I got up on Easter Sunday surrounded by the sound of church bells and asked myself, what is the most decadent thing I could do? So I tossed on clubbing clothes, then tossed on leggings, then tossed on stretch pants, then bundled into my winter coat and set out through the driving snow, to Berghain, for the weekend party that goes on through Sunday afternoon. I was hoping to catch the tail end of the Saturday-night debauch, but, alas, I'm not exactly an early-morning gal and arrived shortly before 11 AM. The crowd didn't seem at all debauched, but positively fresh and the women were, noticeably for Berlin, nicely dressed in sexy off-the-shoulder numbers.
The male bouncer at the door was all set to let me in when his lesbian enforcer got one look at me and said nein! and walked away (I don't do well passing as a gay male). I managed the appropriate flirty pleading look and the male bouncer sent me in to be frisked by the enforcer who looked extremely carefully through each one of my credit cards. Having established, I suppose (she wouldn't tell me what she was looking for), that I wasn't planning on coking up inside, she reluctantly waved me in. Only the Panorama Bar was open; some live party in the main part, I think, so that means some day I'll have to go back.
My voyeuristic desires were fulfilled as soon as I screwed up my courage to walk down the back passageway behind the very cool row of couplings or transformers or whatever those massive electrical installations are called, I saw two men, not visibly unclothed (the one at the back dressed in black leather pants), but it was the combination of motion (languid) and the angle (not extreme but instantly recognizable) that immediately caught my eye. I didn't have the courage to stop and stare, although I wanted to, and by the time I sashayed back through the same passageway, it was over. There was also a dead-end passage on the other side of the main hall quite clearly commandeered by men stumbling into or out of their clothes.
The music was the usual monotonous Berlin electronica, which is best regarded only as an exercise opportunity. The only other event of note was an extremely pathetic sugar mommy request by a young German. OK, sure, sugar mommy I've done, but certain attributes, let's face it, really have to be part of the equation. [And no, M., I did not want to take said German boy to the back passageway to check, as said attributes a German boy simply is not going to have.] For one, actually poverty is required. [BiB, you are so right about how cheap northern European men are!] This was sort of like the little rich kids "begging" for spare change for beer or pot on Telegraph Ave. in Berkeley -- makes one want to whack them. So I sent sugar mommy boy on his way, struck back out into the driving snow, and arrived home just in time for the Easter organ concert at the local church.