Porn Lovers Unite

I've been in a dither about the upcoming US elections, so I almost forgot to write about last week's high (or low, depending on how you look at it) point, the opening night party of the Berlin Porn Festival. I've been quite a shut-in lately, so after a bout of hand-wringing over whether I should venture out on a butt-clenchingly cold Berlin Wednesday night, I finally assented to my friends' pestering. We'd be skipping the actual film and heading straight for the after party, in an old Supermarkt on Adalbertstrasse.

After a couple of the requisite Jager shots as buffer against the bracing cold, we lit out. I suggested walking instead of biking, as the idea of straddling a cold machine didn't appeal to me. We arrived at about 12:30, to two handsome appointed guards standing sentry at the door, paid the Eintritt, wove our way through a concrete maze to the Hinterhof, swung open a massive door and entered a long white tiled room, which was somewhere between clinical and high-school cafeteria-ish, but inventively appropriated. The atmosphere was warm, friendly and decidedly non-sexual. And -- shock! -- most, save for a few preening bikini-clad boyz, were fully clothed. Past the garderobe to the left was a small stage, dancefloor and dj decks. To the right lay a large bed with PVC sheets (no guessing their raison d'etre) on which several punters sat and chatted. At the end of the hall was the bar and beyond that a changing room for the evening's entertainment.

The performance artist took the stage at around 1, opening the fest with a would-be bang. It was Leonard, a male-to-female trans, essaying a travesty of male sexuality by coming out in one of those gas station attendant boiler suits, humping a chair, chugging along to some kind of Dick Dale surfer ditty and licking her chops like some testosterone-fuelled mongrel. S/he then pulled out a huge bratwurst from the folds of his crotch, bit a chunk off the top, spat it out, chucking the remains, which struck my friend Mary dead in the hair. Talking away, she swatted at the fleshy missile distractedly when I pointed it out.

The prole boiler suit was soon doffed to reveal a, to be charitable, less than conventionally attractive hairy leather-daddy physique. I said to Mary, "Looks like he bore some children when he was a girl." The black pvc hotpants anchored with a nude rubber dildo were a surreal touch, but what else is a poor dude with a snatch to do? Well, maybe, maybe he would grab a strategically placed bottle of motor oil for a simulated, face-contorting wank! And then splosh the goo all over his hairy chest, undulating wildly to the tinny wah-wah surfer music! And then, he might turn, back to the audience, for the piece de resistance, hinted at by a metal protuberance dangling behind, or rather in front of, fleshy untoned buttocks!

The audience now rent with suspense, he might, as motor oil dripped from chest and orifice, yank the chain with a flourish, a good half a meter's length of industrial strength chain appearing from his nether regions! In spite of the blank looks on the jaded faces of seen-it-all Berliners, the "Paparazzi", in formation at stagefront would burst into action at the last splash of motor oil, and metaphorical yanking of the chain. Leonard would beam triumphantly, breaking character and taking to the mic. A surprisingly mild-mannered, unprepossessing voice would issue from this most self-created and manly of men. People would be charmed by the real, complicated Leonard, in spite of the shortcomings displayed by his cartoonish pisstake of modern masculinity.

"I just flew in from London about an hour ago, went straight to my hotel and prepped myself for the show. I tell ya, nothing cures jetlag like shoving two feet of chain up yer pussy." I'll remember that, I thought, feeling suddenly as if I was at a genderfucked Catskills resort. The crowd was loudly gabbing, in spite of their jadedness, worked up to a degree by the whole display. Or maybe they were just ready to dance.

"Can you keep it down while I make a few announcements?" Leonard asked politely, to no avail.

"Hey, I know I'm not Buck Angel," he brayed, name-checking his more-famous man-with-a-snatch porn star sis/brethren. "But how many men here tonight are you going to see pull a chain out of their vagina?" (Way to leverage some power there, Leonard!) Frankly, I hope it's the last one I see for a looong time. I mean, props to Leonard for his self-awareness; underneath the rough, masculine exterior he does seem a gentle soul, the kind of guy you could take home to Mom. A life as, I'll say it again, a man with a pussy, can only mean trading in contradictions. Here's hoping he's not just a one-trick pony.