Well, Le Coin was bit of a disaster, but sub-consciously I knew I didn’t really want to go there (despite me coming back to Brussels especially for it, and even more staying in the Ibis Gare du Midi for it). I think I can’t get the visual memory of the South Sea Island Fifth girl from my mind. She is the one I want next. In the lovely Santana Bar now, on the corner of Place Rouppe, one of my holy places in Brussels (where Verlaine tried to shoot Rimbaud for a second time; and for this outrage he was imprisoned). Ah, Le Coin—what I was going to say—got my Jupiler and seeing Christy greeted her with a smile and “hi!”, but within two minutes some man quickly took her upstairs, so that resolved that particular tension/opportunity. Then this Algerian next to me started to explain to me his theory about, well, I’m not exactly clear about what. His obsession seemed to revolve around the number “79”, and the concept of passing time, and 8 is nothing but 7 is very significant, and he wanted to be remembered as a “good” person, not a “bad” person. Half-suspecting these were his last words before he killed me with a knife and cut my head off, I left after just my one beer, and so, here I am, in the Santana. If I sleep with Christy again, it will be in some far future time. I realise now: I have scratched that itch. I have lanced that boil. And that is how my sexuality is. 315PM. The Santana very nicely decorated for Christmas.
The Stripper 