Dig, Laz

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A couple of days ago I was in Dam to do another of my ground breaking lectures (LOL) to another group of students. I felt like shit but I was at least walking in sunshine; it feels like summer has arrived. Actually, it was a bit too warm to be ill, but there you go. I’d made it out to Amsterdam when earlier in the week I was simply looking forward to making it out of bed and walking around. I read more of Comey’s book on the way out. I’m in it for an insight into the 2016 American election and its aftermath. So far all I’ve got is what a wonderfully tall, upright and honest Joe Jimmy Comey is.

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Anyway, on arrival I was able to check in straight away. I was also given an upgrade, probably because I’ve used the place a lot in the last year. I hit the street soon after and made buying a 24-hour tram card my priority. I boarded, paid, stayed on for one stop and then walked all the way from Leidseplein up to the Nine Streets. And that is one hell of a walk for someone who’s ill and who’s just bought a tram card. I took a route which included The Dam, where I stopped off at an exhibition of photo journalism. As I entered I reflected on the fact that a while ago I would have been headed to the red light district.

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It was cool in there in both senses of the word. We’re talking photos which are both Story and Art. And perfect composition. The exception was photos of The Westminster Bridge terror attack. These had obviously been included because they fitted a theme. They looked like they’d been taken by a passer by with an iPhone.

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Back in daylight I resumed my trek. For a while this was behind three middle aged Arabs who were speaking Egyptian Arabic. I caught words and phrases but not the whole story: “It’s nothing … not a problem … it’s good.” My objective, however, was a second hand record shop. I’m increasing my Nick Cave collection and since there’s a lot of it to collect I’m taking the opportunity to pick up cheap copies. No luck on this occasion. Too few and too expensive. Then it was time to turn the world upside down.

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I backtracked and went to a nice cafe at the back of Central Station for coffee and a huge helping of chocolate coated meringue threaded with heaps of whipped cream. Then I photographed the mirrored ceiling of the retail area. No one seemed to notice.

Back at the hotel I rested for an hour or so before going out for dinner. That went well. The waitress remembered me from when I was in Dam in February, remembered what I ordered last time and poured me very generous glasses of wine. When the bill came I saw that the main course had been priced at €0.00. I’d commented that it hadn’t come up to expectation. It’s possible that taking notes and photographing each course had something to do with it, I suppose. I left and checked out the red light district.

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The place was busy but not as busy as I’d expected and I got the impression that there were fewer windows open than usual, so I did a count. That involves walking the whole area once without repeating any streets and counting the number of open windows. There were 117 girls on display. If we assume that 10% were busy with clients, that puts the number at 128, which is actually a good average for the area – so my assumption was wrong. I found myself wondering what would happen to all of those new cafes and snack joints once the windows have been ripped right back and there are no tourists.

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I also photographed the graffiti of the the three girls. These get defaced regularly and the artist restores them from time to time. These looked fresh. Although recognisable as the originals they are very ‘dark’ and the Russian girl is looking positively evil.

On my way out of the area I passed the PROUD office. It used to be the PIC (Prostitute Information Centre). There were some girls sitting outside drinking coffee and there was a sign on the door saying ‘closed’. And another sign saying, ‘Don’t save us, save our windows’. I asked the girl nearest to me if she knew when it was ‘open’. Her friend answered: ‘Monday to Saturday, 12 to 5.’ I’m pretty certain that they were two very hot South American Ladyboys. If so, the area around Bloedstraat really has had a facelift.

By this time I was fucked. And all I’d been doing was walking and breathing. I went back to the hotel, went to bed and had a very restless night.

T H E  D A Y  A F T E R  T H E  N I G H T  B E F O R E


I asked for an alarm call at 8.00 am. It never happened. Nevertheless, I got up around that time but feeling very sleep-deprived. I sucked down medicine for nose, throat, chest, cough, sneezing, headache and temperature and then went down to breakfast. I managed to get a table near a window which overlooked the street. I grabbed a copy of the New York Times and a coffee and settled down.

The breakfast is a continental buffet. It’s not great but no one will starve. While I was eating I got a text from a couple who were planning to pick me up from the airport and take me to a gig that they would be performing at, about a hundred miles away from where I live. I had to text back that I was going to have to cancel; my recovery hasn’t been fast enough.

I was due on stage at 11.00 am and to make sure I was on time I went to check out at 10.30 am. In front of me was a young couple arguing about city tax. They’d paid up front so why were they being asked for more money. The discussion was in English, which was clearly not their first pick of a second language. Eventually, the receptionist got the idea across and the girl spent five minutes excavating the contents of her handbag in order to find two €10 notes. And then the receptionist ruined it all by asking for a credit card deposit of €60. The conversation went into another tail spin. I mean, ‘We’ve already paid! And we’ve paid the city tax!’

At 10.50 am I was given leave to check out.

‘Good morning. I’m checking out.’

I gave my room number. A few keyboard clicks, a perusal of the screen.

‘Nothing to pay, sir. Have a nice day.’

I checked my hand luggage into the room here they store hand luggage and then set off for the venue, which luckily is close-by. I made it with a couple of minutes to spare.

A  T A N G L E  O F  A N G L E S

Well, I could give you a blow by blow account of what happened next but I figured I’d settle for just a few angles. I guess the first angle is that I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to do it at all; I hadn’t spoken more than a couple of sentences to anyone for nearly a week. And when I had it was scary because my voice had dropped by at least a couple of octaves.

It’s booked in as a two hour session; the first hour is me making a presentation and the second hour is a Q & A. Truth is, I have more that I want to say than the hour permits and the best I’ve been able to do is to hone the content to maximise the input. Honing has reached the point where I’m looking for places in the script where I can halve the length of a sentence or make space by combining two sentences. Or sometimes I just have to junk stuff.

I’m pretty certain that a lot of the audience would like to rehearse the notion of rich white male privilege but I sense that they’re too polite, or maybe the organisers have instructed then to keep it toned down. I’d intended to open the door for it but in the excitement I forgot. I often seed the Q & A by throw away remarks and that would have been one instance. Next time, maybe.

The show-stopper came early on in the Q & A. I forget the exact words that the girl used but it was something like: ‘Hi, I have an observation and a question. I wrote my philosophy paper about you.’ You can assume that took me by surprise. It seems that she’d started thinking about sex work and then about it from the point of view of the participants, not the commentators and moralists. And that had led to consideration of prostitution from the point of view of the clients and that had led to a bit of Google – and there I was, trussed up and ready to be dissected. Fascinating. Obviously, I would like to read this stuff.

‘I don’t think you’ll like it.’

Even more fascinating. But philosophy paper is less daunting than psychology paper.

‘Oh. So what’s your question?’

‘Why did you decide to monetise your blog by publishing the content as eBooks?’

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‘Well, like I said, the original blog had over a million visitors and the feedback was good and they were reading millions of pages of diary and commenting positively and I couldn’t help thinking about how great it would have been if each of those readers had parted with a dollar.

I expect you get the idea. My guess is that if those readers could simply have tossed a dollar into a hat, with no strings attached, they would have done so without thinking about it.

I’m also conscious of the Fifty Shades phenomenon. That started as an eBook. And the author got lucky. An influential reader (a publisher) took a liking to it  and it led to regular print publication. So, The Amsterdam Diaries eBook is available for an influential reader to stumble over. Having said that, I haven’t ruled out the possibility that the person of influence might prove to be someone attending my Dam lectures. Who knows what connections these guys and gals have.

I’m very mindful of the need for a bit of luck in these things. Here’s an example.

The biggest selling single of all time is Rock Around The Clock, by Bill Haley. Bill wanted to record the song. His manager said no. Bill changed managers. He talked a record company into letting him record it. They said yes on condition that he first recorded something else. He agreed. Well, because he got stuck on a ferry (the engine stopped mid crossing) he was late for the recording session. There was just enough time to record the record company’s first pick. And there was just time for one take of Rock Around The Clock. The vocals sucked. Bill pleaded to do it one more time. There was a compromise. He was allowed to record the vocal while listening to the backing track. An engineer married the two and Rock Around The Clock was put on the B side,.

And both songs sank into oblivion.

And that should have been that. However, there was this fourteen year old kid who collected songs by groups with groovy names (see the A side) and he picked the disc up for a song in an independent record store.

His dad was Glen Ford, actor, and star of Blackboard Jungle (a teen movie in the mid 1950s). The Director was Richard Brooks. When the film was completed, Brooks visited Ford to chew over ideas. Brooks needed some songs to make up the soundtrack. They needed to be edgy and have teen-appeal. Glen admitted that this was not his bag.

‘However, my son listens to a lot of this stuff and ……’

Glen’s son was sent off to his room to gather up some maybes. Despite being a B side on a failed single, the boy had a thing for it. He included it in the batch of records.

And the rest is history. See what I mean? You don’t?


Here’s a little known fact. According to Google Analytics (and they know a thing or two about tracking people), 46% of the visitors to the original website were women. That surprised me when I saw it. It does square, however, with the feedback that I received. I guess I’m saying that the audience for this stuff is ….. diverse.

S M A C K I N G  R L D  G I R L S ‘  B U M S


Look, I’m not into hurting women. I’m into pleasing them. And some women are pleased by having their bum smacked (that includes 75% of the bums in the photos above). I mentioned this in passing and fifty women (maybe it was forty-nine 🙂 projected a shock-horror facial expression.

Let me explain …..

Women seem to divide into threes groups: those who like it, those who like it a little bit ….. and those who don’t like it at all. The ones who like it? It’s always the same. That smack on the bum produces a tingle on their clitoris (a sensation which exceeds any negative impact from the slap). But, I guess, until you try it, you don’t know.

to be continued ……

But before I could continue I received a mail via the contact form:

Comment: Thank you for explaining how the female body works. I didn’t know that a smack on the bum creates a tingle in my clitoris. I had no idea before I read this blog. It’s very interesting you feel the tingles without having a tingle yourself. keep up the good work!

That made me laugh (more like these, please!!!). I mean, what’s mansplaining for if not for this kind of thing:) Look, it’s a neurological mess down there. You’d think that all women were wired the same. They aren’t. The neurological pathways are completely random – which makes every woman unique. Which is a challenge for guys. Above and beyond all the other challenges! I mean, FFS, life is difficult enough!!!! And my scientific evidence? It’s a bit thin but when you hear the same thing from different women who have never met and who have no interest in colluding over the issue, I’m inclined to accept their experience.

However, it made me think that maybe I should provide a Trigger Warning – I’m just covering my arse, you understand.

Guys, don’t try this without asking. That can be construed as common assault. At the same time, she may not know if she likes it, so we’re talking moderation during experimentation. The aim is pleasure, not punishment. At the same time, you can expect this to hurt your hand, especially if it turns out that she likes it, so have a belt handy.


Yeah, her arse got slapped too. I’m pretty certain that the girls (who do this) wouldn’t do it with just anyone; at the end of the day it’s about sex-play with someone you trust, it’s about not overstepping the boundary.

And sometimes there’s an element of BDSM (behind those red light district windows).

Yeah? Really? Where’s your evidence?

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G I V I N G  U N S U S P E C T I N G  G I R L S  O R G A S M S

I’m not sure how this came up. Maybe I commented that I like doing it. It led to the, ‘Maybe you’re delusional,’ question. It takes various forms but on this occasion it was, ‘How do you know that the girls are actually having orgasms?’

Well, there are indicators, and I rehearsed a couple of these on the day but there is one foolproof test, which I occasionally use when I’m not convinced. You put out your hand as though you intend to touch her clitoris. If she jumps like she’s being attacked with a long, razor sharp, pointed knife, it’s 99% certain that she did have an orgasm.

Meanwhile, from time to time you do have to trust people (although hardly anyone seems to trust what prostitutes say). Take the time, not so long ago, when I was just about to leave the room. The girl clearly felt compelled to make a comment (of course it may be just more good acting). She said (and remember that by this point she doesn’t have to say anything, she’s got my money and I’m on my way out of the door):

‘I’ve never done that before. Well, I have. But not here. Not with a client.’

She was, of course, referring to the orgasm she’d recently experienced. You can assume that (a) it’s not the first time that I’ve heard this and (b) that I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. I couldn’t resist going for one more compliment.

‘Really? But there must be other men who want to give you an orgasm.’

‘Oh, there are. Lots. But they don’t know how to do it.’

I know, it sounds like I’m bragging.


S U G A R  D A D D Y  S U G A R  B A B Y

I get asked why I don’t go for sugar babes. The bottom line is that it’s too complicated and too expensive. However, I always forget to explain that I am, indeed, a sugar daddy. I regularly send money to a girl, to support her, her daughter and her mum. I rehearsed this with four girls who stopped off to talk to me after the Q & A. Three of them told me that they were making podcasts. I have no idea if these are just an exercise of if they will actually be broadcast. The thing is, although I didn’t identify the woman concerned by name I did give enough information for her to be identified by someone who lives in her area. I have my fingers crossed that the girls won’t try to use what I told them because it could have detrimental, unintended consequences. Me and my big mouth!

D A M N E D  R I C H  W H I T E  M A L E  P R I V I L E G E

Post-talk discussions with members of previous groups indicates that this expression is background noise. However, it’s only been put to me once in the past. It came out as, ‘Do you think that your views on prostitution are simply a function of your rich, white, male privilege?’

Truth is, I didn’t have a response. Truth is, I didn’t understand the question. I understood all the words but not the use of the word privilege in this context. I had to ask for the question to be rephrased. However, since then I’ve had a chance to puzzle over it. If I’d been asked today, my response would have gone something like this.

Let’s start with Peggy Mackintosh, an academic feminist who published a paper in 1988 entitled White Privilege and Male Privilege: A Personal Account of Coming to See Correspondences through Work on Women’s Studies. Quite a gob-full as titles go. The thrust of the paper was that you can’t talk about racism without talking about privileges enjoyed by white people and you can’t talk about gender inequality without talking about men. That seems fair.

What’s less fair is the way that feminists have extricated themselves from the nasty side of this by coining the phrase White Male Privilege out of the original title. And then heaping everything bad onto the shoulders of white males and using it as a shorthand for, ‘Your views don’t count because you are a patriarchal tyrant.’ It’s like check mate in chess; you aren’t expected to have a response.

To be honest, I had two initial thoughts when I was asked the question. The first was that I would never use a person’s race (ethnicity/nationality/culture) and/or their sex to position them in an argument or to challenge their views (partly because the former is inherently racist). Secondly, it immediately moves the debate from one about prostitution to one about personal traits, a couple of which I have absolutely no control over.

Let’s dissect it.

I’m not rich. I’m not even a little bit rich. An examination of my bank account would testify to that fact. I do have disposable income, maybe more than friends and colleagues who are supporting a wife and four kids, but that’s all.

White? Guilty. I’ve tried to do something about it but nothing works.

Male? Yup. Born that way and I’ve no aspirations to chop and change.

In effect, two birth-characteristics and an assumption about my economic status are used to corner men in an argument. I found myself wondering how this would play out if I was part of the BAME identity group (black and minority ethnicity). Yeah, it only applies to white males.

Then there’s that horrible word privilege. It means unearned advantage. Well, I can’t rehearse my history here (for obvious reasons) but if I did we’d see that it was the direct opposite of unearned advantage. And if this ever came up again, I would, on the day, give some insights.

In summary, I view the white male privilege trope as a lazy way to not have an argument and to dismiss any argument that might exist.

I suspect that to some extent the use of white male privilege is another take on the asserted power disparity in prostitution: rich male tyrant/poor female victim. That’s something I undermine with logic and reason when it comes up in the Q & A. This time it didn’t arise as a question. Shame, especially since I seeded it.

H O W  W A S  I T  A S  A N  E X P E R I E N C E ?

Pretty good. As always, the audience was alert, attentive and seemed to display genuine interest and curiosity. Is there a downside to these things? Only that I don’t get to talk to enough individuals on a personal level.

I can see how one or two of my comments might feel a little bit abrasive but that definitely wasn’t the intention. I think it’s fantastic that these guys and gals are taking this issue so seriously, and any questions which made me sit up and think are, by definition, good questions. Only wish I could interact more over the issues.

I was advised that Felicia Ana was due to perform later in the day. Would like to have seen that. I can’t think why I didn’t ask to be allowed a backstage pass. What I can say is that client and prostitute on the last day (after a succession of trafficking fetishits) is pretty cool. Yes, that was a spelling error but it was so good I decided to leave it in.



Watch That Man


UPdATEd WedNESdAY 8th NOVEMBER: I’m headed for Amsterdam again to talk to another group of American students about being a client in the red light district (more about that over on the janvanderdamm blog). Normally, I’ll fly out on Thursday and we’ll meet on the Friday morning. I’ll take an early flight so that if there are hitches, like KLM decides to bounce me off it, there are fallback positions. But this Thursday it’s crucial that all goes to plan because the talk is at 3.00 pm. So, late Wednesday I drove up to the airport and booked in. It’s a half hour drive and that gave me time to rehearse part one of the talk (part two on the way home). Was I able to? Book in, I mean? Yes. No standby ticket this time. I am, of course, the prime target for this each time I fly. A guy flying unaccompanied. I’ll be bounced before anything else is considered; including the fact that I booked months ago.

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So far so good. Even better if you get to sleep the night before you travel, which, of course, I don’t. I went to bed at midnight hoping that I’d just crash out. No such luck. Awake all night. Sometimes I put this down to being concerned about oversleeping but I have an alarm clock beside the bed which could double as an air raid siren so that shouldn’t be an issue. I called it a night at 5.30 am, called my credit card company to say that I would be on the move, and hit the road half an hour later. The cost of leaving the car at the airport for three days totally blows a hole in the budget so I take a bus. That’s two buses actually. An hour and a half after leaving the house I was cooling my heels at the airport. An hour and a half later, we’re in the air for a forty-minute flight. Overall, this journey has been uneventful except for a moment when I was going through customs at Schiphol. “What’s your purpose for being in the Netherlands, sir?” I hesitated before saying, “I’m here on business.” The customs officer handed my passport back to me and with a deadpan expression said, “I believe you.” Then it’s about the fight for a place on one of the few trains going to Amsterdam Central from Schiphol and then a tram to the hotel. It’s in the Museum Quarter. By the time I arrived I felt like I’d spent the last few hours in a washing machine and then a tumble dryer. However, my room is ready, which is a big plus. I dumped my stuff and then went out looking for musli.

Musli? WTF? Is that the new code for a window girl or dirty sex? No, it’s code for musli. My hotel includes bed and breakfast; there is no escape from this deal. And to be fair, it suits me. I’ve stayed in this hotel before so I know what to expect. They provide a decent continental breakfast, you don’t go hungry, but the one serious deficiency is in respect of the cereal. Cornflakes. I prefer something a bit more grainy and wholesome so I decided to fix my own. Anyway, after checking the distance from my hotel to the venue (a three minute walk) I sought out a musli emporium. It provided lots of options. I was spoilt for choice. It’s a bit like hitting those De Wallen windows. After agonising for so long that the shop assistant was looking at me like I was a suspicious character intent on some evil doing, I plucked a little lovely off the shelf, paid and scarpered back to the hotel. With half an hour to spare before I was due on stage, so to speak, I lay down on the bed to relax for a moment. I spent the next fifteen minutes silently repeating the mantra, ‘Don’t close your eyes. Don’t close your eyes.’ It worked. I didn’t fall asleep, although I wanted to.

Well, I got to the venue five minutes before the appointed time and confused (and possibly frightened) a young woman who I met on the way in. I assumed that she was part of the reception committee and I greeted her enthusiastically; no kissing and no touching you understand, but enthusiastically none the less. Her taken aback reaction told me that I’d got this one wrong. I gave her what I hoped was a cheeky grin, rather than a werewolf’s leer and went along to the lecture room that I knew we’d be using. Making an entrance is always tricky. I mean, what if fifty women turn around simultaneously and give it that OMG WTF face – knowing that you’ve got at least two more hours of that to look forward to. Luckily, that didn’t happen. What I got was (a) smiley faces and (b) rescued by one of the lecturers who was accompanying the group.

After a quick discussion, we decided that using a few visuals would be a good idea and then spent a few minutes getting to grips with the in-house system (where, of course, I’ve left my search history). Then it was go.

I talk for an hour and then there are questions for an hour. I’ve been to shorter plays and rock concerts. For me the time is just jumping jack flash but I could understand it if the audience got a bit fidgety. It didn’t seem like that. We offered up a ten minute break in the middle but there wasn’t much enthusiasm for it (a good sign). We compromised on five.

I hope it looks like I’m speaking fairly naturally and off the top of my head. I’m not. It’s scripted, planned, timed to the second and rehearsed. I discovered something about that recently. I’ve just completed a script writing course and what I’ve got is a two act play in which each act conforms to a three-act structure, complete with a major turning point at the halfway mark. I guess Act Three is the one where the students set the agenda by asking questions. Even some of that is scripted. Some questions come up over and over again and so I’ve got prepared answers. Sometimes, of course, my answers are so unprepared they don’t make any sense at all.

So what? Well, being well prepared helps me to be flexible and improvise around the script. Except when it doesn’t. I’d been speaking for about five minutes when I slipped in a sentence which wasn’t in the script. What it meant was that the link got broken. Instead of one sentence leading to another well-rehearsed sentence it suddenly didn’t. It led to a dead end. Blank. The course leader helped me out: “You were talking about …” Ah, yes, I was, wasn’t I. Memo to self: don’t do that again.

Apart from that, it unfolded pretty much to plan and to time. The audience smiled and laughed in the right places and that’s always a good sign.

As always, the Q & A was good. Actually, this one was better than usual. There were lots of questions and lots of good questions and one or two cheeky questions and the whole thing unfolded, to my mind, like a fun discussion.

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Can I remember any of the questions? Not many. Given that nearly everyone asked something and a lot of people asked several, there were a lot. I recall thinking how the few guys in the audience were keeping out of it, which meant that I couldn’t gauge how they were feeling about things. Actually, there were a couple of questions that I remember. One was the last question: “Are you going to be visiting a window girl tonight.” Good question. Really. A bit cheeky but in a nice way. We don’t have to be totally academic about this, do we? Well not with a group of fifty women who went to a live sex show the night before. I remember wondering if they’d spent any time worrying about how they might be objectifying the performers or that the performers might have been trafficked into it or pressured to perform by boyfriends. Whatever, curious is good. And curious about sex is normal. The answer, truly, was maybe, but I believe I said something about having a responsibility to keep the research up to date.

Another question related to an edit which I had to make. I can’t get everything that I want to say into the time available; if something goes in, something comes out. I’d told the audience that a game changer was an unexpected real girlfriend experience during my fourth Dam visit. After that I was looking for RGEs. I make the point that some people simply won’t accept that it happens. They weren’t there, they didn’t see it …. but they know that it couldn’t have happened because, as everyone knows, prostitutes despise their clients. They would never engage with such intimacy. On this occasion I had to miss out the follow-up. There are, of course, people who are more generous. They accept that something like that did take place, but not like I told it; basically I’m delusional. The question that I remember? Oh, that one. “Do you think that maybe these girls are just good actors?” I get the idea. Well, if they are, they are up there with the best in the world. Do these women melt into orgasm; not easy, is it, girls? Well, there are lots of indicators. Are they acting? No.


It’s interesting how these meetings flow. Sometimes they’re light sometimes there’s a particular emphasis; for example, human trafficking (even when I’ve laboured this during the presentation. What I don’t know is the extent to which the audience are testing ideas, testing me against what others have said, and simply exercising their own views. Take, for example, the question about my research into gender inequality. Basically, the question was, “How can you square what you do with the fact that you’ve researched this issue?” The assumption, it seems to me, was that prostitution is synonymous gender inequality. I should have asked what this meant. However, I suspect that it went like this: he buys her, he uses her, he discards her as a worthless object after he’s used her … and it smacks of human slavery. But I didn’t. Ask, that is.

Do I think I’ve bought her? No. I’ve bought her time and (although many when feel uncomfortable with this) a level of expertise and service. (To be continued tomorrow.)

God knows what the audience actually made of it or whether it contributed to their studies as opposed to just keep them amused for an hour or two but from my point of view it was another good session.

As we started to go our separate ways I was approached by a gang of five or six members of the audience. They had a group project which involved asking every speaker they encountered to comment on the notion that within prostitution some people are winners and some are losers (both clients and prostitutes). The term ‘loser’ wasn’t being used in a pejorative sense but in a literal sense. My response amounted to something like this.

Some guys get cheated by the girls, which makes them losers. I might have added that not all the men who visit have their pockets stuffed with money. More than a few (who’ve contacted me) have explained that they have to save for several months to make the visit possible. To them, a couple of costly, bad encounters is a serious hit. The other point I made was that every time there is legislation on prostitution, it’s a loss for the prostitutes. It’s never truly designed to help them but rather to constrain their activities in some way. And whatever else, it puts them back in the public eye and further stigmatises them and the profession because we can count on the press and politicians to put a negative spin on it.

Had I spent a little less time in the tumble dryer, I might have added that morality is often a zero sum game. It’s inevitable that if one side wins, the other side loses. Think of things outside of prostitution: Abortion, Assisted Suicide, Same Sex Marriage, Homosexuality. If, for example, the feminist anti-prostitution lobby prevails, women lose the right of personal freedom, sexual liberty and the right to do whatever they want with their own bodies (this is an issue where people who share the same basic moral outlook come into conflict, for example opposing feminist factions). In 2013, the Amsterdam government raised the age at which women could work in the windows from 18 to 21 (the age of consent for prostitution remains at 18 throughout The Netherlands). The rationale given was that women of 18 were not mature enough to make a sensible decision regarding working in the windows given the perceived ‘rigours’ of working in that environment. The same rationale was used a hundred years ago to argue that women shouldn’t have the vote. Whatever, the girls seemed OK with the response in that they had another comment to sit alongside all the rest.

Then, out of the blue, the totally unexpected happened. While the gang and I were wrestling with the question, one of the guys in the group came up. He was obviously waiting for an opportunity to talk. I’d noticed him watching me quite intently during the talk and Q & A, and the thought at the back of my mind was that he identified as a feminist and that although he wasn’t going to disrupt things by confronting me during the session he wasn’t happy with my stand on the issue.

When we got to talk, what he said surprised me. Actually, I was so surprised that I can’t recall exactly what he said, but I hope that what I write here captures the spirit of it.

“I was a male prostitute. And I’d been in several abusive, regular relationships. But I found the johns to be much more open, caring, empathetic and understanding. Listening to you, you captured that, I identified with what you had to say. Thanks.”

Then he shook my hand. Like I say, that quote isn’t literal, it’s a scrambled recollection. If he chooses to contact me using the contact email which doesn’t go to the site but to my email account with a correction/alternative statement in his own words, I’ll make the update. Otherwise, I hope that I did justice to the sentiment.

“Look, if I decide to report this conversation, are you OK with that?”

“Sure, that would be fine.”

His tone suggested that it wouldn’t simply be fine but that it would be a good idea.

As always, I have no real idea how the audience reacted to what I had to say and the different parts of the presentation. Early on we agreed that formal feedback wouldn’t be appropriate because they would then be influencing and inevitably changing what it was they’d come to study (me, a client). However, I’ll tell you that whatever else, that one bit of feedback made the whole thing worthwhile.

I limped back to the hotel as the the lack of sleep, the travel, the laundry experience and the fact that I’d just spent over two hours standing on stage taxing my lower back, my memory and my intellect all took their toll . But the day wasn’t over. I’d decided that if I was going to carry out my threat to visit a window it had to be before going out to eat (nothing since a shaky breakfast at the airport). I changed clothes and headed across Museum Plein and onto De Pijp, Amsterdam’s smallest window district. It was going to be a brief encounter. My approach to Amsterdam’s windows has changed. I’m less dependent on them now that real girlfriend experiences in London’s Soho is in the equation. Window visits here are now invariably short, sharp and to the point. It was dark. Indeed, it had been dark for some time and I could see the red lights of the windows from some distance away. And my legs ached. Actually, all of me ached in that ‘been in the gym all day’ sort of way. When I reached the windows I discovered that most were unoccupied. Actually, there were only six occupied. Although my threshold for entry was pretty low, it just wasn’t that low. Nothing for me here. So it was back to the hotel, another change and then a tram to the Dam.


I crossed it and headed for Restaurant Anna on Warmoesstraat. It’s a modern restaurant with any arty approach to its food. I’ve eaten there a lot and for me it’s not just about taking on calories it’s an event which lasts as long as my encounters with students who are studying prostitution. On this occasion, I started with four Oysters, accompanied by a glass of white, Spanish Viognier. After that I had fish soup with good chunks of white fish and clams. I decided on a French Chardonnay, which was at the top of the price range. It was amazing. And to finish I had duck with wild mushrooms and a delicate mashed potato. The slices of breast were medium rare and beautifully tender. And there was a duck leg which had been slow roasted to perfection. Amazing dish.  I tried a glass of South African Pinot Noir. It was OK but too dry for me. Too thin. But I drank it. I finished with a glass of red from the Langoudoc which was half the price of the Pinot Noir and tasted twice as good.

By 9.30 pm I was on my way back to the hotel. The red light district? No. No way.

Friday 3rd November. I ate a bit too much at breakfast but that’s partly because it was a way to while away some time. After that I took my laptop to the residents’ lounge and typed up this blog post. At about 1.00 pm I took a tram to the flower market and then walked back to The Rijksmuseum, browsing in shop windows and exploring some of the side streets. One of those exited opposite my hotel. More luck than judgement. By mid afternoon I decided that if I was going to take in a window visit it had better be soon. Tonight is earmarked for another leisurely meal, this time at The Grand Hotel Krasnapolsky on the Dam.


Well, there wasn’t much that caught my eye and I just wasn’t in the mood for a real girlfriend experience. Whatever I did was going to be very basic. So I opted for Ms. X. She was the best fit for ‘my type’. She was cheerful and friendly and promised fifteen minutes and fellatio and sex in different positions. That sounded like it would work. I went in and paid, handing over fifty euros from a meagre stash of twenties and tens. She’d barely banked the money when she went into real girlfriend mode. I think it may have been down to the fact that she elicited from me my occupation and reason for being in Amsterdam, and the fact that I would be around tomorrow. I meanwhile went from ‘going through the motions’ to paying her another fifty euros to turn this into half an hour. Unfortunately, my small change had been decimated. All I had was a stack of hundreds. I went to my wallet, took one out and put it on a shelf, indicating that she could give me the change later.

And then she set to work. That’s not how these real girlfriend experiences usually shape up but I was still tired and I just let her get on with it. And get on with it she did. It would be fair to say that she knows her stuff. However, halfway through (I don’t think she was clock watching) I took over and strutted some of my own stuff. And then we took turns to lead. I don’t have the energy or appetite for providing a blow by blow description, but suffice to say it was pretty damned good and totally unexpected.

While I dressed she went to get me my change. I told her to forget it. The experience had been worth the fee. But she insisted on giving it to me. She made a point of explaining that she plays fair. I asked about her work schedule. She works five days, Monday to Friday.

“Busy girl.”

“Not really. People are always saying that I must be very busy but I’m always turning men away.”

It seems that the guys on her no-fuck list include men from black African culture, men with moustaches (I assume that includes men with beards), men who look rough, men who give her a dustainful look when eyeing the merchandise and men who look as though hygiene isn’t a particularly high priority. Oh, I nearly forgot, she avoids ‘really young men’. And there was me thinking that my success had been based on my boyish good looks.

“And do you live in Amsterdam or outside?”


“That makes sense.”

We exchanged air kisses (however heavy the session has been I always make a point of exchanging just air kisses at the end) and I went out looking for photo opportunities. I want to change the cover illustration of one of my eBooks and use an image which is obviously of De Wallen. The one on the cover at the moment is of De Singelgebied. However, that’s easier said than done. Good, representative shots don’t exist and there’s no question of photographing the girls at their windows, say from one side of the canal to the other. I took a few photos but I gave up after an hour and headed back to the hotel, changed and then trammed it back to The Krasnapolsky.

It was another two hour session and by the time I left it was about 10.00 pm. I was in no fit state to take up the opportunities in the red light district but I looked anyway. My guess is that there were about 130 women working. How many caught my eye? Just two. I decided to check De Singel as well. There were far fewer women over there. How many did I fancy? Two. However, one of those stood out as ‘the one’. There’s been a bit of movement over there in the last couple of years. There’s an import of younger, prettier women. I suspect it might come as a result of the closures over on De Wallen. Well, she was the one but I wasn’t up to the job; I’ve just had a big meal, I’ve had four glasses of wine, I’ve already had sex once today and I’m still tired (very) and ache all over. However, as a researcher, I’m tenacious. With absolutely no intention of visiting a window, I went over to De Pijp so that I could make a comparison between the three areas. That entailed a tram ride from Nieustraat to the Rijksmuseum. The tram was rammed. It was like a cattle car and as people were struggling to get off people scared that they wouldn’t get on at all were pushing against the tide, sometimes quite aggressively. For some reason, it cleared out at Liedseplein. After getting off I headed across the playground on Museum Plein and over to De Pijp. There were maybe 30 windows open. How many women was I attracted to? Two. Put another way, across the three areas, only 3% of the women working there were of interest to me. At this point, of course, it’s purely academic. All I wanted to do was sleep. It was just after midnight when I got back to the hotel.

Did I sleep?

Sort of.

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Saturday. I’m going to fuck someone. Don’t know who (not a man, obviously). Don’t care. Why? Cos I’m here that’s why. Am I looking for another RGF experience? No. No way. I’m like a character in The Walking Dead (one of the dead guys). I was up and at breakfast at about 10.00 am. The breakfast area (it’s not a room) was rammed. What is going on? I took a table near a window (table piled with breakfast debris) so that I could watch the street and the passers by (I’m on my own 4FS, and there’s no way I’m going to sit there looking at my stupid fucking phone). I dragged it out as long as possible then went back to the room and picked up the book I’m reading. It’s called The Price Of Inequality by Joseph E. Stiglitz. I might just as well be titled Why America is Shit. It’s not an easy read but then I’m not an easy person. I read for a while and then the Thursday sleep deprivation caught up. I just put my head down on the table (I was sitting at) and once again didn’t sleep.

So what do you do? You head for the Alfred Cuyp (pronounced coop) market. I kept my hand on my shoulder bag (see previous post for why). I walked the length of the market, took some photos and headed back. On the way I had this must piss feeling. Luckily, I came across a place called Bazar. At first, I was attracted by the Arabic inscriptions (couldn’t decode them) but I wanted the toilet. I ordered a basic coffee (OMG Fuck THAT is Coffee!!!). It cost €2.50. I handed over a generous €3.00. Then went for a piss.

Two minutes later I was checking the early afternoon windows on De Pijp. I walked the walk. Yeah! She was there. Not everyone will get this. I walked past her window and checked all of them. Yeah. She was it, the one. So I went back and made my interest known. She let me in.

She was my type. Definitely. And I figured that she was, say, thirty-five, which is closer to my age and well away from my preferred 20/21 (we talk about this during the lecture). I went in and asked what do you charge. She said, “What do you want?” I had to say that I wanted ‘the basic’.

No way I’m going to do this talk again on the same day that I fly!!!

She accepted the €50. She was past her best (still fucking good), I could see that; she was pretty in the way that Michelle Obama is pretty )girly pretty). I’m thinking that ten years ago she would have been fucking stunning.

So we get to the end and we’re doing the chit chat.

“So how old are you?”

“I’m fifty.”



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This visit to Amsterdam was a little different from other visits because I’d booked a hotel outside the centre. It was near Museum Plein. The whole thing was cost driven. Since Brexit, the pound has been hit quite hard, while the cost of hotels has steadily increased. Anyway, the hotel is on a tram route and easy to access. I bought a 48 hour tram ticket on arrival and that served me very well. I was able to get into the centre easily but it also meant that I spent time in areas that I hadn’t previously explored. I also discovered that there was a bus on the route which went to Schiphol. I used it on the return journey. It took thirty minutes and cost me five euros. I think we can assume that the next time I do this trip I’ll pitch up at a hotel in the same area. An additional incentive is the fact that The Pijp, one of Amsterdam’s red light districts, is on the doorstep, so to speak.

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I’m in Dam to give another talk to American students. I did it Friday morning, but it meant flying out early from the UK the day before. It involved a very early start, setting off at 6.30 am (to beat the cancellations and the bump-offs, and give us a second chance), but it was no great hardship. The weather’s fine and the prospect of a couple of days on a city break has a definite appeal.

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I was actually in Dam, giving a talk to students on this particular course, exactly one year ago to the day. On the Thursday I’d voted to stay in the European Union, and the next day I woke to the news that we were leaving. No one thought it would happen, particularly the politicians who’d campaigned for it.  What’s it been like since then? Well, have you seen that TV series called American Horror Story? Season Two is set in an asylum. The premise of the story is that the people in charge of the asylum are more nuts than the patients. It’s been a bit like that. But instead of a nun running the show it’s a vicar’s daughter who is clearly driven by an immigration obsession (I use that term loosely). She failed to control immigration as the Home Secretary and this is her chance. Unfortunately, that’s all she can see. The economically destructive nature of Brexit (the golden opportunities are bullshit) is completely beyond her mental capcities. Then we had a general election a couple of weeks ago (her decision) which instead of leaving her strong and stable left us with a hung parliament and her with a headache (I really hope that it hurts and won’t go away). I have to say that I was pleased with that result because the oxygen with would have come with a conservative landslide was cut off. Indeed, the mere fact that the conservatives don’t have a majority means that their totally nut’s plans will have to be tempered by a measure of common sense. Nevertheless, we’re racing towards the cliff edge with the mad people driving the bus. You’re right, there’s no shortage of metaphors to describe the current situation.

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I’m in Dam for business but I have no hesitation in mixing business with pleasure. Late on Thursday afternoon I met up with a Romanian girl on the Pijp. We got off to a good start so I upgraded to half an hour almost straight away (there’s a logic to the way that I make these decisions). I discovered that she was Romanian as soon as I entered and went into my Romanian routine. Yes, she was surprised. So far so good. I felt encouraged to up the game. I went from fifteen to thirty minutes. Mistake. Two reasons. She wasn’t up to being romanced or played with. And I hadn’t fucked for two weeks. When I’m with a girl I know well I go into ain’t gonna cum soon mode, with a new girl the barrier comes down. So how did it go? She told me to lie down. I told her to lie down. She did. I played. It didn’t work. I may know how women like to be touched but it didn’t get a result. I suggested that we do sixty-nine. She insisted on performing fellatio first. Another signal that this isn’t working because she wants to delay the moment. Nevertheless, it was good. And it was good when she stopped sucking and started using her hand (she knows what she’s doing, even though it isn’t what I want). Actually, it was really good, so good I had to stop her. We did sixty-nine but she clearly wasn’t up for it. She screwed her arse to one side so that I couldn’t really get to her. And that’s when the thunder started. The rain had returned.

I had to stop her after a minute (I mean, look, she was still using her mouth to play with me). Any more and she would have finished me. And we were only five minutes into my time. I suggested that she went on top.

“Which way round?”

“Face me.”

And she did and it was good. She took me completely inside her and rolled her hips and then she leant forward and rubbed her tits against me. The thunder rolled in time to her hip movements. I felt the stab of lightening every time she moved. I don’t recall ever having had sex during a thunderstorm before. If she’d acted a bit frightened and kissed and cuddled it would have gone from very nice to meltdown. But she didn’t. Another minute of fun and I had to stop her. We morphed into her leaning back and resting on her hands (she had to reposition her legs so that they faced forward and her heels were on the bed). She clearly wasn’t used to it. I got her to raise her arse so that I could fuck her properly and watch myself moving in and out of the tight little hole between her her legs (she has a seriously pretty vulva). She wasn’t used to that either (leaning back, I mean, or being fucked in this position). Looking back on this, it’s one of those cases where I needed to visit her three or four times and gradually seduce her into being relaxed and in tune with what I wanted. My guess is that all her clients are suck and fuck and they have a preferred position and that’s that. Unfortunately, although she’s pretty and has a beautiful body, she’s not girlfriend material (she’s not my type so it’s not worth the effort), so I won’t be going back.

After cowgirl we did a minute of missionary. Then a minute of doggy. This really was unfolding minute by minute because I was so close to coming. I made a few notes after the visit and I see that I described the doggy fuck as exquisite. It forced me to make a decision. Should I stay or should I go? This was the philosophical question which often tests my synapses. I elected to stay and I let it go. It was nice (if in a somewhat soft, lazy orgasm sort of way) but I’d paid a hundred euros for a fifteen minute fuck (fifteen minutes, touch and positions she’d said). I explained why I hadn’t lasted the distance. I don’t know why I felt compelled to do that, but I did.

“I haven’t had sex with a woman for two weeks.”

“That’s amazing. A lot of guys come as soon as I put the condom on them. Not enough, but quite a few!” Are you married?”


When I explained that I was divorced she started on about why I hadn’t remarried. And then she treated me to some free counselling. Apparently, I’ll regret not being married when I’m too old and too ill to walk and need a carer. She casually dismissed the fact that I wasn’t attracted to women my own age (I like women 18 – 28) and that developing a relationship with women in my target group was worse than unlikely (I mean, 35 is nearly twice 18). Apparently, sex isn’t everything.

I get that, really I do. But the relationships which are possible just don’t have any appeal. What I don’t get is that (well meaning) people don’t get that. As a result, I assume (OK, I know) that there must be a lot of people out there who are in ‘make-do-pointless-shit-just for-the-kids’ relationships.

Did I care about over-paying? No. I got what I came for. I’d set out to have short, sharp, sexual experience and, broadly speaking, that’s what I got. I left her room in the rain (okay, I wasn’t expecting that or the thunder and lightening) and sheltered in a nearby doorway. After ten minutes the sky lightened up, the rain stopped and I moved off. I went back to the hotel, went to my room, lay on the bed, and fell asleep. I woke around 7.00 pm and went into the Dam and then headed for one of the fine dining restaurants that I know. How was it? Pretty good.

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So there I was on the tram heading for the venue for the talk on Friday morning. It’s a place I’ve been to before and it’s halfway between two tram stops. And I’d timed it perfectly. I would arrive at exactly 10.00 am. Well, I would have done if I hadn’t elected to exit the tram at a set of doors which wouldn’t open. By the time I’d adjusted and reached the other nearest exit the tram was on it’s way to the next stop. And that meant arriving breathless, overheated and late. Which I did to perfection, even if I do say so myself.

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So how do you enter a room filled with some twenty-five twenty-one year old women and a couple of token males with a view to talking about fucking prostitutes? Like you’re meant to be there, that’s how. The door to the lecture room was open and I remember standing in the doorway and demanding to know who was in charge. Twenty-five heads swivelled towards the sound. I wondered what they were thinking: “Is this the care taker? Are we about to have a fire drill? Who owns the car which has been badly parked outside?” Luckily, the tutor was near at hand, and she welcomed me in and handed me over to the audience in one smooth movement. And I set about a performance (yes, it’s a performance) which lasted two hours. How did it go? Well, from my point of view it was another very agreeable experience with another delightful audience. What they made of it I can’t be sure. But it seemed to go OK.

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The timing is the equivalent of the average West End play, feature film or the main act at a rock concert. From my point of view the time just flies by, and it isn’t long enough. You see, there are things that I need to cover in order to fulfil the basic contract, which is to explain why I first visited prostitutes, why I continue to visit, and to sling in some anecdotes and insights about the red light district. That takes about forty-five minutes. Then there’s the stuff that I want to say to the audience about prostitution in general and to challenge the negative narrative of the anti-prostitution lobby. Although I’ve been assured that the audience is exposed to a balance of opinions my guess is that negative views are pretty prominent. To do that I need another forty-five minutes to an hour. And finally, there’s the Q & A session, which usually lasts for an hour. In practice, I’m obliged to do a lot of editing, and talk fast, and hope that it hangs together (and I still can’t get it all in). Sometimes I explore the contribution of the church and feminists to the current debate and then rehearse the things which trigger moral decisions (the psychology of moral politics) and sometimes I just sling out a couple of book references and use the time for something else (Sex & Punishment by Eric Berkowitz and The Righteous Mind by Jonathan Haidt are my recommendations). That’s what I did today. I used the time instead to challenge the trafficking narrative. My point was that it’s ridiculously easy for the anti-prostitution lobby to play the trafficking card but immensely difficult to challenge it. I tried to make the point by telling a story about something that happened in the UK where the population was systematically treated to misinformation by the press, the police, politicians, feminists and the church and how it took years before the story unravelled and was discredited. My message? It was something like you just can’t trust what people say and you definitely can’t take stats at face value. And although this is a UK example, my hypothesis is that it’s replicated time and time again all over the world, and it’s up to the audience to test the hypothesis.

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Since then I’ve thought of another way to tell the story. It goes like this.

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Once upon a time there was a group of people who believed in fairies and they wanted to know how many fairies there were in the country. They asked some underlings to find out. It wasn’t something that the underlings could do themselves to they commissioned a group of people who could count to do the work. Well, the counters set about it in a strange way. They assumed that about ten fairies met (and danced) every night at the bottom of every large garden in the country. Then they assumed that five fairies met at the bottom of every small garden each night and that two fairies met in small courtyards, where the house had no actual garden. They aggregated these assumed numbers and then said some magic words: Hocus pocus we’ve lost focus, hairy lairy where’s my fairy. At which point, the aggregated number grew and grew until it revealed the true number of fairies. There were thousands.

Good job!

A couple of years later a newspaper ran a story about the fairies but instead of sticking to the facts (the what?) they made the claim that there were tens of thousands of fairies dancing at the bottom of gardens at midnight. As you can imagine, this excited the imaginations of quite a lot of people. The interest was so great that a group of fairy investigators set about capturing these dances on film (something that had never been done before). And they were hugely successful. And everyone was thrilled. Then one day a guy who had previously exposed Little Red Riding Hood and Snow White as hoaxes revealed the truth. The investigators, by their own admission (they were stupid enough to write it down in an internal report), hadn’t filmed a single fairy. They’d made it up, just like the original researchers had made it up and just like the newspaper had made its story up. Did anyone care? Not really. When challenged, the investigators said that fairies did actually exist, it was just really difficult to find the evidence and that the fairies were cunning and were always one step ahead (of anyone and everything, especially fairy investigators). They were demonstrating that they were suffering from cognitive dissonance (that’s the investigators, not the fairies) something I like to talk through and demonstrate to the students when I have the time (not today).

The truth is that I don’t remember (as always) many of the questions which followed, but I do know that there were quite a few about fairies. One question I have, though, is this. Why do good people lie in order to win an argument, why do they lie just to get their way? Is it simply a question of the end justifying the means?

I also remember a brief conversation I had after the formal session. One of the women commented that she’d approached this whole issue from a liberal point of view, in a sort of live and let live sort of way. If women were engaging in prostitution freely and no harm was being done, let it be. These are my words, incidentally, not hers. Then she went on to say that she was surprised at how much prejudice she was actually bringing to the situation: “I believe tI hold liberal views, but when I saw the women in the windows I found myself having negative, dark thoughts.” I found that very interesting. And if there had been more time I think I could have shed some light on that apparent contradiction. As it is, I’ll probably work that conversation into my next talk (the indications are that there will be one later in the year).

A final thought. The ‘reasons’ for continuing to visit prostitutes aren’t complicated to the point of being intellectually challenging but they aren’t straightforward. There are a variety of reasons. But one I neglected to mention is that while visiting prostitutes isn’t illegal (where I do it), it is very, very naughty. And as someone who sticks to the rules, takes ‘keep off the grass’ and sticks to the ‘keep right’ signs, etc., very seriously and feels very uncomfortable turning up late for an appointment, I get quite a kick out this particular naughtiness.

The Post-meeting Q & A Q & A!

I don’t always get to talk to individuals after the presentation and Q & A session, but on this occasion I was able to exchange a few words with some of the audience. I got the impression that there might be several who had questions that they thought more suitable for a one-to-one so when I got home I mailed the course tutor and explained that I’d be pleased to answer questions via this blog. She took up the offer and this is what she sent back.

Meanwhile, as the students will be aware, some of my responses can be unexpectedly long. That’s because (in my mind) this topic doesn’t lend itself to easy answers and glib responses. However, I’ll try to keep it manageable. And if I do give a few short answers, be assured I’m not being dismissive, it’s just that for once I’ve been tossed a question which lends itself to brevity (thanks for that!).

This Q & A will be removed Saturday 8th June 2017

This Q & A has been redacted



Start Me Up

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5.15 pm: I’m sitting in Ekki, it’s an Eco restaurant at the backend of Amsterdam’s Central Station, where the police are controlling access (probably in the wake of the London lone-wolf terror attack a couple of days ago) and admission to the concourse is via ticket only. It meant that I had to use the underpass. It looked so good, I photographed it.

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I’m looking out over the Y (pronounced eye), part of a canal which at one end spills into the North Sea. The Cinema Museum (known locally as The Eye) is slightly to the left on the opposite bank and the old Royal Dutch Shell building (I worked for Shell, once upon a time) is towering over everything (information courtesy of the Dutch guy sitting at the next table).

The clear blue sky that I can see is on the house. I’ve just returned from De Pijp. The students who I talked to this morning had been based in the area and I figured I’d take a look. Okay, it’s been something that’s been on my mind for a while but it’s just a little too far out to drop in on without making a bit of effort. I took a tram out to Museum Plein. When I arrived I did something disgusting. I bought a hotdog. It was advertised as pork and beef but they didn’t say exactly which parts of the pig and cow. I washed it down with an indifferent coffee. That was more necessary than the dog (for all I know it actually was a dog, and all that pork and beef talk was just bullshit) because my throat was sore from all the talking. I talk a lot during these talks. Stands to reason, I suppose.

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Well, after eating, I walked across the park (back to Coster Diamonds and with The Museum Shop on my left) in the direction of the canal that would take me to The Pijp. I crossed the bridge onto Ruysdaekade and headed south. I knew it was a window area which is regarded by locals as much better than De Wallen or The Singelgebied (see the 2017 Best Girls page on the Jan van blog) and I felt duty bound to check it out. I found the windows. And I also found The Albert Cuipmarket, which is where I became the target of a mugger or pickpocket, possibly a family of muggers or pickpockets. The market stalls line both sides of a very, very, very long street. It must be at least a quarter of a mile long. I found it interesting checking out the food stalls and other stuff stalls but there were also a lot of handbag stalls. I have a shoulder bag which I bought in Egypt a couple of years ago. It looks like it was designed just to store my laptop, camera, coins, mouthwash, blah, blah. The laptop is more like a notebook, very compact so not just any old bag will do. The one I have has a flat zipped pocket at the back; it’s ideal. However, it’s started to show its age and I’ve struggled to find a replacement.

Anyway, I became aware that a young Asian guy, maybe eighteen or nineteen, was keeping pace with me, walking just a couple of yards behind. Whenever I stopped, he stopped and pretended to be looking at something on a nearby stall. I tested him. I checked out a bag stall and then went into the bag shop that it was nestling in front of. Sure enough, the little prick followed me in. My guess is that he’s a pickpocket rather than a mugger. Interestingly, one of the Dam girls on my last visit warned me about pickpockets. “Keep your wallet where you can feel it. You wouldn’t believe the things I see standing at the window.” I ignored him but contrived to make him exit the shop first. I was going out and he was on my heels and I stopped to check a bag near the doorway. He had no option but to keep going. Outside, he dithered. He obviously didn’t know which way I would go. I left the shop, turned right and walked very purposefully for about five yards before turning around abruptly and walking back the way I’d come. Fast. The little cunt was nearly trampled over and the expression on his face told me that he knew he’d been rumbled (and nearly trampled on). Game over (I hope).

However, on the return journey, about fifteen minutes later, I passed him and what looked like his mum and his dad and his sister. And as I passed I saw from their expressions that I registered with all of them. Looks like they’re a team and I had been marked out as prey. Just in case they still had some interest, I tacked along the street; up onto the path behind the stalls on my left, then back onto the street, then up on to the other pavement.  I stopped a few times to check that I wasn’t being followed; it didn’t matter if they noticed (so much the better).

After that, I needed to do something to relax me. I mean, my bag contained my phone, my camera and my laptop. As artefacts, I could afford to lose them. What I couldn’t afford to do was lose what was on them.

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I’ll spare you the details but I was surprised to find the windows on the main drag, and the occupants were clearly a cut above the De Wallen and Singelgebied day-staff. I checked out the area, hung around a while and then made my choice. It’s Sod’s Law that your choice will always disappear in the period between looking and deciding and returning. No worries (I know that she exists). Here there were options. And the option that I took up hadn’t been there on my first walk-through. She was definitely my type (well, one of them). She’s from the Dominican Republic, slim, pretty, about thirty years old, and she’s got an arse that you could stand drinks on. I wasn’t there for romance; indeed, I wasn’t in the mood for romance, this was simple research. The important thing isn’t what happened (cowgirl and doggy), the important thing was the room. It was spacious and modern (very). The window owner was taking this seriously. A lot of thought had gone into the décor, the lighting, decorations and images on the walls. It beat my hotel room hands down. It also boasted a bathroom and a walk in shower. The shower was a feature (and a nice one). I couldn’t help wondering if it might be there for more than simply cleaning up at the end of a shift; say, for a romantic shower or to facilitate water sports.

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I guess it would make sense to comment about her age. I’d made the point with the students that I’m attracted to women in their early twenties (20- 25) but it’s not that simple.  In De Wallen, the legal age is 21 – maybe it applies here, too. At the same time, girls I knew as 22 year olds are now 26 or 27. And you don’t know the age of, say, a Soho girl until you knock on her door or cross the threshold at the invitation of her maid. And I’m not rigid in my approach; when I talked to the students I was generalising. The critical thing is that young women are sexually preferable to older women. Shame, I know, but that’s life.

Between 6.00 pm and 7.30 pm I rested up in the hotel room. On the night before flying out I’d only had two hours sleep. That always happens the night before a journey where ‘being on time’ is critical. Last night I hadn’t fared much better. I slept but it was a restless night. By the time I left the hotel I was hungry and ready to eat. 7.30 pm is a bit early, in general terms, but I was anticipating an early night (and once I’d found a place, ordered and waited, it would be later than that before I got to eat). I decided to find somewhere a bit off the tourist route, but not too far from the hotel. Actually, I fancied an Italian, but not in the way that you probably imagine. I found one. While I was checking the menu on the wall outside, a young woman came out wearing a why don’t you come in smile. It’s the sort of smile you see when perusing the De Wallen windows. I declined. I moved on. But further on didn’t turn up a ready alternative so I went back, went in, and was immediately greeted by a fat old woman (normally a woman’s fatness or oldness wouldn’t be an issue but I guess that here I’m making a point). I sensed a trace of disappointment that I was on my own (from this fat old woman). Let’s be honest, people on their own (in restaurants) are a bloody nuisance. They take up valuable space and represent a decline in profits even before they’ve ordered. The restaurant was almost full but there were a couple of tables for two near the entrance and another at the back of the shop. She suggested that I might like to have a table upstairs. She made it sound like she was doing me a favour. Whatever. I was there because I was hungry.

I followed a waitress up some stairs to a mezzanine. It became obvious why I was going to be located there. The only other occupants were two children (UN definition); we were sharing a space laid out for twenty-four customers. It looked like the old woman was deploying her window mentality. He’s a tourist and we aren’t going to see him again, and I don’t want him messing up a prime location. At least I hadn’t been given a table next to the toilet.

After a couple of minutes, Miss Smiley Face appeared and gave me a menu. I ordered a bottle of the house red wine. The price by the glass suggested that this was a smart move, and I figured that I wasn’t going to be able to easily catch her eye for a refill. For 20 euros I wasn’t expecting anything great and  I wasn’t disappointed (most of the wines by the bottle were at stupid prices – I ain’t that stupid). It was relatively low alcohol (12% by vol) but drinkable. I ordered eggplant in a tomato and mozzarella sauce as a starter and giant prawns to follow. I hadn’t been there many minutes before other customers started filing past me on their way to the toilet (it wasn’t visible from my table but it was there right enough). It wasn’t a huge problem because I was facing away from it. But I did get to see a lot of people, including the young woman who was suffering from cystitis. Typically, a lot of the young women came in pairs. What’s that about? There were a lot of Dutch voices in the mix. Guess I really have gone off piste. As I put the finishing touches to my starter (I wiped the plate clean with some of the bread), the children stacked their plates and glasses (coke) and dirty cutlery and left me to tough it out on my own. They were chattering in Italian. I guess they were probably family.

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The prawns were as big as the menu promised. Not bad. Actually, I couldn’t finish the whole dish, but I’d had enough. And I fancied the Italian ice cream to finish. I mean, you always have room for ice cream, don’t you?

At 9.10 pm I downed tools. And waited. At 9.25 pm the waitress came and scooped up my plates. At 9.35 pm she came back up the stairs, walked past me and went into the toilet. At 9.40 pm she reappeared, walked past me, again with no acknowledgement, and descended the stairs. I hope she washed her hands. I decided that the tip would go into the ice cream. I was tempted to sit there and see how long it would take for one of the staff to make contact. Maybe they would just carry on as normal, put the chairs on the tables and wash the floor, that kind of thing (maybe even shut up shop and leave me there for the night).

At 9.45 pm I poured the remaining third of a bottle of wine into my glass and sprinkled salt and pepper on it, which I then stirred in. I resisted the temptation to spit in it. I knew that if I’d left it in the bottle it would have been served up to someone the next night. As it was it will probably go into a sauce. At 9.50 pm I descended the stairs and approached the bar. There were just four female customers left in the place. It was nearly full when I arrived so I guess they all turned up at about the same time, ate and then left.

Miss Smiley Face smiled a winning smile and asked if I would like my bill.

“Please.” (If it wouldn’t be too much fucking trouble.)

It came to 57 euros (which seemed OK value for money). I proffered a 100 euro note.

Fat woman poured me a complimentary digestive (I think it may have been grappa) and smiled at me as she pushed it across the bar. I ignored it. Pour it back in the bottle, why don’t you? Then there was some tooing-and-frooing because there were no coins in the till. The old woman, Miss Smiley, the chef and the waiters all smiled. I didn’t know if it was because they were willing me to tip heavy or because I’d made the plate dishwasher-clean or because of the way they’d fucked with me. Eventually, they came up with the right change. I scooped it up and left.

Need I say more? Yes, I think I will. I suspect that they would put the transaction down to the fact that I was a tourist, had bad manners and had drunk a bottle of wine (even though I hadn’t). Looking back on it, my final take on this situation was probably triggered by the ineptness of the waitress. What she should have done (in my opinion) was to return at some point (sooner rather than later) with a dessert menu and do the, “Would you like dessert or coffee?” thing. Maybe Fat Woman and Smiley Girl thought that it was all in hand. And, yes, I could have explained to them, and I could have called the waitress back after her toilet visit and requested a soiled menu. And they would have apologised and the Fat Woman would have poured me another grappa. But there was more to this than an ice cream, wasn’t there?

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So what about the talk this morning? It was with the second half of a study group. The first group came out at the beginning of the month. It sounded as though they had been split for administrative reasons. I’d explained to the audience that the first 30 minutes would be spent with me talking about me and my window experience. The next 30 minutes would be me rehearsing some things that I wanted to say (but linking it to a question from an earlier group) and the last hour would be devoted to a presentation which they constructed and on which I would put some flesh (with as many prepared answers as I could work in).

Well, it went pretty much according to plan, and as usual, I can’t remember many of the questions. The first one, however, was whether I was a feminist. The answer was a categorical no. I’m not a feminist for a number of reasons but I do share some feminist sensibilities. Good question. Especially since I had a prepared answer, which I hope illustrated the complexity of the question.

Two hours is a long time to be sitting and listening and on this occasion one of the tutors suggested that we take a ten minute break. That seemed sensible. What I wasn’t ready for was everyone grabbing their phone. We have a no-phone, no-recording deal (making a guest appearance on Youtube isn’t my idea of fun). I’m hoping that the moment passed without incident. Another  question that I remember is, “What’s your job?” Another good question, and it’s the first time anyone has asked me. Unfortunately, it’s one of three questions that I’d decided I wouldn’t be answering. What are your three favourite sex acts/positions is something I’m prepared to answer, but I’m inclined to avoid identifier questions, even though I know that it’s no more than casual interest.

Afterwards, I grabbed a sandwich with the rest of the cast. I was interested to know if the questions changed once the dynamic changed from group lecture to one-to-one.

“What is sex? How would you define it?”

Well, that was a track stopper. It’s one of those things which you know intuitively what it is but not why you know. I was reminded of a psychology test which Jonathan Haidt references in his book The Righteous Mind. People are presented with a gross scenario and asked to respond. Some are indifferent to the grossness. Others declare it to be disgusting. When pressed to explain why, they can’t. His point is that people make moral judgements instinctively, and not on the evidence. They trawl for evidence after the event. What is sex wasn’t a moral question but it wasn’t straightforward. (And why did she want to know?)

I started by making the point that it seemed self-evident and then I asked if it was a sort of trick Bill Clinton question (for those who don’t know, he claimed never to have had sex with Monica Lewinsky, even though he had put his penis in her mouth on a number of occasions and had at least once ejaculated his Presidential seed onto her very famous blue dress).

“No.” (Not a Clinton question, that is.)

On reflection, I think I could have pointed out that the window girls seem to make a distinction between fellatio and ‘sex’. If asked what they will do for that fifty euros they often say, “Suck and sex, or blowjob and sex.” And when they think that you’ve had enough of the first of these they might say, “Do you want to do sex now?” Bill would have liked them.

I, however, see sex as any sexual activity or combinations of activities. A handjob, is sex. Caressing a woman’s breasts is sex. Licking between her legs is sex. Putting your penis into a woman’s mouth is sex. Doing that while licking between her legs is sex. Vaginal penetration with fingers or penis (or toys) is sex. Any combination of these things is sex. Obviously, I’d make a shit President because I could be impeached in the time that it takes a gnat to shake piss off its cock. Maybe the short answer is that anything involving the touching of sexualised parts of another person’s body is sex. I mean, quite a lot is regarded as a sex crime these days.

I did recover, however, and was able to make the point that in my experience there are different sorts of sex. For example, some of my experiences are at the intimate, romantic end off the scale (kissy and cuddly while, for example, gently stroking between her legs), but In some instances, the sex is very ‘full-on’ and physical and about the intensity and energy of the sex act, or maybe we set out to break my record for Karma Sutra positions. And sometimes I choreograph it: with some women, I make ‘porn movies’ (there is a plot, there might be costumes involved, and the wall mirrors are the cameras – in the sense that what you see is what you get). The choreography is important even if it’s not for a porn movie. Managing an hour session with a girl who isn’t actually your girlfriend isn’t as straightforward as I sometimes make it seem. And occasionally I’ve done BDSM; on those occasions I’ve tied the girl up and done whatever came into my head (our safe word is STOP – it’s never been used), and it’s not because they are gagged (that cuts out too many options).

The most memorable moment?

One question was about the way that there seemed to be a gender imbalance in prostitution, in the sense that there are lots of bought sex opportunities for men and none (or very few) for women. What did I think about that? I was distracted for a moment as I wondered if my questioner was into gender symmetry, but it got me talking about the differences between men and women (according to The Book of Me), and that worked round to orgasms and the fact men can come at the drop of a hat but women take longer.

“Look, it’s a generalisation, but I’ll suggest that all men want to give the woman they’re with an orgasm.” There were only two guys in the audience. One nodded in agreement and the one who (I later discovered) was recovering from a bit of excess the night before did his best to nod.

“Unfortunately, most men don’t know how to do it.”

At which point I felt that I was really connecting with the audience, as thirty, or so, heads nodded in what I would describe as enthusiastic agreement.

Yes, lectures can be fun. And lectures also beget lectures. The audience don’t know it but their questions do inform subsequent talks. And this one is no exception. I’m pretty certain that I’ll be doing another in the summer and I’ll be making all of my presentation about my experiences, not just the first 30 minutes. I’ll keep my thoughts on prostitution as a social phenomenon until the Q & A, and hope that the questions include ‘what is sex’ and do the prostitutes ever have orgasms?

Hey, Lord, about those 21 questions!


The links to Youtube throughout these blog posts have different connotations. Sometimes it’s the title of the song which is significant, sometimes it’s the lyrics. Sometimes I’m being for real, and sometimes I’m being ironic (and a little bit opportunist), like with this choice of song. The only consistent thing is that I actually like the songs that I chose.

I was in Dam a few days ago doing another gig for American students. It was at the 420 Club. In order to get it to work I fly out on Thursday, do the gig around lunchtime the next day and then fly back the following day. I come out a day early in anticipation of flight cancellations or delays on the actual day. This way I have a fallback position. I fly back the next day because that’s the best financial deal and WTF, all work and no play, and all that. If I wasn’t doing a talk I wouldn’t be in Amsterdam on those dates so I have to make it work financially.

The venue changes but the 420 Club is my kinda venue. Right size, right shape, right lighting, right acoustics. As my Arab friends would say, Mia Mia. Oh, yeah, it’s also an easy trek from the hotel that I use on these occasions.

This time I was talking to a ‘half group’. Normally there are fifty students, of whom 90% are women. Today, it was just over thirty in the audience and, from what I could make out, two guys. The other half will be in Dam in a couple of weeks and I’ll meet up with them at some point during the week.

What do I talk about? Well, the core is always the same. I explain why I visited a prostitute in the first instance and then why I continue to visit. It’s a longer and more complicated story than you might think. I take the opportunity to thread that story with anecdotes and insights, and (increasingly) I’m giving my take on issues relating to prostitution. I don’t know for sure but it’s my guess that they come up against more establishment figures who develop the prostitute as victim narrative than any views which challenge stereotypes and misinformation. Because I can’t squeeze all the things that I want to say into the presentation I change it regularly; no two presentations are exactly the same. I also seed the talk with questions that I want the audience to ask in the Q & A (a bit like a Victorian Magician). Does it work? Of course it does.

I usually start by telling them that I have no idea what they want or expect from me or why they are studying prostitution in depth (one semester). And this is true: “So I’ll just do my thing and hope that it makes some sense.” This is, of course, an open invitation for someone to spell it out to me one day.


One of the things I always regret is that I don’t have a good recollection of the questions that get asked. This time I made the point during my opening remarks and one young lady immediately volunteered to act as scribe. Thanks! Greatly appreciated!


  1. What made you go straight to the Netherlands for sex instead of looking for sex in GB?
  2. How can you be so sure that the women do not fit the victim narrative (because you are the buyer and they have to fake things)?
  3. Do you think buyers should have an organisation to flag possible trafficking victims?
  4. What preliminary research do you do before you go into a red light district?
  5. How did your friends and family react to your actions?
  6. What do the workers honestly believe about the police?
  7. Talk about the time you reported something to the police.
  8. What would have to change in your life or in the world for you to stop buying sex?
  9. Have you ever considered taking your participant research and teaming up with academics in order to complicate the victim narrative?
  10. Why did you decide to take down your site?
  11. Payjacked?
  12. What do you make of the argument that women are economically forced into prostitution?
  13. Do you find that prostitution has moved online? In your life, specifically?
  14. What is it like to see the tourists at the windows? Does it make you feel uncomfortable?
  15. Have you met other clients and become friends with them?
  16. How often do you purchase sex? Do you try to visit the same women?
  17. What is the most positive aspect of the sex industry for the sex workers?
  18. Can they be empowered or emotionally destroyed?
  19. In your words, what are you buying? Body. service, experience?
  20. When you approach a new woman who you are attracted to, how long does it take to develop a relationship with a woman?
  21. Tell us about Janice.

It took a good hour to respond to the questions, largely because there is usually a story involved in the process. I recognise the questions but not the order, and sometimes my recollection is of a question with a different nuance (but these were being recorded in real-time and as the questioner spoke).

The one I couldn’t answer and which made me stumble around was: Do you think buyers should have an organisation to flag possible trafficking victims? In retrospect I think that it’s because the answer is no, and that sounds rather uncaring. There is already an organisation that buyers can contact. It’s called the police. There are always ways to do that anonymously and in the Netherlands there is the government sponsored Anonymous Tip Line (on the janvanderdamm Links page).

The question I don’t recall at all is Payjacked? And I’ve absolutely no idea what it means.

My scribe failed to record one question: Don’t you have any amusing stories? This is all a bit serious.

That was a fair point. I did manage to work in a few one-liners which got a laugh but there weren’t any ‘amusing stories’. Maybe that’s because the questions didn’t trigger anything, or maybe it’s because I didn’t see the opportunity in the moment. Back in November, when I did this, I deliberately worked on the humour. However, it often takes time to set the jokes up and I found myself trading content for humour. However, I’ve thought of a couple of anecdotes to work in next time. There’s the time that a condom burst. Well, it’s amusing in retrospect, and in the way that I tell it. And there was the time that I went online and made a list of women not to visit because they gave very, very poor service – and then left the hotel and went straight to one of them! There are, however, quite a few amusing anecdotes in The Amsterdam Diaries and The Amsterdam Diaries 2 (and always at my expense).

Let It Bleed – Soho Part 1


This is a three-day event. I booked it several weeks ago. The plan was to keep the party going. Two weeks ago I was in London for an Ezra Furman concert and at the end of that week I was in Amsterdam for three days. This additional visit to London would do very nicely. Well, that was the thinking. A couple of days before setting off I booked three theatre visits. The first was to a see an hour-long comic take on Bram Stoker’s Dracula at The Kings Head pub, Islington. The next night I got a front row seat for Last Tango at The Phoenix Theatre, which was a stone’s throw away from my hotel. Sunday afternoon would be Lazarus at the King’s Cross Theatre. The spaces in between would be taken up with visits to girls in the walk ups, girls in the strip clubs and visits to a selection of the numerous tourist attractions that London has to offer. The truth is, however, that by the time it came to it, I simply wasn’t in the mood, and the mood was tempered by the fact that day two was set for rain. Lots of it. I had been busy with a lot of girls over the previous week or two, which meant that this visit didn’t feel special.

My mood was further dampened by the fact that I was still suffering from the cold that I’d picked up in Amsterdam last weekend. It was dying but not fast enough to make it possible or sensible to indulge in the walk up plan straightaway. Instead, after checking in to the hotel in Soho, I went over to Camden Market to take photos to illustrate my last blog post. Then I walked up to Chalk Farm with a view to checking out an art exhibition. The trouble was that I hadn’t written the name and address of the venue down and couldn’t find it. I cut my losses and came back via Angel. I found the King’s Head Pub and then timed the return journey to my hotel. Forty minutes. I built the rest of the afternoon and early evening around the return journey. On getting back to the hotel I rested up for an hour and then went down to the hotel bar for complementary wine and snacks: cheeses, olives, bread, biscuits, fruit and chocolate. I had just the one glass of wine but the indications were that they would keep topping it up. At about 6.30 I went to Gumps, off Piccadilly, and had a Bucket of Trash: soft-shell crab, shrimp and fries and dips. It turned out to be a good plateful, especially on top of the nibbles at the hotel.


The return to Angel was much quicker than the test journey and I’d set off with time to spare so I had about forty minutes to kill before the performance. I used the time to check out the area and to buy ice cream. I sat outside the shop and ate it and watched the world go by. At one point a group of seven early-twenty-years-olds came past. One was already off her head. She ran up to me and sat down at the small bistro table.

“Are you having a good time? Are you enjoying your ice cream?”

“I was.”

Her mates scooped her up like another helping of stracciatella gelato (already in my cup) and helped her on her way.

When I’d scrapped the cup clean (I couldn’t get my tongue into it) I went back into the shop and asked where the toilets were. They were through a door marked Private Staff Only. I descended into the crypt, had a wee and retraced my steps. Then I went to the pub which was a few doors away and I did my sitting in a crowded pub on my own and not drinking party piece while a couple of hundred people partied around me. Five minutes before the play was due to begin I was put out of my misery and the doors to the theatre space opened. It’s at the back of the pub and appears to be a completely separate enterprise.  It looks like it holds about a hundred audience. How was the performance? Brilliant. It was very, very funny and it was held together by five actors (three men and two women) who cox and boxed all the parts, something which added to the humour. It lasted an hour. That was good too. There was plenty of evening left for me to go out and play. On the tube train back to Leicester Square I had to stand because it was so busy. I was positioned in front of a young woman (late twenties, maybe) who was studying a theatre programme. It was for Lazarus. I apologised for the intrusion but wanted to know what she had thought of the production, explaining that I was due to see it in a couple of days time. She thought that it was brilliant. There had been a standing ovation. So much for the poor reviews that I’d seen.

I was back at the hotel by about 10.30. I changed into a suit and headed for a strip club.


It’s one I’ve used before and I recognised a few girls (no, it’s not the ones in the photos, they are from Google Images – except the blue image that is, that’s mine). The one I least want to dance for me locked onto me almost immediately (she always does). In the past I’ve shaken her off by telling her that she reminds me of my wife. After a few minutes she took the hint and left me alone. I bought a gin and tonic, just so that I had something to do with my hands and scanned the bar. I was there with a view to seeing someone in particular (it’s a long story). The only girl to catch my eye was black (OK, of colour, maybe a mix of colours). At first I couldn’t be sure if she was one I already knew. She wasn’t. I decided to stick to my original plan and took myself over to the dance area. No, the girl I’d come to see wasn’t there either. There was a girl working the stage and maybe the men to girls ratio was four to one. I glanced to my right and who was standing there? The black girl had clocked my interest and had followed me. She was doing her best ‘I’m just standing here completely absorbed in what’s happening on stage’ pose. I swear these girls have bats’ radar when it comes to picking up men. I didn’t waste any time.

“You want to dance for me?”

She didn’t answer, she just grabbed my hand and led me to the back of a small queue (for a dance booth). A queue is good because it means that there is time to talk and fondle. I did both and she did faux kissing moves with lots of eye contact. It’s not because I have the looks and charm of George Clooney; it’s the smell of money that makes them do it.

“What’s your name?”

“Krystal. And what’s your name?”

“Marcus. I guess that your name isn’t really Krystal.”

“No, it’s a stage name.”

“Me too. My name isn’t really Marcus.”

She looked surprised.

We established that she is twenty-five (she looks eighteen). We ducked my age. Well, I did.

“Where are you from?”

I told her. She didn’t actually say ‘bad luck’ but that was what she meant.

“I’d like to live in London but it would have to be in the centre and I can’t afford that.”

She indicated that she could and that she did. She told me that her taxi bill had persuaded her to make the change.

“Is this your job or do you do something else?”

Her answer was vague but it appears that she has outlets for her creative talents, including writing.

“I write, too.”

“Oh, what?”

“Well, I’ve written a couple of books on information technology.”


“Not really.”

“You don’t understand irony?”

“Whoops. Yeah. I just hadn’t caught up. I’ve also written a book about gender inequality.”

“Oh, I’m interested in that.”

I doubt it. It wasn’t about poor, down trodden women.

“And I’ve also written a book called The Amsterdam Diaries.”

“What’s it about?”

“Amsterdam. It’s a diary.”

She looked at me with a disbelieving expression.

“You’ll have to Google it.”

I hope that she does. All through this little exchange I’m fondling her arse and she is swaying to the music and I’m only half aware of the blonde girl on stage who is completely naked and contorting her body to give the audience a glimpse of every orifice. She isn’t my type.

“Do you like your work?”

Krystal held eye contact and brought her mouth up for a kiss that didn’t quite happen.

“I love it.”

She took my hand, swayed to the music and then did a jive-spin.

“You followed me down the stairs. Was that because you thought you could make money?”

The answer was probably yes but she claimed not to understand. By then it was time to take a booth. She put her drink down in one corner, I put mine in the other. She put her purse down at the end of the velvet covered bench and I took off my jacket.

“Do you want a thirty pound dance?”

That’s interesting. Maybe the girls have worked out that the forty pound dance that they used to pitch for isn’t worth the money because there are few takers. I took it once but couldn’t tell the difference between that and the standard twenty.

“No. A twenty pound dance.”


She said it like it was a shock. Like, ”You’ve brought me down here and groped my arse for a miserable, miserly twenty pounds?”

“Yes. But you can do another after that.”

That seemed to placate her. I’m not here for the dance, I’m here for the company and to pass some late-night time, so the longer I can spin this out the better.

“Open your legs.”

That’s usually my line. I spread them. Here I feel the need to comment. There are women in the world (feminists) who interpret the spread legs of a man (usually on public transport) as his invitation for any woman sitting opposite to drop to the floor, unzip his jeans/trousers, take his cock out and suck it until he comes in her mouth. Yeah, OK, I get it. But that’s not what’s happening. Some men explain it as the need for a man to give space to his testicles. It’s a physiological imperative. Maybe. However, I have another hypothesis. It’s about balance. That’s all (especially on swaying public transport). She stepped between them. And started to move. Her top came off. Then her thong (I actually removed it from over her heels and put it beside me on the bench). Both black. Double black on black.

“Do you like having your arse smacked?”

I only ever ask a girl who has a generous arse.

“I love it. Where are we going to party tonight. After this?”

Nowhere. She’s playing me but I don’t mind. I like playing.

“I’d like to take you back to my hotel and play with you.”

She leaned forward and let her delicious tits (they are perfect) swing towards my mouth, then put her mouth close to my ear.

“You couldn’t afford me.”

I put my mouth close to her ear.

“I think that I could.”

I could. Afford her, I mean. Definitely. But it wasn’t a realistic proposition; I’m not into pure contract sex. Nevertheless, I like talking sex to her.

She put one foot on the bench so that her legs were apart and her crotch exposed. It has a fair amount of hair on it (discrete, trimmed, coiffeured). That’s very unusual. But very erotic. Her slit is small and neat. I bet she’s tight.

“I’d like to lick it.”

“I know.”

Her breasts are natural. She’s slim but curvy. And the aureoles of her breasts are generous, feminine. The nipples were slightly erect. I’d like to lick those too. I realised that she hadn’t shown me her arsehole. She took some pleasure in showing me the other hole, though.

“Do you want me to open it?”

I didn’t want to disappoint.


She exposed a beautiful little, bright, shocking pink hole. The truth, however, is that I like the sight of a girl’s slit better than the sight of her hole. And the smaller the slit and the less labia protecting it the better. Oh, yeah, I also like a small clitoral hood which covers (once you get to it) an obvious clitoris.

Dance two finished.



She doesn’t really have many moves and it’s not as good as many dances I have had here but it was OK. She, however is better than OK to look at. A lot better. During dance three she posed rather than danced and I became aware of how good the poses looked in the reflections in the mirrors all around us. I framed them with my hands and commented. She posed some more and I took imaginary photos of the reflections. Then the dance ended (and I still hadn’t seen her bumhole). It seemed pretty arbitrary, the length of the dance, I mean.  I hadn’t heard the music start or finish once. I got up to leave. She put her hands on my shoulders, looked me straight in the eye (very up close) and tried to press me back into the seat.

“One more.”

The eye contact was good. It was what might once have been described as a smouldering look.

“No thanks.”

“One more! Sit down!”

My guess is that this works on most occasions. Actually, I almost did as she said.

“Now you’re hustling. Don’t do that.”

The girl standing waiting with a customer just outside our dance area had a look on her face which said she was wondering how this would play out.

“OK. Give me the forty.”

Petulant tone. Another command.

She panicked briefly because she couldn’t see her purse. It had crept under my jacket.

“Give me a tip.”

I guess you can see how this works.


She shrugged and went from being a cunt to covering it.

“Wait for me.”

I waited while she dressed. I didn’t mind. I’d rather exit with the girl than on my own.

“Come with me. We’re going to the bar.”

Hand in hand we reached the bar where she bounced a guy out of his seat. She spoke to him through me.

“He’s in my seat. I can’t get to the bar.”

He obliged. She ordered a cranberry juice.

“What are you having?”

I ordered a gin and tonic (I would have preferred cranberry juice, no gin). I paid. Obviously.

On the way back to the bar she had been told that she would be dancing soon.

“Come with me. I’m dancing next. You have to tip me. You have to do it while I’m on stage.”

She poke like a five year old mimicking an adult, Order, order, order. I’ve been wondering what kind of jobs these girl’s might be qualified for, other than flashing their tits and their arses. Speaker of the House of Commons comes to mind.

Yes, for the last few minutes I have been manipulated and jerked around like a dog on a leash – but within my comfort zone and with my consent (it is, after all, research of a kind). As we entered the dance area we encountered one of the first girls I made contact with in this club. She had been persistent about dancing for me. I had declined but just before I left the club I gave her the price of the dance for trying so hard. She remembers me for it and it has been a good investment; she is always friendly and treats me like an old friend when I put in an appearance at the club. She was taken aback because I haven’t been there since February and I could see her searching her archives to pull up the right name. My black friend and I parted company because she stopped to talk to the DJ. I moved to a front row seat. On the way I passed Sonja, a French girl who I had got on well with before Christmas last year but who had blanked me when I went back in January. We had exchanged numbers. Actually, she had given my phone a missed call to register her number but I had terminated it without thinking, rather than letting it be logged as a missed call. The plan was to speak further over Christmas. Except that we hadn’t, because we couldn’t. I assumed she’d interpreted the lack of call as a lack of interest. Tonight she was welcoming. I guess time heals. I explained that I had something to do but would see her later. Smile, smile. Bridges mended, wounds healed. She knows that I spend and that’s what’s important. Krystal came on and did her stuff and after about thirty seconds she settled down on all fours in front of me. Expectant.

“Where do you want it?”

She indicated the top of her stocking. I obliged with a folded ten pound note. She jiggled in front of me some more and another guy tossed a five pound note onto the stage. The song ended. Totally naked, she bent down and scooped it up, grabbed her thong and then left the stage via a small door to the side. As she made her exit I made mine. I got up and left the dance area and went back to the bar. I made a show of checking the area (there really was nothing for me there) then put my drink down on the bar. I was beside the girl who had seen the attempted shake down. She was looking at me with ‘curiosity’.

I called it a night.

Pollocks a Tango and then a Fandango – Soho Part 2


I took breakfast at the hotel. I had little choice. The rain that had been forecast had arrived and in a big way. It was raining buckets, it was raining cats and dogs, it was coming down in sheets. Fucking rain. Actually, it worked to my advantage because the buffet breakfast was exactly what I wanted. Muesli (with yogurt and fruit if I wanted), ham, salmon, cheese, salad and bread and unlimited coffee. It wasn’t as good as The Krasnapolsky in Amsterdam but it did the job (and was considerably cheaper). By the time I’d finished (taking my time with a house copy of The Times), the rain had stopped and I was ready to tuck into London as a tourist. I headed for The Royal Academy, off Piccadilly. It was on the recommendation of my hairdresser, a Toni & Guy guy. He’d visited a few weeks before and had enthused about an all black canvas which wasn’t actually black. Apparently, when you observed closely it was made up of red, blue and green specks. Well, y’gotta see something like that.


My first mistake was over the expression Abstract Expressionism. As I approached the counter to buy a ticket for that exhibition I was priming myself to buy a ticket to the Abstract Impressionism exhibition when I saw a sign: Abstract Expressionism. Shit. How embarrassing if I’d asked for the former.

“Can I help you, sir.”

“I asked for one ticket.”

“I’m sorry, sir. There is no such thing. It’s Expressionism, not Impressionism.”


Quick recovery.

“I’ll have one of those, then.”

We exchanged money for ticket (is it really different to money in exchange for sex). It seems that they had run out of the catalogues that are included in the ticket price. My ticket cost £13.30 instead of £17.50. I was given a more modestly printed overview, which apparently did the same job. I later discovered that it was the text minus half a dozon illustrations. Good deal!

After surrendering the ticket for an audio tour guide I launched myself into the exhibition, some twelve halls. There were some Pollocks, which I’d particularly wanted to see but most of it was bollocks. Including the commentary. People see what they want to see. But what the fuck, I was in out of the rain. And it occurred to me that my photo interpretations of the some of the window girls in Amsterdam (one in Soho) fitted the expression Abstract Expressionism. And that gave me an idea. But it would have to wait until I got home.

Around 2.00 pm I was contemplating walk ups. I haven’t been in London on a Saturday for a while and most of the names in my address book didn’t mean anything to me. I went to a walk up where I’d met a new girl a couple of months before. There was just a chance that she was still there. She wasn’t. The name on the door told me that. However, the name had the phrase ‘new girl’ beside it so I decided to give it a go.

“Oh, dear. This looks like a mistake.”

The girl who opened the door just wasn’t my type.

“She’s with someone. She’ll be five minutes but you can wait if you want.”

It wasn’t the girl, it was her maid.The crazy thing was that she could have worked there (just not my type).

I took up her offer and while we waited I enquired about the girl I’d come to see. She’d never heard of her but suggested another walk up. It was one which I had associated with the girl a few weeks before.

I asked about the girl working there at the moment.

“Dark, shoulder length hair. About my build.”

I decided to try the other walk up.

When I got there I heard footsteps descending. I passed a guy on the stairs. He was Asian. Chinese maybe. About forty. Maybe forty-five.

The door was opened by a blonde who I guessed to be in her late twenties. Cute. But not the girl I’d come to see. I stood there hoping that my disappointment wasn’t registering. She stepped aside to let me in. She introduced herself and held out her hand. I took it and shook it and introduced myself.

The connection wasn’t right. I could tell straight away but I was there and there were few alternatives.

“Where are you from?”


Shit. No ice breaker by using some native tongue. That would have to wait.

“I’d like half an hour. It would have to include sixty-nine, though.”

“That’s OK.”

She gave me a price. It was unexpected. Then she apologised and reinvented it. I would learn why later.

“And something for the maid.”

I recognised the maid who was busying herself in the kitchen. She is always busy. Always on the move. I decided that I could test my game (the one I have been considering for a while). I dug into my shoulder bag and drew out a small sack of white chocolate, silver covered coins (Christmas is on the horizon).

The girl had them in her hand before she realised what they were.

“It’s OK. Let’s see what she says.”

The maid got the joke and said thank you. They didn’t mention the absence of real money but I coughed up a two-pound coin anyway. It was a mistake, though. I should have waited until I knew both maid and girl. I was probably coming across as weird to the girl (and not in a nice way).

When she returned from the kitchen along with the maid’s smiles and ‘thank you’ I followed her to the bedroom. Great body. Great bum, fully exposed (with the exception of a thin strip of black thong up the crack). Pretty little face (pixie-cute). Neat waist. Slim, shapely legs, accentuated by five inch heels. I’ve used the room before. Indeed, I know it well and I have had some sensational sex in it. We undressed. I washed my hands. I’m making a statement.

“Have you washed? I passed your last client on the stairs.”

“Of course.”

Maybe that was a lie.

I encouraged her to lie down on the bed and set about working my magic. To cut a long story short it didn’t work. She lay there dutifully, passively, and putting up with it.

“How old are you?”


She inquired as to whether I had a girlfriend or wife.


“Do you have brothers or sisters?”

It appears that she has a thirty-year old brother and a twenty-six year old brother.

I played with her (cunt). First I played with her clitoris (finger sliding up and down the slit for a few minutes) then I swirled my finger around her clitoris (for a few minutes), then I rubbed it hard and fast (but lightly) in an ‘up and down motion (for a few minutes). Then I knelt between her legs and gave it a lick calculated to bring her to orgasm. No luck. I might just as well have been fucking a corpse. I set about a missionary fuck, which was very nice. For me. Then we did doggy, first in the traditional position then with her prone on the bed with her legs closed and mine either side of hers, trapping me in a deliciously wet, soft space. It was nice. Then we did her on top. It was OK, I guess.

“I think we should do Spoons.”

She looked down at me, still impaled on my erection. She felt hot in there.

“No. You on top, doggy or me on top. That’s all.”

She said it like a ticket collector on public transport giving you options.

“Do you know what Spoons is?”


And she clearly didn’t care or want to know.

“How old are you?”

“Guess, then I’ll tell you.”

She guessed. She did it like she was messing with me. She clearly wasn’t messing with me enough because she got it right. I confirmed her guess. Her jaw dropped and her eyes popped. I figured that this was pointless. I told her to get off. We dressed. I won’t be going back. To make sure, I asked her when she worked (like I was really interested). It seems that this is her only afternoon gig. On top of it she works two night shifts. The indications are that she is a suck and fuck girl and not looking to engage with the clients. It might have something to do with the night time experiences – get ’em in, get it over with and get ’em out. Obviously, it might just be me. However, she is the first girl I haven’t connected with this year (and there have been a lot of connections). Indeed, she’s the first for a long while but I did sort of know as soon as we made eye contact. So did she. If I had been there for a quick ten minute suck and fuck it would have been good (very good), but I wasn’t, I like to take my time and I like to play. She doesn’t.

After that experience, I decided to play safe and went to a girl who is a known quantity. The maid sent me straight through to the bedroom and into the arms of someone I’d never seen before!!!! Like the last one she was pretty but (like the last one) she wasn’t my type. I did my best to cover for it and paid for half an hour. After depositing the money with The Bank of Maid she came back and went to cuddle. I was unprepared. It was a clumsy cuddle. I suggested that she lie down on the bed. She suggested that I lie down. Indeed, she was insistent. So I did. I soon realised why. She has a routine, an act, just like I do. And it’s good (just like mine). I went with it. She has good hands. She’s a bit too theatrical (Ohhhh, Ahhhh), however, like every time she’s touched it’s a stunning pleasure sensation for her. After a while we swapped places but it wasn’t the same as usual (it definitely wasn’t what I wanted). She pretended to respond (Ohhhh, Ahhhh). So I fucked her. It was going pretty good and then it started to feel really good which, in turn, led to me fucking like a maniac.

And then it was over.

“Oh, I needed that.”

Not as much as I did. It was more unnecessary theatre (on her part).

As we dressed I asked her about her plans. She plans to make enough to set up a business. Maybe a travel agency. In Russia. I said I was pleased to contribute to her project. She said she hoped that I returned. She has a beautiful little hole and I enjoyed licking it, so while it’s not likely, it’s not out of the question. I checked her work days, just in case.

Then I went back to the hotel, picked up my laptop, found a Costa, ordered a coffee and set about writing this up.


I had a substantial complementary snack with wine at the hotel then went along to The Phoenix Theatre to see The Last Tango. There is a lot about The Last Tango which isn’t my thing (including the plot, the music and the songs) but I do like to watch Flavia dancing (subsequently my stylist told me that he has cut her hair!!!!!!). I arrived at 7.30 (by my watch) and was told that the performance (which I expected to start at 7.45) had just started. No worries. They would sneak me in after the first number. I waited at the back of the stalls and noticed a spare seat at the end of the aisle at the very back. The usher said it would be OK to take it (instead of my seat in the third row from the stage). An absolutely clear view.

How was it? The show, I mean. Good enough. Because I have watched quite a lot of the BBC series Strictly Come Dancing I found myself concentrating on the footwork, the rondes and armography and arm extensions and the quality of the lifts, etc., etc. I expect you get the picture. And Flav was Fab!!!!

Increasingly, I find theatre productions end ‘early’. That is to say, they end at a time which makes it possible to do something else afterwards. I went to Poppies on Old Compton Street (the Ann Summers end), the site of the original 2-i’s coffee bar for a fish and chip meal, which was seriously excellent – boneless fish in tempura batter, a bucket of mushy peas and the weirdest song collection you ever heard. All the staff were foreigners. Fuck Brexit!!!!! And nearly all the diners were hyperventilating at the prospect of getting staff to pose with them for selfies. After stuffing my face I went back to the hotel, a stride away, and changed – and headed for a strip club.


I breezed in, paid the entry fee, ordered a drink and was immediately set upon by a girl who was sitting at the bar. The girls will invest in talk-time in order to be asked to perform a paid dance. That way the customer has a pleasant time which extends well beyond the actual dance time. The problem is that the girl who hits on you is unlikely to be the one you actually want to marry (if you know what I mean). This one was (marriage material, I mean), she was East European. But not someone I can romance in her own language. I looked for a connection. I told her about one of the interviews I’d done for an Vice online magazine (there was a version in her country). That led naturally to my interest in taking photographs. I showed her some photos of some Dam Girls on my phone. She looked at a few of them, then paused.

“I don’t believe that you took these. I’ve seen this one before.”

Interesting (I think that it appeared on a Russian news site which plundered my own – she’s not Russian, by the way). I logged on to janvanderdamm.wordpress.com so that I could offer a measure of verification. She scrolled through the blog entries, including the ones devoted to photographs.

“Pervert. You’re a pervert.”

I’m not sure that she really understands what the word means. I suspect that she just likes the taste of it in her mouth.

“It’s your passion.Taking photographs.”

That has a more agreeable ring to it.

“It’s a blog. You will be part of it in a few days time.”

“You can’t do that, write about people without their permission.”

“I can. If I want to.”

“It’s Karma. Karma will get you.”

She may be correct about that (certainly in a few days time I will have a string of bad luck – let’s hope that it’s over and done with). I decided that I would like to see what she has between her legs (maybe I am a pervert, after all). I told her that she could dance for me. We went to the private dance area and hit a queue. Good. It meant that we could talk and I could play with her bum while we waited. It seems that touching is permitted if both couples are standing. She’s petite. She’s slight. Her bum is cute, enough to make a very feminine, soft cushion when she is being fucked from behind, but not enough to be an obstruction.

She’s older than she looks. She’s in her late twenties. I would have said twenty-two. She’s here in London to make money to ‘fund her passion’. She’s an artist and a photographer. She showed me a selection of photos and artworks on her phone. I know, everyone takes photos but there is a difference between photography as an art and taking pictures of yourself (and your plate of food) for Facebook. And here was the difference. I’ve met some very interesting women while doing this. They aren’t the sad, desperate losers that the rescue industry portrays, they are intelligent, articulate, focused young women. And many are artists.

“Do you have a website?”

“No. To be honest I’m not a computer person (no, she’s an artist).”

“You mean you’d like to dump the photos on someone and say sort it for me.”

I guess I had me in mind when I said that, like if I could get her number maybe I could get to fuck her. She returned to the theme of pervert a few times then said that I reminded her of someone.

“I’ll tell you who afterwards.”

Wow! Someone famous? David Bowie? George Clooney? Aidan Turner?

It seems that she lives in Soho. (Fuck! I want to live in Soho.)

“What do you like to eat?”

“I’m a vegan.”

She said it like it was a challenge (to me).

“I want to become a beegan. Do you know what that is?


“It’s someone who lives on air alone.”

She means breatharian. I didn’t disillusion her. It sounds like a group that lives Beyond the Wall, doesn’t it? We eventually got into the dance booths and she immediately started getting rough. I’m sitting in the booth and she has her clothes on (the bras is made of quite robust material) and she starts crashing into my face with her chest. It doesn’t feel good. It’s happened to me once before and that time I rode it out. This time (with hindsight) I didn’t.

“Stop it. That hurts. Do gentle or don’t do it at all.”

I don’t know if she was being playful or spiteful. Maybe she thought that I would like it rough. She changed tack and settled down to erotic as opposed to crazy.

When the bras came off I could see that her tits were really small. We had a conversation about it. I told her not to change them. She said that she was quite happy with small tits but that a lot of men like big ones. Soon after, she gave me her thong. It was clear that she expected me to sniff it. I don’t do that. I put it down on the bench beside me. Of course, there are things that I do do.

“I’d like to tie you up and do things to you.”

“No. I’ll tie you up.”

“Sorry. That doesn’t work. I like the girl to be helpless.”

“Well, maybe, if you’re gentle.”

During the second dance she played with herself.

“It’s wet.”

She put her fingers to her nose then mine.


I told her that I only lick clean pussy.

“No, it has to smell, otherwise it’s not really pussy. Another dance?”

“Of course.”

While she danced she told me about a particularly perverse thing that she had once done for money (a lot of money, and very perverse, and with a Turkish guy – maybe ten years from now I’ll explain what it was). She is a curious combination of calm, cool and collected (and talented and artistic and articulate and bright) and completely off the wall. I didn’t touch her much but at one point another girl told me to take my hands off her arse.

“Why does she care?”

“I’m a new girl. She’s looking out for me.”


I hadn’t seen her bumhole during her routine. I wanted to. I sometimes find that the direct approach works.

“Okay but turn around, spread your legs, bend over and show me between your legs.”

She obliged. And obliged. And obliged. She has a beautiful little slit, cute arse cheeks and a really nice bumhole. It was the best twenty pounds worth of fun I’ve had for a while. She stopped posing and started to rub her bum up and down my chest, then settled down on my cock and gave that a rub too. I don’t usually get an erection when the girls do that but this time I did.  She seemed pleased with herself. Then she seemed to have a thought. She broke off from the bum fun, turned around and then knelt down between my legs at cock sucking height. And then she frisked me. At first it was a pat down, then she opened a couple of buttons on my shirt. She did it like it was ‘more fun’ but I believe that she really was looking for a hidden camera. If that was the case, she was going to be disappointed. She got up and stood with her back to one of the mirrors on the wall. She stood with her feet apart and then slid her back down the mirror until she was squatting at piss on the floor height. I liked that too. I would like to have watched her piss, and maybe put my hand between her legs while she did it. Pervert.



You can have too much fun. We left the booth together. I was trailing her, hand in hand as we snaked our way past other couples who were waiting to use the booths or just standing and talking. She stopped abruptly and turned to look me straight in the eye.

“My father. You remind me of my father.”

It took a moment to register what she had said and why. It wasn’t what I was expecting to hear but I didn’t miss a beat.

“So what was it like showing your dad your bumhole and the slit between your legs, knowing that he wanted to lick both of them and play with them?”

She treated it like a rhetorical question. Instead of answering she told me how she was feeling.

“I’m wet. Really wet.”

I put my free hand on her upper arm. She was, indeed, damp. So was her back. The exertion had made her sweat; she was clammy to the touch. However, I’m sure that she meant wet between her legs.

“What are you going to do?”

It was getting late. There was maybe another hour of playtime before the shop shut for the night.

“Up to you. You want to work that’s OK, you want to talk that’s OK.”

She said that she would give it a go with the Muslim boys (I assumed) who were making up most of the audience but if she didn’t click she would come up to the bar and talk.

I went to the bar and ordered a drink and was immediately accosted by a twenty-year old Spanish girl. I had no interest.

“The girl behind you. What’s her name?”

It had been bugging me all night. She was the very first girl to dance for me when I first visited the club, She had told me that she was from Brazil. It had been nice. She is by far the most attractive girl in the club. However, since I saw her that time she has had breast implants. It’s just not my thing.

“I don’t know. You like her more than me.”

“No, no. that’s not true.”

It was true but it would be mean to let her think that. I explained the situation and that I couldn’t recall her name. Later it would come to me. Her name is Olivia.

Soon after, my little artist friend re-appeared and came my way. Fuck. I’m too polite to tell Spanish Girl to go away (and my girlfriend read that as her cue to fuck off). I told Spanish Girl I had no money and she moved on, but her place was taken immediately by Romanian Girl (by this time my girlfriend was with someone else). I played my Romania card to good effect then told her that I had run out of money.

“No’a barnee.”


“No’a barnee.”

She still didn’t get it.

“No money.”

“Oh, no’a barnee. That’s not a problem. There’s a place just along the street where you can get money from the wall.”

I relented and let her perform a totally unmemorable dance for me. Then I went back to the bar and found my girlfriend in the clutches of two (distinctly heavy) guys. I dumped my glass with its unfinished drink and left. Outside I was accosted by a black guy who wanted to take me on to my next good time.

I declined.