The first time I saw her, I knew straight away that she was one of those women who transformed a room, as if the world had adjusted to her every movement for a moment. Men turned their heads to look at her, whilst women watched her with a mixture of admiration and suspicion.
Back then, we were sitting in a bar that was far too dark, somewhere in Mitte, drinking overpriced wine and talking about all the things women talk about at night when they suddenly feel as though they can be honest. About longing. About money. About men. About power.
She took a sip of wine and said, almost as an afterthought:
‘Once you do that, you’ll be a whore for life.’
I should have been shocked.
Instead, I had to laugh.
Because something inside me felt caught out.
Not offended.
Not seduced.
More like recognised.
“Wonderful,” I replied back then, raising my glass. “Finally, something I can do professionally.”
She laughed so loudly that the barman turned round to look at us.
And perhaps that’s exactly where it all began.
Waiting for the first date
Or perhaps it had begun much earlier. In all those moments before, when I’d learnt just how powerful a glance can be. How people suddenly change their tone of voice when they desire you. How attention is addictive. How wonderful it feels to be admired, as if you were no longer a human being, but a precious secret.
As if you’d suddenly realised that beauty is a currency.
I imagined it all to be glamorous. Champagne in hotel suites. Perfume on strangers’ shirt collars. Nights full of golden lights and expensive sins.
At first, the reality was much quieter.
The clients were slow to come.
And I still remember how absurdly hurt I felt. Not even because of the money. But because of my pride. Because I’d believed that the world would see me as soon as I’d decided to step into the spotlight.
But instead, I sat on my bed at night with freshly painted nails, scrolling through my mobile and waiting.
And waiting.
Until, finally, this message arrived.
A dinner.
Borchardt.
À trois.
À trois
I’d been nervous all day. So nervous that I changed my outfit three times before I finally found the perfect one.
As I was getting ready, my favourite perfume was lying on the dressing table. A gift. Rich, sensual, warm. The scent of cherry, wood and something dark beneath it. Something wicked.
I sprayed it on my wrists and watched myself in the mirror.
And suddenly I felt her.
The whore inside me.
Not vulgar.
More like a second version of myself, one who had always lived beneath my skin. Playful. Hungry. Proud. A woman who knew that a glance can mean power.
When I walked into the restaurant, the others were already there.
‘You look as if you’re going to break hearts today.’
‘I hope it’s bank accounts instead,’ I replied.
We laughed far too loudly.
At the Borchardt, everything was golden. The light, the reflections in the glasses, people’s skin after the third glass of wine. Voices everywhere, laughter, the clink of cutlery. Berlin was once again playing its favourite role: decadent and bored at the same time.
Our host was elegant. Charming. One of those men who have learnt to look at women attentively. Not hurriedly. But slowly.
He kissed our hands in greeting.
And I remember how my heart was racing.
Not out of fear.
Out of joy.
Because suddenly everything became real.
We drank far too expensive wine. Our glasses were refilled time and again. The conversation grew softer, slower, more dangerous. We ordered oysters, fillet of beef and pasta with truffles, even more wine, then every single dessert on the menu, simply because we could.
Melted chocolate glistened on the porcelain, laughter vibrated between the glasses, and in the middle of a sentence he suddenly lost his train of thought.
I loved that moment.
That realisation of what we were causing.
At some point, we leaned over each other, laughing; fabric slipped, skin flashed into view – a little scandal by candlelight – and suddenly I felt the eyes of the whole restaurant on us.
The conversations at the neighbouring tables grew quieter.
People stared.
Men lusted after us.
Women resented us a little for it.
And us?
We savoured every single second of it.
We were loud, beautiful, drunk and utterly uninhibited in our joy. Women who looked as though the night belonged to them.
Perhaps it really did belong to us.
Because at some point, time, wine and music all blurred together until only this one feeling remained: the feeling of being free.
Free from shame.
Free from expectations.
Free enough to reinvent ourselves.
And whilst outside the Berlin night beat coldly against the window panes, I sat there in the golden light of the restaurant, with smudged lipstick and tingling skin, thinking only:
If this is the beginning, then I want to know how far this story will go.
At the hotel at night
We had our room at the Hôtel de Rome.
No sooner had we arrived than we kicked off our shoes, shed our jackets and, finally, cast aside any sense of restraint. The room smelled of perfume, wine and that electric tension that arises when a night has not yet decided just how wild it intends to be.
Whilst outside Berlin had long since sunk into the cold darkness, we ran hot water into the freestanding bath.
Steam fogged up the mirrors.
Golden light glinted off bare skin, off half-empty champagne glasses, off the droplets slowly trickling down our shoulders.
The three of us turned the bathroom into a little chaos of water, laughter and spilled champagne. We splashed each other like boisterous children, except that there was nothing innocent left about us.
At some point, the floor was completely flooded.
We didn’t care.
We lay close together, laughing at nothing and everything at the same time, losing all sense of time. Hands brushed against skin, lips found mouths, and every movement felt like a game between control and complete surrender to the moment.
The hours slipped by, soft and heavy as warm smoke.
Our desire was almost uncontrollable. Yet there was something strange about it — something tender amidst all the excess. As if we weren’t just touching each other, but confirming to one another that we were alive.
Wet skin clung to one another.
The scent of bath foam, wine and heat hung heavily in the air.
And at some point we were simply lying there, exhausted and breathing heavily.
I remember looking up at the ceiling and thinking that some nights don’t feel like reality.
But rather like something you might make up later, because nobody would believe it really happened.
But right there, amongst the water stains on the marble floor and crumpled hotel bathrobes, I suddenly realised:
It had long since ceased to be just about money.
It was about the feeling of leaving boundaries behind. About that dangerous freedom that arises when no one expects you to be well-behaved any more.
And perhaps that was the most seductive thing of all.