Did those things really happen? (13th August 2006)

Did those things really happen? Patricia, B Rosa, Susi, Irina, Emily, Yulia, Riccarda, Iga, Diana, Maria? It seems too fantastical. Incredible, unbelievable nights. Did that pink top blonde with the massive breasts on the plane to Munich really happen or did I imagine her? “The world is a book, and he who does not travel reads only one page”–St Augustine. Sunny dancing to No One Knows. Getting completely lacerated, pulled limb from limb, absolutely fucking soul murdered, when I went to Norway. Another missed call from Olga at 6:34PM. Did those things truly happen? Truly Munich and Berlin were my Cities of the Autumn Stars. Will I ever have a night as magical as watching England v Turkey under the bulb-lit trees beside the Frauenkirche before walking back to Atlantic City and entering with Irina approaching me smiling and saying she wants to come back to my hotel! Or going back in January to find Heidi Klum on the billboard outside my window, then walking into Atlantic City, hardly able to breathe, going into kabins first, but hearing Junior Senior, J-Lo Let’s Get Loud, Hip Teens Don’t Wear Blue Jeans blaring out from inside, to sit there drunk & dazed as B Rosa danced along the catwalk to Jay-Z’s Threat “dig the desert, they build The Sands on you”, Elena to Tu M’a Promis, before going into separee with Patricia and her letting me wank over her breasts with people standing just a couple of feet away from us! Or going back two weeks later into the separee again with Patricia but this time she told me “B Rosa, I-love-you”, so I staggered out into the deep deep snow & continuing never-ending snowstorm, to find the unbelievable Emily in see through black top, and going into the separee to have the greatest sexual experience of my life, as I pulled down her knickers and pulled out my cock, as she ran the champagne-soaked cotton wool bud around the tip of my penis, before letting me wank over her huge huge breasts! Or going to the brothels for the first time in Berlin, walking around the corner from my Kanthotel to Stutti Frutti and fucking the incredible big breasts black haired Yulia in that Charles Rennie Mackintosh bedroom on the four poster bed! Or going back to Berlin a month later & going into Mon Cheri for the first time to meet Riccarda, back to the Mackintosh bedroom, the same bed, where I felt like I was fucking Marilyn Monroe! Meeting her two nights later as she was slowly stripping on stage! Or going back to Berlin to meet the incredible white haired black dressed Iga! “Liebling. Darling. Will you kiss me?” Or going from Staatsoper’s La Traviata to the Erotic Centre, coming out with the erection into the falling snow, to go back to Diana, the huge breasts blonde in black catsuit, and sucking her pussy on that same Mackintosh four poster bed! 

In Munich and Berlin, in particular, I have had nights so magical, that I can scarcely believe that they really did happen. Did they really happen? Why then have my last six trips, Berlin twice, Munich twice, Frankfurt and Brussels, been so unmagical? I think it is because of the steadily accumulating crippling debt which weighed like an ever heavier millstone around my neck, and I become over-emotionally involved just looking for Riccarda, Iga, Diana, Viktoriya, instead of having new, exciting, open experiences. I will feel fresh and open to new experiences when I go back, I will walk with the huge swinging cock between my legs, pulsing, sore, swollen, swinging from side to side like a ship in a storm, looking for the first voluptuous whore I can find, be it Clarisse, or Alla & Olga, or Erika. I will use Brussels to get me turned on so I am bursting to release it in Berlin. I will use Munich to get me turned on so I am bursting to release it in Vienna. Let us not forget that magical night I met Martina, walking around and lounging around the Pils Bar with the most massive breasts you will ever see in your life! The magical night I met Clarisse in Brussels dancing on stage when I went in with breasts every bit as big! I have got to go back to Copenhagen and Malmo and Oslo one day. Will I ever have a night as magical as watching England v Turkey in the Cafe Belge of the Brussels Ibis and having Nephania come to me & then come to my room! And I haven’t even mentioned the night I walked back into Atlantic City to be hugged by Patricia, then finding Susi up on stage in diamond dress smiling down at me, then peeking into separee to find naked Irina on some man’s lap in a white phosphorescent light, and ending with Viktoriya! I could not enjoy Pils Bar the second & third times I went there, because I could not afford to even buy a girl a drink, let alone touch her. My debt is the reason for everything going flat and dull. 

If I can keep up my hoarding ways, I can be free of the debt.  Already in one week I have saved 130 Euros. By the time the clocks go back at the end of October & the start of the witching months, I should have saved 1,300 Euros. Enough to fuck every whore I want in Brussels and Berlin. Still I wonder if I shouldn’t go to Munich & Vienna first. But the end of October has Violetta Urmana in Berlin & Elena Prokina in Boccanegra in Hamburg. Although January in Berlin has Anna Samuil in Staatsoper’s La Traviata! 

I always let girls ripen and then turn rotten and die. There’s a couple of new ones ripening right now. Oh man, I cannot wait to get back to Munich! Isn’t this amazing after the awful January visit? Every time I see the pictures on the Beate Uhse website I want to get back there–but this time only as a turn on before the consummation in Vienna. Atlantic City can suddenly come back to life because I am using it only as a warm up, it no longer is the be all and end all that everything depends on. That takes the pressure off it, I can go there & relax because I know the real climax is still to come. It is funny how I am thinking so much about Vienna and Munich now? The other night feeling filled with Vienna Westbahnhof and now thinking so much of Munich. Everything except Berlin in fact. Maybe Berlin is something I know I can sink back into at journey’s end, when I have got everything else out of the way. So it maybe will be Berlin in January, and Brussels, Munich and Vienna in October when the clocks go back. But I miss the Berlin Radisson SAS! I miss the Berlin Plaza! I miss the knesepfanne! But really it seems I still miss Atlantic City, Lamm's, and the Dorint more? Let me get Munich and Vienna out of the way first. Two days in Brussels for Wiertz, Modern Art, Empire and Gare du Nord, just two nights in Munich for Atlantic City, Nuremberg Caribic, before pushing on to Vienna for Butterfly House, KHM, Belvedere, Manhattan and Pour Platin. Oh God I cannot wait to get back to Vienna! Fridays & Saturdays Atlantic City is open to 5! 

Now I feel the cold icy air of the mountains. I cannot wait to get back to Europe. In the meantime I will have some drinks at the Calcutta on Saturday night, drinking myself into oblivion just three pints at a time, to get these three months over with as cheaply as possible. For all these magic trips, how can I regret owing £6,000 on my cards?? I regret the £4,000 I have spent in London on nothing but drink & strippers that is what I regret. If not for that I could be free to travel now.

What great joy there is in just drinking glass after glass of coke rammed full of ice! (6th August 2006)

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!