Monday, December 29, 2014

Amsterdam Fifty-Six: Sex, Drugs, and Sitars


I arrived outside OT301 at seven. Che was waiting for me when I stepped inside. It was a delight seeing her. I walked over and hugged her as she kissed my cheek. She wasn’t wearing a hat and her formerly Sandy blonde hair had been dyed partially purple with lime-green highlights. She wore her puffy lime-green coat, black tights, white boots with faux fur around the ankles. Her smile was gleaming, eyes alive, and that made me smile even more.

Before I could ask her about Berlin she said, “A few friends are having a party. There’ll food there. We can skip De Peper if you want to go.” I said, “Yeah, sure.” We walked outside and Che unlocked her bicycle as I unlocked mine. “I see you got your bike back.” Che looked over and nodded. When she hopped onto it she said “Follow me.” We crossed Overtoom and I rode behind her as we headed west. I cruised up alongside her on the bike lane. To our right was a sidewalk and on our left was an area for cars to park off the street. A nice design for all modes of transportation. It was a lively shopping street with plenty of foot, cycle, and car traffic. The buildings were old, but not as old as those in the center. As we biked further down the street the buildings became younger.

I asked Che about her trip to Berlin as we cruised in the flow of cycling traffic. “Oh, it was great. Berlin is on a different plane. You should go sometime.” I asked her, “What did you do there?” Che said, “I told you I stayed with friends, right?” I said yes. “We worked on an ongoing project most of the time, but I also worked on my art and we went out to parties, clubs.” I asked her what type of art she created. “Mixed media, but I dabble in different ways, collaborating with others to make functional interior installations. Performance art, too.” I was intrigued. “Did you study art or just practice through collaboration with others?” She replied, “Both.”

I discovered she had studied in Utrecht before moving to Amsterdam. “I wasn’t always an autonomist, a squatter. In fact, my friend who’s having the party isn’t a squatter. We became friends in school. She’s very creative. We keep in touch, mostly through email.” I asked Che when she returned to Amsterdam. “Earlier this week. That’s when she sent me a message about her party. I figured it would be fun to go, that you might enjoy meeting new people.” True enough.

We rode maybe a mile or so down the street, riding in silence for stretches, giving me a chance to take in the sights. We eventually turned south onto a busy street and the bike lane shifted to the street alongside motorized traffic. We crossed a bridge and rode straight ahead, I following behind Che as the bike lane was narrowed and the car traffic became heavy. We continued as the bike lane shifted again, reverting back to the way it had been. Much more comfortable. There was a tram running down the center of the street, cars traveling in opposite directions on either side of the tram line. The buildings were much newer now, less than a century old. The buildings ran the length of the blocks and the blcoks were long. They were made of brick and mortar, four stories high, windows neither too big nor too small, rather boring rows of evenly spaced windows. The buildings had little distinction. They weren’t ugly, though, as the street layout had curves and angles, making the buildings appear more interesting than they would have been otherwise.

I pulled up alongside Che again. She said to me, “You’re supposed to tell me more about you this time, remember?” I did. I didn’t know what to say. She followed up, “You’re much less extroverted and wild than when I first met you.” I guess I was. “Yeah, I feel less like that today. Not in a bad way, but I think it’s because we’re cycling into new territory for me. It’s fascinating just looking around. But, yeah, you wanted to know more about me, I remember that.” I thought for a minute. What could I tell her? Where would I start? I said, “I peppered you with questions when you told me about yourself, about squatting and all that. What do you most want to know about me?” Che laughed as we crossed another bridge. The road kept winding, but more gently, longer blocks between turns. “That’s a copout, shifting the focus back to me. Come on, you’re gregarious, tell me what comes to mind.” I asked her if I mentioned I was shrooming a lot. “Yeah, I think you mentioned that you had been shrooming the night before you met me. You mentioned shrooming on other occasions, too.” I told her I was on a vision quest. “Did I mention that before?” Che shook her head. “I don’t remember. Tell me more.”

The buildings were becoming newer and newer as we rode. There was less street, cycle, and foot traffic as the area became more residential. There were still long apartment buildings, similar in structure and style, rather boring, still about four stories high. Some of buildings had red brick while others had light gray. We turned down a street called Marco Polostraat. I loved that. It seemed appropriate as I was covering ground I was just discovering.

“My vision quest, hmmm. Well, I came to Amsterdam in the fall. I was renting a different apartment at the time. I decided to go because I was in a rut, a major depression, pretty serious, really. I work from home—publishing—so I could take my work anywhere. When I had visited Amsterdam on previous trips, short stays before traveling around Europe, I fell in love with the place. Compared to everywhere I had lived this place was free, the people were fascinating to me, the culture—the cultures—and I had wondered what it would be like to live here, what I would discover about the people and culture that wasn’t possible in a few days or a week. Were my impressions correct, was I wrong about the place, what would I discover? I wanted to know.”

Che nodded her head, but didn’t say anything as we continued riding. I kept going. “I thought the environment was what I needed to jumpstart my life again, to find out what was really going on within me, why I was suffering so much. I didn’t want to live that way anymore. I wanted to push past my boundaries and I needed to get away from what was familiar, but in an environment that had enlivened me more than any other I had experienced. I’ve transformed in ways I never imagined possible. A year earlier I probably would have run away from you instead of walking alongside you. As much as anything, though, I wasn’t living what I really believed, what I really valued. I wasn’t even sure what I believed or valued. I was unmoored. It was time to dig through the rubble and rebuild.”

Che looked over at me. “Wow. I wouldn’t have guessed that. I respect that. Now I understand why you’re so much more open to squatting. I don’t fully understand, but that explains a little.” She paused then said, "I think you'll have fun tonight." I said, “Yeah, I hope I do. I'm sure I will with you there." She laughed then I said, "But you’re onto something. I’m disgusted by society as it’s structured. Less so here than in the U.S., but still. Property rights, in particular, have always bothered me. Water flows, air moves, so toxins flow and move with them into other so-called ‘properties.’ The arguments for property rights are ridiculous, thinly veiled masks hiding the fact that those who already owned just created new legal justifications for maintaining their ownership despite a change in government and economics. I’m speaking about the United States in this case. I know less about the history of property rights in The Netherlands."

We had ridden nearly to the end of Marco Polostraat. It had been a nice, easy street to ride, all residential. Incredibly long blocks lined with trees and the same style of long, unbroken brick buildings. They were four floors, but it appeared the top floors might have been two-story lofts as there were tiny cubed windows all along what would have otherwise been a fifth floor. The trees and buildings were the same on either side of the street. Che stopped to lock her bike on a rack. There was car parking perpendicular to the road, the type of parking spaces more common in America, although the street still felt urban. I found a rack near the one Che had used and locked my bike, too. She waited for me and we walked a few doors down. She said, “Well, you’ll have to tell me more another time. Maybe tonight, but it just depends.”

“Depends on what?” Che stopped at the door. “Well, ha!” Che laughed for a few seconds then said, “It depends on how the party develops. Auriana is unpredictable. This party is … she throws different types of parties and this one, I think, will be intriguing. She probably didn’t invite a ton of people. She likes to create unpredictable dynamics.” I asked Che, “So … should I shift gears now?” I smiled playfully. “Do whatever you want, Michael. I’ve seen just enough of you to know you like to have fun. You shroom a lot so just roll with it.” Che licked her lips and laughed again, hopping a little. “I can hardly wait to see how this goes.”

Oh, man, I wasn’t sure what I was getting myself into, but I was getting more excited about the prospects. “Am I an experiment, Che?” Che grinned. “Not exactly. The party is the experiment. We’re all subjects. It’ll be as unpredictable for me as it is for you. Well, maybe not entirely, but still.” Che was about to press the buzzer, but I told her to wait a second. “I love that you sprung this on me. I was prepared for dinner but now this.” Che grinned deviously. “I know. I’m turning the tables on you. You were the one who threw me off when we first met. Now it’s my turn.” She was about to press the buzzer again, but she turned and said, “Besides, I didn’t have any way to let you know in advance. I had to wait until you showed up tonight. I really haven’t told you anything, either. Just expect the unexpected.” Oh, fuck yes. “One more thing, Michael. My name isn’t Che.” I figured as much. “Just so there’s no confusion, my friends know me as Sterre.”

Sterre turned away and pressed the buzzer. After a few moments, Sterre and Auriana spoke in Dutch. I heard the word “American” but otherwise I understood very little. There was a bit of laughter between them then the door buzzed open. We walked up the stairs to the top floor where Sterre’s friend, Auriana, was waiting for us. Sterre introduced us and Auriana kissed my cheeks before inviting us inside.

I liked the apartment. It ran from the front of the building to the back, the living room partially open to the dining room and kitchen, plenty of angles jutting out from the walls and ceiling. The ceilings were high and there was a winding staircase in the living room leading upstairs. The walls were white, a lightly-stained softwood floor, white couches and chairs in the living room, a fluffy white rug under the coffee table, stylish lamps on end tables and standing throughout the living and dining rooms as well as dangling from the ceiling over the dining room table, each light a different intensity creating interesting effects around the apartment, especially in relation to the large black-and-white art on the walls, abstracts with hard angles and sloping curves.

Auriana introduced us to the others there, each of them with a glass of wine in their hand. Three women and a man standing in the dining room walked over. Maurice, Anna, Roos, and Marieke. On one couch was a man and a woman. They stood and walked over as well. Johann and Tess. Another woman who had been sitting on a chair walked over with them. Eliene, Auriana’s partner. A good-looking group made up of a variety of ages, possibly early 20s to late 30s. I liked the Dutch proclivity for intergenerational relationships. Eliene looked to be ten years younger than Auriana.

Each person had introduced themselves in English, as Auriana told them I was American, but once the introductions were over they all spoke Dutch. Eliene took Sterre’s coat and my jacket. Che took off her backpack and pulled out a bottle of wine for Auriana. She said something in Dutch as she handed the backpack to Auriana. Auriana’s eyes lit up and she said, “Yes, thank you! We’ll wait until later, though.” Johann, without my noticing he had slipped away, walked up to me with a glass of wine. He asked, in English, how I knew Auriana. “I don’t. I’ve known her as long as I’ve known you.” A little laugh. “I came here with Che.” He looked at me, puzzled. “Sorry, I mean Sterre.” He nodded. “I don’t know Auriana or Sterre, too.” I noticed the slight difficulty with English. His accent was perfect, but there were a few oddities in speech. Nothing difficult, just caught me off guard. Johann continued, “I do not know anyone but Tess. I only know Tess one month.” Interesting. “That’s funny. I’ve only known Sterre a couple weeks.” Johann said, “Yes, that is strange.” We looked at one another, a bit confused. A weird coincidence or … what?

We continued talking, mostly me telling Johann about coming to Amsterdam. Johann seemed like he was in his late twenties, a little over six feet, thin but with broad shoulders. He was wearing a vertically-striped long sleeve pullover, magenta perhaps, designer jeans, and pointed black shoes, not shiny, purposefully worn, a style that made them look older no matter how new. He was a Dutch blonde with blue eyes. He was beginning to tell me about his work when Auriana called out for everyone to come into the dining room.

“We’re waiting on a couple friends, but help yourself to anything on the table. Everything is vegan.” She said something in Dutch, perhaps to explain that the food was vegan to those who weren’t aware of the English word. Thoughtful that she started in English, though. I hadn’t noticed Eliene, Sterre, and Auriana placing hors d’oeuvres on the dining room table, either. An unexpected and welcome surprise as I was famished. I picked up a plate and napkin, tried the Vietnamese summer rolls, the roasted mushrooms, and a samosa. Each one was delicious. I asked Auriana if they had cooked all of the dishes themselves. She nodded her head no. “Everyone brought a dish. Eliene made the baked kale chips and I made the Tamari chickpeas. Tess and Johann brought the summer rolls, Maurice and Anna made the Samosas, and Marieke and Roos brought the mushrooms. They’re not the kind you normally eat, from what Sterre told me, but I see you have a few on your plate so …” I blushed a little and laughed.

Sterre walked over to me, smiling. “How are you doing?” I smiled back. “Great. Very cool. Thanks for inviting me.” I took a bite of the samosa and after I swallowed I said, “It’s still hard for me not to think of you as Che.” She laughed. “Yeah, well, I have many different identities so you’ll have to adjust.” I said, “I’m terrible with names as it is. Faces, no problem.” Sterre challenged me. “Okay, tell me everyone’s name.” She waved around the room. I looked around, heard Dutch melodies, and peered at each person’s face. “That’s Auriana, Eliene, and Johann.” I discretely pointed and said, “Roos, I think, and Marieke.” Hmmm. “That’s Tess, she brought Johann. The other guy is Maurice and he’s with …” Shit. Sterre jumped in to help. “Anna.” Right, Anna. “Not bad. You’re almost there.”

I asked Sterre who she knew at the party. “Auriana, Anna, Tess, and Marieke. We went to school together in Utrecht. I know Eliene through Auriana, but not very well. Another friend is coming, too. Helena. Oh, and I know you.” I said, “Everyone’s partnered up. I didn’t realize this was going to be a couples’ party. Did you?” Sterre smiled at me. Her eyes said more, but I had no idea what language they were speaking. “Relax. Enjoy yourself.”

I did. I talked with Maurice and Anna for a little while. Anna owned a gallery and she talked about the artists’ exhibiting currently. Maurice and I mostly listened, although I mentioned a little about my life and Maurice said he was pursuing an MFA. When Anna excused herself to use the bathroom I asked Maurice how long he had been with Anna. “Oh, we’re not really together. We met through a mutual friend at a party recently.” I didn’t know what to make of that. Three guys with three women they had just met in the last month. Intriguing.

Auriana asked Maurice and I if we could move the coffee table over against the windows, out of the way. Huh. Okay. As we did, Eliene, Tess, Sterre, and Marieke brought out two fouton-like mattresses and placed them between the two couches in the middle of the living room. Auriana and Anna moved one of the couches back against a wall and Auriana directed Maurice and Johann to move the other couch back as close to the bookshelf as it would go. Tess and Sterre moved the chair to the dining room. Auriana and Eliene pulled the mattresses farther apart so there was more space in the middle while Sterre, Tess, and Marieke brought huge cushions and pillows from the bedroom to form a square around the space that had been cleared out between the two couches. Auriana came out of the bedroom with what appeared to be a three-by-three metal tray, black, ornate. Beautiful. Eliene, meanwhile, walked out of the bedroom with a huge hooka and placed it on the tray. I slowly counted twelve long tubes coming out of the cylindrical base.

I laughed. So did Maurice, Roos, and Johann. Sterre motioned for me to come sit next to her on a mattress. Everyone else gathered around and sat down as well. Auriana grabbed a zippered bag from a chest in the corner of the room and pulled out a large bag of pot. She also pulled out a cylindrical container, maybe an inch high, an inch in diameter. It looked to be half full of whitish powder. She loaded several buds into the huge bowl of the hookah. Then she sprinkled a healthy amount of white powder of top.

I was beginning to understand. If I was right about what was happening, Auriana was sprinkling opium onto the buds in the bowl. I had smoked opium-laced pot once before in my life when I was in high school. That was just out of a small wooden pipe, nothing like this. Auriana pulled up her thin, loosely dangling gold-speckled sweater—or whatever it was—and reached into the pocket of her black pants. I noticed then that she was barefoot. Eliene was, too. Sterre and I had taken off our shoes at the door. In fact, everyone’s shoes were off, all wearing socks of differeng colors and designs. Out of Auriana’s pocket came a Zippo. She asked everyone to grab a tube. “I was going to wait for Helena and her friend, but they’re running late so …”

Maurice looked a little uncomfortable with the situation, but he picked up his tube, anyway. Eliene took a seat on a cushion and grabbed her tube. Auriana had one in her hand and she began counting. “One, two, three.” She placed the flame over the bowl as everyone sucked on a tube. I could see the orange blaze glowing above the bowl as I felt the first rush of smoke fill my throat and lungs. Holy shit! I pulled the tube away, smoke billowing out of it until I placed my finger over it. I exhaled and instantly felt my whole body turn to rubber. “Oh, sweet euphoria.” I heard Sterre laugh, but it sounded like it came from everywhere. “Fuck, that was opium, right?” I turned to where I thought Sterre would be, but she wasn’t there. Then I realized I was looking up. Fuuuuuck. Sterre grabbed my chin and turned me toward her. She looked like an angel. She was giggling. I leaned toward her and said, “You are so beautiful, Sterre.” Then I kissed her and she laughed as I did. I pulled back and said, “It’s weird kissing you while you’re laughing.” I heard more laughter from around the room. I couldn’t tell who was laughing, but there was enough of it that it could have been all of them.

I looked around and saw Johann’s eyes the size of slits as he took another toke. Maurice seemed bouncy; he had his arm around Anna, who was smiling lazily while swaying back and forth. As I kept looking, music filled the room, not a high volume, but certainly loud enough to overcome me in my state. I heard a sitar and … I couldn’t tell what else. Indian music, maybe Pakistani. I didn’t know for sure. It was perfect, though. I felt like a cobra being wooed by a flute.

For some stupid reason, I took another hit. This one was smaller, but the effect was even more pronounced, perhaps because the first hit was still settling. I placed the tube on the iron tray. I could feel the ceiling, soft white creamy frosting, warm to the touch. I was lathered by it. I felt Sterre lean into my body as she inhaled from her tube. She tried to reach the tray but couldn’t so I took it from her and set it down. As I leaned back, my legs sort of crossed on the ground as my butt rested on the mattress, Sterre slid down my arm and fell into my lap. She curled up there, reaching an arm under my thigh where her head laid and placed the other on top of my thigh in front of her face. Her legs curled up toward her chest and I heard her sigh. It all happened in slow motion, almost like stop-action Claymation. A half hour may have gone by according to the way time was now passing.

For the longest time there was mostly silence besides the music. Occasionally there was a sigh or a few words of Dutch, but otherwise everyone was simply splayed out or zoned out. I looked around the room. Dreamy, everyone looked dreamy, somewhere in a dream, they in mine and I in theirs. The music shifted, the sitar disappeared, and slow-moving bubbles floated upward. There was a label for this music, a genre, but the word escaped me. The music seemed to defy its label, anyway, so I figured that’s why I couldn’t remember. It felt like Sterre unzipped my pants. Shit, I can’t move. Oh, I didn’t need to move. She was sucking my dick. “Fuck, that feels so good.” The blowjob seemed to go on eternally, the slowest and gentlest movement that had ever moved up and down my shaft.

Time passed, but not for a long time. I opened my eyes—I hadn’t realized they were closed—and I saw Sterre lying exactly where she had been earlier, curled up on my thigh. My pants weren’t unzipped. How did she do that? “Sterre.” No response. “Sterre, you awake?” No response. “Did you just give me a blowjob?” She started shaking on my leg and then a few seconds later little whispers of laughter floated from her mouth. “Did you just ask me if I gave you a blowjob?” I started laughing silently. I could feel my chest rippling, but no sound came out. I tried to speak, but I couldn’t. My eyes had closed again and I heard murmurs of laughter from around the room. I finally said, “Yeah, I asked you if you gave me a blowjob.” Sterre laid still, silent. A minute or so passed and she asked, “Did you just ask me if I gave you a blowjob?” I shook with laughter, but again there was no sound. I looked around the room and saw Auriana laughing silently, too. Anna and Tess were also laughing, quiet, slow-motion giggles. “I said, “Yeah, I asked you twice. You gave me a blowjob, right?” She shook more violently with laughter and real noise escaped from her mouth, guffaws. Soon the whole room was laughing.

As the laughter quieted down, Maurice said, in English, “What are we laughing about?” That made half the room laugh again; the other half seemed to have nodded off. I said, “Sterre might have given me a blowjob.” Maurice shook his head, his eyes barely open. “Oh, that’s cool, man.” Sterre turned her head to look up at me. She was smiling, her eyes were gleaming. She chuckled as she said, “I didn’t give you a blowjob.” She rested her head on my leg again and kept laughing. “Fuck. Who gave me head?” All the women in the room started laughing. Johann said, “I didn’t give you head.” Everyone laughed harder, although “harder” was a relative term. Even the loudest sounds were barely more audible than whispers. I said, “Wow, no one gave me head, but it was the best blowjob of my life.” Sterre quietly shook and the others did the same.

A buzzer sounded and Auriana walked toward the front door. She pushed a button and said something in Dutch. A woman's voice responded on the other end. Auriana pushed a button again then unlocked the door, “Helena’s here.” Auriana said to Sterre, “Hey, since Helena’s finally here, do you want to do the thing?” Sterre slowly sat up and brushed the hair from her face. “Yeah. Where is it?” Auriana said, “Oh, yeah. You gave it to me.” She giggled as she went to the dining room and opened Sterre’s bag. She pulled something out and walked gingerly back to the living room. There was a bag in her hand. It was filled with pinkness. I liked pink.

A knock on the door and Auriana answered. In walked two women. They all spoke in Dutch. Laughter. Auriana then said in English, "Michael," she pointed at me, “is American. He doesn’t speak Dutch. I just wanted to let you know. Everyone, this is Helena and Mirjam.” Hellos all around. Auriana said a bit more in Dutch then Helena and Mirjam sat next to me, with Mirjam closest. She seemed young, mid-twenties, whereas Helena—as well as all the women who had gone to school together—seemed to be thirtyish. Mirjam seemed particularly nervous. I suppose walking into a room with a hooka with a bunch of dazed people she probably didn’t know might do that.

Plus, Auriana had a bag full of pink pills. She pulled one out and placed it on Eliene’s tongue. Eliene pulled her tongue into her mouth and swallowed. Auriana said something to her in Dutch and Eliene said, “Oh, yeah.” She got up and walked to the kitchen and pulled out two large glass pitchers of ice water with lemon slices in them. She started pouring water into glasses she took out of a cupboard. Auriana, meanwhile had walked around the room placing pills on tongues, giving two to Johann. She placed one on Sterre’s tongue then two on mine. She said, “You’re a big guy, two doses for you.” I gathered by then that she had been giving out ecstasy. I looked at Sterre who was staring straight ahead. “So, Sterre, this is what you meant when you said that it wouldn’t be as unpredictable for you.” She turned to me and dreamily smiled. “Sort of. Maybe.” Then she put a hand to her mouth and laughed while saying, “Maybe not.”

I laughed. “You’re crazier than I am.” Sterre leaned against me and sighed. “Maybe.” I heard Mirjam cough and looked over at her. She looked freaked out. Auriana was holding a pink pill out to her. Helena said something to Mirjam in Dutch and Mirjam shook her head. Helena softened her voice and about twenty seconds later Mirjam stuck out her tongue. Auriana placed the pill there and Mirjam swallowed. Helena was next and then that was it. Eliene motioned for people to come up and grab a drink. I stood up, helping Sterre on the way. I grabbed a glass of water and gave it to Sterre then grabbed one for myself. I drank it slowly. It was cold and refreshing. I gasped as I took it away from my lips. “I needed that. Thank you. Thank you for all of this.” Auriana and Eliene smiled and nodded. Eliene said, “You’re welcome.” I thanked Sterre, too, for bringing me and for the molly.

Auriana changed the music, a little more energy, still bubbly, probably trance. It was going to take a bit for the X to take hold, so I poured another glass of water. I turned to Sterre and she kissed my cheek. “Things are going to shift soon.” What did she mean? Maybe the pills weren’t X; maybe they were laced with LSD. Well, either way, things would shift soon … if that’s what she meant.

As the group continued talking Auriana got everyone’s attention. She placed two bowls on a kitchen counter top and said. “It’s time to pair up.” Huh? She reached in one bowl and pulled out a small piece of paper. “Anna.” Then she reached into the other bowl and pulled out another piece of paper. “Eliene.” She followed this with another round: “Maurice and Helena.” As she continued I realized what was happening. We were swapping! Random pairings, I could live with that. Then I realized that I could get paired with Johann. Hmmm. Well, whatever happens, happens.

That didn’t happen, though. I felt a little pang when Sterre was paired with Roos. The nature of the game. I watched Mirjam as Auriana continued. She looked more comfortable now. Maybe it was just the pill that freaked her. Then I noticed I was feeling a little lighter. It felt like ecstasy. Maybe the E was hitting Mirjam as well. Auriana announced that I was paired with Tess. Tess wandered over to me and smiled. She was cute, her hair more strawberry than blonde, half a foot shorter than me. She wore a tight-fitting shirt, smallish breasts, tight jeans, nice ass. Her lips were like her hair, strawberry pink. And her eyes, fuck, green. I had never been this close to a woman with green eyes before. Like looking into emeralds.

I had no idea what was happening next, but I suddenly understood why mattresses and cushions had been brought out into the living room. I also realized that every one of Sterre’s college friends were paired up with someone new—except for Eliene, who was only new in the sense that she wasn’t part of the college group. Shit, this was what Sterre meant by the party being an experiment. Six friends who knew one another bringing six people who knew no one except the woman who brought each of them. Well, five since Eliene seemed to live with Auriana. Auriana then said, “Sterre and Roos, why don’t you shower first.” Huh? Tess must have seen the look on my face. “Michael, right?” I nodded. “You look confused.” I laughed a little. “I am. I’m pleasantly confused.” Tess smiled then grabbed my hand and led me to the living room. She sat me down on one of the couches and kissed me, pressuring me enough to lower me on to the couch. She settled on top of me as we kissed.

Occasionally, I opened my eyes and looked over the room. I saw others lying about making out. I noticed Sterre and Roos had come out of the shower. They were naked on a mattress, Sterre sucking on Roos's nipple while caressing her other breast. As Tess and I made out I heard Auriana call out Johann and Marieke. I stopped kissing Tess and asked, “We’re all taking a turn in the shower?” She nodded her head. “Cleanliness, you know?” Ah. Of course. I pulled her head down and we continued kissing, my hands roving over her body, frequently finding her ass which was firm yet fleshy. The shape was divine, a perfect slope up and out from the small of her back then tucking ever so gently against the top of her hamstrings. Too far below that I couldn’t reach from my position on the bottom.

After exploring one another’s bodies with our hands, Auriana called out our names. Tess stood up and led me by the hand to the shower. The ecstasy was really working now. I gasped as Tess took off her shirt. She giggled. I couldn’t stop looking at her. She was pulsing with goodness. “Take off your clothes, Michael.” She shook her head, laughing. “Oh my god, it feels good to let my skin feel the air. Trust me, Michael, you’ll love it.” I removed my top, a long-sleeve brown and black shirt, then slid out of my jeans. My socks came off then my underwear. "Oh, wow, you're right, Tess. This feels incredible." She was naked, too, and just before she threw herself into me I saw she was either waxed or shaved. I forgot everything, though, when her lips reached mine.

The water was amazing and the feel of Tess's slippery ass made me want to bite it. We showered quickly, though, to save hot water for the next couple. Tess dried me and I her then we grabbed our clothes and put them in separate piles in the bedroom. There were several piles already. It looked like gophers or moles had come up through the woodwork. Tess grabbed my hand again and led me to the living room. We went back to the couch—which was covered with a sheet now. I also noticed that the iron tray was gone, but that there were two bowls in the middle of the room. Tess went to them as I stood next to the couch. She grabbed one from each bowl. Ah, condoms. But what was the other—oh, dental dam. Prepared for everything. Good thinking.

Tess pressed her body up against mine and slowly pushed me down onto the couch. I took the wrappers out of her hand and placed them on the floor next to the couch. I saw Eliene licking Anna’s pussy on the mattress next to the couch. I saw the dental dam she was using as well and thought how much it sucked that STDs existed. What a cruel fate. I quickly forgot about that as Tess lied down beside me and kissed me. Her hands on my body … along with the ecstasy … whoa … sigh … heaven. I kissed down her neck and ran my hands down her back onto her bare ass. As fine as it had felt through her jeans, the skin of her cheeks were like silk. My fingers had a skin orgasm that made me squeeze her ass. Tess laughed as I worked my way down to her breasts. Her nipples were hard, long. I sucked her nipple into my mouth, played with my tongue, and forgot about everything else—except her ass. She pushed gently on my head. It took me a moment to understand the signal, but I kissed my way down her stomach, her skin so soft and supple, smooth and clean, and I reached over the side of the couch to grab the dental dam. I looked at the wrapper when I got to her public bone. I had grabbed the condom so I put it down and picked up the other, opening the wrapper and stretching it out.

I hated that I didn’t get to taste her juices and Tess probably hated not feeling the moistness of my tongue. Nevertheless, I loved licking her. She had a bulbous clit, sizable, and she groaned as I played with it. Well, I think she was groaning, but it could have been anyone in the room. There were moans and yelps and gasps and exclamations constantly now. The more I licked and sucked Tess’s pussy, the hotter I became. My body was on fire. I had taken two doses of molly and I was heating up, my body tingling, euphoria giving way to, well, ecstasy. All this from eating her out.

Without my knowing, Tess had cum. I was so deeply into what I was doing that I hadn’t noticed her convulsions were related to her pleasure. She pulled me up by the sides of my head and I wondered what the fuck to do with the dental dam. I turned and saw there were little wastebaskets placed here and there throughout the room. I held up a finger and rose up to throw it away. When I came back Tess was patting the seat next to her and I sat down then lied back. She climbed on top of me, kissed me passionately, running her hands down around my ass. She lowered herself a little so she could get her hands under me then she caressed and squeezed while sucking hard—too hard!—on my nipple. Damn, though, if pain isn’t an aphrodisiac.

She made her way down my body, tore open the condom, and teased the tip of my cock. For a long time. Long enough to make me crazy. I tried to put my hand on her head to make her go down, but she swatted it away. I laughed. “Woman, you’re going to kill me. Fuck!” She looked up at me, her green eyes wide and wild, and she looked into my eyes as she slid her mouth down as far as she could. My eyes rolled back and my head followed. I moaned and my body shook. I wasn’t ejaculating, but I was having an orgasm, an experience so rare, so erotic, so overwhelming that I was willing to trade ejaculations for orgasms like this for the rest of my life. I couldn’t stop shaking, quivering. My body was having an earthquake and my mind was gone, completely gone. There was only pleasure now, emotional purity, sensual bliss.

Somehow, someway, the bliss gradually disintegrated and a lily sprang to life. I felt brand new, like I had just been born, and as I looked up, Tess removed her lips from my cock, a wide-open smile on her face, her eyes dancing, strands of her hair falling over her face. “You are so beautiful, Tess. I am so in love with you right now.” Tess climbed up on top of me, her face so alert and alive. She was a pixie, a faerie, gold dust shimmering around wings I could not see but felt all the same. She brought her face close, her nose touching mine, her breath in my mouth, her eyes dripping into mine, and then she slid slowly down, her hand reaching between her legs around my member as she slowly sat up and … oh, fuuuuck … slid me inside her.

I could barely breathe. Tess raised up and slid down, up slow, down fast, up fast, down slow; she kept changing her rhythm and I kept losing my mind. I was fucking tripping, too. Love burst everywhere from my pores, the whole room was filled with it. Then again, everyone was that way. There was so much happiness in the room that world peace could have been achieved if someone had bothered to open a window. But fuck that, keep it all in here. Let the world die so we might live in ecstasy forever. I put my hands on Tess’s hips, slid them under her thighs, lifted her up, and began thrusting into her. She screamed then yelled, “Oh, fuck yeah, fuck meeeee!” That just got me hotter and with the X I had nothing but energy to spare. I was gulping in air, sweat beading on my body, my cock a fucking piston, the rpms rising and rising.

Suddenly, Sterre's face was inches from mine. I dropped Tess and her pussy slid hard down my cock. She screamed out. “Owww!” Sorry, Tess. Sterre kissed me, hard. I was disoriented, confused. My heart raced like a thoroughbred. Sterre pulled back, licking her lips, smiling. I was out of breath, but I tried to speak as Tess started grinding on me. “What … where did you … what …” Sterre giggled then stood up. I saw her naked body, my eyes just above her knees looking up at her light brown, almost blonde pubic hair, the half moons of the underside of her breasts, her nipples hard, protruding, and her eyes looking down at me between those half moons, her face shrouded by lime-green tipped purple hair, her eyes smiling at me, her lips puckered. She looked like she had stepped out of a fantasy zine, an otherworldly creature so exotic and spectacular that no one would ever believe I had seen such a being in real life. She lifted a leg over me, settling her knee down between my arm and the couch. Then she put a dental dam in place as she lowered herself onto me, leaving her other leg, her foot, on the floor. She pressed herself against me and I licked her clit. She grabbed the back of my head with her hands and pulled me tight, so tight I could barely breathe. I couldn’t even lick so I sucked her lips, clit, and hood into my mouth, tonguing them from the inside. Sterre bit her lip then threw her head back. I heard her moan..

I could feel Tess riding me, too. She had slowed her rhythm; she wasn’t going so deep. She was only allowing half of me into her, but she started to accelerate her rotations at that depth. The head of my dick was getting overstimulated, excruciatingly pleasurable. I had one arm trapped against the couch, but with the other I grabbed Tess’s thigh and squeezed. Sterre had eased off me a little and with the intensity I was feeling I started licking the length of her pussy furiously, pulling my hand away from Tess's thigh to grab Sterre's ass. I couldn’t tell who was moaning or even who was who. Fuck, there was so much pleasure I couldn’t keep track and without even realizing it was about to happen, I came, this time ejaculating as Tess kept motoring those short up-down bursts. I screamed out, but there was just muffled sound as Sterre pressed her crotch deeper onto my face. I needed to tell Tess that I came so she wouldn’t rip open the rubber.

Tess apparently felt it, though, because she climbed off of me. I heard her breathing hard, gasping. I continued eating Sterre’s pussy as I felt the condom being removed and, shortly thereafter, a wet rag wiping me down … then a dry towel. Ah, how good that felt, how good everything felt. I was licking Sterre without even realizing I was doing it. Everything I had ever thought was just a myth. No one had an identity, certainly not me, definitely not Sterre, no one anywhere. There was only sensation and sensation was good. I somehow became aware again and realized that I was looking up at Sterre as she looked down at me. "Are you still there? You look like you’re in nirvana." My eyes grinned stupidly and I nodded my head which caused my tongue to wiggle partially into Sterre’s vagina, the dam still intact. She sighed and her mouth went wide. “Oooh, wow. Okay, I think, well, whoa …” Sterre lifted her leg over me, pulling her pussy away. She held herself upright with her arms. The look on her face … “Sterre, are you okay?” She kept panting and uttered, “Yeh … okay.” I sat up and as I did she fell back against the couch. She tipped over, her head toward where my feet had been. I threw away the dental dam and when I came back she raised an arm and moved it toward me. There was a packaged condom in her hand.

I grabbed it from her. I was so turned on, so fucking hot for her. I bit it open and slid it onto me then slowly climbed between her legs. I moved her inside leg against the couch, bent it from behind the knee so that her thigh was vertical and then I lowered my torso against hers. I put hands behind her head and gently lifted. Her eyes were half closed, mouth open, still panting but less intensely. Her eyes made contact with mine and as they did she smiled. “You’re okay?” Sterre nodded her head and said, “I love you.” Oh, so beautiful, her voice just a whisper, a fluttering of hummingbird notes. I placed a hand beside her head, pushed myself up, and guided my cock inside her. Her eyes widened and she stopped breathing. Veins in her neck popped out, her face reddened, her whole body tensed, and then … she moaned and her body let loose, springing back to life, her hands whipping up to clasp the sides of my rib cage, her fingernails digging into my flesh—motherfucker!—and her head tilted up toward me. Her eyes were hungry now, mean, wanting. “Fuck me!”

Oh, I did. The X was throbbing inside me, expanding my libido way beyond my body, and I thrust so hard, so long, I forgot I had ever done anything but fuck. Sweat was dripping off my face and chest onto Sterre’s body, her breasts, her neck, her chin. She was beading with sweat, too, and she pulled her legs back against her chest. I put my hands behind her knees and fucked her from that angle … until I slowed, purposefully, sliding further out, slowly, after each hard thrust. I penetrated a little less deeply each time, slowly penetrating, pulling out further and further until just the tip of my cock was inside her. I pulled out completely then went in less than an inch and slowly pulled back out, dangling against her clit then lowering back down inside her just a tickle … then out. I was teasing her now and Sterre let go of her legs. She wrapped them around my waist and tried to pull me inside her, but I struggled against her. She looked up at me like an animal. Her teeth were clinched as she put her hands around my triceps and squeezed as hard she could, digging her nails deep into me. Jesus! I looked over and saw a trickle of blood running down my arm. When I looked back at Sterre’s face, her eyes were filled with fury. “Fuck me, goddamn you!”

It was like a switch went off in my head. I thrust my cock into her as hard and deep as I could. She was wet, really wet, and it was a damn good thing because it would have been excruciatingly painful for both of us if she hadn't been. I fucked her with abandon and completely lost her. I was a heaving beast of fleshy sweat and I heard myself from outside the apartment grunting, howling, roaring, I heard moans and screams below me, I felt arms and legs flailing against me, fingers clasping my chest hair and ripping it away from me. Pain, pleasure, there was no difference. I heard noises from around the room, similar yet different. My eyes were open, but I couldn’t see anything, just flashes of color, shapes moving jaggedly, constantly, nothing but movement everywhere. This wasn’t excitement, euphoria, ecstasy; this was primal, an experience from another evolutionary time, the past or the future, what my species had been or what it might become, possibly both.

Again, without warning, I had an orgasm, a non-ejaculatory eruption of elation. I moaned so long and loud I thought a lung might fall out of my mouth. I collapsed on top of Che, my chest heaving up and down. I may have been crushing her, but I was unaware of anything but the rapture swirling like a tornado through my body. My heartbeat eventually slowed and I heard Sterre panting and gasping in my ear. I could feel that I was still inside her, still hard, and she was desperately trying to fuck me while being smothered underneath me. If I hadn’t been so exhausted I would have laughed. Instead, I turned my head to the side and kissed her cheek and the wet hair pasted against her face. She opened her eyes and looked into mine. Our eyes were so close. Her eyes were overflowing with joy and I gasped as she pulled me inside her. I felt her look and I nearly cried. "You are so beautiful, Sterre. So beautiful. I want to hold you in my arms forever." She let out a sigh and her eyes relaxed as she nodded her head. She whispered, “Yes.”

Time passed and I rolled off her, nearly falling off the couch. I stepped gingerly past Tess and Roos who were rolling about in a pleasurable embrace, cooing and ahhhing into one another’s mouths while their hands caressed and squeezed one another's bodies. I removed the condom over the little wastebasket then looked back at Sterre. She was looking over at me. I whispered, “Where do I, you know?” She pointed back toward the bathroom. I went into the bathroom and opened a cabinet. There were hand towels galore. I wet one and wiped myself off then used another to dry off. Where to put them? I walked out and whispered to get Sterre's attention. She looked over at me and I held them up. She put a hand over her mouth as she laughed. “There’s a basket right over there, silly.” Oh. I discarded the towels and walked over to Sterre, lying beside her on the couch. She climbed over me so that I was on the inside. She turned her back to me, but draped my arm over her and put my hand on her breast. I put my other arm under her head and scooted up so I could rest my head on the arm of the couch. I caressed her breast as she stroked the hair on my forearm. She slid her top leg between mine and I bent my top leg so that it covered all of hers. She slowly moved her ass back and forth, the soft cheek of her ass gently massaging my cock. Oh, daughter of heaven, that felt good. My cock was waking up again. Sterre purred and I melted.

“I don’t want to move.” Sterre said, “I don't want you to, either.” Good. As we lay there, I looked out over the room. Almost everyone was in the same state we were, four curled up together on the far mattress, all women. I couldn’t tell who was who. On the other couch was activity: Maurice, Johann, Marieke, and—Oh! Mirjam! Mirjam had her knees on the floor and she was bent over sucking on Maurice and Marieke was mounted on Johann’s face and … well, well, well, … Maurice was blowing Johann. I did not see that coming. Auriana climbed out of the pile of four and walked over to us. I heard Sterre coo and Auriana smiled then climbed on top of us, straddling us, one leg behind mine and one leg on the other side of Sterre.

Auriana was a bit plump, but very attractive. Her body felt soooo good on top of me. She had ample breasts, the largest in the room, and one of them squished against part of my arm and my rib cage. I wanted to live either inside Sterre's vagina or surrounded on all sides by Auriana's breasts. Auriana's nipple was getting hard and poking my arm. That seemed to make me hotter and, yup, I was rock hard. I was so hard it hurt--the best kind of pain there is. I wanted to fuck Auriana, but when I rested my head next to Sterre I wanted to make love to her. Decisions, decisions. Auriana said to Sterre, “How about Maurice, huh?” Sterre shook her head but said nothing, just sighing happily. Auriana said, “It’s fucking hot.” I laughed quietly. Auriana turned her to me and said, “What, you don’t think so?” I looked over and, to my surprise, I had to admit it was pretty hot. But then again, it was the four of them together like that that made it so hot.

I nodded my head. “It is pretty fucking hot. I’m hard—again.” Auriana laughed and I lowered myself a little, wiggling down to get my face closer to hers. She was smiling at me as I kissed her. She kissed back and we made out. I felt her hand grab mine, the one holding Sterre’s breast, and she moved her hand to grab Sterre’s other boob. Sterre stirred, wiggling a little. I felt Sterre's hand rub against the side of my thigh which was right next to her pubic bone. She was fingering herself. Auriana slid her other hand down and squeezed my ass, massaging my cheek. Fuck, these women were turning me on again and again. Auriana pulled her lips away and looked back to the other couch. I looked, too.

Maurice was still sucking, but he pulled his mouth away from Johann’s cock. Holy shit! “That’s a big fucking cock.” Sterre and Auriana laughed. “What? It is!” I heard Sterre whisper, “You should talk, big boy.” Nice to have an ego stroke, but Johann was huge. "Yeah, I have a pretty good dick, but that thing’s about a foot long. I mean, Jesus Christ!" Sterre laughed hard, the loudest sound she’d made since we were fucking. Auriana convulsed with giggles then stopped herself from making noise by kissing me. She pulled back and said, “Sterre, did you say Michael’s big?” Sterre nodded her head but said nothing. Auriana sat up and pulled Sterre’s ass away from me. Hey! Her ass felt good, damnit! “Oh, very nice, Michael.” She looked up at me devilishly. “You are ready to go, aren't you?”

Sterre shook her head and said, “No.” Auriana leaned down and pressed her lips against Sterre’s ear. “I didn’t know you were attached.” Sterre shrugged her off and said, “I just want to cuddle with both of you and watch Johann’s big cock.” Auriana and I laughed. Holy fuck. “What if I suck on his cock while you two watch Johann?” Sterre said, “I want to cuddle with Michael.” Auriana countered. “You can cuddle with him while I have his cock in my mouth.” Sterre rolled over, discombobulating all of us. She looked up at Auriana. “I like feeling his cock against my ass while he’s holding me.” Auriana said, “Later then?” Sterre turned back around and we all settled back into place. Sterre shrugged but didn’t say anything. Auriana looked perturbed. She slid her leg off of Sterre and climbed more fully on top of me, squeezing halfway behind me against the couch. Auriana had short dark hair, but some of it still spilled onto my face. She kissed my ear and neck. She still had one hand on my ass and she slid the other between my stomach and Sterre’s back then downward. She wrapped her hand around my cock, the back of her hand against Sterre’s ass.

Sterre rolled to face me and looked up at Auriana. She said something in Dutch and Auriana replied in kind. Sterre’s response was terse and Auriana’s wasn’t much better. Sterre reached down and grabbed hold of my cock at the base then tried to work her way up underneath Auriana’s hand. They kept going back and forth in Dutch as Sterre grabbed Auriana’s hand with her other hand, using both now to try to pry her hand off my cock. I was still feeling the effects of the ecstasy, but even if I hadn’t been I was pretty sure a catfight over my cock would get me pretty hot. As it was, I was smoking and my cock was quite possibly harder than it had ever been in my life. However, I was also having an out-of-body experience. Is this really happening? Are two women fighting over my cock right now? I had always dreamed of women fighting over me, but I never entertained the possibility that they would fight over me in hand-to-cock combat. If I was going to die, this was the way I wanted to go.

On the one hand, my cock was loving this attention. On the other, they were yanking and pulling and scratching and it fucking hurt like hell! But what could I do? Say, “Excuse me, could you please take your hands off my cock now?” No, never in my life would I say those words to any women who wanted my cock. My cock existed only for the purpose of being wanted by women—and maybe Maurice. I looked over to the other couch to check on him, but they had all stopped and were watching us! In fact, everyone was watching us. I said, “Maurice, Johann, I believe Auriana needs a dong.” The whole room laughed, but that didn’t stop Sterre or Auriana. They were starting to get more violent with me as all four hands were now involved. What the fuck was I going to do? They were clearly still jacked up on X like I was so they were probably losing touch with everything but one another and the cock they were fighting over. As I watched them I was pretty sure they had forgotten it was attached to me. “Hey, hello, I’m right here.” Is this what women feel like when guys ogle their tits? If it was then, well ... never mind.

I was so conflicted. I didn’t want my member dismembered, but I was also getting a four-handed hand job. If only I had some lube. Yes! “Um, Eliene? Do you have any lubricants? I'm loving this, but the friction is starting to burn.” Not only did everyone laugh, but Sterre and Auriana turned to me and stopped fighting. They looked at each other and started laughing hysterically. They both let go as they fell on top of me shaking with laughter.

Saturday, December 27, 2014

Amsterdam Fifty-Five: The Pleasures of Cruelty


I biked south to De Pijp under gray skies in the morning, riding wherever my whim took me. I passed streets I did not know. I didn’t know where I was half the time and I somehow would up in Amsterdamse Bos through the most bizarre trek I had ever made in Amsetrdam. This excusrions was my longest by far. I had only ever ventured further south by train, but this was different because I saw so much more on side streets from the twentieth century and even a few places that were under construction, twenty-first century building in a timeless city.

Still, there were bike paths everywhere, though it took some doing to figure out where and how to cross major expressways. Doing so required ventures into other previously unknown neighborhoods, each far more residential that the city to the north. There were pockets of shops here and there, much more conducive to motorized traffic and parking. A disappointment for me, but even so these areas were more bicycle and pedestrian friendly than most places in the U.S. I crossed a few roads that provided train stops; public transportation was available. 

After a couple months in the older areas of the city these newer developments seemed exotic. They weren’t as architecturally interesting and the street layouts didn’t have the intoxicating urban designs of the city center, but taken together the diversity added something to the city. Had there not been bike lanes everywhere my perceptions would have differed. I probably would not have even discovered these places without them.

While some hills would have been nice to exercise different muscles while biking it was easier to cover long distances in a relatively short time due to the flatness. Even this far south there were some architectural wonders, often office buildings, some shaped like large eight- or twelve-story spacecrafts. Occasionally, I would come across one and the style matched none of the buildings around at all. In a less dramatic way, it reminded me of the Pompidou in Paris, a Borg cube that had landed in the midst of seventeenth or eighteenth century architecture. Some called the monstrosity ugly, but I found the stark contrasts of style, technology, and architecturally identifiable timeframes mind-boggling. I couldn’t wrap my head around such phenomena because the effects were so unlike anything else I could reference from any other part of the world. The effects in Amsterdam had less of an impact, but they still excited me.

Amsterdamse Bos was a massive urban park. I biked all over and occasionally parked to walk hiking trails. This was a taste of nature I hadn’t had since being in the Northwestern United States. This was different, of course, being so flat, having such easy-to-ride trails, and completely different trees and fauna. Still, it was a break from the city in sight, sound, and smell. I left the park after an hour of roaming then gradually made my way back to the canal ring, stopping on the way at a café for a broodje, coffee, and plenty of water.

I wound up around Leidseplein and continued on to Kerkstraat, turning toward my apartment. Not far down the street I saw the smart shop and remembered the comic book store was near. I parked my bike, locked it, and walked inside. I wandered around the stacks and found a section that was essentially horror-related. I flipped through several zines and comics. The art was cool. I never fully understood why, but I liked darker art, particularly in sketches. With paintings it was usually the opposite. I liked explosions of bright colors. I had yet to visit the Van Gogh Museum this visit and knew I needed to end my neglect. During my time in the store, I focused on the artwork displayed in books, zines, and comics.

I stumbled on a book called 100 Artists See Satan. The cover art wasn’t disturbing in the least, just a black pentagram against a red background. The title, though, intrigued me. I flipped through the pages. Most of the images were disappointing, but there were some that bordered on gruesome. The book, overall, would have been a failure, but one image stuck out. It was a photograph, possibly photo-shopped but it was hard to tell, of the Golden Gate Bridge taken from a hillside high to the north and west. There was an image of a demon or devil, red-bodied and naked, with a single horn coming out of its head. The body looked human. It was possible that a person used body paint and some type of home-made horn on the shaved skull, but the eyes were so dead, so wicked, that I was disturbed—and excited. It took a lot to disturb me so this was, in many ways, a pleasure. It looked so damn real and I could easily imagine evil making itself known in such a form in any environment that suggested wickedness was present. After all, what could me more disturbing than a human being other than a whole slew of them?

In Richmond, Chevron had a refinery and it pumped out toxins day and night like a devil exhaling sulfur. There were steel mills and refineries along the flats of the East Bay—when I lived in Berkeley I passed by them and I left the bathroom window open every night for the cool night air. In the mornings I would wipe the thick black film that had settled overnight from the white windowsill. Nothing can create grime and toxins like humans. So a devil on a Marin County hillside overlooking the bridge and the bay made sense to me. The realism of the image struck me most, though. I could feel its presence even more starkly than I saw it.

I felt disoriented being so enraptured by that image. I was disturbed, but in a way that made me feel energized. To an extent, I think I felt that way because someone else got it, they understood that the world was filled with cruel intentions. The devil as an image, even one created so well, was less frightening than oil refineries or massive cattle concentration camps. California’s central valley was more disturbing on those fronts than any other place I had seen. Add the maximum security prisons as well as the poverty and the central valley was just a foot or two from hell. Inland California smog was sometimes so thick I had to pull over on the side of the road because I couldn’t see. Once, a crop duster spraying poisonous pesticides buzzed over the top of my car only fifty feet above and I put the car in gear even though I couldn't see. I didn't want to take the risk of breathing the poison dust into my lungs. I couldn’t open the vents, couldn’t open the windows … I saw Satan right there, and Satan was a white haze of smog, dust, and pesticides. The smell of twenty-thousand head of cattle mashed together in a square mile gave off an odor that made me wish for sulfur. Being in that environment for more than a half hour caused headaches, blurred vision, nausea, and difficulty breathing. Yet, people lived there their whole lives, farming there and working in refineries. If the place kept going like that I expected a new humanoid species to evolve that thrived in poison.

I took the book to the man sitting behind the counter. He was reading the day’s newspaper and looked bored. I put the book on the counter and pulled out my wallet. The man closed his paper and looked at the book. “So, you’re a Satanist, huh?” I had an impulse to laugh, but I said with a straight face, “Yes, I am.” His eyebrows went up. “Hmmm …” He stood up and shook a finger at me. I watched his face come to life. “I have something that might interest you, something that is not so … pedestrian.” The glint in his eye was almost sadistic yet, again, I was excited. He walked around the counter and opened a curtain to an area of the store not for customers. He motioned for me to follow him.

“Hold on one minute.” He walked toward another curtain, pulled it back, walked through, and the curtain fell back into place. I heard his voice. “I don’t keep this book in the store for general sale, but I believe you will find it interesting.” There was another man in the back area; whether he worked there or not, I didn’t know. He was strange looking, disheveled, creepy. He looked like he had performed many roles throughout life: manning glory holes at smut shops, wearing gags and black leather-faced masks while being led around on a leash by strangers at rape clubs, and conversing with ten-year-old children on Internet chat sites. He was fiercely disgusting, wore an unbuttoned short-sleeve shirt exposing his protruding belly, the type of bloated belly seen on malnourished children in Ethiopia, and sagging skin over xylophone ribs. His shirt was stained and there were marks and sores on his skin. When he straightened his arms I saw puffy redness and dark purple spots in the pits of his elbows, hallmarks of needle usage. Heroin, meth, speedballs?

I didn’t know and didn’t want to know. Hell, I didn’t want to look at him, but I couldn’t turn away. He was looking at me the whole time I was looking at him, his hair sticking up all over the place, greasy and seemingly hardened, like it had been weeks since he had showered. It smelled like he hadn’t either, but I couldn’t tell if it was just the smell of the musty room. Something approximating a smile was stuck on his face. His teeth were crud-caked and a couple were missing. His eyes had the largest black circles under them I had ever seen and that made his bugged out eyes look even creepier. A photo of this guy in 100 Artists See Satan would have blown away every other image, including the Golden Gate Bridge devil. I wasn’t disturbed by him; I was nauseated. There was no thrill in seeing him and for the first time in eons I was frightened while being completely sober. I could have snapped him like a twig, but that wasn’t the point. I was in physical proximity to a guy who presumably worked as a cum-cleaner at a smut shop by day and by night shot heroin while being brutally raped as he molested a child. Chills went up my spine.

Had he done any of those things? Maybe, maybe not. But I could see the creep in him when the shopkeeper came back into the room with the book. He said something in Dutch to “freakshow” and the freak cackled like a madman, his eyes bugging out even more. He walked over to me as the shopkeeper approached. Fuck. The shopkeeper had an intelligence about him and I was concerned by his association with the other man. Maybe freakshow was his Pulp Fiction “Gimp.” With a gleam in his eye, the shopkeeper handed me a book that had a plastic sleeve around it. He said, “Prepare yourself.” The title was in French, translated as The History of Cruelty. The cover was a collage of sepia and black-and-white images cobbled together to form the most horrifying image I had ever seen.

I was transfixed. I forgot the other two were in the room until I heard them laugh. The shopkeeper said to me, “I think you like this, huh?” I looked at him, shocked, and merely nodded. How could I like this? Images of men in gas masks and hazmat suits connecting tubes to the orifices of an infant whose intestines were being removed by a doctor who had a gun pointed at his head by a Nazi soldier whose penis was penetrating the eye socket of a screaming woman who was being urinated on by a Klansman with a white hood. Other women with disfigured faces and limbs were being clubbed bloody by an assembly line of automated hammering devices until they plummeted into a meat grinder, the meat flowing out in strands into a child’s mouth being held open with sharp metal hooks on chains attached to a bulldozer pushing corpses into a mass grave. All of these images were cobbled together, real photos from newspapers, magazines, historical books, government documents (official seals of various governments were evident).

That was just the cover. The image itself gave me goose bumps, but the images were obviously real and the artist had truly put together a collage of the history of cruelty. Amazingly creative and, discomfiting as it was, it was not the artist who was malignant, but the human beings who had done these things. Yes, the artist was creative in linking up images, but each separate image was fucked up in its own right. Pasted together they were a condemnation of humanity. Yet, I couldn’t look away.

I asked the shopkeeper if the book was for sale. He threw his head back and laughed. When he looked back at me, his mouth agape, he said, “You really are a Satanist, aren’t you?” He chuckled then said, “Yes, it is for sale. I carry very few copies because it is, let’s say, not for the squeamish. That is why I keep it back here.” The Gimp said to me, “You like it, right?” I didn’t know what to say. “Yes” was not true, but neither was “no.” I said, “I think it’s the most accurate depiction of history I've ever seen.” The Gimp practically salivated. The company I was keeping now.

I asked the shopkeeper if I could leaf through the book. Page after page of images of sexual brutality, mass murder, medical experimentation, radiation poisoning, racism, slavery, torture, and more. Astounding. I couldn’t get over it. When I handed it back to the shopkeeper I was quivering, whether from horror or delight I couldn’t tell. I was freaked out by my reaction to the book even more than the book itself. One thing I desperately wanted to do was get away from the Gimp so I walked through to the main area of the shop. The shopkeeper followed behind me after saying something in Dutch to the Gimp. The Gimp cackled again and a noise followed that made me think he had cum while shitting his pants.

The shopkeeper walked around the counter and rang up both books, looking me over quizzically. He said, “100 Artists See Satan isn’t in the same class. Are you sure you want it?” I picked up the book and flipped it to the page with the devil on the hill overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. He nodded and said, “Ah, okay. Yes, that is quite a picture.” He put the books in a sack and seemed to be waiting for me to say something. I realized how absurd the situation was and said, “I was really just looking for a couple of good coffee table books today.” The shopkeeper laughed. “Oh, I'm sure they'll be a big hit with your friends.” I smiled and turned to leave. I heard him snickering, “Coffee table books,” as I walked out the door.

I unlocked my bike and as I got underway toward my apartment, I wondered about the experience. “That was fucking bizarre!” A haphazard interest in a book somehow turned into a scene from a Quentin Tarantino movie. What freaked me more was how electrified I was by violent and cruel images. It was a split—no, more than a split, a multitude of fragmented reactions. Abhorrent while being exultant, divine while being nauseating. I thought of my own history of violence, everything I had witnessed and the mix of emotions I had always had in violent and malicious situations. I had to entertain the possibility that within me was something that craved that which frightened and terrorized others. Perhaps Paulette had been right in some way when she commented on my sketches.

The rush of cruelty may exist within each human or, perhaps, just in those of us who had been exposed to terror and torture early and often. I had been a victim, a witness, and a perpetrator. Most often I was observer. Being a victim seemed to lead to becoming a perpetrator. I thought, to some extent, that turning the tables might be a means to recover a sense of self, confidence, to avoid remaining a victim. But that was early in life; I had found healthier ways to climb out of victimhood into helpful participatory activities and even leadership roles for the benefit of others. I benefited as well because those actions healed wounds.

Still, this latent passion for hatred and cruelty puzzled me. Why should it exist? I had read Nietzsche’s Genealogy of Morals long ago, at least parts of it, and I remembered how distressed I became reading about his comments on cruelty. I rejected the case he made not on any critical grounds, but because I found it personally distasteful and it went against my belief system. However, there was little denying that so-called “primitive” cultures celebrated cruelty as a sublime pleasure. And Nietzsche had illustrated that princely weddings and public festivals inevitably included executions and torture. His idea that seeing others suffer takes a backseat only to making others suffer was hard to take, but if I really examined my past there was truth in that perspective. I had witnessed so many different types of violence, from verbal to physical, and in the right settings it was like watching a spectacle being performed for my benefit.

There were specific incidents that had engendered pleasure. Watching a friend of mine repeatedly bash another’s face with a garbage can lid created something akin to ecstasy within me. All of my senses were heightened: the sounds, the sight of the vicious and aggressive movement, the cheering of the enthusiastic crowd, watching fellow high school students, both boys and girls, interlocking arms to prevent security guards from getting through to break up the fight, the crackle of fists striking faces, the groans of pain, and the roars of domination, victory, all of these combined to send surges of energy through my body. For hours after that event I was in a state of raw energy, unable to concentrate because of my emotional intensity. Sitting in a classroom after that was … excruciating. Nothing happened, a droning nothing, studies of others who had lived moments fully.

In all of this, Nietzsche had been right. I had ignored my past even when I first read what Nietzsche had written. How blinded I had been to my own reality, moralities that had been ingrained prevented me from seeing my reactions as pleasure. And yet, there was not only pleasure. I was also awed in some conscious way, especially by the interlocking of arms to keep the security guards from stopping the brutality. I saw humanity in its most visceral form. I didn’t make judgments, I just marveled at the viciousness of these people I had seen day after day in classes, seemingly harmless, typical students who, at what I thought was their worst, gossiped way too much about him or her. But in those moments, the prom queen was interlocking arms with a stoner who was interlocking arms with a nerdy math whiz. Every class and clique of individuals had within them the same hunger to not just witness violence, but to maintain the conditions in which it unfolded.

Judging by how pumped up I was and many of those in the class that followed who had also witnessed the event, it was clear that each of us had, in some way, landed the crushing blow ourselves. I talked with a few who were so jacked up they wanted to start something with someone, anyone. They wanted to fight—no, they wanted to hurt someone and stand over them as the person screamed in pain, to feel the rush of total power over another. The more I thought about this, the more convinced I became that every person, under the right circumstances, could become a lover of cruelty.

I locked my bike outside the apartment and went inside. It was mid-afternoon. I made a snack and continued thinking about cruelty, about Nietzsche. He described humanity as prey to religious thinking even in secular and economic practices, a morality of putting off living for the sake of tomorrow as just another version of waiting until after death to live in God’s glory. To love the moment as an artist, a creator, was a Dionysian delight, a conscious act of will, a coming alive to commune with the sublime, a realization of living, the transcendence of the traps of morality. A hunger for cruelty was but one pleasure of humanity; to deny the evidence of “natural” pleasures that conflicted with morality was to live in the dark. The ugly truths needed to be viewed with eyes wide open or risk becoming a slave to that which lurked beneath awareness; better to confront reality and believe in the power of one’s will, however discomforting it might be to look into the abyss. According to Nietzsche, freedom was an act of courage because it meant becoming responsible for oneself rather than allowing the dictates of society or any other external body to rule one’s life, one’s thoughts and beliefs, one’s will.

As I ate, I realized that the living process I was practicing was an act of putting Nietzsche’s ideas into practice. I was liberating myself from the moralities I had internalized as “mine.” My suffering was created mostly by failing to live up to ideals which were never my own. I found joy in self-direction, play, creativity, spontaneity, reflection, meditation, adventurousness, exploration, friendship, inebriation, and sex. A Dionysian life, maybe, or perhaps Epicurean. No matter the label, I was exercising my will and creating my own path. By examining my fascination with images of cruelty, the emotions they provoked, I “looked into the abyss.” What I found was not a lurking evil, but a connection with my own humanity and insight into how I was living my life. None of this required me to act violently or to celebrate violence as an end in itself; instead, I took another step toward liberation on this winding path I was forming.

I took a couple puffs of hash and as I put down my dugout I saw my notepad. “Che, De Peper, 7:00.” Fuck! I was seeing Che in the evening. If I hadn't smoked the hash I wouldn't have seen the note. Che. I hadn't thought about her for a while. I needed to clear my head and get ready to see her. I saw an image of her in my head, the odd mixture of colorful clothing. Whatever was within me that was jacked up from the pleasures of cruelty were calming in my daydreams of Che crossing the bridge. 

Thursday, December 25, 2014

Amsterdam Fifty-Four: Meditations


Drinking while shrooming provided an interesting effect. The alcohol mitigated the psychedelic effects tremendously while still allowing the mind to be wildly creative, emotions to be more intense, and sensory experiences heightened. Energy levels were lower, but still pronounced, enough to allow a person to imbibe more alcohol than one normally would without having the effects of being drunk. In a way, it was similar to how cocaine worked with alcohol. A person could drink a shitload of alcohol and still remain socially and otherwise functional; in fact, the alcohol tempered the shrooms enough to be more easily social while still having “out there” experiences.

The real problem with this arose the following day. Even foo-foo drinks, if you consume enough of them, created a hellacious hangover. That was the case when I began waking the next morning. I felt like I had been buried alive under ten thousand pounds of grimy sludge. I didn’t want to open my eyes. Even with my eyes closed the light in the room was brutal. I pulled a pillow over my head to darken everything. This helped the sharp pain of the blinding light, but not the bed spins I was still experiencing. I threw a leg over the side of the bed, a trick my dad taught me the first time I came home drunk as a teenager.

I caught hell the next day, but at least he waited until the hangover mostly passed. He had been there so he was incredibly cool about it all. Gotta love a dad who helps you through your first drunk with affection and care before being somberly straight about the dangers inherent with getting drunk at fourteen years old. Made an impression and I respected how he handled the situation. A nice surprise to gain greater respect for a parent in a situation in which I had fucked up. Love like that, the allowance for me to self-correct, to be respected and guided gently but effectively after such an incident, changed my perspective on many things in life. Fucking up can be good for a kid, but it depends on how parents handle the situation. I was more open and honest with him about things after that and we became closer as a result.

On this morning two decades later I simply felt like shit. I wanted to get up and drink water, use the bathroom, take half a bottle of migraine medicine, and smoke a bowl of pot, but doing any of those things would require movement and staying as still as possible was the only thing keeping me from experiencing even greater pain. After a few minutes, though, I remembered Sabina. Fuck! I made myself remove the pillow, open my eyes just a sliver, and turn to where she had been sleeping. The bed was empty.

Well, shit. I didn’t know if she was still in the apartment or if she had left. Now I had to get up. Oh, the pain, like screws being drilled into my skull with a power drill, and nausea that felt as bad as being on a life raft in a stormy sea. I managed to stand and walk into the living room. I was naked, too fucked up to care. She wasn’t in the bathroom nor the living room. I walked to the kitchen and she wasn’t there, either. She had left. I grabbed a glass and downed a few glasses of water, a few acetaminophen tablets, and went back to the bedroom to put on some shorts and a t-shirt. As I returned to the living room, I saw a note on the dining table. “Michael, tried to wake you, but you wouldn’t budge. Have to leave because of my flight. Last night was … wow. You are so sexy—and sexual! Here’s my number in case you’re ever in New York: … Kisses, Sabina.”

Reading that temporarily took away some of the sting of the hangover. I thought about the night before and remembered all of it … except for how I fell asleep. I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face then to the bedroom again. I saw two used condoms that I had apparently tossed onto my pants on the floor. I disposed of them, using a paper towel to pick them up. Ah, day-after-sex fun. My headache was roaring again, all that movement, all that thinking. I went to the couch and loaded a bowl. I finished off a bud and loaded another, knowing I would eventually need it. Thank you, Mother Nature, for the weed of wonder, the hangover helper. I had just enough energy to have a cigarette, but halfway through I realized that was a bad idea. I took another puff from the pipe then lied down. I slowly drifted off to sleep, a hangover pot nap.

I spent the rest of the day in and out of naps, smoking pot and an occasional cigarette, drinking lots of water and juice, eating a couple frozen meals and a little fruit. It was a miserable day except for the moments of reflection on the previous night. Those memories made me feel dreamy and I wished like hell that Sabina hadn’t flown back to New York. Would have been nice to have had a fling rather than a one-night stand. Nevertheless, at least I’d had a connection with a passionate, fun, and intelligent woman—without paying for it. I realized it had been about a year. It also dawned on me that I had gone longer without sex even before meeting Vanessa than I had since I was in high school. I had completely forgotten what it was like to meet a woman on equal terms with a genuinely mutual attraction building naturally. There were many ways to experience fulfillment, but none compared to connecting with a person intellectually, emotionally, and physically. Relationships, at their best, provided just such complex and fulfilling intimacy daily. The creativity involved in those connections were more fulfilling, for me, than drawing, performing, friendship connections (because of the comparable absence physical intimacy), hard-earned achievements such as writing a novel, achieving a degree, or entrepreneurial feats. Even helping others who were suffering or saving another person’s life—which I had done on a few occasions—were not as fulfilling.

Shrooms, though, were simply different. Fulfilling in an entirely different way—when doing them as I had done them. They provided a fulfillment within that was intellectual, emotional, and physical, a personal synthesis that created an intraconnectedness that rivaled connections with others. The beautiful thing about creating a synthesis while alone was that it seemed to fill the same needs as a synthesis with another person. The real beauty of it was that nothing within needed to be sacrificed to accommodate another’s needs in a long-term relationship.

I had achieved states like this only a few times in life previously, most notably for a few months after college when I was mostly on my own and without any social life at all. I found something within through long hours of prayer and meditation day after day. I’d had no guidance. One night I had simply wept, uncontrollably, for several hours. I had felt empty, lonely, utterly alone, and filled with despair. My college life was nearly over, I had only three credits to finish for an undergraduate thesis offered in the spring, several months ahead, and I had no plan for the future, I didn’t know where I fit in society at all, and I really didn’t know what to do next. Nothing possible within the work world appealed to me and all I saw was a long life of droning nothingness until death. Wasting eight to ten or more hours per day doing something like sales, public relations, industrial design, or any other possibility filled me with dread. I longed for social connection and there were no jobs that provided that; jobs were about productivity and profitability, not making meaningful connections with other people based on the commonality of being human with all the joys and sufferings entailed. The world looked ugly to me and I had no place in it.

After sobbing for so long, though, I seemed to let out something that had been blocking me from within, disconnecting me from myself. It was not just emotional; it was also physical. I gagged and heaved and a yellowish goo hacked out of my mouth, oozed and dangled. Looking back, I could possibly say that I had released vile toxins within me. The effect emotionally and intellectually was a clearing of the fog, a disappearance of loneliness and aloneness, a tender but powerful love … for myself. I forgave myself for feeling miserable and for beating myself up for somehow failing in life in some way. I had internalized messages of success, what it meant to be happy in a society that valued work, status, looks, and money above all else. There had been nothing substantive on a human level related to those things and the emptiness I had felt was due to my pursuit or failure to achieve in those realms to the degree I thought I should or needed. If I was not the best then I was … a failure. How that had become ingrained in me I couldn’t pinpoint, but it was there.

I had the luxury of not having to work for a few months as I stayed with my parents waiting for the next semester to begin. They went off to work every day and, after that night of release, I spent anywhere for four to eight hours every day kneeling or sitting in prayer and meditation, clearing my mind of all verbal thought, of all distractions, focused only on silencing everything externally and internally. It took some time to get used to the practice, but even from the beginning I was incredibly disciplined and dedicated. I might sit for an hour without successfully attaining silence and even though there was frustration I continued to sit or kneel. Eventually the world and I would disappear and experiences of peace, total relaxation, an absence of desires and needs, and often a quiet feeling of love composed of kindness, care, and humility arose to replace individuality and identity. In these moments, I loved not just who I was but the suffering being I had been. The aftereffects of my meditations gradually led to a deeper love of my parents, my brother, my friends (who were not present), and all of humanity in a nonspecific way. My love of humanity stemmed from an acknowledgment and understanding that even the most successful and the most vile suffered in some ways (or possibly even constantly at some level).

As the time neared to return to college to finish my degree I had serious reservations about going back. I was concerned that I would not be able to maintain this newfound way of living. I had lived a wild lifestyle in college and had a hell of a lot of friends who partied a lot, lived adventurously, and I wondered how I would maintain the seclusion I needed to meditate for hours each day while living in a big house with five other guys who liked to throw giant parties three or four nights a week, the house filled with hundreds of other students and who knows who else. That was partially how we paid rent and, really, one of the ways we had fun and hooked up with women. If I fell back into that lifestyle I wondered if I would ever regain the way of living that had proved so beautiful and fulfilling. I didn't have other living arrangements available so I was going to have to try to make the best of the situation while living there.

Naturally, I fell back into the lifestyle. Not completely, but enough that I got out of the routines I had established. The wildness of activity and euphoric emotional thrills replaced the calm and peace. It wasn’t unfulfilling to live adventurously with roadtrips to strange places doing strange things, including dropping copious amounts of LSD, getting high, doing coke, and hooking up with women; however, I noticed the emptiness within during the few times I had time alone. Having only three credits, one course of study, gave me ample free time to live as wildly as possible. I justified living that way because it was my last semester of college--when would I ever be able to live that way again?

Eventually that semester, though, I met the woman I would marry years later. My relationship with her changed things and pretty much assured I would never fully return to that life of silent meditation and self-directed inner fulfillment as long as I was with her. There were other benefits to the relationship, of course, fulfilling in their own ways, but an integral discovery of how to live well and build a powerful and secure inner core was lost.

I discovered Amsterdam through that relationship, though. Our honeymoon to Europe opened my eyes to how different cultures lived and I saw how much more balanced and fulfilling life was there compared to the United States. Perhaps it wouldn’t be for everyone, but the cultures within France and Holland, in particular, stuck out to me as far better ways of living, a way to find a home within myself while also being at home in the world.

Now in Amsterdam, the shrooms were waking long lost ways of living, introducing me to a more balanced way of living where I could work, connect with friends, contemplate, reflect, find inner sanctuary, create and play, and dynamically change who I was into the person I was becoming. It still wasn’t clear where these changes were leading and I didn’t want to direct my life toward a specific outcome. Living the process was the way. That was evident because I was satisfying needs and desires. Once again, as it primarily had been the whole of my life, I had to find my own way, to guide myself through the unknown and figure out how to live. But Amsterdam, the shrooms, and my new friendships were providing guidance in indirect ways. I was attentively observing even as I participated and what I was learning gave me clues about how to incorporate new perspectives and ways of living into my daily life.

I was struck by this at times, by what I was doing. I’d had no intention of living this way when I first decided to go to Amsterdam. I couldn't have even imagined a life like the one I was living was possible. Even when I first started shrooming with the idea that I was on a vision quest, I didn’t know what that meant or what I would discover. In a matter of weeks, I had radically transformed my outlook and my way of living, my willingness to play and create a result of a strengthening inner core of confidence transforming my life into a work of art, a way of fulfillment, a transcendence of the mundane into the improvement and expansion of mental, emotional, and physical health and well-being within a culture that promoted this approach far better than the America that had trapped me most of my life—although I had to acknowledge that I was taking advantage of the resources available everywhere and using them for specific purposes even if those purposes were not always consciously chosen. It was a mix of directed action and unpredictable spontaneity. Again, a balance.

These thoughts, reflections, and realizations didn’t synthesize all at once or even throughout the day. They had come slowly over time, parts of them fluttering upward from within, discoveries of puzzle pieces to be fit into a developing design, one that even with this degree of synthesis was far from complete—and was likely to be ongoing over the course of my life. For the day, though, I appreciated the insights and wondered how the beginnings of wisdom could arise on a dreary day of hangover even if it had followed a night of spontaneously playful and intimate passion.