M.

M.‘s trolley case is mercilessly rolling on the cobblestones of Berlin, foamed filled mattresses wet with sweat are lying in rancid basements oppressed by the beats of the music; M., exhausted by too many erections, tries a tour on a fitness bike in a room in Kreuzberg - she has heard it helps when you are coming down hard from speed. The walls of the dark room are sticky, proprietors of art galleries are craving for fresh meat and plastic cocks. M. tells her story and takes over the Berlin nights, she fucks herself dead through the art scene while trying to find artificial nail designers and massage chairs for her next exhibition. M. is the transcript of the empowerment of a body, of the own sexual desire and a cold report about the exploitation in the art business. Its blunt language follows M. from the cynical observer that she was to the power broker she has become.