Fucked in Borlin

“Oh, that was a one-time dance partner. Love ‘em and leave ‘em, that’s the motto of all the kids these days, eh?” I reply.

“Ah, I meant the guy you were with earlier?” he asks, the words tumbling out of his mouth a bit too quickly. So, he had noticed Dario. That’s another darling thing with the Germans, they don’t immediately ask if someone is your boyfriend or not, they know you can be out with anyone—

“Is he your, ähm, boyfriend?”

Well. Every rule has its exceptions.

“Oh, Dario! He’s my housemate,” I explain. “And besides, he bats for the other team.”

I know enough housemates-turned-lovers in Berlin that I feel the need clarify, lest the Frisian get skittish.

“What do you mean, bats?” he asks.

“I mean, he plays on the other side of the rainbow,” I clarify.

Apparently not well, since his brow furrows even deeper.

“He couldn’t be more flaming if he got into pyrotechnics,” I offer.

“Is that a game?”

“Er ist schwul.”

“Ah!” he smiles, finally understanding.

My eternal problem in foreign countries: as soon as I start drinking, my capacity for speaking other languages falls to zero, and my assumption that everyone else speaks perfect English reaches a maximum. Jesus, how on earth did I communicate with this babe the last time we met?

Oh, that’s right… we didn’t really. I had met him at a house party sometime after midnight and fell hard for those baby blues. I could have had an engaging conversation with a doorknob at that point, the amount of party glitter I had indulged in. It was only while dancing later at the club that my body took over and made a move on the Frisian.

Anywho, it was my time to inquire.

“What about you? Those lovely ladies your sister-wives?”

He laughs, “No, no, those are friends from my village in Ostfriesen. They are visiting me in Berlin.”

“I hope you are showing them a good time, now,” I say.

“Yes, of course. Actually, didn’t you say you were going to do that for me?” he teases. So, he remembered!

“You didn’t get my carrier pigeons?” I feign shock. “I must have sent one per day!”

He smiles, “Maybe I can find you on Facebook, yes? Under what name?”

“No pseudonyms for me on Facebook; I’m afraid I’m not that deutsch yet,” I reply, then give him the details. Success.

“Was wirds sein?” the barman looks to Fabian.

“Ähm, fünf Bier, danke.”

I take out a €10 bill and put it in his front jeans pocket, lingering my hand in the tight space just a moment longer than necessary.

“That’s too much!” he protests, as the barman pops the caps off the bottles.

I pick up two of them. “I guess you owe me another beer, then,” I smile, biting my lip, then walk away.

It dawns on me that I have beer in my hand when, originally, I had wanted water, but I can hardly backtrack now. If I did things right, Fabian should be checking my ass out right about now as I wander off. It would be ever so rude of me to interrupt the view. Instead, I wander towards the bathrooms.

Right on cue, Dario walks out, positively glowing. I hand him a beer and we enter Katerblau’s garden, settling down in some comfy old sofa overlooking the water. We wrap ourselves under a blanket of questionable cleanliness that someone has left here, and cuddle like roosting chickens.

“Babe,” I say, “you are glowing like a pregnant woman. What did you get up to?”

He sighs loudly, grinning from ear to ear. “Shenanigans. You?”

“Same,” I say, and lean my head on his shoulder.

Dario is wonderfully thoughtful and present as a friend, but I swear the boy goes ADD for dick. I’m not annoyed by this, since, truth be told, I get distracted by people all the time when I’m out. I tell my friends I’m just going for a glass of water, and they’re liable to spot me an hour later dancing on the roof with some fabulous Chileans and a bucket of fairy lights.

“DO YOU WANT TO SPIN?”

An intense voice shakes me from my daydreaming. It belongs to a man, and his face, equal parts serious and concerned, is unnervingly close to mine. He repeats his phrase; it’s less a question than a stated desperation.    

“DO YOU WANT TO SPIN? YES?”

I laugh. His accent is something between Polish and French, and he doesn’t seem dangerous, just very intent on spinning, whatever he means by that.

The British are amused, “Go on, Holly!”

I jump to my feet, “Mister, it seems you need to spin. How can I help?”

“OK!” he says, clapping his hands together, serious as a general about to address his troops.

“Turn,” he instructs. I oblige, and turn my back to him.

He lines up to me, so we are back to back, and links our arms together. My inner 6-year-old surmises what’s in store.

“NOW, WE SPIN!”

With a sudden jerk, he leans forward, hoisting me into the air, and spins and spins and spins beneath me. I am sure my legs flailing about looks less than elegant, but the whole thing is too delightfully random to spare another thought on that. I can’t see anything but a wild blur, hear anything but the Brits cheering us on, feel anything but the rush of air and the heat of the strong, strange man beneath me.

Then, as suddenly as the spinning began, it stops, and I am back on my feet.

The concern is gone from the dude’s face, replaced by a relieved smile.

“PERFECT.”

And with that, he scurries off into one of the club rooms. Well, then.

I take a bow before the giddy Brits, then head off to the bar. Alcohol, weed, and impersonating a dreidel all took a toll on my poor stomach, and Momma needs a glass of water. The bar is packed, so I squeeze in where I can, already mentally preparing for the annoyed face of the German bartender when I ask for tap water.

An elbow pokes into mine.

“Na, du?”

I clink the petite plastic shot to his, and we down them.

“Eugh. Well,” Dario grimaces, “at least the shot’s a lot fresher than any Berlin air I’ve ever smelled.”

“That’s because you’ve only hung out in Dark Rooms since you got here, honey.”

“What’s that? All I heard was jealousy.”

Dario is a delight. He might just be my third favorite Canadian export, right after Rufus Wainwright’s chansons and Justin Trudeau’s abs.  

I’ve just pressed my beer to my lips and am scanning the crowd when I notice a familiar, yellow-blond head of hair. The Frisian.

I grab Dario’s arm, “2 o’clock. Blondie boy.”

He spots him.

“Somebody call early 00’s Justin Timberlake, his hair has been stolen.”

“No, Dario—that’s Fabian.”

“What? The boring Northern boy from Berghain?”

“Yeah, I was going to show him a good time while he’s in Berlin,” I explain.

“Break him in, you mean.”

I smile at Dario, “You know me too well.”

“Game recognizes game, mamma.”

We clink our beer, and I lean back on the bar, watching Fabian, about ten meters away. At this time of night, being 10 meters away means we might as well be on different continents. There is a valley of humans between us, flirting, rolling cigs, asking for weed, laughing, shoving crystals to their gumline. He just walked out of the northern club room, and seems to slowly be making his way to the other side. Suddenly, he looks right my way and stops. I know better than to avert my gaze; there’s a certain power in letting someone know you were watching them, unabashed. I give him a small smile and a wink, and lean back just that much further against the bar. I know that in this position, my tits are ever-so-casually, ever-so-clearly straining against my shirt. His mouth gapes for a second before turning into a smile.

Got him.

Or?

Two chicks come rushing out of the northern room, all giggles and glitter and blonde hair, and rush to catch up to Fabian. One jumps on his back, and points to the other club room. He gives me another smile before looking up to his new captain, readjusting her on his back, and carrying her to the next club room. Well, now we know he is a good ride in at least one sense of the word.

“Shame,” says Dario.

“Night’s not over yet, my dove,” I say. “Let’s dance.”

We slink off to the northern club room. I’m here to spend time with Dario, not toy with any Frisian beauties. But if Dario were to be distracted by a lovely fellow himself, well… I would have to find a way to entertain myself, wouldn’t I?

I draw a bath. Ebba lives alone. She’s one of those mystical, beautiful women in her mid-thirties who seems to have everything firmly in grip: a successful career, the will to rave on the weekends and the skill to bring a girl to orgasm faster than you can say Hitachi. It’s utter bliss being in her serene home, empty, quiet. Clean. Even if I had the chance to use my tub at home for an hour without some housemate pounding on the frame, it is currently Basti’s turn to wash the bathroom, so it’s probably in a state closer to swamp than spa. Whoever said all Germans were clean never met that skater boy.

I settle into the scalding water, and light up the remainder of last night’s joint. Once again, I had thought the evening would be a calm one. Très naïve.

I met up with Ebba at a bar in F’hain, close to her place. I rocked up about twenty minutes late, blamed it on the BVG but we both know I’m as punctual as a stray cat. She was sat on a plush sofa, cigarette idly held between her fingers. Ebba, unmistakable Ebba, a tall order of pink lips and pale ale, smooth body between the velvet cushions.

We caught up on our lives. Eventually, I mused that it had been a while since I had frequented a bar in this neighborhood.

“OK, I admit it,” she said, a gleam in her eye, “I had ulterior motives asking you here.”

Thinking she was going to ask me back to hers, I began to think of excuses—but instead, she reached out her hand, palm up.

There, clear as day on her wrist, was a stamp of those two iconic, black brackets. Squeezed between them, 7 thick block letters: F-R-E-E-D-O-M. A Berghain stamp.

I laugh.

“Babe, I was just there last week, I don’t know—”

She cut me off with her relentless charm, her silver-toned hair catching the light as she leaned towards me, “Holly, come on, we can stay an hour or two, nothing big. Rødhåd is playing the closing set. And it’s just around the corner.  Look, I’ll even pay your entrance.”

I glanced down at what I was wearing. A gray St. Pauli shirt, black jeans. Not exactly party-ready. And we both knew what her true ulterior motive was… but fuck it, dear club, call me Curious the cat and kill me with your sweet music. I couldn’t argue with Ebba’s points. And I didn’t have to work until the next evening anyway.

“So?” she asked, clinking her beer to mine.

“You’re the devil on my shoulder, you know that,” I sigh, but can’t hold back a smile. “Sold. Let’s go. I’ll need some shots though.”

“You’re one to call me a devil, missy. Anyhow, I also have some party glitter, if you want,” she egged me on.

But not today, I decided. I should feast on greens and vitamins this whole week, the glitters I have consumed recently. It was fair for my body to request a little bit of propriety from me on a Sunday.

Silly me to forget, however, that you can’t expect that of Berghain.

Inside…

Through the intense fog, the strobe, the sound bouncing relentlessly off the walls, you could see nothing but skin, sparkling under blue light. There were more nude bodies than clothed ones. And above all, so many gorgeous, gorgeous men. Muscles, curved shoulders, scruffy beards, wet hair. Many played for the other team, of course, but that doesn’t stop a girl from appreciating their varied beauty. My muscled techno muses. Dancing and chancing, playing and slaying, fucking and sucking.

I can’t clearly recall when I felt Ebba’s arms wrap around my waist from behind, her nibble on my ear. She could teach a master class in foreplay, her every touch is warm and vital, like the sun on your skin. She whispered something in my ear, something in Norwegian. Now, I don’t speak Norwegian, but I am fluent in body language, and, my God, her soft voice coupled with the hard techno, and the gorgeous men surrounding us, too into the music and each other to care about two nymphs, the luscious ambiance of the room, the lasciviousness of it all, everything, everything, all at once...  

Back in the bath, I put away the joint, slide farther down into the warm water, slide my hands farther down my warm body…

Thinking of whether it’s moral to play with friends who want to be more can wait for another day.

the music is raging, it must be Kölsch on the decks around now, sounds like it. while the bodies around us move hard, move fast, the strobe light slows our touch – he cups my face in his hands while he kisses me, then pulls back and looks me in the eye, that wry smirk of his awash in blue light.

i run my hand down the sweat drenched back of his shirt, i want more. he kisses me again, tenderly, much more tenderly than i expected, than what i need. now, let’s get something straight, this wasn’t how i’d planned the evening to go. but 3am decisions aren’t usually the planned ones, are they, and in the golden haze of intoxication, this Frisian boy’s wonder of getting past the doorman and being allowed to enter these hallowed industrial halls was delightfully innocent. I wanted to taste him, steal a drop of that pure sugar. so, when our friends left in the hunt for some candy, i made my move, and am now being rewarded by these tender, tender kisses...

i shake myself out of it. tenderness isn’t the name of the game; tender is real, and real is not what I want right now. it was high time to show him what I want, time to come along now, pussycat.

i grab his hand and pull him through the crowd. we spill into the concrete hallway, past those full of energy, those who need to fucking dance; past those with the x sharpied on their shoulders, sitting on couches, face fully engaged, bodies loose. i spot a few nooks in the semi-darkness, concealed by curtains of heavy leather. Perfect.

I turn to look at him and wink, he laughs – fuck, those endlessly charming lines on his face when he smiles – and he follows along.

Still holding his hand, I peak behind the first curtain. Perched atop leather pillows in the small stone enclave, three beautiful men in various stages of undress caress each other. They didn’t notice me. I close the curtain.

“Occupied,” I say to my companion.

On to the next one, then. I lift up the heavy leather, take in the scene. A naked man is laying on a black plastic mattress, smiling, eyes closed; a woman in a loose dress is draped over his chest, blissful. I wonder what’s louder in her ear, the beat of his heart or the techno.

“Fuck,” I inform my Frisian.

Quite the predicament. But a horny lass with a gorgeous man in her grasp is never without ideas.

I pull him down a corridor, past the smiling people, the laughing people, the vacant people, around a corner–how about here? The dimly lit foyer to the dark room.

To one side of us is the blur of humans flitting between the dance floors like schools of fish: sparkling, wide eyed and open mouthed. Just beyond us, in the dark room proper, a mellifluous chorus of male grunts, aaahs, slaps of skin on skin.

Now, I respect the dark room being for the gays, but surely a breeder couple can steal a few moments for themselves in the sanctity of this in-between space, this liminal haven; empty, save for the techno reverberating on the walls.

I push the Frisian up against the wall and bite his lip. He grabs my ass, pushes me further against him; I tease him, I don’t give him the deep kiss he yearns for, I lick his lip playfully, his breathing gets heavy… he was my mouse before, now he can play the cat.

He puts his hand through my hair, holds my head and takes his kiss; it’s my turn to melt. My hands feel his torso, grabbing here, grabbing there; I was just contemplating sending one hand south when there’s a sudden thud.

A man with bleach blonde hair has just plopped against the wall, right next to my guy. This new fellow, he’s a twunk or Scandinavian or both, I can’t tell, looks to me, all doe-eyed, as if asking for permission; I smile while I try to wrap my racing head around the situation. I was too slow, or he was too eager, or we all were too high–in any case, Mister Bottle Blonde puts a hand on my Frisian’s face, turns it to his own, and kisses him. Fuck, are they gorgeous.

But the Frisian freezes… and rather than give in to the stranger’s kiss, as he did to mine earlier, his next action is to run from between myself and Mister Blonde, say “Echt, eh, näh,” and scamper off into the crowded corridor.

…what?

I look to Mister Blonde, we both burst out laughing. “Tant pis,” he chuckled to himself, before slinking back into the dark room. Hm, not Scandinavian after all.  

I look for the northerner another ten minutes, but then fuck it–dancing is more important. The fellow’s here for a month, anyway, I can get him acquainted with the rites of this city yet.

I make my way back to Kölsch, back to the panorama bar, back to the room of kinetic energy.