Amsterdam, part IIII (the next day).

 

“For fuck’s sake, Re Alexi,” my brother complained. “I had enough of this. Just pick another one, do her, and let’s go home. I’m beat.”

It was the 11th time we were circling the Red-light district, looking for the One. Strange how I lock onto a woman and hold on for as long as I can. For a dude with a porn addiction I’m quite the monogamous penguin. Apart from a huge white belly though (and the occasional nursing of my mate’s egg), the penguin-similarities end here. I, for example, can fly, and on that particular day I was flying so high- ants looked like people.

A bong-hit or seven of that smooth hashish (don’t remember its name) later and out the hotel-door we went. I remember laughing and kidding my brother of how horny I was, while tripping and tip-toeing on the stone-laid streets, and that tonight he should take care protecting his butthole, for anything could happen. He laughed and suggested prostitution.

“How fucking cool will that be huh!” I responded.
“Why not? You should try it once. Always masturbating like a monkey on a mango tree.”
“Hey! Don’t knock the mango tree, man. Not cool,” I said cackling, imagining me sitting on a branch, masturbating nonchalantly while Spider Monkeys through feces at me. Then: “So seriously, can I just pick anyone, no matter how hot she is and she’ll agree to have sex with me?”
“Haha, they’re not that picky you asshole.”
“I haven’t masturbated for a long time. Don’t know what happened but it’s been four fucking days.”
“Heh. New record?”
“That’s five days. Remember the flood of ‘93? All me.”

We laughed for a while, definitely with something just as stupid and inane, yet homely and blissful.
The twilight was fleeting quickly. Once inside the city center we decided to take a break again. It couldn’t be more than 500 meters from our hotel but don’t forget our swampy legs. We sat on a ledge by a canal, our feet resting on a shitty little boat. We rocked the boat, unglued patches of moss with our fingernails, threw it at imaginary monsters and held hands. Haha. Just kidding.
“Hahaha, how funny would it be if we held hands,” I said and went slowly for Theo’s hand.
He jumped like an electrocuted frog and said laughing: “You’re getting laid tonight and that’s that.”

 

So here we were, on the 11th round around Red.
I couldn’t believe how beautiful all these women were, in their red-lit windows with their black-lit eyes and teeth and their skimpy white underwear.
“This is inconceivable. I mean, will she have sex with me!?” I asked Theo.
“Probably,” he said indifferently.
“And, OH MY GOD!!! Will SHE accept my man-love too,” (haha, man-love).
“Yeah.”
“Oh man, I should have brushed my teeth.”
“You’re not going to kiss her you moron.”
“Why not?”
“You just don’t.”
“Oh… I haven’t showered either.”
“It’s alright. You showered last night. Besides, they don’t care that much.”
“But how can they not?”
“They just don’t.”
“But most of them could be on TV or in the movies making tons of money.”
“They do alright… at least 1000 euro a night.”
“ !!!! I want to be a prostitute too!”

***

 

This constant amazement went on, but by the moment my gaze met hers everything else faded. In fact, I was so taken by her that I couldn’t even imagine having sex with her. It would be defiling in a way. That’s right! I said it: Having sex with me is defiling. Fuck off.

So anyway, the One was a tall, thin brunette goddess with hazel-green eyes and a pointy nose. She reminded me of a girl I wanted to bang in high-school, a much older version of course, and perhaps that was partly the reason I hesitated. It felt wrong doing it with that in mind so I said: “SHE is awesome, but we haven’t even gone round the district once. We’ll make a mental note of her booth and we’ll come back later.”

Theo agreed, but we never did. Hard as we tried we couldn’t find her again. My single-minded, heat-seeking missile was very disappointed.

“You’re not going home until you experience prostitution,” my brother stated firmly.
“But I can’t find her,” I whined.
“For fuck’s sake, Re Alexi. I had enough of this. Just pick another one, do her, and let’s go home. I’m beat.”
“Alright, alright,” I assured him.
“How about this one. She’s an Appara (translation: female horse/mare)”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said but knocked on the window-door of her neighbor. Don’t know why.
“I want to have sex with you,” I said in English.
“Sure honey, come on in. It’s 50 euro.”
“Fine, whatever.”
“Take off all your clothes and lie down.”
I said Ok and sat on the bed. “So, what’s the protocol with paid-sex?”
“Protocol? What are you a moron?”
“It seems to be the popular belief these days, yes. He-he.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll do all the work.”

While undressing I started singing softly Donna Summer’s She works hard for the money—snapping my fingers, attempting a woman-y voice, gradually building up volume, the works. She found it hilarious and her squeaky laughter filled the otherwise sleazy room. Soon I was popping boners left right and centre (mostly centre).
“You know what it will be funny too?” she said. “If we had sex in Part Five!”
“Let’s see.”