âI saw you do some rather impressive dancing just now,â he said with his cute German accent, nodding back to the wooden seats I had just come from.
âOh, you know, I donât say no to rides from strangers,â I hear myself say. What. Why did those words come out of my mouth. Anyway, roll with itâŚ
âYou been here long?â I ask, changing the subject.
âIn line at the bar? Yes. I think SchrĂśder was still Bundeskanzler when I first joined the queue here.â Outside, I laugh, but inside, I struggle to remember when anyone other than Angie was the chancellor. âActually, letâs order for each other, who ever gets to the front first. You might have more luck than me,â he says, and takes a cheeky glance at my shirt. âIâm getting 3 Beckâs, what about you? One for you and your, äh, friend?â
âOh, that was a one-time dance partner. Love âem and leave âem, thatâs the motto of all the kids these days, eh?â I reply.
âAh, I meant the guy you were with earlier?â he asks, the words tumbling out of his mouth a bit too quickly. So, he had noticed Dario. Thatâs another darling thing with the Germans, they donât immediately ask if someone is your boyfriend or not, they know you can be out with anyoneâ
âIs he your, ähm, boyfriend?â
Well. Every rule has its exceptions.
âOh, Dario! Heâs my housemate,â I explain. âAnd besides, he bats for the other team.â
I know enough housemates-turned-lovers in Berlin that I feel the need clarify, lest the Frisian get skittish.
âWhat do you mean, bats?â he asks.
âI mean, he plays on the other side of the rainbow,â I clarify.
Apparently not well, since his brow furrows even deeper.
âHe couldnât be more flaming if he got into pyrotechnics,â I offer.
âIs that a game?â
âEr ist schwul.â
âAh!â 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, thatâs right⌠we didnât 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.
âWhat about you? Those lovely ladies your sister-wives?â
He laughs, âNo, no, those are friends from my village in Ostfriesen. They are visiting me in Berlin.â
âI hope you are showing them a good time, now,â I say.
âYes, of course. Actually, didnât you say you were going to do that for me?â he teases. So, he remembered!
âYou didnât get my carrier pigeons?â I feign shock. âI must have sent one per day!â
He smiles, âMaybe I can find you on Facebook, yes? Under what name?â
âNo pseudonyms for me on Facebook; Iâm afraid Iâm not that deutsch yet,â I reply, then give him the details. Success.
âWas wirds sein?â the barman looks to Fabian.
âĂhm, fĂźnf Bier, danke.â
I take out a âŹ10 bill and put it in his front jeans pocket, lingering my hand in the tight space just a moment longer than necessary.
âThatâs too much!â he protests, as the barman pops the caps off the bottles.
I pick up two of them. âI guess you owe me another beer, then,â 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 Katerblauâs 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.
âBabe,â I say, âyou are glowing like a pregnant woman. What did you get up to?â
He sighs loudly, grinning from ear to ear. âShenanigans. You?â
âSame,â I say, and lean my head on his shoulder.
Before us, the Spree moves along, illuminated by the first soft kisses of sunlight
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Iâm back at the central hall of Katerblau, the main artery that connects the entrance, the two main club rooms and the outdoor patio. Here, Iâm lounging on some wooden seats between the bar and the outside, taking a drag off a spliff some British laddies were kind enough to share with me.
âI fucking love Berlin, man!â one exclaims to the room at large, pupils large as saucers. The Brits do adore their party glitter, and with the amount he indulged in, I wonder if there is anything in the world he wouldnât profess to love.
Iâm waiting here for Dario, who went to the bathroom half an hour ago. Knowing that darling, he is probably on his knees in a dark corner, making some dashing acquaintance a very happy man indeed.
Dario is wonderfully thoughtful and present as a friend, but I swear the boy goes ADD for dick. Iâm not annoyed by this, since, truth be told, I get distracted by people all the time when Iâm out. I tell my friends Iâm just going for a glass of water, and theyâre liable to spot me an hour later dancing on the roof with some fabulous Chileans and a bucket of fairy lights.
âDO YOU WANT TO SPIN?â
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; itâs less a question than a stated desperation. Â Â
âDO YOU WANT TO SPIN? YES?â
I laugh. His accent is something between Polish and French, and he doesnât seem dangerous, just very intent on spinning, whatever he means by that.
The British are amused, âGo on, Holly!â
I jump to my feet, âMister, it seems you need to spin. How can I help?â
âOK!â he says, clapping his hands together, serious as a general about to address his troops.
âTurn,â 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 whatâs in store.
âNOW, WE SPIN!â
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 canât 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 dudeâs face, replaced by a relieved smile.
âPERFECT.â
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.
âNa, du?â
The Frisian! Sans the glitter twins I saw him with earlier. Perfect.
Iâm at the central bar at Katerblau, chill music emanating from the speakers. This area is the calm between the storm of the two main club rooms.
I shove a shot of Berliner Luft to my housemate, Dario. unwitting
âOh, come on,â he says as he lifts the clear liquid to his nose, âis this mouthwash?â
âHow have you been here six months and not had Berliner Luft? Well not to worry, my dove,â I assure him, âitâs Luft, itâs pure, gorgeous air, just for you.â
I clink the petite plastic shot to his, and we down them.
âEugh. Well,â Dario grimaces, âat least the shotâs a lot fresher than any Berlin air Iâve ever smelled.â
âThatâs because youâve only hung out in Dark Rooms since you got here, honey.â
âWhatâs that? All I heard was jealousy.â
Dario is a delight. He might just be my third favorite Canadian export, right after Rufus Wainwrightâs chansons and Justin Trudeauâs abs. Â
Iâve 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 Darioâs arm, â2 oâclock. Blondie boy.â
He spots him.
âSomebody call early 00âs Justin Timberlake, his hair has been stolen.â
âNo, Darioâthatâs Fabian.â
âWhat? The boring Northern boy from Berghain?â
âYeah, I was going to show him a good time while heâs in Berlin,â I explain.
âBreak him in, you mean.â
I smile at Dario, âYou know me too well.â
âGame recognizes game, mamma.â
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; thereâs 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.
âShame,â says Dario.
âNightâs not over yet, my dove,â I say. âLetâs dance.â
We slink off to the northern club room. Iâm 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, wouldnât I?
20.11.17 the south western side of Kottbusser Tor was twinkling with tea lights. I wandered over like a moth to the flames, and witnessed a touching performance in front of SĂźdblock. SĂźdblock and aquarium put together a poignant vigil for the Transgender Day of Remembrance. Honestly, it was only thanks to their loving event that I knew the day existed. Thank you.
A vital reminder that we must all be allies to those who need us, and ensure empathy reaches yet farther and farther and farther to bring the world to a better place đ .
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his body stiffens at first â did he not expect this move at all? did i misjudge everything? â but he smooths, melts beneath my palms, pure butter, and grabs my waist as if to keep from falling.
the music is raging, it must be KĂślsch on the decks around now, sounds like it. while the bodies around us move hard, move fast, the strobe light slows our touch â 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, letâs get something straight, this wasnât how iâd planned the evening to go. but 3am decisions arenât usually the planned ones, are they, and in the golden haze of intoxication, this Frisian boyâs 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 isnât 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 â fuck, those endlessly charming lines on his face when he smiles â 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 didnât notice me. I close the curtain.
âOccupied,â 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 whatâs louder in her ear, the beat of his heart or the techno.
âFuck,â 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 cornerâhow 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 donât 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; itâs my turn to melt. My hands feel his torso, grabbing here, grabbing there; I was just contemplating sending one hand south when thereâs a sudden thud.
A man with bleach blonde hair has just plopped against the wall, right next to my guy. This new fellow, heâs a twunk or Scandinavian or both, I canât 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 highâin any case, Mister Bottle Blonde puts a hand on my Frisianâs face, turns it to his own, and kisses him. Fuck, are they gorgeous.
But the Frisian freezes⌠and rather than give in to the strangerâs kiss, as he did to mine earlier, his next action is to run from between myself and Mister Blonde, say âEcht, eh, näh,â and scamper off into the crowded corridor.
âŚwhat?
I look to Mister Blonde, we both burst out laughing. âTant pis,â he chuckled to himself, before slinking back into the dark room. Hm, not Scandinavian after all. Â
I look for the northerner another ten minutes, but then fuck itâdancing is more important. The fellowâs here for a month, anyway, I can get him acquainted with the rites of this city yet.
I make my way back to KĂślsch, back to the panorama bar, back to the room of kinetic energy.
oh, to twirl and to twirl and to twirl, awash in the chemical sweetness of the fellow dancers, looking for my next first kissâŚ