Good Times In Dystopia
Amsterdam Oost is still a living city, but being something of a squat tourist, I march off into the Centrum as darkness falls, legs pumping with amphetamine, eyes keen for adventure and the titillation promised by the city of sin. The red light district is swarming with herds of staggering tourists. I spend six euros on a beer in one pub where the owner has just come back from tour with Iron Maiden. He has a picture of him and Snoop Dogg behind the bar.
The canals reflect the neon glare of the peepshows and the lurid pink of the glassbooths occupied by sexual fantasies manifest: window after window of manufactured fantasy, promises of unknown pleasures, barely concealed in miniscule strips of cloth, punctuated by coquettish winks and beckoning lures. Dusky Latina girls gyrate and ground their hips to pounding reggaeton; valkyric blondes dressed as policewomen threaten authority and ecstasy in combination; the basement windows hold swollen jackfruit women, their intimidating turbonegrodildos waiting on the tables next to them; one alley is home to gorgeous sex-mermaids with cocks stuffed in bulging panties rather than fish-tails, luring seamen into their booths; visions of every conceivable lurid wet dream, fantastical sex manifest. I drop into a peepshow, stick two euros in a slot, and watch a naked girl on a bed spin round for two minutes flashing the delicate petals of her under-appreciated vagina at the circle of leering shadows around her.
“What the fuck.”
On the streets, I watch the moon reflected in the canal, and eavesdrop on passing couples intellectualising their experience.
“- the human meat market, capitalism manifest, where dreams are sold and humans exploited for the exchange of wealth for pleasure, money for satisfaction, dignity for dirt-”
“Ermigerd - it's like a nexus of suffering made acceptable, legitimised by the state to sate the lusts and impossible dreams of the consumer world.”
I find two Chang beers half-drunk on the street and take them with me, wandering around chasing my own lust-narrataive, the girl with the mohawk who’d given me that single, instant glance that had hooked me like a perverted fish.
“Morally, the selling of sex is taboo, but within the capitalist system, this was something we all do., We all submit to being fucked by the bosses, by the police, by our family and loved ones-”
Consumed by my own lust, knowing full well that whatever happened behind one of those closed curtains would be as natural as shitting and as unnatural as paying for the privilege of doing so, I stumble on, chained to my lunatic libido.
I think I've found the right street, when I notice someone following me.
Turning around, I see a small, blonde, elfin creature, head swamped by an over-sized beany, scampering nervously down the street behind me.
I smile. ‘Hello.’
She hesitates, and in a thick slavic accent: ‘Hello.’
There is a pause, I am walking backwards, looking at her, smiling, confused but interested.
‘Can I help you? Is there something wrong?’
She hesitates again. ‘Yes . . . we need place . . . you know place we can stay?’
The girl looks young. A teenager. Innocence pours out of her. Who the hell approaches people on the streets of the Red Light District asking for a place to stay?
« Go Back The canals reflect the neon glare of the peepshows and the lurid pink of the glassbooths occupied by sexual fantasies manifest: window after window of manufactured fantasy, promises of unknown pleasures, barely concealed in miniscule strips of cloth, punctuated by coquettish winks and beckoning lures. Dusky Latina girls gyrate and ground their hips to pounding reggaeton; valkyric blondes dressed as policewomen threaten authority and ecstasy in combination; the basement windows hold swollen jackfruit women, their intimidating turbonegrodildos waiting on the tables next to them; one alley is home to gorgeous sex-mermaids with cocks stuffed in bulging panties rather than fish-tails, luring seamen into their booths; visions of every conceivable lurid wet dream, fantastical sex manifest. I drop into a peepshow, stick two euros in a slot, and watch a naked girl on a bed spin round for two minutes flashing the delicate petals of her under-appreciated vagina at the circle of leering shadows around her.
“What the fuck.”
On the streets, I watch the moon reflected in the canal, and eavesdrop on passing couples intellectualising their experience.
“- the human meat market, capitalism manifest, where dreams are sold and humans exploited for the exchange of wealth for pleasure, money for satisfaction, dignity for dirt-”
“Ermigerd - it's like a nexus of suffering made acceptable, legitimised by the state to sate the lusts and impossible dreams of the consumer world.”
I find two Chang beers half-drunk on the street and take them with me, wandering around chasing my own lust-narrataive, the girl with the mohawk who’d given me that single, instant glance that had hooked me like a perverted fish.
“Morally, the selling of sex is taboo, but within the capitalist system, this was something we all do., We all submit to being fucked by the bosses, by the police, by our family and loved ones-”
Consumed by my own lust, knowing full well that whatever happened behind one of those closed curtains would be as natural as shitting and as unnatural as paying for the privilege of doing so, I stumble on, chained to my lunatic libido.
I think I've found the right street, when I notice someone following me.
Turning around, I see a small, blonde, elfin creature, head swamped by an over-sized beany, scampering nervously down the street behind me.
I smile. ‘Hello.’
She hesitates, and in a thick slavic accent: ‘Hello.’
There is a pause, I am walking backwards, looking at her, smiling, confused but interested.
‘Can I help you? Is there something wrong?’
She hesitates again. ‘Yes . . . we need place . . . you know place we can stay?’
The girl looks young. A teenager. Innocence pours out of her. Who the hell approaches people on the streets of the Red Light District asking for a place to stay?