There is a buried homoeroticism in the immigration procedure of white countries. Perhaps it is the sight of a sweet young succulent exotic Asian boy, or the intoxicating power of the State, but every time I pass into a Schengen or Oceanic country I am subjected to a meticulous molestation and body search, first, the x-ray machine that pictures my naked body and of course my wiener (admittedly I have tried to think sexy thoughts to enlarge it before having my nudes taken by customs), then they find that it is not sufficient, we must complete a thorough search on the Asian according to the most stringent guidelines, then off comes the belts, off come the shoes, thank goodness they have not asked me to take off my socks yet, a German officer would surely start salivating at the sight of my cute and perfectly shaped toes, nails clipped short (no sign of my ingrown toenail when I bled in army boots for 6 days straight), yet this is not enough, the German or French or Australian lumbers toward me with the Garrett metal detector, then with a malicious twink in his eye he puts it aside, as if to say, chicken tikka masala is best enjoyed with one's bare hands, and he runs his paws over the forearms, the biceps, the triceps, the rear, middle and front deltoids, the latissimus dorsi, the obliques, left and right, then there is an ostensible pause before he fondles my junk, checking perhaps for a baggie filled with coca or an ivory bracelet from Saigon hidden within my ding-a-ling, but of course there is none, and he moves towards savouring my hamstrings, this all takes place in 30 seconds but it stretches to forever, when it is done the glint is gone from his eyes and he refuses to meet mine, gesturing me to move on.
And I imagine that this officer-guard, this pot-bellied Hans or Jürgen or this John or James goes home and has a bratwurst with mashed potatoes that his wife Brunhilde cooked, he sits there firmly in control, firmly steeped in power as the patriarch of the household, he lights a cigar at the dusty staircase outside the apartment, comes back and puts his daughter to bed, he comes back to the bed with his wife (her back is to him), no gute nacht is whispered, no how was your day, just a wordless click as Brunhilde turns off the bedside lamp, and Jürgen feels a brief emptiness in the chest before he falls asleep. Maybe tomorrow there will be another Asian boy.