Kirsten Fuchs writes books – most recently a collection of columns, Eine Frau spürt sowas nicht – and texts for radio, TV, newspapers, magazines and live performances, mainly at the monthly Lesebühne Fuchs und Söhne. She’s one of the funniest writers I’ve seen on a stage.
Tempelhofer Feld. It’s a windy evening and huge dark clouds are looming on the horizon, so we seek out a little hut in the community garden. It feels a teeny bit naughty to be sitting in someone else’s garden, but it is public.
Radeberger pilsener bought at a shop on the way
What did we talk about?
Once we get settled in on our bench, we admire the hut. There’s a cushion and a little pot of dried flowers and a gay magazine, which gets us onto the subject of Bravo magazine. Apparently it’s no good any more because kids can get all the things it used to offer via the internet now, says Kirsten. So they’ve cancelled the “Doktor Sommer” problem page and run headlines like “Is Rihanna pregnant?” and on page seven they say, “No, she’s just put on a few pounds.” It’s a terrible rip-off. We both have fond memories of teenage magazine problem pages, the way we laughed at them in front of our friends but secretly took their advice. Kirsten tells me about the time they had a woman come in to school, who took the girls off separately to talk about sex. Kirsten got angry because when the woman tactfully tried to raise the subject of masturbation, one girl said she had no need for it because she had a boyfriend, which put anyone else off saying anything and made them all feel bad.
I have a vivid memory of telling a boy at school that girls didn’t masturbate. I’m not sure whether I knew I was lying or not. Kirsten says the poor guy probably still believes me now. I say he told me trumpet players are very prone to haemorrhoids because they blow so hard at the top of their bodies that something has to give at the other end. Kirsten laughs at me for still believing him now. A friend told me brass musicians make the best lovers because of their well-trained lips, but I can’t corroborate the theory. We talk some more about teaching our daughters how to wash their nooks and crannies, and other (un)sanitary subjects. It feels like we’re in a private place, not in public with people all around us.