THE KIT KAT CLUB, BERLIN

The couple that plays together stays together, as Jack discovers on his knees in a Berlin sex club.

The couple that plays together, stays together – as Jack Ladd discovers on his knees.

“I WANT TO.”

“I know you do,” he said. “So do I.”

I hesitated. Found his eyes and made a face he understood. One that made him smile and nod. “And we said this would be the place,” I said. Taking my hand, he said, “Do it.”

He kissed it softly; the heat of his breath and full pink lips rippling down my arm, through my body and wrapping around my heart like a hug.

“Are you sure?” I said, our gaze locked.

His kind eyes deep and real and genuine. “Yes,” he said, a strobe light flashing. The scene around us turned to slow motion; black and colour pulsating ten times the speed of our excited hearts. His beautiful, deep blue eyes blinking in and out of view.

“You’re the best, you know?”

He smirked. Cheeky but coy. He was good at that: taking my compliments before rolling them away in the flick of a modest smile.

The strobe stopped, replaced with the usual flashing colours and lasers.

“You are,” he said, stepping forward and reaching around my neck.

Lifting himself onto his tiptoes he smiled and, as the DJ dropped his next thumping beat, kissed me.

Deep and real and genuine.

Then he said, “Besides, why deny it? We both want to. At least this way we do it together.”

I beamed. My shoulders relaxed. A knot in my stomach I hadn’t realised was there untied itself and a tingle prickled up and around my neck and over my scalp before heading south, forcing the tiny hairs across my shoulders to rise in unison, rolling back down my spine and into my arms and hands.

Reaching out I took him around the waist and pulled him in. Threw my hands around his shoulders and squeezed; the thud of deep bass through our bodies as we embraced other men, or men and women, or women and women, doing the same. Dancing around us.

I’d never had a boyfriend like Dane. Someone on the same page as me. Who understood my mind. Who appreciated and respected the pushes and pulls and yearnings of my body and his; who wanted to explore life and its meaning together.

Forever.

He took my hand led me through the dancefloor, squeezing past party animals, young and old.

Some fully dressed in their club best. Some topless, nipples and swinging tits galore. Lots in harnesses and jockstraps and tiny, tiny shorts. A couple fully nude.

One or two with that look in their eye that said they wished they’d had the balls to do what the guys they’d seen downstairs were doing. That maybe after one more drink they’d check their shirt and jeans in, too. Head down in their undies, or less, and embrace this crazy city. We walked on.

Past the counter where we’d paid our entry and bundled away our phones and jackets.

We’d both been to similar places in London and Paris. Neither of us were wide-eyed innocents. We knew what happened. But this was our first time at the one and only KitKatClub.

Who knew where the night would take us? Dane did. We were going down.

Down a set of metal stairs at the end of the huge ground floor, warrened with bars, dancefloors, DJs and a swimming pool. Stairs of dominating, industrial steel painted black. So glossy black the steps and railing shone wet in the dim light.

They suited the place. Like the place suited

the city.

Hidden away on a street of Brutalist, graffiticovered concrete by a wire fence and two bouncers who turned away anyone who looked like they shouldn’t be there. Ignorant tourists out to point fun at the so-called freak show. Uptights dressed to the nines who’d baulk at the first sight of swinging balls.

Only the ones who didn’t give a shit got in. Those who looked like they couldn’t care if they’re given the head nod or not. Jeans, trainers, T-shirts. Emotionless expressions. Nothing extra. Because, once you’re in, clothes come off and the fun begins.

Taking hold of the railing we joined the stream of flesh already on route. Down to the dark. To corridors and rooms, cubicles and glory holes. Areas so black you couldn’t see an inch in front of you. Others in low light. Red and orange tones: enough for detail.

Past the guys sitting, sipping their drinks and staring with a more obvious expression. Some smoking cigarettes. Others smoking joints. One or two sucking other things.

“Check him out,” I said.

A skinhead. Six-foot something, muscled but lean. Maybe 50. He was reclined in a medical chair with his arms above his head. His feet were in stirrups and his body was wrapped in black leather. Around him, props hand-picked by an interior designer hellbent on creating a run-down-post-Modernist-medical realness.

Between his legs, a second guy, no more than thirty, muscled with tiny aqua shorts and a backwards baseball cap, straight from a circuit party he was flawless and tanned and hungrily blowing one of the biggest, pierced cocks I’d ever seen. Right there, without a fuck to give. And the best part? People weren’t staring. I mean, they looked, but the skinhead would catch their eye and hold it, stony and unashamed, before breaking for a fresh pair of eyes. No one gawked. No one judged. These two, like everyone else, were accepted. No less than a straight couple making out in a booth.

“Nice,” Dane said, stopping in his tracks until I gently collided with him from behind.

Turning his neck, we kissed. Only two seconds. My arms around Dane. Dane’s denimcoated arse pushing against me. The muscle boy still blowing with abandon. The skinhead watching us.

We walked on. Through open doorways and down hallways, packed with punters. Some chatting and laughing and dancing. Others kissing. One couple fucking: both men blissfully lost in their own private world. Oblivious to the fact they were holding up the queue for the toilets.

We walked on, winding through the crowds, cigarette smoke and the sweet stickiness of marijuana dancing on the air until Dane found it. The place he’d been told about.

An area in a large dancefloor, tucked behind the DJ booth, up three or four metal steps around from the centre of the room. The left perimeter lined with sofas and chairs and plush, comfortable seats. Many taken. Mostly by solo men lying back. Hard cocks in beating hands. “Over there,” Dane said.

We walked past a guy on a sofa on the verge of climax to the platform behind the DJ. There were three men. One was standing, tall and broad and muscular, his age hard to discern from behind but his posture confident and relaxed and sexy. His shorts were by his ankles and his perfect, rugby player’s arse cheeks were framed by a black jockstrap.

The other two were in front of him. One, slim, toned and naked, maybe 23 or 24, toking on a fat spliff and sitting on a three-person sofa. The other, next to him, in short leather shorts, his body tight and compact. His mouth stuffed with the big guy’s cock.

“Good choice,” I said, my semi no longer a semi.

“You’re welcome,” Dane said, pushing his body against mine again.

Kissing him on the neck I ground myself against him, fully hard and said, “Which one do you want?”

“They’re all hot… but the one standing is my favourite.”

“Me too. Maybe his friend will mind?” “The guy sucking?”

“No, he won’t.”

We took off our T-shirts and looped them through our belts. Ten seconds later, I was watching my boyfriend tap his new friend on the shoulder before whispering in his ear; the tall, muscular beast of a bloke now staring at the newcomer; his thick cock hanging wet in the air.

Dane and our new friend, whose name turned out to be Wilhelm, looked in my direction, smiled and time ceased to exist. For the next three hours, I was lost in the ecstasy of colliding realities: the thrill of shedding inhibitions mixed beautifully with the man I loved. It was wonderful.

Before I knew it, I was on my knees. My boyfriend was next to me and we were kissing. Fast and passionate: our lips either side of the big guy’s cock; our spit and his pre-cum mixing salty and sweet in our mouths.

How long we savoured that moment, I don’t know but, at some point, my knees hurt and I stood up. That was when I noticed we’d drawn a crowd.

No longer were there only two other guys. Now there were many. Eight, maybe ten. Black, white and every shade. Some young, some old. Some hanging at the outskirts watching the action, but many with their cocks out. Cocks of all shapes and sizes, proud and hard. Waiting for their turn.

So, I let go. Shed the rest of my trepidation about wanting to do things I was scared would jeopardise our relationship and perched myself on one of the sofas with a wink and smile to Dane and watched them come.

My cock throbbed as the group grew closer, I opened my mouth and the vocals of the DJ’s music became inaudible; slurps and gulps and gagging were my new soundtrack.

At half-past-four in the morning when Dane and I left, I couldn’t count how many dicks

I’d sucked. Couldn’t stop thinking about the images seared into my mind. Dane on his knees; the big guy’s hands bigger than his head. German meat, all-you-can-eat.

My jaw aching in the best way.

Out on the sidewalk, as the chill of morning tickled my skin in the growing daylight, I didn’t feel gross. Didn’t feel shame. I felt great. Happy. Excited for the future.

And so did Dane. As we slumped into a taxi back to our flat at Bayerischer Platz, the rising sun turning the sky a stunning pale blue, I held his hand and we smiled at each other.

Truth is, we’d both been craving it. Both had little voices nagging us to confront that itch of anonymous, physical desire we all feel from time to time. An itch sometimes hard to scratch in a relationship founded by monogamy.

But there, in one of the wildest, craziest cities in Europe, we did. We scratched it good and hard and it made us stronger.

And to me, that’s Berlin. A place of strength, marred by history but transformed from a ruined shell into a cosmopolitan hub of acceptance, sexual freedom and excitement.

A place my boyfriend and I will never forget. And a place I’m sure we’ll be coming back to.

Between his legs, a second guy, muscled, wearing tiny shorts… he was flawless, tanned and hungry…

MORE: Jack Ladd is the author of the semiautobiographical erotic novels Oscar and Oscar Down Under. Go to jackladd.org or search for Jack Ladd on Facebook.