Promises were broken. After that wonderful week in Iceland, there was much talk about my not having to remember this next journey alone. We had an itinerary, hotel recommendations, the whole nine yards. But just as I'd feared, she couldn't wait six weeks for delivery.
Time away is the ultimate test of loyalty. Most people in their twenties with any ounce of game are doomed to fail, no matter what the circumstances. My chemical delusions, professional hubris, and my infamously shitty home life were all factors that contributed to my round-the-clock binge drinking at the painting gig. The only cure for this misery was adventure.
So I returned to Europe. On the plane, an old Russian couple raped me into conversation for twelve hours about geopolitics, the dangers of communism, how only they could be real immigrants because they played by the rules. There's nothing worse than sitting next to annoying people. At least they didn't hit on me like that gay guy on Amtrak.
All I could think of was how bad she left me in Paris. After briefly visiting my friend as a Plan B, I took a bus to Amsterdam. My balls were singing the blues.
So in a fume of boredom and revenge, I decided to fuck a hooker.
The sex tourism industry in The Netherlands is a central attraction, and a great place to bring the kids. Better than Disneyland, that's for sure. Might teach 'em a thing or two about the real world. The museum of prostitution is a treat full of dark humor and pussy whipping madness. Broken headphones are included so that you can supposedly speak with a sex worker while you're gazing at antique ball gags and hockey masks. But when I made the call, all I got on the other end was static and snoring. Guess it's her day off.
The general rule is that the farther away from the red light district, the cheaper the whore. This is total bullshit. If you expect anything less than lies and deceit, you're a fool. I considered shoving my wallet up my ass just so I could focus on finishing. We'll get to that later.
What culminated in my experience with a Dutch prostitute is one of the saddest accounts you will ever read. So if you get squeamish at graphic details, please for your own sake, stop here.
I wish I could say I had taken magic truffles before fucking this hooker, but I'm not quite that experienced with psilocybin or hookers to write that story yet.
But I will say the night I did trip, the night following, it was fun just looking in the red windows. It turned the place into a sort of funhouse mirror collection. My hooker experience left me in a jaded mood to not give a fuck. Naturally, the hookers don't like being looked at for too long without making a decision. But they'll put on a show alright, if they catch even a side eye while you're with the wifey. I wonder if children at an orphanage do the same thing when foster parents walk by. I wouldn't know. Decisiveness was never one of my strong suits. But manners are of major importance to the Dutch, so realistically, if you have enough dignity to not look like a creep, you'd better just roll the dice and blindly knock on a random door.
Luckily, my company for the evening looked like a shorter, chunkier Jennifer Lawrence with all the pent-up misandry one would expect from her, in hooker form. Deals are technically done at the door, but you know how it is. Maybe you don't. 50 euro for a blowjob. I was really angry at this other slut who fucked me over, really drunk and I have issues. So I'm like fuck it, I'll pay 100 for thirty minutes of actually fucking. We agree. She tells me to lie down like I'm at the doctor's office, places a napkin around my bush, puts a hat on my junk and starts blowing me rather roughly. I thought, OK, there's a tooth or two, but long as she doesn't start biting on it, what am I gonna do?
Sucking dick is the ultimate leverage in any situation. If women wanted ultimate power, they would do it constantly. Keep my dick in your mouth, I got no choice but to take you to Hamilton or do a yoga class with you.
I ask where she's from. She says "Amsterdam", and I know she's lying, because she has a markedly different accent that reeked of Eastern Europe and goat dick.
"What's your name?" Kimberly. Yeah, sure. That's a decent pornstar name. Before I asked if she did porn, I began to realize maybe I should've just stayed in the hostel and jacked off to porn in front of nine other people. It would've been less awkward.
"No touch my pussy or I fucking kill you." Something about having your dick sucked makes you retarded. So I go "Huh?" Did we not have an agreement about three minutes ago? Then she gets all defensive. "What the fuck do you think I am?" The obvious answer is "Whore", but I still hadn't cum.
So like any gambling addict, what do you do? Throw down another 50 so she'll shut the fuck up and begin part two. I had to respect the hustle, and luckily I came prepared for this. Later on, I learned that this is a very common experience. The 50-100 euro average is total bullshit designed to sound like a bargain, when the extra 50 is considered "gratuity" at best and a scam at worst. Or maybe it's just a scam for foreigners, as the Dutch are very skeevy when it comes to tourists.
Legal or not, there are no refunds with sex. There's no "I'd like to speak with your manager". Just shut the fuck up and get to work. And to Kimberly's credit, she started saying not so nice things to me to spice it up a bit.
"You touch my asshole, I fucking kill you." "I cut your balls off and feed them to my dog."
"You sissy bitch, I bet your mother suck dick." Ugh! That was when it got disrespectful. I asked her one time if she could please be nice. "Shut the fuck up. I make rules."
I stood my ground, and told her in broken English. "You make rules. I make rule now. Don't talk about my mother." She agreed, but I hardly saw that as victory. Then she decided to start bitching about how business was slow. It was almost midnight, and supposedly I was her first customer of the evening. I believed it. The competition was fierce, and being trapped behind glass is not exactly the best way to sell yourself to strangers. It kinda takes the fun out of it in a way.
From what I could make out, rent was paid daily and about the cost of one client. That explained why many of the windows were empty after a certain hour. Get two clients and you could walk away with a hard day's salary. If you still saw a lady in the window after midnight, she's either buttfuck ugly or just hustles harder than the rest. Or both.
I got a couple skinny anecdotes as I buried my face in her soft breasts. The longest-lasting customer she had was a sugar daddy who kept her locked up for three days. She goes from city to city much like a stand-up comic would. But the longer we talked, the chances of myself cumming were beginning to look just as grim as the chances of her cumming. So handjob ehhhhhhhh, and then it was over. In total, we did missionary and I let her get on top. I wasn't in the mood for doggie style.
I got dressed, went into the bathroom to wash off, all belongings in my pockets. Then as I go to dry my hands, I read the label on the hand dryer.
Kimberly Clark.
Drunk as I was, a crippling sadness came over me. So I decided to leave her on a note of false hope. As we said goodbye, I said something like "Hey, I'm a comedian. You might see me on TV someday." She says "American TV?"
"Jake Jones, know the name. Peace."
I lurched back to my hotel, wishing I had a gun to finish myself off the way I would've done it.