I already said I would only go to Munich for a night if I was going straight on somewhere else afterwards, and I would only go to Brussels for a night if I was going straight on somewhere else afterwards; but for Vienna, I don’t think I can even say that. I cannot. There is no point even stopping over there for a night now–there is no Esmeralda I like, no restaurant I like, no pub I like. It is just a place of sadness and ennui now. It reminds me of the sad parts of Bad Timing, when it used to be the crazy hedonistic sexy bits. I had three memorable trips to Vienna—2001 when I came over myself in white waves on my way to Norway, 2002 where I met and fell in love with the 18-year-old Swedish barmaids Lotta and Sophia, and 2005 where I finally lost my Vienna virginity to Maria in Pour Platin. Since then, nothing.
There were so many great songs I saw on TV on my arrival in Vienna, which I now have on my ipod, but oh wouldn’t these songs have been so much greater if I could have seen some strippers dancing to them. I did nothing naughty in Vienna anyway, in a city where there is so many places to go if you want that kind of thing, so I might as well have gone to Munich where that kind of thing is not on offer, but they do at least have at least one much loved strip club.
Even a bad visit leaves aftershocks which have good consequences. As the old Chinese proverb has it, even bad pornography is good, and the same goes for travelling. Even if the trip feels like a failure, it is a success that you even made the trip at all.
Will I retrospectively look back on this trip to Vienna and decide it was NOT so bad after all, as I usually do? And start to want to go straight back again? I really do not think so. I think if there was anything I would do different is that I would spend MORE time drinking in the hotel bar, and less time travelling across Vienna to anywhere else. Drink as much as I can in the hotel bar, go next door to the Guesthaus on the corner for food (or station McDonald’s). Pour Platin was always in the perfect position for the drunken end to the night, just 50 feet or so from the hotel. Perhaps I could try again at Tete a Tete. If I could be turned on enough in ML Revue beforehand perhaps I could finally finally take one of those Tete a Tete girls into a room. Forget the rest of the Gurtel, it is a waste of time. It is Tete a Tete or nothing. I will return though on the No.6 tram to Favoritenstraße. Actually just around the corner from the Fortuna Kino was an Irish Pub and and an English pub in the same street. Perhaps that could become a new centre in Vienna. And the studio flats of Cora, Daria and Irina are just around another corner in Triesterstraße. Perhaps I did miss my chance of a good time in Vienna. You see! I am retrospectively making Vienna out to be so much better than it felt when I was there! I am talking myself into going back. I think wasting so much time in the Gurtel did drain all my energy and dispirit me. I should focus my activities in short sharp bursts, small distances with maximum effect.
People have laughed and whooped in triumph, and sort to expose me, and shame me. Faces twisted with vicious glee, they march on my castle with their flaming torches like in Frankenstein. I let them bash their brains out like moths against a lighthouse. I play them like a piano. The Turks are at the gates of Vienna, mother. But I have repelled them. I take their abandoned cannons and forge it into the great bell which I put at the top of my cathedral.
There is just a basic primal thrill to be sitting in a dark cinema with your swollen cock out, surrounded by other men all with their cocks out. There is nothing quite like it for raw nervous excitement.
The greatest thing in my life is -—. The greatest treasure. The greatest riches. The great miracle. I want her always in the centre of my life, though I would understand if she wanted something better.