dixfelixmueller

*installment two: at the cafe

Lunch with Felixmuller.

We meet at the Cafe Gruenwald. Normally I do not care for this
place. Its a hangout for artist/writer types most of whom are
fakes. The true artist is a rare creature. But it is a good place to
meet women.

I like F. He is a good painter, he is a nice man, he has a great
wife. He has one blind spot which is an obsession with politics.
This is a subject I no longer concern myself with. I know all
about politics--and politicians. I was in the war—remember? I
believed the lies. And it was nothing but lies. They lied to get us
into the war, they lied to keep us fighting and they are
lying to us still to justify all the lies that went before.

F was also in the war. He drove an ambulance. Beckmann
also drove an ambulance. Also Kirchner. All the artists
drove ambulances. There was a reason for this. Artists are
sensitive types. They are not good at stabbing people with
bayonets

But I am different. I stabbed people with bayonets. And it
was by choice. I couldnt wait. I was pleased when war
came. I wanted to fight--hand to hand combat. This was for
me. It would be good for my work. Art is created out of
experience. And hand to hand combat was the most intense
experience I could imagine.

And this occurred. I killed and was nearly killed. I saw
everything. I saw the arms and legs fly. I saw men out of control
in extraordinary ways.

When it was over and I had miraculously survived--and it was a
miracle--I promised myself one thing: I would never again take
an order from another human being.

F rambles on. He is a liberal. He believes in the basic decency of
men.

Ive had enough. I stand. I say: I have an important meeting with
a whore.

At the whorehouse.

This is a new establishment I have not visited. I got the address
from my art prof.

Its in the Benglerstrasse district. Its a massive eyesore of
chiseled stone in the gothic/fortress style. I rap and am
admitted by a young girl. I follow into a large parlor comfortably
furnished. Comfort is the word. I go to the whorehouse for
comfort. To relax and take a breather from this painting
business. Also to get laid.

The sense of anticipation is exciting. Paying for pussy doesnt
bother me. I have had good pussy from hookers. I lost my
virginity to a hooker.

There are half a dozen whores lounging about. Its the usual: the
good, the bad and the ugly. One is very ugly. She is huge. She is
a house. Who would pay to fuck this woman? But tastes vary.

There are a couple of possibilities here.

I sit on the sofa.

The Madame appears. This is Frau Sauckel. She joins me on the
sofa. She orders wine. We chat.

How is prof Frank ?
Prof Frank is fine.
A lovely man.
That he is.
She says: are you a painter?
Yes.
I also paint says she.
etc, etc.

I wouldnt mind banging Frau Sauckel. She isnt young--she is
pushing 40. But she still has her looks--and body. And there is
something else: she has energy. She must have been a good
whore.

We get down to business. By business I mean: do any of these
girls get my dick hard?

Yes and no.

Frau Sauckel says: I have a new girl I think you will like. I will
get her. She leaves.

She returns with the girl. I do like. She is young, she has a
body, she is a redhead. I am partial to redheads. There is a
great painting by Courbet of Whistlers mistress called La Jolie
Rouge--The Pretty Redhead.

She sits on my lap and plays with my dick. I fondle her tits. I
have a brutal hardon. Up we go.

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