Fifteen minutes, tops, after I got in the door. And that includes clothes check. This is the way every night should be at a sexclub, I think. And this is Berlin's biggest, hottest one.
There are dress code nights, with pretty strict rules on how much leather or rubber or sports gear or military uniform of skinhead gear one must wear - a friend said it was hard for him to adjust to the idea that a polo shirt might be sex gear, but add bleachers, braces, Rangers, and a 0-crop, and there you are - but this is not one of those nights. This is no-code Friday. In fact, no-code 2-for-1-drinks Friday. So I'm a little worried it'll be very pretty, with some hot boys going at it, and the rest of them standing around and snubbing the rest of us.
So I ask friends on Facebook about reasons to go or to not go. And the responses come:
- One friend says "story opportunities." The things to which I submit for you, dear readers.
- Another old fuckbud who now lives in Amsterdam says, "Yes, always."
- One guy says, "In Berlin. U should always go." I don't add, yes, but you're a hot and notorious bareback pornstar/escort. I love my friends.
- And the best response: "There are no good reasons (not to go) short of genital castration. Even then I might go to watch." (The friend from Amsterdam added, "Well, they are German so it's just another kink....")
So, Über from the hotel -- and the hundred-plus guys with whom we're touring -- to the club. There are two lines out front -- there are two clubs in the building, one a mixed bar/dance-club that runs all night and more, in the manner of the clubs of my pre-HIV-era youth, the other, the sexclub. One line is tiny and moves quickly. The other is very long, and is full of men and newly-men. Yes, the no-code 2-for-1 night has drawn lots of pretty twinks, but they're not the whole line by any means. The gaggle of boys standing in front of me is talking in rapid-fire, giggly German, so I just assume it's the right line.
Doors close at midnight, officially. And I arrive at 11:25. Just after I arrive, a couple steps behind me. They look a little bewildered. "Do you speak English," they ask, in accented English. "Yes, but if you're going to ask if this is the line for Lab, I don't know, but I'm assuming so till I see otherwise." We get to talking. They're from Milan. One dark, the other blond, more German looking. We chat as we walk.
We hit what looks like the front of the line at 11:52. And... the line bends to the left.
11:58. The line bends again to the right, along the left side of the building. It heads toward a door. I say I hope the door doesn't close in our faces.
We don't reach end enter the door till 12:06. And... it opens on a courtyard that goes to another door. We inch forward, four or five guys at a time, eventually, we're let in. It's 12:35. But still, the skinhead bull at the door is happy to let us in, the guy at the counter to take our reasonably eight euros. He hands me a little laminated square with a number in the 900s on it. That bodes well. The place is huge. I go down the hall, following the signs to the clothes check. Wait in a (much shorter line), hand him my number tag, he grabs a clear plastic garbage bag, writes the number on the bag and my upper arm with a marker, hands the tag back. "Put clothes in and bring back." So I do, and on into the club.
Multiple rooms, multiple bars. A few lofts, outdoor space, lots of platforms, a couple of slings. Everything but one of the slings is at least partly occupied. Some of the twins are drinking, some are fucking each other, others are having sex outside the tribe. A good sign.
Several rooms on. It's got the feel of huge sex mazes I've loved before, but more social in spots, without getting in the way of the sex. In fact, it's a lot like the Mineshaft would have been had it been many times its size and all on one level.
Hand on my jock-strap-framed butt, from behind. Hand moves to the crack, fingers brushing my hole, and it wakes to the attention. Wakes hungry. He turns me around. Shorter (though a little taller than I), shaven-headed, bearded hot leather dad. His thick uncut dick is out and twitching to hardness. Not a word spoken - and the music is too loud and thump in the room for conversation, as it should be. Pushes down on my shoulder. I drop to my knees, mouth open wide, tongue out, and take his dick in without touching it. As deep as I can, for the first stroke. Let him know the sort of hungry cocksucker I am. On the second or third, balls deep again, but this time, my lips sliding his foreskin back.
About a full minute of runs of deep strokes mixed with medium, working the shaft, and a few concentrated near the dickhead. He likes it - not always true with sensitive uncut cock. I know he does because of the moan that rumbles through him - I don't hear it, I feel it.
He gets serious about either getting off or going to part two - hand on the top of my head like a palmed basketball, deep skullfuck thrusts. The spit thickens and pools in my throat. He goes at it for twenty seconds or so, then takes his hand off, and I continue skullfucking myself on his cock. He's going for lube. He pulls my mouth off, and lots of slick stuff from my throat is covering it, still stranded from my throat. Bends down, grabs me by the jock waistband, turns me around again, bends me over the platform. Reaches around, puts a couple of fingers in my still-spit-slick mouth, pulls them out slippers, thrusts them both in my hole deep, moves them around, spreads them apart. Pulls them out, slams his dick in. I wince, only a tiny bit and silently, and think: this is why I'm here.
So the thrusts come: one after the other, rapidly, bam! bam! bam! My hole is being used to get him off. It's clear that whether I'm into it really hasn't crossed his mind much - entry is consent. And after minutes of this, he pulls out all the way, and slams in. Again. Again. (I'm pretty sure the spit has long dried up and any lube is being made by my hungry hole.) Then he pulls out again, and pokes into my hole only a couple of inches. And once more. He wants the dickhead worked. So I use my hole as much as I can to make it feel good. That goes on for a minute, and he slams in again till he hits bottom.
Now he's going for the load. And so am I: still working my hole, giving him full free movement, but a bit of resistance to stroke him to cum. No damn tight hole nonsense - I hate that whether I'm fucking it or being fucked - just a smart one.
The rhythm changes, more insistent but a little slower. And I feel his dick throbbing, throbbing, and delivering a big load. I'm still face-down on the platform and bent over. When he finishes, he pats me on the butt three times, and walks away without a word.
As I raise my head off the platform, I see a hot hairy-chested twenty-something has been sitting on the platform, back toward the wall, dick out and hard. In fact, erect in that twenty-something curving-upward sort of way. His dick is about the same length, foreskin longer and pointier. He slides down so his booted legs are on either side of me, grabs my chin, pulls it toward his cock. I open my mouth for it, and he grabs the back of my neck, holds me down on it, then pushes it deeper into my throat. Holds me there, laughs a little. I look up at him. He knows he's got me.
He lets up, moves his hand back, but just far enough for me to still have the tip of his cock in my mouth. I ride it as if he were fucking my throat, he's getting hotter and harder. I look up again, and he's looking into the distance. Not into space - he has someone's eye. He grabs my head again, fucks harder and harder. Silently gives me a huge, sweet load. Picks my face up by the chin. Touches my lips. A model-cute blond comes over, gets down, starts cleaning it off. I'll pass then in a few minutes, with dark boy's hard-again cock buried deep in the fuckhole of the model-blond. As pretty as the boy is, he looks so much better with his face twisted in fuck-pain-pleasure.
Time for a drink. I grab one and pay for it with the notes in my sock, and enter a long social corridor. A bear-and-otter couple form the center of a constellation, with a few other couples orbiting. The big bear is holding court, his partner, damn cute, alternately listening, teasing, chatting, and making out with one or both of the members of the other couples.
"Where are you from?"
"Wow, really? I have a brother who lives in Seattle." I hold back from the "you live in a place with 700,000 people - do you know XXX?" meme.
And "blah blah Ru Paul blah blah Drag Race - do you know Jinkx Monsoon?"
"Yes, as Jinkx and as Jerick, friend of friends..."
And blah blah Ru blah blah t-word controversy... "On the list of topics I don't discuss is the appropriateness of the t-word. Especially here and now."
"But my brother in Seattle is trans, and..."
Oh, bother. Trans. German. Improves the odds. Might as well.
"OK, so who's your brother?"
And, yeah, he's a friend of mine.
Over the next half hour or so, my mood moves from cordial to I'd-chew-my-arm-off-if-I-have-to-to-get-out-of-this. Not because they weren't fine... but I can have bar talk anywhere.
So I excuse my self to do what you go to a sexclub to do. Enter the next room. And find the couple from Milan. A third has just stood up from sucking the blond's cock - he kisses them both, walks away. They pull me in. And the main event of the evening begins.
...Which will follow shortly. It'll be worth the wait. (I know this may shock you, but I'm not even an exclusive bottom in the next chapter...)