I feel like Astral & Sunset again [7th Sept 1997]

I feel like Astral & Sunset again. "It is false spirituality to neglect things carnal. Real spirituality comes from regeneration of the flesh." The Astral films are Benny Hill films, the Sunset girls are Benny Hill girls. That huge-breasted blonde in black see-through dress is a Benny Hill girl. I want to check that other striptease place. Think about how good Carnival Strip became towards the end. Thursday 18th would be good for Sunset, tomorrow for Astral.

The volcano: to let my spirit burst free in my writing; to let my spirit burst free in a relationship with someone else.

A volcano because I am holding it back. No, because it is blocked, it has no way out.

It will be good to get drunk again in the Chandos, though, won't it, staggering down into the toilets to get my penis out again in increasing anticipation of Sunset Strip I am about to get to, or Astral. I want to go see Woody Allen films in Leicester Square, come back to pub with no intention of staying out, but then a couple of pints later the rising excitement makes me go to Sunset. Tomorrow?

I'm invincible because they can never get to me inside (23rd July 1997)

I'm invincible because they can never get to me inside. I am an antenna and a punchline. And I am INTELLIGENT. The whole idea of relationships is sickening: the pressure people put you under. I'd rather be abused by a million people than have to talk to one of them.

There is a majority of good people out there.

I live in my own little world, and I can't understand why everyone else doesn't live in their own little worlds. I don't think it will even seem less strange. But I have to accept it--I'm one of a kind.

I woke up this morning thinking I never want to go to Sunset Strip, Astral Cinema, again. But now I cannot wait for September, that return to London, Sunset Strip, night bars, the "hour of the flesh". Sunset Strip's notoriously louche cabaret, that's what it is. It is Mata Hari, Anita Berber, Maud Allan, Ruth St Denis.

At bad times I yearn to be a monk (27th June 1997)

At bad times I yearn to be a monk, to be allowed to live for ever in total silence and contemplation. Then I think I can do that here. All that getting me to talk, it's just stupid. Being with other people just makes me so unhappy. I need my privacy and my silence. That is who I am. It hurt me because Sarah always ignored that. If you can't be alone, you need to carry that peace around with you.

Walking down the road in my coat in the drizzling rain, it felt so much like September; I thought how much I love going to Sunset Strip after Chandos in the dark afternoons. That little cauldron of colour and girls. With no emotion involved, the way it should be. Pouring with rain as I came back.

I'm looking for self-realisation, and I will only find that in my writing. I want to explore that now, now you've helped me find the secret door in.

Sex dancers who create their own fictional world in the orange light amidst the blackness, and drag you into it. God, I can't wait for September. The thought of red Gillian Anderson dancing in black lace dress. Why can't May lead into September? I want Ruby, Sneaker Pimps, Placebo, Swiss gold, Chandos, Sunset Strip, models in Brewer Street warm boudoirs before football in the black Wednesday evenings.

This vampiric period has coincided with Batman & Batgirl! Purple & black.

Am I Blue? 1920s New York jazz club atmosphere, smoky, ferns, illegal drink. The orgasmic sexy intoxication of Tristan und Isolde is no greater than when a stripper's eyes meet those of a certain man's and they just steadily look at each other for a few prolonged moments. 

Concentrate on the higher side of Oscar Wilde now (26th Nov 1997)

Concentrate on the higher side of Oscar Wilde now. They foam & froth, and try to punish me because I'm different. I remain their superior, with blithe disregard for their small, petty desperations. I'm beautiful, I'm a dark angel, that's why I can go to Astral and do what I want. Don't drink though. I do want Astral again, and I do want Sunset Strip. It is Christmas.

How strongly and how repeatedly Soho Cinema and Astral turned me on (31st October 1997)

How strongly, and how repeatedly, Soho Cinema and Astral turned me on, and how little Sunset Strip does. Watching the girls at close quarters, I thought how sexy I would find this sight now if it was on a screen now and I could be rubbing my cock in the dark. Perhaps £6 spent in Soho Cinema without staying wasn't a mistake: the sexual tension in Soho Cinema and Astral is incredible. In Sunset Strip so non-existent, dry, dusty & polite. Soho Cinema & Astral is wet and sticky and there are slopping sounds, dicks sticking out of trousers and being rubbed gently: how sexy it is! Like Oscar Wilde found rent boys exciting, I find the cocks out in Soho Cinema & Astral exciting. I should have stayed in there yesterday with my £6 ticket: Sunset Strip was the mistake. 

The September blackness: it was only the visit to Soho Cinema and the visit to Astral that improved me, brought relief, blood pulsing back through my veins, excitement to lift me out of the blackness: and then just the prospect of going back again sustained me for the next 3.5 weeks, that heart pounding, illicit excitement. You need something to make the blood pulse through your veins, and stimulate you: if you haven't got a relationship then you need Soho Cinema & Astral. The nerves and excitement of doing something illicit & shameful. The only thing that helped me get through the death and the funeral was the thought I'd rush back to Soho straight afterwards. It is my peace, my relaxant, my chocolate after the medicine. To escape from relationships, I go to sex cinemas. How dull & useless I feel in relationships.

Remember Egon Schiele and go back to Sunset Strip (25th October 1997)

Remember Egon Schiele, and go back to Sunset Strip. 

Being at work makes me unhappy. Following my secret desires is marginally better. I can't escape this basic equation, and the solution seems unavoidable. 

"La Belle Epoque became a celebration of women's sexuality and beauty, in turn-of-the-century Paris. That acrobatic frenzy of limbs called the Can Can was born, where dancers high-kicked in frilly petticoats flashing glimpses of white flesh between bloomers and stocking tops. Girls drudging as laundresses ten hours a day for peanuts could suddenly have more money and fun by dancing. Star dancers such as the brazen Paris sex symbol La Goulue (the Glutton) emerged--she was the first nude cover girl and became rich and famous. Meanwhile: 'The sinuous moving of a voluptuous body, the open sexuality of an uncorseted woman and the exotic attraction of the mysterious eroticism of the North African coast made the arrival of belly dance a catalyst for the birth of striptease.'" 

Go to Sunset Strip often (but briefly): three pints inside me will make even one hour bearable, even if the Glutton isn't there. But I have to keep checking. Fine. Weekly visits to see blonde bob Glutton, like I had weekly visits to see black bob. If I could afford it then, I can afford it now.

I think the moments looking into the eyes of gold dress blonde hair Tanya on that volcanic December 14 cauldron night were even more erotic than black bob

I think the moments looking into the eyes of gold dress blonde hair Tanya on that volcanic December 14 cauldron night, as she removed the gold dress and let her huge breasts flop around the pole and slide down it with her thighs wrapped around it and her naked pussy rubbing against it, were even more erotic than black bob. They were the finest moments of my life. I can only find warmth in this alternative way, rather than conventionally with ----- or ------, it is the scopophiliac's way. 

Raining all day today. Go back to Sunset Strip in the rain, thinking of gold dress Tanya, her big floppy breasts and long naked thighs. In the spirit of Egon Schiele.