No time for the Secession building & the Beethoven frieze on this brief flying visit

July 29, 2016 § Leave a comment

No time for the Secession building & the Beethoven frieze on this brief flying visit, or the Schoenberg Foundation, Karl Kraus’s house, the Belvedere, KHM, Zentralfriedhof. No Third Man sites. How I have blossomed and bloomed since the cerebral, mind-obsessed pages of Autismus is quite extraordinary, yet in another way I have not moved on at all. I have become more relaxed and at ease in my own skin, but still the eternal battle between love, art and eros rages in me. Like scratching a mark above a child’s head every year to measure how fast they are growing, it will be interesting to see how different I feel in Vienna this time; from the neurotic first 4 day stay in 1998, to the three days of exquisite masturbation on the way to Oslo, then falling in love with Lotta & Sophia, to my last time six years ago when I finally lost my Vienna virginity. Now I am living in London with a sex dancer from The ———, after an affair with another Tallulah from the same place, and before that an Esmeralda, a sumptuous Siberian Cleopatra, with a big cat’s face, purple fingernails and blonde highlighted bob. Back in 1998 I never imagined I would ever be with a woman, or could ever be. Eroticism is the motor of life, it is what makes the world go around, and I have no shame in admitting I have devoted my life to it. Let those who are family men be family men, those who are businessmen be businessmen, but I live for eros alone. Priapism, persistent erection of the penis, has been my guiding philosophy since I was almost old enough to walk. There is no pleasure to compare with the swelling of one’s member, feeling all the warm blood beginning to fill it; it is even better than orgasm. Anticipation is everything. Resolution is merely putting the lid on it so one can return home, over Dowson’s Shaftesbury Avenue, across a rain-swept torrential Leicester Square, pass the statue of Oscar Wilde, into the bosom of the Charing Cross Hotel; or across a beautiful vast tree-canopied Kurfurstendamm with a bulge that still refuses to go down one little bit, around Olivaer Platz and its erotic window-display mannequins, back to the Plaza; back around the Gurtel to the Dorint; around the corner of Schillerstraße on shaking legs over the tramlines back to the Intercity; or back down the interminable never ending Boulevard Adolphe Max to the Ibis. Oh these high nights of erotic swooning, those high moments that “persuade us to put off suicide”. This my career in infamy has brought me. I like Nietzche am grateful to what my years of sickness have wrought in me.
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