daniella and jordan: a story of possession

extra material from my 2019 novel Daniella (no background knowledge necessary; no need to fear spoilers)

Jordan:

I walked up and down the streets around the brothels near the train station in Frankfurt. It was the end of May, late but still pretty light outside. I’d never had sex with a hooker before. I watched men entering and exiting, sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs. I tried to imagine myself walking down a hallway, talking with the women. I tried to picture myself handing cash to one, putting a condom on, having sex with her. I’d had sex with lots of people, but I’d never put on a condom. How did you even do it?

I walked back to my hotel down the street. I went up into my room. I watched some porn on my laptop and I masturbated. I hoped that once I ejaculated, the fantasies would go away. I finished while focusing on a girl I’d just studied abroad with.

I sat quietly for a bit, thinking about the brothels.

Just do it, I told myself, sitting naked on my bed.

I put my clothes back on. I walked out into the street. Maybe I could just have a cigarette to distract myself. I was trying to quit, but it seemed like a good idea. I walked over to a kiosk and bought a pack. I lit one up. I saw a blonde girl walking down the street. She was smoking a cigarette, too. My head turned so my eyes could follow her. I looked at that cigarette in her mouth and I imagined her naked and I had an erection again. It turned me on so bad when a hot girl was smoking a cigarette. I wanted to go to my room and masturbate to her.

I finished the cigarette and walked back over to the brothels. I stood across the street from one. I saw two older men walk out, fixing their pants. I lit another cigarette. After this cigarette, I promised myself, I’m going in there.

But then I just walked around a bit more, lighting cigarette after cigarette. “After this cigarette,” I kept telling myself. I walked past sex kinos, kebab restaurants, and cheap hotels. I lingered near the entrances to brothels, no more than several seconds at a time before hurrying away. I kept smoking repeatedly until I’d gone through nearly half the pack. I heard some Americans shouting drunkenly as they came out of a bar. I saw what seemed like a father and son looking at a folded-out map. They were straining to see the street signs around them. I saw another blonde girl with a cigarette in her mouth and my erection came back.

I walked into the brothel and paid a cover of five euros. I kept my head down. I didn’t make eye contact with the guy at the desk. I wondered if he was judging me. I knew I didn’t belong here. He must know that, too.

I walked down the dim hallway. Some doors were closed, but women were standing in most of the open ones. Some of them were in lingerie. Some were totally naked. Some were in robes. I looked into an open door to my right. A black woman with a curly weave was sitting on a bed grinning at me. The room looked comfortable, with a lamp lit on the desk and a laptop sitting out on the comforter.

“Come on in,” she gestured.

I almost did, but I was scared. I kept walking. Some women standing in the doors kept calling out to me in German and English. Others just ignored me. I saw a naked blonde woman lying on her bed texting on her flip phone.

I heard a drunk Australian accent a ways down the hallway. I turned the corner and saw the Australian talking with two naked white women at the door to a bedroom. They were speaking in English; the black-haired women didn’t sound German. I wondered if they were Romanian or Albanian or Bosnian or something.

I listened to them negotiating the price of a threesome.

The women looked at me. He did, too.

“Hey man,” he called down the dim hallway to me, “want to go in on this together?”

I was too afraid to answer.

But right in front of me were two completely naked and beautiful Eastern European women wanting me to have sex with them. Even if it was for money, they wanted me to be their customer. They were hotter than any girl I’d ever fucked in my life. I looked at them and felt my erection getting stronger. One of them walked up to me and touched my hand. “Come on,” she smiled.

The other woman threw her arm around the Australian. He touched her breasts and played with her nipple with his fingers. She backed away and he looked at me. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s have a foursome with these girls.”

I started thinking about putting the condom on. I was afraid I wouldn’t know how to do it.

“I’m going to look around a bit more,” I said.

I kept walking down the hallway. I heard a door close behind me. I turned around and realized the three of them had gone into the room.

Goddamn it, I cursed myself. My erection began fading away. I’m such a fucking pussy.

I went up to another floor. Standing in one of the doors was a transgendered woman. Her breasts were out, but female underwear covered her crotch. Through the underwear I could make out the shape of a dick and my erection came back. I imagined her fucking me in the ass. I imagined sucking her dick while touching her breasts. She gave me a price.

I looked at her for a while and I wanted her. But then a voice in my head told me to run, told me that I didn’t belong here, told me I was a loser for paying for sex, told me to ask myself what some of my friends would think if they knew I had done this.

I turned and walked off fast. I ignored the offers from every naked woman I passed until I was back out in the street. I was on my way to my hotel room, smoking a cigarette. I saw another blonde woman smoking and my erection grew to unprecedented proportions.

I got back to my hotel room and watched porn on my laptop. I masturbated, but only a little bit came out this time. It took a while.

The next morning, I boarded my flight back to Michigan. I thought about the night before as we sat waiting for takeoff on the tarmac. I regretted not having sex with one of those prostitutes. I resolved that I’d never pass up an opportunity like that again. Next time, I’d get high or drunk or something. I’d break through my irrational inhibitions.

The flight took off. I’d been gone for two and a half years finishing my bachelor’s degree in Germany and then traveling for a while. My sister picked me up from the airport and I settled in at her house in the guestroom.

I met for a drink with Herr Schmidt, my old German teacher, that first weekend home.

We spoke in German for a while. He asked me about my time away. I told him about all the traveling I’d done in Italy, France, Spain, and the UK. I told him about the job I’d worked in Freiburg as a bartender. I told him about the literature classes I took in German. We reminisced about the last time we’d seen each other. It was in Berlin. He had been there with the high schoolers on the annual trip. He asked me what was next. I told him I’d be moving to Kenya for a year in September to work for a non-profit there.

“And until then?” he asked. “You’ve got a few months, don’t you?”

“I do,” I said. “I’ll probably backpack my way over there. I don’t know. We’ll see. I just wanted to come home first for a bit to see my sister and some friends.”

It was just me and my sister. My parents had died a while back.

He broke into his heavily German-accented English. “I’m sick of teaching these entitled rich fucks,” he said. “Some of them will never take advantage of anything like you have.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“These kids have so many opportunities,” he said, “and they just waste it all. Half of them will just stay in Michigan their whole lives and won’t see any of the world.”

“That’s true,” I said.

“And it’s not finances that hold them back,” Herr Schmidt said. “Their parents are all fucking super rich. It’s just ignorance and fear.”

I shrugged.

“You’re different,” Herr Schmidt said. “You inherited all that money from your parents, and you did something with it. You see the world. You study abroad. You travel. You learn. These stupid kids are just going to pay down a mortgage and have babies.” He told me about a student named Andrew who had given him a speech to listen to. It was some Ohio Republican comparing John Kerry to Neville Chamberlain. “He’s one of the dumbest fucking students I’ve ever had.”

“Well, I mean, a lot of kids from around here do do things,” I said.

“Like fucking what?” Herr Schmidt demanded to know.

He took a long drink of Guinness. I thought for a bit.

“Political stuff,” I said.

“Ha!” he laughed. “I need to quit at some point. I’m so sick of this community. You know, we even had a kid fucking kill himself because he was bullied so bad, for being gay. These kids are fucking dumb. Their parents are somehow even dumber.”

I thought for a moment. I had heard about Nathan, of course. I knew his older brother, though not very well. “This sounds like some kind of existential crisis,” I said.

Herr Schmidt sighed. “I’ve spent the first ten years of my career teaching a bunch of spoiled-brat rich white kids,” he said. “And I call myself a leftist.”

“You’re only like 60,” I joked, although he was actually only about 50. “Find something else to do before you get more grey hairs.”

“Maybe I’ll switch jobs,” he said.

“And do what?” I asked.

He thought for a moment. “Invest in some kind of business,” he said.

“Very leftist of you,” I said. “I bet you’ve got loads of money from your long teaching career.”

“I inherited very well,” he shrugged. “Like you.”

“Really?” I asked.

“My wife was rich,” he said. “And we never had kids.”

“Then just do whatever you want,” I said. “All I know - you and that trip to Germany had a big impact on me. It made me want to travel and see the world.”

He shrugged. He told me about one of his students, Daniella. He told me she talked a big game in class about being a progressive and an activist and sometimes even called herself a fucking “pagan.” But in reality, he explained, she was more like a drug dealer and a porn star. A few kids said she was a murderer. He said that he was pretty sure she hosted an orgy on the Germany trip last summer. “I heard it through the walls,” he said.

“And you didn’t stop it?” I asked.

“Of course not,” he said. “I did listen for a bit, just to confirm. Anyway, she’s been writing scripts for elaborate pornographies. They’re very good.”

“How do you… How do you know that?” I asked. “You’ve read them?”

“Yes,” he said. “She’s a great writer.”

I paused. “This seems, well, a little….”

“She’s almost 19,” he said. “And she’s graduating in a couple weeks.” He paused. “So quit worrying about it. We both know what you really want to know is how hot she is.”

I laughed nervously. I’d never heard him speak like this about a student. But this was also the first time we’d hung out as adults. “I mean,” I said. “This is inappropriate, isn’t it? Like, this seems super illegal even talking about it somehow. Like, how did you get her scripts? Did she give them to you or something?”

He laughed. “I’ll just tell you - she’s beyond fucking hot,” he said. “You know how I feel about 18 year old girls.”

I actually didn’t, because he’d never spoken like this to me before. “Maybe we’ve had too many beers,” I said. I worried someone had overheard him. This wasn’t that big of a town. His students’ parents could be anywhere around us. “Look, I’m sure you’ve influenced a lot of these kids in positive ways, like you influenced me.”

“Sure, I’ve influenced some of them,” he said. He told me about a girl named Hannah who he thought was going to do big things in politics one day. “Listen, I want you to come do a presentation this week. I want you to present to my seniors about your study abroad. You’ll see Daniella, too. She’s in my class.”

“You mean, like, about partying in Germany instead of on campus?” I joked.

“It’s more than that, you said so yourself,” Herr Schmidt said. “It’s about seeing the fucking world. Look at you. You’re fluent in German. You’ve got friends over there now. This is the most exciting fucking time to be alive. This is fucking 2006. This is the most international the world has ever been. You can show them that. So. Will you do the presentation?”

“Sure, I’ll do it,” I said. I remembered a few years ago when I was his student. Some other alum had come in and given a presentation. I still remembered it.

“Great,” he said. “How about Thursday? The last day before the seniors finish? You’ll see Daniella.”

I nodded. “Let’s do it,” I said. “But you have to promise to shut up about Daniella.” I told myself he was just drunk.

Herr Schmidt nodded excitedly. He ordered us another round of Guinness.

Over the next few days, I reconnected with some old friends and worked on my presentation.

I spent the day at the high school that Thursday. I presented to every class, all of his juniors and all of his seniors. It was strange to be back in my old German classroom. It had all the same posters and verb conjugations on the walls. Every surface was saturated with colorful German grammar rules and vocabulary charts. I glanced at the desks I’d once been assigned to sit in. I looked at the kids sitting in them now. It had only been four years since I left, but no one was the same. None of these kids were going to this school yet when I was here.

I told them about my two years studying in Freiburg. I showed them pictures of the city and walked them through a typical week. I told them stories about trips I’d taken around Europe. I told them about how I’d transferred from Michigan to Freiburg and saved tens of thousands in tuition fees by studying in Germany.

I remember Hannah. She asked so many questions. She talked to me after class and we exchanged emails. She said she was determined to spend at least one year in Germany during college.

I saw Daniella during the last period of the day. She sat in the back. Her hair was dyed pink and black. She had a black hoodie on and a lip ring. She didn’t smile. She didn’t say a word. But she stared directly at me the whole time. I couldn’t avoid some eye contact. She kept staring at me even when class had dismissed. She glanced back at me while she was walking out the door. I saw her whisper something to Herr Schmidt while looking at me. I glanced at her thighs under her skirt line. I redirected my eyes; it wasn’t appropriate.

I sat in the empty room with Herr Schmidt.

“You did great,” he said.

I thanked him.

“What do you think about Daniella?” he asked.

I hesitated. Maybe she was almost 19, but this did feel like it crossed a line. I was 22 and had just been checking out a high school girl, which already was something I wouldn’t necessarily want to share. Now, so was this 50 year old man, again, and he was her fucking teacher. “In what sense?” I asked.

“Listen,” he said. “After graduation, something big is going to happen. I’m going to go away for a while.”

“Go away?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “To Europe. I’m pursuing a major investment. I can’t discuss it yet. I want you to put some money aside and be ready to invest in it, too.”

I thought it had all been a joke in that bar. I started to wonder if I was now an accessory to some kind of kidnapping. But she’s technically an adult, I reminded myself.

“What kind of investment?” I asked.

“A major investment,” he said.

“This doesn’t have… this doesn’t have anything to do with… what we talked about at the bar, does it?”

“I’m only telling you and my business partner,” he said, ignoring my question. “My house, I’m selling it. I’m leaving Rochester forever, actually. I’m going back to Germany. And then, I don’t know where I’ll be. But you need to join. You need to get in on this.”

“Don’t do something you can’t take back,” I said.

Herr Schmidt stood up. “I’m going to travel,” he said.

“And run the business?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“And who is your business partner?” I asked, although I feared I already knew.

“In a month,” he said, “I’m going to show you some pilots.”

“Show me?” I asked.

“I’ll show you,” he said.

“But… what is this business?” I asked.

“Art,” he said. “An art business.”

“Jesus Christ - I’ll be honest,” I said. “I don’t know if I want to really know about this.” I stood up and turned to the door.

“You will like it,” Herr Schmidt said to my back. “You will want to be a part of it. You won’t be able to resist joining once you see it.”

I walked out into the hallway and left the building. I drove back to my sister’s house and sat in the living room for a while, thinking about Herr Schmidt, thinking about Daniella. Why did she whisper to him while looking at me? Had he spoken with her about me? What had he said? What had she said?

I thought for a long time. When I was trying to go to sleep, those thoughts turned into fantasies. I jerked off thinking about her. I felt slightly guilty at first, but I realized no one would ever know. There was nothing to feel bad about. I hadn’t done anything. And if I did, it was legal. Like Herr Schmidt said, she was 18, and I wasn’t her teacher. I was only four years older than she was.

Two weeks later, just after commencement, old friends sent me text messages. Herr Schmidt, the beloved German teacher, had quit and vanished, they said. I drove by his house and saw it was already sold. Nervously, I googled for articles about any teenagers named Daniella disappearing. Nothing.

I sent him an email, asking him where he’d gone. I told him I had three months free and I was planning on traveling for a while. I suggested maybe we could meet somewhere.

He sent me back an email with several video attachments.

I opened the first one. I recognized Daniella immediately with that pink streak in her black hair and her lip ring. She was naked in a dimly lit bedroom. Her nipples were pierced and she was wearing a black necklace with an upside-down cross. She was on her knees on a carpet with the image of a pentagram. There were stacks of books against the walls around her. She was surrounded by candles. She was holding a knife in her hand.

Two figures in black robes with hoods appeared behind her. She stood up. I turned up the computer volume, but there was no sound in the video. Between the robed figures was a naked and blindfolded guy who, I thought. They forced him to his knees in front of Daniella. I noticed some sort of bucket in the middle of the pentagram, just between Daniella on one side and the guy on the other. One of the hooded figures leveled the guy’s throat above the bucket. The other took off her robe so that she was naked, too. She laid down on the carpet between Daniella and her side of the bucket, with her face directly beneath Daniella’s vagina.

I paused it and looked carefully at the girl’s face, but I couldn’t make her out.

Knife in hand, facing the blindfolded guy on the other side of the bucket, Daniella chanted something, went down to her knees, and began humping the other girl’s mouth. The girl raised her hands in the air and stroked Daniella’s waist, reached up for her breasts, and clawed her sides until there were streams of blood. Daniella kept facefucking her and chanting.

Then, the second figure took off her robe as well. It was another girl I’d met during my presentation - Aliya. She was wearing a dildo. She spread the guy’s cheeks and slowly squeezed it into his ass. I saw his body lunge forward, as if resisting the penetration. But after a little bit, she was humping him faster and faster.

With another hand, Aliya reached around the guy and stroked his dick. The guy eventually started quivering like he was having an orgasm. For a moment, I was so turned on that I forgot all about the knife and the bucket. I unzipped my pants and stroked myself. The camera moved so I could see semen coming out of the guy’s dick. At the same time, still chanting and gasping as she was eaten out, I saw Daniella slit his throat. I saw an enormous amount of blood flow out from his neck and into the bucket.

My heart thumping, I immediately closed the video and deleted the email. I went into my downloads and deleted the file. I went into the recycling bin and deleted it permanently.

Then I laughed at myself. There was no way this was an actual murder, I decided. This was just Herr Schmidt’s “art business” he had told me about. This was one of Daniella’s scripts that she wrote, and she knew how to produce.

I finished masturbating while thinking about Daniella. I imagined running into her somewhere in town and just fucking her in that bedroom on top of that pentagram.

I realized I regretted deleting the video. I tried to recover it so I could watch it again. My erection had come back just moments after I masturbated, at the mere thought of her.

He’s right, I realized. I didn’t need to go to Kenya. I didn’t have any plans. I was 22, I had money, I could do whatever I wanted.

I sent Herr Schmidt another email.

“Where are you?” I asked.

He responded within seconds: “Bishkek,” he said. “Daniella will be here soon. You’ll need to get a visa, but we can take care of that.”

I went to the Turkish Airlines website. I bought a ticket via Istanbul to Kyrgyzstan.