What great joy there is in just drinking glass after glass of coke rammed full of ice! You do not need to go drinking beer all the time. What great joy there is in having a heavenly cod & chips in Dionysus on a Wednesday afternoon! Honestly, thinking about this cold icy glass of coke and this gorgeous fish & chips feels with me with more joyful reminiscence than all of my last year’s worth of visits to the Midnight Bell and Cotton Club put together. Tallulah is over for me. Once I started getting involved with the girls, everything was ruined. Never connect. That is the only way to maintain pleasure in this world. As soon as I connected with Florence and crossed over that line, the Midnight Bell was finished for me. As soon as I connected with Jolanda and Melani, the Cotton Club was finished for me. When it becomes personal it is ruined. Transcendency must be anonymous or it will not work. The lenses were smashed as soon as I bought a drink for those three girls. Getting to know them brought me no pleasure whatsoever, whereas lusting after them anonymously from the dark corner had meant so much, had been so life enhancing, and produced so many of those “high moments that persuade us to put off suicide”. As soon as I come out of the corner & get to know the girls, I think that’s it, I might as well end it all now. The catastrophes of love are what persuade us to kill ourselves, to hang ourselves in a Kings College Hospital noose. No one was ever pushed towards suicide by ogling a beautiful huge-breasted stripper from a dark corner with a beer in one’s hand. Those are the high moments that persuade us to put off suicide. Once you try to get involved, the pain and tension and despair and jealousy start again. Love is the death of people, not animal lust.
I have always regretted not taking my chance to get to know Black Bob or Gold Dress in the old Cotton Club days, the Classic period, the Jazz Age, the Golden Age, the Minnie the Moocher, Sneaker Pimps and Shining Road days, but looking back now it has preserved them as perfect memories, like fixed in amber. The last night I saw Gold Dress girl in that gold dress and gold shoes, dancing to that dirty song about fucking in the jungle, after I had just come from the Emil Nolde exhibition and then The Beast at the Everyman, and it was Christmas, and the place was packed to the rafters, and the atmosphere was the greatest ever, and she seemed to dance only for me, and I did not know then that it would be the last time I ever saw her, but it has been preserved for all time as a special special memory, I will carry forward no precious memories of Florence or Jolanda or Melani, though they did once give me such high moments, because it has all been ruined in pain and recrimination and anger, because I got involved. I just want to forget them now. The high memories I have of them have been spoilt–because I crossed the line & connected. Never connect! Resist familiarity at all costs! Speak only to the girls you don’t like, never to the ones you do!
From the disaster that the Midnight Bell has become, I carry forward only one rich memory and that is of Janet. Her extraordinarily dirty stripping I have never seen the like of before or since and will be preserved in amber within me forever. The time she danced to Madonna’s Material Girl remains one of the primal moments of my life. What could challenge it? The Spanish Penelope Cruz lookalike dancing to Sex on the Beach on my second ever visit to the Bell many years ago. Gold Dress girl at the Cotton Club. B Rosa dancing to Jay Z’s Threat in Munich. Irina dancing to Eternal Flame, in Munich. Elena dancing to Tu M'a Promis, in Munich. Susi dancing to Phil Collins in Munich the first time I saw her. Susi dancing to Garbage No 1 Crush and Sting’s A Thousand Years in Munich, when I amazingly saw her again. It is no wonder I kept going back to Munich. It is like people say you should never meet your heroes, because you will just be so disillusioned. I wish I had kept Florence and Jolanda and Melani at a distance. The actor Rodney Bewes tells the story of how he used to worship Peter Osgood when he supported Chelsea in the 60s and was so thrilled to meet him in a restaurant, but Osgood just made some lascivious comment about Bewes’s wife and that ruined all the hero worship Bewes had previously held for him.
How I wish I had done something with Irina though! How I wish I had done something with Susi! If you don’t connect, you are always crucified by what might have been! Pink at the Cotton Club dancing to The Stripper theme, and Wicked Game, also remain perfect amber preserved memories, because I resisted getting involved with her upstairs, though opportunity was there. And how can I forget pink boa girl who danced mesmerisingly to Grace Jones at the Cotton Club in its Golden Age, and Black Feathers just in the Golden Age’s dying days, when the Roman Empire was about to be sacked by Barbarians and the light extinguished. Apart from Silver Dress Fat Bottomed Girl at the Carnival, that place has numerous very smutty performers whose memory I will always treasure. With such a rich store of treasured memories, how can I not keep going back to the Shining Road for Tallulah? For one thing the Carnival is long gone, and the Cotton Club means nothing to me anymore, spoiled by my clumsy attempts at involvement. The White Coffin has been completely ruined by the new management. The Goethe girls of Sexyland were always curiously bland compared to the White Coffin girls anyway. Tallulah in Brussels will always mean Clarisse and is otherwise dispiriting, and in Berlin there is no stripping to speak of at all. The one place I ever found, there was only two other men watching, the dancing was desultory, and I felt more looked at by the girls, than me looking at them, which is not the object of the exercise at all, and culminated with the girl offering me a private dance for 25 or sex for 80!
That is the glory of Berlin, of course, everywhere is a brothel. The sex cinemas exist only to get you to fuck the girls in a room, the strip clubs exist only to get you to fuck the girls in a room. There are no sex cinemas for sex cinemas sake, and no strip clubs for strip clubs sake! Berlin. No wonder I keep going back to Berlin. Vienna does not even have sex kinos [HOW WRONG I WAS!]. You just walk into a bar full of ten or twenty girls all looking at you, and again you will sit there with a drink feeling so uncomfortable, and you have no chance to relax and feel sexy. Perhaps if I was very rich I would enjoy it, but in my financial straits Vienna is a very dangerous place. I will always look back at Maria as being without doubt the most beautiful girl I have ever f—d, however. And Harrieta was one of the loveliest and warmest whores I have ever shared a drink with. If only I was rich. Maybe I should move back home to my mother’s house, just so I can pay off my debts for a while, and travel again. But no. But how I want to be crossing Olivaer Platz and the Ku’damm on my way to Stuttgarter Platz again! How I want to be exploring the Gurtel again! How I want to be rounding the corner of Schillerstrasse again into the White Coffin!
I have always regretted not taking my chance to get to know Black Bob or Gold Dress in the old Cotton Club days, the Classic period, the Jazz Age, the Golden Age, the Minnie the Moocher, Sneaker Pimps and Shining Road days, but looking back now it has preserved them as perfect memories, like fixed in amber. The last night I saw Gold Dress girl in that gold dress and gold shoes, dancing to that dirty song about fucking in the jungle, after I had just come from the Emil Nolde exhibition and then The Beast at the Everyman, and it was Christmas, and the place was packed to the rafters, and the atmosphere was the greatest ever, and she seemed to dance only for me, and I did not know then that it would be the last time I ever saw her, but it has been preserved for all time as a special special memory, I will carry forward no precious memories of Florence or Jolanda or Melani, though they did once give me such high moments, because it has all been ruined in pain and recrimination and anger, because I got involved. I just want to forget them now. The high memories I have of them have been spoilt–because I crossed the line & connected. Never connect! Resist familiarity at all costs! Speak only to the girls you don’t like, never to the ones you do!
From the disaster that the Midnight Bell has become, I carry forward only one rich memory and that is of Janet. Her extraordinarily dirty stripping I have never seen the like of before or since and will be preserved in amber within me forever. The time she danced to Madonna’s Material Girl remains one of the primal moments of my life. What could challenge it? The Spanish Penelope Cruz lookalike dancing to Sex on the Beach on my second ever visit to the Bell many years ago. Gold Dress girl at the Cotton Club. B Rosa dancing to Jay Z’s Threat in Munich. Irina dancing to Eternal Flame, in Munich. Elena dancing to Tu M'a Promis, in Munich. Susi dancing to Phil Collins in Munich the first time I saw her. Susi dancing to Garbage No 1 Crush and Sting’s A Thousand Years in Munich, when I amazingly saw her again. It is no wonder I kept going back to Munich. It is like people say you should never meet your heroes, because you will just be so disillusioned. I wish I had kept Florence and Jolanda and Melani at a distance. The actor Rodney Bewes tells the story of how he used to worship Peter Osgood when he supported Chelsea in the 60s and was so thrilled to meet him in a restaurant, but Osgood just made some lascivious comment about Bewes’s wife and that ruined all the hero worship Bewes had previously held for him.
How I wish I had done something with Irina though! How I wish I had done something with Susi! If you don’t connect, you are always crucified by what might have been! Pink at the Cotton Club dancing to The Stripper theme, and Wicked Game, also remain perfect amber preserved memories, because I resisted getting involved with her upstairs, though opportunity was there. And how can I forget pink boa girl who danced mesmerisingly to Grace Jones at the Cotton Club in its Golden Age, and Black Feathers just in the Golden Age’s dying days, when the Roman Empire was about to be sacked by Barbarians and the light extinguished. Apart from Silver Dress Fat Bottomed Girl at the Carnival, that place has numerous very smutty performers whose memory I will always treasure. With such a rich store of treasured memories, how can I not keep going back to the Shining Road for Tallulah? For one thing the Carnival is long gone, and the Cotton Club means nothing to me anymore, spoiled by my clumsy attempts at involvement. The White Coffin has been completely ruined by the new management. The Goethe girls of Sexyland were always curiously bland compared to the White Coffin girls anyway. Tallulah in Brussels will always mean Clarisse and is otherwise dispiriting, and in Berlin there is no stripping to speak of at all. The one place I ever found, there was only two other men watching, the dancing was desultory, and I felt more looked at by the girls, than me looking at them, which is not the object of the exercise at all, and culminated with the girl offering me a private dance for 25 or sex for 80!
That is the glory of Berlin, of course, everywhere is a brothel. The sex cinemas exist only to get you to fuck the girls in a room, the strip clubs exist only to get you to fuck the girls in a room. There are no sex cinemas for sex cinemas sake, and no strip clubs for strip clubs sake! Berlin. No wonder I keep going back to Berlin. Vienna does not even have sex kinos [HOW WRONG I WAS!]. You just walk into a bar full of ten or twenty girls all looking at you, and again you will sit there with a drink feeling so uncomfortable, and you have no chance to relax and feel sexy. Perhaps if I was very rich I would enjoy it, but in my financial straits Vienna is a very dangerous place. I will always look back at Maria as being without doubt the most beautiful girl I have ever f—d, however. And Harrieta was one of the loveliest and warmest whores I have ever shared a drink with. If only I was rich. Maybe I should move back home to my mother’s house, just so I can pay off my debts for a while, and travel again. But no. But how I want to be crossing Olivaer Platz and the Ku’damm on my way to Stuttgarter Platz again! How I want to be exploring the Gurtel again! How I want to be rounding the corner of Schillerstrasse again into the White Coffin!
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