Dealing Flesh
Authors: Birgit Waldschmidt
Tags: #Biographies & Memoirs, #Retail, #Sex addiction, #Nonfiction, #Memoirs
A Good Girl’s Journey
through Sex Addiction
And How She Became
an Authentic Woman
BIRGIT WALDSCHMIDT
Copyright © 2012 Birgit Waldschmidt
United States Library of Congress
FIRST EDITION
1 8 4 2 6 9 5
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Cover and Interior Design by Deasy Suryani Purba
Digital books (epub and mobi) produced by
Neeraj Chandra
.
To sheep that have gone astray
and lost all hope in ever returning…
And to the Mary Magdalene Project in Van Nuys,
California—an organization whose concept and
much needed services I value greatly…
This book is dedicated to you.
This penetrating novel-style memoir gives an unflinching glimpse into a subject taboo by much of mainstream society. Author Birgit Waldschmidt shares how she dealt with the dangers of selling herself and promoting sex as the greatest “high” a human can achieve. She dealt this intoxicating lust-drug as a “Starlight” of the night until her need to present a superficial image to the world almost destroyed her.
When the Flesh Becomes the Master…
Some people deal Heroin, others Cocaine, but what about dealing Flesh? Are prostitutes the only ones who peddle their bodies for cash, or do we all use physical attraction to get what we want? Women resort to flirting or sexually flaunting their bodies to hypnotize the opposite sex. And men cannot resist the allure of a girl who wants to be America’s next top model sporting a seductive hairdo, dazzling make-up or a tight mini-skirt. But the temptation to “prostitute” ourselves is a corrosive evil that permeates all cultures and flourishes, robbing lives and whole societies of innocence and our “essential organic nature.”
This book contains the soul story of a once innocent girl named Birgit, who after losing her beloved father to divorce, discovers how pornography helps her escape her feelings of abandonment. Soon she embarks on a path of self-destruction that ultimately entangles her in a web of prostitution, obsessive fantasy, sexual and impossible romance--and don't forget her relentless desire for stardom. Driven by her intense need to attain perfection so that somewhere, the “man of her dreams” would be forever hers, Birgit leaves Germany to test her fate in America. Little does she know that she’s in for one hell of a ride … one that nearly wipes her off the face of the Earth.
Ultimately, and above all, this is a story of hope … from a once-timid child thrust into a twisted world … to an adolescent dealing with her inner person … to a responsible adult facing the realities of sexual addiction and money lust. See how the implosion of Birgit’s “ah-ha moment” moves her to turn fate around.
CHAPTER 1
Once upon a time there lived a maiden as pristine and untainted as a crystal clear spring; inside her chest beating a heart of gold…
Girl with the Coy Smile
Niedersachsen, Germany – early 1960’s
At roughly nine
Uhr
on this cold overcast morning in Wolfsburg, one of the smaller towns east of Hannover, I—a cute, brown-eyed baby girl with a coy smile and the innocence of a flower—drop into the experienced hands of a midwife in the den of Grandma’s two-bedroom apartment on
Schulstrasse
.
Mama
claims I’m much smaller than the average infant; my head is smaller, too, even though I was carried to full term. But not to worry, I’m given a clean bill of health.
And so, all is wholly well, this fairy moment…except that
Papa
is missing—missing in action, action of the inappropriate kind, whoring around with some woman. At least that’s how I remember Mother describing it to me years later.
Paps
must have gotten so carried away that he forgot all about attending this much more significant event—the miracle of my birth.
As tall as a super hero, with mocha almond-shaped eyes, a well-proportioned body, and bedazzling charm,
Papa
undeniably constitutes a magnet for the ladies. To me, he looks much like he could be from somewhere else with that full head of Afro-like curls and all. And verily, maybe it is true after all; I mean, from what I recall, Mother told me on more than one occasion that somewhere in
Papa’s
ancestry flows a tad bit of gypsy blood. Natural in beauty, with long, wavy auburn hair and simple features,
Mama
isn’t an ugly duckling either. Together, the two make a statuesque sight to see.
As time goes on, I get the feeling that
Mama
does not love me. For one, she often strikes me as distant and cold. Hearing her call
Papa
a
Bezirksbefruchter
and other unkind words to his face or behind his back, justified or not, leads me to assume that all men must be bad people. And most of all, I, too, must be quite bad, because she often says I’m just like my father. But no matter what anyone says about my
Paps
, spending time with him feels like bathing in rays of sunshine. The way he talks and interacts with me gives reason to believe that, to him, I must be worth at least a million
Deutsche Mark
.
~~~
Papa
gets in from work this evening, and within minutes, he places me onto his shoulders. My face lights up like a Christmas tree as he trots around the house. I feel loved. When it comes to trust, I only feel comfortable around him and my sweet Grandma Trudy, who enjoys reading fantasy stories to me on the days and nights I spend at her house. Tales like
Schneeweischen und Rosenrot, Cinderella,
and the
Bremer Stadtmusikanten
score high on my list of favorites.
Once a week, at nighttime,
Papa
, my little sister Vicki, and I play the “Pick Out Some Candy” game. Eyes agape, I stare at the piles of goodies that come to light behind the otherwise locked cabinet door that
Papa
just opened.
“One piece only,” he says with a forceful tone, as I attempt to grab several items at once.
Doubt Cloud:
How can he love me, if I am allowed only one measly bar?
Scaredy Cat:
I promise, once I grow up, I’ll buy a mountain of confection and stuff my face until sweets spring from my ears.
Pristina:
Candy, or no candy. Papa’s my pal. I know he’ll never let me down.
~~~
Thanks to my father who likes animals more than anyone I know—beside myself, of course—our family shares the one-bedroom apartment with an abundance of creatures.
Pixie
, a white mouse that I feel a strong bond with, has a habit of falling into a deep trance within seconds of me rubbing her neck. Looking at her in her hypnotized state makes me crack up every time, because I can bend her into the funniest positions, in which she then remains in until I wake her.
Papa
says tomorrow he’ll take us kids riding. I know of no better treat than being around my most favorite animal in the world: horses.
~~~
Winter – Still Age Five
Around six
Uhr in der Früh, Mama
dashes into the room and pulls the blanket off of me.
“Up, up, up. A bunch of snow is blocking the door. We need you to throw salt onto the sidewalks,” she says with pushy urgency.
With a loud mope, I pull the cover back over my head, at the same time hoping for the dang coal oven to finally heat up the house. Realizing that I don’t have the luxury to wait around for that to happen, I jump out of bed in an instant and slip into a well-padded thermal suit and water resistant moon boots, pull a brick-red knitted ski mask over my face, and cover my ears with a pair of earmuffs. Out onto the white covered sidewalk I go, noticing within minutes that no amount of time spent on weatherproofing could have protected me from the debilitating temperatures that freeze the dripping snot that’s running from my nose and transform strands of my hair into icicles.
After the work is done, I return to the now heated kitchen for breakfast. Money is tight, and therefore, I’m served
Zwiebackbrei
. On other mornings, the
Zwiebackbrei
is exchanged for
Haferschleim,
also known as oats boiled in water, which makes a greatly loathed meal. It is eaten plain or with a slice of bread topped with a thick layer of margarine and refined sugar, which at night occasionally becomes a tier of yellow mustard or, if I’m real daring, ketchup.
~~~
Although I should be used to
Popoklatche
by now, I still experience huge
Furcht
each time I hear Mother charge down the hallway, headed for the
Kinderzimmer
to slap my behind.
Scaredy Cat:
If you would have listened and kept it quiet when she tucked you in ten minutes ago, I wouldn’t have to freak out right now.
It’s too late for regrets, because I already hear Vicki squeal as the wooden spoon rattles down on her buttocks, instantly reminding me about the primary reason I picked the upper level of the bunk. Stoically, I sit on my mattress, madly pushing my body into the wall behind me. I feel my face contorting to each of Sissy’s high pitch cries. The scary sound subsides. I hold my breath. Within a fraction of a second, Mother’s disgruntled face shows up in front of me, immediately wrangling me away from the panel and swiftly pulling down my pajama bottoms, lifting my legs in the air. I let go of all resistance as the dreaded utensil strikes my soft behind—one, two, three, four times, maybe…losing track. I lay terrified, but eventually, the state of shock loosens its grip when it sinks in that Mother’s vanished. Still, I keep worrying she’ll return. Vic and I exchange a few lower than low whisper words before we deem it best to fall asleep without another
Mucks.
~~~
Age Six
I am playing outside in the dull paved backyard of the apartment building we live in. Some of my playmates from around the neighborhood join me. It isn’t long before the desperate urge to explore my surroundings unaccompanied takes over.
I exit the sandbox and venture around the corner of the building. There I discover a downed clothesline pole, whose solid steel post rests with one end on a protruding ledge of the building’s wall, creating a ninety-degree angle. Largely stirred by the urge of wanting to be out of everyone’s reach, I hop on and scoot upward a centimeter at a time, clamping onto the post like a koala bear clasps a tree limb. Holding out in one spot for several minutes, I discover that if I tighten my inner thigh muscles a bit I feel a delightful sensation by my
Muschie.
I enjoy it so much that I remain in place for five more minutes.
A few days later, when attempting to visit the pleasure stick again, I find to my dismay, that someone had the audacity to restore it to its main purpose: holding clothes so that they can dry.
Scheiße
.
~~~
It’s one of those mornings that I feel particularly cold, anxious, and unloved. Knowing that Mother treats me like a princess, cooks my favorite foods, and tends to my every wish when I’m sick, I grab the fever thermometer from the cupboard, carry it to the wooden table inside my room and slam it onto the tabletop several times in a row. Each time it hits the surface, I hold my breath hoping that the delicate glass encasing won’t shatter and spill its mercury poison all over me. To my pleasant surprise, the temperature hikes up several degrees within seconds, stalling at 37.8 degrees Celsius.
I proceed toward the white shellacked surface of the heater unit that’s mounted to the wall below the window. I press the pointy silvery end of the thermometer up against it and watch as it reaches 39 degrees Celsius in almost an instant. Super thrilled, I present it to Mother and not much later, I get ready for a long, relaxing, cozy day in bed.
The Night the Sky Falls Down
Still Six Years Old
A noise awakens me from a deep slumber, making me sit up straight in bed inside the pitch-black
Kinderzimmer
.
“Pssst, Vic—are you ‘wake?” I murmur, leaning over the edge of the bunk.
“Uh-hmm,” she answers in a barely audible tone. “What was that?” she asks within the same breath, now a tad more alert.
I instruct her to switch on the light. Two
Uhr
, it says on the clock that’s hanging on the busy patterned wallpapered wall across from me.
“It’s sooo early…. What’s going on?”
“I dunno. Let’s take a look,” I whisper encouragingly.
“I don’t wanna get spanked again.”
“Ahh,
pappelapapp
. We won’t. I’ll go first. C’mon.”
Dressed in cutesy tweed pajamas and fuzzy slippers, we start waddling down the dark room on all fours, the angry voices from the adjacent kitchen progressively getting louder.
Doubt Cloud:
I don’t even wanna know what’s in store, if they catch us.
Scaredy Cat:
This was all such a bad idea.
We eventually reach the entrance that separates us from the epicenter of the commotion. I stay crouched on the floor, afraid to breathe. My heart beatin’…“ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump…” I prop the door open millimeter by millimeter, careful to not make it creak. Vicki hovers behind me, her head above mine, while we both peep through the crack at once. I spot Mother sitting near the breakfast table, weeping and whimpering, covering her greenish purplish swollen ankle that she injured just yesterday when skiing down a frighteningly steep slope in the
Harz
region.
“Go to your whore then,” Mother hisses, reminding me of a lava-spewing volcano.
“You got it, bitch.”
Dad stomps off in a furor, slamming the front door shut behind him. Mother’s saddening moans cut into the lingering silence. I try regaining my composure, but feel internally massacred. Vicki and I rush to her side.
“That son of a bitch kicked me…right in my injured foot,” she mutters through her continuous cries.
I feel for her. I don’t like seeing anyone in pain. Seconds go by. So many questions swirl around inside my head.
“Is
Papa
coming back?” I inquire with an expression of great concern.
“Oohh, fuck no. He does not give a shit about us, only cares about his whore.”
Pristina:
Oh Mother, stab the dagger into my heart again, why don’t you? And as far as Papa is concerned, how could he do this to me? I’m apparently not enough…must become more. But more of what?
Brought back by the onset of compassion for my despairing Mother, I inquire if she needs anything. She doesn’t, and therefore, I go back to bed.
In the following weeks, things happen ever so quickly. Mother moves us, with the much-needed help of Grandma and Grandpa, to a two-bedroom apartment in a part of town nearby.
A bunch of days zoom by. This morning
Papa
drops by and hauls us away for the weekend. I feel torn, happy on one hand but annoyed on the other, because in order to be with Dad, I have to tolerate his girlfriend “Gisela’s” presence. He brings us to the apartment I used to call home, which he now resides in on his own. Vicki and I are instructed to sleep in the living room because our former six-by-ten-foot sized
Kinderzimmer
connects directly to the master bedroom and is only separated by a thin plywood wall.
Ragelina:
You couldn’t make me sleep this close to where Papa embraces the enemy, even if they insisted.
And so I get as comfortable as I can on the green corduroy couch that used to serve as a rock from which I watched my favorite cartoons,
Bugs Bunny
and
Schweinchen Dick
on the days before the sky fell down. The
Kuckucksuhr
still hangs in the same spot, too.
At six
Uhr
in the morning, my bladder pokes me.
“Vic,” I whisper.
“What?”
“I’ve gotta pee.”
“Ditto.”
The only bathroom is located down the hall outside the apartment and requires a key that I need to get from Dad. No way am I going to enter that spooky hallway alone. When this was still our home, I used to shun the
Treppenhaus
out of fear of running into the old eerie-looking woman that lives below us, a lady we call
The Witch
.
Mama
and
Papa
often ask me not to accept candy from her, hinting it could be poisoned. Ever since then, I would sneak up the stairs as if walking on air, gliding hurriedly by her door.