Last year I visited friends in Berlin. It was my first time in Europe and my last time traveling there while it’s still winter — it was freezing. But my friends and I made do with lots of potato soup and liquor. The two guys I was visiting are photographers so a good portion of my trip was spent at art openings around the city. One gallery, Peres Projects, belongs to a fellow Angeleno, Javier Peres, so I made sure we stopped by for his latest opening that month by artist Amie Dicke called “Private Property.”
The gallery is in the Kreuzberg neighborhood of Berlin. Lots of punks, artsy types and Turks. Inside a complex of small galleries, it’s right next to one of several small canals that run off the Spree river. Since it was winter, it was very gray and cold — like pictures we’ve all seen from the ’80s of East Berliners secretly gathering in abandoned buildings to hear some illegal rock music or dig a tunnel to the west.
My friend and I walked in and looked for Javier. We found him, but he was busy, so we checked out the art. It was your typical art crowd. But everyone’s speaking German and I couldn't tell if folks are praising or condemning the work, so I had no idea whether I should act as if I love it or hate it — like I usually do when going to an opening. I just kept my head down, grabbed a beer and headed into the first exhibit with my pal in tow.
Dicke’s work was in the main gallery and it appears she’s covered a collection of furniture in black duct tape with a plaster cast of her leg right where it would be if she had been sitting on the couch that was amongst the taped-up living room set — in fact, the tape was everywhere. She had even created a large, black-tape area rug. There was also a cabinet full of furs, and more plaster casts of her body parts. In the next room, another one of her plastered legs was seductively posed on top of a table, like all the furniture, mummified with the black tape. One of her hands, preserved for the ages, was resting on a chest of drawers placed amongst what appeared to be a hair brush and various beauty supplies. There was also a collection of paintings and collages, each depicting cut-outs of models from fashion magazines — again, she chose just the negative spaces between the legs. It was then that I started to get it: the artist is both attracted to our modern concept of beauty, fashion and culture, and repulsed by it. She carefully wraps up, cements and cuts out her subjects’ “private parts.”
Everyone at the show was very nice and engaging. My friend and Javier are pretty well known in the city, so I got to meet quite a few folks. If it weren’t for the fact that I had only arrived from L.A. a few hours earlier, I would’ve seemed quite the "Continental," in for the week to see some art shows then off to Ibiza for the weekend to eat fresh melon and drink champagne. I think it was because of the jetlag that the drinks were hitting me fast. By my third one I had ditched my friend and was in the other room acting like an idiot with two guys I had just met. One was tall and lanky; in an austere, Abraham Lincoln sort of way. Scruffy brown hair, lose dark clothes and calm, dark features like an undertaker. I think it’s because of this that I hardly remember his friend at all. He was short and blonde. I just remember thinking when I met him, “Finally, a blonde German!” I forget their names now, and I doubt if I ever really asked in the first place. All I do remember is that they told me they were looking for trouble and I wanted in. After a few more rounds of a vodka lemonade drink that’s popular there, they grew tired of mere drunkenness and decided it was time to push things up a notch. They offered me some Ecstasy. I took it. It was 2 am, and in Berlin, that’s when things are just getting started.
Once outside, I pulled my scarf up and followed the two men a few blocks. They took me to another club. Now this was the kind of bar you’d expect to find in Berlin. Sure, when you walk in there’s a regular area with a bar and dance floor but there’s also a large subterranean space beneath the club where all the magic takes place. On the upper level there’s all sorts of folks dancing around, drinking and cruising, but, make no mistake, the area below is why everyone’s there. The three of us were pretty drunk and the ecstasy hadn’t kicked in yet so we stood by the bar to order up some drinks. While we’re ordering, some folks my friends introduced me to earlier at the gallery ran up to me and welcomed me. “Have you gone downstairs yet?” one of them asked. I told him I was going down after I got my beer. “If you want a cute boy, you should go now before they all hook up and move on to another club” he told me. I grabbed my drink and headed downstairs with his group, leaving Abe Lincoln and the blonde guy behind at the bar.
Downstairs was packed and, just as I thought, it was a “play space” somewhere for guys to go and screw around. I started making my way through the different areas, each made of shipping palates placed on their sides and arranged like a big maze. The drugs were kicking in and the guys I came down there with had disappeared so I started walking around, looking at the faces of everyone I came across.
There was an older man, at least in his late ’50s, following me dangling a baggy of what appeared to be cocaine or speed up in front of his face, possibly as some sort of incentive to sneak away with him into one of the darker areas of the maze. I smiled at him and strolled on, having fun looking at the guys. While walking around, I also discovered that I couldn’t get an erection — it was the Ecstasy. I turned into one of those guys you see at these places, walking around rubbing their dicks, staring at everyone. Even though I was extremely high, I was embarrassed. Hands would pop out of nowhere trying to cop a feel of my crotch, but I pushed them all away.
After a few minutes of walking around I bumped into the two guys I came to the club with. “There you are!” Abe yelled at me. I guess I was in trouble. He pulled me closer while the blonde moved in behind me. He asked “Why did you run away?” in a Colonel Klink “We have ways of making you talk” sort of way. I figured the best way to keep myself from starting to giggle was to just start kissing him, so I did. They both started taking turns making out with me and since I was high and didn’t want to get into anymore trouble, I obliged. I still couldn’t get an erection, but I got the impression I wouldn’t be needing one from then on out. And as I suspected, they pushed me down on my knees — all the way down wondering if their foreskins were clean. But I was committed now, so in the spirit of international cooperation, I dove in.
Their foreskins were clean, but the one thing that bothered me was how crazy they had become — crazy as in rapists. They each took turns violently shoving their cocks into my mouth. And then they started calling me names and saying things totally unnecessary, like “Eat it bitch!” But, I was the American, so I felt that I had to prove we’re just as piggish as they were “You like it when I do this, no?” The tall one said. “You pretty, little, surfer bitch…” Surfer bitch? Where did he get that? Maybe it was because I’m from California. Either way, he did say I was pretty, so I kept sucking.
After a while the blonde guy said something to Abe in German and no sooner did he pull out of my mouth than the blonde shoved himself in. It went on like this for a while, and I kept thinking, “How did a night at an art opening end up like this?” And just then, I smelled something.
To our right was a man in a sling being ravanged by a number of other men. He was totally nude with his mouth gagged by a towel or something like it. The men fucking him were… well, very forceful. I looked over towards the group and just then realized what I was smelling. Shit. The man in the sling had shit himself as he was getting fucked. I’d obviously made the discovery first, since I was the closest to the floor. I pulled the cock out of my mouth just as someone yelled: “Ah! It’s everywhere!” With a single movement, the crowd of men stepped back and began checking themselves. And as each one lifted his hand to his nose to see if it, in fact, was everywhere, they each cried out and ran off to find the washroom. Needless to say my dates where no longer in the mood. The smell was pretty bad and was now wafting through the maze. Guys were starting to make for the stairs. Pushing his way through the crowd came the manager.
Calmly asking the men to step aside, he found me there, standing next to the guy in the sling who was, by now, just pitifully creaking back and forth in his leather harness. The manager, wearing kakis and a red polo shirt, seemed kind and familiar, like your favorite uncle showing up to take you fishing. He asked me something in German. I just shook my head. So he leaned in closer and asked in English, “Is this person with you?” “No.” I said. “I just found him here.” Sizing up the situation, he asked, “Could you help me with him?” “Sure,” I said.
We took the towel out of the guy’s mouth. He looked over at the manager and started frantically speaking to him in German. I concentrated on getting him out of the sling all the while trying to breath through my mouth and not getting anything on me. Once he was freed, the manager had me follow them to a room down one of the halls nearby. At the end, was a door leading into what looked like was some kind of break room for the employees. Inside was a sink, water cooler and microwave as well as lots of various bar related items. There was also a private bathroom, where the manager carefully whisked the poor fellow into.
After getting the guy inside, the manager closed the door behind him. It keept popping open, showing the guy inside on the toilet, trying to clean himself up. The manager tore a big piece of duct tape from a group of electrical cables nearby and taped the door shut.
He turned and smiled at me, “What a night, ya? Thank you for your help.” “Of course,” I said. “I felt bad for him. It must have been very embarrassing.” He waved aside my comment, “Naw, business as usual. Where are you from?” “Los Angeles.” I said. “Ah, I love L.A.” He looks behind me and then points. “Could you hand me that popcorn?” I turned around and saw a box of microwave popcorn atop a stack of boxes. “I burn it to get rid of the smell.” I grabbed a pack and handed it to him. He tossed it in the microwave and turned the timer all the way around. Just then one of the bartenders from upstairs burst in shouting in German, “He said a few guys want their money back. I’ll return soon. Let the popcorn burn and keep the door open so the smell can go outside.” OK, I said. “And if the bathroom door pops open again, put some more tape on it. Just tear it off something, it’s everywhere.”
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