Astute readers may be wondering exactly where the dominatrix discussion came from. During my visit to Berlin last month, I continued my crusade to explore Berlin sex clubs. One-by-one my friends dropped out of the planned outing, but ever intrepid, I forged on alone, determined to crack the famed Kit Kat Club. I wisely decided to do so during their Sunday afternoon pool party (with 5€ cover). The main club was closed off, but of course I snuck in anyway. They'd finished most of the cleaning so I was spared forging through ankle-deep condoms (or so I imagined). I saw BEDS, yes, indeed, my friends, there are beds in the Kit Kat Klub.
Getting back to the pool, I settled into a deck chair to lech at all the beautiful boys pool-side in various stages of undress. But immediately I was confronted with surely the most inept pair of sexual deviants I've ever run across. The talkative one was a Russian whose German was impossible for me to understand but gave me the impression of endless variations on the theme, "lick me". His German companion, who good-naturedly accepted the Russian's attempts to pass him off as his gay bottom, took it all in stride with valiant translations clearly meant to take the crudest edges off his words. It was only after they'd talked me into shedding my sandals & splashing around in the pool that they admitted to being foot fetishists. Never averse to a new sensation, I allowed the German to lick my feet, which was deemed unsatisfactory by all. I had to say, good god, I was cycling all around town building up all sorts of sweatiness; why on earth did you ask AFTER I went into the pool?!?
Ah well, things progressed, after numerous inept attempts at halting English and German, to my grasping that the Russian's mistress was present and he wished to be very naughty. I absolutely refused to go into the dungeon (so there remains uncharted territory at the KKKlub) to whip him; I would only do so pool-side. This meant he would undoubtedly incur her wrath, but then, I figured, wasn't that really the point? I told him I would do it if he found a big black whip, but ultimately agreed to settle for his companion's metal-studded black leather belt. I was just starting to settle into a rhythm, however, when he yanked his pants back up. I did my best to deride him, telling him I hadn't even started to sweat yet, and his butt was barely rosy. But no, with him having incurred the desired wrath of his mistress, that was the end of my inaugural stint as a dominatrix. And Mr. Performance Artist has sadly discouraged me from any further thoughts of this as a new career path.
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2 comments:
The amusing thing is that I think you really got into your part, and actually enjoyed the "role"...but Mr Performance Artist realized that you were a bit too much into the role. Like a fine Porsche....you have to learn when to throttle up, and throttle down....lol.
Dear Mr. Ripley, full investigation of the cast of characters would require further delving into this blog, I'm afraid. My writing style tends to be that of broad, looping circles through time. No, Mr. PA scarcely figures in the Kit Kat adventure, except as an after-the-fact wet blanket. The Porsche would be me. Whereas he is still driving a burro.
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