The Night I Bought a Hooker

Who knows if this blog or my life will ever be the same after I publish this post. But oh well. I don’t really want it to be the same. I’m getting bored with my blog as it currently is, and if I feel that way, I can’t imagine how you feel.

So here’s to a new chapter of blogging. A chapter of brutal honesty that may or may not make me look like a chump. A chapter that may change some people’s views about me. Some may like me better. Some may block me in disgust. I’ve realized I don’t care enough not to hold back the true stories from my life. And with such a supportive girlfriend, who I can be so brutally honest with, what is holding me back?

Today’s story begins in the arrival hall of Amsterdam airport. Weeks before I had compared two flight-paths to meet my mother in England, and the cheaper one included Amsterdam.

I had actually been avoiding it on purpose. I knew it was a common destination for college-age kids who wanted to smoke lots of weed. I didn’t give a hoot about weed, and was only 17, but it just seemed too cliché. Now that I was here, however, I wanted to make the most of it.

As I walked through the arrivals hall, and the walls changed from the usual generic beige of an airport to an exotic-looking brown color, I took an inventory of my brain. What did I know about Amsterdam? Surprisingly little. A scene from the teen movie: “Eurotrip” flickered in my head, but all I could remember was the “hash brownies” they had eaten. That was truly the only thing I knew about this city. My dad’s voice also chimed in my memory, I had spoken to him just days before as I was leaving my rented apartment in Siegburg, Germany.

“People in Amsterdam are very progressive. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” He had told me. But what the hell did this mean?

I looked at my watch. I had been flying all night, and it was already 10:00pm local time. My connecting flight to London wasn’t until 2:00pm the next afternoon. For a moment I had considered the idea of checking into a hostel here, but something told me it would be more trouble than its worth. I had just bought a bivy sack and sleeping bag for stealth camping in Germany, and it had thrown off the weight of my Deuter Futura 28 liter backpack. It was a small bag, but it weighed heavy on my back as I walked.

I looked up.

“Lockers” a sign said, with an arrow pointing down some stairs. I climbed down the stairs and looked along a row of electronic lockers.

“10 euros per hour” the sign said. The price shock of Europe had long since worn off, and I just sighed and opened a locker. I put nearly everything inside except for my wallet, notebook, and camera, and threw on my leather jacket. I hadn’t had a cell-phone in months. I pressed the “lock” button and the machine printed a small receipt. A sign nearby explained in English:

“DO NOT LOSE CLAIM TICKET. REPLACEMENT CHARGE IS 20 EUROS!”

I noted the locker’s number down in my notebook and took a picture with my camera. I tried to open the door, just to check. It held fast. My stuff (absolutely everything I owned at the time) would be safe for as long as it needed to be.

Back in the arrival lounge, I glanced around for a transport office. A computer kiosk was in the center of the room. I went to it and puzzled for a moment. Trying to figure out the complex ticketing system.

“Train: Airport -> Downtown Amsterdam” was all I could find. I took a chance and bought a ticket. Another 10 euros later, I was waiting for a train in the strangely sterile underground station attached to the airport. I took out my notebook and wrote down some thoughts as I waited for the train. Unlike the German transit system, this one listed the track you should stand on to catch your train. This was very cool, as I knew absolutely no dutch, and according to the ticket agent, my German words were “similar, but not the same”.

A modern-looking train arrived. It had two levels, and I chose the top one. I looked around for other tourists, but saw only stone-faced locals. Why did everyone look so angry?

The train began to move, and soon we were plunged into moderate darkness. It took a few minutes before I realized we were not in a tunnel, but the deep dark of the nighttime. Buildings and trees began to create a pattern in my vision, and soon I was seeing clearly. When you’re in London, you know when you’re downtown. But I couldn’t for the life of me figure out whether I was on the outskirts of the city, or right in the middle. Strange names with missing vowels were spoken in a remarkably calm computerized voice from the train’s loudspeaker. Finally a translation came that I understood.

“Downtown Amsterdam” the computer spoke to me. This was enough. I picked myself up and climbed out of the train. A big sign said “Main Train Station”. I had arrived.

But for all the bravado, stepping out of the train-station entrance didn’t bring me much confidence. The city seemed quiet and dark. To my left, a large body of water separated the city. Ferries were moving between each shoreline, and I walked toward them. Along the way I saw the largest bike storage facility I had ever seen. Bicycle after bicycle was stored on end, upside-down, and leaning against the other like an ocean reef. As I walked, I listened for some concentration of noise. Something to indicate some night-life.

A man walked beside me with his bicycle toward the ferries. I called out to him:

“Excuse me?” I ventured. I wasn’t sure how much English was spoken here.

“Yes?” his accent was impeccable. Suddenly I felt stupid.

“Do you know where I can go for some fun…?” I asked warily. Hearing myself, I wasn’t even sure what I was doing here. I wasn’t this guy. I found my own fun, not asked for it like a noun.

“Fun?” he looked at me questioningly. “Like a dance club?”

“Sure. Something like that. Is there a nightlife area?”

He laughed and pointed his finger vaguely. “Just head that way! I think you’ll be able to find something there. I have to go.” He rode off. I sighed. I had been walking in the opposite direction. Suddenly I wished I had stayed at the airport. Dutifully, I walked in the direction he had pointed. About a mile later, I saw a small shop labeled “Cafe”. I knew what it was instantly. Globs of tourists were sitting inside, all smoking Marijuana. I kept walking, and streetlights began to appear. I felt the electricity of people, and knew I had found something. I just wasn’t sure what.

I turned a corner, and suddenly stopped. I had reached a river, or so it seemed. A bridge lay in front of me. A small one, arching over a thin body of water. In the midnight light, it looked very romantic and picturesque.

So this is where all the people were…

This was apparently a main artery of the city. People walked in all directions, gazing into shop windows and talking amongst themselves. Marijuana Cafe’s lined the walkways, every one full to the brim. I looked at my watch to double-check, were this many people really out at such a late hour? Yup. Twelve o’clock.

I took a second look at the landscape before me, trying to take it all in. There were dark alleyways, well-lit shop windows, colorful banners and…red streetlights.

Now I remembered. I had read about the red light district of Amsterdam. Different than most cities, the red light district was not an underground wasteland of sexual infections, it was a city-sponsored well-run hot spot that allowed not just Marijuana, but prostitution as well. Another look at the shop windows confirmed my suspicions. The wares the tourists were examining weren’t just watches and jewelry, they were women. Skinny women, fat women, white women, black women. I walked slowly down the walkway, and they beckoned to me. They seemed like holograms behind the glass. Their bodies were oiled and shown like polished apples in the casts of red light.

I walked and walked. Nearly every window had a woman, beckoning and winking. Some wore bikini tops and bottoms, some just the latter. It felt so intense to be stared down by so many live porn-stars at once, I couldn’t take it. I turned off onto an alley and walked quickly. I needed a moment to catch my breathe. But I wouldn’t have one. This apparently innocent alley at first glance had more windows. But apparently, if the main drag was a convenience store, the alleys were specialty markets. Rows of black women of all shapes and sizes waved and winked at me from either side. I kept walking and finally found a moment of respite next to a sex club. I sat down on the steps and pondered for a moment. Had the thought I had back there really been valid? Did it really make sense?

“You’re only going to be here once Christian.” the voice in my head had said to me, “If you’re going to try it, this is the place.” it had stated emphatically.

I put my head in my hands and tried to breathe slowly. I was weighing all of my options. How much would a hooker be? I eyed some of the shady looking men standing nearby. I could ask them, but it might cost me. Whether I want to give them my money or not.

I raised myself slowly from my sitting position, standing dramatically.

And with a steady resolve I walked in the direction I had come. I walked passed the black women, past the transexuals, past the male hookers, and onto the main drag again. I carefully examined every woman. I looked into their eyes, and watched their facial expressions. As if I could somehow decode their rehearsed routine. Finally a woman caught my eye. She beckoned to me. With a final breath, I walked toward the door to her “office”.

“You want a fuck?” she asked me, apparently assuming I was American.

“How much?” I almost stuttered, but managed to keep my voice calm.

“100 euros.” Christ, that was $200. Sex was never something I had ever had to, or planned on, paying for. But I had made my decision.

I nodded and handed her the money in cash. She grabbed my hand and pulled me into her layer. More girls stood in the other windows, but hers went dark. The red light above it waited, dormant until her return. She led me into a dark hallway lit with back-lights, and took a sudden right. It was a small room, and it housed an industrial sink and wooden platform with a thin mattress and disposable sheet covering it.

“You may take off your clothes.”

I did as she asked. I removed my black Icebreaker shirt, my Cloudveil traveling pants, my ex-officio quick-drying underwear, and, most awkward of all, my knee brace.

She laid down on the bed. I laughed awkwardly, and tried to chit-chat.

“This is my first time.” I said to her, smiling ever awkwardly. Suddenly, I realized she might take that the wrong way, I almost spoke again to clarify, but she spoke instead.

“Come here.”

I gulped, and took a step toward her. She didn’t look much different without her bikini on. Her skin looked just as plastic as the costume fabric she had been wearing. I looked down at her vagina. It looked plastic too. It was hairless and pink.

“You have three minutes to make him hard. If he is not hard in three minutes, you will just get handjob. Okay?”

I assumed by him she meant my penis. I nodded and commanded “him” to obey. He did. I showed her, somewhat proud. She unwrapped the condom she was holding in her hand, and rolled it onto me, taking great care not to touch any part of my skin.

She laid back and spread her legs. I raised myself above her, and put myself inside. It felt weird. Like plastic, still. It didn’t really even feel good. Why was this so different from regular sex? Shouldn’t this be better?

“Please do not touch.” She said, and I moved my hands away from her, obligingly. As I plunged inward and back out again, I took stock. I was already bored. Why did I even do this? I wasn’t a sex-less old gentleman, why did I need this? I remembered the room, the nervousness, the anticipation. I realized it was the excitement I liked so much. The new experience. And there was nothing new about what I was doing with this lady.

I finished up. Bored. I just wanted out of there.

I pulled off the condom and she held out a trash can. I thought about asking if it was good for her, but I realized the language barrier might cause more of a misunderstanding than I was up for. I thanked her halfheartedly and walked back out into the cold night air. I had expected to step out of the room somehow different than before, but I was the same person. No weird risk of infections, no sex games, it was boring and fruitless.

And that is why I will never get a hooker again.

PS: Hope you enjoyed this story. If it offends you, don’t read it. Think of me playing soccer, an innocent little kid. I’m still lovable! There is more to be told about that hapless night in Amsterdam, but that is another story…

The Night I Bought a Hooker, 4.9 out of 5 based on 8 ratings If you liked this post, you might like these:

1. The Night-Light Epiphany
2. Stealth Camping, the first night.
3. Relaunch