Well, seeing as I’m stranded in the airport awaiting my flight to Barcelona – which is nearly 6 hours behind schedule and ruined our plans of cocktails and a romantic beachside stroll, as we won’t arrive until 4 in the f@&king morning, not that I’m bitter – I thought it high time that I finally sent off a missive about our time in Berlin.
It appears my earlier assertion on facebook, as to what happens in Berlin will probably end up on a porn site, was rather prophetic. No, not me, of course, the weekend wasn’t that crazy – that honour belongs to the time I managed a grand total of 3 hours sleep for an entire weekend and while had marvellous fun at the time, my body certainly let me know in no uncertain terms, for a bout a week afterwards, that I’d crossed a line. Rather, it turned out that there was an adult movie being filmed in the club that one of the official after parties was being held in. Ah, you gotta love the anything goes attitude of the city.
The weekend started off with a delayed flight – I’m sensing a theme – although it was only by an hour. Actually come to think of it, our Eurostar to London was also delayed, so that’s every birthday event with transport trouble…why must the gods toy with me so???
Anyway, despite our slightly tardy arrival, we still had a splendid time on the Friday night, at the Revolver party, which was packed with all sorts of handsome, mischievous lads. It was held in one of my favourite venues, the KitKat Club – a most wonderful rabbit warren of a place, with many a dimly lit corner available for those wanting to become better acquainted with one another. Not to mention a handy pool to wash away your sins when you’re done.
It may come as something of a surprise to my long-time readers but I don’t actually spend all of my time in dark, dingy, dens of debauchery whilst visiting Berlin. Granted, they are definitely a main part of the reason I go there, but occasionally a boy needs a break. To that end what better place to enjoy a spot of wholesome fun than at GMF?
Held at Café Moskau, in the Avenue Club near Alexanderplatz, it’s the place to be on a Sunday night. I’ve attended this wonderful recovery party more than a few times over the past few years – most recently over the Easter weekend – and the place is always packed to bursting with an abundance of Adonises in attendance. Admittedly, I did much prefer the previous venue – Weekend – which was located in a nearby office building with sweeping views out over the city…and a marvellous rooftop terrace when the weather permitted. That being said, the change of location hasn’t seemed to affect either the hotness of the boys or the quality of the music.
I dare say that it shan’t come as a surprise to most of you that I am rather devout – well when it comes to certain types of worship at any rate – and what better place to celebrate this most marvellous time of the Zombie Jesus than Berlin? Plus all the dancing I plan to do will undoubtedly help burn off all the chocolate I’m bound to consume.
You may remember that I marked the occasion of Our Lord and Saviour’s rebirth as a brain-hungry deity last year by trooping off to Brussels for the La Demence weekend of debauchery. Ah so many gymbunnies doing their very best to spread the message of love and peace by fornicating like…well like rabbits really.
This year, however, the weekend will be slightly less scandalous as we are in Berlin with my mother-in-law. Not to say that I won’t be partaking in all the lovely licentiousness that I can, but I shall be expected to set aside time for some more family friendly sightseeing…rather than the usual things one can bear witness to in this delightfully dirty city.
Love is in the air…and the water too apparently with a ridiculous amount of weddings, engagements and pregnancies in recent months. In my family alone there have been two weddings, two further engagements and the news of happy additions to soon join our ever-growing clan. Not one, not two, but three of my sisters are expecting little bundles of joy before the end of the year – apparently we come from rather fertile stock.
I seem to be of the age now where there is a minimum of two wedding attendances a year, which is wonderful and leaves one feeling very grown up. Although our lovely friend Ella took the cake this year – and was forced to eat a lot of it – by being summoned to no less than five of them.
Berlin is one of those mythic cities whose grand reputations precede them, keeping good company with the likes of London, New York and Paris. I’m ever so happy to report that it was everything I had been warned about. A delightfully harsh mistress, I am somewhat enamoured – or enlusted – with this charming city and all the decadence and debauchery that it contains Truly a place where one can be oneself without fear of shame and recriminations, unless that’s what you’re into of course, all the while giving a brand new interpretation to East meets West.
Don’t get me wrong, there are more than enough cultural pursuits on offer to balance out the less seemly ones. Not to mention exploring the difference of the formerly separated city halves. The first thing that I saw when crossing over to the east was a Starbucks, nothing says forward momentum quite like American capitalism. In general, the east seeming to be funkier and more progressive, although I tend to think that it is all meshing rather nicely.
I’m proud to say that I recently attended my first HustlaBall weekend in Berlin and lived to tell the tale. Of course there were many highlights and much partying over the festive period but I shall limit today’s missive to the action of the actual HustlaBall itself – well I’ve got to leave a little something to the imagination after all.
Granted the thought of a delightfully debauched and thoroughly dirty dance party in Berlin isn’t a particularly novel concept but I had been told that this one was definitely one not to miss. All the barely clothed, strapping specimens of manhood everywhere one looked and sheer brazenness of it all reminded me of the grand old days of the Sleaze Ball, back when Sydney still knew how to party. There was even a fire-breathing dragon from memory but that could have been a hallucination although in Berlin one can never be too sure.
Well it’s been a rather long and arduous week and I’ve begun to fear that perhaps I’m not quite as adept as recovering as I once was. Granted trying to party like a teenager when one has passed one’s first youth is perhaps not the wisest course of action. In my defence I think last weekend’s effort in Berlin – 5 parties/3 days/8 hours sleep between Friday and Monday – would have finished off many a lesser man.
There may be those among you who feel I may deserve all this week has offered up – tiredness, mood swings, inability to string two sentences together and feeling like I’m going to keel over after climbing a single flight of stairs – and you would receive my full support. There is a reason I moved to gay Paris – apart from the love of a good man – and that was to escape the temptation to relive my glory days in Sydney. A time when sleep was something to be worried about later and the weekend could range anywhere from Wednesday to Tuesday.