Berlin sex club

Berlin sex club

a visit to the infamous Lab.Oratory, Berlin’s most extreme gay fetish club.


How did I end up completely undaunted by the thought of attending a naked sex party at Berlin’s most extreme gay fetish club: the infamous Lab.Oratory? Actually, I was rather excited! Located next to the revered Berghain—a bucket-list item narrowly ticked off during a previous trip (thanks to the benevolent Door Demons)—it felt perfectly destined. I have been to my fair share of saunas, action bars and dark rooms across the globe; but the Lab.Oratory, as with so much of Berlin, is in a category entirely of its own.

Entering the windowless building, one is given a number and asked to strip to nothing but shoes—right there in the lobby—and to place one’s valuables in a clear plastic bag. Naked and branded with my assigned number (written in marker-pen on my left arm), I walked down a darklit corridor into the club.

I feel like a lamb to slaughter—I love that feeling!

Somewhere at the centre of nervous and excited, intrigued and disgusted. The passage leads to the main bar, where naked and half-naked barmen somehow provide the closest thing to normalcy in here. I get a drink—to acclimate. Bare-arsed, sitting on the cold metal pipe, which serves as a barstool, making idle conversation; trying not to get sucked into the plethora of naked and mostly erect men—of all ages and dispositions—appearing and disappearing from the many dark passages around me.

It is difficult to assess the overall layout of the club, as it is so darkly lit and compartmentalised; creating the appearance of a maze. The interior is something akin to an abandoned construction site at night: chain-linked fences, cages, metal containers, barrels, tires, raised platforms with mattresses and wooden pallets. Definitely not the ideal place to go around naked. I spend the first half an hour with my arms tightly wrapped around my waist, disturbed by the thought of touching anything. Red and green lighting, like those found on construction machinery, illuminate the scene. Straight out of a Nightshift security guards gone wild porno—it’s kinda hot!

Venturing away from the relative safety of the main bar, I immediately stumble upon a cordoned-off room. Here an older gentlemen, suspended in a sling, is meticulously being fisted by another, who is seated. The seated man, muscular and quite handsome, sporting knee-high white socks and sneakers, is massaging his arms intently into and out of the older man’s anus; who atop the sling appears… molten—like butter. Dripping with pleasure—oozing—as successive hands simply slip into his gaping hole. How that viscous milky lubricant slowly runs down the forearm of the seated man, as it disappears deeper and deeper into the unknown. And how it just spills back out onto the floor, when he yanks his hand free and the anus, now momentarily agape, slowly closes again.

There is something about a fisting—like a road accident—in that one simply cannot look and cannot not look. I stood there like an idiot. Alternating, for about fifteen minutes, between squirming away in horror, and staring completely absorbed by the loss of his arm—now elbow deep. What that must feel like? Perhaps some experience of having one’s anus penetrated is needed, to fully comprehend the astonishment of what that must feel like. The almost expressionless face of the man being fisted—who occasionally looks at me, or rather through me—gives very little away. I place his expression somewhere between blissful religious stupor and meditative anguish. I free myself from the cycle and retreat to the bathroom.

Going to the bathroom at the Lab.Oratory comes with many unique choices. Firstly, and alternatively, you could choose to relieve yourself straight onto someone else or into their mouths (if they were so inclined). And there is a very special room for that, a cage located on the second level, with a metallic grid floor, featuring a single chair (the Wet throne). Below the cage, is a small, very eerie tiled room, something straight out of a horror movie. Which is reached via an inclined passage to this, the very basement of the club. The Rain room, I suspect it should be called. As it is there that the run-off will fall to, and literally rain down blessed golden showers (again, onto those so inclined, or onto one unwitting explorer). The conventional bathroom features a very special bathtub; to be used for collecting urine, and for public bathing in said urinal donations, or to collect soiled toilet paper… hmmm… (although I can only speculate) presumably used for some kind of aroma therapy? Decidedly I choose the cubicle, securely lock myself inside and thoroughly scan it for god-knows-what other fetishes I could unknowingly be fulfilling.

The club features an outside area, consisting of storage containers forming a two story structure. Stark under the moonlight, there I find a group of perhaps fifteen men in a frenzy of sexual activity. It is so strange how these frantic bouts of sex just seem to condense out of thin air: like a cloud. Some men are bent over, snorting poppers and being violently fucked; some are sucking; several others on the periphery are wanking, rubbing and salivating the entire spectacle into a groaning, frothing, sweaty lather. And as it started, it abruptly ends—like somewhere a lever was pulled. Dicks are pulled out, condoms yanked off and tossed on the ground, some climax unto the floor with a thunderous sigh of relief. And the entire congregation silently dissipates—as though evaporated—leaving only a strange tingling behind: that buzz of sexual energy that seems to lingers for some time after they’re all gone. There, in the still, like static after a thunder storm had passed. And somewhere else, in another dark corner, the rain starts once more. I too leave to go find it.

Upstairs in one of the containers, dimly lit in red, the silhouette of three men taking turns fucking another becomes visible. The man being fucked is seated facing them, legs up in the air, pummelled back into a leather couch. I go sit next to them, and the darkness swallows me up completely—an invisible watcher. It becomes clear that none of them know each other. They are all simply randomly present here, congenially eager to fuck a dark faceless hole, and the seated man, serendipitously eager to get fucked. Fortunately—between patrons—the seated man insists that a condom is used, a surprising rarity in this place. Downstairs in the dedicated sex pit area, men prostrate themselves: they go down on all fours, faces on the ground and their asses in the air. And just wait there. Overcome. In silent prayer, enslaved by the most intense wanting—pleading, begging to be fucked.

What mantra is recited to forgo one’s Ego so entirely?

Others walk by, casually surveying the merchandise, occasionally a finger is inserted to test its quality (to which the grounded man pounds his fists on the floor in frustration); and if found satisfactory—they simply fuck them! Not a single word is exchanged […] Often, the one being fucked doesn’t even glance back to see who is fucking him. He is with god now. His existence becomes single-pointed: only his wanting, he utterly submits to it. He lets himself go completely—he is renounced—and his being is transformed into (a glowing orb of healing white light… no!) a hungry asshole. Gorging on the jack-hammer action of a hard cock, like a ravenous dog devours a kill. Perhaps when he has had his fill, he goes to the bathroom, shits out all of the cum and puts himself back together again. As he gets dressed, maybe he draws his finger over his raw butt-hole and smiles to himself; thinking about how this lingering feeling of fullness will spur him to masturbate repeatedly over the coming days. Now fully dressed, he pays his tab, knowingly smiles at those inside still searching, and leaves. With every step, he slowly re-enters the world of society: of bus-schedules, boundaries, and acceptable behaviour. And he again instinctively heeds to the many laws that govern his infatuations, intimacy and identity.

I want to cum. But after two hours in wonderland, nothing no longer moves me. I am blunt. Deadened by extreme overstimulation. Over there, a couple is fucking like something out of Trueblood—impossible vampire sex! With mind-boggling speed, force and skill. Flipping positions, kissing, spitting, snorting and slapping; I feel my cock—nothing. There is always the avenue of glory-holes around that corner… but that has never really been my thing (the thought of… terrifies me actually). Zombielike, I also take my leave; thinking, I will probably never return to this place. A thought I suspect was once shared by many of the men I saw here tonight: the old man with an arm in his ass; the one pleading on all fours like a hungry dog and the middle-aged man sitting in a cage, waiting for someone, just anyone to come piss in his mouth. They were all once just like me—just curious.

(To be continued)

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