Thursday, February 10, 2005

Video Porn and the Amsterdam Sex Show Thing

I’ve never been big into video porn. I’ve never purchased the stuff, and I’ve never been one to demand that my friends let me borrow theirs. But I must admit, there is something to be said for the public availability of strangers being involved in what would normally be considered a private and intimate setting. Widely distributed voyeurism, if you will. Even better if this voyeurism were available to ANYONE with enough cash to buy in (instead of just being available to all those old senators and Bill O'Reilly). Again, it isn’t my bag, per se, but I do fancy the idea of it as a part-and-parcel product of advanced civilization.

That being said, I used to have a roommate with an impressive collection of finely edited video pornography. He was a connoisseur of the stuff. He would rent a dozen videos every few days, and would comb through it, searching for the best scenes and most skilled actors in the trade. Sometimes he would go through all those tapes, roughly ten hours of material, and only take a two minute clip to add to his library of porno-moments. He saw it all. He knew all their names, including the men. Along with the writers, producers, Best Boys, Grips, and microphone engineers. Hell, he probably had a favorite fluffer. He was dead serious about the art. His dream was to direct, and his collection was considered serious research.

He had the collection alphabetized, with each VHS tape containing some thirty-odd snippets from various and sundry “art films”, indexed only in his mind. He knew exactly where every take he had ever dubbed out of his rentals was to be found within the immense library of tapes, which were only labeled by their letter. If you asked him about such wonders as “The Squirter”, or his all-time favorite money shot, or the best triple-penetration to ever hit the adult video market… he would know exactly which tape to grab and exactly where to track the minute in order to locate said request. He was that dedicated, he was that professional. And for that, we offered him the title of:


When Mr. Swank moved in to my shit-hole of an apartment (there was a hole in the wall of my kitchen, which served as a Holland Tunnel of sorts for large insects and small rodents to enter my crib regularly), he brought only his tip-top wardrobe of the finest linens (Gucci, Versace, Klein, Yves St. Laurent, and the like, ‘cause he was smooth like that, seriously) and a large moving box stacked with his precious tapes. Beyond my playful interactions with the mildly amusing porn collections of my middle-school friends’ fathers, sneaking peaks at the wild word of grainy 70’s style stag flicks during my early teenage years, this was my first true foray into the depths of a most lucrative form of sexual fantasy. And I will admit, I initially found it most entertaining. After all, I am a guy. Guys love sex, and we love television. Right? So what could possibly be better than the combination of our two favorite pastimes? Theoretically: nothing could beat that partnership. Video porn has to be the pinnacle of male focus, distilled into some magnetic tape that is encased in plastic. Lazy sexual fantasy is a beautiful thing to behold. And behold it I did. Often. I watched every selection in his library repeatedly. I even had favorites, which I looked forward to revisiting periodically. It was a golden time for the tri-fecta of me, my TV, and my parents’ old and shitty VCR. We had a grand ol’ time.

But even Mr. Swank’s extensive collection, polished by his most discerning eye, did not keep my attention long enough to make me a lifelong fan of the genre. Eventually, I grew tired of the crappy acting, the bored chicken-heads being pounded by the same three half-limp douche bags in every goddamn flick, and the piss-poor production qualities associated with skin-flicks of that time. I guess it just got old. Mr. Swank cut through the nonsense to provide me with the best of the best, and I got spoiled. Then, I got really bored with the whole lot of it.

Nowadays, I don’t bother with the internet porn, and I don’t see myself skulking about in the back room of any local video rental dive any time soon. It just didn’t stick. Besides, my imagination has proven to be much more interesting. I do, however, reserve the right to revisit this form of lazy sexual fantasy as soon as my libido starts to wobble. I might need a jumpstart, know what I’m sayin’? One never knows.

But when I heard about the live sex shows in Amsterdam, I got fucking excited! Live?! Are you serious? Two people just get up on stage and pound it out in front of a theatre of strangers? My word, that’s like some sort of magical porno-circus! Sign me up! I mean, we get “donkey shows” down here in Texas, in the border towns, but that’s become more of a joke than it is a parade of sexual fantasy. The smell alone in those places will keep you from pitching a tent. And besides, who is impressed by a donkey who gets it up when shocked with a down-graded cattle-prod anyhow? Where’s the distinguishing sexual ability in that? Now if she were to get reamed by a walrus, or an ostrich or some shit, I might drop some pesos just for the kitsch factor.

But it wouldn’t be playing into any real fantasy of mine. I don’t wish the animal kingdom into my wet dreams. Honest.

Anyhow, the widely available sex shows in Amsterdam piqued my interest. So my lady and I signed up to check one out. We had no idea what to expect, and our travel guide-book-thing didn’t delve into any real detail as to what specifically goes on during the shows. And in typical Craig fashion, I didn’t bother to formulate any real expectations of my own. I was just excited to know that these things existed! Who the hell cares how they come together, they have to (I hate to say it) rock-out with their cock-out, right!?


We went to the most popular place, named Casa Rosso in the middle of the red light district (side note for anyone visiting the area any time soon: all those Kenyan and Congolese dudes milling about the area are pimps and strongmen, all the obnoxiously drunk white dudes are fellow patrons, and all the camera-bagged Asian couples will be gone before dark. That’s what I gathered. Take it for what you will). We were offered two types of show: with, and without drinks. My lady took the 30 Euro “no drink” ticket, and I nabbed a 45 Euro “with drink” ticket. My ticket granted me four drink tickets with which I could lay claim to four drinks, one at a time, of my choosing, through a waiter who would visit us during the show.

But first, we had to pay at the main location in order to get a voucher, which had to be walked to the other side of the canal (only 50 meters or so) to a separate and lesser (but related) establishment for a brief “pre show”. Exciting! Something to wet the ol’ proverbial whistle! Suuuhhhweeet! So we wandered over, entered the place and climbed up some dark stairwell which dropped us into a second-floor room. The room was already full, and the show was halfway over. We stood in the back and got an eyeful of what was to come. And I don’t mean cum.

On stage was a rather strangely paired couple, engaged in what would best be described as Sunday afternoon sex. The dude was scrawny, heroine chic-ish, and he was lazily slapping his numbed pud against what appeared to be a noticeably disinterested mother of four. She was staring off into the distance, and I believe he was examining his fingernails. No one seemed to be concentrating on the job at hand.

Two curious minutes later, some language-juggling titty-bar DJ-soundalike fellow mumbled some unintelligible crap over an intercom which caused the couple to stop their charade, face the crowd with a smile, and then they waved to us like we were all going on a cruise as a curtain closed around them. What the fuck is that? No “happy ending” in that joint. Dude just pulled it out and started waving like he was in a beauty pageant, junk pointing to the floor. Fucking weak.

Now I don’t know about you, but some sickly dude sticking his flaccid peter into a sleeping hole for five minutes does not constitute “sex” to me. There needs to be some excitement in there somewhere. Specifically, there must be a climax, or at least the obvious intention of such, in order for me to grant the label “sex”. And there needs to be some “show” in order for me to label anything a “show”. Maybe I’m all alone here, but I’m willing to go out on that limb for the sake of argument.

Somewhat disappointed, but determined that the main show would be more impressive, we clapped a half-hearted approval of their “performance” and filed back down the stairs. We crossed back over the canal and into the Casa Rosso. We were twenty strong, and eager to see some real action. And to drink. Well, I was anyhow.

I got my official drink tickets, and we were seated in a small theatre. Gradual stadium seating and all. My lady got an aisle seat, so she would be offered an unobscured view of the debauchery. I hunted for that waiter they promised would be hovering about. I did not know how long the show would last, but I estimated it to push upwards of an hour. That meant that I would only have fifteen minutes per drink. I don’t know why that gave me stress, but it did. "Oh, I better drink quick, lest I not be able to cash in all these tickets!" So when I couldn’t find the waiter, I simply got up and searched out the actual bar. Sometimes, it is best to seek out the source. It was upstairs in the back. I just walked up and requested all four drinks at once. No sense in falling victim to some pokey waiter who was already MIA, right? They informed me that a) I should only get my drinks from the waiter, and b) I can only get one drink at a time by handing my waiter both a ticket and my previous empty booze vessel. There went my brilliant strategy. But they let me take a drink back downstairs.

When I sat back down with a drink, all the other patrons started to get frazzled, with their little drink tickets vibrating in their shaking hands. They were all worried that they had somehow managed to miss the waiter’s first pass. Lucky for them, our waiter showed up. I hid my Heineken and requested a whiskey on the rocks. I wanted to keep the next drink properly queued so as to avoid any of the fretting displayed by my showmates. After all, I still did not know how long the show would last.

By the time I finished my Heinie, the waiter was delivering my whiskey. That’s when the show started. The curtains opened up, and there they were. Our first performers. And their piece had a bondage theme to it! Tight. There was some mild paddling, some slapping, and a bit of control-fetish in there. Nothing to write home about. But then, then… the deed was to begin!

I figured out why the dude’s back had been turned to us for the beginning of their scene. He was clearly unexcited to be there. I guess the paddling just didn’t do it for him. So, she got to working on him, out of our sight, his back still to us, to get him presentable. After a bit of coaxing, he was apparently ready. The turntable stage started to rotate, and they started their deal. After about a minute of witnessing the most uninspired sex of my life, I started to feel really sorry for these people. I mean, what must their real sex life be like? After all, a mechanic always has a broken car at home because he does not wish to work on anymore goddamn cars when he gets off the clock. Know what I’m saying? Damn. It was like mercy sex or something. As if a gay man and a lesbian both lost a bet and got stuck screwing each other in public. Wearing bad bondage gear. While Madonna’s “Erotica” played in the background. Sure, they switched positions on cue, and she even helped cram his drooper back into the game a couple of times. Hell, they might even be Bridge partners after work for all I know. But their chemistry would be best described as inert.

I just concentrated on my whiskey and kept a keen eye out for the waiter. No sense in wasting a good potential mid-day buzz on account of lame sex.

Madonna was interrupted by yet another language mangler with a microphone, which signaled the end of the first session of effort-free sex. The “sex” promptly ended, she waved like the Queen of England, and he pumped both his fists in the air as if to say “yeah baby, yeah! I wasn’t completely limp for the majority of the show this time! Fuck yeah!” I think I forgot to clap. But in my defense, the waiter had returned, and I had yet to finish my whiskey. I was stressing my missed opportunity at another Heineken, and had long lost interest in them anyway.

The curtain closed. I downed my last sip of gut-rot booze. And we discussed how interesting the outfits of the previous performers were. That’s right. I talked about their outfits. Like my momma always told me: “if you don’t have anything nice to say…” The waiter returned, thank god, and I got my beer order in before the next act.

The second act was a single girl dancing around on stage, striking poses and acting all flamboyant. She appeared to be of Brazilian descent, and was hopelessly adorable. She pranced about on stage, not really doing a whole hell of lot, causing much confusion in the crowd as to exactly what we had all paid for. Just as I felt myself tempted to start cleaning out my wallet, she started pulling hankies from her crotch. I would guess that she pulled approximately fifteen feet of knotted-together hankies out of there. Needless to say, I was pretty impressed. It was like a dirty carnival act or something. Regardless, it was much better than the earlier display.

We all clapped, and I clapped loudly, as the whiskey was starting to make such recommendations to me.

The garbled-mouth DJ muttered some nonsense, she bowed and waved, the curtain closed, and we all searched for the waiter. He came, we ordered, and discussed the merits of Ms. Hankie amongst ourselves until the curtains pulled back again.

This time, it was a Black couple. They had some good chemistry going too. All smiles. They handled each other well, and seemed genuinely interested in putting some work in. They made out for a bit, and then the turntable started to do its thing. She laid back, prepared for some action. He reached over to a bag behind them and pulled out a tube of lube. With his left hand he grabbed his tip, and with the right he squirted the cream over his bird as if he were applying toothpaste to a brush. Without missing a beat, he then proceeded to go all kinds of crazy on that girl. That man had rhythm. He dance-sexed her. Beyond the priceless lubing-of-the-meat part, it was a respectable show of sexmanship. I thought they would get a standing ovation for sure. But no luck. The DJ grumbled some jibberish, we got a wave, and the curtain closed. Still no money shot, no sense of completion, no exhausting release. Nothing of the sort.

Where’s that damn waiter? I don’t know when this show is going to end, and I still have one ticket left…

The next act was a real smiley girl. She was alone, and she danced around the stage like the hankie girl, almost step for step. Well, it seemed that way anyhow. We had been there about twenty minutes at that point, and I had already downed two beers and a whiskey on the rocks. My judgment of dance-steps might have been a bit impaired. But instead of hankies, this girl pulled a string of six beads. One bead at a time, in the name of time-killing theatrics I suppose. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Okay, bye!

DJ Grumble. Wave. Curtain closes. Goodness gracious, I guess.

Where the living hell is that goddamn waiter? If I have to take this goddamn ticket with me when I leave, then it better be pure LSD. Fucker.

The third couple was hilarious to me. Maybe it was the booze, I don’t know. It started with what was obviously a white girl who had been tanned to the color of yams, with dark contacts and jet-black dyed hair. I would guess she was Scandinavian by her build and features, so she looked awkward as hell. She was dressed up all American ghetto-fabulous with the requisite gear, kicks, and bling. She was pretending to be “kickin’ it out on the Ave” or some shit, when a dude in a trench coat comes strutting from stage right, with a durban hat covering his eyes. That’s when my drunk ass figured out why she looked so damn strange. Dude was black, and while the world loves to believe that racism only exists in the American Deep South, this little piece of poorly-done makeup work was plenty of evidence to the contrary. I guess white women are not eligible for black dongs in the mainstream sex shows of Amsterdam. Who'd a thunk it?

Here’s where a pocket of about six Asian tourists abandoned the building. Maybe they had reservations somewhere and did not want to lose their table. Maybe that whole bead thing really got their motors running, and they were off to "take care of some business". Who knows? They sure did dodge out of there in a hurry though.

Back to the sham. The girl was very attractive, even under all that shellac and gaudy jewelry. When she pulled off the dude’s trench coat, it was revealed that he was a pot-bellied fellow wearing boxer-briefs which were a bit too big for him. They were roomy, let's just say. He had the muscule mass of a seventh grader, and a nonexistent chin like mine. She danced around him while he stood there, slumped over, staring at her like a total perv, drooling. Perhaps this was what the "thespian" element of their "show" was supposed to be about. I have no idea. When they got to doin’ the do, he was hella excited to be there! She could have put a-lot more into her efforts in the excitement department, but I understand. He was not the most impressive specimen. But what he lacked in aesthetics, he made up for in heart! Dude was all into it! I thought he might actually seal the deal for a minute there. For a brief moment, he looked to be on the verge of a proper eruption... But the DJ cued the wave, and the curtain closed. Nada.

Hell-o waiter. 'Bout time you showed up. One final drink, and I’ll be… thanks! I’ll just down this last beer as if it were liquid clairvoyance and see if I’ll be paying for a drink individually (now that I've run out of tickets)… and the answer is: hell no. Hell. No. I’m fucked up before dinner. Again. Sex shows rule!

The next single-girl act hit the stage as if she were trying out for Olivia Newton John’s “Let’s Get Physical” video. She was strutting around, doing lunges and ballet turns. I think she even threw some of that pilates crap in there, along with some high-impact yoga moves. Music was playing, but she may have been clinically deaf, so the beat was completely ignored. I was once again questioning my ticket purchase when she sat down in the center of the stage, lit a cigar, rolled backward on to her neck with her feet spread out into the air, and smoked that cigar with her cooter. Puff, puff, give. She popped it in, did some pelvic thrusts, plucked the cigar out, and exhaled the smoke from betwixt her legs. How fucking awesome is that? A true pecker puffer. I was floored by that one. I mean, I’ve been told stories of hookers in Thailand who could blow out candles, shoot ping-pong balls at targets, and pop balloons with darts – all using nothing more than their chonch muscles. But I dismissed it all as fables from the orient. But this woman pulled a Winston Churchill with her crotch! And then offered the cigar to some fellow in the first row as the curtains drew back together. Dude declined the offer. Big surprise. I mean, who knows where her cooter learned to smoke like that. Prison maybe? Shiiiiiiiit. Some crazy Irishman in the back row kept yelling “take it! Take it!” Absolutely fantastic stuff.

I was pretty looped by then. The booze was doing a fine job of keeping me entertained.

The fourth sex act was lame, and involved some poor Fabio reject who should have chanted “I can’t believe my steroid-damaged unit is so soft!” As his junk was giving him some serious trouble. I believe the ‘roids done did that man wrong. Stay off the juice kids, or your dick won’t work like it should.

DJ. Wave. Curtain.

Thank god.

The final act was the same chick who pulled the beads from deep within. I guess the management had decided that her little side-show act was pretty weak, and she would be required to do double duty if she wanted to earn equal pay. Whatever. She was the friendliest looking of them all, so we had no problem with it. She came back on stage with a banana, and requested that five people join her on stage. No one was jumping at the chance. Let’s face it, we all knew there would be no real sex involved. She wasn't going to allow five random dudes to just start taking turns on her (although I have heard of that happening, but it might just be more myth). And eating fruit from the crotch of a probable Amsterdam hooker is not exactly the best way to avoid potential health disasters (not to mention IBS from a dirty banana, or something equally nasty). But I was drunk enough to be game. To my lady, I was all "what are you waiting for? Let's do this!" Luckily, my lady was not under the cruel influence of the ill-idea recommending combo: whiskey and beer. She kept me seated, and probably saved me from a potential bout with hepatitis. Herpes Simplex 12 at the least.

Three drunken fools stumbled up there, danced around like drunken fools, and all tried to lay some game on the girl like drunken fools. It was all very funny, and very tragic at the same time. And then, the real potential for tragedy showed up. After two of the guys had taken a bite from the banana betwixt the fair maiden’s thighs, someone in a gorilla suit with a big ol’ strap-on dildo skipped out from stage right. Just as the third guy was about to take the final bite from the banana, bent over to get a good mouthful, he caught the gorilla out the corner of his eye. All hell seemed to break loose after that. It was all in fun, but everyone was up on their feet and paranoid once that gorilla began pacing the stage. None of those three dudes would let that gorilla out of their sight for a second. And that gorilla had one hell of a painful looking piece of rubber machinery bouncing around his waist. No more dancing on stage.

The gorilla walked off stage disgruntled, dejected. The three dudes remained apprehensive, if not horrified. The girl could not stop laughing (I think she seriously wanted to see one of them get hurt by the monkey).

DJ. Wave. Curtain.

Go see a sex show while you’re in Amsterdam. Let me know if your experience is different from mine. Fuck I’m tired of typing.