November 14, 2017 §
All that matters is the books, the long journeys across Europe. Writing alone with blue hands in cold stoveless rooms.
Viennese Eroticism and psychotherapy fit together very easily. In fact you cannot have one without the other. Berlin Eroticism is different again, as is Munich Eroticism, and Brussels Eroticism. I will always remember Maria in Pour Platin. I will always remember arriving in Vienna at 11pm in the snow. Saybia, Mando Diao,The Libertines, Chemical Brothers, Soulwax.
I am sure Lilith knows I am there from the moment I connect to her room. A look always comes over her face, and is it my imagination but does she always start readjusting her camera, just to give an excuse to look directly into the lens? The moment I logged in under —- I am sure I saw her face freeze, as if suddenly desperate not to betray any emotion, but I am sure her heart started beating faster, because she started breathing deeper and faster.
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.
November 8, 2016 §
A freezing icy mist descends on Munich as I leave. Omen that an Ice Age is returning. Oh but there was no real dirty eroticism on this trip. That came when I made eye contact with —- or —-, back in London.
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.
July 9, 2016 §
I want to investigate the notion that the web has killed eroticism. For that I would need to be alone, and spend a lot of time in Vienna, Berlin, Munich and Brussels. It seems the scene has died everywhere, London Soho and Berlin, but maybe it is me that just changed when I became a family man. When I left R— on Twelfth Night I saw vistas of complete freedom open up before me but just a few hours later before the end of the night those vistas were closed off again. But I love her. If we split up, the Ice Age would envelop me instantly. All love, comfort, tenderness, affection, cut off like a switch. She would be vicious in enjoying her new single life.
July 7, 2016 §
If —– did leave me, wouldn’t the despair of sitting at the Ibis bar drinking my Stellas be absolutely exquisite? In that nihilistic frame of mind would I not take pleasure from ANYTHING I might find at Gare du Nord? Nihilism, that is the ingredient that I am missing, without that I believe eroticism is not possible. Over the last 13 months, the times when it looked like —– and me were finished, and she just left the house without telling where she was going, the wild rausch and intoxication I felt in storming drunkenly around London looking for her was incredible. If —– did leave me, wouldn’t the despair of sitting at the Berlin Plaza bar with my Berliner Pils be absolutely exquisite? Before debauching myself in a kino with total nihilism? If —– did leave me, wouldn’t the despair of sitting at the Dorint bar with my Zipfers be absolutely exquisite?