Hooked

Posted on February 14, 2009

By Sean McGannThe first time I was with a prostitute was in Amsterdam, a very logical and appropriate place to have your initial experience with a hooker. It’s the sort of town where you do things of that nature. Use drugs, go to the Anne Frank Museum, check out their world-renowned tulips, shoot heroin while on a tour boat, etc. And do them all without guilt or fear of prosecution. It’s a beautiful place, not the kind of place you want to raise a child, but a beautiful place nonetheless.I landed in the late morning and from the airport I took a train that dropped me just outside the Red Light District—ground zero for prostitutes. Now let me get one thing straight before I go any further. I didn’t fly to Amsterdam for hookers. In fact, when I arrived hookers were the farthest thing from my mind. I had nothing against them; they just seemed like something that other people did… like playing professional baseball or smoking crack. Hookers were fine, just not for me. Or hadn’t been until this moment in my life.At the train station I was given a flyer for a nearby hostel, and not having any other options, I decided I would stay there for my first night. Once I checked in and got things sorted, my jet lag caught up with me. I climbed in my bunk and slept a good part of the afternoon, but when I awoke I was sullen. People on the move enjoy a freedom of the mind that only happens on the road. There was action all around me… but it felt out of reach. And by action I mean unconventional behavior. Outlaw sensibilities navigated by an uncompromising desire to see what else is out there. Exploration, investigation and inquiry clothed in renegade escapade. I sought higher learning. And by high… I mean: high.And then, suddenly, as though an act of God, our Heavenly Father and protector, I felt the bed shake. One of my fellow travelers was insisting I get a drink with him. Eureka! An alcoholic beverage just outside the Red Light District was exactly what I needed. Perhaps things would get interesting after all. Kevin was Irish and loved the Doors (Into this house we’re born. Into this world we’re thrown.) That was really all of the connection we needed. Irish is Irish. I may have been born in the damp woods of the Great Northwest, and he may have born in the religion soaked streets of Dublin, but we shared the same blood, and pale skin, and knew valuable fugitive poetry. That was enough and we began to drink immediately.-Ya like living in the US, eh? Kevin asked with his sing-song Irish accent.-It’s all right. I answered.Kevin took a drink. –Somtim’ tat’s bin puzzling me, I wan ta ask ya ‘bout.-Go ahead.-What’s with all ya Yanks being obsessed wit Nietzsche?I pondered it for a moment. –I dunno. Just the right guy at the right time, I suppose. Will to power, twilight of our idols and all that.-Ya know he went stone crazy from the herpes, don’ ta? Kevin inquired.-Yeah, I know.-And ‘tat he foocked his sister?-Sure, that’s pretty common knowledge. I replied.-‘Tat doesn’t bodder you?-Not really.-Bodders me. I never trusted a guy that foocked his sister. An’ I never will.–Probably a good rule of thumb. I replied.Looking back on the time I spent with Kevin, this is when the thought first entered my mind that I might want to be with a hooker. We were beyond buzzed in a foreign land, and just a few short blocks from the historic Red Light District. In some sense it would have been a crime not to partake in whatever pleasures might be available. I turned to Kevin. -So, what’s with those girls selling sex? Have you tried it?-Nah. He answered and then grinned. -But I ‘taut about it.That was all I needed. I suggested that we finish our beers.The Red Light District is a series of small alleyways lined with doors and narrow windows. Behind each window is a woman, generally wearing sexy lingerie. Next to each window is a door that leads to that woman in the sexy lingerie. It is a little like window-shopping. Every alleyway presents a different type of woman. You might turn one corner and find a flock of thin, blond haired and blue-eyed women. You might turn another and find large, dark skinned women. While another might be petite Asian women. There is something for every taste and yearning. Kevin and I gazed around in amazement. Kevin wanted a little blond, while I desired a compact Latina. We shook hands at this point and agreed to meet up on the other side.Now I’m wandering the Red Light alone, wondering why I want a compact Latina? I’m pretty sure it has to do with an ex-girlfriend, a compact Latina who held a certain degree of influence over me. Maybe I was trying to recapture that… It’s also a well-known fact that woman of color are more passionate than their Caucasian sisters when it comes to love and things of that sort. But whatever the reason, a compact Latina was what I desired, and since I was paying, that was what I was going to have. I found her down the third alley (the first being “blondes with small breasts” and the second being “redheads with bad teeth.”) My girl was sitting on a stool wearing a pink bra and ultra thin panties. She also had a white feather boa tossed around her neck. She smiled as I approached and tilted her head toward the door. I was transfixed and knew she was the one, drunk as I was with alcohol and emotion. She greeted me warmly and led me to a small bedroom with two beds and a dresser.The space was cluttered but welcoming. I felt a connection immediately, yet she would hardly look at me. I understood why. But it bothered me because I wanted this moment to be something else. For the two of us, prostitute and drunk, to peacefully stand on level ground and gaze sincerely at each other’s humanity. Two humans with separate interests and goals, joined together in common purpose. Both warm under the same umbrella.She took my money and said, “Take off your pants.” Her back was turned, and she undid her bra, and then rubbed some sort of solution on her nipples. I assume it was a disinfectant. When she turned back, I saw that her breasts had kept their shape.-What’s your name? she asked.I told her.-You’re Canadian?-No. American.-Same difference. She told me to get on the bed.-What’s your name? I asked.-Marilyn. She laughed. -Like the movie star.We both laughed. She was starting to warm up, at least. She seemed amused by my drunken innocence, but refused to look me in the eye. She sat on the bed and took out the thickest, industrial condom I’d ever seen before or since.-Do you want to put it on?-You can. I said.After we were done, she said that I’d interrupted her dinner. She sat up and took a plate of French fries down from the dresser, grabbed a few and then offered the plate to me. She looked me in the eye now, and I felt less drunk and more enchanted, though I knew it was mostly lust on my part, a bit of wanting to test the limits of my traditional Irish/Catholic background. And for Marilyn it was her job. But even during the most vulnerable and private portions of our encounter (like when I asked if I was the “biggest” guy tonight and she told me unapologetically no), I felt as though we had connected. And for me that was important. Why? I’m not sure. Maybe for all my ranting about wanting to push the boundaries, I just wanted to connect with someone on a personal level and feel alive for a moment or two. Not so alone…Hard to say though, I was drunk.

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As I walked outside Kevin was waiting for me.-Ta git fooked, brodder?-Yep. I said enthusiastically.But Kevin looked worried. -Ya ‘tink we’re gonna get ta’ herpes, like Nietzsche did?I thought about this. -Well… I hope not. But if we do, at least we’re not getting it from our sister.This seemed to satisfy Kevin. He nodded, smiled and we walked merrily back to our hostel; one experience richer than we were when we left.Sean McGann is a writer, painter and filmmaker. He works in television production, and given the subject of this long-ago tale, has a very loving and understanding wife.

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