In September 2024, an alleged rape took place at Berlin’s KitKat Club. The victim filed a complaint, but the club remained silent until journalists Jessica Ramczik and Nastassja von der Weiden published an article in taz titled “The End of the Party.” Their piece takes a hard look at a scene that prides itself on freedom and a so-called “consent culture.” But how well does that image hold up in practice? In this interview with our colleagues at tipBerlin, Jessica Ramczik discusses the tension between sexual self-determination and patriarchal structures, the role of security and awareness, and why clubs must be more than just spaces for letting loose.
Jessica, Berlin’s club scene likes to present itself as a safe space where people can live out their unconventional desires. What’s your take?
I wouldn’t say there’s one unified “club scene.” Each club ultimately has its own culture, its own audience, and its own rules. Of course, there are associations like the Clubcommission that try to represent shared interests and create a sense of unity. But I think it’s inaccurate to claim that Berlin’s club scene as a whole is either particularly safe or particularly unsafe. What we shouldn’t forget: patriarchy doesn’t stop at the club door.
In recent years, the sex-positivity movement has helped lift taboos around sexuality, and sex-positive parties now take place every weekend in Berlin. How safe are these spaces?
Sex positivity is an important part of the scene, but it also comes with risks. It would be misleading to frame it only as a question of freedom. It’s not surprising that assaults happen in these contexts – and some people even think they’ve been on the rise recently. Many of those we spoke to believe there is no such thing as a completely safe space for women anywhere, and clubs are no exception – especially when factors like alcohol or drugs blur boundaries even further. Since the pandemic, sex-positive parties have experienced a boom. They used to be smaller and more intimate, often within circles where people knew each other and social control played a role. Today, they’ve become more mainstream and commercialized, attracting people who haven’t grown up with the scene’s values. That includes men who don’t internalize the principles of consent and community, but are simply looking to satisfy their own sexual desires. The bigger and more anonymous the parties, the higher the risk of assault.
Many of those we spoke to believe there is no such thing as a completely safe space for women anywhere, and clubs are no exception…
Sex-positive parties originally emerged in the queer community as safe spaces. Does commercialization somehow invite patriarchy back in?
Absolutely. The boundaries are blurring: Where does self-empowerment end and where do patriarchal patterns begin to resurface? We see this across cultures – feminist gains are repeatedly co-opted by patriarchy, whether in fashion or in club culture. Instead of freedom, a new pressure is placed on women, especially young women: Am I sexy enough? Do I fit the body ideal? That runs counter to the spirit of sex- and body-positivity that these parties once embodied in the queer community.
Because people let loose in clubs, they can also be very vulnerable spaces. This can be particularly dangerous for FLINTA* people. Assaults do happen, and lately there’s been a lot of talk about needle spiking. What responsibility do clubs have to prevent assaults and create safer environments?
The key question isn’t whether clubs are “safe” or “unsafe” in absolute terms, but how they handle risks. What security measures are in place? How are boundaries respected? How are survivors supported, and how transparently are incidents addressed? Perfect security doesn’t exist –neither in Berlin nor anywhere else. Clubs depend on their guests, and when guests cross lines, it’s a real problem. At sex-positive parties in particular, there’s a tension: They’re seen as spaces of sexual freedom, but can also reproduce patriarchal dynamics – for example, when men go there alone to satisfy their needs. That raises the question: How safe are these spaces for queer people and for women?
To what extent do elements like lighting, rest areas, or darkrooms play a role?
Architecture certainly matters: For some, a darkroom can be a refuge; for others, it can become a crime scene. But the real issue is perpetrators who exploit opportunities to assault. A darkroom isn’t inherently unsafe, but it does require a sense of responsibility and structures that clearly protect boundaries.
Let’s turn to the KitKat Club. It has recently come under fire for employing right-wing bouncers, admitting alleged sexual abuser Till Lindemann, and failing to address cases of sexual violence. How serious is the security problem there?
I can’t yet say whether the KitKat Club itself has a particular problem or whether this points to a broader structural issue – we’re still too early in our research. What I can say is that there are irregularities at KitKat that raise questions. On top of that, the way the club has denied responsibility in the past is troubling. That includes how survivors are treated afterward, how incidents are – or aren’t –addressed, and which clientele is welcomed. Think of the Till Lindemann case. All of this suggests the need for a closer look.
At sex-positive parties in particular, there’s a tension: They’re seen as spaces of sexual freedom, but can also reproduce patriarchal dynamics.
And that’s exactly what you did with Nastassja von der Weiden. Together, you reported on a rape at the KitKat Club. How did you come across the case?
I’ve often heard from people who go regularly to KitKat or other sex-positive parties about how high the risk of assault can be there. At the end of 2022, I began investigating – looking through forums, social media, and my own community. I came across stories ranging from non-consensual touching to patterns of psychological pressure and dependency. Some people shared their own experiences; others told me what had happened to friends. In one case, a woman was repeatedly pressured to attend parties in order to have sex. But many survivors were reluctant to go public, and there were hardly any reports. It wasn’t until February 2025 that “Theresa” (name changed) reached out to me on Instagram after I posted a call for information.
In your reporting, you describe Theresa’s case in detail. What exactly happened that night?
On September 23, 2024, Theresa went to KitKat with friends. It was a Monday – Electric Monday – when only the main floor and a bar are open. She was drinking, dancing, chatting. On her way to the restroom alone, a man approached her, gave her a compliment, and claimed they’d met before. Theresa wanted to return to her friends, but he offered her water and asked if she wanted to talk. When she agreed, he suddenly pulled her into a semi-dark area. It all happened quickly: he kissed her without asking, lifted her shirt, and grabbed her underwear. Theresa froze, then pushed him away and said, “No, thank you.” She broke down crying in the restroom, then went back to her friends. Together with another woman we’ll call Alisa, she went to security. To their credit, security acted decisively: they identified the man, threw him out, and, with Theresa’s consent, called the police. She then filed a complaint.
Her story shows that sexual violence can happen anywhere. It doesn’t stop at Berlin’s supposedly progressive club culture. It also shows how fragile freedom and safety at sex-positive parties really are. And yet Theresa later returned to the club.
She went back to regain a sense of control and to look for answers. But here’s the point: when someone experiences sexual violence, the burden should not fall entirely on the survivor to go back to the club and seek out staff. It should be the other way around. Even a simple, “We heard what happened, we’re sorry – are you okay?” would mean a lot. Not as an apology, but as a signal that safety is taken seriously. Instead, there’s silence – even after serious incidents. Let’s be honest: if you lose your phone in a club, there are clear ways to get in touch. But if you’re raped, suddenly no one feels responsible?
Is KitKat’s silence an attempt to protect its image, in your opinion?
I do think it’s about image – and that KitKat uses secrecy to maintain its mystique. But whether that’s a smart strategy is questionable. When there’s an alleged rape and no public response, the damage to the image is far worse. I can understand why queer and FLINTA* people might stop going. Over the years, there have been repeated reports and discussions about problematic incidents at KitKat – whether in articles on platforms like Resident Advisor or in Reddit threads. Even if not everything can be verified, once a critical mass of accounts builds up, it’s time to rethink.
What would that look like?
Clubs need to ask themselves: Do we have internal structures to deal with such cases and show transparency? That doesn’t necessarily mean an awareness team in pink vests – but at the very least a clear signal: “We take this seriously, and we’re talking about it.” Continuing to hide behind the club’s dungeon mystique is no longer enough. Since KitKat opened in 1994, the world has changed – and clubs have to change with it. Simply saying, “We offer a place where people can fuck to techno,” is not enough.
KitKat relies heavily on its “consensual culture” – the idea that everyone knows how to behave respectfully. How do you see that?
“Consensual culture” sounds good in theory, but at KitKat I don’t see it as reality. Too much responsibility is placed on guests to defend their own boundaries, while the environment makes that harder – through drug use, through the lack of support structures. The club often frames itself as a kind of “human experiment,” but that experiment has clear limits – especially when it comes to vulnerable groups like women and queers. Consent culture doesn’t just happen on its own, especially in these contexts. It has to be actively protected, and that’s what’s missing.
If you lose your phone in a club, there are clear ways to get in touch. But if you’re raped, suddenly no one feels responsible?
What could clubs like KitKat do to better protect against sexual assault?
Awareness shouldn’t be reduced to control – as in, “We’re watching you, so behave.” What matters is an inner attitude: that people act not out of fear of consequences, but because they understand that consent and mutual enjoyment come first. That also means education – about boundaries, about how to interact with others, and about how substances affect perception and decision-making. Awareness should be a holistic concept, not just a few people in pink vests. As for our research, all the confirmed cases of sexual violence we’ve documented so far come from KitKat. But that doesn’t mean the problem would vanish if the club disappeared. KitKat is simply the biggest club of its kind, and since our reporting started there, people with experiences in that context are the ones coming forward. I wouldn’t say KitKat is the only – or even the central – problem in the scene. But it does show how urgent it is to talk about structures.
- The “taz” text by Jessica Ramczik and Nastassja von der Weiden can be found here.
