December 28, 2012
Wanna Go to Amsterdam?
This one's called Amsterdam. I *love* Amsterdam. Although, I'll admit that the make-up I think of in relation to the Netherlands is Face Stockholm. I adored shopping for the perfect red right on the canal. Check out their Mantra, Cognac, and Matte Scarlet. God, I want them all!
Speaking of Amsterdam...I recently tripped over my story, "Wanna Buy a Bike?"—I'd posted the piece on the blog several years ago, but figure that a re-run might be fun....
Wanna Buy a Bike?
In Amsterdam, you can prove the Rolling Stones wrong. Here, you actually can always get what you want. That is, if what you want are drugs—any drugs—or sex—any sex. Sex with men. With women. Orgies. S/M. B/d. Name the perversion and you can make it come true.
Sure, I understand the benefits of having such readily available pleasures. In the states, you have to search out the seedier sides if you’ve got a taste for trouble. So I realize how someone might enjoy being able to walk down an alley, point to a window, and buy the person behind it for an hour of frisky fun. Yet the type of free-wheeling environment found in Amsterdam poses a problem for girls like me. Girls who like the darker side of things.
The rush, I’ve always found, is in delving into that cloak and dagger ambiance and plunging down the steps into the unknown. What’s illegal in Amsterdam? You can walk into a coffee shop and buy your marijuana, walk into a pharmacy and purchase magic mushrooms. No need to skulk through alleys after your personal yearning. For some, it’s a fantasy come true. But I fucking hate it.
This is why I was sulking miserably through a rainy Amsterdam afternoon, a scowl on my face, my long black hair windswept, my eyes troubled. In each cozy cafe, college students sent fragrant plumes of smoke toward the lazily spiraling ceiling fans. Content and flush-cheeked, the smokers slipped deeper into their daydreams, looking as if they were right out of a painting—Norman Rockwell for the new millennium.
In the red light district, I knew I could find someone to take care of whatever I craved, which made me crave absolutely nothing. While others tightened their coats against the harsh, autumn storm, I rebelled in the only way I could, pushing back the hood of my heavy black jacket, pulling open the buttons, letting the water hit my skin.
The one thing I do love about Amsterdam is the set-up of the city, intricate circles and circuits of canals. Wet and pungent, filled with houseboats, fallen leaves from gold-flocked trees, ducks, and debris. I like the idea of the circles, one slipping inside of the other as they get closer to the center. Rings around rings, like the spiraling efforts of a lover’s tongue nearing the bull’s eye of a woman’s clit.
With thoughts like that on my mind, it was no wonder that I was aroused. But I felt as if I were on the verge of coming without ever being able to reach the climax. Searching for something unknown in a city where you can get anything as long as it has a name and you have the price—
“Wanna buy a bike?” a voice asked as I rounded a corner, breaking through my unhappy haze. Turning, I saw the first evidence of the Amsterdam underground. A scruffy looking youth, with tousled birch-colored hair and a dead-eyed green stare captured my attention. Handsome, but weathered about the edges, he had the look of someone who’d been up all night. It’s a look that I find seductive.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Pretty girl,” he beckoned, and I took a step further away from the crowds of tourists and into the mouth of the stone-cobbled alley where he stood. “Do you wanna buy a bike?”
And now I understood. Where, in any other city, this man would be offering me drugs or sex or something not easily found on the street, he was hawking bicycles instead. Good as gold in Amsterdam.
“Cheap,” he added in perfect English. “With a seat and handlebars. Everything.”
In Amsterdam, you have your choice of how to get around. You can walk—like I do—use a trolley, a boat, a car (if you have balls of steel), or a bicycle. The problem, in my opinion, is that everyone is stoned on something, and they drive as if to prove that you can handle a vehicle while your mind is flying. Trolleys split pedestrians and make them scurry for safety. Bicycles cut off cars. I might trust myself on two wheels, but I wouldn’t trust those around me. Still, the excitement of embarking upon something illicit made me shift in my wet jeans. Danger is my all-time favorite aphrodisiac.
“Where is it?” I asked, looking around.
“Don’t carry the product on me,” he said tersely, and I thought I saw a sneer on his attractive face, as if he was thinking, “What can you expect from a foreigner?”
He leaned forward to quote the price, and I saw the way his eyes looked at me. As if he’d suddenly noticed that my jacket was open, my lipstick red t-shirt wet and tight on my slim body. My jeans soaked through.
The price he quoted was high for a bicycle, but low to fulfill my need. I nodded, and he motioned for me to follow him, back down that alley to another. Quick-stepping as we made our way to some unknown destination, I heard the way my boots sounded on the walkway, that staccato beat, heard the echo of my beating heart in my ears. This was adventure, excitement, the reason I’d come to Amsterdam in the first place. And why was I getting all warm and aroused? Silly girl, silly girl. It was because I was about to buy a bike.
“This way,” he urged, “just down that street.”
I tried to keep up with him, but ended up walking behind, and that was okay. The rear view of this youthful dealer was something to be admired. Like me, he had no qualms about getting wet, and his Levi’s were a dark ocean blue, tight on his fine ass, slicked down on his lean legs. He had on a black sweater, also drenched, and that unruly white-blonde hair that seemed bed-rumpled instead of just plain wet.
When we got to our destination, he wanted the money. But I’ve made deals with street salesmen before. It’s important to see the merchandise before you put up the cash, regardless of the country you’re in.
“Don’t trust me?” he asked grinning, and I shook my head. “This way, then,” he said, and we continued on our route, around one of the comeliest canals of the city, where even the ducks were now hiding beneath the arched bridges to stay away from the cold, driving rain. What did they have to worry about? They lived in water.
“Just a bit further,” he said, and I wondered as I spotted a familiar-looking kiosk whether we were going in circles. Didn’t matter to me. I’d have followed as long as he led. But soon he stopped again, this time in front of one of the skinny gingerbread-colored houses that tour-leaders love to point out as the “charm” of Amsterdam. Chained to a railing was a shiny blue bicycle, just as he’d described. Two wheels. Handlebars. A seat. Everything.
“You believe me now?” he asked, and he took a step closer as he held out his hand for the money. His fingertips could have brushed my breasts through the tight, damp shirt, could have stroked the line of my chin, tilted my head up for a kiss. I felt my breath speed up, but I didn’t let on. I can play as streetwise as I need.
“The key?” I asked, pointing to the bike lock, and the corners of his eyes crinkled at me as he smiled again. He seemed to have more respect for me now, sensed that I was willing to play any game he named.
“A little further,” he said softly, turning on his heel and continuing the walk. Such a smart-ass, I thought. He’d have taken my money at the first place, then told me to wait while he got the bike, disappearing forever. At the second stop, where I could actually see a bike, he would have made more excuses— “I need to get the key” — and then vanished. Now, we were testing each other. Him to see if he could get the money from me. And me to see if he might sense something else that I wanted.
Once again, we were back down another alley. At the end, stood a long metal rack, with at least fifty cycles attached. The dealer nodded toward the mess of cycles. “You choose one,” he said, “tell me the color, and I’ll get it for you. Then you pay.”
“I’ll need a lock, too,” I said.
“Locks are no good. Watch what I do to one.”
I looked over the rack of bikes and found one that I liked. “The emerald green.”
He smiled. “Five minutes. Meet me back there,” and he pointed down the alley to a bridge. “On the other side.”
This was fine with me. If he didn’t show up, I wasn’t out anything. If he did, well, we’d just see. For the first time, I felt happy to be in Amsterdam. The city was lovely, even rain-streaked, and the abundance of drugs and easy sex made the people around me seem at peace. Who isn’t blissful when they’ve just gotten laid, or smoked a big fat one, or done both simultaneously?
At the meeting spot, I waited in the rain, shivering, and in less than five minutes, he was there, wheeling the bike ahead of him. Now, it was my turn to pull a fast one.
“I have to get the money,” I said. His eyebrows went up and he frowned at me, but I shook my head quickly to reassure him. “I have it, but it’s at my hotel,” I told him, naming the location. My smile must have let him know what I was offering. More than payment for a bike. “Don’t you trust me?”
“We’ll ride there,” he said, “it’s quicker.”
I found myself perched on the back wheel as we sped down the streets, cutting off taxis and trolleys, wreaking havoc with pedestrians, and then joining a sea of other cyclists until finally we were at my hotel. He carried the bike into the lobby for me, where the concierge promised to watch it. Then we headed up the stairs together, soaking wet, dripping little puddles on the carpet as we walked.
At my room, I paid him first, just in case that was really all he wanted. He took the money, folded it, and slid the bills into the side pocket of his jeans, just before he slid his jeans down his legs. Smiling, I stripped, as well, and soon we were naked together, pressed against the wall of my hotel room. Our bodies were wet and cold, at first, then wet and a little warmer as we created heat together.
I like sex. Especially unexpected sex. And this beautiful boy seemed perfectly ready to give me what I needed. He took his time. Starting with a kiss, he parted my lips with his, met my tongue, moving slowly, carefully. Then he grabbed both of my wrists in one hand and held my arms over my head, pinning me to the wall. With my wrists captured, he brought his mouth along the undercurve of my neck, then kissed in a silky line to my breasts. I arched my back, speaking to him with my body alone, making silent, urgent requests. He didn’t fail me. First, he kissed my left nipple, then my right, then moved back and forth between them until I was all wet again. A different type of wetness from being soaked to the skin outdoors. Now, I was soaked within.
It was time for him to fuck me, and I wanted to say this, but I realized to my embarrassment that I didn’t know his name. I felt a moment of panic, then decided it didn’t matter. We had our agreement, our arrangement, and that bond of dealer to seller should have been all the information I needed. So I locked onto his clear green eyes and tilted my head toward the large bed in the center of the room. He grinned, lifted me in his arms, and carried me to it.
There was romance in the gesture that pulled at me deep inside, from the base of my stomach to the split between my legs. Even though I was the same girl who had gotten off in the past by being taken in public, being tied down with leather thongs, bound with cuffs, spanked with paddles, fucked with dildos. Kink has always tended to make me come. But this time was different.
The thrill, I have always found, lies in the unknown. Plunging down those steps into darkness has always been my favorite way to play. Yet, usually, the need for danger takes me into extreme situations. This time, I found myself on a normal bed in an average hotel room, doing something extraordinary with a stranger.
“Trust me,” he said, and I nodded.
The boy spread me out on the bed and continued with his kissing games, making his way to the intersection of my body, then tracing a map of Amsterdam’s canals around and around my clit. His tongue slid deep inside me, then pulled out, went back in to draw invisible designs on the inner walls of my cunt, and then out again, leaving me breathless and yearning.
“Now,” I murmured, and he nodded, understanding. But then he moved off the bed again, rummaging through his pile of wet clothes until he found the bicycle lock and chain that he’d removed from my new cycle. Back at my side, he used the heavy metal links to bind my arms together over my head. No lock needed, just the chain wrapped firmly around my slender wrists. That was perfect, divine, just the type of rush that I craved.
Then, sitting up on the bed, he used his hands to part the slicked-up lips of my pussy, and his fingers slipped in my wetness. I sensed it a second before his cock pressed into me, and I stared into his eyes as we were connected. And oh, Christ, that feeling was almost overpowering, the length of his rod as he thrust deep inside me, following the same route made by his tongue moments before. Only now, I basked in the fullness of it. Thick and long, his cock filled me up.
Before I could even think about what I might want next, his fingers came back into play. He kept my pussy lips spread apart, stretching me open, and then the tips of his fingers began to tap out a sweet and unexpected melody over my clit. I sighed and ground my hips against him, letting him know how much I liked what he was doing. Then I squeezed him, from deep within, and this time he was the one to sigh. Open mouthed, eyes wide and staring into mine, he watched me for the whole ride. Held me with a gaze so intense that I couldn’t look away.
This sent me over the edge. His fingers, his eyes, his cock, his tongue all combining to take me there, to lift me up. To send me. My body closed in on his, and then opened up, squeezing and releasing, bringing him right up there with me. Pushing him over.
“Beauty,” he whispered, stroking my still-wet hair away from my face as I came.
When I went downstairs later in the afternoon, the bike was gone, of course. “Your friend, he took it,” the concierge told me with a smile. “But he left you this.” The money was sealed in one of the cream-colored envelopes kindly provided by hotel. Fair trade. He knew I didn’t really have use for a bike in Amsterdam, and if he’d taken the cash, that would have made him a whore instead of simply a street dealer. It was a wholly complete transaction, and I knew that I should have been satisfied.
Still, the next day found me walking through the city with a mission, pausing at each darkened alleyway until I heard the words that made me wet.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he whispered, his voice low and seductive, “Wanna buy a bike?”