There’s this Turkish club night in Berlin that’s nothing like anything I’ve seen before. Once a month at legendary punk haunt SO36, the Turkish and Arab queer communities and their fans fill up the Gayhane party to dance to Eastern beats and pop anthems. It’s sweaty and full of hot hairy guys who move their hips a lot, a bit like Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie”-kinda thing. It is at this party where I’ve lived out my hottest fantasies, even if some came with a sobering and bitter aftertaste.

I once went in on my own and, because I couldn’t speak the languages that were mostly spoken on the dance floor, I took my charlie and base to boost my pulling skills. Every other hour I visited the toilet, found someone (anyone) willing to share it with me and got into the cabin where I offered whatever I had: G, K and some non-descript nose candy. The whole aim was to find a hairy boy, take him home or just do it there in the piss-flooded toilets. However, I eventually noticed that it was more than social skills that I wished to boost.

High on life, I stood in the corner leering at the men on the packed dancefloor as you do. Most guys were quite blasé, possibly straight, and at least one of them had had a mullet. But when mullet-man turned around he was actually an impossibly cute and sweaty boy who looked at me with the kind of lustful brown eyes I was craving. He was a short Egyptian named Syed. He had dark and shiny hair, thick stubble and the aforementioned dark but gleaming eyes. I peeled myself off the wall and moved towards him with water bottle in hand, ploughing through the pheromone-releasing crowd. Slowly but surely he moved closer to me, and I moved closer to him, occasionally exaggerating my hip game so that our bodies touched and I tried not to giggle. Each touch turned my body heat up, and before I could make sense of it, he was on top of me, thrusting his body upon mine, eating my mouth, his tongue down my throat.

He grabbed the back of my neck and his firm hungry grip gave only one command: smack me hard, beat me up, call me bae, throw me against the wall. And that’s what I did to him and he did it to me. Almost to my surprise he asked me to do it all over again but not before he spat on my face, shamelessly and ruthlessly in front of the eyebrow-raising onlookers. This guy was on fire. What was he on? I asked myself. I followed suit and retaliated. I felt like I was in heaven, almost like that sex scene in 1984’s Bolero with Bo Derek when the word “ecstasy” lights up above all the fucking: all of my fantasies fulfilled in one night.

While we were still buzzing I took him home with me, and it was on the way when I finally asked him what he’d taken, to which he replied with his thick accent, “Nothing.” Nothing; he’d only drank a few beers. I couldn’t believe it! So I looked at him and said: “It’s really cute that you can put on that show sober.” He went red with embarrassment and I instantly I knew it I’d put my foot in my mouth for making him feel like it was uncool to live out fantasies while semi-sober.

After the encounter at home, I never saw him again – he didn’t want anything else to do with a guy who’d made him feel like a freak for being sober. Fair play, but I also knew that I could never be with him after he made me realize that chemsex wasn’t just something that happened at sex parties in big city gay districts. I also realized that chemsex was more than just having a cocktail of drugs to relax your a-hole and disinhibit yourself so you could do stuff you’re usually too shy to ask for… like getting your toes tickled or your hair braided. In the end, chemsex also included my complete inability to be honest with a guy I fancied without being as high as drone. And that was a real tragedy, although probably still not as bad as the mullet he sported.

Images: Public domain, Cannon Film Distributors