820. Having a last Red Bull and few beers in the hotel lounge before getting a taxi just before 11 I expect. I should console myself that this expensive unplanned Eurostar ticket of £133 is more than made up for by the continence and abstinence of the rest of the trip—I had travelled to Brussels this time planning to —- so many girls, as I knew it had to be my last trip for a long time—East European Tatiana, Emily, Paloma, Perrie, that street girl if I saw her again; planned to have another 60 euro private dance (at least) with Jennifer in Empire; instead, I did none of these things. Planned to do something with 1 or 2 of the Rue d’Aerschot window girls but did nothing there either. I think it was inevitable I was always going to add the Friday & Saturday night to my stay, so the only real extra expense was for the Eurostar ticket; and that was covered by savings elsewhere. Next time I come, it will be at least 2 or 3 months hence, and that time I really should be able to come with a little bit of spare cash, and finally fully plunder the erotic delights of Brussels—because the delights are there. It was only my nagging money worries that dampened my desires (as always).
I said after my last—spectacular—one night stay in Brussels, that I realised I had only scratched the surface of what erotic pleasures Brussels could offer me; well, on this trip I have not even scratched the surface. My financial concerns have really held me back; if I had met a star like Inna, or Leyla or Diane again, then that is what was needed to make me live a little wildly. But I have met no one of that ilk (still 6 hours to go till I have to get the taxi to Midi). Even at this late stage—already packed and left my room, sitting in the lounge—I wonder if I can stay for 1 or 2 more nights and book another—hideously expensive—short notice Eurostar ticket for Saturday or Sunday.
One day, one day, I still want to go to the Reichenbach Falls, and the Brocken Mountain, and to Italy, all of Italy; and to Sils Maria. But for now my narrow erotic interests in quick thrills lead me always back to Brussels, and Vienna, and the dwindling last few red lights. I have lost so much in London (Carnival, Astral, Sunset Cinema, Soho Cinema, Flying Scotsman, so many models’ flats), lost so much in Berlin, Stuttgarter Platz almost entirely, lost so much in Brussels, Cine ABC, California, Paradise, I must treasure the last few resources that are left before they too are gone. In Vienna already I have lost Fortuna Kino and Pour Platin.
Another grey rainy Berlin day. 0946 on the train back to Koln and Brussels. An erection all the way, thinking of the nice erotic moments I had in Berlin and those still to come on my one night back in Brussels. Christ, I am so turned on, on this train to Brussels. A really grey rainy day. Hard to believe this is summer. On the way to Bielefeld now. 1155 only. Still another 5½ hours till we arrive in Brussels. 1205. We get to Koln 1409. We just passed the big Kaiser Wilhelm statue on the hill by Minden. Now I regret I didn’t let Vanessa give me a handjob while I took out her massive breasts, and then finished off by f–king Jessie at the side. Christ, Andrea’s body felt good in my hands; her gorgeous arse, her breasts, her thighs, her pussy. I have had so many good erotic moments on this trip; and even when back in my room I was turned on constantly, my cock permanently hard. Just 1 hour 20 minutes to go till Koln now. Grab a roll then 2 hours 50 minutes in to Brussels. I am desperate to resume now. I cannot remember the last time I felt as constantly aroused as this.
I think what may always kaibosh me in Brussels is the beer is all 5.2% strength when in London we are more used to 4.2% or 4.5%, something like that. I drink the same amount of beer in Brussels as I do in London but I don’t really realise how much more drunk it is making me. Brewer’s Droop therefore hits me much earlier here. I am not sure what the beer in Vienna is, but perhaps that is a factor in Brussels feeling less erotic than Vienna or Berlin. I think I will concentrate on Cine Paris & Rue des Commercants to Fifth Avenue today; it would be lovely if after a little nap I could then go out later to Empire and Gare du Nord, but in reality the Brussels beer knocks me out too completely and when I wake up around 10 or 11 the last thing in the world I want to do is get dressed and go out again. I am able to do that in Vienna, but that might be because Manhattan Bar and Tete a Tete are both literally within 50 yards of my hotel. Gare du Nord is a little bit more of a trek from my Brussels hotel.
The 1990s end of century was the sexiest time of my life; it was also the most painful time of my life. Do the two things always go together? I tend to think I need to direct my life back into painful waters in order to feel that sexiness again. A real erotic masochism. Make yourself lonely, make yourself isolated, make yourself a scandal, bring shame & despair & desperation down on yourself—only then will you be able to feel the real electric prickle of naked, rampant, not giving a fuck about anyone eroticism again.
AND YET THESE FINE COLLAPSES ARE NOT LIES. “Through a thousand nights the flesh assaults outright for bolts that linger hidden,–O undirected as the sky that through its black foam has no eyes for this fixed stone of lust. Accumulate such moments to an hour. Account the total of this trembling tabulation.”
I take these words of Hart Crane to mean you go out night after night, year after year, looking for pleasure, for bolts of pleasure that really linger, really scorch, but if you added up all the fleeting snatched moments of real pleasure that you managed to experience in a year, say, it might only accumulate to one hour’s worth, so you put this in your ledger for that year. One year of going out night after night to accumulate a total of one hour of real pleasure. It is like sifting the mud for gold. An accountant’s approach to the pursuit of erotic pleasure.