January 7, 2017 §
Luxuriate in your shame, and embarrassment; gorge on it like a mother eating her own placenta. I wanted this to happen; I provoked this humiliation with my wildness, my love of drama and storm. Do more, and more! Delight in my provocations. Now may be the perfect time to travel again—how I yearn for the Intercity now. Insouciance is my middle name. Disappear when they think you surrounded; reappear in their midst splashing them with your waves when they have forgotten all about you. The Cocteau way. Provoke, provoke, throw more bombs, throw more stones in the pond. I need to be on Eurostar at St Pancras, I am breathless for it. Pulling in to Brussels Gare du Midi and straight on to train to Nuremberg and Munich. After a day or so, on to Berlin. Live wilder. Already I feel more alive. This is what humiliation does for me. I feel the electricity prickling on my skin. I am feeding off my humiliation, I want more and more of it. Throw more at me, and I will gorge on it, laughing as I destroy all that is most holy.
November 25, 2016 §
Well, the first disappointments of this trip—the little corner seats in the St Pancras undercroft café where I used to wait for my Eurostar are now blocked off. Then I arrive at Brussels Gare du Midi and head straight to Maes Corner bar to find it has gone. I see absolutely no North Africans anywhere—of course not, they are sleeping now, it is just 1PM. They only come out at nights. I look forward to seeing them tonight.
October 23, 2016 §
I chose my seat wisely; I have avoided the Mongol hordes in carriage 1 at least. I fully expect a loving young couple to take the two seats in front of me, though; they always do on my Eurostar home.
September 15, 2016 §
A dark, wet and windy 5am Tuesday start to my latest trip. I don’t have the money to lavish on these trips anymore. I think that is part of the reason they are not so enjoyable anymore. Every 1 pound I earn buys me a naked dance from a sex dancer. It is the feeling that all her friends are always spying on me in London that drives me back to the continent—to be a nobody again. Will I see one great huge breasted-girl on this trip? A Martini, an Emily, a Clarisse, an Olga & Alla, a Yulia, a Diana. Will I find someone as pretty as a —–? Will I have one genuine erection this time? There have been some big breasts in London, but I am not free to enjoy them in London anymore, so I must resume my travels. Perhaps a return to the Mona Lisa of Munich, Die Sunde, will restore my sensual fortunes. Wonderful September dark autumnal weather anyway. It was on a day like this that I went to my first ever strip club and saw my first ever naked woman. The train is stuck at the entrance to the tunnel again—a Freudian omen that will escape no one, the same thing that happened to me the second time I ever travelled. I am in great danger of missing my connection to Munich. Sometimes it is only in setbacks that great new things are discovered. If I had not had my card stolen in Brussels in 2002 I would never have met Martina in Nuremberg. If I had not missed my connection to Vienna I would never have spent my first night in a Brussels hotel.