I woke in the morning with Vanessa between my legs. She had applied a condom and was slowly sucking the tip of my penis. She looked up, saw I was awake, and winked at me. I laid my head back down and laughed. She lifted her head and her mouth made a popping sound as she uncorked her lips. “You like blow job, baby?” I said, “No, blow job is horrible!” Vanessa screamed unintelligibly then bit down on my dick, hard enough for me to cry out, “Hey!” I looked up and she still had my cock in her mouth. She was no longer biting, but she had a wicked twinkle in her eye. I said, “Hey, you watch yours—“ I wasn’t able to finish as she sucked more of me into her mouth and twirled her tongue. My head fell back and I felt a moan trying to escape but she had sucked the breath out of me. Thoughts drained as the sensations intensified. When I came I wasn’t sure how much time had passed. I didn’t care. I just panted and tried not to move, afraid if I did that my whole body would tremble and I would scream. She was just that fucking good.
Vanessa removed the condom, walked to the bathroom, and returned with a hand towel. She looked up at me, a service-like tenderness in her eyes, and washed me. When she finished she went back toward the bathroom and threw the cloth around the corner. She was amazing. Even after that personal outpouring of horror and emotion from last night she was still a delicious combination of personal and professional. I wanted to be with her. I wanted her to stay all day every day. I looked at my cock and then I looked at the clock. 8:00 AM. I was exhausted, happily exhausted. Vanessa said, “I take shower, baby.” I wanted to get up and join her, but I couldn’t move. I laid naked on the bed staring at the ceiling, enjoying the post-fellatio glow.
I heard the shower shut off and I made myself get out of bed. I was in danger of falling asleep. I nummied the remnants of white powder on the Phish CD case and got a whiff of alert. I tidied up the room a bit and put the food tray outside the door. I made sure the sign said do not disturb. By the time Vanessa walked out of the bathroom, I had dressed in sweats and laid out her clothes. She was wearing her white robe, noticed the clothes, and smiled. She kissed me on the cheek and said, “You are sweet, but I have clothes in bag.” She pulled out fresh underwear, bra, skirt, and blouse, none of them particularly sexy in comparison to her other clothes. I sat on the side of the bed watching her dress. She went back to the bathroom. I got up off the bed and started packing my belongings. Vanessa returned and I noticed she was smiling. She looked delightful.
Vanessa walked over and kissed me. “I have to go.” I stood there waiting for her to go, but she didn’t move. “What?” I asked. I slapped my head, “Oh, yes. The money!” I blushed, retrieved the Euros, and gave them to her. She shifted her weight and adopted one of the poses I loved, her head tilted with one leg extended to the side. She leafed through the bills then her face lit up. She kissed me again, smiled playfully, patted my cheek with a leather-gloved hand, and said, “Goodbye, innocent. You have number. Call me, okay? I want see you again.” She smiled, turned on her heel, and opened the door. She looked back and scrunched her face, “You know what I think?” I shook my head. “I think you are strange.” She let out a laugh and ran out the door.
I shook my head and walked to the door to closed it. I turned and leaned against it. I laughed. “I am strange.” I heard her voice in my head: “Baby.” That accent and those lilting sighs. Whew. I was dead tired, though, and too dreamy to think about anything but her. I pulled out the coke and a CD case from my backpack. I needed something to keep me awake until I got home. There was a lot of coke left. I chopped up a decent-sized line and zoomed it. I felt the whoosh of awareness swirl around my head and I stood up, hopped to the bathroom, and took a shower. I shaved, brushed my teeth, put on deodorant, yada yada yada.
I got dressed, cleaned up the coke and the CD case, and put them back in my bag. I checked my wallet to make sure I had everything. Satisfied, I picked up the room key, made one last round, and went to the door. I looked back at the room and sighed. I was going to miss it. “You made for a great weekend, motherfucker. Thank you.” I opened the door, threw the sign in the room, and closed the door. I went down the elevator to the front desk and proceeded to check out. I looked at my bill—over one thousand Euros. I charged it to my credit card. I loosely added up the damage from the weekend and realized I had spent well over three thousand Euros. Worth every fucking cent.
I walked into the drizzling rain and put on my cap. As I slowly walked toward my apartment through the blind streets of the Oude Zijde I realized I could barely remember who I was before the weekend began. It felt like years had passed since I had eaten pasta and shrooms on Friday. I thought of Vanessa now and then, an image of her standing with her hands on her hips, her head tilted to one side, one leg extended, her eyes piercing through me, her lips pursed in a kiss before broadening to a smile, and her voice fluttering in my ears, “What? You no like, baby?” Oh, I like, baby, I like.
...
I arrived at my apartment around noon. I had taken the scenic route. Not on purpose; I kept getting turned around on streets that doubled back the wrong direction and then tried to correct by taking streets that came to a dead end at a canal. I loved it! The Oude Zijde is wonderful that way. It didn’t hurt that it was sunny and the temperature was decent.
It felt weird being back, though. The apartment that seemed so spectacular when I first arrived now seemed pedestrian after my weekend at The Grand. I tossed my backpack onto the bed. I was famished. I made a sandwich then forced myself to unpack. I put a load of clothes into the washer. I set up my MacBook on the dining room table. I still had enough energy to download the photos and videos of Vanessa. I did a line of blow then looked through the slides. I deleted those that were blurry or redundant. About two thirds of the photos disappeared.
I watched one of the videos. The quality was excellent with good lighting and sound. Watching Vanessa dance put me right back in the hotel room. She was right in front of me, twirling around in her robe as it opened and closed, exposing her body then covering it up. I felt a pang for her. I was tempted to call and ask her come over, but I resisted the urge. Instead, I grabbed my lid of cannabis, lighter, and pipe. I loaded a bud of Buku into the bowl. I walked to the living room and pushed the button to open the blinds. I lit up as I looked out at the canal and the condos across. I inhaled deeply. The view was lovely in the sunlight. I exhaled, lit the bowl again, and sucked in the smoke. I held this one a little longer then exhaled.
I put down the pipe and lighter on the coffee table. I walked over to the stereo then realized I wanted to listen to Phish. I went to my bedroom and put the coke away. I ran a finger across the CD case and numbed my tongue with the powder. I removed the CD and lazily walked back to the living room. I grabbed the remote, cycled through a few songs, and rested on “David Bowie.” The stereo pumped out loud music and I turned it down a few notches so I could hear myself think. I probably had it cranked while I was shrooming on Friday. I thought of Friday again. I shook my head and smiled.
I zoned out on the couch listening to music. I thought of Vanessa’s story, the horrific series of events that led her from Romania to free agency as an escort in Amsterdam. In a way, she had made it. She was on top of the world, in control of her own destiny. But at what cost? She said she was broken. What did she mean by that? She was healthy physically except for the crack in her ribs. That had healed even if not set quite right. She meant her spirit. I saw a glimpse before we fell asleep. Anyone can be up and twirling about for a weekend. I certainly was and was I healed from years of depression? It felt that way, but was I really in any lasting sense?
These were not questions I needed to answer. I wanted to enjoy myself. I picked up the bowl again and lit up. I finished off the bud while listening to “Destiny Unbound.” I cashed the bowl into the ashtray and lied down on the couch. I let the sounds roll over me as I fell asleep.
...
I woke early in the evening. The weekend had thrown my sleep pattern completely out of whack. I didn’t want to cook so I went for a walk. I passed Eik en Linde and thought of popping inside. I could see through the windows that it was packed and I wasn’t in the mood for a big crowd. I had no anxiety about it, though. It was merely a preference. I noted that and inhaled the cool night air. I felt good. I felt fresh. I felt like someone else. “Who the fuck is this guy?” I wondered. “Whoever he is I like him. I hope he sticks around.”
I walked to the city center, the east side. I found a Greek restaurant near the Red Light District. It was more of a sidewalk stand built into a building. I ordered a gyro and a diet soda then walked down a side street until I found a bench. I watched pedestrians and cyclists pass as I ate. One of the cyclists with healthy curly blond hair was whistling the James Bond theme song. I laughed so hard soda nearly shot out my nose. Amsterdam is always alive but at night it feels electric. I could feel it crackling with energy in this neighborhood.
I decided to wander south. I crossed the Amstel, passed through Rembrandtplein, and followed Vijzelstraat until it intersected with Kerkstraat, one of my favorite streets in Amsterdam. I walked to the west. There were pedestrians and cyclists but without that hyper-energy that sizzles around the Red Light or Rembrandtplein. I saw the Conscious Dreams sign and said, “Why not?” I entered and looked for a bit before going to the counter. I had no intention of shrooming, but I wanted them on hand. There was an attractive Dutch woman working. She spoke English in that special lilting Dutch manner.
I flirted with her, complimenting her accent, telling her she had beautiful blonde hair. My spirit must have been just right because she flirted right back, telling me she thought I was Dutch with my black coat, black pants, and easy gait. “That’s a hell of a compliment, woman. I might fall in love with you if you keep it coming.” She laughed and said “You look very handsome as well.” I sighed and put my hands on the counter. I tilted my head and looked her in the eyes. “Now why would you do that? Now I’m in love with you. I’ll never be happy again unless you go out with me.” She kept laughing so I said, “Seriously, what time do you get off work.” I was joking around, but I played the part pretending to be deadly serious. “Well, uh, I have a boyfriend.” I threw up my hands, turned around, and took three steps toward the far wall. There were no other customers in the shop. I put a hand over my eyes, turned back to her, and lowered my hand. I sighed and looked up. While looking at the ceiling I said, in a choked-up voice, “You couldn’t just tell me that straight out?” I looked her in the eye and yelled, “No! You led me on, made me think that we shared something special, that maybe, just maybe, you were the one!” I put my face in hands and doubled over, heaving my back as I pretended to sob uncontrollably.
I stood up straight like a shot and removed my hands from my face. I looked at her as casually as I could and said, “Okay, got it out of my system. How much for the Ecuadorians?” She shook her head and said, “Whoa. I …” I interjected, “Sorry, I was just having fun. I’m American; we love melodrama and overacting. I’m just playing to type.” She smiled but had a look in her eye that said, “I’m not sure I’m going to flirt with anyone ever again.” I asked her what she thought of Americans and she seemed to regain her composure. She said, “They’re okay. The Americans we get around this neighborhood are different than those around the train station and Dam Square.” I said, “Yeah, probably fewer tourists, more travelers.” She nodded.
There are major differences between tourists and travelers. Tourists want to see the guide book sights, take photos of everything, ignore the subtleties that make Amsterdam rich, and stay out of areas that veer off the beaten path. That’s why Eik en Linde sees so few Americans and why I was such an oddity there. Travelers want experiences and memories rather than photos and journal entries. They want to meet the Dutch and other travelers, they want to drink in the richness of an out-of-the-way jazz club or find a party by talking with a local at a little known club in De Pijp. Travelers are artists of experience and they want to collaborate with other experiential performers. At this point, I was a tweener, not quite confident enough to really be a traveler.
Then again, I wasn’t trying to be a traveler on this trip. I was trying to live like a local—though my weekend put me more in the class of … I’m not really sure. Neither tourist nor traveler, I guess. It was a weekend of hedonism, mostly Dionysian but with flashes of Epicureanism. Vanessa’s story changed the tenor of the experience. She became human and I became more human as a result. I owed her a debt of gratitude that went far beyond money.
I continued conversing with the Conscious Dreams' woman. I was running out of steam so I bid her adieu. Before I walked out I twirled around and asked her what days she worked. She said, “I’m on to you now. Good try, though.” I laughed and she gave me a smile. I said, “Tchüss!” as I headed out the door. I walked back to the apartment. I checked my watch; almost ten. It was three in the afternoon in Wisconsin. I found it ridiculous that I lived there. I belonged in Amsterdam. I had thought that the first time I exited Amsterdam Centraal. A wave of nostalgia came over me as I remembered how the city had taken my breath away that first trip. I truly wanted to live in Amsterdam. Not just “live like a local,” but set down roots. I wondered how I might go about doing that.
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