I want to travel in ice and high mountains again

January 8, 2017 § Leave a comment

I want to travel in ice and high mountains again; I want to set sail on stormy seas, and leave this safe port that has made me so soft; I want to sail once more through narrow channels between sheer rock cliff faces like Jason & the Argonauts, with the risk of being crushed at any second. Danger is my middle name. I thrive on danger. I thrive on danger, and masturbation. These are my fuel. Funnily enough just a little bit of research shows there are quite a few strip clubs in Munich—or tabledance clubs, that dread, dead expression—all within quite easy walking distance of the Hauptbahnhof and the Intercity Hotel, not just Atlantic City in Schillerstraße and Sexyland in Goethestraße; but I don’t think I will bother, still. I like things to be really close to me, so it is easy and convenient and Atlantic City and Sexyland are just so easy to cross the road and stroll across to, across all those cris-crossing tram tracks. How hard it is for an Englishman to step on tram tracks and not constantly think they are live! How many Europeans must come to England and electrocute themselves on tube or train tracks as they are so used to tracks that are not live! How many Europeans who stand waiting for the green man before crossing a road even if no traffic is coming must be absolutely shocked and horrified when they come to London and see how people just plunge into the hellish traffic and expect it to brake and swerve and avoid them!
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It is the strip clubs that taught me how to live

December 29, 2016 § 1 Comment

It is the strip clubs that taught me how to live, how to come out of my shell, and find any kind of real life for myself at all. Inevitably, when I found real love for the first time in my life, it was to be a stripper, but. The snow has stopped already. It was a 10-minute thing.

I want to write a Bradshaw’s Continental Railway Guide one day. You want to live like me?

December 29, 2016 § Leave a comment

I want to write a Bradshaw’s Continental Railway Guide one day. You want to live like me? You want to follow in my footsteps in some idolatrous pilgrimage? I understand. Well, this is how to do it, this is where to go, where to stay, where to drink, where to eat, where to f–k, where to avoid. Then you can follow in my exact footsteps, and feel close to me. Christ, I’m in the city of Karl Kraus! I’m in the city of Schoenberg, Berg and Webern, and Sigmund Freud, and Egon Schiele. Isn’t that extraordinary? For most of my life I was too frightened to come out of my bedroom, let alone my front door. I was too scared, mortified, to walk down the street. It was only my uncontrollable desire to go to strip clubs, then adult cinemas, then Esmeraldas, that drew me out, and in that glory find my rausch, my intoxication, my confidence, my strength. This is why I will always thank those places, and that world.

The building on the corner of Berwick Street and Peter Street I used to see Siberian Olga (and Romanian Lela) in

December 12, 2016 § Leave a comment

The building on the corner of Berwick Street and Peter Street I used to see Siberian Olga (and Romanian Lela) in and sit with her on Saturday nights drinking vodka with as she decided which customers to open the door to, is now gone; a new building gone up in its place and occupied by a bike shop, with perhaps some aptness, I don’t know. The building opposite the Red Lion (where Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels were tasked to write the Communist Manifesto at the second Congress of the Communist League in 1847) where I used to see Spanish Ana Maria is now gone, and still remains just a hole in the ground, which may also have some aptness. The Astral Adult Cinema in Brewer Street (the first pornographic cinema I ever went to) is gone. The Carnival Striptease in Old Compton Street (the second strip club I ever went to) is gone. The Boulevard Striptease (third strip club I ever went to) in Brewer’s Court is going next month apparently. Already at my young age I have lost so many of the places where I had my erotic education. As the Soho places closed down, I spread my wings (to use a euphemism) to Europe, and even there my treasured places are mostly gone. Stutti Frutti where I lost my Berlin virginity to Yulia in that black Rennie Mackintosh bedroom with the four poster bed, Mon Cheri where I fell in love/longing with Riccarda in the same claustrophobic room, Golden Gate where I fell in love/longing with Iga, Hanky Panky, Starlight, have all gone. In Vienna, Pour Platin where I lost my Vienna virginity to Maria (still my only Vienna consummation), is gone. In London these places are really over for me. In Berlin and Vienna at least there are still plenty of other places to try.

Berlin night bars are empty because there is no dancing?

November 10, 2016 § Leave a comment

Berlin night bars are empty because there is no dancing? The two strip clubs of Munich are always busy because men love to see girls dancing. That is why the places survive. The numerous strip clubs of London are always busy(ish). Every club in Berlin and Vienna is empty because there is no dancing? Where the girls do take to the stage it is so half-hearted and just a token dance to tempt you upstairs to a room. Where private dancing has killed striptease on a stage in London, the relentless prostitution of Berlin and Vienna has killed all the clubs, made them all totally empty and kills them off. Or because sex is so easy they don’t need strip clubs. In London strip clubs are so prevalent and all over the place because we are so repressed and frustrated? There are no beautiful salon-like clubs like Berlin and Vienna where you can sit in luxury, have one drink, take the girl upstairs and sleep with her and be gone. There is grubby cheap unsexy Soho and that is it. Sex in London and Munich is hard to come by or not sexy so strip clubs thrive. Sex in Berlin and Vienna is so easy so the clubs are always empty.

The stage at Atlantic City is really incredibly dark. The girls dance in almost pitch blackness

November 7, 2016 § Leave a comment

The stage at Atlantic City is really incredibly dark. The girls dance in almost pitch blackness. This too, with the clear, pounding, incessant music, gives it its attraction. My insights all come in strip clubs, and brothels, puffs, tingel-tangels, go go bars, call them what you will. They are where I live. I can be alive nowhere else. Whenever anyone attacks you for your shameful life, you bloom and blossom. The attacks are the vital prerequisite for blooming and blossoming. Our enemies are our greatest friends, they give us the essential rain that fertilises us. I have never been angry at an attacker; I smile and laugh and love them. They do not realise they are my catalysts.

Yet I offer my own bad example. I spent about four hours in Atlantic City on Monday night

November 6, 2016 § Leave a comment

Yet I offer my own bad example. I spent about four hours in Atlantic City on Monday night, and four hours again on Tuesday night, spending a fortune on alcohol both times, and succumbing to a €50 private dance all over & done with in 5 minutes as well. They got a massive amount of money out of me even though it was so completely boring and unfulfilling, because there was nowhere else for me to go that offers anything better, so I stay all night. I do now crave a return to Berlin though. Having said that, Atlantic City has the best collection of girls I have seen in any strip club, beaten only by the Flying Scotsman in days gone by on a very good day—Romanians Amalia and Claudia, one brunette, one blonde, both with nice large bosoms, not huge but nice, are two of the best dancers I have ever seen. Blonde Claudia, in particular, goes into my top three of favourites ever, I think. The splitting image of the blonde girl from Abba, but she shakes her booty in the Brazilian style, and is completely addictive. “Are you sleeping?” the Ukrainian girl next to me said when I was watching her; sleeping, no, I just could not blink, or move or breathe, so fixated was I on the way Claudia shook that incredible booty. Even the skinny Romanians they have there are incredibly cute and pretty. The music is loud, brilliantly clear, pounding and incessant, which makes a great atmosphere, which Sexyland in the next street, Goethestraβe, mysteriously completely fails to match. Why Sexyland is so bad and Atlantic City is so good, when to all intents and purposes they are pretty identical, is another mystery that defies exegesis. I almost look forward to getting back to London. London suddenly doesn’t seem so bad and boring after all.

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