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Amsterdam (Live Sex Shows)

I am 19 and in Amsterdam I visit two live sex shows in one night.

The night after the Amsterdam live sex shows, I get truly stoned for the first time. I buy some weed but then it is late and I have nothing to smoke it with, having only taken hits of other people’s pipes and joints the times I smoked it before, and to no real impact. 

Finding a pack of clove cigarettes and a lighter, I empty the end of one of them, replacing the tobacco with weed, trying to match the consistency. It works, and it works well.

I remember listening to a David Bowie CD single from the album Outside, different versions of Hallo Spaceboy 6 times and I listened to it over and over, the endless repetitions on variations making up the first true trip I’ve ever had. I didn’t leave the bedroom, barely able to get from the chair near the window where I smoked to the bed to lie back and let the room spin while my vision is pinned to the images behind my eyelids that pulse menacingly to the music.

The night after the night after the Amsterdam live sex shows, I visit a club somewhere in the eastern outskirts of Amsterdam for all orientations and tastes run by a mature drag queen with bright makeup and silky clothing and more than one boa. 

The top floor sports a basic, but classic and ample wooden bar frequented this evening by mostly Dutch men desperate enough to open their minds to an establishment like this because it’s more likely to get them laid. I sense that. I’m 19. 

There are a few freaks there for the purpose of being freaky in freedom, but for the most part it’s leering heterosexual men hoping for, well, a girl like me to waltz into their midst. 

There is one man at the bar, an exception. He is 40. He is trim and has a handsome face with a short but soft shadow of beard growth and curly brown hair. I like him. He likes me. I talk to him and learn that he is a photographer, named Peter. He wears all black and doesn’t drink much. His English is good.

Another at the bar is a tubby, gruff-voiced, working class Dutchman who tells me in plain, broken English that he is here because he is Dutch. Because this is tolerance, and that is their culture. Being around different kinds of people opens one to new experiences, he teaches. 

I drink Bailey’s on the rocks because it’s all I know. I’m years shy of the drinking age in the US. My trip to Europe is punctuated with clove cigarettes and Bailey’s Irish Cream. I don’t drink more than one drink, nursing it until the hue lightens to a cream color as the ice cubes melt their local water into it. 

Peter and I are talking film and photography and culture. We go deep into sex positivity in the Netherlands vs. USA. I tell him about the Amsterdam live sex shows.

“The first one was fine. A solo show. Pretty standard. Ping pong balls. Candles.” I say, moving my hands as I speak to illustrate the props. Peter smiles at me with true attention and admiration. I see that he is a Good Man.

“But the second of the live sex shows…”

I am called in by a barker. I don’t have the cojones to go to Amsterdam live sex shows otherwise, and the barkers know it. They can see the shy marks a mile away, those for whom all is new. Those who need to be enticed. That is their job, what they are hired for. They ease me into the first step of comfort. 

The next thing I know my little paper ticket that reminds me of cake wheels and raffles and county fairs is being ripped. They motion me into the theater. It is half full. I see tourists who are here on a gag, tourists who came to Amsterdam to go to live sex shows, and Dutch people of all sorts. Young couples, older men. I move down almost to the front row, choosing the emptiest part of the theater. There’s a man half a row away from me, closer to the center of the theater.

They hold me at the door until the pause between acts and I hear the stage being reset.

I take my seat as Batman and Batgirl come out onto the stage in masks and capes and nothing else. Batman leans Batgirl over and doesn’t waste any time sticking his fingers in her entirely depilated pussy. Then, the two move over to a different part of the stage, and he again wastes no time as he bends one of her hips atop the other, leg upwards and enters her sideways for best audience view of his giant shaven cock penetrating her fully. Five strokes. 

Then they drape over the chaise lounge on stage. Five more strokes. A little scoop to them this time.

The batman symbol scans over the audience and lands on the guy’s lap who is sharing the row with me. Batman and Batgirl saunter over and sit on his lap. His face is red, eyes wide, body frozen. Five strokes.

And so on. The next act comes out afterwards, nurse and doctor. 

And an hour later, I figure out the way that they make sure you leave after an hour. Batman and Batgirl come out again. They assume the exact same positions in the exact same places. Five strokes.

“And the bottom fell out for me, you know. It was a formula, and somehow it just lost me. No soul. I just don’t want to see sex for money again right now because I’m afraid it ruins sex for me.”

“I understand what you mean. It’s a different world, even if it’s related in that Amsterdam is a city tolerant of sex work and sexuality in general. Of course, I would rather come here, even if just to have a conversation.” he smiles at me. The energy of this place is expansive and good, and it feels a different world from the live sex shows and red lights of Amsterdam. I know that I am in the right place. I am 19, and I know that I am in the right place.

“At least it’s real. I prefer it real.” I say, staring him in the eyes. He sees my desire. 

“Do you want to go downstairs?” he asks.

“What’s downstairs?” I ask, smiling, eyes flaring with curiosity. I sip on my Bailey’s water.

“You have to be a member to see, you have to ask her.” He answers, pointing at the drag queen of the establishment.

I walk over to her. 

“I’d like to see what’s downstairs, would it be okay for me to have a temporary membership since I’m only here in Amsterdam a little longer?”

“Sure honey, I’ll give you a tour if you donate something.” she smiles, looking me up and down.

She walks over to a plank in the floor with a large ring through a metal fitting. She snaps her fingers.

Out of nowhere a man in a latex bodysuit appears and opens this trapdoor in the floor. A set of stone stairs lead down. My mind flits to text based rpgs and I imagine pressing the down arrow while walking down them.

The hostess with the mostest extends her satin glove draped arm towards me, pearl bracelet tinkling as I take her hand. She gently leads me downstairs, balancing her hefty tube of a torso beautifully feather-like on a pair of 6 inch black stilettos.

Downstairs is another bar. A dungeon in quality black Italian leather. A peep room. And a darkroom, an unfinished, unfurnished maze of concrete. The hostess gives us a sweeping tour and people appear out of nowhere down the stairs. I feel their eyes on me.

I look at Peter and together we say…


We’re in there not a minute when he grabs me and I’m kissing him and he’s hard against me in black leather pants. 

And then suddenly every man in the establishment has their hands on me. I squirm.

“No.” I say. Instantly Peter commands like he’s telling a dog what to do:

“Laat ons aleen.” 

And the hands disappear. All but his, on my shoulders. He whispers

“Are you okay, you want to play?”

“Yes please, thank you for that.” I answer him, melting into his arms. We make out in the dark, moving into a back corner of the room. In the dark I’m feeling him everywhere. He’s running his hands under my loose shirt and over my tight bra, and breathing so hard into my ears.

“You feel amazing.” he says.

In the dark, we are the same age

We’re necking, rubbing our bodies together for what seems like an hour until he slowly works his hand down my tights, he strokes my clit and I find his cock with my hand. I play with him while he plays with me, until it gets awkward, because we are both still fully dressed and I am wearing tights and he is wearing leather pants.

“I am better with my mouth than my hands.” I say. He kisses me.

“I prefer to just play, if that’s okay.” he says. 

This is in the mid-1990’s, when you can still die from sex. Playing means things you can do without exchanging fluid.

“I can’t come standing up” I admit. “Not here.”

“You sure?” he asks, teasing my clit. 

“Yes, but I want to make you come. It turns me on.”

What he does next haunts my fantasies for 25 years, and the photos he sends me over the next five of them he says that I am his muse for: Self-portraits of him posed, erect, in chains. 

He finds a clean piece of wall, putting his leather jacket against it and then hands still on my shoulders he turns me against it so that I am leaning on the inside of his jacket.

“Just in case” he whispers. I know he’s talking about what could be on the walls.

He leans back into me and puts my hand around his cock. Then he curls his hand around mine and uses my hand to stroke his cock so that I can have the grip from his angle and under his control.

He uses me to stroke himself slowly, and my other hand slithers up his chest of its own accord, giving the rings that pierce his nipples a tiny tug at which he shudders and quickens the pace of my hand. His hand. 

My hand that’s his hand.

I feel the heat of his cock and the contrast of the cooler sides of his fingers as his knuckles slowly, sweatily spread the space between my fingers and we stroke him faster and faster. My wrist loosens to keep pace with him.

My pussy is dripping, soaking down into the tights I wear under a pair of shorts. I kiss and nibble his back while pushing him back into me flat-palmed on his chest with my left hand while my right is pumping him, faster and faster until his body tightens, rigid against me, and he heaves into a shaking orgasm.

Later that night after he buys me another Bailey’s. We talk and laugh and talk more, and kiss each other at the bar. 

I ride on the back of a bicycle side-saddle for the first time. He seats me there accepting no protest and rides me home over the bridges, my head nestled into his back, arm around his waist as he pedals, watching the streetlights reflect rippled pools off the canals of Amsterdam. A modern Van Gogh.

I am 19.

Like stories about age differences? Here’s more:

1: Becoming a cougar: The Persian Lovers: Becoming a Cougar

2. Israeli at Burning Man: The Israeli Lovers: Nisim

3. Persian stripper at Burning Man: Persian Stripper

4. Indian lover in Muscat: The Indian Lovers: Ramadan

My favorite cub:

1: How we met: The Persian Lovers: Bardia I

2: Bardia on Drugs: The Persian Lovers: Babysitter

3: Meeting in Boston: The Persian Lovers: Bardia in Boston

4: Meeting in Cambridge: The Persian Lovers: Bardia at Cambridge

Other One Night Stands:

1: The Persian Lovers: The First Persian

2: The Israeli Lovers: Nisim

3: The Russian Lovers: Russian Kazakh Lover

4: Johnny the Cheesemonger

5: Nigeria is the Future

6: Stuck

7: Tantra

Stories about the big city:

1: Bangkok

2: Los Angeles

3: Istanbul

4: Las Vegas

5: Miami


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