So on our way to Wien, 4 hours 39 minutes away. A grey cloudy morning. My mood slightly improved from 24 hours earlier. I went out after 9pm and found the Hot Legs strip club/videokabins/peepshow was completely closed down! Another one gone. So the ice retreats. I went in Caribic opposite (proper name Stage 2000) and they have very good videokabins. Upstairs in the strip club (now called Crystals Tabledance) there was only one other customer, and 5 or 6 skinny looking girls. I left after one beer and I could not finish it fast enough. If you like Browns or Horns you might like Crystals but it is not for me. The Sterntaler Bar (scene of my legendary encounter with the mega-bosomed Martina years ago) was still there but its door was locked so not sure if that is still in business or not. Then I started my long walk along the windows of Frauentormauer. My god, the quality of the girls is stunning. If I rate Brussels Rue d’Aerschot as a 9, then Frauentormauer must be a 9½. I did not stop as I was really keen to go to Cabaret Bella Napoli which is at the very end of the wall. As always it had some nice looking girls and they strip NAKED—the only club in Belgium, Germany or Austria I have found where they take their knickers off as well. I queried this with one of the girls and she said “that is because this is a CABARET, not a tabledance club”. Oh. Then I wish there were more cabaret clubs. Drink for the girl is 38 euros, a private dance is 50 euros. I did not indulge this time, as I preferred to keep my powder dry for Vienna, but might on the way back; although I just realised I will be back in Nuremberg on Sunday and I do not think they open on Sundays. Back to the station for a roll and a McDonald’s, then to bed. Certainly I will enjoy the Caribic videokabins and Frauentormauer windows on my return.
A strip club where the girls don’t take their knickers off is really really weird, isn’t it. To someone from London it seems so crazy. But they are all like that in Western Europe at least. Brussels, Berlin, Munich, Nuremberg. Only in peepshows do they take everything off.
Coming back from Domino’s last night with my gorgeous pizza, I came to Boulevard Adolphe Max to cross the road and there was about 8 people on my side and 8 people on the other side all standing waiting for the green man to light up to cross, even though the road was completely empty of traffic. Not one of them made the move to cross. What idiocy is this. Let them come to London, and see how people cross the roads in London! Even if 4 lanes of traffic are speeding at you from all directions, people plunge into the traffic and expect it to slow for them. Other cultural differences, strippers in Brussels (and Europe) never take their knickers off. Quite bizarre that repressive old London still only has fully nude striptease. Though that of course just makes you long for more which in London is very hard to come by but in Europe is very easily available. Christ how amazing was ——-’s big arse in that little black thong; and then she even took that little thing off and showed you EVERYTHING. How amazing ——– took her shoes off, and stockings off and knickers off and danced COMPLETELY naked for me.
What is this addiction of mine to strip clubs & brothels? I think it’s because it is an outsider’s world, and it was the first time in my life I ever found a place where I felt comfortable. Even the girls there are kind of outsiders, having some kind of pariah status simply by the job they do. So I always found it easy to get on with girls who were outsiders every bit as much as me. Coupled with that, I am also a scopophiliac—I love LOOKING at women. I generally avoid getting involved with them even if they offer it, as I just want to carry on looking. The relationship is perfect as it is and I see no need to change it. A girl usually has to hide the fact she is a stripper or a prostitute as much as I hide the fact I spend all my time with these women; therefore we both live the “double life” every day of our lives, and I find the double life attractive.
I am scathing and bitter about how awful the strip clubs and strip pubs of London now are, but I suppose for someone coming from western Europe it is a real thrill to see so much striptease where the girls take everything off; in the few strip clubs I have found in Brussels, Munich, Vienna and Berlin the knickers never come off, at best will be pulled down just below bottom cheeks for a split second before the music stops and they quickly pull them back up and step off stage. It is one of the specialties of London that we still have full nudity striptease. Strange that London and England of all places should be more liberal in this regard!
I’ve got no interest in going to see and review any art exhibition, or theatre performance—it seems much more important to me to review a great stripper, or a great pornographic cinema, or a great brothel. These are the things that really matter. Sexual desire is the lifeblood of existence. Men and women think about sex all the time, they rarely think about theatre, or cinema, or opera, or art exhibitions. But it is not seemly to write about sexual matters; it is “dirty”. My happiest moments in life, when my spirit really soared, came when repeatedly watching my favourite strippers, usually on the stage of the Flying Scotsman, or in long hours in my favourite pornographic cinemas, or sitting for hours in some hooker bar, just drinking and watching the hookers, nothing more. Nothing comes close to that except the tenderness of my wife; the little things; going shopping in Sainsburys, debating whether to buy pork or chicken, little moments like that. The absolute happiest period of my life was the 8-9 days we spent together in Madeira; well, the first 6 days anyway. The last 2-3 days we were unable to leave the island, trapped by the bad weather.
Every day I am in Brussels, I wake up (always 12, 1am, 2am) and think today I am going to go to the Old Masters Museum, and the Fin de Siecle Museum (both in the same building) and have a few drinks to prepare myself for it. But then, after a few drinks, I just start to think all I really want to do is have some more drinks, and then go to the porn cinema and doze off. So begins my last day in Brussels. My last few hours in fact. The Bourse. The Bourse. The Bourse dominates Brussels more than any of the other cities I go to. Bourse symbol of Eros. Symbol of money and money buys you sex and strippers and pornography. Therefore the Bourse is Sex. It is like the G-spot of every I city I go to. Although, what am I talking about, I have never been to the Berlin Bourse, if there is one, never been to the Vienna Bourse, if there is one, been to the old tiny Munich one that fell out of use decades ago. Oh. So this, perhaps, is why the Brussels Bourse seems so very powerful and symbolic to me. Even this Bourse is not operative anymore I think? But the building still stands for what it always did when it was operational. The Bourse in Brussels, indeed, one my most special buildings in the world. The Justice Palace in Brussels is also this special. The Justice Palace in Munich—this I have stood under its portal crying for first Romanian Emily, then Ukrainian Viktoriya. What else? The Bank of England and Royal Courts of Justice in London I pass so very often as to render them quotidian, yet I never forget their meaning—to me personally. I love my wife; and always will. Now you gauge how drunk I am as I write these words. It is at this point I also realise I will not be going to any Old Masters or Fin de Siecle museums. When I become maudlin about my ex wife is when I know I will be drinking until the last moment before I have to leave a city.