I go to art museums in every city I go to, so for me going to strip clubs to look at naked women is no different. I walk around art museums very fast just glancing at the pictures I am passing waiting for the one picture that is going to leap off the walls and grab me—what it is that makes one picture grab hold of me and not let me go is something I cannot explain. It is the same at a strip club. Most sex dancers are mediocre in the extreme and you would never want to see them naked, but every once in a while you see one who has something that grabs hold of you. I am in love with beauty. I also look for beauty. I do not regard that as cheating on my wife anymore than stopping off in Munich just to see Die Sünde is cheating, or going to Antwerp to see Cleopatra again is cheating. I am just letting my eyes gaze on beauty. I am hungry for it. With me everything revolves around the eyes. I am a scopophiliac. I must look on beauty. If my wife is home I will leave work on the stroke of 5 to be home with her as soon as possible. If she is out working then I will fill the time by finding other beauty to detain me.
Tag Archives: antwerp
In Moloch it is Sylvia. As I ascended the steps to Antwerp’s Old Masters gallery I was thinking I do not really like these old pictures
In Moloch, it is Sylvia. As I ascended the steps to Antwerp’s Old Masters gallery, I was thinking I do not really like these old pictures, as they seem so alien to us today. We cannot see ourselves with them as they are so unrecognisable from people as we are today; but every so often you will see an old picture that looks so startlingly modern—like Caravaggio’s Victorious Cupid in Berlin’s Gemaldegalerie. And no sooner had I thought these words than I entered the first room and saw staring me in the face Madonna Surrounded by Seraphim and Cherubim, 1452. How can you believe that this picture was laid on this canvas 554 years ago? I was pleased while walking around the Royal Art Gallery to get so many erections. Especially in the room with the George Breitner, and Paul Delvaux’s De Roze Strikken. Standing amidst all this Belgian and Dutch art to come face to face with George Grosz’s “Portrait of the Writer Walter Mehring”—you look at it and see Berlin. The same way a Francis Bacon will stop me in the tracks because it is London.
I felt so happy when I arrived back in Brussels from Antwerp but by the end of my stay that happy feeling had long since dissipated
I felt so happy when I arrived back in Brussels from Antwerp, but by the end of my stay that happy feeling had long since dissipated. Now I feel miserable and ashamed and depressed. I don’t like to be known. I don’t like having to tell my mother anything about my life. I resent ever having to share what is going on inside my head with anyone else. For me, having to talk is like having my teeth pulled. So I shut people out, and loathe myself for doing so. Like I shut Clarisse out in Brussels. Like I shut the Waterloo Station café girl out before I even boarded the train to Brussels.
Actually at the moment though my burning memories are all of shame at my pathetic wretched behaviour
Actually, at the moment though my burning memories are all of shame at my pathetic, wretched behaviour, I think what may come shining through over time, like sun burning through early morning fog & rain, are the lovely smiles I got from so many women over the course of the four days. There were really some lovely fleeting moments of attraction during my stay in Brussels and Antwerp. I cannot be such a monster, when some people seemed to take at least some liking to me. Can I?
The Stripper 