of the company, our rock, the shoulder to lean on and the open ear for any grief. As the boss's secretary, he sits at his desk in front of her office. His light but well-groomed hair combed back, he wears a new shirt in a different color every day, daringly combined with trousers and jacket in the same color, just a few shades lighter. As I pass his place on my way to Franziska, he is putting pomade on his lips. When he lifts his head and sees me coming towards him, he says with a chuckle, "I'm addicted to that stuff!" I know from Gustav, my assistant, that Linus adores not only lip pomade but also me. According to him, he loves my loud voice, the hardness in my eyes, and the ease with which I move across the room. Of course, we both know I'm unattainable for him, but a little flirting never hurt anyone, so I reply, "Good morning, my minty chocolate" - today he's wearing pistachio green - "keep it soft, who knows what it'll be good for." I finish the sentence with a loud laugh, accompanied by a wink. He laughs shyly, too. Then he points out that Franzi isn't there yet, she's with her doctor, and as he says this, I wish I hadn't asked. The incompetence of conventional female doctors is Linus’ favorite topic; there is nothing he can rant about more than clinics that are too sterile, unfriendly assistants, hasty and one-sided diagnoses. I can already speak along the monolog that is coming now: For over ten years now, he has only trusted what his natural healer advises him to do. Linus himself goes to a natural healer when he does not feel well. This woman is able to remedy both mental and physical problems with a wide variety of methods. You cannot look at bodies separately from feelings, everything is connected. I have heard Linus talk about this for entire lunch breaks. His waterfall-like monologue is suddenly interrupted by a sudden "Gustav!", in a bell-like voice. As I turn around I see that my assistant has just arrived. Linus rises quickly, walks towards him with big, swinging steps, and after an intimate hug they disappear together into the coffee kitchen. The last thing I hear before the door slams is Gustav saying, "I'm head over heels in love!" I will probably have to manage without my assistant for the next thirty minutes.

T.L.

week 03 – dating 

Superdefense Hyaloronic Acid Bleaching Anti-Wrinkle Cream with CBD and Retinol – this is the first thing I read in the morning when I stumble into the bathroom to start my morning routine. Getting wrinkles is one of my biggest fears. I am very concerned about my appearance because my future spouse (who I hope to convince of me soon) will judge me by my looks and draw valuable initial conclusions. That's why I want to be one step ahead of her. I want to look natural, but not show my wrinkles. I want to dress up. But only to the extent that I don't look like I tried to look good. Makes sense, doesn’t it? But I am still afraid of the common statement: "I like natural men". If women only knew. It's like this: while women get more and more beautiful with age and don't have to worry about wrinkles and other signs of ageing at all, men always want to keep looking fresh and young. Therefore, it is advisable to spend large sums of money on care products so that no one recognises our biological age. For this reason alone, I have not yet disposed of my Superdefense Hyaloronic Acid Bleaching Anti-Wrinkle Cream with CBD and Retinol for €130. Despite the suspicion that my - recently increased - migraines could be caused by this product. Well, I do all this to finally find Mrs. Right! As I apply my €150 facial tonic, I think about the four dates I went on last week. The dating platform "Crumble" is going very well for me so far. In the photos on my profile, I specifically showcase my male charms. I can't mention my successful career, as it often has a deterrent effect on women and at the same time, I'm afraid of accusations that I slept my way up. Instead, I only emphasise my natural charms (body without visible wrinkles). If I use these skillfully, women's brains automatically switch in a ‘sexual mode’. For example, at the sight of my beautiful brown eyes or the gap between my thighs. Of course, a skilful eye-flick and bedroom eyes at the first meeting don't hurt either (secret tip!). In my profile description, however, I naturally point out that I am looking for a long-lasting relationship and that possible parental leave has already been arranged with my employer. But I'm still a little undecided about this one beach photo. I pose naturally topless in swimming pants in this great turquoise-blue water. Even my height of 175.6 cm is not visible here. I am quite unhappy with my height actually. No woman wants a man who is much taller than her, so unfortunately I am often rejected already at the beginning. Most women find it unattractive when a man is taller than they are. This is due to the deeply biologically inherited female protective instinct. I sometimes have the feeling that women just want to look down on me. Oh well. With regard to the photo, I'm worried that it might be too revealing. Especially for the internet. As we all know, male nipples are extremely sexualised and I want to look serious in order to find Mrs. Right. I also don’t really like my body in this picture, but I just find the landscape very beautiful. Anyway, of course, I was a bit afraid of clit-pics that might reach me unprepared through the dating platform. But – no risk, no fun. In the app, men write to the women first. I definitely feel more comfortable with that - fewer clit pics and random messages. Of course, it's also very unusual, but somehow it's also exciting to make the first step. I tend to think outside the box: Real men don't always have to be conquered, they can also make the first move. Great, isn't it?  

By the way, I work in an atelier, it's a bit female-dominated there, unequal pay and all that, but I don't want to be the drama king. To seem upset – or even worse hysterical – is another huge fear of mine! That's why I always try to look relaxed. Last week, when a woman at a crossroads cat-called at me: "Hey you horny stud, do you want to fuck?", I was happy about this original compliment and gave her my phone number. I was a bit nervous and couldn't remember my number at first. She just shook her head slightly: "Men!". That's how date number 3 with Jasmine came about. I exaggerated a bit when I said I had all the dates through "Crumble", I was afraid someone would think I couldn't get any. For some reason, I think Jasmine could be the mother of my children. But I also really like to dream and tell people about it – I definitely don't want to seem desperate. But: this time I might really be right. She said several times that I'm a real power-man, the way I plan to handle both work and my future family. She had never met such a determined, self-confident man who wanted to combine family and career. I'm totally thrilled that a woman finally sees that. Using a condom was also no problem for her – so I'm pretty sure she's the one. It's always really uncomfortable for me to give my clear opinion. This whole topic of contraception could easily come across as stiff – or even worse: hysterical. But Jasmine was totally understanding. I'm probably in love. Like every man, I naturally want to have children, because I see the role of father as my natural destiny. But now we have to hurry up with the planning; she may still have time, but I'm already 35, the clock is ticking – I just read it on a poster. That's why I've been following a strict diet plan for seven years, a mixture of traditional Chinese medicine and frutarianism – especially for men over 28. It took me a long time to decide between all those different advice booklets, but I'm very happy now. 

My phone vibrates. I'm annoyed for a moment, no one is supposed to interrupt my me-time (I still want to finish reading my third Liv Strömquist comic and I'm really looking forward to episode 11: "Relax – neck massage for your partner"). But it's just my daily reminder to take the pill. After a detailed two-minute counseling session, I made a conscious decision not to use other contraceptive methods, like the spermatic duct valve, because my fear of infertility is just too great. All I need is the right partner. But fortunately, that problem has now been solved, I think. Later, after I've polished the skirting boards, I'm going to do some research for advice booklets. A friend told me last week about one called What It Means to Become a Father - Advanced Education for the Modern Man. That sounds like me.

P.R.

week 04 – politics

My crown jewel is all excited this morning. Yesterday, the federal government passed a law allowing single men to get pregnant without a woman, using a donor egg and uterus for the man. This is a giant step towards equal rights for men. Finally, men are no longer dependent on women, at least in this respect. Many women also welcome this development, as it frees them from their evolutionary role of giving birth. Chancellor Torben Walters and his Orange Party back this law. 

Three years ago, when it became clear that Torben Walters could be the first man to become Federal Chancellor, this met great scepticism among female citizens. At that time, I discussed this a lot with my spouse about Walters' position as a man in politics and less about his role as a politician. Numerous studies appeared in public that proved beyond doubt that the man lacked crucial leadership skills. Important qualities, such as the ability to do several things at once, to incorporate multiple perspectives, to cooperate, to work in a team and to grasp the big picture, are - as the studies showed - simply qualities men do not possess for evolutionary reasons. The question that dominated the debates and election campaign at the time was: "Can a man really perform as well as a woman* in the political arena or would the male tunnel vision set the country back several years? 

The 55-year-old politician Torben Walters possesses all the characteristics of the modern, independent man. At the age of 26, he had won Mister Meck-Pomm against his competitors and was the first East German to become Mister Germany. During that time, he travelled for a year as a sparkling prime example of a modern man alongside the Chancellor to political events worldwide, was a welcome guest at numerous charity events and volunteered in orphanages. On a trip through Iceland, he met the future mother of his children. He moved to Reykjavík and took on the role of the staying home husband with great passion. Shortly after the birth of his second son, his wife divorced him and followed her new partner to Honduras. Suddenly completely penniless with two sons abroad, Walters was forced to move back to Germany to his father’s house. Walters had been raised alone by his father. He often says: "I come from a family of strong men and I was taught from an early age that in this world, as a man, nothing is given to me. I had to experience that first hand."

While his father devoted himself to raising his grandchildren, Walters began a distance learning course in social work at university and worked during the day as a cashier at a supermarket. During this time, it was impossible for him to meet a new partner, which made it all the more important for him to raise his sons to become proud, independent men. But as it turned out, there was a woman behind Torben Walter's political career after all. In an interview he admitted: "I was never really very interested in politics. It all happened rather by chance, you could say, thanks to my boss. During one of my speeches on social injustice, which I probably gave a few times too often and too loudly in front of the entire staff, she shouted across the room at me: "Walters, stop distracting my female staff from work and go into politics. Maybe someone will be interested in your blather there!" So I thought why not and decided to prove it to her, to myself and to all women* and joined the Orange Party." Due to his unwillingness to compromise, a rare quality for a man, and a good portion of charm, he eventually made it all the way to the top. 

The interviews with Torben Walters, which were broadcasted daily on television for a while after his candidacy, polarised our circle of friends. One camp called him a bad father, a "sissy", a career-minded pretty boy who messed womens* minds with his big gentle eyes and had only got this far because of his looks. On the other hand, many men (including mine, Linus and Gustav) saw Torben Walters as a long-awaited role model and a representative of the still young masculinism. They angrily criticised how female journalists limit him to his role as a father and sexualised object in interviews, while his female competitors were taken seriously as politicians and measured by their political agenda. As an expression of his unconditional support, Linus wore only orange throughout the election campaign and, following Walter's example, grew a moustache. But because of the little remaining hair, he always looked a bit like a mix between a Buddhist monk and Prince in the 80s. 

In the end, I too chose to vote for Torben Walters because it seemed like an interesting experiment and he had earned my respect with his courage. Besides, he was pure eye candy and anyway; what harm can one man alone do when his party consists otherwise of over 70% women*. The media affectionately call him our "Model Dad" and since he introduced the unconditional basic income in 2019 and revolutionised the world of work, we have been living in "Walterland" in Germany.

T.L.

week 05 – sex, part 1

Our relationship is pretty traditional. It is very important for him to emphasise that we have a monogamous relationship, but that he allows me some freedom from time to time. And I like to let him believe that it is his free decision to allow me several sexies (sexual partners). Because actually we both know that he would have a problem if he didn't make this concession to me. As a "monogamous" heterosexual couple, we are rather the exception and are often even mocked for it. While we share love, sex and our home, our girlfriends and relatives live in biandrous, polyamorous, -gamous, -mingle, tingle, LAT- and open relationships. Everyone with everyone, no obligations and all the more self-fulfilment. Even considering all the arguments in favour of these relationship formats, our relationship arrangement has one decisive advantage: good sex! Of course I love him too - and he loves me. He adores me, worships me, carries me on his beautiful hands, reads my wishes from my lips without ever expecting anything in return from me. He is always there. For me. 

Franzi, my boss, for example, has many relationships with many people of all genders because she loves variety. What she doesn't love is that she can't make up her mind and then often stays alone. She calls this phenomenon "overpossibled". What she also doesn't like: bad sex. But how are her sexies supposed to know what she wants if she calls once every three months because no one else has time? A long time ago, long before she became my boss, we met at a party and ended up at her place at the end of the evening. Her bedroom was covered in mirrors, so when I was drunk I stared at myself the whole time and found it hard to concentrate on her. The sex was, let’s say, unsatisfying because we were both mainly interested in our own satisfaction rather than the other's, which meant we kept getting in each other's way. All the fumbling ended with us doing it to ourselves lying next to each other, each aroused by her own reflection of the mirrors. 

We all know how the female orgasm works. Every woman knows exactly what she needs and wants and how. The purely physical process of sexual acts of any kind up to the female orgasm is sufficiently taught. What is not taught is how good it feels when - as in my case - the man feels the same fulfilment during sex. The male orgasm, however, is far from being as well researched as the female orgasm. The penis is often seen purely as an instrument for satisfying the woman. Speaking of the penis, just the other day I saw an article that I really liked: Two women presented their invention - the penis sock. When asked how this idea came about, the inventors replied as follows: "We increasingly noticed unpleasantly that men had wet spots on their trousers after peeing. When the sock is removed, the absorbent material absorbs the remaining drops and thus prevents ugly urine stains. Furthermore, every time I shake hands with a man, I don't have to think about whether he might have just been peeing and had his penis in his hand." Now how did I get from my husband's sexual satisfaction to this? I guess what I'm saying is that I think it's really great how more and more women are considering men and their problems. 

Six months ago, I was sitting in the waiting room of my dentist's office and the battery of my mobile phone was dead. Although I resisted for a long time, I finally picked up the only magazine on display and started reading. The main article of Mens Health was called: How man tells her what he really wants. "Ridiculous," I thought, "everyone knows what men want. The greatest satisfaction for men is a woman's orgasm." According to author Lena Krupp, who had been researching in this field for more than ten years and had published several papers, men had recently complained more about sexual dissatisfaction. They were tired of always fulfilling the woman without ever getting anything in return. "Sex is a give and take and is no fun if the man always gives and the woman only takes," Simon of Beauview, male role model and masculinist, was quoted. Krupp recommended that men should explore their own bodies themselves. "First find out for yourself what you like. How do you like to be touched and where? Take time to explore every part of your body. Your body is your temple, embrace it. Tell your partner what you want from her. Don't be afraid, women like self-confident men who know what they want and also take on the dominant role sometimes." At first it all seemed a bit esoteric and exaggerated to me, but this thought got stuck to my mind. In the evening I asked my sweetheart if he was satisfied with our sex life. He chuckled and said that for him, my pleasure was the centre of attention. But as I layed on my bed in my pyjamas reading, he knocked on my door and asked to lie down with me. There he lay and I knew something was bothering him, but I wanted to read and didn't feel like talking. But contrary to my expectation, he didn't start talking but took my hand and put it on his fully erected penis. That night we explored his body and he came several times before I did. Since then I have tried to be more responsive to him in our sexual relationship. He thanks me by no longer making a fuss when I have sex with others. "I have no problem if you have sex with other people. As long as I'm the only one you make love to."

T.L.

week 06 – parents 

In the middle of the night a loud clatter wakes me up. If there's one thing I hate, it's that. It's 3:30 am. It was 1:45 a.m. when I looked at my mobile phone last. So effectively, I have slept for an hour and a half so far. In a really bad mood, I roll over to my other side and hope that my brain doesn't notice the brief disruption and simply switches back to my dream world. But that doesn’t happen. Somewhere in the flat a door slams and I hear loud swearing from the kitchen. Now really annoyed, I tear the blanket off my body, leave my bed and shuffle into the kitchen. The kitchen light shines brightly and I see my man bending over a large box. "Are you crazy, it's half past three in the morning!" He startles, "Oh, did I wake you? I'm sorry." He's not. His face shows everything but guilt. "I was just falling asleep. You know I have an important meeting in the morning and you have nothing better to do than digging through some boxes here in the middle of the night?" He says nothing, continues rooting around in the boxes very noisily. Now, I am angry. I snatch the box from his hands, put it in the storage room, turn off the light, leave the kitchen and want to go back to my bed. But the light turns on again, the storage room opens and the noise starts again. Unfortunately, it doesn't take much to provoke me - and so I storm into the kitchen, grab him by the arms and yell at him, "What's your fucking problem?" "Ah, glad you asked. Since you seem to have forgotten, I'm happy to remind you that it's my mother's birthday tomorrow." - Shit, shit, I really forgot. - "And since you've assured me a hundred times that you'll take care of the present and I don't see one, I'm just going to look for something so we don't end up empty-handed tomorrow." He's being dramatic. I assure him that I didn't forget the birthday, but wanted to go shopping tomorrow anyway after work and get her favourite scotch. He looks at me incredulously and shakes his head. "So you forgot that too?" I dig deep, very deep, in my memory but do not find anything.  "Huh?" "That we were going to give her the watch?" Yes, I forgot that, too. But I simply have more important things on my mind right now than his mother's birthday. The only problem is that I know how difficult the relationship between him and his mother is. 

As a child, he had to fight hard for his mother's attention and respect. She had always wanted a daughter and had accordingly been overwhelmed with his upbringing. While his father mainly did voluntary work for other people, his mother had big plans for him. And so the little boy found himself entrusted with the task of being the daughter that his mother never had but always wanted. From the age of 3, she sent him to public speaking workshops like "Many? No, Reach ALL", took him to the "Early Exercise" founders' course twice a week and pushed him to take over the management of the local gymnastics club at the age of 10. While other boys were mainly left to their own devices, he was brought up entirely in the spirit of female competitiveness. He did everything to mime the perfect daughter and yet never quite felt he could live up to his mother’s wishes. During his adolescence, this often led to slamming doors and tears on his side and incomprehension on his mother's side. She had only ever wanted the best for him. When he had his first girlfriend at 16, he packed all his belongings, jumped on the back of her motorbike and rode off into the sunset with her. The fast track out of his parents' house led to a dead end. The girlfriend, who was five years older than him, kicked him out of her flat 5 months later, disappeared with someone else and never contacted him again. Brokenhearted, he had no choice but to move back into his childhood home. With his father's support, he convinced his mother and began training as a florist. In spite of all the complications and intermittent discord, he remained Mama's prince and any woman who tried to dispute her regent's place in her son's life eventually left the battlefield with her head bowed. 

When we met and started dating regularly, it was her - and not, as usual in other families, the worried father - who wanted to know everything about me. It was not uncommon for her to call just as our food was being brought to the table or we were leaving the cinema, and many a romantic moment ended abruptly with a "I have to take this - Hi Mum!" murmur into the mobile phone.  Before my first meeting with my future mother-in-law, he assured me, without me ever asking, with a nervous twitch around his mouth every three minutes that she would surely like me. In fact, I had never doubted that either. I was eloquent, educated, funny at the right time and I had never lacked self-confidence. And indeed: two minutes after we had entered her hallway, I made a remark about how I hadn’t noticed him all day in front of our white wall, because his face had been worryingly white all day due to all this tension. She called out "Men!" with a loud laugh, opened the red wine, took my arm and pulled me into the living room. While the men prepared dinner, we chatted about my job, politics and masculinism, which we both found to be a brief hysteria and therefore harmless. 

To end the conversation and finally get back to bed, I say, "You know, babe, what would your mother want with a watch? She'd be far happier with her favourite scotch. What is it with you men and your accessories? No one needs those superfluous knickknacks. She has her mobile phone, a watch would just be ballast. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. Go back to sleep. You need sleep, otherwise you'll be unbalanced all day tomorrow," and leave the kitchen. 

T.L.

week 07 –  childhood

Tired from the unpleasant incident last night, I enter the office the next day and, without reacting to the "good morning" from my colleagues, head straight to my desk. Gustav, my assistant, who knows me very well by now, silently puts the agenda for today on my desk and disappears in the kitchen. I put my headphones on and while the soothing voice of Daria Arun murmurs "Inhale, 2, 3, 4, 5, exhale 2, 3, 4, 5" into my ear, Gustav puts a steaming cup of black coffee on my desk. Until lunch break, I don't manage to do much more than breathing in and out and drinking my coffee, but at least I feel a little better when I enter the canteen, where my colleagues and our secretaries are all already sitting at a long table. Today there is spelt semolina porridge with a deep red sauce of fresh wild berries and a curd cream with coconut and sea buckthorn on the menu. "Semolina porridge," Linus enthuses, "how long has it been since I ate semolina porridge?! Oh, it always reminds me so much of my childhood." Everyone nods in agreement and I, triggered by the word "childhood", begin to talk about my husband's relationship with his mother in the middle of the silence. Ten minutes later, I haven't touched my semolina porridge yet, Linus asks me in dismay: "How? He had all these possibilities and he just gave up? Doesn't he know how lucky he was to have a mother who encouraged him so much? My mother only took care of my sisters." "You poor, poor little Linus. You men are really sooo poor," Franzi interjects. From following heated exchange I gathered: 

Linus - and Gustav and apparently all the other men at the table - agree that they never had the same opportunities as their sisters. Linus (one older and two younger sisters) always had to suppress his wishes – "That explains a lot!", I comment and all the female colleagues laugh. While his sisters were learning languages, playing instruments or leading sports teams, his mother only allowed him to meet his friends on the terrace in the evening to play cards. While his sisters were taken to the next leisure activity, he took out the rubbish, helped his father with the shopping and hoped in vain for five minutes of decision-making power in the evening battle over the choice of programme. Four against one - women against men, so he usually simply admitted the defeat. Never would his mother have taken his side. His father, yes, he might, but only to be silenced by a scowl from his wife. "Why don't you leave the girls alone? They've been out all day and they're so tired." Gustav's mother, on the other hand, had simply lost interest in her children after his birth - he was the third son. She simply didn’t know what to do with the boys. She came home late at night after work and spent the weekends with "girlfriends" in the metropolises of Europe. "She was my hero and when she was around, I did everything to get her attention. At home she would sit at her desk for hours doing more important things. I always blamed my father for her absence and eventually I blamed myself. No wonder I just never find the right woman, with this kind of female role model."

My female colleagues replied clearly enraged and with loud voices: "Men! As soon as you have a problem, you can’t think of anything better than to look for its cause in a woman. There is just no way we women can fulfill all your wishes. Your poor mothers, if they heard you talking like this.” They argued that they themselves never experienced anything like that and their brothers would always have been treated equally and fairly. Girls and boys would undoubtedly have been treated equally for a long time already. "That's easy to say from the point of view of a daughter and sister", Gustav replied grumpily. To my objection that I had a lot of friends who raise their children freely and in a self-determined way, regardless of gender, Linus only replied: "Oh, and who raises the children there? The women, perhaps?" In response to my silence he added: "And who do you talk to? To the fathers? Or to the mothers?" But Franzi interrupts him: "That's enough, Linus, now you're getting personal. We all do our best. And someone has to go to work so that the children you men want don't starve and have a roof over their heads. We certainly don't have it easy either. We even give you a male quota, equal pay, we have a federal CHANCELLOR, we support masculinism. Really, what more do you want?"

T.L.

week 08 – sex, part II

Every year it's Christmas and every year on the 23rd of December this realisation strikes me like a particularly vicious bolt of lightning. So last year, too, I rushed into town the day before, with the hopeless goal of finding the perfect present for my sweetheart. It's not easy. Who knows what men want. Meeting those demands is a Sisyphus task. He is never satisfied with what I get him. In addition, the ever-same Christmas hits get on my nerves with precise accuracy: while red-clad Christmas matrons with their green helpers hand out sugary-smiling candy canes to children, at least as many bitterly looking fathers do their last Christmas shopping. Desperately, I let my eyes wander over the consumer landscape: Books, ties, table football, lingerie - lingerie?! My gaze remained glued to a huge banner hanging above the tables with overpriced pants for men. The look the three men on the banner gave me, made the blood run passionately through my veins. They tucked their thumbs lasciviously into the waistband of their black satin panties. Their heads lowered, their gaze under dark, prominent eyebrows - with their foreheads settling into those fantastic winkles, that ultimate sign of profound sexiness - and looked straight into the heart of the desperate seeker. When I had gained consciousness again, I was standing in the street outside the department store - in my right hand a paper bag of satin lingerie in five different colours and shapes. To this day I can't remember what happened. Anyway, those five fine scraps of fabric were laying wrapped under the glowing Christmas tree one day later. The closer it got to the time of unpacking the gifts, the more excited I became. In my head I imagined how we would have incredibly hot sex once I had freed him from his satin undies. 

He insisted - and of course this fitted wonderfully into my plan - that I unwrap my three (!) presents first. I got a homemade perfume, a ticket to a concert and he had collected all the photos taken in our relationship so far in a photo album. While he insisted on looking at every single page and reminiscing, my impatience slowly grew beyond measure. Putting him and the album off until later, I put my package on his lap, "Open it!"

Had it been my impatient behaviour that had fuelled his expectations or had he simply had expectations in the first place that I could not fulfil?! He looked at the underwear for a very long time, very silently. All my hopes for sex melted away: "Ah, pants." and I saw disappointment take possession of his whole body. I could not do anything anymore, "They're satin. You've complained before that you don't have nice lingerie. And besides, I bet you look mega hot in them." What I remember of the rest of the evening is a big question mark. I've gone over and over our conversation and I don't understand what I did wrong. Sentences like, "You could have just not given me anything. That's so trivial, next time give me a massage or attention instead. How about that?", "Am I nothing more than a sex object for you?" or "You only think with your uterus!" have burned themselves deep into my self-image as a reflective woman and today nothing is the way it used to be. I admit I am insecure about men. I find myself for minutes at work not doing anything but staring at the few men I see. I study them, trying to guess what they are thinking and how they feel. But then Luis comes to me and explains to me that some of the men in the office felt sexually harassed by me. 

Ever since, I lower my eyes in shame- I lower my eyes when I see men coming towards me in the street. I lower my gaze when I talk to men - although, no; when I talk to men, I try to direct my gaze over their shoulder somewhere in the distance, not that they think I gaze towards their genitals. I lower my gaze in public when I even suspect sexualised advertising on facades, advertising pillars, trains, houses, kiosks, building sites, taxis.... I have neck pain because I practically don't lift my head anymore. In fact, I had never noticed that my image of men was so one-sided. In my perception, men were beautiful, nice to look at, loved to talk about women with their male friends over champagne and crab cocktails, and otherwise preferred to exist for women. Before that Christmas night, I went with colleagues to establishments where men in tight panties, with glittering pasties on their nipples, danced in cages above our tables. I went to bars where men - dressed up as doctors in white coats, garbage men in bright orange workwear, oily firemen or chefs in black and white chequered trousers - served drinks and took off their clothes when women paid for them. I have given up that life. I don't see ads for men's lingerie in my internet feed anymore. It is now full of ads for workshops like "Less dominant and still a woman", "Mansplaining - Someone explain the man to me" or "What a Man wants!"

T.L.