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.