With calculated words and jolly smiles Goebbels coaxes the pretty officer out of his uniform, each promise (a model, a movie star, fame, money and duty, duty to the arts, the German people) a button unbuttoned, rewards dripping from his forked tongue trickle down the young man’s bare chest and collect as gold dust on the dark hair leading down his pelvis.

No, I must see it all, I politely insist, every scar, every inch, no need to be shy.

Now the man is lying on Goebbels’ couch entirely nude, white skin clinging to red leather, with his hands crossed on his chest and his head thrown back as if he was suffering from great torment and it’s a good image, classical, Goebbels says with a pang of jealousy and reaches for the camera.

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The era accurate version of ‘no homo’

aus-der-traum:

A hand mindlessly placed on the top of Erhard’s thigh where it connects to the hip, touching him as if it was nothing, not any different from any other caress, just like the hair tousling, the pat on his shoulder or the way Hans strokes his chest: brotherly and

chaste. He holds his breath, seconds pass, the hand becomes hotter, heavier, now Hans must feel his pulse as loud as

Erhard

hears it in his own ears. “Do you miss her?,” Hans asks as his fingers absent-mindedly wander, step by step down the Apollo’s belt and he doesn’t look at

Erhard, not in his eyes, not anywhere, and he is humming a Zarah Leander hit about love when he strokes Erhard to orgasm.

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You never kiss a whore on the mouth

aus-der-traum:

It
wasn’t something he ever meant to tell Kurt, there were things you
could take to your grave, lots of things really, men did that all the
time, and for a time (time is a thing that goes on and on, you can
stretch it as small or as long as you like) it seemed more sensible
to do that anyway, a tactical decision based on a theory he had
cobbled together in his bed alone at night, that if he buried this
long enough inside himself, without oxygen or light, it would
disintegrate to nothingness, a memory that was no longer real, just a
faint smudge, residue like the grease spot from a dead body that’s
been moved, out of sight and out of mind, the idea is limitless –
move as many bodies as you like, stamp over the freshly trodden earth
and enjoy the sweet scent of pine, nothing is moving beneath your
feet.

It’s
been so long but there’s no way he could forget the
promise/threat/insinuating impregnation of heat that comes when Kurt
lets his hand rest on the nape of his neck, the way Kurt smiles, two
fingers stroking where they could be pinching, right where his hair
becomes fuzzy and light and delicate and those two fingers might as
well be digging at the back of his throat where his gag reflex is
delicate and then he vomits it all up, this confession, what they did
to them, those English, what he begged of them – some of these
things he had forgotten, but now the sluice-gates have opened they
keep pouring forth, on his knees, sitting pretty, begging them to
piss on him, it’s more than he deserved, oh god please let someone
stick their cock down his throat because maybe then they’ll stroke
his hair for a moment and he can imagine he’s a person again, not a
urinal, not a thing, he’ll whimper eagerly if they’ll only look him
in the eye but they never do.

And
after all this dirtied gauze has been unwound from his wounds, for a
moment he feels relief, and the expectation of absolution (it was so
hard to strip himself bare, perhaps he can even be called brave for
doing so) makes him hopeful for the same sort of touch Kurt had given
him before the end of the world, but Kurt has drawn back, his brow
furrowed, he seems to be considering, and at the last moment he
actually laughs, disappointed, and says you should have let them
shoot you before pressing his face into the mattress so there’s
no worry he might be kissed while he’s fucked.