A letter from a wet room is a Berlin kink club

And I am back. Hello, my beloved perverts, fetishists and friends. I’m bringing you a little text on change, piss and collective intimacy.

To me, the most integral part of being a kinkster is accepting that thing do change. Trying new things is a big part of how we operate as perverted beings - chasing highs, imagining new ways of getting off, trying to touch what we’re scared of. There are times in life when everything pales compared to kink-related experiences, times when they give way to survival mode, and times when life inevitably gets in the way.

When sexuality becomes part of your sense of self, and your community - the change is like a sound too low to hear but impossible not to feel. It’s something very difficult to verbalise. It’s internal, reflective and subtle. Something doesn’t cut it anymore, and you are not exactly sure why. You seek your fundamental pleasures: playfulness, emotion, deep connection which is unmatched. Sometimes you try again and fail to find it. But something new is already in the layers of flesh, quietly gaining electricity.

I’ve realised that things which lately get my writing brain going are relatively new to me. Watersports and heavy rubber both involve quiet intimacy and produce intensity without pain. They involve moments mostly shared privately – unless you happen to end up in the right environment, like a piss room in a Berlin basement club.

The room is small – but a nice size to imagine that nothing beyond it exists. To the right, a section of the wall is glass, metal urinal visible on the other side. From time to time, water washes over the glass, and I wonder how does the timer work.

In the room, there is girl with long dark brown hair, slicked back and wet. Her mascara is slightly smudged. She is wearing lace up leather boots, tight latex shorts and sports sunglasses. At some point, she stretches on the floor, glasses abandoned at her side, as piss runs all over her body, pooling in on the rubber shorts. In the red light it’s just like water.

There are places to sit at either sides of the room, like tiered benches. People lounge around and chat. If you close your eyes, conversations echo in fragments - nothing is cohesive and everything is fun.

I squat down by the wall and look up. It’s warm and it flows down thick layers of a rubber apron I’m wearing, my breasts, my thighs, all over my body. There is a satisfying feeling of abandoning control, of not knowing when it’s going to end, of opening yourself to being soaked. There is a sense of subtle touch, warm fluid everywhere. I haven’t done it before, but I open my mouth and let it flow in and out without swallowing. There is joy which comes with novelty, affection and being seen (like that).

We keep coming back between wandering around the club – not too big, 200 people max. I drink cheap sparkling wine and sparkling mate and feel content that my body turns them into piss. At some point, the girl with slicked back hair drinks from me – I can feel her mouth, and I touch her breasts which I can feel through the latex of my gloves.

That weekend, Folsom Europe is on in Berlin: on Saturday, several streets are full of leather daddies, puppies, men in assless rubber chaps, some walking around in straight jackets or other varieties of heavy bondage, and a few unclassifiable queers. People are absorbed in their experiences and seeing others experiencing things. It’s so collective but so intimate.

In the club’s wet room, people are chatting and laughing and being quiet, watching and taking turns. Before leaving in the early hours of the morning, I look around the dance floor and see the girl with wet dark hair dancing, eyes closed, smiling.

Photo of Eva Gold's sculpture 'Liquid Gold' at Nicoletti Contemporary (by Mark Blower). I wrote about this work previously here.