An American Whorewolf in Amsterdam

Welcome, netsurfer, to my blog. On Fridays I post from a series covering events from my past that played some part in leading me to Thailand. This is part 6 in what has become a confession of sorts—forays into the world of red-light districts and brothels that shaped my outlook on monogamy and relationships. A shape, it turns out, that is perfectly fitting for a life of debauched bachelorhood (debauchelorhood for short, copyright BKK7) in Bangkok.

Most of these trysts took place in the bustling metropolis that is London, however I did extend my tendrils far enough to sample the goods in a handful of other places, one of which was the world-famous Amsterdam. I’d taken the ferry over from Norwich, and then the train from the coast without booking a hotel ahead of time. My thought was that I could potentially stay out all night and just head back in the morning. This was foolish for three reasons. First, the city actually shuts down in the wee hours, something I was shocked to learn given its reputation. Second, there was a sudden cold snap that sent temperatures plummeting throughout the night. And third, I drastically underestimated the power of space cake.

It was drizzling when I stepped off the train, and the sun was already down. As I began to navigate my way through the streets, which were stuffed with people, cyclists, and loud music, my nose began to run. Every time I sniffed, I was serenaded by a chorus of echoing sniffs from drug-dealing Africans who mistook my nasal drip for code that I was looking for coke. This was before Google maps, so I quickly became lost as well as cold, and wound up ducking into an internet café that also sold hallucinogenic muffins. I plopped down at a computer to email my mom and eat my poppyseed drug pastry. Half way through both, I got the sensation that the room had inverted and my arms were weightless. It was all I could do to force my hands down to the keyboard, they kept trying to float away. The din of voices of the people around be melted into a concerto of jazz music that seemed to emanate from out of the center of my head. I realized that if I didn’t get something to eat I would collapse in a full-flown psychedelic breakdown, so I quickly finished up my email (which seemed to take days) and hurried across the alley to an Argentinian restaurant. After a plate of bbq ribs and French fries I began to feel like myself again, and decided to seek out some hash. So it was back out into the cold, more sniffing, more Africans following me, over a canal, and into a three-story bar that was packed to the gills with chattering 20-somethings. Not realizing it’s illegal for a proprietor to sell both booze and cannabis, I got a tall glass of weizen and sat near some smokers hoping to get a contact high. After a few minutes I figured out it was tobacco. No one took notice of me, and once I’d emptied my glass, I left.

Just a few doors down was a magic mushroom shop. I picked up a bag of truffles and took off in search of hookers, and after a few zigs and zags found a tiny walkway with graffiti covered walls and signs forbidding cameras. After a few paces, I began to see warmly lit windows, and as I passed them, noticed that behind each was a small room containing a bed and a barely-clothed woman each of whom gazed out at passers by with either interest, indifference, or a kaleidoscopic mixture of both. After making a few passes around three blocks, I settled on a demure-looking girl with dark brown hair. She told me using very good English that she was 25, hailed from Spain, and had been in the pussy-slinging business for a couple of months. She was quiet, shy, and made small, slight movements. At first, I was apprehensive—unsure of myself and even unsure of whether or not to bang her. I was about to leave, when suddenly there came a rhythmic pounding and loud screaming from the room next door. We looked at each other and laughed simultaneously. It broke whatever tension had built between us, and we both got undressed and into bed, where I made slow, gentle copulation with her to no great crescendo but at least to my satisfaction. Then I thanked her, paid, and left. After wandering around for another hour, I decided that staying up all night was a terrible idea. I found a hotel, and paid 100 Euro to sleep in a warm bed for 4 hours before heading back to the ferry. As I walked toward the dock, I noticed some police with a drug-sniffing dog on the gangway. I ducked into the toilet and dumped my mushrooms in the bin. It was an anticlimactic end to a mostly failed endeavor, save for the lovely Spaniard and her gentle bedroom demeanor.

Next week, I’ll post a tale from a decidedly warmer climate—no, not Thailand. Panama. Until then, keep your balls warm, your beer cold, and cheers to another week above ground in the greatest adult playground on Earth: Bangkok.