Amsterdam Twenty-One: Ethereal Vanessa

I dreamt of the Red Light District, testosterone leaking from the crotches of men bloodied from cock fights over who had called whose mother a whore, flop sweat spraying from the sprinklers of men’s hair onto the red-lit windows imprisoning terrified women with fake tits and labial surgeries, hate engorged like a cock spewing semen into roaming pussies served to drunks as clam chowder, grinding teeth seesawing back and forth to cut through the enamel of dignity, fingernails digging into the backs of dead corpses being fucked by hairless rodents claiming to be real men, the stink of assholes who had shit machismo for years without wiping, the inebriated inflation of masculine ego oblivious to the pin about to pop its millennia of hot air, promises never kept because of the cowardice of civilization, betrayals of integrity presented as a bouquet of disrespect, the howls of rapists high-fiving anyone without both fists jammed down a woman’s throat, pus-filled sores secreting unspoken truths about sexuality, hordes of men and women pulling their own hair and smashing their faces into brick walls, the silence surrounding the loneliness of hearts in a sea of empty bodies, and the redness of lips, clits, assholes, and eyes regenerating sorrow passed down as humanity’s sacred heritage.

I woke to a bedroom filled with sunlight. Everything in the room was white just as it had been since my arrival. My mind was red, though. I swung my legs out of bed and stood. I was shaking. Why such a horrific dream? The Red Light District had been like a frat party reunion of the most degraded men the world had to offer. Everything ugly about humanity had paraded itself throughout the neighborhood. I was having fun because I was with Vanessa, but I saw and felt what was surrounding me. The outward behavior and even the facial expressions in and of themselves were ugly, but what lurked beneath was far worse. There was nothing about the place that suggested this was unique to Amsterdam, either. It was simply a public portrayal of the soul of every man who peers at rape sites on the Internet. Were the men raping? No, but they were in spirit. The women? Cashing in on that spirit.

The horror of the spectacle is grooved into the very psyche of humanity, so much so that only absurdity would sweep it under the rug to pretend it doesn’t exist. The outrage over it is just as ridiculous, as if the grotesque is foreign to human thought and behavior. This is what we are as a species. To deny it, pretend it is an aberration, and say it is “wrong” misses the truth that it is. It exists now, always has, always will. The idea that we will “rise above” the ugliness of being human is a pie-in-the-sky dream. How will humanity “rise above” its basest instincts? No methods or belief systems have ever succeeded; there has never been a single generation of any culture that was absent sexual manipulation and violence. Both men and women are guilty and always will be.

I made coffee and sat down at my computer. I wrote, mostly snippets of ideas I wanted to revisit another time. I pondered whether I really cared about humanity. If I had to take all of the bad with the good, then no. Shift the balance a little, at least, and I cared. Overall, I was glad I was going to die eventually. Living too long in a shit world couldn’t be good for anyone. Death always has been life’s greatest gift. It has been our “get out of jail free” card.

For the moment, though, I was happy. The feel of the Red Light was distasteful, but certainly not the worst spectacle I’ve ever seen. There was a fight in my high school with over five hundred kids involved, some with clubs and knives. I saw a friend of mine beat another kid over the head—repeatedly—with a trash can lid; he was fifteen years old. I watched a guy put a gun to my brother’s head threatening to kill him when he was eighteen. My brother and I were abducted by older kids when we were just four and five years old. The first guy who ever got me high was chased by a rival gang for several blocks while hopping fences until they caught him and beat him with a baseball bat; he had been a mean, tough hombre who was smart as a whip, but after the beating he went into a coma and came out pert-near a vegetable—seventeen years old. A guy I knew in high school went to Mexico to buy a pound of marijuana and was stabbed to death three blocks from the border; he was sixteen. Another friend at sixteen killed a nine-year-old girl with a hammer, put her in a trash bag, and dumped her in a river.

The never-ending stream of violence used to be the soundtrack of my life. Now it's just background noise, no more surprising than the sun rising. I once saw a guy get cracked in the nose by another guy who made contact when his arm was fully extended; a perfect punch. A thick arc of blood squirted high into the air and landed several feel away. I had walked into the bar right at the moment it happened, next to a pool table. I knew nothing about the context, who started it, who they were, nothing. All I saw was the end of the punch, the fierce crackle of bone being shattered, and the arc of blood streaming through the air. It all happened in slow motion for me. I can still picture the split second it all took place. It was fucking beautiful! I can’t describe it as anything but art. Everything aligned perfectly and the arc of blood was the “money shot.”

The guy who threw the punch ran out the door. He looked like he felt awful about it. I felt sympathy for him because of the look of dismay. The rest of the bar was in a state of shock. To a set of eyes besides mine, the punch, the crack, and the blood was probably unsettling if not downright disturbing. People looked freaked. Me? I felt a rush of smooth energy, a glass of lemonade on the Fourth of July. I was excited yet relaxed. I felt at home. It was only partially the violence, though. Part of the rush came from seeing people looking freaked out. I was calm compared to everyone else. I knew right away that I had the upper hand over everyone present. They were disturbed, I was relaxed; advantage me.

The most difficult thing for me growing into adulthood was how to function in a mostly nonviolent world. I didn’t understand the culture, the norms. I knew how to handle immediate crises, physical threats, even verbal threats. But the subtleties of nonviolent manipulations and betrayal? I was out of my depth. My ex, S., was the first person I learned to trust as an adult. Before getting to know her when I was twenty-three, I hadn’t trusted anyone since before I was ten years old. Even with her, it took a long time. I knew that was why her betrayal hurt as much as it did—betrayed by the first person I had trusted in a world where no one can be trusted? Yeah, that fucked me up. It would have been better if she had stabbed me with a butcher’s knife. That I knew how to handle.

I fell in love with Amsterdam for these reasons. It wasn’t because it was utopia, completely absent violence, or offered greater freedom than anywhere else. I loved the city because I sensed the spirit was nonjudgmental and accepting. Perfectly nonjudgmental and accepting? No, but to a greater degree than any place I had ever been. I could trust the city. I did not feel the same intensity of status-oriented judgments that exist elsewhere or the oppressiveness of attitude permeating from those “not like me.” Amsterdam is one of the few cities worldwide in the 21st century that can justifiably be considered enlightened. This is true not in spite of the grotesqueness of the Red Light District on Friday nights, but because of the city's relative acceptance of this base-level reality of human nature. They put the dog on a leash instead of whipping it with a belt.

I thought about Vanessa. She defied every notion of what I imagined an escort might be. She was more like a wildly free-spirited sex therapist than an escort. I couldn’t think of anyone I held in higher esteem. As high, yes, but not higher. I had probably passed lawyers, doctors, and business owners in the Red Light District the previous night, but I would trust Vanessa before any one of them. Not exactly the toughest competition, but from the point of view of “respectable” society my words read like blasphemy. Fuck "respectable" society; there’s nothing respectable about it.

I made a lunch and thought about going for a walk. I was tired, though. I had nearly a gram of coke so I did a line and got dressed to go out. I put on a winter hat because it was extremely cold, as cold as it had been since I had arrived in Amsterdam. I walked to the Oude Zijde and found a cozy café to read the rest of The Architecture of Happiness. I hadn’t done nearly as much reading as I thought I would during my stay, but I had been living my own story.

I started with coffee, but had a couple of beers and a meal before I left late afternoon. The wind had picked up. I shivered and wished I had brought gloves with me. I had finished the book and if I hadn’t liked it so much I would have put it down on a bench for someone else. I suffered through the whipping wind and made it back to my apartment. Once I got upstairs, I threw down my book, took off my coat, and went to the bathroom to run warm water over my hands. My cheeks were red from the wind. I ran hot water over a hand towel and put it to my face.

I tuned the radio to a soft jazz station. I looked at the shelves to see if there were any interesting books. Ken Kesey’s Sailor Song spoke to me. A nice, fat, long novel. Perfect for a cold wintery night. I was surprised to see it in the apartment. The collection was eclectic, a little of this, a little of that. I loaded a bowl and took a couple puffs before lying down to read.

Vanessa sent an SMS around eight. “I want come over. My papa, he have accident.” Whoa. I replied, “Of course, come over whenever you want. Nine?” She responded “Okay. Kiss.” I sent a “kiss” of my own. I was concerned. I hoped her father’s accident wasn’t bad, but I wondered if I would spend the night consoling her if it was. I felt touched that she wanted to see me during a crisis rather than someone else—then again, who else would she see? She came to me the prior night because she didn’t want to be alone if she didn’t have any work. I wished the circumstances were different, but I was happy I was going to see her.

I put in a load of laundry while waiting. The cleaning lady had come earlier while I was on my walk so I had fresh sheets and towels. I wished I had robes because I loved seeing Vanessa in the fluffy white she wore at The Grand. I also thought, though, that she might not be in the mood for sexiness at all given that her father had been in an accident. I shook sex out of my mind to tap into the other half of human nature, the half kissed with kindness.

Vanessa arrived a little after nine. She had tears in her eyes when I opened the door. I hugged her and brought her inside, leading her up the stairs. I sat her down on the couch and she merely hung her head. She was wearing a black leather jacket, red leather pants, and black boots. I went to the kitchen to fill a glass of water and brought it to her. She took a drink and put the glass on the coffee table. I sat down next to her and put my arm around her as she buried her face in my chest and convulsed in sobs. I caressed her hair with my hand and tried to console her.

She collected herself and pulled away. I had snot and tears on the chest of my shirt. She laughed through her tears. “Sorry I ruin shirt.” I shook my head no and told her it was no trouble. I excused myself and went for another one, but realized everything was in the washing machine. I came back out of the bedroom and told her I didn’t have a fresh one, that I was doing laundry. She walked over to me and pulled the shirt over my head. She went into the bedroom and pulled a blanket off the bed. She wrapped herself in it and sat down. She said, “Come here.” I went to her and sat down. She reached around my shoulders and wrapped us in the blanket. She rested her head against my shoulder and rubbed my bare chest.

After a time, Vanessa spoke. “My papa hurt, not bad, but car is ruined. I send money to family, you know? One a month, but only three, four hundred Euro. I no can afford more. Papa, he proud of me. They no know what I do; they think waitress at fancy restaurant, make big tips.” Vanessa pronounced tips as “teeps.” Even in sorrow, her broken English and Romanian accent tickled me. “My papa need car for work, he driver for business man. He drive nice car, Mercedes. Business man need important car.” Vanessa waved her arm dismissively as she said this. The tone of her voice conveyed her disdain. “My papa no can afford car. No car, no work. I have some moneys for helping, but is not enough. I no know how I help.”

I asked Vanessa, “How badly was your papa hurt?” She shook her head. “He okay. No bone broke. Blood and bruise, but he okay.” She turned to me and smiled. “Is good. I scared he hurt bad, but momma tell me, ‘no, no, he okay.’ Is just car is problem.” As I was consoling Vanessa, my American spirit whispered in my ear, “She’s trying to play you, man, to squeeze a boatload of Euros out of you. That’s what bitches do, you stupid fuck, they manipulate you, twist your emotions, and then go for jugular when you’re vulnerable. Do you not remember your fucking ex-wife?” I found myself momentarily waiting for the bomb to drop, for her to ask me for money. She never did. She cried quietly and asked, rhetorically, “What I do? What I do?” My heart sank. I was essentially broke, but I had plenty of income coming and a credit line that would allow me to give her more than enough money to help. I didn’t offer to do so, though.

Vanessa turned to me and looked at me with pleading eyes. “You make love to me, yes?” I felt nothing but compassion. I said nothing. Her eyes were soulful, real, human. I nodded my head and allowed the blanket to fall away from me. I removed the corner dangling from her shoulders and helped her take off her coat. She stood up as she unbuttoned her red blouse and as I reached around to unbutton her black bra she kissed me so lightly on my lips I wondered if she had become a ghost, an ethereal spirit drifting away to a land of never-ending sadness. I pressed my lips more firmly against hers, trying to keep her in this realm so she wouldn't lose herself to sorrow. 

Vanessa unbuckled my belt and my pants then unzipped my fly. She pulled my pants down then unbuttoned and unzipped her own. She lowered her pants and removed a condom from a jacket pocket. She stood up, pulled me against her, and we fell onto the bed. She explored my face with her fingers while looking into my eyes. Her eyes were watery, shimmering liquid opals. I felt her sorrow as my own as I ran my fingers through her hair. She put my other hand on her breast and wiggled out of her underwear. She brought her legs up around me and then used her toes to push down my underwear.

Vanessa breathed heavier as she bit open the condom. She reached down, put it on me, and guided me inside her. We made love slowly. I removed as many layers of armor within myself as I could while I looked into her eyes. Vanessa fingered herself as I rhythmically slid in and out of her. She moaned lowly, closed her eyes, and let herself go. She grabbed my ass to forcefully pull me in further. She gasped and arched her back before holding her breath. She held me in position with her hands, not letting me move at all. She gasped again then collapsed under me, breathing heavily while continuing to hold me inside her. She brought her legs up around me and squeezed them tight before moving her hands to my head and pulling it down beside hers. We laid in that position for several minutes before Vanessa gently pushed on my shoulders and I rolled off of her, sliding out from inside her as I did. She kissed me lightly on the cheek, rolled over, and climbed out of bed. She walked out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. I could see the door from my bed and I watched as she closed it. I heard the toilet lid plop down; half a minute later she was weeping.

I got out of bed and removed the condom, throwing it in the trash. I got dressed and walked over to the bathroom. She had been crying for some time. I knocked and she came out after a few moments, her eyes red. She gave me a wan smile and I took her face in my hands, kissing her gently on the forehead. Her passions covered the entire emotional spectrum; her heart was undeniably huge. She took my hands off her face, walked over to the bedroom, and put on her clothes. She grabbed her phone and made a call. She spoke Dutch. There was some emotion in her voice as she talked. She hung up, looked at me with her eyes somewhat steadier, and said, “I must go. I have appointment.”

I asked her, “Are you up for an appointment right now? You can stay with me tonight. I’ll pay you if that's an issue.” She shook her head. “Is sweet, but I must work for agency. They no use me no more if I no work.” I understood, but I couldn’t help feeling awful about the situation. How horrible to have to please a stranger while feeling so devastated.

I went to my dresser and retrieved my money belt. I pulled out the eight hundred Euros. As Vanessa came out of the bathroom after getting herself ready to go, I handed them to her. Vanessa glared at me and shook her head no. “I here because I sad, no for pay.” She looked disgusted with me. I said, “Yes, but your father, he needs money.” She considered this but said, “No. Is no good. You make real appointment and pay. Is no appointment, okay? No pay.” She smiled and giggled with a twinkle in her eye again as she said, “I pay you! You my escort tonight!” I laughed and she gave me a hug.

I walked Vanessa to the couch. She leaned against me and placed my left hand between both of hers. We sat together until her phone rang. She walked over to the window and peeked through the blinds. She turned to me and said, “Is taxi. I go.” She kissed me, put on her jacket, and skipped down the stairs, saying, “Call me, baby. Mwah!” The door closed and she was gone.