Back in 1972, I was a soldier with the Second Armored Division stationed in Furth, Germany. Nuremburg, a few miles and a short streetcar trip away, was a very cruisy town, with several public restrooms and parks where men came to play. German cops seemed to allow the activity as long as men were careful and were not too obvious. I was a good looking, well built guy at the time, and was quite popular at one particular 'klo,' or toilet built into the 800 year old wall that surrounded the central part of the city. I spent many happy hours there servicing the older German men, sometimes sucking one while another fucked me. I can still remember the dampness of the old stone cavern and the musty, intoxicating smell of the crotches as they humped my face(Germans, bless them, do not seem to make bathing a priority), and the hot, uncut dicks swelling my asshole.

One day I noticed on the company bulletin board a posting asking for anyone with musical, theatrical or rodeo ability to audition for the annual German American Volksfest in Berlin. The Volksfest was created along the lines of a county fair, with rides, food, games and German and American entertainment. The idea, of course, to promote friendship between the Germans and the American GI's occupying their country. The theme this year was the Wild West, and the US Army had made arrangements for a real rodeo to be brought to Berlin. Most of the cowboys were professionals from the states, but GI's who had rodeo experience were invited to take part. I'd rodeo'd as a high schooler in Texas, but I chose discretion over valor, and auditioned for one of the musical groups. I was a pretty good country singer and guitar player, and won a spot in a five-piece country band. We were placed on a train to Berlin, and for the next four weeks, instead of driving an M-113 armored personnel carrier, I was in show business.

Berlin was a glorious city- a wonderful mixture of the old and the new. The center of the city had been more or less flattened during the war, and many of the buildings were less than 25 years old. Still, walls, castles and monuments dating back hundreds of years were rebuilt, and in places the city still carried the ambiance of the middle ages. The "fairgrounds" were located near the center of the city, but the performers were housed in an old mansion on the "Wannsee," a lake outside of town. We learned that the place had been a favorite gathering spot for the Nazi elite during World War II, and we imagined what Hitler and Goering and Himmler would think if they knew that the same resort to which they brought their wives and mistresses for formal events and sleep-overs was now housing US troops.

My job for the next four weeks was to spend an hour a day on a large stage inside a giant beer tent with my country band, playing 'authentic' American country music for the German visitors. Other tents featured German waltz and polka bands for the Americans to enjoy. One advantage to being a native Texan was that I was the one person in my group who didn't have to go to the PX to buy "western" clothes. The white straw stetson, red snap-button shirt, blue bandana, western belt with heavy uckle, tight Lees and Tony Lama boots were all mine. At six feet tall, I resembled "Bud," the character John Travolta would later play in Urban Cowboy.

For the first few days I enjoyed swimming at the Wannsee until near time to perform- then I'd catch the constantly running shuttle bus to the fairgrounds. The band played a combination of 'current' country hits, and some older things by Hank Williams and Lefty Frizzel. The Germans were familiar with most of the songs, and the two-step and waltz tempos were very like their own folk music. We were a hit. After the show I'd watch the rodeo, or visit the other tents, enjoying the german food and beer, and simply walk about the midway, people watching. With my hat and boots, I got plenty of attention from the Germans as well. I met a couple of lovely frauleins who were happy to capture a trophy cowboy, and the guys in the band became accustomed to my being out all night.

One evening after the early show, I decided to roam the city- something I'd spent a great deal of time doing in other German, French and Austrian towns. I started hitting the bars along the Kurfurstendam, a bright and noisy street whose sidewalks were filled with Berliners and tourists looking for fun. I had developed a love for a peculiar German liquer called "Jagermeister," a syrupy-sweet, but very potent drink. I was comfortably tipsy by the time I entered the third bar.

This club was different from the others- a bit darker, the rock and roll music a bit louder, and the dance floor was filled mostly with men. I realized I'd entered a gay bar. It was my first, and the thought excited me. Halfway through my first Jager, a handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair and moustache sat down beside me and asked in very good english if he could buy me a drink. "Of course you can," I answered, "Danke." "My name is Frank. Are you with the rodeo in town?" he asked. "Yep," I told him, feeling slightly guilty for lying, but enjoying the attention. "My name is John. I'm a calf roper." "You've made quite an impression on these people," he told me. "Some German boys like to dress up like cowboys, but they don't know how to wear the clothes. You look like you just stepped out of a wild west movie." As he spoke, he put his hand lightly on my thigh. Emboldened by the Jagermeister and aroused by his touch, I moved his hand to my swollen crotch straining against the denim. "Thanks," I said-"You're very nice." "Would you like to visit my apartment?" he asked. "My room-mate and I live just down the street." "I'd love to," I said- tossing back the drink he'd bought me.

Within five minutes, Frank was unlocking the front door of an apartment building. We walked up the stairs to a second floor flat. He opened the door for me and I walked into a small living room with a couch, a coffee table, some shelves holding a stereo, tv and record collection, and a large bay window looking down onto the K-dam. "Let me get you a drink," he said. "Make yourself at home." I walked to the window, took off my hat and stood there admiring the view. The K-dam was filled with automobiles and happy people on the sidewalks. The bright lights of the clubs and movie houses blended into a soft kaleidoscope for my slightly blurred vision. In a reflection in the window I noticed someone else walk into the room- a man of about sixty. He was grey haired, stocky, had a short neatly-trimmed beard. He wore only a bathrobe. "Mein Gott, Frank, was hast du mitgebracht?" he asked admiringly. I turned around as Frank handed me a small glass of Jagermeister. "This is my friend Karl," he said. "Karl, this is John- he is a real American Cowboy I met at the Kaiser Keller." "I'm very happy to meet you," Karl said in heavily accented German. We shook hands. "It is good to have you with us."