January 9, 2017 §
Yes, I have got a safe sinecure at the moment, a safe harbour, but in reality it can end at any moment. I am at the whims of others. As long as they like me, they will favour me and protect me; as soon as they change their mind, I will be back on stormy seas again, and back in the financial abyss. I am never away from the financial precipice. It is easy to look back at my years when I was single as some kind of erotic paradise, which in many senses they were, but that would be to forget the absolute despair I was in all of the time. Deep sadness and sombreness and pain. And as I always say I think the true heights of eroticism are not possible without despair. It is only despair that grows and ripens the fruits of eroticism. Dirty smutty sexuality thrives in the damp, dark places of despair, like a fungal infection. It flourishes in the places where no one really wants to be. This is one of those eternal ironies—the highs can only be found in the lows. Student of Nietzsche as I am, we should all be grateful to our times of sickness. To know the true high nights of Eros again one must dive deeper into darkness, and one is no longer prepared to do that, as it would cost too much, and throw away too much that is most precious. I have too much to lose now.
January 5, 2017 §
When people are trying to hurt you there is no need to try to take revenge on them. I am a great believer that the universe will exact its revenge on them. The universe has the scales, and will always seek to redress the balance when a great wrong has been done to you. Van Gogh did not need to get revenge on those who were so vicious to him; Oscar Wilde did not need to get revenge on those who were so vicious to him; it is Van Gogh who is the most famous and loved painter in the world now; it is Oscar Wilde whose plays fill the West End, and has his statue opposite the Charing Cross Hotel, and his window (stained inevitably) in Westminster Abbey. No one knows the names or cares to remember those small stunted people who tried to destroy Van Gogh and Wilde; the universe saw to it that they won in the end. All those years when people were so vicious to me, threw themselves at me like wolves, smashed their brains out like moths against a blazing lighthouse, punched themselves to exhaustion like George Foreman against Ali so that I could then just start to pick them off, I never needed to take revenge. I knew I would win, and they would lose. The universe always watches and knows where there is right and where there is wrong, and soon adjusts the scales. That is why I worship Justice Palaces so much, and get more emotional in front of the great Justice Palaces, such as the Palais de Justice in Brussels or the Justiz Palast in Munich, than I do in any Cathedral, though Cathedrals move me, too. As do Bourses (or Central Banks), such as the Bourse in Brussels, or the Bank of England. A pound in my pocket will buy me one naked dance from a stripper; £20 will buy me a ten minute tryst with a Soho model; €60 will buy me half an hour with a Berlin floozy in Mon Cheri’s black James Pryde bedrooms. So Bourses represent to me the power to buy Eros. To open up the gates of lustful pleasures. It always amuses me that I can pick up the No.76 bus in London outside the Waldorf Hotel in Aldwych and it will then take me past the front doors of the Royal Courts of Justice, St Paul’s Cathedral AND the Bank of England.
December 30, 2016 §
Even the barman does not know why the hotel bar is now called M15, rather than the Café Klimt. No one had asked him before, he said, and he had never thought of it. We agreed it was much better than before, as fond as my memories of the Lotta-era bar are. 4pm already. In Berlin I would be starting to drink, looking forward to BEC, and Ciro, and Stuttgarter Platz, Sissi Bar and Club 77. Here, I don’t know. Eros is hiding somewhere perhaps. I don’t think I will find it (not even in myself). Anyway as I say things can change in a moment; it only takes one woman to bring a city to life in the blink of an eye.
September 24, 2016 §
When I started travelling to Europe, it was like I became the star of my own porn movie. The Esmeraldas did so much more than their Soho counterparts for the same price, were so much more voluptuous and beautiful, and they f–ked you like they were your girlfriend, instead of lying there coldly, and mechanically like a Soho girl would. And the bedrooms were amazing, up several flights of stairs, then these dark black James Prydian (almost Gormenghastian) bedrooms lit by one low red lamp, massive four poster bed with roof on it. The best sex of my life was in the Berlin bedrooms above Mon Cheri with Yulia, Riccarda, Diana. Honourable mentions too, to Olga & Alla in Berlin, Maria in Vienna, Emily in Munich. To go with an Esmeralda and to have her kissing you and f–king you as passionately as a girlfriend was a mindblowing experience, after the scraggly girls of Soho, who won’t even let you kiss without extra money and some won’t even take their bras off! Disgusting! It meant I returned from Europe feeling a foot taller, so relaxed, on a cloud of pleasure, and gradually my morbid shyness that had crippled me for so long began to dissipate. Life in London became just a waiting room until I could get back to Europe again. It is a great truth that the strip clubs taught us how to live. Europe truly was a wonderland to me. Then, however, after a magical couple of years, when I seemed to go a little bit further than before on every visit, things started to get worse, the girls started to become less attractive, the Dutch Elm Disease of Eros (aka the internet) that had laid waste to the red light scene in Soho had affected Europe just the same, and increasingly I craved something real. This was when I stepped through the Looking Glass, first a little bit with my sumptuous Siberian Cleopatra Olga, then tiny little thing —–. Once through the looking glass, I looked back at those Golden Age years of freedom and sensual abandon with a yearning nostalgia, and tried to recapture it, with almost negligible success. But in the belief that all is cyclical I have not given up hope that the pleasures can be recaptured.
July 29, 2016 §
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.
June 3, 2016 §
The Swiss have voted to automatically deport any non-Swiss found guilty of committing a crime—whether they are married to a Swiss, have Swiss children, have lived in Switzerland all their life, it doesn’t matter. The Swiss are amazing, and in many ways I suppose is how many populations in the European Union would like to be. Everyone fears being overrun. Joining the Post Office I saw how the old timers fear and despise the newcomers. Even though they were at exactly the same level as me on exactly the same pay and doing the same job, they had to assert their supremacy over the new people and make clear there was indeed a hierarchy by dint of the fact they were there before us. Postal workers are a strange breed seemingly quite separate from the rest of the species. The fact they have such a strong union with apparently jobs for life perhaps leads their evolution in this direction. Jobs for life but no promotion so they must assert their superiority in some way. Athens has again refused permission for a mosque. Greek Muslims have to practice their religion underground. My wife wants me to fetch her from the Turkish Bath after 15 minutes. Four more precious minutes of peace left. I now have to practice my religion of Priapism underground as well. My mosques have been closed down and destroyed. The morning cry of my Eros can no longer be heard ululating over the rooftops of Moloch, Berlin, Munich, Brussels or Vienna. Just furtively, underground, in cellars and basements away from the light, away from prying eyes and ears of my wife and her friends. I feel like I am hiding under the floorboards trying to avoid the claws or tentacles of some great monster hunting for me above like Deep Rising. But in truth I do not enjoy the cellars and basements anymore anyway. I have nothing to do there anymore and it no longer brings me one tenth of the pleasure it used to. Like a lapsed Catholic, I am a lapsed Priapic. While I mourn my old faith, I am aware it fell into disuse for a good reason. I passed through the years when I really needed it for my very survival. I need my wife for my very survival now. I regret not going to Teatro Municipal Balthazar Dias while here on the island, for either the Pizarro Chopin recital or the Romantic Winter Wonderland of songs by Strauss and Lehar, but my wife does not enjoy these things, anymore than I enjoy her nightclubs. I miss the sordidness of my former life while at the same time being glad she rescued me from it.