My sex life can, as a first approximation, be divided into a*MDMA* and p*MDMA*: ante and post 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 center 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 Yael earlier that night, drinking Gin Tonics for Justin’s birthday at her place. When, shortly after midnight, the birthday girl decided to hit the road none of the others from our usual little gang could be motivated to come along. So, at the front door, they turned right, towards the subway and a future of stinging regrets.