Most Yalies have experienced their fair share of dance floor make-outs, affectionately known as DFMOs. If you make it up the fire escape of the Luther backyard, you’re almost guaranteed to see at least one-third of the Strictly Platonic fanbase, three nepo babies, and a few very passionate, very exposed make-out sessions. Whether you’ve been a perpetrator or a witness, it’s an event that is sure to flood group chats. For the DFMOers, the morning after is a flurry of hangxiety, self-reflection, and a lingering sexual tension with that one mutual you spent the night publicly necking. But in the moment, that racy, erotic high makes us forget the consequences. Is there a way to find that same scandalous sensation beyond the eyes and ears of High Street?
If you really want to get a bang for your buck on your night out, go to a sex club. I’m not talking about a spot filled with middle-aged men who eye that one group of young dancing girls while they slump over the bar. No— we need kinky, strappy, seedy, flashy, sexy clubs where people go to let loose and find pleasure. Where people go to be strangers.
I’d had a few sexy club experiences before, but my first legit sex club experience was at the KitKatClub in Berlin. My previous stops had flaunted giant LED signs that said “Fuck” in a cursive font and had runways in the middle of the dance floor. These clubs were well-designed to curate an erotic atmosphere, but the crowds consistently disappointed me. They were boring. Nobody wanted to dance. It was basically a networking event with a stripper pole. KitKatClub had a reputation I could trust. It’s impossible to find footage of what really goes on inside, yet everyone who comes out seems to have a story.
I planned my outfit with my travel buddy weeks in advance. I’d learned from extensive scrolling on Reddit that these Berlin clubs were no joke. You shouldn’t expect to just walk up in jeans and an Urban Outfitters corset top (no hate–keep rocking her, girls). Germans play a different game. Going to these clubs isn’t just about getting drunk; it’s about shedding social pressures and losing yourself in a hedonistic escape for a night. Our outfits were carefully curated to get past the door: fashionable and authentic to our tastes, while teasing a scandalous base layer, to be revealed inside.
Immediately after passing the bouncers and paying the cover, it came time to strip. I threw all of my clothes onto a hanger except for my strappy leather and lace set and handed off my purse and phone for the night. Most sex-positive or BDSM clubs enforce some variation of this policy. Other Berlin clubs let you keep your phone but place stickers over both cameras, or enforce a phone-free dancefloor. Here, I left everything at the door. I had nothing to carry but my body. I tucked my retrieval ticket into my Chelsea boots, and we slipped into the crowd.
The club was endless. We floated between rooms with different themes, each a unique pocket of kinks, colors, and music. Our first stop was dimly lit by hazy red lights, flashing and darting so that even the foggy air looked like it was dancing. There were a few elevated platforms, each equipped with a stripper pole. Bodies pulsed all around us, most of them practically naked (if not entirely). Every individual, myself included, seemed to melt into the techno music. But, unlike other techno clubs, blowjobs were happening at eye level right next to me. People everywhere were flirting, fucking, kissing. I wasn’t nearly as shocked by the sex as I was by the realization that, truly, nobody cared. I definitely didn’t. Did I notice it? Sure. I was a southern Mississippian at a kink club for the first time. But the crowd was so tightly woven and the music so overpowering that there wasn’t any room for judgment. Plus, I knew what I came for. I’d later become the same shock for virginal voyeurs.
Time became amorphous, a system of pleasure and release. Not having our phones, our decision to leave followed the energy of the club when numbers started dwindling. I would have guessed that we left around 3:00 a.m. We’d arrived around midnight, so that felt about right for a typical club night. But when we stepped outside, it was a bright and sunny 6:30 in the morning. Somehow, we’d spent the entire night in this sex club. And while the post-club shower was genuinely transformative, the emotional guilt never emerged. I didn’t feel dirty at all. I was relaxed. Sex wasn’t scary. And, besides, I could be just a passing stranger to everyone I met. I didn’t have to worry about waking up and discovering that I’d been sniped from afar. In the KitKatClub, you can do as you please—dance, smoke, DFMO, DFBJ, DFHU—with shameless confidence.
Unfortunately, American nightlife is far from the celebrated sex culture I found in Berlin. We have sex clubs, but Americans are far less likely to indulge in a frisky night out because sexual liberation is seen as a specific lifestyle rather than a collective part of life. Sexy clubs here are often called “swinger clubs,” a label that deters patrons who fear being swept into this category from attending. This stigmatic club culture is sustaining an isolation of sex from self, implying that enjoying recreational sex is exclusive to one single lifestyle. We’re robbing individuals of a rich opportunity for sexual exploration. American clubs need to stop treating “sex” like a dirty word. Call it what it is: a sex club! A titillating, steamy, and completely normal place to enjoy casual sex.
So, I call upon the masses: bring back sex clubs. We need more nightlife that celebrates sexuality, builds a consensual sex culture, and that refuses to shame someone for being comfortable in their body. Down with the DFMO guilt! If you’re feeling a little freaky, I encourage you to find a sex club! Do your research! Bring a friend! Your body is nothing to be scared of.
