The only thing that we knew about the Berlin sex club scene—that the bouncers smell out insecurity and turn away posers—had us all a little anxious. But the Americans behind us in line outside Kit Kat Club were reassuring: “Just look bored, and you’ll get in.”
Our feigned disinterest proved successful, although I noticed the bouncer’s eyes lingering on my outfit for a moment. I pulled down my sunglasses so he could look into my eyes, and then he nodded me past. Inside, we peeled off our outer layers and then stripped down to an awkward half-nudity. Nobody inside the club had chosen to bare it all. Not that early in the night, anyways.
We toured the club’s nooks and crannies, wandering through a maze of sofas, swings, and poles. In many ways, it was exactly what I had imagined—dark, vaguely musty, every surface black or sultry red. But there were some surprises, too. When we bought drinks, one of the oiled-up hunks working the bar leaned over to break some news: Unfortunately, the club’s swimming pool was closed for the night.
After two rounds of tequila, we bumped into a guy who had been just ahead of us in the line for the club. His name was Nils, and he was a local. He’d come alone. He was a year older than me and an inch taller, brows furrowed under slicked-back hair. He spoke with a reckless confidence, a prerequisite for coming to a sex club alone on a Monday. Following some empty conversation—we couldn’t tell which of us, if any, he was trying to flirt with—he declared that we had to do a round of shots. Germans drink Jäger, he told us. We Americans followed.
We parted ways with Nils and headed to the dance floor, where the energy had begun to pick up. It was difficult to make out much of what was happening, given the intense fanaticism with which the DJ deployed his strobe lights. What I could discern around me was relatively tame, though. People were dancing, enjoying themselves. It was all fine enough. I don’t know what I had expected.
After a while, Nils found his way back to us. He put his hands on me as we danced, and we split off from the group. We spent most of the night together, lounging in various spots around the club. He told me that he did not, as a rule, have sex with strangers. So we mostly just talked. About our respective countries, and childhood, and the things we most feared. At some point, he proposed that I move to Berlin so I could marry him. “You can be my husband,” he offered, and I shrugged.
His blunt disposition made for a pillow-talk unlike any I’d encountered before. Between his persistent marriage proposals, he tried to enlighten me on the world. “Americans are so stupid. But you’re different,” he said, while caressing my cheek. “Do you know who Adolf Hitler is?”
I didn’t quite know how to answer him. There was something expectant in his voice, like I would shatter him if I proved less ignorant than he wanted me to be. I don’t remember what I ended up saying. I just remember feeling sad.
I haven’t talked to Nils since that night, but I think about him every once in a while. When I do, I imagine a life where I’d taken up his offer. We’d have an apartment together, on the third floor, with high ceilings and ample sunlight. He’d work at his parents’ flower shop, and I’d be a lousy writer. Or maybe, had I gone home with him that night, I’d have woken up the next morning to find myself regretting everything—drawn so foolishly across a foreign city by his casual promise of true love.
I’ve never been in a relationship, not unless you count the two hours that I dated my classmate Abby in the fourth grade. I could blame this on a myriad of factors—time and place and standards too high—but I think I’d better spare the wallowing.
Sometimes I worry that I’ll always move through life trying to mask the same desperation by feigning this same disinterest, hoping that someone sees through and doesn’t turn me away. Maybe that’s why I still think of Nils: he said that he wanted me, and not for a quick indulgence. He was going to take me home to his parents and make a life with me.
Maybe someday, I’ll bend his story like I’ve come to bend all the others before it: “Yes, I was in love once. His name was Nils. I met him at a sex club, and he wanted to marry me in Berlin. But I turned him down.”
