“What’s that?” I ask, pointing at what can only be described as a playground roundabout for sex people. “We use it in different ways,” muses Hanny. “When a friend of ours had his birthday, someone was on it naked and we put a candle on their bum.” Hanny’s laughing now, but I don’t reckon she was at the time. When the candle first came out (and subsequently went in), I think it was probably quite a serious affair. This is STÜCK, a “human connection HQ” thought up by Hanny Amin and Karl Verboten of Klub Verboten, the “cummunity [sic] of caring perverts” (a kink night). While Klub Verboten has spent the best part of ten years taking their fluid-heavy nights from club to club, STÜCK marks their first permanent home. STÜCK is a co-working space. Let’s say that one more time for the people at the back: STÜCK, brought to you by Klub Verboten, is for work. You can, in principle, fuck there, but it’s also a softer, soberer version of what they do after hours. Unsurprisingly, STÜCK resides in Dalston. Surprisingly, the umlaut isn’t just a style choice. Many “boutique” co-working spaces have been popping up around London of late. Apparently it’s no longer enough to leech WiFi off a morally questionable barista (see: the FUCKOFFEE incident). Now we need places like FORA in King’s Cross, where you can perch in what’s essentially a treehouse for adults. Or, in the case of STÜCK, somewhere with a sex room attached. You know, in case you need something put up your arse between calls.STÜCK is many things, depending on who you ask or what bit of promotional literature you happen to be reading. Sometimes it’s an “embassy for softness.” At others, it’s that sweet spot “between yoga and Berghain.” Sometimes it’s easier to approach it via a question: “Why go hard for 8h if we can go soft daily?” I don’t have an answer to that. Neither, I suspect, do they. For now, let’s just call it a “third space.” It’ll set you back £45 a month, which is cheap as chips compared to other private members’ clubs. Then again, you’re not at risk of sitting on old cum at Soho House. Actually, you probably are. Either way, the STÜCK crew let me come down for free.IMAGE COURTESY OF STÜCKTHURSDAY THE 18TH OF JUNE, AROUND 8PM.I’m here for what STÜCK has dubbed their “OPEN HAUS”. Not to be confused with their “HAUS PARTY”, OPEN HAUS is a social that functions as a “softer introduction to STÜCK’s world.” So: having a look round before deciding whether to join, basically. I anticipate it will be a room of people making eyes at each other over the lids of their laptops. If anything happens beyond that, I’ll be surprised.Me and my friend Sophia (who I’ve dragged along) take a right off Kingsland High Street. We pass a bustling wine bar. The people outside it have also adopted a particular aesthetic as a substitute for a personality, but ultimately I’d rather be among them. I can align myself with cupro-based outfits and oversized sunglasses, but I’m not sure about “consent-led” fucking in an office that resembles a backrooms version of Tatooine.Security opens the door and begins to direct the man in front of us. “Don’t worry,” he smiles. “I’ve been here many times before.” He’s in his forties and has a small handlebar moustache. It all feels remarkably mundane, like walking into any other kind of establishment. We could be rolling up to a bar in Kent, about to sample an array of botanical gins. Then I am suddenly struck with the thought that I might later see this handlebar moustache dusting the rim of someone’s arsehole. We stroll down the dimly-lit corridor and into the main room, where we’re confronted with nothing of the sort. Two people are deep in conversation in the middle of the conversation pit, but there’s no heavy petting involved. You could just as easily find them at a bus stop. Five people queue for the bar. Three people at the back are sitting in a row, engrossed in the phones. Amongst them all, dotted across the room, are various bits of vaguely erotic furniture. It’s as if you’re starting a video game and have to choose a character. Shall I go for the tattooed woman with a pixie cut, or the older lady with an ear stretcher that she’s clearly fallen out of love with? Decisions, decisions. For now, I’ll get a soda. There is alcohol here, but everyone seems to be on more of a probiotic pop vibe.Image by amber rawlingsIt seems to be important to wear at least one item of clothing that connotes you’re into sex stuff. There is a lot of black. Several pairs of platform boots. One man wearing a cropped leather waistcoat stands with his legs really far apart. If the floors were any more lacquered, he’d slide straight into the splits. It might be a power stance. He might just be more comfortable that way. “Is that a sex thing?” Sophia asks, pointing to what looks like a dentist’s chair from a David Cronenberg film. “Yes,” I reply. “Is that a sex thing?” she asks again, pointing to something else. The answer is always yes. There are indentations on the furniture that suggest you could fit it all together like Lego and create a big fuckfest. “What I find really interesting is that people start figuring out how to use [the furniture] together,” Hanny explains. “It’s a bit like an ice breaker.” I look back at the chair. It’s clearly sexy, but it also looks like a load of cobbled-together, giant wisdom teeth. Someone is pulling at one of the soft silicone bits. Their friend then has a go. Sophia goes to retrieve a “FUCK PACK”. They are small black envelopes, dotted on every conceivable surface of STÜCK. Inside, there’s a condom, some lube and a pamphlet about PrEP. There’s a graphic of a woman sucking a lollipop. She is clearly groovy, and into sex. “I was expecting more than that,” says Sophia.I thought I’d have been approached by now. Perhaps it’s clear that I’m here in a more Louis Theroux sort of capacity. Still, don’t I have a certain allure regardless? I wish I hadn’t worn tights. Everyone clearly just thinks I’m a massive prude. A man seems to be heading in my direction. My stomach drops. He turns and makes for the group congregating by the pole. (There is a pole. For dancing, and to evoke sex? That’s what I would presume, anyway.)“We have this rule at Klub Verboten,” says Hanny. “Do not dating app. It means do not treat this space like you’re in a meat market.” I wonder if anyone is treating STÜCK like anything. Looking around, I just see a lot of people scrolling their phones. “‘Is that a sex thing?’ she asks again, pointing to something else. The answer is always yes”I’m fiddling with the packet of lube when Hanny appears. It’s time for the tour. First, the cloakroom, where a man nervously clutching his tote bag asks if this is where he leaves it. Hanny points vaguely in its direction and moves on. Then it’s the room where the sauna will eventually live. “A sauna just makes sense here,” she explains. “Especially if you’re sober. If you do a cold plunge, it gives you a few seconds where you feel high.” At present, the room contains a man sat alone at a table, surrounded by more FUCK PACKs.Then we go upstairs. When it’s not an OPEN HAUS, it’s members only. You’re not allowed to take pictures up here. It’s much the same as downstairs. People are more horizontal, and there’s definitely some loaded staring going on, but no one is shagging. In the corner, there’s a room with a glass panel that overlooks the stairs. “The first idea was actually to rent it out as a podcast spot,” says Hanny. IMAGE COURTESY OF STÜCKStationed outside the David Blaine-esque glass box, we discuss “play,” which is a euphemism for fucking. I ask if you can play at STÜCK at any time, and if so, where. As it turns out, you can play anytime and anywhere on the second floor. There’s no velvet rope, or designated fucking room. It’s surprising to hear, not least because absolutely no one is right now. Hanny reveals that she’s sober apart from poppers. I respond by saying something along the lines of “wahey” or “love it.” It would be easier to really get amongst all the people not playing if it weren’t so fucking hot. I’m wearing a cashmere jumper. I’d take it off, but I’ve only got a bra underneath. I don’t want to give the wrong impression.The music up here is louder. It’s largely ambient, and the effect is one of dread. If someone were to render this moment cinematically, it’d be via one of those shaky body-cam setups. Like that bit in Get Me to the Greek where Jonah Hill is just thrashing around. I am one Brian Eno track away from losing my shit.A man wearing a beret enters. He’s also wearing a waistcoat. That’s the second of the evening. IMAGE COURTESY OF STÜCK.IMAGE COURTESY OF STÜCK.The music intensifies. I think it’s the score for Blade Runner: 2049. Back downstairs, we decide to approach a man and woman fiddling with one of the pieces of apparatus. The man is wearing a dowdy green jumper. It’s offset by some tight leather trousers, creating a sort of BDSM Ned Flanders effect. “You’ve half gone for it,” I joke. “The top is in my bag just in case,” he responds.When I ask them if they’re a couple, they bristle. Sophia steps in: “We’re all just humans here.” They smile awkwardly. I’m not sure if they think I’m a small-minded twat, or they want a foursome. Either way, we make our excuses. I’m just about done with the place. Sophia, on the other hand, appears to be suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, making a beeline for a guy sitting by himself.I clock the man from the sauna room again. He’s distributing more FUCK PACKs, though there are already plenty, unopened, scattered over all of the tables. One final sweep upstairs. Four people are spinning on the roundabout. Nearby, a man has emptied the contents of his bag and is going through it item by item for his mates. Among the debris, there are a few FUCK PACKs.MONDAY THE 22ND OF JUNE, 2PM.When I return on Monday, part of me is hoping STÜCK will have descended into horny anarchy. “Do I need to sign in?” I ask. They shake their head. It’s probably too rowdy for admin. God, I can’t wait. There are three people sitting with laptops on the most conservative bits of furniture. It feels derivative to say “style over substance,” but the conversation pit is noticeably vacant. No one’s doing a business call next to the latex shower curtain. Where is all the play? What about a little bit of stroking, for God’s sake? I ask Hanny if it’d be a problem if one of their members just wanted to do their emails. “That should be fine,” she responds. I guess it has to be. That’s all anyone is doing. “Porcelain” by Moby plays. The man next to me is on the phone canceling a contact lens subscription. Shortly afterwards, he leaves. The person behind the bar duly fills up his reusable water bottle. “This will keep me going until I get back to mine,” he laughs. The person behind the bar doesn’t really say anything. It’s a very small bottle, so presumably he lives in Dalston. That makes sense. I’d wager every STÜCK member lives in Dalston. An acoustic, “chilled” rendition of “No Diggity” plays. Luckily, Hanny appears to do the interview. I ask her to look ahead. What’s next? What’s after the sauna? “We’d love to fix the lift,” she says. I glance over at it. It’s probably the only thing in STÜCK that they haven’t managed to make Dune-esque. It’s still just a lift.Follow Amber on Instagram @amberawlingsThe post Inside STÜCK: The New London Co-Working Space You Can Have Sex At appeared first on VICE.