I want my desires to be like Dirk Bogarde’s in Death in Venice; aching, yearning, quivering, shaking with repressed longings, lusts
January 9, 2017 § Leave a comment
I want my desires to be like Dirk Bogarde’s in Death in Venice; aching, yearning, quivering, shaking with repressed longings, lusts; to want something so much but to be so afraid of the shame that you will bring on yourself if you did it and got “caught”; when you no longer fear getting caught, when there is no sense of the forbidden, the verboten, the taboo, all the point goes out of it. I want to wander again the diseased, bleach-drenched streets of Venice [Nuremberg, Munich, Berlin, Vienna, Brussels], bent double with desire for something that I know I can never have, a flower I can never pluck; or can I? why can’t I?! I can do what I want, and to hell with the consequences! To hell with society’s damnation! We are in hell when we live in accordance with what other people want us to do, and let ourselves be frightened of what other people think of us! To hell with restraints! Embrace relaxes! I want to be bleeding for someone again, to leave so much blood on the tracks of those European cities, their tram tracks; I want to be under such pressure that my nose drips with blood onto the pages of my moleskine notebook as I am writing of my desires with cold blue hands in cold stoveless rooms like Nietzsche. I want more cold! I want more ice! I want more darkness! I want more loneliness! So then I can experience those highs in the low places again! So I can experience that smutty smutty glory, in the dirty sleazy places. To become infected again, worse than before; I can understand how men actually want to fuck without condoms, to risk their own death as that is the only way they can carry on getting the high they need. I can understand how Nietzsche caught syphilis, how Cesare Borgia caught syphilis, how Gustav von Aschenbach caught syphilis. My last experiences with Soho whores were such cheap, unbelievably tawdry and awful experiences, but I got turned on just thinking about them! The girls could barely look at me by the end such was their scorn and disgust; but I don’t care; I love it. It is the very wretchedness of the experience that provides me with the glory I need.