Trash Porn

Trash Porn by Ida J
Trash Porn by Ida J

Trash Porn

Break-ups suck. Ida J discovers the cure all at a Berlin swingers’ club, where a night of debauchery numbs her pain.

My best friend has always said, “the most out of control nights happen on a Sunday.” And guess what? She’s right.

Returning from a solid week of partying in Berlin (on which more another time), I’m finally settled on my intention to end things with Selina. It’s long overdue. It’s been a wild one, everything, recently. My left knee is bandaged from an injury sustained during an ill-advised run in the Tempelhofer feld. The left side of my brain, actually, my entire mind is fried. I’m a right state, battered and bruised and relationship-miserable. After days of being a right bitch, ignoring Selina’s texts and whining to my Berlin best mate Alexander about the situation, I’ve finally made up my mind: I can’t continue seeing Selina.

She and Damian and I are in the midst of a whirlwind romance, one which is becoming a right pain in the arse to navigate. None of us are capable of communicating properly; we’re all too drunk and immature and narcissistic and insecure. I mean, it sounds harsh because we’re all actually nice, but none of us are properly equipped to deal with the intensity of a three-way relationship.

Selina is very, very pretty; almost (but not quite) enough to compensate for how goddamn passive aggressive she is. Undercut, porcelain skin, waist-hip ratio that would make Barbie sick to her shrunken stomach with jealousy. Big, voluptuous, velvet white ass, dark doe eyes (resentfully avoiding eye contact), cupid lips (pursed). The sex was great, but we haven’t had any in weeks. I had just got out of a long relationship with an absolute wanker who was in a bad mood all the time (and never want to have sex with me), I’m in no hurry to repeat the experience. And yet, I seem to be doing exactly that – I needed to get out, post-haste.

I can’t tell Damian what I’m about to do. It wouldn’t be fair to involve him in a decision that’s mine alone. Although, he might’ve known, he’s spent the last week bitching to me via text about how sulky she’s been. To be honest, I can’t believe he’s still bothering – he’s got plenty of women on the go, including another girlfriend in Berlin. She’s a friend of a friend of his, I wouldn’t be surprised if that had something to do with it. Who knows? Ultimately, not my problem.

I go to meet her in the bar that, coincidentally, also staged the beginning of the end of my previous relationship. It isn’t a very good bar, cheap posing as fancy in that plastic way. It’s the perfect place to jettison someone, neither of us will have any fond memories of this place afterwards. Awkwardly, I tell her I don’t want to have this type of relationship anymore. She never looks me in the eye, the whole time her gaze shifts from side to floor to just over my shoulder. She storms out, leaving me on my own, uncomfortably, very obviously the person who just broke unwelcome news. I feel conspicuous as I pay for the tea we didn’t drink.

After the fateful conversation, Damian and I arrange to meet for a drink in a much better bar up the road. In the interim, he finds out what just transpired, of course.

“I hear you unceremoniously dumped her.” You don’t say. “Do you at least feel bad?” Well of course I fucking do, I feel terrible. She’s leaving our collective WhatsApp groups and blocking me everywhere as we speak. I feel like shit. I couldn’t give her what she wanted, what she needed. I feel horrible about our colossal communication catastrophe! That doesn’t mean it wasn’t the correct course of action. I’m exhausted and all I want right now is wine. Damian seems a little discombobulated at the situation, but he doesn’t seem too upset. Actually, he’s being very sweet, sympathetic and commiserative. What surprises me is that he never saw it coming, despite our recent conversations. “I had no idea,” he literally says. I guess lots of people stay in unfruitful partnerships, but she’s only been a fling for a few months, not a wife of many years.

Fortunately, the wine is imminent. It’s four or five in the afternoon and the bar’s a bit dead, but a few people are already capping off their weekends with an afternoon beverage. Another friend meets us. We arrange to meet more friends at the bar our friend owns, a couple of kilometres away. There, we have a bit of a postmortem of our cute three-way romance that once looked so promising.

Five drinks in, Damian and I are reckless and uninhibited, nihilated by the breakup energy. It’s decided – we should do a small debauch. We agree upon the scummy sex club only a few streets away. We tell our friends it’s couple time (ha!)

On the walk over, I tell Damian what I got up to in Berlin. “As long as you don’t catch us something nasty,” he says. “Watch it!” I retort. I’m in no mood to be chastened.

This grimy sex club we’re about to explore is a weird fucking place. On a corner, with painted over plate glass windows, its name in a dodgy old typeface with a garish logo, it is conspicuously …

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