Updated: Dec 15, 2018

It’s actually quite hard to imagine losing this moment: phone camera stickered up, censoring any unwarranted voyeurism. To walk in and not remember the shake of internal terror, sober reminders of home swiftly dissipate. Pounding, irregular beats of techno swoosh and irritate, banging hard at drums, waking up lungs with sharp intakes of hot, smoke recycled air. Long drag on the fag that you had walking in. Glance up now, pretending not to be overwhelmed, nonchalance closes chest, smile muted and cool reserve. The room is big —as big as the eye can see— darkness presses a heavy pause on the imagination. Red, blue and hot pink spotlights create a shadowy path as we dive headfirst into a sea of bare backs, flashing straps of occasional leather; bondage, harness, silver. Reminder to self: to be more, next time.

Heart sinks several drinks and in between this pill and that a small monitor explores what is a regular rhythm, internal detector on overdrive — I feel fine — I think. Teeth begin to whir as the floor shakes and stirs, and eyes; they’re on snapshot overdrive. Tonight I’m ok, but tomorrow will be a different story. What goes up must come down and the monitor of disgust at all this glory, all that is sordid. Researching this other side. Desensitised to phallus drawing and all that pulling out and putting in has become just another thing to witness, to see and then groove on like some sort of show, why do straight people move so slow? I want to stand next to those I can make friends with, those I can pretend with, I want to be close to those who want to get higher, take this further and never come down. Room scattered with scantily glad faces, staring faces.

So, now we scan, hands clasped in ecstatic grimace at all this disgrace, all this mess of human excretion. The walls sap with urine and come, so many creatures sticking fingers up their bums with erotic energy that can’t be charted. It just happens in this Eden, this sea of iniquity; where eyes bulge and irises dilate, there are tits and there are slits and there are just a fuck tonne of bits being shoved this way and that. And there is the sweat: the lick and the flick of all that liquid clenched between every embrace; each breath cools the neck if only for a sec and this is where our people are. The queer that have no fear, the geeks, the idiots and the brave. Body con rocking, fish net stocking that covers nothing, gyrated stares and longing flares of did you look at me? I’m not the he that you want, but I’ll follow you down this hole, grab all that is Kole and swing on that love ring. There’s no room for a maybe. Tonight I’m yours baby.

Rooms upon rooms all lead to debauchery, blood stained trails pull us down deeper still into the darkness; repugnant aromas of golden showers — we’ve been here for hours— the Berghain time warp, and mostly it’s bodies; we know what they do, these fleshy things, we know what they do, they move together and they penetrate, they grind and whistle and we know what they do. But, there is something that keeps us staring and there is something that keeps us alive about being here together and squishing all of this energy into this one space.

It keeps us going, knowing that there is a potential of not getting in, of not being seen. The chosen ones make up the rules. Naked pools of bathroom lolz; new people everywhere, friends to be made. There’s Gerrick (with a G) and his mate from Clapton; his birth name replaced by this snippet of information for tonight, and together we have chosen this fate, here and now, as lasers pierce the bow of every movement. Catching glimpses of those that have been here for days; lost in the haze of this dancing craze.

Descending further; hands clasped, mind blasts; every step taken, every choice made is pressing hard on this moment. These steps that guide us, move us: make us. Yelping, clutching at breath for security, stability here in this madness. Eyes flash and feel —it’s impossible to feel— ears numb, straws fingered and chucked, throat opens to great lugs of sweet bitter tar. All that’s imbibed will take us higher still, surely. The lights, now in order. The music: reshuffled hard, repeated groans of: ‘Ach! THIS song!’ Turning to meet latexed faces, neatly pointed cat ears, voyeuristic fears turgidly yearn towards all the sex that’s on display. But there’s no running away when they kick in: the dreaded shakes; we must find more. No words needed, we divide, the room has shrunk as adrenaline pumps and individuals are approached.

Rolling mind, rolling head, beats swirl and envelop us in warmth. Hirsute and arched; toes wriggle inside wet socks, grab hold of unwrapped cocks, pull and pull and pull and pull and the lights flashing bright and the stairs; finding floor it rises up and grabs a hold, blissfully cold, sweet release. Sturdy, steady, solid, sacred, gravity. From this angle the orgiastic crackle of rows upon rows of legs, senseless insouciance towards those gathered underfoot. Creeping; knees bent, unsure of intent: it’s the things we don’t see that inculcate; imagination on overdrive. Nylon ladder and full to the brim bladder, this is surely the final resting place? Eyes droop with suspicion, irritation at not being able to take more in, ingest, refresh: must take more of this in. Seeking allegory in everything. Cheek to concrete bed, in this moment what makes tonight? Whirring sounds: alarms, drones, beating hard at flesh, they beat. They beat. Pounding on blood filled polyps, boiled liquids burnish and crust, acid reflux, passing crowds become one, glistening cracks blurring forward and back.

Now in the early hours, head that was once firmly planted, trapped in a dervish of sound, pale and gasping. Voice; high octane, a pitch reserved only for this environment. Screeching, neck hairs spring, tear ducts full to the brim greet familiar scalding stench of shit. Vision of youth and ecstasy no longer a comfort but something to flee. Swinging doors abandon any sense of privacy, locks unnecessary because we all know what’s going on behind them. Nine —or is it more? max it up inside one cubicle; intimate, til one person actually needs to drop —bare buttocks kiss metallic lips to the drumming sound of sweet release— we’re best friends now, sharing bodily functions is just one of the ways to show you how much I fucking love you — tonight. Exorcising demonic energy; the internal struggle so real, tears at all that pain, all that feeling, that in this moment we are living our best lives. We have made the right choice. Running fingers through sodden locks, clumping balls of hair and averting eyes from landscapes of arid dyes. They flow freely the waterworks open, thoughts can do no more and these emotions; kneel down, they won’t be here later, feel my arms around you, like a sea around the shore; let’s walk again.

Underpass darkens; trapped, arms grope, silent flail, attack, relax; shaking head: did I lose everyone? Don’t do this. Banisters melt and in between screaming bursts of help; tugging roughens at body parts: maybe do, words float in the distance and then, immaculate. Penetration. Or maybe not. Erection blurts in every direction; and the mess, there's distress, it’s hot, scalding friction rubs pain but it's in the brain not the part that maybe it should be and there are others and they’re feeling it too. Long bursts of frenetic coital clenches. Clothes that stay firmly on, fall about and fumble, zip, jolt, in and out and.

Gripping, slipping palms, swollen fingers; solid return, corridor ejects slippery lunge into a crew once more, a gaggle, this bevvy of beauties, ecstatic reunion. There's no end to us, we are united by teethy smiles; these golden hours. Flattened torsos, starving children of the night, ice cream lights up our giddy plight. We’ll have three or maybe four, to sweeten the taste of the inevitable: come down. Thoughts flee, separating is not an option. Taste buds fly, saliva glands strive to maintain this rolling milky juice; it froths and it melts and it falls. Great balls of sugary goodness permeating all of this weakness, licking and licking and licking until — we lick our way out, tangled bodies, mangled insides, stomach churns and face gurns. Reality crashes as daylight smashes through rotating blinds and thoughts of the great clean up descend. What does this place look like without all of this tribal movement? All the chaos of cups and bottles and baggies and semen drenched throats being throttled? Thumb traces sweaty edges of the small, orange, neon, round sticker that mercifully obscures and clings to all the answers.