Amsterdam Eighteen: Mood Zones

I took it easy Wednesday. I worked on an index in the morning then went for a stroll. As I walked out the door, I remembered that I was in Amsterdam. It seemed that each time I left my apartment I was surprised to find myself in a foreign country. It was as if I woke each day in the United States and the front door was a portal to Europe. I always forgot it was a portal until I walked through it. This made for a very fun life each day: I woke up thinking nothing particularly special was happening then I would walk outside thinking I was going out for groceries. I would stop a foot or so outside and shake my head. “Who put that canal there? There aren’t any canals outside my house in Madison. What the hell was in that coffee I made this morning?”

Reality reasserted itself and said, “You are in Amsterdam, motherfucker! Drink up the canals, admire the mansions, explore the neighborhoods, and check out a museum for crissakes. Van Gogh ring a bell?” Van Gogh? Hmmm. Why not? No, wait, the Stedelijk. Fuck it. Just walk and see what happens. Soaking up the city is intoxicating.

The day was cloudy, but not terribly cold. I took an umbrella with me just in case, though. The apartment had a little rack near the door and there were three umbrellas in there, each a different color. I was feeling festive so I grabbed the brightly colored one with polka dots.

I walked southwest, cutting through the canal rings and past the Seven Bridges of Reguliersgracht, one of the most beautiful areas of Amsterdam. I stopped on a bridge and looked out over the water. After a time, I turned and faced the street, watching cyclists and pedestrians as well as the canal stretching out to the west. Everyone in the area had a different look and feel about them compared to other spots in the city. To an extent, that was because the locals of the area are different and so are the tourists and travelers exploring. I thought it was more than that, though. I noticed that I changed depending on the neighborhood setting around me. I became a buzz of energy around the Dam or Rembrandtplein whereas I was soft and contemplative when strolling through the quieter streets of the Oude Zijde. At the Seven Bridges, I felt … timeless. The setting erased the idea that there was another place that might be more gratifying. While in that setting, there is no possibility of believing a better place exists.

I walked away reluctantly and soon found myself on Nieuwe Spiegelstraat. I felt entirely different. “No, that was just a thought you had at that moment. You could have easily been in Vondel Park or the Jordaan and felt the same way if the conditions were right.” I doubted this, though. I looked in the windows of the antique shops and galleries, slowly strolling with my arms behind my back, casually twirling the umbrella, and I continued hazily thinking while simultaneously being intrigued by paintings and artifacts. I remembered feeling similarly at Seven Bridges in the past. I was always with S., though, so perhaps I thought it was her as much as the spot; but, no, it was the setting itself. Night or day, summer or winter, doesn’t matter. Romance emanated from the place. The romance was so subtle that I had thought it came from within me, but the truth was that I walked into a mood that never wavers. I knew it was true because the mood didn’t come with me when I left.

The discovery of a place I could visit to experience romance through no effort of my own was extraordinary. Amsterdam provided a huge array of moods, almost all of them on the plus side of the emotional spectrum. On guide maps, Amsterdam’s semi-circle urban layout was often categorized through color: The Nieuwe Zijde might be blue while the Oude Zijde could be red. My map, on the other hand, would highlight mood zones and I would make maps within each zone to show where specific emotions could be felt while occupying a specific position on a given street, bridge, or park.

I think these truths have been understood by photographers, painters, and filmmakers in a somewhat different way. Lighting and timing give a place a particular mood. The difference, though, is that the painters, videographers, and photographers are not in the space they are capturing; they are looking at the space from another place. In a sense, the photographers, filmmakers, and painters are celebrating the space from which they are painting or taking photographs. What you do not see as viewer is where you are while you are looking. The composers of the image, if they are adept at their craft, have likely searched for a special place from which to capture the scene with paint, film, digital photos, or video. Finding a place to capture is likely easier than finding the position from which to capture it.

The art of experience differs from other arts in this sense. In Amsterdam, I was the object of art to be captured. I merely needed to move myself from place to place to create different moods, sensations, and thoughts. I experienced a particular array of mood/sensation/thought in Eik en Linde that differed from the combination I experienced at Seven Bridges. As I connected more intimately with the city through spatial exploration I was able to mentally map the places that created distinctly unique experiences that couldn't be found at other locations. Romance can be experienced in Oosterpark, but the qualities of the romance would be different than the romance experienced at the Seven Bridges. My ability to notice the differences depended on the sensitivity of my awareness. Awareness of the quality of being in a particular place was the art.

I viewed paintings in the window of an attractive gallery. The interior was entirely white; the only colors came from the paintings, most of which were abstracts featuring one color. All of the paintings were bright and bold with clean lines. Many of the one-color paintings used different hues to create shape and form; three hues of orange made up one painting that was divided by both straight and curved lines. My eyes were pleased, particularly because the sharp white of the interior made the colors explode. The paintings didn’t look like they required tremendous skill, but the five figure prices suggested that the painters were masters. To each their own.

I thought more about myself as the object of the art of being and realized I was priceless in comparison. I looked up and down the street and saw other priceless objects of art standing, walking, and cycling. I wondered if they considered themselves more valuable than the paintings and antiques they viewed. Furthermore, I wondered if they viewed one another as the art they were. I wanted everyone on the street to gather around to view each other, to sniff and listen, to touch and lick, for each to marvel at the interplay of multisensory art objects. All the galleries and antique stores would likely shut down as their paintings and artifacts failed to compete with this newfound relational art between humans.

I walked across the Prinsengracht bridge and Nieuwe Spiegelstraat became Spiegelstraat. More shops and galleries. I’d had my fill so I continued walking. As much as I wanted each person to appreciate the art of every other person, I did enjoy stopping to look in the windows. I wouldn’t want the galleries to close; I simply would like a change in perspective when a human being looks at another. I was awed by the existence of other humans, by being in proximity, and by experiencing their presence through my senses. Granted, I preferred interactions with humans in specific places at specific times under certain conditions. The centerpieces, though, were the human beings.

The massive edifice of the Rijksmuseum appeared before me. I hadn’t visited since 2001. Seeing it again made me feel like a child. “Dad, dad, can we go? Please, please, please, dad, just this once and I won’t ask for anything else, okay?” My inner dad said yes so I went. My biological dad would have said yes, too, because that’s the type of guy he was. My brother and I once pleaded with him to drive fifty miles off an Interstate highway to see a ghost town we had found on a map. We were on vacation driving across the United States and my dad wanted to make time, but he was too much of an explorer to say no. Unfortunately, the ghost town was a major disappointment. The best part of the experience was the excitement on the drive to it. In a sense, that made the detour worthwhile and I could see in my dad’s face that he felt the same way. At the very least, we scratched the place off our list of things to experience in life knowing we never had to wonder what we missed.

I had extensively explored the Rijksmuseum on two occasions. The first time was in 1998 with S. and the second was in 2001 when I visited Amsterdam on my own. Rembrandt’s massive Night Watch is the focal point of the museum, but I was more fascinated by other parts of the museum. Still, Night Watch filled me with awe. The size blew me away, about 12’ x 14’. Combined with the detail? Insane! I couldn’t imagine how long it took to paint it. Museum guides proclaimed it was finished in 1642, but there was no information on when the painting was started. The main building of the museum was being renovated so the Night Watch was in what was called the “fragment building.”

Since the main building was being reconstructed, I enjoyed other areas. The furniture and interiors section was a highlight for me. There were three large and intricately decorated dollhouses that I loved. They provided a detailed view of how affluent houses were furnished in the seventeenth century. I spent at least an hour looking at them. I could imagine living in each one and it was easy for my mind’s eye to see the men, women, and children of past eras walking into and out of each room: A teenage girl combing her hair in front of a bedroom mirror, a stately gentleman drinking scotch in a wood-paneled den, and indentured servants slaving in a basement kitchen stocked with pots and pans as well as a wood-burning oven.

Interestingly, doll houses were not toys in the seventeenth century; they were serious hobbies of women. The most spectacular of the three dollhouses was collected by Petronella Oortman. The museum guide stated that all the pieces were made to scale in the same way and using the same materials as the furniture and other items in houses of the time. The miniature porcelain was delivered from China. Oortman commissioned cabinetmakers, glassblowers, silversmiths, basket-weavers, and artists to furnish the dollhouse. The cost of the dollhouse when created was equal to the price of a real seventeenth-century canal house in Amsterdam.

I loved looking at the antique furniture as well. The houses they had once called home formed in my mind and I thought of Herengracht, Prinsengracht, and Keisersgracht. I had not explored the major canals much compared to past trips. I decided I would at least cover some of the canal ring I had not yet seen as I walked toward the exit of the museum. However, the wind was howling and the gray day had turned dark. Fortunately, rain was not falling. My umbrella would likely have flown away just as spectacularly as the woman’s I viewed during the weekend I stayed at The Grand Hotel. I sighed as I thought about the hotel while walking back the way I had come. I veered slightly off the same path I had taken and saw the sign for Conscious Dreams again. I remembered that I still had the Ecuadorian shrooms in my refrigerator. I contemplated whether I would shroom in the evening as I shopped at Albert Heijn for groceries and a bottle of wine.

I returned to the apartment early evening. The wind had died down near the end of my walk, but a heavy rain poured. Even with the umbrella I was wet. I was wind-worn and tired. I changed clothes and made a ham and kaas broodje mit tomaten. I tried out my Dutch here and there. It was bad, almost always related to food, but I noticed when I shopped or spoke to others that the attempts were appreciated. The woman at Albert Heijn tried to help me with pronunciation and that made me feel welcome. I had a decent ear for the language and could pronounce Dutch words fairly well. I lacked the vocabulary, though. Most of the Dutch in Amsterdam spoke English so fluently that whenever they discovered I was American they would launch into my native tongue.

I opened the bottle of wine and loaded a bowl. I puffed a bit, listened to music, and lied on the couch to read. Shrooming seemed like a bad idea given my physical exhaustion. I had tickets to moe the next two nights and I thought it would be fun to shroom at the Melkweg. The day had been full, a nice mix of work and meandering play, so I relaxed the rest of the evening.

Amsterdam Seventeen: Mr. Lollipop's Shop

I smoked a bowl after Vanessa left. I put the CD case/coke tray away then listened to music while picking up The Architecture of Happiness where I last left off. I crashed around two. The next day I woke early. I felt great. No matter the drugs, sex makes me feel good the following day … and sex with Vanessa was very good. I went to Eik en Linde and ordered a coffee. No hunger, just energy, perhaps remnants from last night. I chatted with Kasper and a few regulars, including a man who was Serbian but had been living in Holland for nearly thirty years. He gave me a hard time about being an American and seemed to be frustrated by my agreement that the United States is the bully of the world.

“What do you want me to say?” I asked. “I agree with you. No other country but the United States has military bases on foreign soil and we have over seven hundred military bases in countries all over the world. And, yes, I know they are there not to protect U.S. citizens from harm but to provide a foothold for multinational corporations. Don’t think, though, that The Netherlands is off the hook. You think Heineken and other Dutch corporations don’t benefit from the U.S. military presence in the Middle East, Africa, South America, and elsewhere? Besides, it wasn’t all that long ago that the Dutch were involved in South Africa.” That momentarily shut him up, but then he started going off on McDonald’s and the demise of food quality worldwide. I sighed and nodded my head. He was mostly good-natured, but he was frustrated that he couldn’t find an argument.

Kasper came to save me by chatting me up. He asked if I was seeing Vanessa. I told him I saw her last night. He raised his eyebrows and said, “So, you’re serious about her, eh?” I smiled and nodded then shook my head … then nodded and shook my head. “I don’t know. She’s great, but I don’t see it going anywhere long term.” How serious could I be about an escort? But if I was being honest with myself—and I was—I was smitten. My wallet said break it off, but my heart and libido said turn it up. I thought about telling Kasper she was an escort, but that seemed like a bother. He would figure it out eventually. No reason to think so much. Just let it be.

Vanessa’s story about her background affected me. I probably wouldn’t feel for her the way I did if she wasn’t so open about her life, so willing to share her powerful emotions and to let herself be herself, sexy and crazy as she was. I think what sealed the envelope for me was when she asked me not to turn out the lights. Her vulnerability was palpable and it added yet another dimension to a woman more complex than I could fathom.

The cocaine was another factor. Get a few lines of coke in me and I’ll be ready to rob a bank if that’s what everyone else says is groovy. I imagined me and a crew of men and women jacked up on coke wearing black masks and capes while hijacking an armored vehicle then flying off to Pluto to have a night of wild group sex. Sex and drugs, a combination for living and creating that has no equal.

I could hear the Serbian chattering away about Halliburton while my mind drifted off to play. I was painting a canvas of thought and words I rarely had a chance to use in conversation kept applying themselves, jasper whispers dancing on fig leaves between bolts of melting sun rays exuding fragrances and allowances for dallying. The Serb was jabbering about George W. Bush and while I agreed with him, the spittle collecting at the corners of his lips filled me with an urge to mash a potato in his face. If I could scrape his skull with a cheese grater I was sure he would slow his speech a little.

When I looked back at Kasper’s relaxed movement and natural smile I saw him as a golden chalice cascading goodness. He wasn’t so flippant as to be tossing dandelions on strangers wherever he went nor would I see him frolicking naked in Vondel Park while eating a ripened mango. It seemed likely, though, that he could be trailed by a bumble of butterflies while meandering down a cobblestone path reading a pamphlet of poetry.

The Serb kept on chirping and I occasionally said a word or two to let him know I was present if not exactly listening. I knew there was anger and frustration involved from the tone of his voice and that told me more about who he was than the content of his commentary. I was interested in him as a person, but I cared little for what he said. In other words, I liked sitting next to him while he expressed his anguish. It was unusual, after all, to see such ugly passions in Amsterdam. He was a novelty, I guess, and that made him as worthwhile as anyone else. Plus, his monologue allowed me to revel in my own thoughts while he prattled on and on. Not having to say much while in conversation can be delightful; much less energy is expended.

My energy was dipping a little so I called to Kasper to order an espresso. “You want any food?” The time? Hmmm. Backward running clock was hard to misread as it was about noon. I wasn’t terribly hungry so I ordered bitterballen. Kasper was busy so he just said, “Ja,” and turned away. It was the lunch rush and while I typically would have left, I liked being buffered from the crowd by the Serb. I had nested in my favorite area of the bar, the back side of the curly Q. I could pretend to be engaged with the Serb while observing the bustle of activity throughout the café, a collection of human electrons bouncing off one another, zipping this way and that without rhyme or reason, each particle of person made social by proximity of sound, sight, and touch.

Lunch at Eik en Linde often resembled a party attended by groups of people who knew one another through a friend of a friend. It was as if they hadn’t seen one another for years or were just meeting for the first time even though the very same party with the very same people had congregated just yesterday and the yesterday before that and every yesterday since the inception of Eik en Linde as a café.

Often enough the people presented as colors. A loud middle-aged man who always stood and waved his arms while holding a beer without ever spilling was beet red while two quieter older women who mostly chatted at a two-person table next to the window were pale yellows. Some came in costumes of personality, a white-bearded gent who groused as a Grumpasaurus and a young blonde woman who graced the room with the eroticism of Aphrodite.

Kasper brought my espresso and bitterballen. As he turned away I quickly asked if I could get some water wheneveryougetachance! He was gone and I wasn’t sure if he heard me. The Serb shifted gears and made a statement about the moment. “You should have been ready with your question before he arrived, lad.” I nodded and lifted my espresso to him as a show of agreement. The bitterballen were hot so I let them cool off while I sipped my espresso. I asked the Serb how he had come to live in Amsterdam for thirty years and before I could take back the words he set sail a story about being in the navy—Yugoslavia had a navy?! I didn’t ask, I just listened. He was as passionate as ever, but now he was smiling more and his eyes filled with nostalgia as he gave me what was apparently the backstory for his arrival in Amsterdam. He said something about being on a submarine. A submarine? I wondered if he had hijacked a Russian sub during the Cold War and made his way to the port of Rotterdam, saving countless lives by thwarting a potential nuclear attack. The chest-puffed-out self-importance said something about the esteem with which he held his military endeavors.

Military stories always seem to be told as if the world would have ended had it not been for so-and-so and such-and-such. “If it wasn’t for me and my platoon, Saddam would have marched his troops into Germany and France and completely destroyed them. America would have been next.” Really? What did you do during the war? “I was a surveyor.” Huh? You saved the world from Saddam by mapping a desert? Well … thanks.

Kasper placed a glass of water in front of me. He turned away before I could thank him. As he walked down to the other end of the bar he raised his hand and sang, “You’re welcome.” Motherfucker. I realized I could never be a barista or waiter. Keeping so many things straight in my head would make me trip over my feet. One thing I loved in Amsterdam, and Holland in general, was how much more esteemed bartenders and servers were. If anything, they were the royals of the café, the people who really mattered. Without them, hell, we would just be people talking rather than drinking, eating, and talking.

Watching servers and baristas in Amsterdam was like watching a choreographed dance. If the staff had been working together for years, then it was high art: each person knew where the other would be without looking and they would communicate without words. Glances and gestures spoke volumes, a language known by maybe half a dozen people with each person speaking a slightly different dialect that only those other half dozen could understand. If I learned Kasper’s barista language I wouldn’t be able to use that to fully understand Philip’s. Their interplay was like the most extraordinary avant garde modern dance with patrons serving as background dancers who do seemingly random things while the star performers act out movements that are discernible, over time, as order amidst chaos. I loved watching a server hold a tray of plates in one hand and three glasses held between fingers in the other while avoiding the chair of a customer who had suddenly and without warning backed it a foot into the walkway without looking, causing the server to pirouette, glide, slide, arch, twist, sway, and leap all without spilling, stopping, or speaking or the customer noticing a thing. Even facial expressions remained the same. Obstacles and near collisions were all part of the dance.

I ate my bitterballen and drank my water. The Serb had finally gotten around to his move to Amsterdam and was talking about where he first lived. I didn’t know the town he mentioned and wasn’t even sure it was a town. It sounded more like he’d hacked up a lung and then coughed three times. How one spelled a hack and three coughs I had no idea. He told me about his first job working as a candy taster at Mr. Lollipop’s Shop and how he would often take a spin at Warble Dither during lunch breaks. It was something like that, anyway. I wished people would just make up shit about themselves to make conversations more interesting. If a person has lived a boring life then spice it up a bit for the good of the rest of the world. No one wants to hear how you collated papers in a cubicle. How fucking awful that we live in a world where most work is boring.

I looked back at Kasper and thought, “Well, at least his work is interesting. Hell, I can see it in his face and his movements.” Maybe that was it: he moved! The movements weren’t repetitive, either. Yes, some movements were made more often than others, but the combination of Kasper's movements on a given morning or afternoon was as complex as a symphony. So many body parts moving at different times in different ways, all accomplishing something specific, something necessary, to make the work coherent, symmetrical, and beautiful.

I watched Kasper’s adagio and caught his eye. “Could I get a de Koninck when you have a chance?” Kasper smiled and nodded as he continued his movement. The eventuality was inevitable: I wasn’t going to work today, not when I could think like this. It had been far too long since my thought was so agile. Why waste it on an index? The café was filled with buzzing conversations and bursts of laughter. I wasn’t going anywhere. Interesting how much less the crowd of early-afternoon regulars bothered me compared to the weeks prior. I felt like I was seeing through new eyes. Other than me, no one noticed any difference at all. Funny how none of us really knows what’s going on within anyone else’s world.

Amsterdam Sixteen: I Miss You, Baby

I woke on Monday and took my MacBook to Eik en Linde. I ordered an uitsmijter and coffee. I popped open my MacBook and appreciated the photo I had chosen as the desktop background: Vanessa on the bed wearing her black-and-red bra and panties striking a pose with her hands on her hips and her lips puckered in a kiss. I sighed and opened my browser. I was sitting on the wall-side of the curly Q with the backwards running clock right above me. I could see the whole café from my seat.

Kasper walked my way with the coffee and before he put it in front of me he stopped and looked at me. I looked up and asked, “What?” I was smiling widely, I could tell, because he had a twinkle in his eye and he started smiling, too. “What?” I asked again, almost laughing. He continued to stare at me and his mouth opened a little as he shook his head. Then he closed his mouth in a strange little smile and looked down to place my coffee. He looked up again briefly and nodded his head ever so slightly. “I see,” he said. “I see.”

I could tell he knew but I wanted to make him say it so I said, “Come on, out with it.” He had turned to fill another order, but he looked back at me and flashed his charismatic smile. “Do I really need to say it?” I laughed then sheepishly said, “No.” I paused. “Is it that obvious?” Kasper walked over to me and crossed his arms before leaning against the counter. He peered over at me. “If it was any more obvious we’d have to avert our eyes.” I rolled my eyes. I was embarrassed. It struck me just how long it had been since I’d had a morning-after glow about me. Kasper was still smiling. “So, what is she like, this woman of yours?” I closed the browser and turned the computer around so he could see her. Kasper stood up quickly and his eyes widened. “Whoa! Wow, she is … impressive.”

Kasper asked her name. I told him but as I did I wondered what her real name was. Did I need to know? I decided no. I realized I wanted to see her again, though. That was a given. Tonight? No, not tonight. In my head I had gone through all of the purchases I had made including the apartment and the flight over. I had spent over $10,000, but I had billed for a few indexes, had more lined up, and $2000 coming each month from the divorce settlement. If I stopped spending now I would return from the trip with nearly as much money in my pocket as I had when I left. I laughed to myself. Yeah, like that was going to happen. I mentally put Vanessa’s tab on the maintenance from S. I liked the idea of S. paying for Vanessa and I to have a good time. The thought made me smile.

Kasper had turned away to serve other customers. None of the regulars I knew were there so when Kasper brought my uitsmijter I ate in peace. He came over to ask how the food was and I gave him a thumbs up. He asked if I was going to see Vanessa again and I nodded yes. "Where is she from?" A question intimating he knew she wasn’t Dutch. I told him she was Romanian. He nodded his head up and down. His smile was tight. “She is … impressive.” I nodded my head. “She's a handful, man.”

I had another coffee after my meal and looked at my email. I downloaded some PDFs for an index and took a look at one to make sure the file was clean and readable. Everything seemed to be in order so I closed it and shut down my computer. I waved goodbye to Kasper and he said, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” I responded, “I’m not sure what you wouldn’t do so where does that leave me?” He laughed and waved. “See you next time, Michael.” I walked home in the cold sunshine.

The day went by quickly as I indexed at my apartment. I thought about wandering around in the sun, but I wanted to make headway on my work assignments. I thought about Vanessa occasionally throughout the day. Whenever I’d take a break from my work I’d open the folder with her photos and look at them. In one she appeared as a sexy vixen while in another an adorable sweetheart. Memories vividly flashed and I danced with her in the hotel room again.

I stopped working late afternoon. I made a hearty salad and had a glass of wine. After putting the dishes in the dishwasher I paced around, not knowing what to do with myself. Damn, I wanted to see Vanessa, touch her and hear her voice. I smoked a bowl and chilled out listening to music. I felt sufficiently relaxed. As I was about to doze off my phone rang. Weird. Only a few people back in the States had my Amsterdam number and none of them had called me. I answered and was surprised to hear Vanessa’s voice.

“Hey, baby. I miss you.” Huh? I was flummoxed. I asked her how she got my number. “You call me Saturday. I have number in phone.” Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. “What you do?” I told her I was relaxing. “You want I come over tonight?” I thought about this. The truth was, yes, I did want her to come over, but I didn’t have any cash on me and, well, part of me wanted to wait until later in the week to let my jets cool a little. My heart—or perhaps my libido—won out and I responded, “Yes.” I told her I needed to go to an ATM to get cash and that I could only see her for a couple of hours. “You no want me stay with you tonight?”

Oh, Vanessa. “Yes, I do want you to stay with me, but I can’t afford it night after night.”

Vanessa shot back, “You millionaire, remember?”

I laughed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I wish.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “So no all night?”

I said, “No all night. A couple hours, though.”

“Okay. What time I come?”

“How about nine?”

“Okay, see you then, baby. What your address?”

Oh, yeah. I told her my address and she said, “What? How you spell that?” I spelled it out for her and she told me to do it again. I spelled it a second time and she said, “This is not in Amsterdam.” I told her yes, it was in Amsterdam, just outside the city center. “Okay, I call back if lost. See you, baby. Kiss.”

It was only seven so I got my coat to find a cash machine. There was one at a bank not too far away, less than a half hour walk there and back. I withdrew 300 Euros, 200 for her rate and another 40 or 60 on top as gratuity. I realized I wasn’t going to be able to see her as often as I wanted. It was too much money. As I walked from the ATM back to my apartment I stopped and thought, “Fuck that shit. That’s a bunch of cowardly bullshit. That’s not who I used to be and that’s not who I am. That’s the voice of a broken man suffering from a crushing loss. That guy, I have sympathy for him, but he isn’t allowed to make decisions any more. No fucking way.”

I reminded myself that I was in Amsterdam, that I came here to rediscover my zeal for life, and that I had been doing just that. This was no time to regress. No, I needed to keep my foot on the gas and soak up the city as well as Vanessa’s charm, passion, and beauty. Maybe I would become a cliché, the American abroad who falls in love with an exotic escort. There’s always a reason that a cliché is a cliché. Fuck, why not? I tried the traditional approach and that nearly destroyed me. New tactics were in order. I was on a mission now, that mission being to create my life as a masterpiece.

When I returned from the ATM I took a shower. I still had shrooms in the fridge but decided not to eat them. I figured I would wind up telling Vanessa to stay over if I did. Not that it would be the worst thing in the world, but making an attempt at moderation seemed in order. Self-control. Discipline. I laughed. “Yeah, right.” I put my laptop on the coffee table, anticipating Vanessa’s proclivity toward Romanian music. I was willing to indulge her because I loved watching her smiling dances. I put music of my own on the stereo hoping she might enjoy some mood music as well. It may have been my dime that was making this happen, but I still viewed her as a person, as an equal. I didn’t intend to sacrifice my principles for pleasure. I thought they could coexist. A fool is a fool to the end, I suppose.

Vanessa called me just before nine. “Where are you? I no can find apartment?” I asked where she was and she told me. I had no idea where she was, either. We went back and forth and I opened the blinds to look out. I saw a taxi parked down the street and said to her, “I can see you. Tell your driver to keep coming and I’ll go outside to meet you.” I ran down the stairs and outside just as the taxi pulled up. Vanessa got out and gave me a hug. We went inside and immediately she said, “You have money? You give me now, that way no hokey-pokey.” I laughed. I was pretty sure she meant hanky-panky. I thought about putting my right foot in and my right foot out but instead I just handed her 200 Euros.

She looked at it and then asked, “You want cocaine?” I told her I still had half a gram left from the hotel. She said, “Yeah? Maybe we want more than half gram. I pay half for cocaine. Maybe I stay, you know?” She looked up at me with her puppy dog brown eyes and batted her eyelashes. I shook my head. “No, not all night, but, yeah, more coke.” Vanessa smiled and went back to the cab. She exited and closed the door. We walked upstairs as the taxi pulled away.

I asked Vanessa if she wanted something to drink. She said beer but I didn’t have any. She pouted but then looked at me like a lamb and asked, “Wine?” I said yes and went to the kitchen to pour a couple glasses of cabernet. I also filled two glasses of water.

I returned to the living room with the wine and went back to get the water. Vanessa said, “Where you go?” I said, “Just a minute,” and returned with the water. She said, “Ah, good.” I took a good look at Vanessa. She was wearing a black leather jacket that came down to her hips, trendy torn jeans, and black boots. I could make out just a bit of red underneath her jacket. She looked sexy as she sat there holding the wine glass. “So, we do coke?” she asked. I laughed really hard and almost dropped the glasses. There was drool dangling out of my mouth and I could hear Vanessa squealing with laughter. She had gotten up and was taking the glasses out of my hand. She said, “You are so excited for coke that you drool.” She turned on the sex in her voice and said, “Or maybe you drool for me.” I fell to my knees and laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. Vanessa said, “Hey, it so funny for you to drool for me? I sexy, no shame for you to drool for me.” I tried to stand up but I was still laughing too hard. I managed to yell, “Stop, you’re killing me!”

I heard Vanessa laugh and the click-clack of her boots on the hardwood floor coming toward me. She helped me to my feet and said, “Baby, you no need coke. You already high.” I took a deep breath and looked at Vanessa. She looked up at me and tried to suppress a laugh, but couldn’t. That started me all over again and soon enough we were holding each other up while we laughed hysterically, absolutely whooping and hollering with wild abandon.

We finally slowed down. “God, that felt good. Vanessa, you are the perfect mix of sexy and funny. Seriously—no, nothing’s serious about this at all—but you are … you’re the best." She let out a long, “Awww,” and said, “You are very sweet. You make me happy. I don’t know why, but you surprise me, you know?” I kissed her forehead and then went to my bedroom. Vanessa again said, “Where you go?” By the time she finished the sentence I came out of the bedroom with a CD case. She smiled and we walked over to the couch.

Vanessa poured out about a third of the baggie of coke and started mashing it with a phone card. She diced it up fast and formed four fat lines. I sarcastically asked her if she was in a hurry. She said, “I only here two hour tonight. What, you want sit and stare at wall?” She smiled as she said it. I shook my head back and forth but said nothing. I took a drink of water then grabbed a bill from my wallet. Vanessa rolled a bill of her own. “You have nice place,” she said.  I thanked her, but as soon as I did she said, “Still, I like hotel better.” I rolled my eyes and said, “Yeah, me, too, but I don’t have 400 Euros to spend for a room every night.” Vanessa bent down to do a line, but sat back up. She licked her lips and smirked. “If you were millionaire you would.” I threw up my hands. “When are you going to let that go?” She winked at me. “I will stop when you are millionaire. Then you will marry me and buy me diamonds all the time.” Oh, Lord.

Vanessa snorted a line, half in one nostril and half in the other. I did the same after she finished. We looked at each other with our eyes wide and said as one, “Oh my God!” I couldn’t believe it, but this stuff was even better than the other two grams. Vanessa shook her head and stood up. She walked around the coffee table to an area with plenty of space in the living room and shook her whole body. “Wow! Oh my God, this is really good!” I got up, too, and started pacing. “Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck.” We were both flying to the moon and orbiting at high speed.

Vanessa asked if she could play some music. I said yes. She said, “I play House tonight. I think it is right music for this cocaine.” No shit about that. Vanessa found a link for E-Contact and took off her boots. We both started grooving. She took off her jacket and threw it on the chaise lounge next to the stairs. She had on a long-sleeve light red button-down shirt that barely made it to the waist of her low-riding jeans. Two buttons we undone and she unbuttoned another one, revealing her ample cleavage. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. I had socks on and was slipping and sliding all over the floor. Vanessa was hopping up and down as the music shifted to Daniel Sanchez. We kept moving until we were all but drenched in sweat.

I waved my hand at Vanessa, indicating I needed a break. She nodded her head and we went back to the couch. We were huffing and puffing. Vanessa switched the music to a slow Romanian song. I was not keen on Romanian tunes except for some of the great gypsy fiddling, but in this case I was grateful. The music slowed my heart rate. We both guzzled our respective glasses of water and I took them to the kitchen to refill them. When I came back her shirt was completely unbuttoned. She was unbuttoning her jeans when she looked up at me. She had heat in her eyes. I put down the glasses and pulled my t-shirt over my head. I unbuttoned my jeans, too, but before I took them off I walked over to her and kissed her. She continued to unbutton as we kissed. She pulled away to push her jeans down around her ankles. She removed her socks then stood up and stepped out of her jeans. She was wearing light red panties that matched her shirt. She removed her shirt and I saw the bra matched the panties and shirt as well. Those needed to come off and fast.

I put my arms around Vanessa’s ass and lifted her off the floor. She put her arms around my neck and her legs around my lower back. She kissed me as I turned and walked to the bedroom. We were trying to devour each other as we kissed and her intensity pushed my passion into a frenzy. I threw her on the bed and fiercely pushed my pants to the ground, stepping out of my socks as I stepped out of my jeans. I dived on the bed and landed on Vanessa’s lips. I unclasped her bra and she dug at my underwear, ripping the waist band as she did. I lifted her bra over her head with great difficulty because she refused to let go of my briefs. I felt them rip even more until she finally let go. I saw she had a torn shred of my underwear in one hand as I removed her bra completely. Before she could grab my briefs again, I pulled down her panties with force. My cock had come out of my briefs which were now awkwardly dangling below my ass, the waist band stretched out completely and a huge hole in the front from where Vanessa had ripped the fabric. This turned me on even more.

Just before I was about to penetrate, though, Vanessa’s eyes went wide and she screamed, “Condom!” I dove off her to the left and almost fell out of bed. Thought returned and I said, “Oh, shit. That was close." Vanessa scampered out of the bedroom and returned just as fast, tearing the wrapper with her teeth and pulling out the condom. I shifted to lie face up and Vanessa’s wild eyes said, “You are mine!”

The sex was passionate, but became more intimate over time. I was becoming more comfortable with my sexuality. When we finished we laid on the bed looking at the ceiling. We were both breathing heavily. Vanessa rolled onto me, her petite body more like a feather than a weight. She tossed her hair back and looked into my eyes. She was smiling and her eyes were glowing. She said to me in a satisfied voice, “Was good. You give me orgasm. I think you are getting better.” She laughed and rolled off of me. I pretended to be mad at her and bear-hugged her while growling. She screamed a fake scream but it was piercing nonetheless. I let her go. She turned back, “No, baby, hug me like that more. I like your muscles squeezing me.” I did as she said. “Yes, like that. It feel goooood.”

We remained in that embrace until Vanessa sat up like a shot. “What is time?” she asked in a panic. I thought, jokingly, to myself, “That’s a question philosophers have been trying to answer for millennia.” She jumped out of bed and ran to the living room. I breathed deeply and stretched before slowly getting out of bed. I felt fucking great. I walked into the living room and saw Vanessa on her phone. She said, “I check messages. I have ‘nother client! Shit!” She kept listening then hit a few buttons and put the phone back to her ear. She sighed and her body relaxed. She plopped down on the couch. I loved watching her move while naked. Her body was delicious eye candy.

Vanessa took the phone away from her ear and smiled. “Client cancel. Oh my God. Would have been very, very bad.” I looked at the clock in the kitchen. It was a little after eleven. I told Vanessa. She said, “Yeah, I know. I stay ‘nother hour?” I said, “Vanessa, I have to watch my money at least a little.” She nodded. “Is okay I stay if you no pay?” I was taken aback. “Um, yeah, sure.” She smiled and knelt in front of the coffee table. She rolled a bill and bent over to snort a line. I looked at her and looked at the window. I thought it must have been a great view for the condos across the canal. A naked man and woman doing blow in the living room. Fuck.

I went to the window and pushed the button to close the blinds. I heard Vanessa gasp and figured she must have zoomed one. I looked over at her and she was standing, jiggling and shaking from the coke. She looked over at me and laughed. “Shit, I no notice window!” She kept laughing and I walked over to the coffee table to do the last line that Vanessa had cut earlier. I flung myself back against the couch and screamed, “Yeeeeowwww! Damn, that’s the shit. Fuck woman, I wanna fuck again!” Vanessa said, “Baby, we no fuck; we make love.” I stood up and walked to her. I put my arms around her and kissed her firmly and she kissed back. We twirled and kissed, exploring each other’s bodies with our hands.

I couldn’t think, I didn’t want to think. My body pulsed and shook, the coke sent my emotions through the ceiling to visit the upstairs apartment. Vanessa’s lips tied mine in knots and her hands shed unneeded molecules from my shoulders, back, and ass. It was all I could do not to squeeze her as hard as I could, to keep myself from biting her lips, to not pick her up and slide my cock into her again. Some part of my consciousness remained and repeated Vanessa’s earlier scream, “Condom!” Other than that tiny voice I was desire.

Vanessa pulled away and I gasped for her. She said, “I know, but water.” I nodded my head and grabbed the glasses. We drank and Vanessa began fiddling with my MacBook. Romanian gypsy music blared. She grabbed one of the glasses of wine and I grabbed the other. She clinked my glass and took a drink then went to the bedroom. I rubbed my hands together and followed her. She put on her bra and I said, “What are you doing?” She said, “I cold. I put on clothes." I put my arms around her waist and said, “Or … we could slide under the blankets and get warm again.” She smiled and said, “You are horny tonight.” I said, “It’s your fault. If you weren’t so fucking hot.” She smiled, just enough that I thought she might change her mind. She bit her finger and looked at me wickedly. “Okay, baby.”

I rushed her and tackled her onto the bed. “Aaaaieeee! You are crazy." She rolled me over and got out of bed. “I get condom, okay?” She came back and slid the condom on me with her mouth. She slowly climbed up on top of me and rode. I was so hungry. I rolled her over and looked into Vanessa’s eyes. I couldn’t speak, but I could feel my eyes screaming for her. She looked back into my eyes with wonderment, shaking her head with her mouth open, panting and whispering, “Yes … yes … yes …” She licked her lips and turned on her side. I stayed on my knees as she looked back and up at me. She reached back with her hand and clutched the side of my ass, willing me to move faster. I rotated my hips into a position where I could glide smoothly, effortlessly, and Vanessa moaned and squealed. Her body moved sensuously and then roughly; combined with her audible sighs and yelps of pleasure I felt every cell in my body convulse and I came … and came … and came, a never-ending ejaculation that threatened to dehydrate me.

I fell to her side and gulped for air. Vanessa remained partially curled, breathing soft “ohhhs” that gradually slowed to a stop. “Fuck, woman. You’re turning me into an animal.” Vanessa lifted her head and looked at me through the damp hair stuck to her forehead. She sighed and said, “Yes, I know. You make me rubber. I no can move.” We laid still for several minutes until Vanessa got out of bed. I asked her where she was going. She said, “Shower.” I nodded and laid back down.

When she got out of the shower she dressed. I got out of bed and put on sweats. Vanessa said, “I call driver.” When she got off the phone she said, “He busy so not here for half hour.” I nodded and asked her if she wanted more wine. She said no. “Water.” I got more water and when I came back Vanessa was on the computer. She asked me if she could use Yahoo! Messenger. I said sure. “You have webcam?” I told her it was built into the MacBook. She squealed with delight and started tapping away. I sat beside her and saw the image of a woman come on the screen. Vanessa turned to me and said, “My sister.” It was her older sister in med school. Vanessa was writing in Romanian and as she did she translated to me.

I asked her to teach me Romanian so she gave it a stab. The only word I remembered well was “iubescu” which means “I love you” … in the romantic sense. I joked with her and asked if she was writing “iubescu” to her sister. Vanessa turned to me with scorn in her eyes and gave me a clipped “No.” She winked and said, “I save iubescu for you, baby.” She leaned over and kissed me. When she turned back I looked at the computer screen and saw the video of her sister holding her hands to her mouth with her eyes wide. Her sister was gorgeous, perhaps even more beautiful than Vanessa though it was hard to tell through a 2x2 video image.

Vanessa sighed and typed a message. She turned to me and said, “Now she ask if you are boyfriend.” I asked Vanessa what she wrote. She looked at me with a pinched smile and giggled. “I tell her ‘yes.’” She laughed and then stopped herself short. She held her hand in front of the webcam and gave me a serious look. “She no know what I do so you are boyfriend, okay?” I said yes, I understand. Vanessa kept her hand over the webcam. “No one from Romania know what I do, okay?” I solemnly nodded yes as Vanessa took her hand off the webcam. Her sister’s image was gone. “Ah, she leave. Oh! Now my best friend is here!” She mentioned her name but I couldn’t understand what it was nor would I be able to pronounce it if I tried. A strange rolling “r” different than French was involved. Vanessa typed a message and then one was returned. Soon the two of them were typing fast and furious back and forth. Vanessa went from laughing to serious to angry to smiling. After 10 minutes I was getting bored so I went around the table and poured out more coke to mash and dice. Vanessa looked up at me and smiled. She said, “I done soon, baby. I sorry I message, but is special with her. She my bestest friend.”

I nodded sympathetically and went about my business. I cut two more lines and noticed there was maybe half a gram left. I looked at the clock and saw that twenty minutes had passed since she called her driver. I enjoyed her presence even when her focus was elsewhere. There was something about letting her be herself that made being with her much richer. I rolled a bill and did a line. Wow. Vanessa typed a goodbye to her friend and then did her line. I gave Vanessa the baggie of coke. She asked why. I said, “I have half a gram in the other room. You keep this for yourself.” She said, “Okay, baby.” She paused with a puzzled look on her face. “You pay me for coke?” I said no and got my wallet. I gave her a hundred Euros. She said, “It only thirty, baby. I pay half, remember?” I nodded and told her, “The rest is for you. Thank you for staying with me so long tonight. You make me very happy.” Vanessa took the cash and smiled. She placed her hands on my cheeks and said, “You make me happy, too. I want to stay longer. It is nice with you.”

Vanessa’s phone rang. “My driver is here.” Vanessa kissed me then said, “Call me, okay? Kiss.” In a flash, she was down the stairs and out the door. I went to the window, pushed the button to open it, and watched her get in the cab. It sped away down the street and out of sight. I thought to myself, “What a strange life she lives.”

Amsterdam Fifteen: Good Morning, Sunshine

I woke in the morning with Vanessa between my legs. She had applied a condom and was slowly sucking the tip of my penis. She looked up, saw I was awake, and winked at me. I laid my head back down and laughed. She lifted her head and her mouth made a popping sound as she uncorked her lips. “You like blow job, baby?” I said, “No, blow job is horrible!” Vanessa screamed unintelligibly then bit down on my dick, hard enough for me to cry out, “Hey!” I looked up and she still had my cock in her mouth. She was no longer biting, but she had a wicked twinkle in her eye. I said, “Hey, you watch yours—“ I wasn’t able to finish as she sucked more of me into her mouth and twirled her tongue. My head fell back and I felt a moan trying to escape but she had sucked the breath out of me. Thoughts drained as the sensations intensified. When I came I wasn’t sure how much time had passed. I didn’t care. I just panted and tried not to move, afraid if I did that my whole body would tremble and I would scream. She was just that fucking good.

Vanessa removed the condom, walked to the bathroom, and returned with a hand towel. She looked up at me, a service-like tenderness in her eyes, and washed me. When she finished she went back toward the bathroom and threw the cloth around the corner. She was amazing. Even after that personal outpouring of horror and emotion from last night she was still a delicious combination of personal and professional. I wanted to be with her. I wanted her to stay all day every day. I looked at my cock and then I looked at the clock. 8:00 AM. I was exhausted, happily exhausted. Vanessa said, “I take shower, baby.” I wanted to get up and join her, but I couldn’t move. I laid naked on the bed staring at the ceiling, enjoying the post-fellatio glow.

I heard the shower shut off and I made myself get out of bed. I was in danger of falling asleep. I nummied the remnants of white powder on the Phish CD case and got a whiff of alert. I tidied up the room a bit and put the food tray outside the door. I made sure the sign said do not disturb. By the time Vanessa walked out of the bathroom, I had dressed in sweats and laid out her clothes. She was wearing her white robe, noticed the clothes, and smiled. She kissed me on the cheek and said, “You are sweet, but I have clothes in bag.” She pulled out fresh underwear, bra, skirt, and blouse, none of them particularly sexy in comparison to her other clothes. I sat on the side of the bed watching her dress. She went back to the bathroom. I got up off the bed and started packing my belongings. Vanessa returned and I noticed she was smiling. She looked delightful.

Vanessa walked over and kissed me. “I have to go.” I stood there waiting for her to go, but she didn’t move. “What?” I asked. I slapped my head, “Oh, yes. The money!” I blushed, retrieved the Euros, and gave them to her. She shifted her weight and adopted one of the poses I loved, her head tilted with one leg extended to the side. She leafed through the bills then her face lit up. She kissed me again, smiled playfully, patted my cheek with a leather-gloved hand, and said, “Goodbye, innocent. You have number. Call me, okay? I want see you again.” She smiled, turned on her heel, and opened the door. She looked back and scrunched her face, “You know what I think?” I shook my head. “I think you are strange.” She let out a laugh and ran out the door.

I shook my head and walked to the door to closed it. I turned and leaned against it. I laughed. “I am strange.” I heard her voice in my head: “Baby.” That accent and those lilting sighs. Whew. I was dead tired, though, and too dreamy to think about anything but her. I pulled out the coke and a CD case from my backpack. I needed something to keep me awake until I got home. There was a lot of coke left. I chopped up a decent-sized line and zoomed it. I felt the whoosh of awareness swirl around my head and I stood up, hopped to the bathroom, and took a shower. I shaved, brushed my teeth, put on deodorant, yada yada yada.

I got dressed, cleaned up the coke and the CD case, and put them back in my bag. I checked my wallet to make sure I had everything. Satisfied, I picked up the room key, made one last round, and went to the door. I looked back at the room and sighed. I was going to miss it. “You made for a great weekend, motherfucker. Thank you.” I opened the door, threw the sign in the room, and closed the door. I went down the elevator to the front desk and proceeded to check out. I looked at my bill—over one thousand Euros. I charged it to my credit card. I loosely added up the damage from the weekend and realized I had spent well over three thousand Euros. Worth every fucking cent.

I walked into the drizzling rain and put on my cap. As I slowly walked toward my apartment through the blind streets of the Oude Zijde I realized I could barely remember who I was before the weekend began. It felt like years had passed since I had eaten pasta and shrooms on Friday. I thought of Vanessa now and then, an image of her standing with her hands on her hips, her head tilted to one side, one leg extended, her eyes piercing through me, her lips pursed in a kiss before broadening to a smile, and her voice fluttering in my ears, “What? You no like, baby?” Oh, I like, baby, I like.

...

I arrived at my apartment around noon. I had taken the scenic route. Not on purpose; I kept getting turned around on streets that doubled back the wrong direction and then tried to correct by taking streets that came to a dead end at a canal. I loved it! The Oude Zijde is wonderful that way. It didn’t hurt that it was sunny and the temperature was decent.

It felt weird being back, though. The apartment that seemed so spectacular when I first arrived now seemed pedestrian after my weekend at The Grand. I tossed my backpack onto the bed. I was famished. I made a sandwich then forced myself to unpack. I put a load of clothes into the washer. I set up my MacBook on the dining room table. I still had enough energy to download the photos and videos of Vanessa. I did a line of blow then looked through the slides. I deleted those that were blurry or redundant. About two thirds of the photos disappeared.

I watched one of the videos. The quality was excellent with good lighting and sound. Watching Vanessa dance put me right back in the hotel room. She was right in front of me, twirling around in her robe as it opened and closed, exposing her body then covering it up. I felt a pang for her. I was tempted to call and ask her come over, but I resisted the urge. Instead, I grabbed my lid of cannabis, lighter, and pipe. I loaded a bud of Buku into the bowl. I walked to the living room and pushed the button to open the blinds. I lit up as I looked out at the canal and the condos across. I inhaled deeply. The view was lovely in the sunlight. I exhaled, lit the bowl again, and sucked in the smoke. I held this one a little longer then exhaled.

I put down the pipe and lighter on the coffee table. I walked over to the stereo then realized I wanted to listen to Phish. I went to my bedroom and put the coke away. I ran a finger across the CD case and numbed my tongue with the powder. I removed the CD and lazily walked back to the living room. I grabbed the remote, cycled through a few songs, and rested on “David Bowie.” The stereo pumped out loud music and I turned it down a few notches so I could hear myself think. I probably had it cranked while I was shrooming on Friday. I thought of Friday again. I shook my head and smiled.

I zoned out on the couch listening to music. I thought of Vanessa’s story, the horrific series of events that led her from Romania to free agency as an escort in Amsterdam. In a way, she had made it. She was on top of the world, in control of her own destiny. But at what cost? She said she was broken. What did she mean by that? She was healthy physically except for the crack in her ribs. That had healed even if not set quite right. She meant her spirit. I saw a glimpse before we fell asleep. Anyone can be up and twirling about for a weekend. I certainly was and was I healed from years of depression? It felt that way, but was I really in any lasting sense? 

These were not questions I needed to answer. I wanted to enjoy myself. I picked up the bowl again and lit up. I finished off the bud while listening to “Destiny Unbound.” I cashed the bowl into the ashtray and lied down on the couch. I let the sounds roll over me as I fell asleep.

...

I woke early in the evening. The weekend had thrown my sleep pattern completely out of whack. I didn’t want to cook so I went for a walk. I passed Eik en Linde and thought of popping inside. I could see through the windows that it was packed and I wasn’t in the mood for a big crowd. I had no anxiety about it, though. It was merely a preference. I noted that and inhaled the cool night air. I felt good. I felt fresh. I felt like someone else. “Who the fuck is this guy?” I wondered. “Whoever he is I like him. I hope he sticks around.”

I walked to the city center, the east side. I found a Greek restaurant near the Red Light District. It was more of a sidewalk stand built into a building. I ordered a gyro and a diet soda then walked down a side street until I found a bench. I watched pedestrians and cyclists pass as I ate. One of the cyclists with healthy curly blond hair was whistling the James Bond theme song. I laughed so hard soda nearly shot out my nose. Amsterdam is always alive but at night it feels electric. I could feel it crackling with energy in this neighborhood.

I decided to wander south. I crossed the Amstel, passed through Rembrandtplein, and followed Vijzelstraat until it intersected with Kerkstraat, one of my favorite streets in Amsterdam. I walked to the west. There were pedestrians and cyclists but without that hyper-energy that sizzles around the Red Light or Rembrandtplein. I saw the Conscious Dreams sign and said, “Why not?” I entered and looked for a bit before going to the counter. I had no intention of shrooming, but I wanted them on hand. There was an attractive Dutch woman working. She spoke English in that special lilting Dutch manner.

I flirted with her, complimenting her accent, telling her she had beautiful blonde hair. My spirit must have been just right because she flirted right back, telling me she thought I was Dutch with my black coat, black pants, and easy gait. “That’s a hell of a compliment, woman. I might fall in love with you if you keep it coming.” She laughed and said “You look very handsome as well.” I sighed and put my hands on the counter. I tilted my head and looked her in the eyes. “Now why would you do that? Now I’m in love with you. I’ll never be happy again unless you go out with me.” She kept laughing so I said, “Seriously, what time do you get off work.” I was joking around, but I played the part pretending to be deadly serious. “Well, uh, I have a boyfriend.” I threw up my hands, turned around, and took three steps toward the far wall. There were no other customers in the shop. I put a hand over my eyes, turned back to her, and lowered my hand. I sighed and looked up. While looking at the ceiling I said, in a choked-up voice, “You couldn’t just tell me that straight out?” I looked her in the eye and yelled, “No! You led me on, made me think that we shared something special, that maybe, just maybe, you were the one!” I put my face in hands and doubled over, heaving my back as I pretended to sob uncontrollably.

I stood up straight like a shot and removed my hands from my face. I looked at her as casually as I could and said, “Okay, got it out of my system. How much for the Ecuadorians?” She shook her head and said, “Whoa. I …” I interjected, “Sorry, I was just having fun. I’m American; we love melodrama and overacting. I’m just playing to type.” She smiled but had a look in her eye that said, “I’m not sure I’m going to flirt with anyone ever again.” I asked her what she thought of Americans and she seemed to regain her composure. She said, “They’re okay. The Americans we get around this neighborhood are different than those around the train station and Dam Square.” I said, “Yeah, probably fewer tourists, more travelers.” She nodded.

There are major differences between tourists and travelers. Tourists want to see the guide book sights, take photos of everything, ignore the subtleties that make Amsterdam rich, and stay out of areas that veer off the beaten path. That’s why Eik en Linde sees so few Americans and why I was such an oddity there. Travelers want experiences and memories rather than photos and journal entries. They want to meet the Dutch and other travelers, they want to drink in the richness of an out-of-the-way jazz club or find a party by talking with a local at a little known club in De Pijp. Travelers are artists of experience and they want to collaborate with other experiential performers. At this point, I was a tweener, not quite confident enough to really be a traveler.

Then again, I wasn’t trying to be a traveler on this trip. I was trying to live like a local—though my weekend put me more in the class of … I’m not really sure. Neither tourist nor traveler, I guess. It was a weekend of hedonism, mostly Dionysian but with flashes of Epicureanism. Vanessa’s story changed the tenor of the experience. She became human and I became more human as a result. I owed her a debt of gratitude that went far beyond money.

I continued conversing with the Conscious Dreams' woman. I was running out of steam so I bid her adieu. Before I walked out I twirled around and asked her what days she worked. She said, “I’m on to you now. Good try, though.” I laughed and she gave me a smile. I said, “Tchüss!” as I headed out the door. I walked back to the apartment. I checked my watch; almost ten. It was three in the afternoon in Wisconsin. I found it ridiculous that I lived there. I belonged in Amsterdam. I had thought that the first time I exited Amsterdam Centraal. A wave of nostalgia came over me as I remembered how the city had taken my breath away that first trip. I truly wanted to live in Amsterdam. Not just “live like a local,” but set down roots. I wondered how I might go about doing that.

Next Generation Apple Products

Before Steve Jobs passed away, he downloaded his brain onto a device he designed and created. He called the device the iAm in recognition of his reputation as the Messiah of Technology. The iAm is not and will never be for sale because it is and ever will be the acting CEO of Apple. Tim Cook currently holds the human position of CEO, but he consults with the iAm before making any decisions for the company. The iAm has so far developed a dozen new ideas and prototypes for the next generation of Apple products. These future products are now in development, but until now nothing was known about them. The iAm declared, however, that these products should become known as a means to transform culture in preparation for their eventual release. The following products are being developed.

iStink: The iStink device is an earbud that operates in such a way as to let users audibly know whether they have bad breath or body odor. The iStink even alerts users when they haven’t sufficiently wiped their asses.

iNeed: The iNeed is a device implanted in the spine. It lets users know when they need food or water, when they have to urinate or take a shit, whether they need warmer clothing or an air-conditioned environment, and so on. As individuals lose touch with their senses as they remain online 24/7, the iNeed will help users continue living well past their expiration dates.

iWish: The iWish look like contact lenses and are worn, well, like contact lenses. They have to be replaced every two weeks or else blindness may occur. It is a good idea to use the iNeed when using the iWish for this reason. The device focuses user attention on dreams, always reminding them that who they are and what they currently possess is not enough for lasting fulfillment. The iWish lets users know which Apple products will best satiate their needs until a new Apple product becomes available by constantly flashing subliminal images. Seizures are a likely side effect, but the next product works in tandem to treat medical emergencies.

iMed: The iMed looks like a small iPod, but it is not made of hard plastic. It is gelatinous and attaches to the perineum of men and women. When a medical emergency of any type is detected by the sensors of the iMed, chemicals and biological processes are created or put into motion to address medical conditions and emergencies. The sensors communicate with the nervous system and all bodily organs through a wireless system. In situations in which users choose to partake in unhealthy activities, the iMed delivers a painful electronic shock to the perineum.

iDoubt: The iDoubt is an existential aid injected into the brain through the nasal cavity. It is for users who obsess about the meaning of life. Whenever doubts arise about one’s self-worth or whether there is a point to life, the iDoubt triggers the release of endorphins and overrides negative thoughts. New thoughts are implanted that help users believe that self-worth is attained through the purchase of Apple products and the purpose of existence is to buy as many Apple products as possible.

iSky: Fingernail press-ons allow users to fly beyond the earth’s atmosphere. Use of iSky without an iBreathe is likely to result in death.

iBreathe: A mouthpiece that allows users to breath even in environments absent oxygen, whether underwater, in collapsed mines, smoky fires, or outerspace.

iWarm: A rectal implant that maintains body temperature at 98.6 degrees F. Useful when using iSky and iBreathe to fly past the earth's atmosphere or when climbing Mount Everest.

iBorg: The iBorg is a headset device that allows users to connect their thoughts with other iBorg users. The development of a collective Apple consciousness results from two or more users linked into the iBorg network. The collective of all iBorg users is ruled by the iAm.

iThink: In future generations, thought will become obsolete as technological devices make decisions for humans who have become too lazy and ignorant to figure out anything for themselves. Focused primarily on meeting needs for instant gratification, the human race will devolve in such a way that spider monkeys and orangutans will surpass humans in thought complexity. The iThink will assume responsibilities for the thought of users. An Apple representative will attach the iThink, a centimeter wide dot, between but slightly above the eyebrows of customers. The iThink will meld with each users’s DNA and become the operating system for the human brain and nervous systems. The electromagnetic charge of users will provide energy so that the iThink will never need to be detached and plugged into a socket or battery to recharge it. The device will work in such a way that an idiot--as future humans will refer to themselves--will know whether or not he or she wants to stop at Starbucks for coffee. The answer will always be no to such questions as the iThink decides that idiots should save money for other Apple products.

iMind: The iMind is a headset that allows users to experience one second of Steve Jobs’ life. A subscription is required to experience one second per month. It is always the same second of Steve’s life, a moment while he was urinating in a private bathroom at Apple headquarters. As even one second of Steve Jobs’ life will overwhelm even the most intelligent and creative person on earth, the iMind increases the capacity for user experience exponentially in relation to the relative stupidity of the user as a means to prevent the death or insanity of the user. The iAm predicts that the iMind device and the extraordinarily expensive subscription necessary to experience a moment of Steve’s life will become the greatest seller in Apple history. It is estimated that a single moment of Steve’s life is more addictive than heroin, tobacco, meth, and alcohol combined. Early testing shows that the experience produces a more profoundly euphoric and mind-bending experience than a cocktail of cocaine, ecstasy, methamphetamines, and LSD.

iDie: This device is an urn that holds the ashes of deceased users. The iDie is connected via wifi to the iAm. The iDie reincarnates the consciousness of the user so that the user's awareness may live forever within the multiverse of the iAm.

Amsterdam Fourteen: Vanessa's Story

Vanessa knelt down next to the dresser. She rolled up a bill and pulled her hair back behind her ears. She bent over and snorted half a line up one nostril. She switched the bill to her other nostril and zoomed the other half. She stood up, squeezed her nose, blinked her eyes, and opened her mouth wide, closed it, and opened it again. She gave her head a little shake and looked at me with her eyes watering. “Whooo. You go.” I pulled a new bill out of my wallet, rolled it, and knelt down. There were two small lines chopped out. I snorted one in each nostril. My right nostril high-fived my left and they happily breathed in tandem as I stood up.

I told Vanessa, “You’re connections are great.” She looked at me like I’d spoken Chinese to her. I rephrased, “The coke is good.” She nodded as I turned toward the bathroom. “Ja, it is good. What you expect? I give you shit for present?” Vanessa laughed and hopped on my back with her arms around my neck. I carried her to the sink and filled two glasses of water. I lifted one and Vanessa reached down to grab it. She drank hers as I picked up mine to drink. “Here, baby. I done. Now you carry me to bed.” I took her glass as I drank then put them both down on the counter. I gave her a piggyback ride to bed.

I flopped her down and rolled onto the bed next to her. We laid side by side. I propped my head up with my arm under a pillow while Vanessa laid flat, her robe open slightly revealing her cleavage. We were silent for a few minutes before Vanessa spoke. “How you make so much money?” I had forgotten I had told her I made eight million dollars and that she thought I was a millionaire. Or maybe she didn’t think I was and was probing for the truth. I didn’t know what to say and I regretted playing the game I did the previous night. On the other hand, maybe the prospect of being with a millionaire was what was driving her into such playful moods. Maybe it was the coke. But then again she was electric from the get-go. I didn’t know and stopped trying to figure it out.

I confessed. I said, “I’m not a millionaire. I felt supercharged from the shrooms and coke and I just blurted out that I’d made millions of dollars.” I laughed before continuing. “I don’t know why I said it. I was just so fucking happy.” Vanessa furrowed her brow and pursed her lips. “What is ‘supercharge’?” I replied, “It means I was full of energy. Honestly, I was out of my mind when I said it.” I wanted to tell her I was delusional, but I doubted she knew the word. It would have added to the confusion. Vanessa's brow remained furrowed and she gave me an accusatory look. “You lie to me?” I sighed and buried my face in the pillow. I groaned and left it there. Vanessa thwacked me on the back of my head and said, “Hey, I ask you question! Why you lie to me?” I lifted my head and looked at her. I didn’t know how to explain to her that I wasn’t lying, that I had been tripping.

I asked her, “You know magic mushrooms?” She answered, “Yes. I no like.” I said, “Well, I like, but they can make fantasy seem like reality. Do you understand?” She shook her head no, but she asked, “You were crazy on drugs?” I lit up and shouted, “Yes!” She shook her head and folded her arms across her chest. “You are stupid. I no like being fool.” I nodded my head. I didn’t blame her one bit. I meant no harm, but I didn’t know what I was saying when I said it. We had developed a different level of intimacy since that time, though. I could tell she felt betrayed. “I’m sorry, Vanessa. I didn’t mean to fool you. I was having fun, but you’re right, it was stupid.”

Vanessa looked up at the ceiling and sighed. She shook her head. She propped herself up on her elbows and her robe came open. She peered at me, studied my face, and sighed. “How I trust you if you lie?” Good question. I looked at her intently and said, “You don’t trust me if I lie. I’m telling you the truth, though. I didn’t mean it as a lie when I said it and then I was just having fun playing. I forgot about it until you just asked me how I made so much money. Then I told you the truth, that I didn’t make millions of dollars.”

Vanessa lied back down and folded her hands over her stomach. She was looking up at the ceiling. She tilted her head back and forth, pursed her lips and then smiled widely, pursed them again, and then smiled again. I didn’t know how to interpret what she was doing. I didn’t know what to say, either, so I just laid next to her, waiting.

Vanessa remained silent for several minutes. She fidgeted with her fingernails, sighed occasionally, and kept playing with her facial expressions. I had no idea what was going through her mind. She propped herself up again and said, “Okay. I believe you. You are fool, you know?” She got out of bed and went to the bathroom. I thought to myself, “Yeah, I am a fool. This fucking sucks. I should have lied.” I didn’t believe that, though. In a way, I came back down into myself through the process. I waved at Icarus still flying toward the sun and said, “You’ll get there, buddy. I’ll follow you later. I’ll hang with Daedalus for now until I get my wings back under me.”

Well, there was still plenty of coke so I figured I’d do a line. I was still high from all the blow, but that interaction dampened my mood. An artificial sweetener seemed in order. I climbed out of bed and knelt next to the dresser. I chopped the yayo and formed a couple big lines. I snorted half of one into a nostril and switched the bill to finish the other half.

Vanessa came out of the bathroom. I felt much better. I looked up at her as she approached and smiled. “I’m sorry.” She smiled a little and put her hands on my head. She pulled my head close to her, up against her lower stomach. I heard her sigh and then she said, “I am sorry, too. I was mean. You are not fool. You play a game and I make big deal. It is not big deal.” She knelt next to me and cupped my face in her hands. She leaned in and gave me a kiss. She pulled back, stuck her tongue out at me, and said, “Meep!” I asked her if she wanted to do a line and she shook her head no. “I am high, baby!” She opened her mouth into a grin and stood up. “Come to bed with me.”

We laid next to each other and Vanessa said, “It is strange. Well, you are strange, but this is strange, too.” I asked her what she meant. Vanessa seemed to struggle for words. “You are strange client. You are nice and fun. You treat me well and make me feel like I no work. You let me do what I want to do.” She popped up on her elbow to look down at me as I laid with head on a pillow. “It is not normal to do what I want, to listen to Romanian music, to SMS friends. Why you let me do these things?” I was puzzled. I said, “I don’t know. Why wouldn’t I let you do what you want to do?” Vanessa’s mouth opened wide into a perplexed grin, her eyes laughed to the ceiling, and she slapped my chest with her hand. I yelped, “Ow!” Vanessa giggled as she looked down at me. “I no know what to think. You are strange!”

I considered what she was saying. “So, how do other clients treat you?” Vanessa hemmed and hawed, but I was insistent. She climbed on top of me and folded her arms across my chest. She rested her chin on her forearms. “Why do you ask this question?” I said, “Well, you make it sound like you have very different experiences with other clients. You said it is bad, but I don’t know how it is bad. I’m intrigued and fascinated by your life.” She grunted in disgust. “My life is not fascinating.” I asked her to tell me why. She sighed and flopped onto her back next to me. Her robe opened and both breasts were exposed. I became momentarily distracted, but I consciously forced my eyes to her face. I propped myself up on my elbow so I could look her in the eyes.

“Please, Vanessa, I want to know.” She closed her robe and sighed again. “Okay, I will tell you, but only because you are not like other men. You are like child, silly and funny.” Ow! She must have seen the look on my face because she quickly said, “No, no, no.” She clicked her tongue and seemed to struggle for words. “You are, how do you say, like child.” She threw up her hands and spewed out a slew of Romanian words. Her passionate frustration was fucking sexy. I loved hearing her speak Romanian. I took a guess at what she meant and said, “Naïve?” She responded no, but then said, “Well, yes, but that not it.” I tried again. “Innocent?” Her eyes widened and she yelped, “Yes! Yes, that is the word. You are an innocent. You are kind and thoughtful.”

I asked Vanessa if it was unusual for her to have “innocent” clients. She guffawed. “Duh! Yes!” I was taken aback not by her response but by the way she responded. My stomach turned as I imagined her with mean-spirited men. “You seem like an innocent as well. You are so full of life. I would not have guessed that you were with a lot of creeps.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s my job to be happy with men.” I asked her if she was pretending to be happy with me. She eyed me with a probing seriousness before shaking her head. “You really are naïve.” Wow. That shocked me. She quickly smiled and popped up to me, “No, no, no. I am teasing you. Ha! You really think I am the great actress, don’t you?” She smiled coyly and licked her lips. “Baby, I can make you do anything I want. That is why you love me, no?” She giggled and fell back against the bed.

Holy fuck. I wasn’t sure if it was the blow, Vanessa, or the combination of the two, but my mind was reeling. “Vanessa, be serious.” I looked up and thought to myself, “Why would I say that?!” I shook my head and then looked down at her. I laughed and said, “No, don’t be serious. Fuck, you’re blowing my mind.”

I got up and went to the bathroom to piss. When I returned she was sitting in the bed cross-legged. Her head was down and she was picking at her left thumb with the thumb and index finger of her right hand. Without looking up she said, “I will tell you.” She looked despondent. I sat gently on the edge of the bed. “I will tell you story of how I become escort.” I sat down next to her, pulling both legs up on the bed. She pulled her legs up as well and turned to face me.

“My older sister, Maria, she is medical student. I want be like her, go to medical school and become doctor. My papa no afford it. He and mama think, ‘Oh, be a secretary; you no need school.’ My older sister, she is smart one. I not smart like her, but I smart. I think I be doctor, too.” Vanessa sighed before continuing. “Before I eighteen my cousin visit me. She with boyfriend from Amsterdam. She say, ‘Oh, you make so much money in Amsterdam. It is easy. You can be waitress and make more money than doctor in Romania. Come to Amsterdam, make money for school.’”

Vanessa became animated, “I was excited! I dream about working in Amsterdam, having money, and Dutch boyfriend like my cousin. She very beautiful, more beautiful than me. My papa, though, say ‘No. My daughters stay in Romania. No.’ I no care what papa say. I love him, yes, very much, but I cry and cry when my cousin leave. I think I never go to Amsterdam, never go to school, never become doctor.”

Vanessa asked if I could get her a glass of water. I went to the bathroom and filled a glass. I returned and gave it to her. She drank and handed the glass to me. I put it on the end table as she continued. “Before my birthday of eighteen my cousin and boyfriend come to take me. I sneak away in night and think I will have big birthday celebration in Amsterdam! We drove and drove and drove,” Vanessa dragged out the words while gesturing and making exhausted facial expressions, “and when we get to Amsterdam my cousin take me to big high rise in suburb. She smile at me and use cell phone. She talk in Dutch on phone. I speak no Dutch so I no know what she say. She smiling so I think is for party.”

I was riveted, as fascinated by her telling of the story as I was by the story itself. Vanessa continued, her voice rising and falling at different points in the story, her facial expressions shifting just as quickly, “My cousin off phone and tell me wait outside for man take me to apartment. I ask her I have own apartment? She say ‘Yes!’ and laugh.” I noticed her English was becoming worse as she told the story, but I said nothing because I didn’t want to interrupt her. “I go out car and wait. My cousin say, ‘We go groceries and come back.’ I say okay, but I nervous. Two man come out, big men, Romanian men. They say ‘Come with us,’ and take me in building. We on elevator and walk to apartment. They open door and take me to room. Ten women inside room, some naked. I say, ‘Hey, wait,’ and man smack me across mouth. I cry and he push me into room. A woman laugh at me. I cry and cry. Then man take me into 'nother room. He tell me many men coming for sex. I scream, ‘No!’ and kick him. He smack me and smack me and punch and kick me. He beat shit out me and say, ‘You no fuck now but you fuck soon.’ I bloody. He break rib when kick me.”

Vanessa took my hand and placed it on her rib cage on the left side of her body, not far from her breast. I could feel the bone had a lumpiness to it. I was in shock. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t do anything but listen. “For two weeks I drugged. All kind of drug. Heroin, LSD. They beat me up over and over again. After month, I am broken. Fat, ugly man comes and he and other men fuck me and fuck me and fuck me while I am drugged. Next night is same. They shoot heroin in me and rape me. I am broken and I no care anymore. They tell me ‘go suck dick’ and I suck dick. They say ‘He fuck you in ass’ and I let fuck me in ass.”

Vanessa paused as I sat silently, stunned. Her story was overwhelming. Her voice was filled with emotion, but whatever scars were within her weren’t evident even as she spoke. The pain must have been buried deep. She continued, “Six months like this. I think six months but I no know. Finally I get break and purchase by ‘nother man, better man. He say I have good look and take care of me, no punching, no kicking. He want girls attractive cause more money. He buy nice clothes and take me spa. Still, I fuck stupid, fat, ugly men and mean Moroccan. Moroccan, they are worst. Nasty, smell bad, and violent, but my new man have men who hurt me beat up. This man, Lubja, he tell me if I pay him then I free and work on own or go home. I get no money for sex, only he get money. I no believe he let go, but … he let go. Now I am, what you say, ‘free agent.’ But I am broken. I never same as before. I no go home cause I ashamed.”

I said to Vanessa, “What about the escort service you work for now? The one I called last night?” She looked confused but then seemed to understand. “I contract. I contract other agencies, too. They take half. That why I tell you call my phone cause I keep all money!” For the first time since she started telling me her story she smiled. She even laughed a little. “How long have you been on your own?” I asked. “I don’t know. Maybe nine month.” I thought about this. If she had come from Romania when she was eighteen and the timeline of her story was true … hmmm.

I asked Vanessa, “Are you really only nineteen?” She smiled wryly. “What you think?” I didn’t know what to think. My head was spinning. I didn’t know if her story was true, but she had been very serious and it seemed entirely plausible. I wondered if I was in danger from the Romanian mob, financially speaking—I’d given my credit card number to an escort service and a cab driver who sold me cocaine! But her story came back to me and I remembered how she slumped now and then as she told it, how sad her voice sounded at times, and how her English broke. My own heart sank and I reached over to hold her hand. She opened it and looked up at me. She said, “You are good man. I am broken.”

I could have cried. I wanted to help her and, in a way, I was. I was paying her 1000 Euros and, if she was to be believed, it was all for her to keep. I said to Vanessa, "You are a strong woman to survive all of that." She said, "No, I am not strong." I said, "You are stronger than you think. What do you want right now?” She looked at me, puzzled. I got up and took the glasses to the bathroom to fill them with water. I brought them back and gave her one. She drank, gulped it all down. I held out the other one and she nodded yes and took it. This time she took just one drink and handed it back to me. I took a drink and set the glass down. I looked at her. She wasn’t crying but her eyes were misty. “Why you ask me that? Why you want know that?” If she hadn’t been so sad I think she would have been angry, angry at me for prodding her to recall a nightmare. I was glad she told me her story because I saw she was not an invincible goddess but a human being as vulnerable as any other.

Her beauty was different now and I understood how come she had seemed so soulful for such a young woman. She had gone through a hell I couldn’t fathom. To survive such horror she had to be strong, resilient. I thought, "The real heroes in this world are either invisible or vilified as immoral." I felt impotent to do anything about the suffering from her past. I asked her if she wanted music and she said no. I pulled myself up next to her, put my arm around her shoulders, and she laid her head against mine. She put her left hand on my thigh which was covered by my robe. We sat there like that for a few minutes. When Vanessa moved my leg felt numb from being in such an awkward position. She got up, wiped her eyes, and walked to the bathroom. When she came back she wasn’t wearing her robe. She crawled onto the bed and as I opened my mouth to say something she put her finger to my lips.

She had a condom in her other hand. She told me to lay back and I did. She parted my robe and she began stroking my thighs with her fingers. She didn’t look at me, though, not at my face, not in the eyes. She moved her caress between my legs and slowly, gently slid her hand back and forth. I was becoming aroused, but more like I would with a lover, with a woman I had known for years and loved deeply. She tore open the wrapper, threw it to the ground, and slowly rolled the condom on me. She straddled me and I felt her wetness as she lowered herself onto me. Her head was down and her hair covered her face and breasts as she slowly and rhythmically moved. In time she increased her pace and as she did she looked up at me. Her eyes were piercing, filled with powerful emotion. I felt the passion of her presence. I sat up and took her in my arms. She kissed me, a deep, graceful kiss. We remained in that position, our lips intertwined, as she gyrated in circles and I hipped in tune with her movements. We breathed in and out of each other’s mouths until I was breathing harder and harder. I fell back when I came and she fell with me. She kissed my chin and pulled herself up to my lips causing me to slide out of her. Her hair shrouded my face and though it was dark I could see her eyes gleaming.

“Do I make you happy?” she asked. I didn’t say anything. I looked into her eyes and lifted my head so I could kiss her lips. She sat up and rolled off of me and out of bed. She turned back to look at me and said, holding her hand in front of her lips, “I have to pee.” Then she giggled and scampered away. I laid my head back and shook it side to side and said, “Wow.” I removed the rubber and got out of bed to throw it away. I pulled down the covers and slid into bed under them.

When Vanessa came back in the room she seemed relaxed and happy with a casually confident smile. If her story was true, she’d earned every bit of confidence she had. If her story wasn’t true then I really was with one of the greatest actresses in the world. I chose to believe she was telling the truth and decided I wouldn’t question whether she was ever again. Perhaps I was overly trusting, but I didn't think so. It would have done more harm to me to disbelieve. Why would she tell me such a horror story if it wasn’t true? Most men would reel in horror and believe, as she did, that she was “broken” or, as some men might say, “damaged goods.” I felt nothing of the sort. My respect for her had grown and I wondered if I was really worthy of being with her. She was a survivor, after all, and as such I believed she deserved a special kind of respect reserved for those who have suffered immensely in life. She deserved nothing but happiness the rest of her days as far as I was concerned.

Vanessa slid next to me under the covers, stroking the hair on my chest and looking at me. She leaned over and kissed me. “Your thoughts are deep now,” she said as she pulled away. “You think too much. I am okay, okay?” I pulled her on top of me and kissed her. She rolled over to lie next to me again. She said, “We sleep now, okay?” I said yes and started to get up to turn off the lights. Vanessa pulled me back down. “No. Leave light on, okay?” My heart went out to her and I said okay. I held her close to me and stroked her hair as she breathed softly into my chest. I closed my eyes, let go of worry, and fell asleep.