What follows is a true story. I originally wrote it over 30 years ago and has sat in an archive for which frankly, I had no plan. Just as the archive seemed destined for destruction with my eventual demise, unexpectedly my personal circumstances changed. I had been retired for over ten years when, without warning, my wife decided to divorce me. Although English Law allowed her to clear of with the loot, it did at least release me from an obligation which, for her sake, I would never have dared publish.
The story is loosely about live sex shows. In spite of a fantasy ambition I never was a porn star and although publishing this story would have embarrassed my wife, I do not intend to do likewise to my former employer. As to exactly why I was in Berlin will therefore remain undisclosed to the reader.
By comparison with the “on tap” stuff on today’s Internet, I am aware that the kind of behaviour in this story is no longer especially outrageous and that the majority of those now flaunting themselves on my computer were not even born when I did what I did. Yes although times have moved, on it is worth remembering that, aged eighteen, I can recall a court case in which the defendants were striptease artists in a Stockport Club, alleged to have been involved in indecent exposure. Within 10 years I was on stage in Berlin doing something which certainly put into perspective the benign activities of removing a few integuments and exposing that which lay beneath.
The Club Aphrodite.
West Berlin is no more. She succumbed to the German unification process in 1990. She was a part of my life and I shall never forget her. I first visited her in 1967 and, at that time, was not to know the future she had in store for me. The the club is no longer open. It used to lie in the district of Moabit on the corner of Turmstrasse and Lubeckerstrasse. This was the same district that I began to rent an apartment in 1980, a short ten minutes walk away on the Stephanstrasse. My first visit had taken place shortly before I moved to the address in a period when I was in the process of getting divorced. Obviously the club and West Berlin were not in any way interdependent although it is undoubtedly the case that other factors such as social attitudes and AIDS have combined to eliminate the kind off activities which took place in those establishments at that time. Nevertheless in my mind the two are an inseparable element and what follows is certainly a historical reflection on the kind of scenes typical in that city in the 70s.
To fully appreciate this story I will need to describe the club. The place was on the first floor of a what is typical Berlin tenement building. Access was via a staircase from a door on the Turmstrasse, a staircase which lead to other apartments on the floors above. From the outside the establishment was visible by a series of flashing fairy lights which surrounded the shuttered windows on both sides of the building. The entrance door itself was an innocuous pastel green with a viewing window enabling visitors to be inspected prior to its opening. Once inside there was an entrance area which lead to the main bar on the left. There were a series of rooms off to the right which could be used for activites customers preferred to keep private. The main room itself consisted of a salon some 15 meters long by 9 meters wide. At one end was a red curtained stage and at the other a L shaped bar with a series of high stools. The furnishings consisted of wooden tables and chairs which were difficult to perceive in the dimly lit interior of the salon.
Tina was a one of many hookers who worked this establishment. As is common in Germany, the girls doubled as dancers, hostesses, strippers and general dogsbodies. By such means Tina earned her daily bread. On stage she was true professional and could perform any of the various activities which the show demanded. There were of course other girls who came and went with a frequency typical of the kind you would expect in such a place. I mention Tina for two reasons: firstly, because she is intimately connected with this story and secondly, because she was one of a few core girls who could always be depended upon to be there.
The club and the girls, were managed by Gabi. Older, yet still with a few miles left on her clock, Gabi did not normally perform on stage. Such was the no show rate of regular girls, she could and would occasionally get her gear off in order to produce variety in a show which was outstanding for its total lack of taste. Indeed, it was the shear debauchery of the show which had attracted me into the place in the first instance. At showtime Gabi’s main role was that of controlling the music and commentary from a small compartment located close to the bar on to one side of the main room. From there she could select any one of a series of pre-recorded tapes which lead the onlooker though a progression of different sex shows which in total lasted about half an hour. It happened that, no matter where one went in Berlin, it was obvious that the recordings came from but one source – the voice was always the same. They differed only in their content by the club name and music and in the case of The Aphrodite, the overture was presented by Bizets’ “March of the Torridors.”
Gabi also had another task, that of operating the lights, one of which was an intense spotlight which she was able to shine at appropriate moments during the show. By means of this light the audience could see every little detail of gynocological interest as nothing in the performance was left to the imagination
In theory, shows in the club took place at 1900,2100, 2300, 0100, 0300. You would have to be lucky, however, to see one at these hours. Indeed, due to lack of interest, I had known none to take place at all. I later discovered that, unless the establishment had at least four customers at around the appointed hour, the performance would be cancelled. If, therefore, a show was to take place, the routine would follow the following pattern. At around showtime minus five minutes Gabi would go around the customers asking if they wanted to take part. (auf die Buhne)According to Gabi, the following choices were available. Lecken, Blasen oder Bumsen. In english these translate into muff diving, blow job or fuck show. Having said that I had never seen the latter take place since, apparently, it required in the order of twenty customers before the club was prepared to put one on. Such was the lack of interest in the establishment that rarely were so many customers therein. I cannot exactly remember when I first took part in the show. Certainly it was on one of my very early visits. Neither can I remember in which particular indulgence I participated, save to say that it was definitely not a Bumsen show. It is strange now looking back on it how I remember frequently mounting that stage to face the audience and have my cock blown up in full illumination. In so doing, I imagine I came as near as a male can do to feel what it must be like to be a female stripper. The whole thing was completely outrageous.
Although the exact details will be made clear later in this article, after a bit of nervousness, I had constantly learned to ask to do the Bumsen knowing that it would not happen. There was the inevitable response was that inadequate numbers were present for this and that some other selection would have to be made. After trying both alternatives I had migrated to the blow job as a second choice. The routine was always the same: Sometime after the start, I would be accompanied by one of the non participant ladies to a side room adjacent to the bar. In this room were a series of lockers for the use of the girls during their work. I would be told to undress and was observed whilst I washed my myself. I would stand naked in the bar area by the door awaiting the signal to appear. I would often indulge in small talk with one or other of the girls while awaiting my turn. Although it was a bizarre situation, it was not totally unnatural since, in any case, she would shortly have the opportunity to see my fully erected organ lit by several thousand candle power of light.
Meanwhile, on stage, the girl selected by Gabi for the evening’s entertainment was going through the preamble. The relevant tape had been selected comprising of commentary and music during which time she shed most of her garments. The commentary tape eventually posed a question as to whether there was a man who could perform with this wench. At the appropriate moment I was told to go on stage. To help my confidence, I would swagger the few paces past the seated crowd and mount the steps to the right. On the stage was a small couch adequate for its intended purposes. The platform was very brightly lit and consequently it was difficult to see the faces of the onlookers in the audience. The show would then continue with the two of us laid on the couch. A condom was produced and immediately skilfully rolled over my half limp organ. The commentary would then continue whilst the girl played her hands around various erogenous zones of my body leading to the exaltation “Ladies and Gentleman Attention!” At this point the bird would begin to work on the shaft of my knob simultaneous with the bagpipe music to the tune of “Scotland The Brave.” Although I was a bit nervous, I closed my eyes and took myself out of the situation. This way I always managed to produce a stand. Once I knew it was there, I could look down towards the audience noting the bright lights forming a halo effect around the hair of the particular Frau who was doing the business on the end of my dick. As I got better at it, I was more able to direct operations. I still had the initial difficulty getting it up. However, once it was there I could open my eyes, and play to the audience. I felt absolutely proud to be able to show off my cock in this way. I could direct the girls not simply to suck the end of my tool, but to come away from it so the audience could have a look at the swollen knob on the tip. I say girls because there were so many that I could not recount the individual names. It happened at least twenty maybe thirty times over a 18 month period. Sometimes there would be two shows per night and I really actually became bored with the idea. Little things struck one as strange such as the night it was a black girl having that hair style with hundreds of beads at the end of tiny little plats. I remember those beads touching my stomach as she got on with this exclusively female work. At the end of the show I used to fake an orgasm. This was necessary since it was never possible to synchronise the former with the commentary which, in any case, did not go on long enough to be able have this effect. The commentary and music would suddenly stop following the words “und jetz!” (and now). It was always a disappointment to me not to be able to have the genuine article and it often passed my mind whether I would ever get a chance to do a show giving me the opportunity to better able to control affairs in this regard. No matter how often I attended, no matter the number of people, no such event ever materialised and I began to think that it never happened and that Gabis’question was simply not relevant. One night events were to show that, not only did such a show exist, but that fate would eventually intervene on my behalf.
One evening, for no particular reason, I happened to drift around to the club. As I rang the bell, I perceived a hubbub of noise from inside. The door was duly opened and, to my surprise, I was admitted to discover that the usually tranquil place was literally packed with people. I soon realised that this was no ordinary evening and that someone had taken over the joint for the night. It turned out to be a group of French conscripts having their leaving party before returning to civilian life. The atmosphere was positively bacchanalian. Drunks lay around the various tables and lots of extra women had been brought in especially for the occasion. In every corner all sorts of activities were taking place. The strangest of all was the sight of the commander in chief organising with Gabi just what was to happen at showtime. He eventually took the microphone and, speaking in French, began to announce that the show would begin shortly. “We require three volunteers: Un pour faire la pipe, un pour lecher et un pour baiser.” As three of the drunken revellers stepped forward I thought, now we will see if this place really does a fuck show.
The first two acts came as no particular surprise. Two couples duly took the stage at the appointed time and the business was concluded exactly in the manner I now knew so well. It was to Tina that the task fell to demonstrate the art of copulation. She performed this feat with all the enthusiasm of a wet dish cloth. She appeared totally ambivalent to both removing her knickers and allowing a complete stranger to shove a length, doggie fashion, between her thighs. Your man did a reasonable job in the circumstances considering the noise being made by a gang of his mates. I have to say that my own feelings were one of considerable jealousy. I would just love to have been up there shafting that beautiful cow. What appealed to me was the fact that it was sheer unadulterated public sex. However, your man did not achieve an orgasm which left me with some small satisfaction that I had not totally missed out. I also now knew that live fucking was possible in the club although, just how I could manoeuvre things to my advantage, I could not imagine. To my surprise, one week later, I got my chance.
To this day, I know not why Gabi decided to run the full show. Admittedly there were quite a few people in the club. Doing her rounds, I glibly said “Bumsen” and to my surprise “In Ordnung” was the reply. At that moment I had a mini panic attack. Would I be able to rise to the occasion? With which Fraulein would it be? Could I really pull off the event? Since I had exuded total confidence in my reply, I could hardly nervously start demanding details since, in theory at least, I did not care with whom I performed as long as it was done publicly on stage.
As the Bizet began, I found myself still sat amongst the audience. This was to be muff, blow job and live sex show of which I was to be the star attraction and, therefore, last. I would have to wait my turn for my moment on spaceship earth. Eventually, as expected, I was asked to report to the changing room. At this point, trying not to show my tension, I disconcertingly asked the supervisor as to the name of my partner to be in the ensuing event. On being told Tina, my spirits raised and I began to think that I might overcome the nervous feeling so destructive in directing blood to the relevant part of the body. In the meantime Tina was nowhere to be seen. Then, thank God, at last she appeared to lead me to the moment of my life.
This time we mounted the steps together and behind closed curtains facing the audience, nestled alongside each other on the familiar couch. I wanted her to give me a hard on in the relative privacy of the closed curtains. However, she quite firmly rejected this leaving us to wait while the commentary made its introductory preamble. Eventually, the curtain was pulled back revealing two naked bodies to the assembled throng. Thank goodness I had tried a few blow jobs I thought, at least it was a familiar situation. Nevertheless, I still had a nagging doubt about my ability to perform. Fortunately, I was dealing with a real professional in this regard. I will never know if she sensed my dilemma. However, following the usual preliminaries she eventually took hold of my limp cock. The real test of her skill was about to be revealed. Whether this bird realised the manner in which she handled a cock could have such important consequences, this was sure the moment to find out. Tina took hold of the droopy device, slipped on the condom and, holding it gently vertical about halfway along the shaft, began to waggle the tip from side to side. She performed this feat both softly and yet authoritatively in a manner that produced exactly the desired effect. As I relaxed the combination of fantasy and testosterone allowed me, within a short period of time, to look down to see that, thank God, my penis was, indeed, standing proud like Blackpool Tower, illuminations and all.
Hardly had the realisation come that my prick was on form when Tina, retaining the initiative, stepped astride my midrift and slipped it right up inside her. In an instant of time my dreams had been realised. I was at last on the job in public. Furthermore, I knew that the view of my erected penis disappearing inside Tinas’ surprisingly wet interior would be visible to all and sundry by virtue of the spotlight which Gabi would be playing directly on our respective organs. Considering the apparent disinterest which she had displayed whilst being serviced a week earlier, I was pleasantly surprised by the wet warm feel of the inside of the creature now firmly sat upon my erected cock. I contemplated the situation and was wondering what would happen next when she said “Bist Du fertig?” The use of those words in German can be interpreted in different ways. In my case I had no difficulty in understanding what was expected of me. I was going to fuck the arse off her and the entire world was about to hear about it. We changed places to what is generally referred to as the missionary position. My own posterior was facing the audience and although I could not see them illuminated, my balls were hanging down draping Tina’s dripping hole. The latter’s legs were spread and I got stuck into her in a manner never before seen in the history of sexual intercourse. Because of this, the audience were unable to see my face which made me extra determined to make sure that the whole establishment would hear when I shot my load. The latter will always rank as a high point in my life. I got on my toes and really rogered it determined to revenge her lack of interest with the French guy I whom had watched a week earlier. Nevertheless, control remained firmly clasped midst female thighs for suddenly, the matter of synchronised simulation was of no consequence and I could hold back no more as the dirty bitch had her victory. To make sure I could be heard above the music as I succumbed, I deliberately exaggerated shouting ah! ah! ah!, as she squeezed out what seemed like pints of hot seamen from the depths of my bollocks. If the reader excuse the pun, it was sheer fucking magic. I had done it!!
I gently pulled out my knob. The end of the condom was practically bursting with fluid proving to the audience that this had been no fake. A round of applause accompanied the sight of my expired dick as I removed the steaming rubber and held up to the audience the fruits of my recent labour. I wandered with satisfaction back towards the bar and, passing Gabi, she uttered words which metaphorically should be my epitaph. “Na, hast Du abgesprichst?” I will never forget that moment as long as I live.
There were a number of sequels to this little tale. Firstly, the owner of the club had been present witnessing the exploits of this extraordinary Englander. As a consequence I was offered free life membership. I said earlier that I could not remember how often I went on stage during that year. As much as anything this was due to that membership. In this regard, I well remember on one occasion being able to see the sight of Tina sat amongst the spectators, arms folded, legs crossed, half smiling at the work being done on my cock. Later on, we happened to pass in the changing room as she was preparing for some item of the show. She looked at me and glancing down to my half erected knob touched the end as if to say “You and your cock!” coming from such a dirty cow, it was the greatest compliment of my life.
A Disciple of Dionysus
Brought up in Manchester, to a twenty nine year old that I was, in the early 1970s, West Berlin was the most extraordinary place in this world. A militarily indefensible enclave, surrounded by wall, in the middle of communist East Germany, it seemed as if every day was Armageddon. Under West German law the city shared with Hamburg a system of Polizeistunden allowing unrestricted opening of its bars. As a consequence, a veritable plethora of pubs and clubs remained permanently available to serve the many disciples of Dionysus of which I had become one.
When I arrived in Germany, I spoke little German. My first introduction to the language was almost entirely in short conversations in bars and clubs. These talks often centred on prolonging a discussion with an importuning hostess in the aforementioned. As this article will show, the German langusge was not only the matter which I learned.
Amongst this abundance of abodes devoted to the Bacchanalian brotherhood was the Salambo Club, an enterprise to be found on the famous Kurfurstendamm close to the S Bahn Station at Hallensee. Descriptions of the Kurfurstendamn or KuDam, as it is affectionately known, appear in any book dealing with Berlin. Along a wide, Champs Elyses type avenue, are not only contained many of the expensive shops in the city, but also many of the establishments to which I have just referred.
The 1970s had heralded the era of “The Live Show,” never legalised in Britain, but quite widely available and apparently, tolerated in West Berlin. These shows, which varied in form, were characterized by men and women copulating for the benefit an audience. As to the participants the female ones generally consisted of women employed or franchised by the establishment. The males, however, were frequently unpaid volunteers from within the assembled throng.
The Salambo Club was such an enterprise and was undoubtedly one of the most expensive of its kind in the city. Expensive though it was, it did represent a certain value for money if only for the lavishness of its interior decor. The main room, some several meters in height, was overlooked by a gallery. This was itself accessible by means of a staircase from the relatively small entrance room from the Kufurstendamn. Facing the gallery and to the left, as one entered on the street level, was a brightly illuminated carousel with a number of seats enabling transportation of persons in roulette fashion around a vertical showcase. To the right and the main object of attention, lay a low circular stage or couch also capable of rotation only this time in the horizontal plane.
It was here that the various erotic shows, striptease, candle shows, live sex etc. were performed at regular intervals throughout the evening. In front of the circular rostrum was a small area for dancing surrounded by couches with sheepskin covered seating in an arrangement for around fifty persons. Attractive though the interior decor was, it was more than equalled by that of the hostesses who plied their trade therein. The dress standards of these girls left little to the imagination. Indeed, little other than the odd chain or high heel boot bedecked a series of creatures whose job is was to entertain. Clearly there must have been some sort of selection process to ensure that their bodies were as curved and shapely as, to a woman, they were devoid of any surplus fat.
Included in their duties was being seated from time to time on the carousel arrangement on the lighted wall. I had first heard of the activities of the Salambo via a colleague. In fact I had gone out of curiosity rather less than an intention to join that elite bunch of my own sex capable of demonstrating their masculine prowess for all to see. I say this as I had already experienced the humiliation of failure in a somewhat down market establishment on the nearby Kantstrasse. Following this unsuccessful venture, I was told by a guy, experienced in these matters, that “the important thing was to concentrate on the job in hand and under no circumstances, pander to the audience.” As luck would have it, the combination of surroundings, testosterone and fantasy would play into my hands on my very first visit to the club in question.
The Salambo was by no means a male only establishment. It was quite common in Germany to see females in the audience although, usually males outnumbered them significantly. On the occasion of my visit, as I recall, the audience was fairly mixed. It was a warm summer evening in Berlin when I found myself at the Hallensee end of the KuDamn. I had paid my minimal entrance and was sat facing the carousel drinking beer at an exorbitant price and in spite of the attraction, was fending off hostesses whose own drink prices made my own look cheap. The lateness of the hour was such that the club was in full swing and it was not long before the first act became due. With about 7 hostesses sat on the circular couch “Wir suchen einen Herr,” announced a Compare. There followed a lot more German only a little of which I could understand. I gathered that a man was required for coitus with one of the nubile company arranged seductively on the podium. The response was hardly overwhelming. Much laughter and jocular backchat came in response to the request. In many ways this was hardly surprising since “The Herr” was to be expected to service the ladies in full view of some forty onlookers. The Compare went around the round extolling the virtues of the tempting situation to those of us who might lose our inhibitions in this cause. Whilst I never really considered it, deep down, I longed to go out there since the quality of the carnal allure was so high.
Eventually it seemed that the Compare had found someone whom he knew would partake in the matter. The individual concerned was a bespectacled chap wearing a sports jacket, with receeding hair. He had been sat on his own and I have to say that I had gained a slight impression that either he was a plant or, more likely, he was someone who had done this before. I say this because there was just a touch of acknowledgement between him and the compare when the latter had failed to find an alternative candidate. I sat and watched with considerable envy as the show unfolded. Having the wench of his choice, they proceeded to demonstrate the art of copulatory foreplay. I was full of admiration as he seemed to display no nervousness in producing an erection. At one point his torso was inclined against a series of cushions facing the audience whilst the strumpet, lying down on her stomach between his legs, arm outstretched, was gently running her fingers slowly along the shaft of his finely erected penis. It was at this moment that I realised that I now regretted not having put my own name forward for this event. It just so happened that the opportunity was about to present itself.
It turned out that one of the waiters in the club was English. In fact I had struck up a conversation with him earlier in the evening and he explained to me that he was working in Berlin. On my next occasion ordering a drink I decided to ask him if it would be possible to take part in the next life show. He answered that it would be no problem and offered to organise it immediately. Mindful of my earlier failure, I specified that I would only be interested on the basis of non penetrative sex. It seemed, therefore, that within a matter of minutes, the Compare was once again on his feet announcing that “Another Herr” had been found who was prepared to take on one of the girls in the club. Thus it was that I was brought out into the middle of the room and introduced to the audience. Over the microphone it was explained to me, in English, to go upstairs and take a shower and report back downstairs for duty in a few minutes. Having, therefore, been placed in this position, I had little chance for second thoughts about the whole business as I duly sprinkled my private parts in preparation. Admittedly, at this stage, I was under the impression that any coitus was going to be achieved by use of the dainty fingers clasped around my organ. It was with this in mind that I presented myself, suitably dressed, in my birthday clothes at the entrance at the foot of the stairs.
The music was stopped and I was invited to be seated on the edge of the podium with four or five girls with whom under more discrete circumstances, sexual intercourse would have been nothing other than a pleasure. In some ways I was like a kid in a sweetshop being completely spoiled for choice. I chatted briefly with the various ceremonial mistresses before making good eyeball contact with one whilst the Compare egged both myself and the crowd.
It was in such circumstances I made my choice of partner for the forthcoming event. Without further ado it was “chocks away”. The club lights were dimmed, the stage lights turned up and the two of us got down to the serious business. The bed began to revolve as, using a microphone the Compare was stood to one side giving a mock commentary of the various stages in the process.
To put it mildly, I was a little nervous. However, the bold and confident manner which my partner operated soon manipulated a huge erection with the purple tip of my upright organ stood proud in the lights. At this stage the wench surprised me for, totally in control, she rolled herself over so that I naturally found myself in the missionary position with my bayonet poised at the entrance to her juicy interior. As I said, it had never been my intention to copulate with this wench. However, either she had not got the message, did not care, or had some pecuniary interest in the event. Whatever it was she was totally in the driving seat and, like a puppet on a string, I readily accepted the wet, warm quim sucking in my penis towards the gap between her legs.
In my experience there are just a few women who can exercise an alliance of abdominal grip and synchronous rhythm that defy the laws of sexual science. It just so happened that this day I found myself between such a combination. I was vaguely aware of our horizontal rotation as the audience tittered and the Compare encouraged the two of us. My main perception was that of the all pervasive all powerful device locked over the end of my cock. After what seemed only fairly short while the Amazon had her wicked way and I expired, out of control, with a series of huge sighs. As I did so I remember the Compare yelling into the microphone something of the effect to “Ya meiner Damen und Herren listen to the enjoyment of that Englishman ” To the sound of huge applause, my glistening, limp tool popped out as I lay down in momentary total exhaustion.
After a short pause, we both stood up and took a bow receiving the acclamation of all present. Nevertheless, I knew, deep down that this nameless Fraulein had been totally responsible for the resultant spectacle and that in a sense I had been an observer to the event. Her skill and expertise had brought me to this climax of my fantasy. Ever since watching the first stripper in the north of England, I had fulfilled an ambition to become a similar exhibitionist and I am choosing this moment to eternally thank my partner wherever she may now be, for the crucial part she played. So good was our presentation that, following my return to the club, several persons asked me if I was a professional.
In the meantime, my erstwhile companion had rejoined the general club atmosphere and was sat alone on one of the sheepskin couches. I went over to speak to her so say “auf wiedersehen”, however for her part she seemed somewhat disinterested in my approach. No doubt, like many women employed in the sex industry, she had learned to keep separate her copulatory activity and her private life. My presence was now simply an inconvenience preventing her from finding yet another sex partner in order to augment her income. She did, at least, partly acknowledge my approach and I said good by with a little kiss on her cheek. I have never seen her since.