The bar at the KitKat Club

Berlin's Wild Nightlife - Page Two

By Cindy-Lou Dale

Rubber Ladies' Clothing

I needed another designer water and headed for the bar. An attractive man, clad in rubber ladies' clothing, fishnet stockings and high heeled shoes provocatively draped himself over the bar stool in a come hither manner. His beard looked a little out of place, but nonetheless, he smiled gaily. “I just love your dress sweety,” he purred. “it just sooo emphasizes your hour-glass figure.”

Cheered by his comment, I wandered back to where I’d placed my camera bag. I sat beside a couple who had evidently tired themselves out with their new battery operated toys and were now in a light, if somewhat delirious slumber; but were instantly revived when a spotlight beamed down on Nada who was dramatically descending a flight of stairs onto the stage.

The Show

She wore an ornate red and silver headdress and a floor length silver cape, which she grandiosely discarded within minutes, dancing nude in front of a slowly gathering crowd.

She acted out what was evidently an emotional portrayal of a historic siren’s sexual fantasy. At the conclusion of her performance the audience clapped and cheered politely but were evidently more intent on her next performance.

Nada stepped down from the stage and walked across to a giant tented bed beside the dance floor. The crowd drew closer and a cameraman, who was filming the event for a paying internet audience, knelt beside her.

She reclined seductively and took a sip of wine, some of which she spilt down her front and salaciously rubbed over her body. Soon her co-performer joined and began mopping up the bits she had missed. Soon she had him reclining, encouraging his arousal.

Not Much Variety

I quietly wondered how this young man could perform and remain stimulated under the gaze of such a large audience. Evidently he had also given this some thought as periodically needed to self-encourage his dwindling desires.

It must be said, there wasn’t much variety in their performance which included unprotected penetration and, as I had half expected, the event did not conclude in a happy ending. I’d like to think this joyous intimacy was reserved for their truly private moments.

The audience seemed hooked on this voyeurism and did not venture too far as there was talk of a repeat performance soon.

As Nada and her boyfriend disappeared into the shadows, their performance was replaced with hip grinding music which boomed across the dance floor. Batman had latched his mouth around one of the sagging bosoms belonging to the cupless corset who clearly found this immensely pleasing.

The bearded mini-skirt invited me to dance, but after a few minutes I must confess I felt rather foolish; more accurately I felt like a fraud. I was intruding in an inner sanctum of inhibition free individuals who understood one another’s needs. I feigned another appointment and left for my next port of call.

Living in the Real World

Of all the things I am not very good at, living in the real world is perhaps the most outstanding. I am constantly filled with wonder at the number of things other people can do without any evident difficulty, but that are pretty much beyond me. I cannot tell you the number of times I have gone looking for the toilet in a restaurant, for instance, and ended up standing in a alley on the wrong side of a self-locking door.

My particular speciality these days is my inability to read a street map. I keep walking around the same block then wonder how I managed to end up back at my original starting point; which is exactly where I found myself 20 minutes later.

A bow-legged man with a dickey knee and a gruff manner came sauntering around the corner. His dog was frantically trying to pee on every vertical surface and in consequence wasn’t so much walking as being dragged along on three legs.

Performer at Insomnia

Clutching my inadequate little map I approached him and asked if he could direct me to the underground. He looked at me darkly.

“Kannst du nicht das landkarte lessen? Dummkopf!” I presume it was an impolite statement as he peered at me in bemusement and then proceeded to direct me towards Eastern Europe. I watched him swagger off, dragging his dog along in search of some more uprights.

The Real Freaks Are Outside

A cab pulled up beside me.

“Could you take me to Alt Tempelhof 17?” I pleaded.

The cab driver asked where I had been and I naively told him. He began to laugh lasciviously, which progressed to a lung shaking cough of a hardened smoker.

His eyes looked back at me in the rear-view mirror; they were shiny and rat-like and from the back seat I could smell his primeval breath.

It was then that I realised just how safe I had felt at the KitKat Club and how scary the real world was. I pondered this for a moment and came to the conclusion that the real freaks were all out here, not back where I had just been.

Cindy-Lou Dale is an award-winning writer and photo journalist with bases in Brussels and London. Visit her website, cindyloudale.com.

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