As we approach, we are both giggling nervously like—well, like a couple of people going to a swingers club for the first time, I guess. The door opens and the barmaid—smoking, wearing a black top and plastic lacy underwear—lets us in. We shake our heads. The lockers are here in the front.
You have to get undressed. Here are your flip-flops and your towels. And these are your keys, number 21 and number He seems delighted about my arrival. Maybe this will be great. Hanno and I walk into the room arm in arm and are immediately faced with a reddish light and a bunch of cheap-ass LEDs blinking rhythmically to horrible German pop music. Everywhere you look you can see at least one television playing hardcore porn. There's a platform for dancing with a pole in the right corner in front of a faux-leather couch.
Three guests are sitting at the bar: a middle-aged woman with dyed platinum-blond hair staring into space while raising her glass to her lips; her seatmate, a woman with dyed black hair, who's slowly turning around to examine us; and a small Indian guy who gives us a smile.
In the back, three women and a man fill up a couch big enough for seven to eight normal-sized people. We take a seat on the two empty stools at the bar and order gin and tonics. What goes unmentioned is who, exactly, is showing up at a club at ten in the morning to have a gang bang.
We get up from the bar and start a self-guided tour. There's also a shower and a buffet with sandwiches and pasta. Come for the fucking, stay for the finger food, I guess. I itch just looking at it and wonder how often it gets cleaned. The club is open 24 hours a day, after all. We glance into a niche that is lined with black and red fake leather and features paintings in neon colors illuminated by black light.
