The Day of the Undead – Soho Part 3

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Soho London. Day 3 of my visit to the capital. I decided to have a cooked breakfast. I bought a Times and went along to Patisserie Valerie on Old Compton Street. There were maybe a dozen customers. The manager was busy photographing the cakes in the window. I was offered any vacant seat in the house. After a couple of minutes a waitress appeared and took my order for a full English and an Americano.

“I’d like the coffee straight away, though.”

“Certainly, Sir.”

The coffee came and I set about reading the weekend summary of the American election. What did I think about it? The election, I mean? Well, I hadn’t heard Trump speak until the Presidential Debates (I have a TV but I don’t watch it). My view of him? A total fucking idiot. We have a radio programme (UK) called Just A Minute. It’s a panel game. The contestants are given a topic and they have to speak for a minute without hesitating or repeating themselves. If they do either, it’s handed over to the other team. The one that’s speaking when the time runs out is the winner. Trump speaks like he’s a panelist (not a good one, I might say). There is a tendency for people to speak with a stream of consciousness, making no sense at all. He does that well. How could anyone vote for him? Hillary, meanwhile comes across like a one-trick feminist Chucky figure dressed as Kim Yong that is relentlessly hurling its head at an imaginary glass ceiling. The harder she played her feminist credentials, the more people became pissed off by them. Yes, we are all for equality, but my guess is that there is hardly anyone in the world who truly gives a shit about the number of women on the boards of the top 100 companies. She kept it up through her concession speech, reinforcing the negative view which she’d generated throughout the campaign, with this advice “Any little girls watching, if you find yourself in a hole, keep digging!!!” What the fuck? I didn’t want Trump, but I didn’t want Clinton more (and I am, by inclination and voting history, a Democrat). Trump, meanwhile, looks (more and more) like a man who says shit but who can be reined in.

The breakfast turned up two minutes later. My guess is that it was only the eggs (two fried) that had held it up; the rest was ready to go.  I ate as I read. I read half the articles and ate half of the breakfast. That was more about watching the calorie intake than a comment on the food, although the was only ‘OK’ (I won’t do it again). When I’m in London I eat more than usual so I have to manage it. I guess I was there an hour. No rush. No one was rushing. From there I went over to The Royal Academy (which I visited yesterday) to take some shots for the blog (to replace the Google images that I stole). I’m not sure if they will work but I have taken them. And I’m toying with using The Sex Pistols’ Never Mind The Bollocks LP cover as an illustration in that blog – amended to Never Mind The Pollocks.

I’m too sore to play with girls. I think that the hand jobs in Dam created a little bit of a problem and the Russian girl yesterday was a bit heavy mouthed. I went back to the hotel, ordered a coffee in the hotel’s café and typed up some more of the diary for the blog. When I took time out to glance at my watch I saw that it was two o’clock. It was time to head over to the Charing Cross Theatre. I  went to the Leicester Square tube station, picked up the Piccadilly Line and set off for King’s Cross. I don’t recall ever being out on the street at King’s Cross before. No theatre. I asked a nearby newsagent for directions. It was there, I just couldn’t see it. I doubt that anyone else could either because it has the appearance of a boarded up construction site.

The theatre is New-New. Very modern. I was seated about three quarters of the way back in the stalls, and somewhere between the middle of the row and the right hand aisle (it’s an OK position, if you are contemplating a visit). I sat next to a mum, daughter and son-in-law from Sweden. It was mum’s seventieth birthday treat. I assumed that dad was dead and resting in the ground. It seems that she is more into dark (miserable her son-in-law said) religious music than Bowie. I, meanwhile, wasn’t sure what to expect. Obviously, the girl on the train had enthused about it (yes, I read the book and thought it was shit). And I’d bought Black Star on release and been unimpressed. Apparently, the audience had given a standing ovation. Meanwhile, I’d noticed (not read) one-star and three-star reviews in the press. Not good.

I was lucky enough to get the tallest guy in the building sitting in front of me. He was literally head and shoulders above the rest of the audience in his row. Depending upon how he positioned himself he blocked out twenty to twenty-five percent of the stage to my left. Cunt. However, I know something. I actually discovered it while doing field archery. After a while, people wilt (it’s after a lunch break in field archery, their shoulders sag and they shoot low). I sat upright and bided my time. After about twenty minutes he became restless and then he started to sink (wilt) into his seat. About (fucking) time! After that the obstruction varied but it was from nought to ten percent (depending upon how his head lolled from side to side), which was a vast improvement.

My verdict on the play and the performance? Excellent. The story is slight but the style, the striking use of computer graphics, the choreography (there was no dancing), the imagery, the singing, the interpretations and appropriateness of the songs and the positioning of the band as an integral backdrop (and the acting) were stunning. And, of course, the music was fab.The songs worked, some particularly well. There were some very interesting takes on some of them, especially when delivered by female members of the cast. I soon realised why Michael C Hall got the part. He sounds like Bowie. Exactly like Bowie, in fact.

Before I set out from home a couple of days ago I was moderately cursing my planning. That may have had something to do with the fact that I wasn’t in walk up mode. I’d had a lot of sex over the last ten days and I felt sated. However, it has been a great break. I hadn’t expected to see Hall in a matinee performance and so felt rather lucky. Maybe it was his way of getting the night off.

When I got back to the hotel around 5.30 pm I took my laptop down to the café, ordered some free wine, had a couple of snacks and then continued the diary. I’m back there now (8.50 pm), having been to a Brazilian steak house on Shaftsbury Avenue. They have a decent  buffet and waiters circulate with as much meat as you can eat. They walk around with large skewers of meat and slice it for you (each skewer has a different meat). You grab it with tongs as they slice. When I arrived the place was pretty busy and I had to hang around until a member of staff noticed me. She established that I was alone (and sad and depressed) and then she set off in search of a table. She halted abruptly. I nearly went up her arse. She seemed distressed (although not at my near involvement in her inner workings).

“How about this one?”

I said. We were standing beside a table for two which was beside a couple of young women (twenties, but not my kinda meat). In front of it was a young Japanese guy in his twenties who was working his way through a plateful of his own meat with what looked like relish (the expression on his face, not an accompaniment).

“Well, if you’re sure. I was trying to find …”

Her sentence petered out. I wonder why.

I sat and waited. And waited. Eventually, a guy came up and took my order for the meat option (as opposed to just the buffet) and a bottle still water. He gave me a small card. One side read Give me meat and the other read Stop giving me meat. Then I set to work. Halfway through I decided to go looking for where the waitress had intended to put me. Yup. A table for one scrunched up against the only pillar in the room. Valued. That’s how I felt. I ate quite a lot of meat, paid and then headed for an ice cream parlour. Three flavours. I sat inside and ate it. I watched the Japanese tourists taking photos of their ice creams and listened to the conversation of two eighteen year old boys who shared the cheapest cup and a lot of boyish mouth fluids. Then it was back to the hotel (where there seemed to be a lot of male couples sharing double rooms) to rest for an hour. I’ve done a lot of walking today.

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At about 10.15 pm I set off for a lap dance club. Suit. Boots. How cool. Well, maybe not if you are the only person in central London wearing a suit. Two heavies blocked my path at the entrance.

“Good evening, Sir. Have you been here before?”

“No.”

“It’s ten pounds entry fee (before 11.00 pm), a basic private dance is £20.00. There are two VIP areas. No touching. No cameras.”

He might have said more. I wasn’t listening. I’d read the rules which were displayed outside the club in the afternoon.

“How’s it arranged inside? Is it on one level?”

He hesitated before answering.

“It’s basically on one level. There’s a bar and then a large social area. Then there are sepate private dance and VIP areas.”

“Thanks.”

“Enjoy your evening.”

I took myself into the crypt. This place, which I’d assumed was at street level and/or above, was in the basement. A very large basement. I hope that the stuff over us doesn’t collapse because there will be a lot of it. I passed a girl in her early twenties on the stairs. She was wearing street clothes and she was on her way out. She was friendly. If I was looking for a special companion I got the impression that she might be it (I don’t usually get that can’t take my eyes off you from twenty year-olds who I bump into in the street). There was no one in reception but I could see into the bar area. The occupants stirred. They could smell fresh meat. It was like watching dozing vampires momentarily disturbed.

Only one way to do this.

Shazam!

I went through the opening between reception and the bar and did the obvious. I approached the bar. I was joined almost immediately by a blonde vampire who was taller than me (that’s not good). She was wearing a red bras and a white and red excuse for a skirt, which barely covered the cheeks of her arse. Slim, toned body, blonde hair down to the middle of her back, trim waist, bright eyes and Ziggy Stardust lipstick. She introduced herself.

“I’m Felicia.”

“I’m Marcus. Where are you from?”

Please don’t say Poland or Hungary.

“Romania.”

Come here vampire. I did my Romanian party piece. It worked. Why? Because it is so unexpected and I do it like I know a lot more than I do. During it, the barman appeared and relieved me of £14 (entry fee and the price of a gin and tonic). We were joined by another vampire. She is also from Romania and they live together an easy tube ride from the centre. They have been here about a year. With a new friend on each arm, and with one of them carrying my drink, we found a place to sit. I explained that this was my first time in the club and so I wanted them to explain how it worked. They did. With considerable emphasis on the VIP areas, the forty pound dances, the VIP areas, the special dances, the VIP areas and the champagne, and the champagne and the champagne.

“All the VIP stuff and extras is out. I’m here to learn, not spend a lot of money.”

They looked only marginally disappointed. We were joined by another vampire. This was quickly turning into a Jonathan Harker moment. Vampire #2 was shorter than vampire #1. Her hair was pulled back tight into a pony tail. It’s gave justice to the term Essex Facelift. She had wide open eyes and bright red vampire lipstick. She, too, was from Romania. We were joined by vampire #3 who had a distinctly American-porn-movie-star name and predatory (but not very bright) eyes. I got the sense that #1 and #2 were a team and that #3 was an opportunist interloper.

“Where are you from?”

She seemed unprepared for the question. Maybe she was looking at my suit and thinking something’s not right (after all, I’m the only guy in the place with a suit), maybe he’s a cop or from The Border Agency.

“I can’t tell you. If I did I’d have to kill you.”

A murder rap would be better than deportation, it seems.

“She’d have to kill you.”

Said #1 just in case I wasn’t following.

Maybe they are from Transylvania not Romania. However, #3 did understand the other girls’ Romanian chatter. We had the usual where am I from why are you in London what have you been doing stuff.  I’ve realised that they hear English, not an English accent so I spun a yarn. I said that I was Dutch and that I was from Amsterdam and that I was taking a break.

“I’ve seen some theatre and been to another club a couple of times, not far from here.”

“I’ve heard of it. What’s it like?”

I wish that vampires #2 and #3 would go away. I guess I could have made it happen. Unfortunately, I wasn’t looking at vampire #1 through my ‘potential girlfriend’ filter at that point and I figured that to zero in on her would raise her cash expectations. It was also because she looked a little bit older than my type. I would have said that she as twenty-eight.

“I’m going to go and see how the place is laid out, see how it works. I’ll come back later.”

They accepted it. I picked up my drink and walked down into the social area which was filled with groups of hotel armchairs which were grouped around small hotel coffee tables and which were accommodating groups of men (various ages) and young women. There seemed to be quite a few young women who were guests rather than dancers. At either end of the room (fifteen metres across and twenty long), were two small dance areas, each with a pole. The girls on stage (maybe they were Poles too) moved, but only just. They were there but not giving it anything. Listless. Too early, maybe. The lighting is so subdued it’s almost hard to see. The dancing girls are vague, fuzzy images, not sharp, sexy images which demand attention. I’m already not liking it. So I’m standing there, like for fifteen seconds, when another vampire swooped. Another blonde. She wasn’t my type either.

“Where are you from?”

“Guilford.”

“Oh, I thought that you might be East European.”

I mean, she looked East European.

“Do I sound like I’m from fucking Eastern Europe?”

I guess not. She established that she was a straight talker. I get that. I couldn’t really miss it.

She wanted to know where I was from.

“You sound like you are from the north.”

That is a first. I am from the north, as in north of London. I told her I was surprised at her analysis because I’ve always considered myself to have a BBC accent (as in without a regional accent).

“Oh, I’ve never thought of that. What do you do.”

Maybe she has got it into her head that I work for the BBC.

“I don’t do anything. I don’t work. I don’t have to.”

She did a visual take on the information, somewhere between ‘that’s not fair’ and ‘lucky sod’.

“So what did you do when you did have to work?”

I told her. I don’t tell many people.

“You do realise that everyone hates you, don’t you?”

After a bit more pointless conversation she drifted away with the promise of a good time (I’d played my just arrived in your cave card), if I should want to take up the offer. I settled into one of the armchairs and tried to focus on one of the dancing girls; no one else was and maybe that’s why they didn’t seem to give a fuck. Vampire #5 (another blonde), landed on the arm of the chair and wrapped a wing around my shoulder. My right arm hung listlessly behind her. If she’d been my type it would have been exploring her arse. She wasn’t so it didn’t. She took the hint, told me to look her up sometime and flew away.

At which point a waitress appeared with an offer to top up my drink.

“Thanks. I’m okay for the moment.”

“I’m your waitress for the evening, just ask if I can do anything.”

There wasn’t much that anyone could do. I could see that there wasn’t a single girl in the place who I wanted to play with. But I was here. And this was research. I went back to the trio of vampires in the bar area. I didn’t ask if I could join them, I just did.

“I have a plan. You can all dance for me, one after the other and I’ll see who is best.”

They brightened at the prospect. Vampire #2 tried to put her spin on it.

“Why don’t we all come with you. We’ll all do separate dances but be together.”

This wasn’t a plan entirely without merit but my instinct was to spin this out. Maybe she was worried that one of the other girls would slice through the deal and take all my money before she could get her share. We discussed the running order. It would be #1, then #3, then #2, the order in which they were seated in front of me.

Vampire #1 took me by the hand and led me to the blood letting area. We took a sensual, meandering route through the tables to some booths off the main room. On the way I promised to marry her.

“Call your mother. Tell her the good news.”

“But we have no ring.”

“We’ll think of something.”

Maybe she is more my type than I imagined.

The entrance was policed by a guy who looked like he might have been a Polish Kappo in another life. She ushered me into one of the booths. It was dark. We could see one another well enough, but shadows were cast everywhere. There was no clear view of her body. When she turned her back, bent over and pulled the cheeks of her arse apart all I could see was a shadow where I should have seen a slit and a bumhole. She had nice natural tits, though. Not too big and not too small and quite firm (very small, male nipples). Her arse was similarly well proportioned. And she was playful. I liked her. We spent some of the time discussing our favourite sex positions. She likes doggy and on top. I like doggy and on top too; but I mean me on top so that I can see the girl’s face while I’m fucking her and I can kiss her while I rub my cock against the wall of her vagina. The indications are that girls like doggy because the guy can go deep. It may also have something to do with the friction against the bumhole side of the vaginal entrance.

“What part of a woman’s body do you like best. These, this or her arse?”

The truth is that I like all three but have a preference when push comes to shove.

“I like a girl’s bum.”

I think it’s because when a girl is bent over in front of me it’s like having access to a cunt a bumhole and two special tits as a single package. After that I got quite a lot of bum, some of it pressed against my cock some of it rubbed up and down the front of my shirt. And sometimes just pushed out at me to have a good look at (bearing in mind all those shadows).

“It’s just a game, isn’t it?”

She laughed like she was thinking, “You get this, don’t you?”

And it caused her to high-five me. I’ve seen and played with a lot of girls. I’m not going to get off on having my shirt rubbed against some girl’s sweaty bumhole, hence my comment.

I spent a little time explaining some differences to the other club. The other club has good lighting. She didn’t like the sound of that. The other club has a space for four dancers with clients. Everyone can see everyone else in good light and the security guard puts in very few appearances. Because we are all together it’s self regulating. She thought that paying for one dance and seeing three others for free didn’t sound like good business.

Then it was over.

“Do you want another?”

“No.”

That wasn’t strictly true but the lighting in here is abysmal.

“OK.”

“How tall are you?”

She deals in metres and I deal in feet and inches. She stepped out of a shoe (five inch heels) and sunk to an ideal height. She went from two inches taller than me to three inches shorter. She would have to look up at me to be kissed.

“Fabulous. It’s like getting two girls for the price of one.”

She smiled.

We headed back to base, doing a reverse thread through the tables and the chairs and the other visitors. Vampire #2 offered me my drink, which I had left on the table. I declined.  Instead, I took #3 by the hand and we set off for the booths. As soon as we were alone she went into hyper-upsell mode. She had her heart set on a VIP experience which I would ‘really like’. No, I don’t think I would. We ended up in a booth with a photo of five naked women on the wall. It was a good photo. Erotic but not explicit. She was one of them. Maybe she’s older than she looks.

“Oh my god, it’s like having two girls for the price of one.”

I had no sexual interest in her. She made an impression, however, by doing a pissing squat with her back to the wall and gave me the best view of the evening. She also decided to shove the heavy sole of her stilettoed shoe into my crotch, which was less fun. She has natural B cup tits too. And small nipples.

Did I want more? No.

I returned her to the bar, scooped up my next partner and repeated the experience. She immediately started to upsell with talk of thirty and forty pound dances. I declined those too. While I was a little bit interested in seeing vampire #1 with no clothes on I had no interest in this one (or the other). I was more conscious of the guard walking past the booth every five seconds to make sure that I didn’t have my cock in her mouth. Like the other girls, she has a good body; it’s toned. And she has B-cup tits and small nipples too.

As she dressed I asked how old she was.

“Guess.”

I thought maybe twenty-nine. But it felt dangerous to go there.

“Twenty-five. Maybe twenty-seven.”

She looked pleased.

“Thirty-nine.”

“Fuck! Wow! That’s amazing!”

And I meant it. I gave her a hug (mindful of the security guard who was prowling the corridors of the castle). She looked even more pleased than before.

“It’s like having two girls for the price of one.”

Back at the bar, which was filling up with pre-eleven o’clock punters, vampire #2 handed me my drink. I should have ordered a Bloody Mary, shouldn’t I? I wondered if it had been spiked in my absence (just joking).

I took a small sip and put it down.

“So who was best?”

It was vampire #3 who wanted to know.

“Well, it’s not easy. But what I will say is this. It was the girl who was like two girls for the price of one.”

They each barely concealed a smug smile.

“The great thing is that all the girls in the bar have just watched this play out. And now I have you for protection, to keep them away from me.”

A bit like dangling cloves of garlic around my neck. They exchanged ‘fucking hell, I don’t believe this’ looks and laughed.

I could, of course, have said, “The great thing is that all the girls in the bar have just watched this play out. They saw a guy who is spending money. And now they will all want some. I just have to sit and wait for the right one to approach me.”

I could see that vampire #3 was losing interest. She had only been attached to me by the smell of money and had detached just as easily when it became apparent that there would be no more, even though she had seen the thick wadge of twenties in my wallet (I made sure of that when I paid them). Vampire #2 was more respectful although hardly less interested. Vampire #1, however, seemed very relaxed and was looking more and more like fuck material and I felt more of a connection. She’s prettier than the other two (to my mind) and I suspect that she can turn up for work confident that she will make money. But that wasn’t going to happen, fuck her, I mean; I’m sure she will go home with a purse full of cash, which probably shapes her lack of attitude. I made a decision (there was nothing more for me here, other than the prospect of hemorrhaging more money for little purpose. I stood up.

“Molto me’yesk (thank you very much). Lara va’dare’ree (see you later).”

I did it with a smile. They looked surprised.

“But your drink.”

Vampire #2 held it out to me.

“No thanks. I’m good.”

And then I left.

Look, I’d had a very full day. And an enjoyable day. And these ladies had contributed to it. But it just wasn’t working; I saw no one in the bar who I wanted to romance. There are simply too many pretty women in the world who I have no interest in.

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