Naked on a cheap Berlin bed, the air reeks of sex, booze, and regret—the kind of stink that clings like sweat on a humid afternoon. Just got off the phone with my Thai mate from last year’s Frankfurt bordello days. She’s finally calling it quits, heading back to Pattaya to open that beach shack bar she’s always gone on about. Good on her. Not all of us are doomed to keep circling the drain, though some of us seem to make it a bloody art form.

Through the paper-thin walls, the Japanese sheila next door kicks off again. All sobs and cries, the fuck-me-like-you-hate-me routine. It’s desperate, performative, operatic even. She reminds me of that fling of mine some time ago—the one with big, sad eyes and a fragility that begged to be held but couldn’t be saved. I tried, didn’t I? Stayed just long enough to fool myself into thinking I could fix her. She’d cling to me in the dark, trembling, whimpering. She’d make these soft, pleading noises, as though I was the answer to some unspoken prayer.

And for a moment, I’d believe it. I’d hold her like my arms could shield her from everything—her past, her pain, her mistakes. But every morning, the weight of her sadness would creep back in, heavier than the smell of a burnt snag at a dodgy barbie. And one day, I just couldn’t anymore. I walked out without a word. Not even a bloody note. I’d like to think I was doing her a favour, but honestly, I was saving myself. Cowardice, cruelty, call it what you want. It’s all true. And now, her ghost lingers at the edges of my mind, whispering that I’m a fraud every time I dare to feel strong—not easy to do while her echo is slamming herself against the wall, one hand braced for balance as her client drives into her like a battering ram.

My phone buzzes. It’s the agency. A job. A couple this time. They want me dressed as a schoolgirl. Of course, they do. Fair enough. Except, that last guy tore my schoolgirl outfit to shreds. He paid for it, but I never had the time to replace it. That’s a lie—I’ve had the time, just not the focus. Am I slipping? I stare at the empty glass on the nightstand, contemplating whether it’s time to check my alcohol consumption. Maybe Thai was right—maybe I’ve been spiraling. Maybe it’s time to pull my shit together. Or maybe I’ll keep riding the tornado—it’s what I do best, after all.

The rain starts outside, soft at first, then heavier, hammering against the glass like desperate fists pounding to be let in, adding to the migraine symphony already smashing cymbals in my skull. I’ll need to visit the Jap girl next door. She must have something. I’m stereotyping, sure, but she’s always dressed in something ridiculous: a nurse, a maid, some unplaceable fantasy. Anything to get this gig over with. She’ll probably laugh when I ask. Whatever. Let her laugh. The uniform’s what I need, not her approval.

I sit up and rub my temples. The rain’s a relentless blast beat now, an excruciating rhythm pounding like a metal drummer on a bender—almost sadistic, like some bastard who doesn’t even pretend to care if you’re into it. I glance at the clock. Just enough time to write this down—this little memoir, my pathetic attempt at catharsis. Maybe one day I’ll publish it, let the world see what a disaster looks like up close. Or maybe not. Maybe it’ll just sit here, a relic of a life spent skimming the edge of the abyss.

The Japanese hooker’s sobs taper off, leaving a heavy silence. The kind of silence that presses against your chest, forcing you to notice everything you’ve been trying to ignore. The room’s a mess. Clothes scattered, an empty bottle rolling under the bed, the faint smell of mildew creeping in. It’s the kind of place that makes you wonder if you’re even real anymore. If you’ve become one with the grime.

I drag myself onto my feet and stumble over to the dresser. A drawer stuffed with tangled straps and silicone. My little collection. It’s ridiculous how much you accumulate in this line of work, but none of it feels right for tonight. I pick up a strapon, give it a tentative sniff—because apparently, this is my version of quality control—and laugh bitterly at the absurdity of it all. Tragic, isn’t it? Reduced to sniffing silicone like it’s some cursed wine tasting. This isn’t who I am, is it? Or is it exactly who I’ve become?

My phone buzzes again. The agency’s reminder. Time to move. I splash cold water on my face and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Hollow eyes. A tired mouth. Totally unpresentable. This face will need some work.

“What was I doing this for again?” I mutter to the empty room. I got a degree in architecture, didn’t I? A future that can be bright, promising even. So why am I here, spending my summers in Germany shagging strangers for cash? There was a reason, wasn’t there? Some grand justification I fed myself in the beginning. Was it the pretense? The thrill? The escape? I don’t know anymore.

The rain slows, its pounding fading to a tender patter, stroking the throb in my head into quiet submission. I take a deep breath and head for the door, ready to knock on the Jap girl’s room and borrow what I need to push through another night.

I’ve got just enough time to pop a couple of Alka-Seltzers, clear up just enough to pull on the borrowed costume and my game face. Rip. Plop. Fizz. Watching it dissolve, the bubbles dying off until what’s left is a pale, cloudy residue—familiar, almost filthy in its consistency. Like a preview of later tonight, when the air will taste of sweat and bodies, and the residue will cling like guilt and sticky satisfaction—minus the bubbles, unless the wife is a squirter.

The evening sun is starting to poke through the clouds, bleeding through the thin curtains. It casts the room in an unflattering light, exposing every stain, every crack, every imperfection. There’s no hiding from it, no matter how much you try to cling to the dark. I drain the milky fluid and lie back, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere out there, my Thai friend is packing her bags, getting ready for a new chapter. And here I am, stuck on the same goddamn page.

Okay, Iris, that’s enough bullshit for one day. Existential crises can wait—time to shag some strangers and earn your keep. Maybe I’ll read this someday and have a good old bitter chuckle, but for now, game face on. 

Iris Diaries: Memoir from a Cheap Berlin Bed 

A Lifetime Ago

Naked on a cheap Berlin bed, the air reeks of sex, booze, and regret—the kind of stink that clings like sweat on a humid afternoon. Just got off the phone with my Thai mate from last year’s Frankfurt bordello days. She’s finally calling it quits, heading back to Pattaya to open that beach shack bar she’s always gone on about. Good on her. Not all of us are doomed to keep circling the drain, though some of us seem to make it a bloody art form.



Iris Diaries: Memoir from a Cheap Berlin Bed

A Lifetime Ago

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Iris Diaries: Memoir from a Cheap Berlin Bed

A Lifetime Ago

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Iris Obscura

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It's All Right

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