On the social side...

Garry Martin. 'Cameo'

“I couldn’t bring my 14year old daughter in here,” she said, having noticed a unique sculptural feature on the stairs.

Had it been a heart on the wall, the gristly pump thing with pipes and more than a bit ugly, an organ that fails, gets distressed and attacks us, is erratic, pretty unreliable and breaks easy she’d have had no problem with it. Probably a re-designed heart, a cartoon version, sacred or an embroidered St.Valentines she would have applauded, drooled over. But it wasn’t a heart. The sculptor called it ‘cameo’ and it was a refreshing representation, an artistic impression in relief of that intriguing female detail, the clitoris. I’ll guarantee her daughter had one. So, what was her problem? True it was an enlarged, ‘in your face’, simplified idea of a clitoris but glory be what’s wrong with that?

That wasn’t all. We had other artworks to notice, to draw attention. For instance, sexy old Picasso’s ‘Small Butterfly’ S.6744 Original Lithograph 1961 signed with original watermark Bloch 1048 Mourlot 369 understood by many as pictorial poetry, a simile, a stylised vagina. ‘Small Butterfly’ indeed. A real flutter.

Maybe that was a bit much in the breakfast room but importance recognised and elevated ‘he who dares wins’ down-to-earth Picasso. And Paul Colin’s Josephine Baker dancing in her bananas was there too. Such an incredible woman. A female Martin Luther King, an erotic dancer, an undercover agent for the allies in occupied France and a beauty using to the full everything she’d been blessed with on a journey from obscurity to icon.

Who could complain at the company of such greatness whilst enjoying their fruit juice and organic full English? I think Josephine Baker’s my favourite woman in the whole of history.

In truth who should object? What kind of blindness, aberration, mass psychosis has been generated by insisting on a dark bogey-bogey ambience that we’re all swimming in blinkered, frightened, tense, gasping for air. What a shame. The terrible shame of life denied. Refused.

Countering this restraining obduracy there were interesting moments, illuminating breakthroughs the full wonder of which took my breath away at the time acting like a stun gun paralysing my tongue and really taxes my sensibilities to talk about still.

There was a young lady who after breakfast wanted to share her kipper with me.

There were at least two who asked for my help with their ambition to take up prostitution.

My soul was marching with them, these beautiful humans, these saints, these Mary Magdalenes but cruelly the powerful devil stifled my courage (that we can lose what we’ve got says we’d better not) and years of repression guaranteed no action on my part. I am married as well and suffering the torture of having been rendered dysfunctional by prostate cancer doesn’t help.

Sorry.

Though the coward would not live,

dare not take what you would give,

‘twas by the surgeons knife

he can’t satisfy a wife

thus endures a tearless weep

with the wishes in his keep,

as undeserving, sick with grief,

through the pen he seeks relief

which, ironically with couplet

gives no comfort in regret

as sardonic mischief pen

weaves keen agony again and again.

One woman said, and how the topic cropped up, what provoked it I can’t remember, but she said whilst at the sink up to her elbows in washing up suds, ”I have a bowel movement every three days”

Fascinating. Absolutely riveting stuff. Every third day a turd day. A shrilly shrieking mind-seized deviant. Dazzling fireworks in a whizz-bang freakish head. Even with my disability I could have joined her in that. Just imagine the warm closet, door-locked other worldly seclusion. Blood pressure peaking, earthy deep breathing, softly whispered voyeural encouragement push-push. A secretive, personal non-member privy council privileged peep to authenticate the stool, the truly regal sausage. And to finish your humble servant would lovingly wipe and spray perfume the bum. A not to be divulged intimate forbidden indulgence. Wow wow-wow!

In the lounge we had a battery of tits. I think there were 9 on a plaque, all different. It was a sculpture produced by a surgeon’s wife as a memorial to friends lost to breast cancer.

A much-misunderstood work, surreal really but seen as titillating and lewd, yet it was so grotesque any thinking intelligence would expect other significance.

We had Diana the Huntress in full frontal nudity allowing a prude to see rude by assuming snobbery-knobbery and hide in acceptable educationally superior classical mythologies god-snob knowledge.

As business got more difficult and the Continental’s market share declined ideas were offered to stimulate turnover. A swinger’s event was one proposal mooted involving the whole hotel being handed over to a reality un-checked, private party.

There would be an admission charge for which participants would enjoy canopies with champagne on arrival and after introductions and at a reasonable hour a fine dining dinner experience would be served. There would be music, possibly 1920’s speakeasy jazz style, flashing coloured lights, revolving spherical mirrors and a totally decadent mood mood mood décor established. Blacked out windows and of course all the bedrooms would be open bringing all the lusting fun of the ‘rocky horror’ romp without the inhibitions and with many desire extras.

An exciting prospect indeed but again it proved to be another beacon without a flame as initial eagerness cooled. Anyway, we just couldn’t afford the start-up costs. Also, our limited research resources showed swingers went round to each other’s homes and everything went on merrily for free without catering and with a bring-your-own drinks scenario.

The death of a ghost.

After asking did we have a sex room the young thing said, “I also like cock” whilst displaying over the rainbow lesbian tendencies.

We didn’t at the time have a specific so dedicated room but surely every hotel room is a sex room. Anyway, later on I experimented with Room 16, it’s where we lived before acquiring the flats next door and still had our very comfortable double bed and was en-suite but had come to be a lumber room, a handy store for anything and everything we didn’t know what to do with. Because of which it wasn’t really useable as a revenue room, so I charged £20 a night to cover costs to meet Saturday night’s desperates. This didn’t last long because lovely Juicy Lucy having squirted one night got me a serious telling off. She hadn’t done it before she said, educating me, she didn’t know she could and it wouldn’t happen again. She assured me she could control it but I daren’t risk letting the room any more. It was too much trouble. Break even to help is one thing, a loss is a gesture too far.

There were other little excitements, activities in room 15, 5 and more which I was made aware of. Ordinary things, normal behaviour, nothing spectacular. I got the odd poem out of it.

We talked and talked of this and that’s

of parrots pigs and pussycats

and doing joined up writing.

I said how nice was her new hat

and everything was going fine.

We made a plan for meeting hence

when we would have vagina time

and peace bestowed by fearless trust

and all forgiving understanding

that so enhances mundane lust

and doing-joined up writing.

Yes, everything was going fine

and then the romance ended

well it had to cos she ate all my favourite biscuits.

Suffice it to say I seem to have wandered from the art world workings into the real world. It seems I’ve been led astray as no doubt the artists intended and thus shown them true and proper appreciation.

By the way, most of our art collection didn’t have a sexual dimension and all of it was looked on favourably by the majority of our visitors. I’m sure reference to it will come elsewhere.