A techno remix of ‘It’s Raining Men’ was blasting down from the speakers, and it had never been so true. Young, old, gay, straight, dressed, and decidedly undressed—everyone entwined on the dance floor. There is something so liberating in being surrounded by hundreds of naked, sweaty strangers. If you have been to a sex club before, then you know exactly what I mean, but you may not have experienced the true splendor of Europe’s infamous den of decadence: The Kit Kat Club.
Open since 1994, owner and pornographer Simon Thaur, along with his life partner Kirsten Krüger, have built upon Berlin’s non-stop party scene, creating a safe haven where all persuasions and proclivities are welcome. The name was inspired by the musical Cabaret set in Berlin during the early 1930s and against the backdrop of the Nazi party uprising. The original burlesque theater was called the “Kit Kat Club.”
We arrived around 1 am, but the party really gets going around 4. Dressing to impress is a given, and the bouncers at the door strictly enforce the code. Showing up naked would fit better than trying to gain admittance wearing jeans and a t-shirt. In the entry way, we checked our street clothes, which basically means stripping down to your skivvies. It’s a lot easier to do when you realize no matter how naked you are, there is someone there always wearing less.
Part techno club, part the wildest orgy you can imagine, the walls are lined with gorgeous art projections. Erotic images painted by Maria Imaniel create a trance-like atmosphere with their subtle movement. Outside, there is a swimming pool with a naked blond woman swinging slowly over the water. Couples lounge on beds and dip their toes in the water, and the all-nude sauna is packed with sweaty guys feeling the heat. Inside, the dance floor is filled up with glistening, writhing bodies, while the catwalk above showcases a different kind of dance.
Glamour comes in various forms all provided by the patrons—from old guard leather tough men with bare chests and thick arms, to curvaceous women in 6-inch heels in little else except a pair of body-painted angel wings. Beautiful trans women tower over the crowd, and petite, collared subs are lead around on leashes by their masters. I even saw several older gentleman sauntering about wearing only socks and sandals—but in a place like this, anything goes.
As the drinks continue to flow, the immense amount of eye candy later turns into a full buffet of heavenly flesh and bodies. All is permissible—with consent and communication of course. Sex and masturbation are enjoyed freely, from the dance floor to the more private rooms located upstairs. There are boudoir bungalows decked out with all the equipment you need from old doctor chairs with stirrups to a well crafted St. John’s cross (although sadly little Liberator furniture).
The—let’s call it an ‘event’—that stood out the most to me was The Sentinel. Downstairs is one of the club’s many bars and another dance floor. It is accessed only by a narrow, pre-war staircase. Everyone will walk down there at some point, which is why The Sentinel has set up camp right at the bottom. There, he stood with his legs spread wide and one hand on his dick, dressed in only a shirt and boots—all night. And since this club never closes, all night is a looonnng time. What is the thrill he gets from this, the occasional glance down at his exposed genitalia? It doesn’t matter—what is important here is this is a place where one can stand with their dick out for an evening, and rather than running the other way, people smile.
Unless you’re an exhibitionist, you’ve probably not done the deed in public before. What would inspire these people, who are no doubt accountants and middle school teachers by day, to literally let it all hang out at night? In so many places, we are told to hide our sexy sides, or at least keep them contained. The expectation that sex is something that should be done in the dark and never discussed.
But here at the Kit Kat Club, you are free to be whatever you choose. It enables uninhibited exploration and finds a match for any of your weird kinks. For those who only like to watch, you don’t have to participate in the sexy goings-on. Just dancing and feeling comfortable in your own skin is well worth the price of admission.
The bass is pumping, the people are beautiful, and luckily, you don’t have to know German to feel when people appreciate what you have going on. If the rest of the world were as accepting as the patrons at the Kit Kat Club, we would be living in an entirely happier place.4