[stop]
"Dude, this is way better than last time," says Max.
"Yeah, dude." I say it without thinking because my stoned head is on a swivel as we walk the main stretch by the canal. The windows are all bordered in neon-red and the bodies dancing in the lines are all under black-light as well so the lingerie they have on, mostly white, glows with an unnatural fluorescent that attracts the male eye like flies to a bug zapper, and they don't stop moving. Everyone slows their pace for each window and if the girl grabs your glance and looks you square and you look her back she points to you and beckons and grinds on her little window stage even harder. It's not the Red Light District we'd chanced upon that Sunday before the World Cup. No, sir. It's Saturday night and the starters are out. A few of the windows look like they're housing Victoria's Secret models. And it's been a while since that Roman stairwell so my loins are restless. Fuck. Let's just do this. Oh, wait. That's right, I'm broke. Well... Fuck.
"It wasn't like this last time?" asks Mike.
"Ha. Oh, not even close mang," says Grant. "Last time we were here was Sunday morning and it was all haggard old ladies sittin' on chairs smoking cigarettes. Ugh." He throws a whole body shiver in for good measure.
"Ew."
"Yeah, not cool."
"And did you see that last one? She was a ten, easy. Hell, an eleven even." Max is walking open-mouthed and I'm not sure if he realizes it.
"I know right?" And I clench my jaw instinctively to make sure I'm not drooling. It's the first time I can ever remember in my mind that paying a woman to have sex with me sounded remarkably appealing. I guess there's a certain inevitable intrigue that comes natural with this caliber of prostitute. "How much do you think she is?"
Mike interjects, "Boom said when he was here they bargained a girl down to fifty bucks, but then no one went for it and she charged the next guy - some old man - two hundred."
"Hmm... Fifty buck, huh?" That's fifty more dollars than I have to my name right now. Actually, including the debt to Grant, it's more like a hundred fifty more.
"I don't know guys," says Grant. "I would never."
"Well, duh. You have a girlfriend. And so do you Max. But not ever?" asks Mike.
"Psh, no. I don't need to pay a girl to have sex with me."
"Yeah, neither do I," I say. "But that's not the point."
"What is the point?"
"The point is - well first off, if you think you're not paying for sex when you're dating someone then you need to open your eyes."
"What!?" Max is a little taken aback.
"Dude, please. How many times have you paid for dinner. Or for a movie. Or for presents or little special somethings."
Max cocks his head thinking, "Eh. Yeah, ok."
"But it's not the same man," says Grant. "I like doing those things. I want to."
We all lean back on one of the bridges crossing the canal, one of the main ones in the middle with red lights tracing the railings. And from the middle, the top of the arc, we can see the whole scene. "You're telling me they don't want to?" I say with a wave of my hand towards the nearest cluster of bug-eyed guys mind-fucking one of the most physically beautiful women, let alone prostitutes I've ever seen. She can't be much older than us. "They want to so bad."
"Ok, but it's different," Grant says.
"Ok, but I totally would though," I say. "If for nothing else than the experience of it. Think about it man. That girl's sex skills are out of this world, without a doubt. She's better at sex than anyone we know, anyone we'll ever date - well, unless one of ends up dating a hooker, I suppose. Just from sheer experience though."
"I bet she's got a couple tricks up her sleeve too," says Max in a far off distant way. He's lit another spliff, the last one in fact, and he passes it round saying, "Make it count, boys. There ain't no more weed left."
"Ok, scatter-brain Jane," says Mike taking a hit in deep.
"Who you calling Jane?!"
"Dude, I bet whenever she wants, when she's over it, she can just twist it a certain way and bang, game over and you're out the door."
"Wow. That's insane."
"Dude. Imagine that," says Mike acting it out. "Bangin' bangin' bangin'. 'Oh, this guys gross.' Click." He twists his hips. "Spluge. 'That'll be two hundred dollars.'" And we all laugh, and for a while we can't stop because the weed's so good.
"Oh, man..." I'm catching my breath. We all are. "I'd get blitzed on whiskey first then. Make her work for it, so it's not just a bang-and-out."
"Now that's a plan," says Max. But it's all just hypothetical. A what-if. Because none of us are going to shell out cash for hookers at this point. Hell, we can't even afford to go to a sex show. They're just twenty euros, and I hear those are ridiculous. We just watch the ebb and flow from the bridge for a while, running English, stoned commentary, and after the last spliff's done we just stroll around, eye-flirting with the pretty ones, the beautiful ones. We walk down the skinny streets and see a couple get dragged into a room for a three-way. The couple's hesitant asking all sorts of technical questions. "Well, are we doing this or not," says the whore. "Are you going to keep asking questions or am I going to fuck you both." And she shuts the door behind them. Cha-ching.
What a scene. What a last Holland night. Katinka's watching a Queens of the Stone Age concert on the TV when we get back (they're ah-mazing), and we sit and watch for a spell before passing out. I'm only dreaming when my eyes close.
