Berlin Turned Sexy Overnight

Well days 2-5 dispelled my notion of Berliners lacking sexuality, and thank Goddess for that.

In fact there was so much whorey and sexuality input that I don't have time to do justice to the two sex worker related highlights of my experience there so far right now. I'm in Prague for one day need to survey the scene here, which I've heard is running amok with rent boys. Ah, that twisted smile is spreading, I so want to dress like Oscar Wilde with pockets full of money, condoms, bon mots and silver cigarette cases. In my incredibly breif research on Prague I stumbled across this interesting tip: the age of consent is 15, though it jumps to 21 if money is exchanged.

So Thursday night in Berlin while full of anticipation about a giant plate of spaetzle I spy a four-pack traipsing by, who then decide to stop and peruse the menu at Spaetzle Express (heh). They are ever so slightly dark/gothy but look mostly normally dressed except one girl in shiny black jacket, thigh high pvc boots, opaque black tights, dark lipstick and a severely angled straight black bob. Aha! That was what I was waiting for, in that moment she personified the Berlin I was hoping to see.

And it just got better and better from there, though an incidnet at a queer party leads me to suspect that Berliners are not quite as sex-positive as I would have guessed. I know, its not the 20's anymore, and I hate cocaine, so I'm mostly fine with that. But nostalgia for the glamour of a time you never knew is just so lusciously seductive. It's so easy to feel that one belongs there, in the past, when one gets the overwhelming impression they don't belong here, in the present.

Greta from "A Muse Tonight" did in fact write back, and quite sweetly too, although as suspected it didn't make sense for her to employ me for such a short duration since all of her business is through the presentation of the Muses on her website. But she was highly complimentary of my pictures and site and a ho always likes her feathers preened, especially by others in the biz.

Friday night I went to the PoopsyClub, a semi-underground monthly queer dance party, with bands and djs and a bit of drag performance. Arriving at 11:30 it was sparsely populated, Berliners go out late. I was offered a discount on entry because I was at that point one of the most dressed-up people there. I stayed until about 5 am, not being able to tear myself away from an eventually hopping party for the prospect of a U-Bahn ride and spending 10 euro to check out my other otpion: Angel in Bondage, a goth fetish party at a sex-dance club called Insomnia. (This place looks kind of amazing, and I still hope to check it out, though I am sorry I missed AiB, as it seems like the most relevant event to my interests during my stay.) So the night began at a club thats kind of like a warehouse or office space called "West Berlin" with me over-dressed as usual and mustachioed and glittered as frequent, being asked to have my picture taken by two different sets of people. That always feels nice, especially when I' m out alone in a unfamiliar town.

I end of meeting a lively an attractive cast of characters (a number of whom are from SF, ironically) and having a great time freaking out and dancing my ass off. The crowd seemed a little self-concious until about 2:30 when folks were pretty well drunk, but it was great to shake things up and make friends both sober and by myself. There was an unpleasant incident when a very drunk dude went nuts on stage and shook up a whole 1.5liter bottle of bannana nectar and then threw it; smashing it and covering the stage with juice and glass shards and all the coats and bags with sticky bannana scented goo. Remind me to tell you the story of this year's Sex Worker Art Show, but suffice it to say, bannana as a flavoring is amongst my very least favorites, so that was kind of a worst nightmare moment, but the show, she goes on.

Anyway, the dance floor was a smoky throbbing room bloated with body heat. It got damn, damn hot in there. I purposely dressed in layers so that I could survive the walk in the frigid Berlin leap year night and then take things off if I got too hot: a pinstripe vest over a white button down over a black mesh shirt over a red bra. So I started taking it off, first the white shirt.
No big deal.
Maybe half an hour later I felt stifled so the mesh came off, though with a Zoolander-esque (really? am I really using that as a point of reference?) move I didn't remove the buttoned-up vest.
Perhaps a few glanced askance.

But when I finally succumbed to the unbearable heat and unbuttoned my vest and let it hang loose over my bra, I felt an instantaneous vibe change. People sniffed. People talked to each other, eyebrows shrugging towards me. People (except my new gender queer popper-crazed Aussie goth friends) didn't dance as close. I am familiar with the feeling, suddenly I had over-sexed the place. Really!? Berlin? Queer party can't handle my (mostly contained) tits? Aww, shucks. And then the drunk dudes started lunging. Woah, its been years. Seriously, years since sweaty hands connected to slurring men started homing in on me without warning or apology.

Again, really? Berlin? Queer party? Maybe they can't "handle" my tits, but they sure want to *handle* them. I started feeling that whole "asking for it" story, and then I got irked.

( I paid the price though, just like the whores in the movies always do, well not really, *much* less violent. Not only did the dudes start a-groping, but I ended up accidentally leaving the mesh shirt, which I've had for like 10 years(!) in the bannana-coat smoothie. See, that's what you get.)

This is not the "anything goes" sexually comfortable (and naughty! and indulgent!) atmosphere I was hoping for. Shit, I brought my speculum in case an opportunity for a cervical show and tell presented itself, they all got off easy. I mean, I was wearing a bra! I feel like a shirtless girl-type drenched in sweat at a SF queer party seems pretty common-place and even celebrated, but perhaps I'm gazing at my town's sex-positivity through rose colored glasses. Or perhaps its too easy after 5 years to forget how exceptionally good we have it back there. Which is one of the top 5 reasons I like to travel. So I learned something a little sad about local culture and regained some respect and gratitude for good 'ole pricey, snobby, lovely home, and I ended the night dancing with a knit full-face lion head hood on, smelling worse than I've ever smelled, and crazy making out with cute girl with possible glass shards on her back; so just like an afterschool special I got both a lesson and a happy ending.
Well not coloquial "happy ending", I chose (despite adorably drunk pouty faced looks) to go home alone, but it was great none the less.