Their love grew deeper every day. They were lovers, partners, best friends. The connection they first felt at university had only strengthened over the course of their foreign adventure. Minor betrayals had been forgiven or kept under wraps. Through the strains of everyday life, they had learned to rely on each other. Tom called Anna’s parents without fail once a week; Anna wrote his emails in German for him. They had a joint Volksbank account but separate Netflix profiles, although the algorithm suggested the same shows for both of them. Either of them could choose anything on their joint behalf – be it a dish from a menu or an apartment – without a second thought, confident that the other would like it. They would fight over silly things: random social media storms, a form they were supposed to fill in. Every other Sunday they would clean the apartment while listening to old Eurovision songs. They never doubted they would grow old together. The sex was infrequent and bad.
Or at least that’s what they feared. It might be a Friday night and they would have arrived home freezing cold and high from a housewarming in Wedding. It might be a Sunday morning, too early to get out of bed, but with the summer sun already up and warming the room through the blackout curtain. The possibility would hang in the air – perhaps it had been a week since the last time, or they both glimpsed an opportunity – and a gesture by one of them would awaken that possibility in the other. Without undressing, Anna would press her crotch against Tom’s hip, pinning his wrists down onto the mattress so that he couldn’t touch her with his cold hands. Or Tom would test to see if she was awake by running a hand softly, almost imperceptibly, down her back, and then slipping it under the elastic of her knickers. A back would arch, a neck would roll to one side.
Tom would first use his fingers, then go down on her until she came, which happened just often enough to constitute being often enough. Sometimes he would use the lightest possible touch, deliberately slowing down when he could see her cheeks start to flush. Sometimes he would run the tip of his tongue over and around her clitoris before sliding one finger inside her, then another. Sometimes she would ask him to take her from behind but to stay absolutely still, just kissing her neck while she slowly gyrated her hips and touched herself from the front with her eyes closed. They might be on the yoga mat. They might be in the shower. Anna would come first, or, less commonly, give up trying, which he would take as permission to let go and come within seconds, in a condom, on the bedsheets or in the pool of water that collected around the drain.
That routine was perfected fairly early on in their relationship, and had always satisfied them. If ever one of them wasn’t in the mood, the other would understand without getting offended or feeling rejected. On the other hand, if one of them got horny during the working day, the other would play along and let themselves be dragged onto the sofa, or tease them for a while, pretending to be very absorbed in their working. The whole thing could take five minutes or half an hour. Afterwards, one of them would sit on the other’s lap, their skin covered in goosebumps. Or they would both get straight out of bed to make breakfast in the nude, the smell of sex still clinging to their bodies. Or they would cuddle in the dark feeling sleep approach and listening in silence to the other’s breathing. And for a moment they would feel happy, close.
The moment would pass. A thought would worm its way into that bliss: that was the same sex they’d had last week, two months ago, three years ago. Looking at it objectively, it probably was on the short side. And unimaginative, perhaps? Anal sex didn’t do it for either of them. Anna had been curious about rimming but Tom was too self-conscious. He wasn’t crazy about blowjobs, but he did like to be choked just before coming, which Anna found a bit scary. They would climax once and then call it a day, lie in each other’s arms and silently wonder: Shouldn’t they fuck more often, come harder? What were they missing out on by dismissing toys and sex clubs and BDSM? Had they ruled out polyamory because it wasn’t for them, or because they were priggish and scared?
The world around them offered such an exciting image of how their sex life could be. Social media accounts dedicated to sex positivity endorsed rings and plugs, bullets and vibrators, and silicone strap-ons of all shapes and sizes in shiny chrome or pastel colours. Their friends would either talk about the emotional arbitration involved in poly relationships or scroll through their joint Tinder, checking out potential candidates for a threesome that weekend. The ads that would appear between the paragraphs of the online lifestyle articles they read would be for colourful marble-effect dildos shaped like tigers and dragons. At the clubs they went to, women with shocking pink or bright green hair and dressed in skimpy strips of nylon fishnet would proffer their boots for worship to strangers wrapped in latex and patent leather; there would be couples and threesomes cosied up on sofas, exchanging propositions and clear plastic baggies before disappearing off towards the darkrooms or VIP tables. The mood would be playful, euphoric, full of intrigue; they were all so uninhibited and gorgeous, or that was what it looked like. They also seemed to be having a lot more fun than Anna and Tom.
And when the moment passed they would still be thinking about that fun, as they lay wrapped up in their cosy bathrobes or nestled under the herringbone blanket, breathing in each other’s smell. They couldn’t put their finger on exactly what it was they craved, but they knew it was very different to what they had. An entire erotic world lay just out of reach, closed off to them – so closed off that they couldn’t even say what it was that they were missing. They were happy with their sex life, and when they talked about it they said as much, and believed it. In a way, this was what was so suspicious. They worried they were content merely being contented.
They knew any dissatisfaction they felt wasn’t owing to how long they’d been together, or to their relative lack of sexual experience when they met. Polyamory wasn’t for them – and not only because their friends’ exploits made it seem like a bureaucratic and ultimately humiliating arrangement, but because they were good together. They understood each other, liked each other, and if ever they did let each other down, it was usually over something minor and foreseeable. They felt rather pathetic being so comfortable with long-term monogamy, but the truth was they were rarely attracted to other people, and even then it was always fleeting. They would point those people out to each other in bars or at parties, but it never went further than spinning fantasies they’d later play out in bed. They wouldn’t have wanted to experiment with anyone else: they could never have felt the same level of trust, the same openness to play. And they were reassured by this fact, but at the same time disheartened by it.
Every once in a while, they would buy a toy. One of them would read a piece by a New York journalist about how she’d taught her boyfriend to use a double strap-on, and then send the affiliate link to the other over Slack. Or they would be seduced by a professional quality video made by some influencer demonstrating a clitoral stimulator on a citrus fruit. On their walks they would find themselves drawn to the refined minimalism of new sex shops, such a far cry from the flashy, lurid feel to the ones back home. Of course they would go in, attracted like moths to a flame by the neon lights glowing between those white plasterboard walls. They would wander around the displays, hyperaware of the sales assistant’s presence, playing at being the kind of couple who knew enough about vibrators to compare them. They would loiter for a few minutes, relishing that image of themselves even if it didn’t really suit them. Then, more than anything to curb the feeling that they were imposters, they would buy something: a travel rabbit or a cock ring or some sustainably-produced lube made with CBD oil.
They used those purchases rarely, and never for long enough for their awkwardness to relax into spontaneity. Once they had removed it from its packaging, charged and washed it, they would leave their new toy in plain sight on the bedside table, where they would eye it uneasily for a couple of days until the next time one of them reached over for a condom and thought: why not? They weren’t embarrassed – together they laughed at their inexperience, guided each other – but their awkwardness prevented them from really enjoying those toys: the harness would be either too loose or so tight their leg went dead; the bullet would get stuck in the silicone and they would have to squeeze it out to reach the button. The buzzing would put them off their stride. And the constant questioning – were they using it correctly, was it all going as it was supposed to – far from opening up new possibilities, dampened their pleasure. The stimulation made Anna come quickly, but in truth she preferred Tom going down on her, because she thought that was what Tom preferred. Tom was into the idea of a plug, but whenever they tried it, it hurt too much. After showering, they would clean their new purchase with a special disinfectant to be used a few more times, at ever longer intervals, until finally they would put it away in the tin on Anna’s side of the bed with all the other toys that radiated waves of dissatisfaction over their bed.
Every so often those waves would propel them towards a sex club. It was never planned. They might be in a taxi heading home from a party that had ended too early, and as they waited at the lights on Heinrich-Heine-Straße, their eyes would be caught by a gate with a queue stretching all the way around the block. Or they might have a few drinks over dinner and get turned on by a scene in a film, or by the conversation, or just because, and it would be a Friday or Saturday and they’d say to themselves: Why not? It didn’t happen often.
And so they would find themselves in line, surrounded by tattooed and half-naked bodies in the freezing cold: people in skin-tight latex tube dresses, fishnet tops, plugs, studs, leather chokers, fluorescent wigs, leotards, high heels, garters. Next to them, Anna and Tom would feel very plain, but also turned on. Once again, they would promise themselves they would go out and buy something suitable for the dress code. But they never had any trouble getting past the door, because they were a couple and looked sufficiently cool and weren’t too high and could mutter something in passable German. Once inside that throbbing semi-darkness, they would immediately head for the bar, then dance together in stilted, jerking moves until they felt drunk and brave enough to move over to the poolside sofas or the mezzanine floor where people would lounge around smoking. From there they would look around.
Eventually a single guy or couple would approach the pair of them, or a woman might give Anna the eye. All the women had dilated pupils and all the men had hair matted with wax and sweat. They would chat in English, say a little about themselves, how long they’d been in Berlin, whether they were a couple, open or closed, straight or bi. Anna and Tom always said bi, even though he had never been with a man and she only once with a woman, with Tom also there: they’d sent her home, apologizing, straight after, and Anna never called the number she found in her pocket the next morning.
The propositions would inevitably come: a word whispered in an ear would become a little suck on an earlobe, or a friendly hand on a shoulder would slide down into a caress. Shins rubbed against shins, fingers interlaced, a pair of knees would part almost imperceptibly. The music would drum in their heads, and through the smoke and strobe lights everyone seemed interesting and mysterious. Anna and Tom would exchange a look. The air would smell of sweat and tobacco, of sugar and disinfectant. Their hearts would be beating both faster and slower.
It was hard to say why they didn’t ever end up doing anything. The urge they felt in those moments was very strong, blinding – whether it was desire or more a desire to desire – but every time, without fail, something stopped them. It could be the middle-aged man who followed them to watch, or the sobbing and moaning of the woman teetering on the edge of a k-hole. Tom could be put off by the sight of a half-limp dick blossoming from a cock ring. For Anna it could be someone going in to kiss her collarbone too roughly; she would recoil from the smell of musk and secretions and a scratchy beard, and feel very far away. Seen on their own, those moments of hesitation in the chill-out area or darkroom were perfectly legitimate, but together they represented something more: a vague sense of shame that they couldn’t put their finger on but that was always lurking, ready to make itself felt. They would return to the dancefloor with the excuse of needing a drink, or sometimes without any excuse at all.
Despite almost crossing the threshold several times, in the end they always found themselves back in line for the coat room. They would be tired and smelly, but their unease would fade the second they stepped out into the cool night air. If a taxi passed they might hail it. Otherwise they would walk home in the grey light of dawn, hands clasped, exhilarated, unified. And also, in truth, relieved to have spared themselves the STD tests, glad they hadn’t accepted those water bottles, baggies and vials. Once in bed, their excitement would soften into tenderness. They would spoon under the covers, let their breathing fall in sync and tell themselves that no sex party could ever be a match for the intimacy and gratification of that closeness.
In the morning that thought would seem pathetic.
This is an extract from Perfection by Vincenzo Latronico, translated by Sophie Hughes. Perfection will be published in February 2025 by Fitzcarraldo Editions.
Image © McGill Library
