My sex life can, as a first approximation, be divided into _aMDMA_ and p*MDMA*—before and after MDMA, respectively.
Hour Zero p*MDMA* corresponds to right around 2am, on some generic Sunday in the late fall of 2014. The spot was a surprisingly large toilet stall at Stattbad Wedding, a club nestled into the catacombs beneath a derelict swimming pool in northern Berlin. Five twenty-somethings, more or less nervous. More or less drunk. Among them _Justine_, a red-haired Canadian girl, one of my closest friends. The others were Nathan, a friend of Justine’s from South Africa, and two girls he had brought along. The pretty but quiet Belgian girl had been the last to squeeze inside, barely managing to lock the door behind her. At the centre of it all was _Yael_, with one knee on the closed lid of the toilet and her mind on the precision work she had to perform.
I had first met her earlier that night, at Justine’s place, drinking Gin Tonics for her birthday celebration. When the birthday girl decided to hit the road shortly after midnight, none of the others from our usual little gang could be motivated to come along. So at the front door, they went right, walking home or taking the subway.
I turned left. For some reason, my instincts told me this could be an exciting night. Also, this girl Yael was fucking beautiful, fucking smart, and fucking funny. Everything about her exuded confidence, yet she didn’t have an arrogant bone in her (until later, when I changed that).
Yael was Israeli, a bit taller than most girls, and a byte cuter. She may even be beautiful, but it is drowned in cuteness. Very much girl next door, if you happen to life next to an incredibly cute girl. This impression was shared among any human who had spend a minimum of “sorry, do you have… ahm… wow… wait, what did I want? The time! Do you have the time?” with her. Photos did not do her justice, for it was a composition: of looks, yes, including breasts, not too big, seemingly exempt from the law of gravity. And of hair, long, with small curls of natural chaos. And a pair of dark pants, fitting like a second skin, but not obviously intended to be sexy, just happening to trace even minute details of her body’s surface. Did you notice that…? Where the pants just happen to shape into two, parallel, folds? Or are you imagining things? It’s not obvious, such vulgarity being unthinkable. But there’s something, isn’t there? You know it could be, and, interpolating here and there as you gathered more data whenever you moved around, you know that you know an awful lot about it. Does she know, that you know? You barely resist the urge to ask.
She was quick with a laugh, providing an audience throughout the night—an audience being essential for my mode of being: tall and skinny, clothes (and hair) just slightly off from what would be considered excellent taste, so as to always puzzle the observer: he seems like a cool guy, but there’s a lingering feeling of incompleteness, a tiresome wait for the final accord in this composition.
But: quick with a joke, or to light up your smoke. It’s a great talent to have, yet it comes with a threat: you have no idea how you do what you do, do you? You’re a slave to a brain that may, at any point, decide to no longer provide you with those sudden intuitions, spoken aloud the moment they appear, taking consciousness for a ride and making it parse the words coming out of your mouth, and only then allowing you access to meaning, evaluating it, and initiating mitigating actions when, as is bound to happen a bit too frequently, that meaning had no meaning, or was mean, or so meandering as to be incomprehensible without access to the library that gave birth to it. With Yael around, I was at the top of my game. Her laughing, my friends rolling their eyes, but hiding a smile.
Speaking of rolling: shortly after our arrival at the club, Nathan asked me if I would join in if they got some MDMA, which Yael was already looking to procure. I said yes without hesitation, which means I got quite lucky that nobody ever offered me drugs before. I doubt my answer would have been different if someone had offered me heroin when I was 12. As it were, I had never tried anything besides marihuana, which turned out to make me intensely nauseous and lightly angry at whoever gave it to me.
Yael turned around, the subject of attention in her hand. She offered it to her cadre of neophytes. My mood was already elated from the sense of adventure. Also: I finally found out what these groups of 3+ people going into toilet stalls in clubs are up to. To think of all the years where I glanced sideways at them with the pain of jealousy at that-guy-also-getting-a-foursome, my dick pointed at the pissoir, his presumably at too much pussy. What a waste of a perfect feeling of depression! They were just taking drugs!
One by one, we wet a finger in our mouths, dipped into her palm, and lick off the powder that stuck to it. One by one, our faces contorted into grimaces of pain, MDMA being among the least tasty substances consumed by humankind, barely ahead of Marmite.
And now? Wait. Also: “Oh, now somebody has to lick my palm clean, I already took enough.” / “I’d love to, but only if it doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”
_“I’ve done much worse in toilet stalls!”_
And thus I had a new sentence to never forget, joining “tear down this wall” and “please mind the gap”. Also: the kinky part is almost here.
But it had to wait another hour for me, so you’ll have to deal with a few paragraphs. We made our way back to the rather small dance floor. Minimal Electro coming from all sides, the air hot and humid from the bodies of around 150 ecstatic dancers. Thus began the waiting, casually dancing to the music because of a lack of alternatives. Checking out the water pipes, part of the former pool’s cleaning and heating systems, running along the walls every which way, into and out of large tanks of unclear purpose, with wheels to regulate the flow at strategic locations. The ambiance of a submarine, and the crew celebrating the end of a war of attrition.
Justine caught my eyes. “You feel anything” / “No, you?” / “No. Maybe it’s bad” / “lets give it a bit more time”. I looked around. It was really quite beautiful. Whoever did the lights in here did an excellent job. That is a brilliant red. Look at that deep blue! Did Yves Klein do the lighting in here? This music is starting to grow on me. Wow.
Wow. Wow. Wow…. Wow!
I was high, no doubt. Waves of love and enjoyment came rolling over me. Goosebumps. Rhythm. Bodies. Warmth. Look at that guy, he moves so smooth, so naturally. Look at that girl, how lost she is in enjoyment. I hope all her dreams become true.
I danced for about two hours. I heard details in the music I would have never noticed before, and I heard how they reflected off the walls. I’d catch someone’s eye and they would smile, put a hand in the small of my back, the other on my arm, and just say “It’s good isn’t it?” / “Wow”.
Sight, sound, Justine, and touch—everything was better than before. Just for a few moments, two bodies may synchronise. Mine and Nathan. Justine and Yael. Yael and me. Nathan and a stranger. I’d put a hand flat on their belly, and they’d be electrified from this simplest of contacts, while my hand became a conduit of the animalistic warmth produced by their bodies.
Through the crowd, I caught a glimpse of Justine and Nathan leaving for the bar in the next room. Remembering what I’d been told about the importance of staying hydrated, I followed along and we each got two large glasses of water. The first we gulped immediately, only then noticing our thirst. The second was enjoyed more than a glass of water usually is, especially after Yael charmed the barkeeper to give us some ice. Justine was there now as well, and when Yael suggested to finish off what was left of the MDMA, we once again made our way towards the toilets.
With the door locked behind us, the music was distant, and for the first time, we could talk without screaming, listen without straining. We had chosen the toilet stall at the far left. Because the room itself was shaped irregularly, it was much larger than usual, about as long and wide as a car. Making the best of it, or possibly just looking for free space, the club’s owner had at some point put an old couch along one of the walls, which my legs suddenly appreciated strongly.
“Wow” we all said, except Yael who had known what awaited her. I took a deep breath, smiled at Justine, both of us shaking our heads in disbelief. Some more powder was consumed, this time presented on a phone, with a rolled-up bill to spare us from having to eat it again. Nathan and I sat sideways on the couch, opposite each other with an elbow each on the backrest. Talking slowly became easier again, with the old drugs receding and new dose not yet having hit. I heard water splashing and, glancing over Nathan’s shoulder, I saw that Yael had dropped her pants and was taking a piss, completely casual, and without missing a beat in her conversation with Justine. The joy I felt at the sight wasn’t sexual. It was the appreciation for the trust she had in us. For an instance I had the impulse to turn away, to hide the fact that I had even noticed, but I had lost all care for hiding anything, and just calmly floated in this sense of friendship we were sharing, right there, right then.
Yael nestled in her purse and got up with a tissue in her hand. After a moment, her hand no longer obscured anything. She was dressed impeccably upwards of the imaginary line running between the two humps where her pelvic bone pressed from under the skin. Between them, a valley of flat white skin. Above, a white dress shirt, adding to that boyish cuteness of hers, but immediately betraying it by ending well above her sex, now entirely visible. Often, even a naked woman retains her modesty. By hair, or lighting, or simple geometry. Here and now, it was as if nature did not mind because we didn’t.
“I’ve never seen a woman as closely at this”, Justine said, interrupting this moment which had in reality not lasted more than a second or two. Nobody expressed surprise, or embarrassment, least of all Yael, who held still for a second, abandoned the pants that she had just begun to pull up again, and leaned back, against the wall. One hand flushed the toilet, the other was on her lower abdomen, on the smooth, hairless skin about 2cm above her genitals. She pulled at the skin and tilted her head, so as to get a look herself.
“I guess I never really see it either… As long as it works, though.” She moved two fingers, one on each side of these four folds of skin. With slight pressure, they moved, separating minimally. Not making it obscene, just clearly defining the outlines of her anatomy. Then, one finger of her other hand pressed three fourth of the arrangement to one side, the thumb held one fourth in place. “These outer libs are a bit short, that’s why the inner ones show”. Justine bend down, her face only half a meter from Yale’s crotch. With her next question, all my pretentious notions of “nothing sexual, all trust” went out the window: “Can I lick it?”
I think Justine was halfway on the route to feeling embarrassed by her forward question, but Yael had already replied, “Please, be my guest”. Justine tentatively put a hand on Yael’s left thigh and got even closer. With one finger of her other hand, she traced downwards from the belly button, hesitated for an instant, then continued along the ridge between Yael’s labia. She lingered where they disappeared between the legs, and Yael ever so slightly slid outwards with one foot, giving her complete access.
Nathan had turned around on the couch as the scene unfolded. He was leaning against my side and I had placed my arm around him. I couldn’t see his face but I can only assume he was transfixed on what was happening as much as I was. I could feel he was taking shallow breasts, or at least I imagined as much, fearful of disturbing that reality we were witnessing.
I doubt there was much danger of that. Justine was now spreading Yael’s pussy only centimetres from her face. “There’s your clitoris” she commented matter-of-factly while touching the spot. A sharp inhale was the response, providing confirmation if anybody had been doubting Justine’s knowledge of female anatomy. Yael’s eyes seemed to roll to the back of her head. Encouraged by her quick success, Justine continued with slightly more forceful touches, and quickly found the courage to stick out her tongue. I think the tip first made contact with her own fingers, then followed them home, but her head was now in the way of me observing such details.
(to be continued…).
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Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/8boheg/stattbad_group