![]() ![]() But I’m done.Īs I finally step outside, the greeting of midmorning sunlight makes me feel twice as dirty. Hundreds of people remain glued to the dance floor, still going strong. My shirt is lost on the floor somewhere, never to be seen again. I’ve never looked worse in my life, but as the club is devoid of mirrors, I’m the only person who can’t tell. “They brought condoms, right?” I ask the nearby resident dealer. Sexual acts take place in every nook and cranny. Men and women dance completely naked, their pupils so dilated you could push a screaming ten-pound baby out of them. I shake my head and crack a joke about my deceptively shady resting face.īy now, the club has fully descended into its trademark decor of shameless hedonism. At the urinal, a tall, serious Swiss guy with a deadpan voice casually asks if I’m selling ecstasy, explaining he’s been unable to purchase anything because everyone assumes he’s an undercover cop. If they catch you with anything illegal, you have two options: leave and take them with you, or dump ‘em in the bin and slide on through.īut nobody is having trouble scoring. ![]() While I only received a quick pat-down at the entrance, I’ve been told the staff do inspect shoes and socks at random. You’d think people could openly conduct their business dealings in a place like this, but security is actually vaguely strict on illicit substances - hence the curious abundance of full-bowled clubbers. 5 A journalist spent 24 hours in the club to see exactly what goes on behind its exclusive doors ![]()
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