Experience with the Amsterdam girls
I was in Amsterdam for three nights and I visited the amsterdam girls (prostitutes) on each of those nights.
I had never been to a prostitute before this trip to the Netherlands, and had never before paid for sex except perhaps in the less-direct ways typical of the male role in heterosexual courtship rituals.
On the one hand, relating this experience seems worthwhile and valuable, like a travelogue introducing those on the home front to the adventures of a wanderer in lands infrequently visited. On the other hand, those men who haven't been to a prostitute probably have some disgust toward the idea that would prejudice them toward reading my tale with either red-faced indignancy or secret, shameful envy; and those who have been can at best be somewhat amused at the ignorant wonder of a tyro john. Women's reactions may vary more -- some may be threatened, some may be offended, some may wonder if they should ask for a raise after finding out how much these Amsterdam girls ask for it.
I was talking to a friend the other day about a one-night-stand I'd had a couple of months ago, and how nice it was to be able to jump through all of the preliminaries, the social foreplay and courtship inuendo that seems to be a prerequisite for even the most casual heterosexual encounters, and hop in minutes from the moment that we recognized that we were mutually attracted and horny, to rutting furiously just off the dance floor. I realized at some point after relating this that I had been misunderstood -- that I'd given the impression of preferring this cut-to-the-quick fucking over the more leisurely anticipatory eroticism that I'd enjoyed with women.
Here, I again risk being misunderstood. I really enjoyed the no-strings-attached screw that comes from a prostitute who feels well-paid, but I don't prefer it to the more tangled and mutual intimacy of most noncommercial sexual encounters -- it's just that variety is the spice of life, and the fast-forward-to-the-juicy-bits semi-anonymous gay fuck, or the freedom from social and emotional monitoring that comes along with purchased whoopie, is a different and pleasant feeling that is also beautiful and nice now and again. (It is also important from time to time to be given an object lesson on the separability of love and sex. It's easy to confuse the two; I've certainly been guilty of it).
In my attitudes toward prostitution, I myself had been in the crossover red-faced lusty envy crowd -- on the one hand wishing that I had the political freedom, intestinal fortitude, and cash inflow to be able to hire sexual partners on occasion; but on the other hand certain that the whole enterprise of prostitution was morally corrupt and physically harmful -- exploitative of women and liable to spread disease.
But if I actually heard from prostitutes talking about their work,especially these Amsterdam girls, they didn't describe it as being inherently exploitative -- in fact these women, while they may not have been happy with the financial state which led them to consider prostitution as a good moneymaking option, did indeed find it to be a preferable alternative to other ways of making a living which were either insufficiently satisfying or insufficiently lucrative.
And the more I thought about prostitution, the less I understood the charge of exploitation. Typically in a money-for-services interaction, the person walking away with the profit is understood to be in the superior position -- or at least to be on equal footing. You don't say that you exploit your barber, your mechanic or your doctor.
Actually, to be fair, the feminist anti-prostitution argument can be more complex than just a charge that prostitution is an inherently degrading profession and proof that men are cruel brutes who find the degradation of women erotic. Not that the argument is any more convincing (to me, anyway) as its branches extend from these roots, but it is more sophisticated.
I now am more comfortable with the argument that true respect for women includes respecting their choice of whether or not to charge admission occasionally for access to their juicier orifices.
The epidemiological objection has taken a beating as well. The consensus among Dutch health authorities seems to be that prostitution is of a negligible risk when compared to, say, the singles bar scene. The prostitutes that I went to were religious about the proper use of condoms -- they would have made good actresses for safe-sex education films.
And how much would it cost? How much was a fair price? Was it like shopping for a car, where the sticker price is for a stripped-down model, and you have to pay through the nose for extra features? Might it be a set-up -- the prostitute glowing in the window like the antenna of a carniverous angler-fish, drawing tourists in to be devoured? I imagined being lured upstairs by some sweet young lingerie model and then being mugged by her merciless older brothers hiding in the next room or in the closet, like in some bad 1940s morality play disguised as a boot-camp sex-ed film.
I approached the red light district with the general gestalt of "Well, I'll try anything once -- it's bound to be a learning experience." I almost anticipated it being a chore that I'd better get through as soon as possible, not really thinking that I would enjoy it much. To my surprise, I ended up having a great time and repeating the experience, with different women, on the following two nights.
I had decided to take my time and cruise the main canal street that makes up the red-light district, along with the side alleys and some neighboring blocks. For those who have never been to Amsterdam, a brief description of the city's red-light district is in order.
The busier hunk of Amsterdam is a set of concentric horseshoe-shaped canals, with the gap in the horseshoe facing the central station. These canals are lined on both sides with narrow (one-lane) brick-paved streets which are more often used as sidewalks or bike lanes than for motorized traffic. The buildings are three- and four-story brick structures that tend to deviate from the vertical by a degree or two, so that the shared walls of buildings often betray a lean in one or both.
In the red-light district, the bottom floors of many of these buildings have been converted into sets of small rooms -- or single rooms with small booths or chambers -- with large, door-sized windows facing the street. These windows are typically lined or overhung on the outside with red (or pink) lights. Inside, a prostitute poses (usually in lingerie or a thong bikini) under a black-light or a dim white light.
Imagine it's about eleven at night in the red-light district and you're walking along the brick-paved streets checking out the scene. To your left is the canal, to your right a series of
(prostitutes) lit up in the windows, their lingerie like neon signs glowing white under the black-light as if illuminated from within; a live sex show with a barker out front trying to lure in an audience ("You've seen the girls in the windows, now come see the banana show!"); and an Amsterdam coffeeshop, where you can buy hashish and cannabis, magic mushrooms, poppers, space cakes, and good drinks.
There is a great variety of women. Some women sit on chairs looking out at the canal with bored expressions on their faces; others pose, dance, gyrate like "exotic dancers;" others eat fast food or do their nails; others open their doors and call out offers to interested-looking passers-by. You see a man in front of you walk up to a lit window and knock. The door opens and a price is negotiated. The man enters the room and takes off his jacket. The prostitute closes the door and shuts the drapes over the window.
It's Thursday night and I'm preparing, with some butterflies flitting about the digesting falafel in my gut, for my first outright sex purchase. I want to experience it fully, slowly, and in detail, so I window-shop carefully, walking slowly along the canal street, looking at the whores one by one and imagining myself bumping uglies with each of them. Some I don't give a second glance -- they're not my type in some superficial way. With others, I don't know until they make eye-contact with me whether or not I'd be interested in slipping behind their window curtain.
I approached one window for a price check. I knocked on the door frame and asked "How much?" when the door opened. "Fifty Euro for a fuck; fifty for a suck; one-hundred for both." I let this register and then said, "thank you; I may be back." "Whatever," she replied.
I ended up choosing Babyface. Given the 50 Euro suck/fuck offer, I chose the latter, and she showed me the way to her small bedroom/office, escorting me ahead of her up the stairs. The room was windowless and small, with a low ceiling, and just enough space for a small bed, a sink, and a narrow dresser. I sat down on the bed and started to take off my shoes and Babyface asked where I was from. I told her I was from California and that I'd come into town for a few days for the Cannabis Cup, and asked her where she was from. She told me that she'd come over from Great Britain about a year and a half ago, that she loved it in Amsterdam and was never going home to her boring island.
When I took off the last of my clothes, she noticed my tattoo and asked about it, and I told her the story behind it. I was trying to get to know Babyface through conversation, to be more comfortable with her, to help build the fantasy that she was here as a friend, not a professional. I reached over to her and put my arms around her and rubbed her very nice ass with my hands. "Can I take off your top?" I asked. "That costs 25 more," she told me. "Sneaky," I said, "but it's worth it." She took off the top and exposed two small, beautiful breasts that I spent some time nuzzling and kissing. "You have beautiful breasts," I told her (she did -- why give insincere complements to a prostitute?); "thanks," she said.
She then lay back on the bed and spread her legs. "Could we do it doggy-style?" I asked, but she said that any deviation from the missionary position has another 20 Euro charge, so I said, "forget it," and settled down. She was a little tight and dry, but eventually I built up a head of steam and we went to it. She was delightful to hold and delicious to fuck, but before long I got the two-minute warning -- "You have to finish pretty soon," she said. "Already?" I asked. "I have to pay the rent," she replied.
After I'd shot my wad and we were recomposing ourselves, we spent some time talking again. I asked about how business was in Amsterdam, and she told me that November was a very slow month. "People are saving money for the Christmas season," she said. Still, she was doing okay. About 60% of her income was splitbetween the house (rent) and a bodyguard/protector whom she said was hired "to protect me from the pimps." What the difference is between such a bodyguard and a pimp was too subtle for me to comprehend, but she clearly made a distinction.
On night number two I went to Sugarlips (the first two nights I superstitiously didn't ask the names of the prostitutes I visited, and only made up names for them afterwards). She was a sweet looker, big eyes, and olive-brown skin. Very friendly and cuddly, with an eager physical closeness -- whereas Babyface had enforced a prohibition on mouth-kisses, Sugarlips initiated delicious kisses and seemed to want to turn work into play.
I offered 100 Euro and proposed a scenario in which we would not be rushed and she would either flatly refuse to do something I asked or agree to it, but would not name any supplemental prices. After this initial negotiation (which was difficult -- her English wasn't very good and I don't know anything but English well enough to hold a conversation), we went upstairs.
True to our agreement, I was unrushed and never found a toll booth blocking my path when I was with Sugarlips. When she put on the condom, she immediately started sucking me off, without any prompting from me. I'm usually uninspired by vulcanized blowjobs, but this one was nice. After a while she stopped and I asked her to roll over on her side so I could enter her from behind. This took some effort, with the language barrier and all, but it was fun watching her assume all of the intermediate positions as her understanding of my request became more and more solid. ("Like this?" she'd ask, buns up, head down between her elbows. "No, not quite," but what a view...)
And stunningly, every time I turned, the cheek was there, was presented for kissing without protest, alarm, shock, mockery or disdain. And each time the kiss seemed familiar, expected, normal. This must happen all the time. I'm not the only one who does this. And the prostitutes either know this and give away the kiss free with any purchase as a marketing gimmick, or they subconsciously co�perate with the john's own subconscious to honor this element of the Homo sapiens mating dance with biological sincerity.
Agnes, my night #3, wasn't wearing lingerie or a bikini like the rest of the prostitutes; her style was to combine blue jeans with the top buttons undone and a white bra. Sexy, and reminiscent (in her freckles, frizzy hair down to the middle of her neck, and her bubblegum) of the Madonna-esque slut-fashion that swept my high school in the mid-1980s. Again she was in one of the side alleys that radiate away from the main canal street of the red-light. It seemed as though the district was informally divided into different types of women, as groups with similar ages, builds, and races were often found together. My favorites always seemed to be found in the dark, crowded alleys.
Although I had negotiated an "anything goes" half-hour, I was feeling more like exploiting the relatively unhurried aspect of it than the creative one. I spent some time going over her body with my hands and my mouth, became erect, put on a condom, asked her to lie on her stomach, and slowly banged away at her backside for the remaining time. The marijuana I had smoked that evening was coming on just perfectly for a good fuck, and I milked it for all it was worth, ending up with the best orgasm I'd had in months.
Each night was interesting and special in its own way; I can't say which one I enjoyed more. Babyface was so gorgeous and personable that her ruthless, perpetual contract negotiation was more amusing than annoying, and I learned a lot from talking with her about business and pleasure. Sugarlips more than anyone scratched the fantasy itch of emotional intimacy and mutual lovemaking with her eager lips and plausibly genuine purring. Agnes was purely professional, but really hit the spot. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn't skip a step.