It was only when I got the —— Hotel job that I had the money to start travelling and travelling led to so many amazing breakthrough moments in my life and caused so many explosions in my mind and opened up so many new rooms in my mind that I never knew existed. I went through so many Ishtar Gates and crossed so many Rubicons, really starting from that first trip to Brussels on the hotel money where I saw Alizee’s J’en ai marre & nothing has ever been the same again. So of course I must save my hotel money and hoard it so fiercely and protect every penny I earn so lovingly, to enable me to keep travelling. I have stopped going through Ishtar Gates and so have fallen stagnant and become a fever infested swamp of lethargy and stripper addiction which brought no real joy or happiness.
Tuesday, 11 August 2020
Monday, 10 August 2020
I agonise about whether it is really worth going to Berlin and Vienna and Munich and Brussels now and how all my brilliant memories are so far in the past but only because I do not have the money now (10th August 2006)
I agonise about whether it is really worth going to Berlin and Vienna and Munich and Brussels now, and how all my brilliant memories are so far in the past, but only because I do not have the money now. If I was a millionaire, I would LOVE Vienna and would have no reservations about it at all. I would go there and spend 100 euros a time so freely & easily. It is only because I am so poor and so much in debt, that I now agonise about those places, and torment myself, can I go or not. If I had money I would live freely & be the happiest whorer in the world. I would fuck every one of the whores in Vienna. I would fuck Alla & Olga together in Berlin, I would fuck Erika. I would fuck twenty of the Brussels windows girls. Munich is not worse than it used to be, Vienna is not worse than it used to be, Berlin is not worse than it used to be. It is just now I owe £6,000 when I used to owe £60. If I do give up the strippers in London, and the thought of going back to Sunset or King’s Cross fills me with an almost physical revulsion, and my visits to the White Horse, Old Axe, Rainbows, Browns, Griffin, Queen Anne, Nag’s Head were some of the most dispiriting & crushingly dull moments of my life, that will enable me to pay off more of my credit card bills than I ever did before. Really after those initial lung-bursting three ascents to Brussels, to Munich,and then to Berlin, my holidays have become increasingly dispiriting and miserable, and that is because my debt has started to constrain me so much. I would enjoy those places as much as ever if I could go back to them owing no money as I did then.
In June and July I spent £362 on strippers and £465 on drink. Just in June & July that is £800 I could have had in my Woolwich account or I could have reduced my Visa debt from £1,600 to £800. In April & May I spent £471 on strippers and £382 on drink. That is a further £850 added to £800 makes £1,600. So from the four months April-May-June-July I could have had an extra £1,600 in my Woolwich account, OR REDUCED MY VISA DEBT TO £0! Now will it bring it home to you! “It is eating away at your money, your love and your life”. I say oh I owe six thousands pounds on my credit cards, I don’t see how I can ever pay it off, and yet just in four months April May June July I could have reduced my Barclaycard debt from £1,600 to zero.
I am on such an exciting new project now. I am as thrilled by the prospect of tightening my belt, and living like a monk, and saving money now, as I used to be by living wildly and spraying my money around and living hedonistically. It will be such a slow process before I notice any difference though. Like a supertanker, your personal finances are very slow to turn around. Your Love Is Like Poison, the song that Florence put on & I felt it was aimed at me. Yes, my love is like poison and my love of strippers had become like poison. Like alcohol poisoning your blood by too much drink, I had stripper poisoned by blood. My love was like poison to Florence, to Jolanda and to Melani. All of them started off liking me then wanted to avoid me. Finally now I have the chance to remove the poison from the blood and be clean again. Confessions of an English Opium Eater I carried around with me Friday, and really strippers have been my opium over the years, ever since I first fell into it on that dark, stormy September afternoon on the shining road of Dean Street 14 years ago. I have been in its thrall ever since. And yes in the early days it provided me with magical moments, supremely high moments, but increasingly over the years those high moments became fewer and further between as my addiction worsened, and became nothing but habit, with no joy or excitement left in it. Those red wig days, Czech Boulevard girl days, gold dress days, Carnival days, are very far in my past now. Now there are only the desperate depraved addict's memories of my appalling behaviour. How thrilled I will be now by watching my Woolwich building society account filling up and rising from minus to plus, from plus 100 to 200 to 300. That will be my high now. That will be my addiction now–hoarding money. I will get as much thrill from hoarding money as I used to from spending it. Oh, if only I could have had this revelation earlier, if only I could have had this road to Damascus conversion sooner! But it has to come when the moment is right. I had to wait until I suddenly became physically revolted. I had to wait until the poison became so bad that it reached the tipping point and where it suddenly physically made me sick.
In June and July I spent £362 on strippers and £465 on drink. Just in June & July that is £800 I could have had in my Woolwich account or I could have reduced my Visa debt from £1,600 to £800. In April & May I spent £471 on strippers and £382 on drink. That is a further £850 added to £800 makes £1,600. So from the four months April-May-June-July I could have had an extra £1,600 in my Woolwich account, OR REDUCED MY VISA DEBT TO £0! Now will it bring it home to you! “It is eating away at your money, your love and your life”. I say oh I owe six thousands pounds on my credit cards, I don’t see how I can ever pay it off, and yet just in four months April May June July I could have reduced my Barclaycard debt from £1,600 to zero.
I am on such an exciting new project now. I am as thrilled by the prospect of tightening my belt, and living like a monk, and saving money now, as I used to be by living wildly and spraying my money around and living hedonistically. It will be such a slow process before I notice any difference though. Like a supertanker, your personal finances are very slow to turn around. Your Love Is Like Poison, the song that Florence put on & I felt it was aimed at me. Yes, my love is like poison and my love of strippers had become like poison. Like alcohol poisoning your blood by too much drink, I had stripper poisoned by blood. My love was like poison to Florence, to Jolanda and to Melani. All of them started off liking me then wanted to avoid me. Finally now I have the chance to remove the poison from the blood and be clean again. Confessions of an English Opium Eater I carried around with me Friday, and really strippers have been my opium over the years, ever since I first fell into it on that dark, stormy September afternoon on the shining road of Dean Street 14 years ago. I have been in its thrall ever since. And yes in the early days it provided me with magical moments, supremely high moments, but increasingly over the years those high moments became fewer and further between as my addiction worsened, and became nothing but habit, with no joy or excitement left in it. Those red wig days, Czech Boulevard girl days, gold dress days, Carnival days, are very far in my past now. Now there are only the desperate depraved addict's memories of my appalling behaviour. How thrilled I will be now by watching my Woolwich building society account filling up and rising from minus to plus, from plus 100 to 200 to 300. That will be my high now. That will be my addiction now–hoarding money. I will get as much thrill from hoarding money as I used to from spending it. Oh, if only I could have had this revelation earlier, if only I could have had this road to Damascus conversion sooner! But it has to come when the moment is right. I had to wait until I suddenly became physically revolted. I had to wait until the poison became so bad that it reached the tipping point and where it suddenly physically made me sick.
Sunday, 9 August 2020
What would I do in Munich? (9th August 2006)
What would I do in Munich? I would be bored out of my brain during the days, and coming home so frustrated at nights, after desultory dancing in Atlantic City, no more coming on breasts like with Patricia, and nothing else from all those awful expensive clubs where you cannot even touch. No wonder they are always empty. Does that not explain it? No wonder Vienna’s Gurtel bars are always empty. Who would pay 60 euros to buy a girl a cocktail or 150 Euros to fuck her? In Munich I would drink my minibar in the morning, before getting the tram to Lamm's for my Augustiner & Rostbraten, go up to New Pin for Die Sunde and all those white bandage pictures….oh but it was only so recent!!! And…what else? Boring Atlantic City at night. The great thing, and the great advantage of having a train pass, is that when a place bores you, and the well runs dry, you can just pack up and head off to the next place, off to Nuremberg for a night, and then off to Vienna for two or three nights. I don’t even feel much compulsion to go back to Venice or Budapest. I would try the Radisson SAS in Wien to be close to the Seilerstatte three strip clubs, before going back to Dorint to be close to the Manhattan and Pour Platin. Then bored so soon, I will head off to Berlin. I am bored of Munich and Vienna, and frustrated by their overpriced whores, before I even get back there. And for that I would give up the treasure of my W——— Road little nest?
I feel like a new life has started for me. I think the key is spend very little time in Munich and Vienna. I only need one night to go to Lamm's and go back to Atlantic City. This is the advantage of train trips. A four day stay in Munich cannot be justified. A four day stay in Vienna cannot be justified. One or two nights at the most, just to go back to Atlantic City, go to Nuremberg on Saturday night for Pils Bar and Caribic, spend one night in Seilerstatte, one night in the Gurtel. That is the thing about trains, you can just make stops on the pilgrimage, as briefly as you like and move on. The great thrill is going to Waterloo to get on the Eurostar, having some beers in the Eurostar bar, enjoying that long train ride to Brussels. Checking into the Radisson SAS for a change. Going back to Gare du Nord for videos & windows, maybe back via Empire. Next day Wiertz and Modern Art, before Gare du Nord a second time. Two nights only in Brussels, then, heading via Koln to Munich the next day. Arriving in time only to open the minibar and head to Atlantic City. Bored, depressed, head home via a Hauptbahnhof roll. Not even bothering with the Schillerstrasse bars. Next day Lamm's, of course, and not even bothering with New Pin this time, evening train to Nuremberg, for Pils Bar and Caribic, 4am train back to Munich. Check out midday, train to Vienna. Arriving in time only for minibar then Seilerstatte, girls I cannot afford, asking me why I look so miserable. Sleep tight in the Radisson SAS. Next day move to Dorint for the white shirt zipfer girls. Explore KHM and the Belvedere, back to Dorint for evening meal. Then ML Revue, shaking with nerves.
Back along the late Gurtel, via Angelique, 20 girls in every bar and me the only man, so soul destroying and embarrassing, to walk in and sit on your own at the bar, with your head bowed over your beer, while one by one the girls boredly are forced to come up & make small talk before asking for a drink which would cost more than a f— would in Berlin. Turned on by the pornographic films but turned off by the expense of the girls, I head frustratedly back to the Dorint, miserably w—–g in front of the sport clips. Next day off to Berlin. Straight to Radisson SAS, oh do I have to? Nothing I can eat there, nothing I can drink. Please let me go back to the Plaza for gorgeous knesepfanne and Berliner Pils! In time only then to head out to Sarah Young, then Berlin Erotic Centre. With such an erection, up to Mon Cheri and Golden Gate and Monte Carlo, where at last I will get a proper w— and a 60 euro f— in the side room. Relief at last! Stumble home, thinking was that it? Next day, off to Zoo for Thobens, then Alte National Gallery, maybe this time finally do the Potsdam thing, and the Cabaret arches thing, before Mazurka Alla & Olga, Ciro, then off to Hamburg maybe for Elena Prokina, and Copenhagen for The Mak Case. Then home to London frozen by my broken financial situation, with only a few w—s & a desultory Monte Carlo f— to show for the whole sorry fortnight; what the hell was that horrible wastefulness for? Is this what I gave up my flat and moved back to my mother’s for?
30 Oct Berlin for Violeta Urmana in La Mort de Cleopatra, 31 Oct for Prokina in Hamburg, 1 & 2 Nov Copenhagen for Mak Case. All those plane trips to Berlin, Vienna, Munich were so boring because it took me two hours to get to Heathrow, an hour for waiting, 2 hours for flight, whereas the joy of Eurostar is it takes me just 30 mins to get there, and I can be on my way. I want to taste a bit of Brussels, the Wiertz & Modern Art & Gare du Nord, then a bit of Munich, Lamm's & Atlantic City, then a bit of Nuremberg, Pils Bar & Caribic, then a bit of Vienna, Seilerstatte, Radisson SAS, Manhattan & Pour Platin, then Berlin Plaza for knesepfanne & Berliner Pils, Alte National Gallery, BEC, Sarah Young, Stuttgarter Platz, Ciro, Violetta Urmana, then Hamburg for Prokina. I think Copenhagen would be too far. Save money (!) for La Traviata in Berlin in January with Anna Samuil.
Look at the great memories from the past–it is ALL whores and pornographic films! Almost never strippers! Not since red wig DD days, Czech Boulevard girl, Carnival Fat Bottomed Girl. Innocent days. Minnie the Moocher days. But the great joy is spending some long time in a city, and being able to relax. Settle into the hotel bar every night watching the TV, seeing the single women, like with Nephania and others in the Brussels Ibis. To try and squeeze four cities into one trip is madness. Be nice to relax in Brussels for four days, a trip to Namur?, before getting long train to Berlin, for four days there. All the time in the world to relax in Brussels, Pullman Bar, Radisson SAS or Ibis, Wiertz, Modern, Empire on the Saturday night, Gare du Nord. All the time looking forward to that long trip to Berlin & Berlin Plaza. So I can have a knesepfanne when I arrive & a Berliner Pils. Or should I leave Berlin to January for La Traviata? And go first to Munich for just two nights, then on to Vienna for three nights. Settle into Brussels and draw out all the smutty possibilities from its morbid eroticism.
Really, there is nothing unmissable that would make me go to Berlin in October, but there is in January for La Traviata. Even Prokina in Hamburg is not so riveting. Maybe maybe Urmana in Cleopatra on 30 Oct. It would be nice to go to Dresden to see the cathedral?
I feel like a new life has started for me. I think the key is spend very little time in Munich and Vienna. I only need one night to go to Lamm's and go back to Atlantic City. This is the advantage of train trips. A four day stay in Munich cannot be justified. A four day stay in Vienna cannot be justified. One or two nights at the most, just to go back to Atlantic City, go to Nuremberg on Saturday night for Pils Bar and Caribic, spend one night in Seilerstatte, one night in the Gurtel. That is the thing about trains, you can just make stops on the pilgrimage, as briefly as you like and move on. The great thrill is going to Waterloo to get on the Eurostar, having some beers in the Eurostar bar, enjoying that long train ride to Brussels. Checking into the Radisson SAS for a change. Going back to Gare du Nord for videos & windows, maybe back via Empire. Next day Wiertz and Modern Art, before Gare du Nord a second time. Two nights only in Brussels, then, heading via Koln to Munich the next day. Arriving in time only to open the minibar and head to Atlantic City. Bored, depressed, head home via a Hauptbahnhof roll. Not even bothering with the Schillerstrasse bars. Next day Lamm's, of course, and not even bothering with New Pin this time, evening train to Nuremberg, for Pils Bar and Caribic, 4am train back to Munich. Check out midday, train to Vienna. Arriving in time only for minibar then Seilerstatte, girls I cannot afford, asking me why I look so miserable. Sleep tight in the Radisson SAS. Next day move to Dorint for the white shirt zipfer girls. Explore KHM and the Belvedere, back to Dorint for evening meal. Then ML Revue, shaking with nerves.
Back along the late Gurtel, via Angelique, 20 girls in every bar and me the only man, so soul destroying and embarrassing, to walk in and sit on your own at the bar, with your head bowed over your beer, while one by one the girls boredly are forced to come up & make small talk before asking for a drink which would cost more than a f— would in Berlin. Turned on by the pornographic films but turned off by the expense of the girls, I head frustratedly back to the Dorint, miserably w—–g in front of the sport clips. Next day off to Berlin. Straight to Radisson SAS, oh do I have to? Nothing I can eat there, nothing I can drink. Please let me go back to the Plaza for gorgeous knesepfanne and Berliner Pils! In time only then to head out to Sarah Young, then Berlin Erotic Centre. With such an erection, up to Mon Cheri and Golden Gate and Monte Carlo, where at last I will get a proper w— and a 60 euro f— in the side room. Relief at last! Stumble home, thinking was that it? Next day, off to Zoo for Thobens, then Alte National Gallery, maybe this time finally do the Potsdam thing, and the Cabaret arches thing, before Mazurka Alla & Olga, Ciro, then off to Hamburg maybe for Elena Prokina, and Copenhagen for The Mak Case. Then home to London frozen by my broken financial situation, with only a few w—s & a desultory Monte Carlo f— to show for the whole sorry fortnight; what the hell was that horrible wastefulness for? Is this what I gave up my flat and moved back to my mother’s for?
30 Oct Berlin for Violeta Urmana in La Mort de Cleopatra, 31 Oct for Prokina in Hamburg, 1 & 2 Nov Copenhagen for Mak Case. All those plane trips to Berlin, Vienna, Munich were so boring because it took me two hours to get to Heathrow, an hour for waiting, 2 hours for flight, whereas the joy of Eurostar is it takes me just 30 mins to get there, and I can be on my way. I want to taste a bit of Brussels, the Wiertz & Modern Art & Gare du Nord, then a bit of Munich, Lamm's & Atlantic City, then a bit of Nuremberg, Pils Bar & Caribic, then a bit of Vienna, Seilerstatte, Radisson SAS, Manhattan & Pour Platin, then Berlin Plaza for knesepfanne & Berliner Pils, Alte National Gallery, BEC, Sarah Young, Stuttgarter Platz, Ciro, Violetta Urmana, then Hamburg for Prokina. I think Copenhagen would be too far. Save money (!) for La Traviata in Berlin in January with Anna Samuil.
Look at the great memories from the past–it is ALL whores and pornographic films! Almost never strippers! Not since red wig DD days, Czech Boulevard girl, Carnival Fat Bottomed Girl. Innocent days. Minnie the Moocher days. But the great joy is spending some long time in a city, and being able to relax. Settle into the hotel bar every night watching the TV, seeing the single women, like with Nephania and others in the Brussels Ibis. To try and squeeze four cities into one trip is madness. Be nice to relax in Brussels for four days, a trip to Namur?, before getting long train to Berlin, for four days there. All the time in the world to relax in Brussels, Pullman Bar, Radisson SAS or Ibis, Wiertz, Modern, Empire on the Saturday night, Gare du Nord. All the time looking forward to that long trip to Berlin & Berlin Plaza. So I can have a knesepfanne when I arrive & a Berliner Pils. Or should I leave Berlin to January for La Traviata? And go first to Munich for just two nights, then on to Vienna for three nights. Settle into Brussels and draw out all the smutty possibilities from its morbid eroticism.
Really, there is nothing unmissable that would make me go to Berlin in October, but there is in January for La Traviata. Even Prokina in Hamburg is not so riveting. Maybe maybe Urmana in Cleopatra on 30 Oct. It would be nice to go to Dresden to see the cathedral?
Saturday, 8 August 2020
I HAVE GOT TO KILL THIS STRIPPER ADDICTION NOW! (8th August 2006)
I HAVE GOT TO KILL THIS STRIPPER ADDICTION NOW!! So maybe I could save 800 before end of August? Let’s say I aim to get my credit card bill down to 4900 by end of October, then I can go??? LET US LIVE LIKE A MONK ALL THROUGH AUGUST SEPTEMBER and OCTOBER.
I will allow myself Calcutta only, and occasionally Cotton Club Cinema and Demi or Pamela. Wouldn’t it be fantastic if on this Grand Tour I could get to see Tosca at Berlin Unter Den Linden, Maria Stuart at Berlin Unter Den Linden, The Makropulos Case in Copenhagen, and Elena Prokina in Boccanegra in Hamburg! What a holiday that would be! The thing about going on holiday to Europe is that you get really dirty sex and really dirty sexual encounters. For hell’s sake, I spent 426 on strippers in the last ten weeks and what did I get out of any of it?? Not one real dirty erotic memory. Demi was good, yes, Pamela, sucking Pamela’s breasts, yes, with Kay in cinema yes, with blonde in cinema yes. But strippers? No!!!! Convert that £426 into Euros and you get=630 Euros!!! That would have paid for four nights in Berlin Plaza, with 400 Euros left for Ciro, 150 with Erika, 50 with Maya, 150 with Alla, 50 on pornography!! I CAN make the flat and travelling work–BUT ONLY BY CHANGING MY BEHAVIOUR IN LONDON!!! Sexy things always happen when you travel. Remember the blonde bar girl Best Western Ku’damm? Meeting Nephania in Brussels? Nothing sexy happens in King’s Cross or the Cotton Club. Save ALL your money for travelling!
I now feel like Europe here I come. I haven’t quite felt the cold icy air of the mountains, but we are on our way now. I feel like some awful spell has been broken, and I have been released. Why could I have been so blind? We have gone past the Lost In Space boundary and are now heading towards the Event Horizon. “I think I only needed something to hold on to. It has never been about depravity. It’s always been about melody. But melody and I met in many depraved situations. Meeting melody is the victory of the empty spiralling nightmare.” “Get to grips with the idea that it is eating away at your money, your love and your life.”
I must travel. It is my vital sustenance. CHECK OKTOBERFEST! I like sheer eroticism, not getting to know them. It is Karen Elson with Virgin Mary on her vest on Egon Schiele night. Pure Priapism. And whenever I am ready next year, I can move back into a flat again, maybe even back into W-- House! Let me make the most of these last 3 months in my flat. Use it for the solitude and the writing.
I think I need to go somewhere where I am going to get maximum bang for my buck. Vienna would be so expensive. It does not even start till 100 to 150 Euros. All I can do in Vienna is enjoy my Zipfers with the lovely-white shirted Dorint girls, then enjoy the films in ML Revue or somewhere similar, and then….? Go into Manhattan or Angelique or Pour Platin for a 150 Euro f–k with a stunningly beautiful girl like Maria admittedly, but there is no cheaper option, so all you have got is the films. In Munich similarly, what is there? After my gorgeous Lamm’s, what is there but Atlantic City, and maybe a 50 Euro private dance if there is someone spectacular like Patricia or Irina. Sexyland, forget about it. I mean really what would I do in Vienna? I would be so frustrated. After the pornographic movies I would come out to the clubs, & just find one girl after another trying to get 50 Euro cocktails out of me and a 100 Euro f–k. Same as last time. It would be so frustrating all the girls are out of my price range when in London I can have Pamela or Demi for just £20! I mean really what would I do in Munich? I would be so frustrated, getting so hyped up before going into Atlantic City, finding desultory bored unsexy Ukrainians & Romanians, come out still feeling so frustrated, looking for a whore, and just finding all those clubs in Schillerstraße, with their 150 Euro champagne massages!!!! Complete frustration and expensive frustration. At least in Vienna for 100 or 150 Euros you do at least get a f–k with a beautiful girl like Maria. In Munich it will just get you a fumble & a drink! And I do remember feeling as uncomfortable in Atlantic City the last time as I do in Sunset. It has been spoiled. God, do you not still remember how crushingly bored you were when you went to Munich in January!? As soon as you arrived you were thinking what have I done! Did I even get to Nuremberg that time? Pils Bar for a very expensive drink with a girl who will not touch you. Caribic was fun on that Saturday night but ultimately totally frustrating again. I had to get the 4AM train back to Munich without even having had a w–k. It’s all about squeezing maximum money out of you for drinks with the girls while giving you nothing in return.
I will allow myself Calcutta only, and occasionally Cotton Club Cinema and Demi or Pamela. Wouldn’t it be fantastic if on this Grand Tour I could get to see Tosca at Berlin Unter Den Linden, Maria Stuart at Berlin Unter Den Linden, The Makropulos Case in Copenhagen, and Elena Prokina in Boccanegra in Hamburg! What a holiday that would be! The thing about going on holiday to Europe is that you get really dirty sex and really dirty sexual encounters. For hell’s sake, I spent 426 on strippers in the last ten weeks and what did I get out of any of it?? Not one real dirty erotic memory. Demi was good, yes, Pamela, sucking Pamela’s breasts, yes, with Kay in cinema yes, with blonde in cinema yes. But strippers? No!!!! Convert that £426 into Euros and you get=630 Euros!!! That would have paid for four nights in Berlin Plaza, with 400 Euros left for Ciro, 150 with Erika, 50 with Maya, 150 with Alla, 50 on pornography!! I CAN make the flat and travelling work–BUT ONLY BY CHANGING MY BEHAVIOUR IN LONDON!!! Sexy things always happen when you travel. Remember the blonde bar girl Best Western Ku’damm? Meeting Nephania in Brussels? Nothing sexy happens in King’s Cross or the Cotton Club. Save ALL your money for travelling!
I now feel like Europe here I come. I haven’t quite felt the cold icy air of the mountains, but we are on our way now. I feel like some awful spell has been broken, and I have been released. Why could I have been so blind? We have gone past the Lost In Space boundary and are now heading towards the Event Horizon. “I think I only needed something to hold on to. It has never been about depravity. It’s always been about melody. But melody and I met in many depraved situations. Meeting melody is the victory of the empty spiralling nightmare.” “Get to grips with the idea that it is eating away at your money, your love and your life.”
I must travel. It is my vital sustenance. CHECK OKTOBERFEST! I like sheer eroticism, not getting to know them. It is Karen Elson with Virgin Mary on her vest on Egon Schiele night. Pure Priapism. And whenever I am ready next year, I can move back into a flat again, maybe even back into W-- House! Let me make the most of these last 3 months in my flat. Use it for the solitude and the writing.
I think I need to go somewhere where I am going to get maximum bang for my buck. Vienna would be so expensive. It does not even start till 100 to 150 Euros. All I can do in Vienna is enjoy my Zipfers with the lovely-white shirted Dorint girls, then enjoy the films in ML Revue or somewhere similar, and then….? Go into Manhattan or Angelique or Pour Platin for a 150 Euro f–k with a stunningly beautiful girl like Maria admittedly, but there is no cheaper option, so all you have got is the films. In Munich similarly, what is there? After my gorgeous Lamm’s, what is there but Atlantic City, and maybe a 50 Euro private dance if there is someone spectacular like Patricia or Irina. Sexyland, forget about it. I mean really what would I do in Vienna? I would be so frustrated. After the pornographic movies I would come out to the clubs, & just find one girl after another trying to get 50 Euro cocktails out of me and a 100 Euro f–k. Same as last time. It would be so frustrating all the girls are out of my price range when in London I can have Pamela or Demi for just £20! I mean really what would I do in Munich? I would be so frustrated, getting so hyped up before going into Atlantic City, finding desultory bored unsexy Ukrainians & Romanians, come out still feeling so frustrated, looking for a whore, and just finding all those clubs in Schillerstraße, with their 150 Euro champagne massages!!!! Complete frustration and expensive frustration. At least in Vienna for 100 or 150 Euros you do at least get a f–k with a beautiful girl like Maria. In Munich it will just get you a fumble & a drink! And I do remember feeling as uncomfortable in Atlantic City the last time as I do in Sunset. It has been spoiled. God, do you not still remember how crushingly bored you were when you went to Munich in January!? As soon as you arrived you were thinking what have I done! Did I even get to Nuremberg that time? Pils Bar for a very expensive drink with a girl who will not touch you. Caribic was fun on that Saturday night but ultimately totally frustrating again. I had to get the 4AM train back to Munich without even having had a w–k. It’s all about squeezing maximum money out of you for drinks with the girls while giving you nothing in return.
Friday, 7 August 2020
I think Brussels was so exciting because I knew it was just the first leg of my European tour (7th August 2006)
I think Brussels was so exciting because I knew it was just the first leg of my European tour, and after sampling the delights of the Museum of Modern Art, Wiertz, Pullman bar, and Gare du Nord, I could head off later in the week on the long train journey to Koln and Munich, and that night be heading over Bayerstrasse to the White Coffin, on Saturday getting the train to Nuremberg for the Pils and the Caribic, before then heading off again to Vienna, knowing that Manhattan and ML Revue and Pour Platin were waiting for me, before heading off a few days later for Berlin, knowing that Stuttgarter Platz was waiting for me and the Berlin Erotic Centre. Maybe this time I can finish up in Copenhagen for The Makropulos Case?
I want that Interrail pass again! £380 for the train pass, then maybe cheap Radisson hotels in Brussels, Vienna and Berlin? Ah but it is spending money that is the thing. Now that I have given up the Cotton Club and King’s Cross, perhaps my finance will improve a bit? JUST IN JUNE AND JULY ALONE I HAVE SPENT £424 ON STRIPPERS ALONE!!!! What did Pete say? I need to see how it is destroying me. Get this: Since the New Year I HAVE SPENT £1,778 ON STRIPPERS ALONE!!! What hideous wastefulness on something that I was increasingly starting to despise. If I could have that £1,778 back now, it would pay for the Interrail pass, and every hotel for two weeks, and give me all the whoring money I could ever need. Since moving into the flat on November 17th I have spent more than £2,000 on strippers alone. And it is worse than that, because the vast majority of my drinks bill in that time–£515 in June and July alone! £1,867 since December 10th! has been consumed in the strip clubs. Without the Bell and the Cotton Club I reckon I would now be owing just £2,400 on my credit cards instead of £5,900. These are sobering figures. For sure I could go on that long train journey to Europe in December if not for that. PLEASE GIVE UP THE STRIPPERS!!!! Just concentrate on the Calcutta, the Cotton Club Cinema, and Demi and Pamela from now on. By the end of August and September that should save me£900 alone. DO IT. Do it, so I can see Brussels again, I can see Gare du Nord again, I can go to the White Coffin again, I can go to the Pils Bar and Caribic again, I can go to Pour Platin and Manhattan again, I can go to Berlin Ciro again.
I want that Interrail pass again! £380 for the train pass, then maybe cheap Radisson hotels in Brussels, Vienna and Berlin? Ah but it is spending money that is the thing. Now that I have given up the Cotton Club and King’s Cross, perhaps my finance will improve a bit? JUST IN JUNE AND JULY ALONE I HAVE SPENT £424 ON STRIPPERS ALONE!!!! What did Pete say? I need to see how it is destroying me. Get this: Since the New Year I HAVE SPENT £1,778 ON STRIPPERS ALONE!!! What hideous wastefulness on something that I was increasingly starting to despise. If I could have that £1,778 back now, it would pay for the Interrail pass, and every hotel for two weeks, and give me all the whoring money I could ever need. Since moving into the flat on November 17th I have spent more than £2,000 on strippers alone. And it is worse than that, because the vast majority of my drinks bill in that time–£515 in June and July alone! £1,867 since December 10th! has been consumed in the strip clubs. Without the Bell and the Cotton Club I reckon I would now be owing just £2,400 on my credit cards instead of £5,900. These are sobering figures. For sure I could go on that long train journey to Europe in December if not for that. PLEASE GIVE UP THE STRIPPERS!!!! Just concentrate on the Calcutta, the Cotton Club Cinema, and Demi and Pamela from now on. By the end of August and September that should save me£900 alone. DO IT. Do it, so I can see Brussels again, I can see Gare du Nord again, I can go to the White Coffin again, I can go to the Pils Bar and Caribic again, I can go to Pour Platin and Manhattan again, I can go to Berlin Ciro again.
Thursday, 6 August 2020
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!
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!
Wednesday, 5 August 2020
For the true connoisseurs of smut (5th August 2006)
For the true connoisseurs of smut. I preferred Munich before it was overrun by Ukrainians, due to the visa scandal whereby the German Embassy in Kiev were giving passports out like smarties, as stunning as many of them undoubtedly are. I preferred it when there was more of a balance, between Brazilians, Slovakians, Romanians, Russians, Ukrainians. Now it is wall to wall Ukrainians. Similarly I preferred Moloch before it became overrun by Brazilians, again as stunning as many of them are. Sunset Strip certainly used to be better when there was a balance, and much more interesting variety of girls, when it was more like a burlesque show, and the Carnival I have never ceased to mourn. Where is silver dressed Fat Bottomed Girl now? It is amazing how often when you first go to a place, the first girl you see turns out to be the most legendary and stunning you will ever see. When I first walked into Carnival there was silver dress girl up there on stage, the most voluptuous stripper I have ever seen in my life. As good as all the Carnival girls were, no one surpassed silver dress girl. How the first time I stepped downstairs into Sunset Strip, the girl came on dancing to My Name Is Tallulah, Tallulah since becoming my word for that whole world. That whole way of life. That whole addiction. An addiction, I might add, that has suddenly becoming crashingly dull to me.
The first time I ever set foot in Stutti Frutti in Berlin the first girl I saw was the extraordinary Yulia. A month later the first time I set foot in Mon Cheri I met the stunning Riccarda, and recorded in my journal at the time that I felt like I had just fucked Marilyn Monroe. A month later the first time I set foot in the Golden Gate, I met Iga. Three of the greatest women of my life and all were met the first time I set foot in their respective establishments, all of which have been desolate wastelands whenever I return to them now. The last time I went to Berlin I made my first visits to the Mazurka and met the extraordinary sisters Alla & Olga and I have no doubt I will never see them again, and I carried on down the road to make my first visit to Ciro and met the mindblowing Erika, again who I am sure will have disappeared from the face of the earth if I ever go back & no one will even admit to having heard of her. When the Esmeraldas and Tallulahs I have met in my life have been so extraordinary and stimulating and life enhancing, how can I give them up?
The closest I have come to a real relationship has been with the Esmeraldas I have met in Moloch, namely Lela from Romania, Ana Maria from Spain, Olga from Russia, and latterly Pamela from Sweden. I can only fall in love with Esmeraldas. I do not think I am capable of loving a normal girl, a respectable girl. There is so much of me that I have to hide from them, so much of the double life that I must keep secret from them, which is never necessary with Esmeraldas, because we know everything about each other from the beginning. What a relief to be able to talk so openly and honestly with an Esmeralda, when by necessity only one word out of every hundred I would like to say to a normal girl can be said out loud. Ninety-nine per cent of what is the most essential me must remain concealed from a normal girl, like a portrait in my attic, whereas with Esmeraldas I can be 100% open. That is why I love Esmeraldas so much. As much as for the sex, it is to just be able to be myself and speak freely. I have felt closer to true friendship with Esmeraldas than I ever have with a normal girl.
The amazing hour I spent laying with the Turkish girl when I had no more money but she just let me lay there, as she lay in my arms, as she talked to me about her life as I stroked her hair, and her beautiful bottom. She told me how she loved reading, Guy de Maupassant her favourite, and how her father told her as long as you have books you are always rich. Ayeesha. I do not think I have ever had a happier hour than that one. In Munich, because of its strict conservatism, there basically are no Esmeraldas as such, accept for very huge sums of money. The roles of Esmeralda and Tallulah have become merged, and the dancers will do a lot more than just dance, and the whores will stop short of going all the way, which is both more exciting and yet ultimately frustrating. The single greatest liberating moment of my life I regard as the time I took Patricia into one of the White Coffin separees in Munich. At that moment a Rubicon was crossed, and I have never looked back. Two weeks later, on The Night of the Snow, I took the Romanian Emily into one of the Three Cats separee and enjoyed the greatest sexual experience of my life, again without any actual sex taking place.
The first time I ever set foot in Stutti Frutti in Berlin the first girl I saw was the extraordinary Yulia. A month later the first time I set foot in Mon Cheri I met the stunning Riccarda, and recorded in my journal at the time that I felt like I had just fucked Marilyn Monroe. A month later the first time I set foot in the Golden Gate, I met Iga. Three of the greatest women of my life and all were met the first time I set foot in their respective establishments, all of which have been desolate wastelands whenever I return to them now. The last time I went to Berlin I made my first visits to the Mazurka and met the extraordinary sisters Alla & Olga and I have no doubt I will never see them again, and I carried on down the road to make my first visit to Ciro and met the mindblowing Erika, again who I am sure will have disappeared from the face of the earth if I ever go back & no one will even admit to having heard of her. When the Esmeraldas and Tallulahs I have met in my life have been so extraordinary and stimulating and life enhancing, how can I give them up?
The closest I have come to a real relationship has been with the Esmeraldas I have met in Moloch, namely Lela from Romania, Ana Maria from Spain, Olga from Russia, and latterly Pamela from Sweden. I can only fall in love with Esmeraldas. I do not think I am capable of loving a normal girl, a respectable girl. There is so much of me that I have to hide from them, so much of the double life that I must keep secret from them, which is never necessary with Esmeraldas, because we know everything about each other from the beginning. What a relief to be able to talk so openly and honestly with an Esmeralda, when by necessity only one word out of every hundred I would like to say to a normal girl can be said out loud. Ninety-nine per cent of what is the most essential me must remain concealed from a normal girl, like a portrait in my attic, whereas with Esmeraldas I can be 100% open. That is why I love Esmeraldas so much. As much as for the sex, it is to just be able to be myself and speak freely. I have felt closer to true friendship with Esmeraldas than I ever have with a normal girl.
The amazing hour I spent laying with the Turkish girl when I had no more money but she just let me lay there, as she lay in my arms, as she talked to me about her life as I stroked her hair, and her beautiful bottom. She told me how she loved reading, Guy de Maupassant her favourite, and how her father told her as long as you have books you are always rich. Ayeesha. I do not think I have ever had a happier hour than that one. In Munich, because of its strict conservatism, there basically are no Esmeraldas as such, accept for very huge sums of money. The roles of Esmeralda and Tallulah have become merged, and the dancers will do a lot more than just dance, and the whores will stop short of going all the way, which is both more exciting and yet ultimately frustrating. The single greatest liberating moment of my life I regard as the time I took Patricia into one of the White Coffin separees in Munich. At that moment a Rubicon was crossed, and I have never looked back. Two weeks later, on The Night of the Snow, I took the Romanian Emily into one of the Three Cats separee and enjoyed the greatest sexual experience of my life, again without any actual sex taking place.
Tuesday, 4 August 2020
After Lamm's what else is there to do for me in Munich apart from struggling to the New Pin & trying to make it back to the Intercity before I explode? (4th August 2006)
After Lamm's what else is there to do for me in Munich, apart from struggling to the New Pin & trying to make it back to the Intercity before I explode? Nothing. Really. Lamm's is the be all and end all of my every day in Munich. At nights, the White Coffin becomes the be all and end all but I think even that has finished for me now, as it has become just full of memories which the here and now increasingly struggles to live up to. The more fantastic memories you have built up in a place, or exquisitely painful ones, the more blood you have left on the tracks, the harder it is to get the same thrill out of the place & the more disappointing it becomes. It becomes a law of diminishing returns. There is a rising arc of your first few visits when it gets better & better, then you reach the zenith, then level off, then the arc inexorably descends, and every trip becomes increasingly distressingly flat and uneventful. The whores get more flat-chested and unattractive every time you go. In Berlin, Yulia, Riccarda, Iga, Diana, gone forever. Maybe they were always poor but the excitement of going somewhere new made them seem more sexy and alluring than they really were. The more you return the more you tend to see the same women in the cold light of day, as it were, and you realise they weren’t all they were cracked up to be.
I want to write books the like of which have never been seen before. Journals of a man subsumed in a life of emptiness and nothingness, but who revels in and gorges himself on this emptiness and nothingness, like a mother eating her own placenta. Journals about the visceral pleasure in detachment of an autistic person. About transcendency, about finding lenses that enable one to focus all the rays of this emptiness and nothingness like a magnifying glass used to focus the rays of the sun to start a fire, like the mirror that Orphee steps through to enter the Underworld, and then the transcendency flares into life like a white phosphorescent explosion, and one orgies in the transcendency, in the sublime orgasmic detachment from everything and everyone around you, in the supreme quality of emptiness and nothingness stretched to the nth degree like a taut violin string that is at any moment about to break but never quite goes; what exquisite pleasure is then to be found. If Guy Debord’s view of life was to seek the perfect point of inebriation, mine is to locate the perfect point of transcendental orgasmic detachment. The nights I would go to the Coliseum and have to creep in the darkness to the gentleman’s toilets and furiously masturbate so aroused was I. The nights at the opera in Berlin, when I had to leave at the interval in search of Kant and cunt, so highly-strung and aroused had I become.
It is possible to take an aesthetic appreciation in fine pornography, fine aids to arousal and ejaculation; indeed it is impossible not to. The night in Munich I had to leave Strauss’s Arabella in desperate race back to Schiller and Goethe. It was Karl Kraus who said a woman can sometimes be an acceptable substitute for masturbation, but that it requires an awful lot of imagination. When I think of all the brief connections I have made this year with women, Florence, Melani, Amanda, Pamela, Olga, I can say that not one of them gave me an iota of the pleasure that I felt when the woman in the cinema let the men crowd around her with their cocks out, and let me wrap her hair around my cock to masturbate with in the dark. Transgression is not only possible, but beautiful. I would go further. Transgression is not only beautiful, it is essential. The double life is absolutely essential in order to save one’s life.
Oh I cannot wait to get back to Nuremberg again! To go back to the Pils Bar to look for Martina! To go back to the Caribic on a Saturday night! My trips always used to be a three-way battle between Love, Art and Eros, this in the days when I was tormented by my desires and my repression, and the more I repressed my desires the more they overwhelmed me. Truly the only way to avoid tempation is to give in to it. Only by indulging your tormenting desire does that desire go away and leave you free to go on with more constructive things, like writing about it. In the last two or three years, however, I have achieved a unity of the three. Love, Art and Eros have been forged together so everything I do is motivated and fuelled by the combination of the three. I go to the Wiertz Museum during the day, and walk around that extraordinary single big room–alone, always alone–and already achieve a fine erection. My cock strains hugely in my trousers and rolls from side to side like a ship in a storm as I walk slowly around the room. By the time I penetrate into the three smaller rooms at the end of the corridor, it is all I can do not to remove my swollen member from its captivity and frig myself maniacally there & then on the spot. How Wiertz’s Napoleon arouses me, his Satan. Because I remember every time I have been here before, it was a precursor to the exquisite coils of desire I would envelop myself in later that night, so the Wiertz Musuem serves as the appetiser, the foreplay, the anteroom on the first floor, as it were, to the brothel on the second.
Similarly, I go to the Museum of Modern Art in order to arouse myself by looking again at the deliciously dirty Paul Delvaux pictures, the Profond des Plaisirs, Salvador Dali’s Temptation of St Anthony, Tresors de Satan, and Alfred Brooks’s Salome, knowing what it will lead to later. How can I not walk around art galleries with an erection! Especially if there is some sexy woman walking around the galleries just ahead of you, so you sometimes pass her and she sometimes passes you, in an erotic dance, a waltz, where you both know less than half your mind is on the pictures, and your eyes are surreptitiously looking at each other much more than at the paintings on the wall! Oh art galleries are the most erotic places on Earth! Classical music concerts, too. I have never met so many single women as I did when I used to go to concerts every week. The red scallop neck top girl who followed me back into the auditorium at the Barbican after the interval, and who as I looked up from my notebook, I made suddenly electric eye contact with. For the entire second half of the concert, as she sat two rows in front of me, her chest rose and fell like she had been running, so excited and aroused had she become about what might happen between us afterwards. Of course, nothing did. I sidled miserably home on my own, hating myself more with every step I took, but still–the mutual arousal and anticipation had been thrilling. So many times I have had encounters like this at classical music concerts. The Irish-looking lush in front of me in the Wigmore Hall ticket queue, who kept looking back at me, and then for no discernible reason bent right over, so I could see up her skirt. Women can be quite primitive in their seduction techniques sometimes. And people say to me “How boring! Art galleries! Classical music concerts!” They have no idea. The highly developed dirty mind, the truly smutty intellect, can find sex in a pot plant. And don’t get me started on tropical palmhouses and butterfly houses! Steamy indeed! Steamy in every sense of the word! I want to write smutty monographs of no more than 45 or 50 pages each, to document how deliciously dirty the world is.
I want to write books the like of which have never been seen before. Journals of a man subsumed in a life of emptiness and nothingness, but who revels in and gorges himself on this emptiness and nothingness, like a mother eating her own placenta. Journals about the visceral pleasure in detachment of an autistic person. About transcendency, about finding lenses that enable one to focus all the rays of this emptiness and nothingness like a magnifying glass used to focus the rays of the sun to start a fire, like the mirror that Orphee steps through to enter the Underworld, and then the transcendency flares into life like a white phosphorescent explosion, and one orgies in the transcendency, in the sublime orgasmic detachment from everything and everyone around you, in the supreme quality of emptiness and nothingness stretched to the nth degree like a taut violin string that is at any moment about to break but never quite goes; what exquisite pleasure is then to be found. If Guy Debord’s view of life was to seek the perfect point of inebriation, mine is to locate the perfect point of transcendental orgasmic detachment. The nights I would go to the Coliseum and have to creep in the darkness to the gentleman’s toilets and furiously masturbate so aroused was I. The nights at the opera in Berlin, when I had to leave at the interval in search of Kant and cunt, so highly-strung and aroused had I become.
It is possible to take an aesthetic appreciation in fine pornography, fine aids to arousal and ejaculation; indeed it is impossible not to. The night in Munich I had to leave Strauss’s Arabella in desperate race back to Schiller and Goethe. It was Karl Kraus who said a woman can sometimes be an acceptable substitute for masturbation, but that it requires an awful lot of imagination. When I think of all the brief connections I have made this year with women, Florence, Melani, Amanda, Pamela, Olga, I can say that not one of them gave me an iota of the pleasure that I felt when the woman in the cinema let the men crowd around her with their cocks out, and let me wrap her hair around my cock to masturbate with in the dark. Transgression is not only possible, but beautiful. I would go further. Transgression is not only beautiful, it is essential. The double life is absolutely essential in order to save one’s life.
Oh I cannot wait to get back to Nuremberg again! To go back to the Pils Bar to look for Martina! To go back to the Caribic on a Saturday night! My trips always used to be a three-way battle between Love, Art and Eros, this in the days when I was tormented by my desires and my repression, and the more I repressed my desires the more they overwhelmed me. Truly the only way to avoid tempation is to give in to it. Only by indulging your tormenting desire does that desire go away and leave you free to go on with more constructive things, like writing about it. In the last two or three years, however, I have achieved a unity of the three. Love, Art and Eros have been forged together so everything I do is motivated and fuelled by the combination of the three. I go to the Wiertz Museum during the day, and walk around that extraordinary single big room–alone, always alone–and already achieve a fine erection. My cock strains hugely in my trousers and rolls from side to side like a ship in a storm as I walk slowly around the room. By the time I penetrate into the three smaller rooms at the end of the corridor, it is all I can do not to remove my swollen member from its captivity and frig myself maniacally there & then on the spot. How Wiertz’s Napoleon arouses me, his Satan. Because I remember every time I have been here before, it was a precursor to the exquisite coils of desire I would envelop myself in later that night, so the Wiertz Musuem serves as the appetiser, the foreplay, the anteroom on the first floor, as it were, to the brothel on the second.
Similarly, I go to the Museum of Modern Art in order to arouse myself by looking again at the deliciously dirty Paul Delvaux pictures, the Profond des Plaisirs, Salvador Dali’s Temptation of St Anthony, Tresors de Satan, and Alfred Brooks’s Salome, knowing what it will lead to later. How can I not walk around art galleries with an erection! Especially if there is some sexy woman walking around the galleries just ahead of you, so you sometimes pass her and she sometimes passes you, in an erotic dance, a waltz, where you both know less than half your mind is on the pictures, and your eyes are surreptitiously looking at each other much more than at the paintings on the wall! Oh art galleries are the most erotic places on Earth! Classical music concerts, too. I have never met so many single women as I did when I used to go to concerts every week. The red scallop neck top girl who followed me back into the auditorium at the Barbican after the interval, and who as I looked up from my notebook, I made suddenly electric eye contact with. For the entire second half of the concert, as she sat two rows in front of me, her chest rose and fell like she had been running, so excited and aroused had she become about what might happen between us afterwards. Of course, nothing did. I sidled miserably home on my own, hating myself more with every step I took, but still–the mutual arousal and anticipation had been thrilling. So many times I have had encounters like this at classical music concerts. The Irish-looking lush in front of me in the Wigmore Hall ticket queue, who kept looking back at me, and then for no discernible reason bent right over, so I could see up her skirt. Women can be quite primitive in their seduction techniques sometimes. And people say to me “How boring! Art galleries! Classical music concerts!” They have no idea. The highly developed dirty mind, the truly smutty intellect, can find sex in a pot plant. And don’t get me started on tropical palmhouses and butterfly houses! Steamy indeed! Steamy in every sense of the word! I want to write smutty monographs of no more than 45 or 50 pages each, to document how deliciously dirty the world is.
Monday, 3 August 2020
I am unique. It is important to remember that (3rd August 2006)
I am unique. It is important to remember that. I am writer and eccentric, like Philip O’Connor, Friedrich Nietzsche in cold stoveless rooms, Ernest Dowson. I exist to write those extreme, bizarre, small little books, like Autismus, Black Narcissus, The Cold Icy Air of the Mountains, and Casanova. 45 page long monographs about emptiness and nothingness. Smile from Calcutta blonde: “No ice today!” I need to focus on Miami Vice, Rebels & Martyrs exhibition, classical music concerts. The sexiest encounters of my life were at the Barbican and Wigmore Hall.
I travel uniquely, to Berlin, Vienna and Brussels. I live a bizarre and nocturnal life. I will continue to use Sunset Cinema and Demi and Pamela. There is nothing like that excitement when a man comes in with a woman and everyone crowds around with their cocks out. Day 1 of my new life starts here. No more Midnight Bell. The Calcutta only, followed by Sunset Cinema, Demi and Pamela. I will go to the Cotton Club only when Deborah is on. I am Ernest Dowson. Philip O’Connor. The Shining Roads will be exclusively in Soho. How thrilling it is to come out of the cinema with my huge cock rolling in my trousers, just around the corner to Demi or Pamela. Just getting the bus up Regent Street and along Oxford Street you see so many big breast women, making me ready for cinema even today. My life revolves around drinking & pornography. I want to take a long train journey again, thinking and writing.
I went in Dionysus again on Wednesday. Absolutely lovely. How lovely it was to be in Charing Cross Station today. I really love Charing Cross. The way in Berlin I cling like a limpet to Berlin Zoo station, and in Munich I stay in the Intercity connected to the Hauptbahnhof, and in Vienna I stay in the Dorint opposite the Westbahnhof, and in Brussels I stay in the Ibis opposite the Gare du Midi, in London my whole life revolves around Charing Cross. I love the Upper Crust girls who get my tuna & mayo rolls ready for me, the Calcutta pub who get my cokes and beers ready for me.
I took an incredible risk watching those porn movies in the hotel business centre the Christmas before last, before w—ing in room 16. I have never been able to work out what that fantastic film was. I am sure it was a Christoph Clark but I have never tracked it down. Like that elusive E.E. Doc Smith Lensman book I read where the captain slides his hard hand down over F’s breasts while they are watching a play together on board the spaceship. Before C goes to his room and disrobes. The best w—ing of my life was the first nights I stayed in the Dorint Hotel in Vienna while I was en route to Oslo on my Munch pilgrimage,when I was in the blackest frame of mind of my life. The two things do go together. My greatest periods of unrestrained sexuality come at my times of greatest blackness & despair. I need to be low and black and destroyed. I feel like Munch in Christiana now. Too much drink and drugs and endless nights with scantily clad women have overwhelmed my senses and driven me into a spiral of despair.
The sexiest encounters of my life were with girls at classical music concerts, while I was sitting in the back row–the red scallop neck girl at the Barbican, little brown bob who sat opposite me in the Barbican lobby, black fur coat at the Wigmore, the grey skirt lush in the Wigmore lobby. The erections I have got in art galleries! Especially the Brussels Museum of Modern Art and the Wiertz Museum–I have got to go back to Brussels this autumn! To the Modern Art, the Wiertz, the Cathedral, the Gare du Midi Pullman bar, it is such a morbidly erotic place, even before I get up to Empire and the Gare du Nord. I got great erections in Antwerp,too. And Munich Neue Pinakothek. Oh how erotic it is to be there during the day, going to the New Pin and Lamms, knowing it is just preparation for what I am going to do later–cross Bayerstrasse and round the corner of Schillerstrasse and disappear into the White Coffin.
My heroes are Walter Benjamin, Karl Kraus, Friedrich Nietzsche, Karl Marx. I live everyday of my life now as if I am on holiday, just drinking and eating and w—ing. The gorgeous beer in the Calcutta, the gorgeous fish & chips in Dionysus, the gorgeous KFC in Leicester Square. The gorgeous tuna & mayo rolls in Charing Cross Station. When in Berlin I live for the knesepfannes in my hotel bar and the ham & eggs rolls in Thobens at Berlin Zoo station. In Vienna it is the alt wiener rostbratens in my hotel bar; I no longer go to Wegenstein's after the staff attacked me. I went back once but it is always so empty there, in contrast to the warmth & conviviality of Lamm's in Munich. I think I almost go to Munich solely so I can eat in Lamm's & have a glass of their ice cold Augustiner beer. I go to Berlin solely so I can eat the knesepfannes in my hotel & the Zoo Thobens rolls.
Oh I so much want to go back to Munich! But where to stay–the Regent which I love for its bar, or the Intercity for its ease? I go to Vienna solely for the cold Zipfers served by the white shirted girls in the Dorint bar before I commence my afternoon of sightseeing, which usually means St Stephen's Cathedral, the Pummerin bell made out of Turkish cannons left behind after the Siege of Vienna, the Butterfly House, the KHM, the Belvedere and the Leopold. Always the same places. Sometimes I will mix in a few Third Man sites, like the Am Hof, and the steps where Harry Lime stood when the cat gave him away and we see him for the first time. I will not go into the sewers again.
I travel uniquely, to Berlin, Vienna and Brussels. I live a bizarre and nocturnal life. I will continue to use Sunset Cinema and Demi and Pamela. There is nothing like that excitement when a man comes in with a woman and everyone crowds around with their cocks out. Day 1 of my new life starts here. No more Midnight Bell. The Calcutta only, followed by Sunset Cinema, Demi and Pamela. I will go to the Cotton Club only when Deborah is on. I am Ernest Dowson. Philip O’Connor. The Shining Roads will be exclusively in Soho. How thrilling it is to come out of the cinema with my huge cock rolling in my trousers, just around the corner to Demi or Pamela. Just getting the bus up Regent Street and along Oxford Street you see so many big breast women, making me ready for cinema even today. My life revolves around drinking & pornography. I want to take a long train journey again, thinking and writing.
I went in Dionysus again on Wednesday. Absolutely lovely. How lovely it was to be in Charing Cross Station today. I really love Charing Cross. The way in Berlin I cling like a limpet to Berlin Zoo station, and in Munich I stay in the Intercity connected to the Hauptbahnhof, and in Vienna I stay in the Dorint opposite the Westbahnhof, and in Brussels I stay in the Ibis opposite the Gare du Midi, in London my whole life revolves around Charing Cross. I love the Upper Crust girls who get my tuna & mayo rolls ready for me, the Calcutta pub who get my cokes and beers ready for me.
I took an incredible risk watching those porn movies in the hotel business centre the Christmas before last, before w—ing in room 16. I have never been able to work out what that fantastic film was. I am sure it was a Christoph Clark but I have never tracked it down. Like that elusive E.E. Doc Smith Lensman book I read where the captain slides his hard hand down over F’s breasts while they are watching a play together on board the spaceship. Before C goes to his room and disrobes. The best w—ing of my life was the first nights I stayed in the Dorint Hotel in Vienna while I was en route to Oslo on my Munch pilgrimage,when I was in the blackest frame of mind of my life. The two things do go together. My greatest periods of unrestrained sexuality come at my times of greatest blackness & despair. I need to be low and black and destroyed. I feel like Munch in Christiana now. Too much drink and drugs and endless nights with scantily clad women have overwhelmed my senses and driven me into a spiral of despair.
The sexiest encounters of my life were with girls at classical music concerts, while I was sitting in the back row–the red scallop neck girl at the Barbican, little brown bob who sat opposite me in the Barbican lobby, black fur coat at the Wigmore, the grey skirt lush in the Wigmore lobby. The erections I have got in art galleries! Especially the Brussels Museum of Modern Art and the Wiertz Museum–I have got to go back to Brussels this autumn! To the Modern Art, the Wiertz, the Cathedral, the Gare du Midi Pullman bar, it is such a morbidly erotic place, even before I get up to Empire and the Gare du Nord. I got great erections in Antwerp,too. And Munich Neue Pinakothek. Oh how erotic it is to be there during the day, going to the New Pin and Lamms, knowing it is just preparation for what I am going to do later–cross Bayerstrasse and round the corner of Schillerstrasse and disappear into the White Coffin.
My heroes are Walter Benjamin, Karl Kraus, Friedrich Nietzsche, Karl Marx. I live everyday of my life now as if I am on holiday, just drinking and eating and w—ing. The gorgeous beer in the Calcutta, the gorgeous fish & chips in Dionysus, the gorgeous KFC in Leicester Square. The gorgeous tuna & mayo rolls in Charing Cross Station. When in Berlin I live for the knesepfannes in my hotel bar and the ham & eggs rolls in Thobens at Berlin Zoo station. In Vienna it is the alt wiener rostbratens in my hotel bar; I no longer go to Wegenstein's after the staff attacked me. I went back once but it is always so empty there, in contrast to the warmth & conviviality of Lamm's in Munich. I think I almost go to Munich solely so I can eat in Lamm's & have a glass of their ice cold Augustiner beer. I go to Berlin solely so I can eat the knesepfannes in my hotel & the Zoo Thobens rolls.
Oh I so much want to go back to Munich! But where to stay–the Regent which I love for its bar, or the Intercity for its ease? I go to Vienna solely for the cold Zipfers served by the white shirted girls in the Dorint bar before I commence my afternoon of sightseeing, which usually means St Stephen's Cathedral, the Pummerin bell made out of Turkish cannons left behind after the Siege of Vienna, the Butterfly House, the KHM, the Belvedere and the Leopold. Always the same places. Sometimes I will mix in a few Third Man sites, like the Am Hof, and the steps where Harry Lime stood when the cat gave him away and we see him for the first time. I will not go into the sewers again.
Sunday, 2 August 2020
The Scotsman felt like Streamray now does, completely boring apart from just one girl (2nd August 2006)
The Scotsman felt like Streamray now does, completely boring apart from just one girl. If —– is not there I feel it is completely pointless. Everyone bored me. I have definitely overdone the Scotsman, …..but can I stay away tonight? I went on to Nag’s Head and that was even worse, no one I knew. Awful. Stepped in Sunset Cinema but nothing much on and I was too drunk as well. It was black and rainy, though,and everywhere looked like the Shining Road. I was singing it to myself the whole way back to Charing X. It was beautiful but did not excite me as it used to, when my blood was up. Maybe tonight my blood will be up if I do not drink much, and I will go to cinema & Demi?
Saturday, 1 August 2020
For someone who always claimed not to like blondes (1st August 2006)
For someone who always claimed not to like blondes, the blondes in The Killers Mr Brightside, Stereophonics Dakota and Robbie Williams Sexed Up videos remind me of an awful lot of them: Riccarda, Iga, Diana, and now Florence. Just one more night to get through! Then back to the Calcutta and the Bell! I am such a drunk. Like Guy Debord, the point of life is seeking the perfect point of inebriation.
Because of that I lost Florence.
Because I lost Florence.
Because of that I lost Florence.
Because I lost Florence.
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The Calcutta was very packed even for a Friday [7th October 2006]
The Calcutta was very packed even for a Friday. I had 3½ pints before going to the Wigmore. To be honest, Frittoli was more voluptuous than ...
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The Calcutta was very packed even for a Friday. I had 3½ pints before going to the Wigmore. To be honest, Frittoli was more voluptuous than ... -
Thunder at 6am. Now torrential rain. Winter is finally coming. I am autistic. I am Stephane in Un Coeur en Hiver . I am Will Penny. I am the...