Nomads on the Amstel
20. Guus and John push the boundaries
Annie gave Guus one of her special, ‘I’m suspicious. I don’t know what you’re up to but I know you’re up to something,’ looks. He saw it and was prepared.
“You can see it’s doing me some good; I’ve lost four and a half kilos already.”
He tugged at the belt of his trousers, demonstrating the space behind and reinforcing his point. It was true, he had lost weight and he was really proud of himself but he knew how perceptive she was and although he could easily have been going to the gym, he had other plans and realised it was probably written all over his face.
“You’re meeting John there?”
“No, I told you, John’s not well; he’s got a heavy cold or something.”
Again sticking as closely as possible to the truth was the safest course of action.
“Oh.”
She wasn’t happy, he could sense it and the intuition he’d built up over the years kicked into overdrive. If things had got sticky, he would have abandoned the meeting and stayed at home; nothing was worth arousing Annie’s suspicions for.
“There’s nothing more I should be worrying about is there Guus? No more hidden secrets?”
She was referring to the so-called heart problem, or at least, he hoped she was. He took her in his arms and pecked her on the cheek, laughing to disguise his nerves. Her familiar smell was a both a comforting and disturbing reminder of what he had to lose if things went wrong.
“Of course there isn’t silly. How could I ever hide anything from you? I’m just fitting in one more session this week that’s all; I can really feel the benefits now. I’ll see you later okay. I won’t be late; might have a juice or something with the other lads but I’ll be back in good time.”
She gave him another searching look but he knew she was won over and set off with a spring in his step for stage two of the operation.
He arrived at John’s apartment with only about a half hour to go before the meeting was due to start. A very dejected looking Canadian opened the door.
“Oh you do look bad Jesus, you really look like shit!”
“Well thank you pal and good evening to you too.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…I mean I wasn’t saying…”
“It’s okay, Come in Guus. You won’t catch anything if you only stay for a minute. I’ve got your bag ready for you.”
“Oh thanks. Is everything inside? I’m really nervous about this. I wish you were coming too.”
”So do I but you can see how I am; I don’t think any amount of make up would be able to hide this. It’s a real summer flu I think. Hopefully it’ll be gone in a couple of days or so but there’s no way I could make the meeting tonight.”
”No, of course not. Oh well, better be off, I’m running late as it is. Thanks again John and I hope you feel better soon. Wish me luck.”
“Hey good luck. Knock ‘em dead pal.”
He gave Guus a wave as he disappeared around the corner and closing the door, breathed a sigh of relief.
“Is he gone?”
“Yep, now where were we?”
Guus got undressed nervously and sucked in his stomach in front of the mirror. There were definite signs of improvement in his body, although he suspected that only he would notice them. It was clearly going to take some time before he could parade with much confidence. However, the main target this evening was to get into his new clothes without bursting the seams and he held his breath as he put on the underwear. At this moment, he thanked God he’d been late and could get changed alone although he wished John could have been there to offer support. The reinforced panties he had bought at least did that and the effect was even more pronounced when he tightened up the corset. That had been a brilliant idea of John’s. He could hardly breathe but marvelled at how the ribs held in the rebellious flesh around his waist; maybe all the effort of the last weeks would pay off. He tugged on the black tights that seemed incongruous in the heat of the summer but the results would be well worth the minor discomfort. He stood and posed for the reflection in the mirror. To an outsider, he might have made a ridiculous spectacle but for him, the first garments were always the beginning of his special feelings. He didn’t see a man approaching middle age, with fat thighs, large feet and a midriff that from both the back and front bulged asymmetrically. Guus saw and felt the chrysalis turning into the butterfly and the gradual transmogrification of the masculine into the feminine. He never had been able to put it into words the way others could. He couldn’t rationalise the sensations that female clothing sent coursing through his body; he just knew it felt right and satisfying. Picking up the ankle length skirt, he let the black satin run through his fingers and experienced that surge of excitement that had eluded him for so long. It wasn’t a sexual thrill; the clothes never aroused him; it was much more a feeling that another part of his personality was being satisfied. His whole life had been spent keeping one half of his being separated from the other; yet he sometimes felt like a Siamese twin who’d been separated at birth, still it was something he’d got used to and rarely questioned any more. He didn’t want to be open and public and what others might call liberated, about his cross-dressing; there was far too much to lose for that. Instead, he’d developed strategies, which enabled him to satisfy both parts of his life as best he could and he seldom wished that things were different.
He hadn’t dared shave his legs; Annie would find that very strange but the tight legwarmers kept the hairs under control and prevented them tugging at the slippery material. Once the skirt was spiralled into place and he had slipped on the stylish, patent leather shoes he had bought from Miss T’s, he stood up to examine the effect. The wide world would have found it a bizarre sight but he was overjoyed, as from the waist down he became voluptuously feminine.
For once, the bra was comfortable and once the long sleeved, white blouse with the high, frilled neck was in place, shivers ran up and down his spine. This was a much better effect than he had hoped and once more, he was glad he’d taken John’s advice; simple and elegant was best, he’d been absolutely right. He sat down to begin preparing his face, trying to recall the advice he’d been given that ‘less was more’ and resisting the urge to over powder, over-gloss and overdo the eye shadow. He began to hope that Pieter would be taking photographs; John would be so impressed.
On the same plane but in a different dimension, John was on a fact-finding mission of his own. His only experience with a man thus far, had been brief and exciting but far from conclusive. He wasn’t even sure if he was cut out for it at all. Was he a straight man, who was experimenting, in the best traditions of liberal, modernist sexuality? Was he a gay man, who’d always kidded himself that he was straight and had been able to pass the physical? Or was he bisexual and had only just realised it? Whichever label he was going to apply to himself, he’d left it a bit late in life to find out but then again, better late than never and that’s why he’d rung the escort agency. The idea that he could pay someone to find out the true nature of his sexuality appealed to him strongly. That way, no feelings would get in the way and nobody could get hurt. It didn’t involve the messy and in his case, as a novice to the game, uncertain hunt for suitable partners and if things went wrong, he’d never have to see the person again. It was the perfect and obvious solution, except for the nagging complication of his ‘other side’. The man on the other end of the phone had asked if there were any ‘special’ needs to be catered for and John had chickened out of saying exactly what he wanted. The truth was; he wasn’t sure if his predilection for dressing in women’s clothes had anything whatsoever to do with his sexuality. It had never been a need in his heterosexual couplings, although he did experience the occasional twinge when his partners came to bed in a particularly fetching outfit. The question was, would he need it to make a homosexual coupling complete? On the face of it, an encounter with an escort would be a harmless way to find out. Yet when it had come to declaring his preferences to a disembodied voice on the phone, he’d found himself unable to come clean and had stated that it was just ‘vanilla’ sex that he wanted. He hadn’t been sure what that was exactly but when faced with the list of alternatives in the magazine advert, it had sounded much the safest option. He hadn’t expressed a particular preference for a type of person either; mainly because he wasn’t sure what sort he wanted. They were all relatively young, so he couldn’t have someone nearer his own age, the idea of which appealed to him most. Instead, he asked for someone masculine: ‘straight-looking’, the voice had said and John had agreed. The questions as to whether he wanted hirsute or smooth, black or white, short or tall, through him into further confusion; he didn’t have a clue. In the end, he settled for ‘straight-looking’, with a ‘nice face’ and left the rest up to the agency. Thus it was with a small amount of apprehension but otherwise resignation to the potluck nature of the arrangement that John opened the door that evening and invited the guy in.
“Hi, you must be John; I’m Guido.”
He was tall, dark haired and olive skinned, dressed in expensive jeans and a polo shirt and with the sort of disarming grin that put John at ease immediately. He guessed Mediterranean, or South American but he could equally have been someone with ethnic roots in the Dutch East Indies; it didn’t matter; Holland was full of people of mixed origins and he was immediately attracted. It surprised him how nervous he suddenly felt; not because of the sex, after all, he was paying for that but because he immediately felt old and unsure of his own appeal as a sexual partner. Logic told him that the same rule applied; the boy was a professional, so if he found the client repulsive, he wouldn’t show it and nobody’s pride would be hurt. Nevertheless, faced with this muscular figure, brimming with health and vitality, John felt inadequate and wished he were twenty again.
“Shall we deal with the finance first? Get it out of the way?”
“Okay, whatever you say.”
It was expensive but John didn’t plan on making a habit out of this; it was a one-off experiment and he paid up readily.
“What now? I’m new at this and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.”
Guido was a professional and put his hands on John’s shoulders.
“Well, why don’t we go into the living room and have a chat, or would you rather everything happened here in the hallway?”
“Oh sorry, yes of course. Would you like a drink or something?”
“Not for me no. I never drink when I’m with a customer but you go ahead if you like, that’s fine by me.”
John led the way into the living room where he’d already closed the curtains, even though it was still light outside. He felt more comfortable with the thought that it was more private that way and anyway, he was a product of his upbringing and making love usually happened at night and he could never shake that off, no matter what the sex manuals said. He’d always found daylight sex somewhat intrusive, as if daylight were some sort of spectator to the intimate. He poured himself a stiff drink and sat down nervously opposite Guido, whose confidence was betrayed by the splayed legs and relaxed posture and above all the all-knowing smile.
“Now, what would you like to do? I understand from the office that you have no special requests but maybe you forgot to mention something, something you’d really like?”
‘God, he’s good,’ thought John, ‘okay then, here goes.’
“Well actually…”
Just then the doorbell rang, as John had known it would. He was just pleased that Guus was on time.
“You’ll have to excuse me for a minute, that’s a friend who’s come to pick something up. I’ll just be a tic.”
“Go right ahead, I’ll stay quietly here.”
John closed the living room door behind him, rubbed his eyes furiously to make them red and puffy and answered the door.
Guus hadn’t heard them calling for him from the other room; he was in his own little world. He couldn’t believe how good he felt looking like he did now. It was a complete transformation and he blushed as he realised what he must have looked like in the past.
‘I was a joke, a parody,’ he thought bitterly, ‘no wonder they were laughing at me behind my back but why didn’t someone tell me sooner? Shit! I was an embarrassment.’
He suddenly looked hard at himself in the mirror. Was he still an embarrassment? Was he still that fat slob in ill-fitting, flowery dresses? What was it John had said? ‘Like a sumo wrestler but without the personality.’ It had been a hard lesson but the image that stared back at him gave him a different feeling; a feeling of confidence and self-worth, that he was still fat but was wearing clothes and make up that made him look classy and stylish. He even dared to hope that he looked sexy.
The door burst open and Pieter swept in, looking as natural as ever in his tailored trouser suit.
“Guus, what are you doing? We’ve been waiting…Good God!”
Guus looked at him, suddenly overcome with insecurity. What did that ‘Good God,’ mean?
“Guus, you…you look…wonderful!”
Guus grinned from ear to ear. That was all he needed to hear.
“Oh, you think so? Oh I’m so pleased, you’ve no idea how pleased I am. Thanks Pieter. Now you’re sure you’re not just saying that?”
“No bloody way my friend. You look like a million dollars. God what a difference! Not that you didn’t look nice before, I mean…”
It’s okay Piet. I know what I looked like before, you don’t need to try to make me feel better.”
”Well, what are you waiting for? Come on in. A diva should greet her public.”
The meeting proceeded as it normally did, with one startling difference. Instead of being a quirky fringe figure, more often mocked than admired, Guus found himself centre stage and loved it. Even a newly subdued and chastened Chris paid homage to the new star in the firmament.
“Guus, I know I haven’t always been kind to you in the past but I hope you’ll forgive me because now, I have to admit, you look fabulous! Where did you get that skirt?”
Guus was sorely tempted to say, ‘Oh this old thing…’ but resisted. He knew this was the occasion of his rebirth and he knew that they knew that everything about him was new and remodelled, so he decided to tell the truth instead. Admitting to his fashion mistakes in the past wasn’t hard and admitting that John had played an integral part in his makeover was something he was proud to do. He wasn’t the best looking at the gathering, nor was he the best dressed if the truth were known; he was quite willing to let Chris have that honour as usual but the transformation from ugly duckling to graceful swan was so profound, that everybody else paled in comparison and he posed for photos as happy as he had ever been. John would be so proud.
John’s experiment wasn’t going quite as well as he’d hoped. Guido had undressed them both expertly and had been equally skilled at manipulating John’s body but no matter how his brain responded to the new sensations and no matter how much he rationalised that he was being touched in ways which set his nerve ends jangling, he stubbornly couldn’t rise to the occasion.
“Don’t worry,” Guido had soothed in response to his embarrassed apologies, “Just relax. You’d be amazed how many people this happens to. I used to take it personally but this sort of thing can faze the most sexual of men. Does this feel good?”
John couldn’t deny that it did but knew there was something missing; knew that his lack of honesty was the problem, not the ministrations of his partner.
“Uhm, I don’t know how to put this and please feel free to say no if you want but would you mind if we tried something else?”
“Okay, you’re the customer. What did you have in mind?”
Half an hour later, John lay back exhausted. He’d just had the most complete and exciting sexual experience of his life. Guido was already dressing and smiling down at him.
“I enjoyed that John. Why didn’t you say what you wanted at the beginning? You should never try to hide your real nature, it only makes you unhappy in the end.”
“I don’t know; nervousness I guess. I’m still a novice at these things. I’m really grateful though. I now know a bit more about myself and you were really good. Thanks.”
“Hey, no problem. If you want to do this again, just ask for me by name but I’ve got to go now. So, take care and remember, don’t be too hard on yourself in the future; just let yourself go okay?”
After he’d left, John lay back on the bed in the gloom and blushed at the extent of the pleasure he’d just had. His confidence had grown to such an extent that he wanted to open the curtains and exhibit himself to the world.
‘This is me,’ he thought. ‘It’s taken me all these years but I’ve finally discovered what it is that can make me a happy man. Christ, I wish I’d done this years ago.’
He let his hands wander back and forth, over the stiffened material of his bra and slide down over the sensuous silk of his underwear. Slipping his thumbs under the elastic fastenings of the suspenders, every hair on his legs stood up as if responding individually to the caress. Closing his eyes and letting his imagination wander, he recreated their earlier games and with a hitherto unknown freedom, once more gave way to the sort of pleasure he’d denied himself all his life.
Guus was getting a little drunk, though as far as he could remember, he’d only had two or three glasses of wine. He felt faint and a little nauseous and the corset was beginning to constrict him. As with all novelties, the effect caused by his entrance had worn off with most people and he found himself in his accustomed position of being on the fringes of conversation groups. Not that he minded particularly; it gave him a chance to observe the games people played; something he’d always been uncomfortable with. He was a straightforward man, with a straightforward life and the addition of women’s clothes didn’t change that, the way it did with some. It constantly surprised him how otherwise sober and essentially Calvinistic members of society could mutate into the flamboyant and exhibitionist, after assuming their alter egos. A generous supply of alcohol invariably hastened the process but with many of these people, Guus thought they were missing the point. For him, the thrill was in the dressing-up but for others it seemed that there was a need to assume a female identity as well and then, not a realistic one. He saw them as parodying women and in that respect, he couldn’t see the difference between them and drag queens, although most people present would have greeted the very suggestion with horror.
Unusually, Pim sidled up to him for a chat. Guus had never really felt comfortable with the normally austere banker and even though to all intents and purposes, the social differences disappeared when the group assembled, Guus was often uncomfortably aware of the gulf between Pim and himself in ‘normal life’ and couldn’t help feeling that he should metaphorically ‘doff his cap’ each time they met.
“I haven’t had a chance before Guus but I must say, you look extremely elegant tonight.”
Coming from Pim, this was praise indeed and Guus knew it.
“Thanks Pim, that’s much appreciated. I was so nervous but thanks to John, I think I’ve pulled it off.”
“Without doubt my friend, without doubt.”
Pim had delivered his compliment as a gentleman should but finding little else in common with Guus, was already looking around the room to find a decent conversation.
“You look superb as usual.”
Guus meant it. Pim never tried to imitate youth as a woman. He dressed in much the same style as he did as a man and in homage to his own age group. His designer clothes were always elegant and chic; his make up and hair more suggestive of a well-bred lady than a premiere socialite and although he was by no means the oldest in the club, he exuded seniority and aloofness.
“Thank you. It’s Molenaar you know, though I have to admit my dressmaker has adapted it to my size and I suspect Frans would be less than amused but then again, I see it as a compliment to his art.”
“Oh absolutely.”
Guus could hear himself becoming subservient again and tried to change the subject.
“When will this weather break? Mediterranean weather is all well and good but in Holland, it just doesn’t seem natural. I can’t wait for…”
“Excuse me Guus, it looks like André wants a word. Speak to you later.”
Guus knew he wouldn’t, the audience was over but he felt satisfied with the compliment he’d been given. He absent-mindedly turned to look at the wall clock and was horrified to find that it was nearly eleven o’clock. The combination of his elation, the wine and the longer summer daylight had conspired to make him forget the time. Panic hit the pit of his stomach like a stone and he barged his way across to Pieter in a most unladylike manner.
“Christ Pieter, I’ve got to go. Annie…I’m supposed to be at the gym…I’ll never get away with it…she’ll smell the wine…shit! I’m done for!”
His face was flushed crimson and he could hardly breathe. The words spilled out incoherently and he was in a cold sweat. Suddenly the room seemed unbearably hot and crowded and all he wanted was to be home, in his armchair in front of the TV.
Pieter broke off his conversation and looked at him, concern etched on his face.
“Okay Guus, don’t panic. I’ll give you a hand. Come on, let’s go and get you out of these clothes. Guus…Guus? Are you okay? You’ve gone very pale.”
Perhaps fortunately, Guus was not aware of the bedlam he caused as he crashed unceremoniously to the floor. He had half turned and collided with a startled Kris, who was carrying a tray of newly refilled glasses, the contents of which arced through the air in a fountain of unstoppable red stain. At least half the room were faced with dry cleaning bills as one after the other; carefully constructed fashions succumbed to the unexpected shower. The cacophony of shrill protest was loud enough to disturb Pieter’s elderly neighbour, who unfairly cursed the students across the canal and drifted back into sleep. Pim looked disbelievingly at the flecks on his Molenaar and truly wished that Guus would die on the spot. Only Pieter saw the situation for what it was and knelt down by the fat man, his skirt bunched up around his waist, lying unconscious on his carpet.
“Shut up everybody, shut the fuck up! Somebody call an ambulance.”
Annie gave Guus one of her special, ‘I’m suspicious. I don’t know what you’re up to but I know you’re up to something,’ looks. He saw it and was prepared.
“You can see it’s doing me some good; I’ve lost four and a half kilos already.”
He tugged at the belt of his trousers, demonstrating the space behind and reinforcing his point. It was true, he had lost weight and he was really proud of himself but he knew how perceptive she was and although he could easily have been going to the gym, he had other plans and realised it was probably written all over his face.
“You’re meeting John there?”
“No, I told you, John’s not well; he’s got a heavy cold or something.”
Again sticking as closely as possible to the truth was the safest course of action.
“Oh.”
She wasn’t happy, he could sense it and the intuition he’d built up over the years kicked into overdrive. If things had got sticky, he would have abandoned the meeting and stayed at home; nothing was worth arousing Annie’s suspicions for.
“There’s nothing more I should be worrying about is there Guus? No more hidden secrets?”
She was referring to the so-called heart problem, or at least, he hoped she was. He took her in his arms and pecked her on the cheek, laughing to disguise his nerves. Her familiar smell was a both a comforting and disturbing reminder of what he had to lose if things went wrong.
“Of course there isn’t silly. How could I ever hide anything from you? I’m just fitting in one more session this week that’s all; I can really feel the benefits now. I’ll see you later okay. I won’t be late; might have a juice or something with the other lads but I’ll be back in good time.”
She gave him another searching look but he knew she was won over and set off with a spring in his step for stage two of the operation.
He arrived at John’s apartment with only about a half hour to go before the meeting was due to start. A very dejected looking Canadian opened the door.
“Oh you do look bad Jesus, you really look like shit!”
“Well thank you pal and good evening to you too.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…I mean I wasn’t saying…”
“It’s okay, Come in Guus. You won’t catch anything if you only stay for a minute. I’ve got your bag ready for you.”
“Oh thanks. Is everything inside? I’m really nervous about this. I wish you were coming too.”
”So do I but you can see how I am; I don’t think any amount of make up would be able to hide this. It’s a real summer flu I think. Hopefully it’ll be gone in a couple of days or so but there’s no way I could make the meeting tonight.”
”No, of course not. Oh well, better be off, I’m running late as it is. Thanks again John and I hope you feel better soon. Wish me luck.”
“Hey good luck. Knock ‘em dead pal.”
He gave Guus a wave as he disappeared around the corner and closing the door, breathed a sigh of relief.
“Is he gone?”
“Yep, now where were we?”
Guus got undressed nervously and sucked in his stomach in front of the mirror. There were definite signs of improvement in his body, although he suspected that only he would notice them. It was clearly going to take some time before he could parade with much confidence. However, the main target this evening was to get into his new clothes without bursting the seams and he held his breath as he put on the underwear. At this moment, he thanked God he’d been late and could get changed alone although he wished John could have been there to offer support. The reinforced panties he had bought at least did that and the effect was even more pronounced when he tightened up the corset. That had been a brilliant idea of John’s. He could hardly breathe but marvelled at how the ribs held in the rebellious flesh around his waist; maybe all the effort of the last weeks would pay off. He tugged on the black tights that seemed incongruous in the heat of the summer but the results would be well worth the minor discomfort. He stood and posed for the reflection in the mirror. To an outsider, he might have made a ridiculous spectacle but for him, the first garments were always the beginning of his special feelings. He didn’t see a man approaching middle age, with fat thighs, large feet and a midriff that from both the back and front bulged asymmetrically. Guus saw and felt the chrysalis turning into the butterfly and the gradual transmogrification of the masculine into the feminine. He never had been able to put it into words the way others could. He couldn’t rationalise the sensations that female clothing sent coursing through his body; he just knew it felt right and satisfying. Picking up the ankle length skirt, he let the black satin run through his fingers and experienced that surge of excitement that had eluded him for so long. It wasn’t a sexual thrill; the clothes never aroused him; it was much more a feeling that another part of his personality was being satisfied. His whole life had been spent keeping one half of his being separated from the other; yet he sometimes felt like a Siamese twin who’d been separated at birth, still it was something he’d got used to and rarely questioned any more. He didn’t want to be open and public and what others might call liberated, about his cross-dressing; there was far too much to lose for that. Instead, he’d developed strategies, which enabled him to satisfy both parts of his life as best he could and he seldom wished that things were different.
He hadn’t dared shave his legs; Annie would find that very strange but the tight legwarmers kept the hairs under control and prevented them tugging at the slippery material. Once the skirt was spiralled into place and he had slipped on the stylish, patent leather shoes he had bought from Miss T’s, he stood up to examine the effect. The wide world would have found it a bizarre sight but he was overjoyed, as from the waist down he became voluptuously feminine.
For once, the bra was comfortable and once the long sleeved, white blouse with the high, frilled neck was in place, shivers ran up and down his spine. This was a much better effect than he had hoped and once more, he was glad he’d taken John’s advice; simple and elegant was best, he’d been absolutely right. He sat down to begin preparing his face, trying to recall the advice he’d been given that ‘less was more’ and resisting the urge to over powder, over-gloss and overdo the eye shadow. He began to hope that Pieter would be taking photographs; John would be so impressed.
On the same plane but in a different dimension, John was on a fact-finding mission of his own. His only experience with a man thus far, had been brief and exciting but far from conclusive. He wasn’t even sure if he was cut out for it at all. Was he a straight man, who was experimenting, in the best traditions of liberal, modernist sexuality? Was he a gay man, who’d always kidded himself that he was straight and had been able to pass the physical? Or was he bisexual and had only just realised it? Whichever label he was going to apply to himself, he’d left it a bit late in life to find out but then again, better late than never and that’s why he’d rung the escort agency. The idea that he could pay someone to find out the true nature of his sexuality appealed to him strongly. That way, no feelings would get in the way and nobody could get hurt. It didn’t involve the messy and in his case, as a novice to the game, uncertain hunt for suitable partners and if things went wrong, he’d never have to see the person again. It was the perfect and obvious solution, except for the nagging complication of his ‘other side’. The man on the other end of the phone had asked if there were any ‘special’ needs to be catered for and John had chickened out of saying exactly what he wanted. The truth was; he wasn’t sure if his predilection for dressing in women’s clothes had anything whatsoever to do with his sexuality. It had never been a need in his heterosexual couplings, although he did experience the occasional twinge when his partners came to bed in a particularly fetching outfit. The question was, would he need it to make a homosexual coupling complete? On the face of it, an encounter with an escort would be a harmless way to find out. Yet when it had come to declaring his preferences to a disembodied voice on the phone, he’d found himself unable to come clean and had stated that it was just ‘vanilla’ sex that he wanted. He hadn’t been sure what that was exactly but when faced with the list of alternatives in the magazine advert, it had sounded much the safest option. He hadn’t expressed a particular preference for a type of person either; mainly because he wasn’t sure what sort he wanted. They were all relatively young, so he couldn’t have someone nearer his own age, the idea of which appealed to him most. Instead, he asked for someone masculine: ‘straight-looking’, the voice had said and John had agreed. The questions as to whether he wanted hirsute or smooth, black or white, short or tall, through him into further confusion; he didn’t have a clue. In the end, he settled for ‘straight-looking’, with a ‘nice face’ and left the rest up to the agency. Thus it was with a small amount of apprehension but otherwise resignation to the potluck nature of the arrangement that John opened the door that evening and invited the guy in.
“Hi, you must be John; I’m Guido.”
He was tall, dark haired and olive skinned, dressed in expensive jeans and a polo shirt and with the sort of disarming grin that put John at ease immediately. He guessed Mediterranean, or South American but he could equally have been someone with ethnic roots in the Dutch East Indies; it didn’t matter; Holland was full of people of mixed origins and he was immediately attracted. It surprised him how nervous he suddenly felt; not because of the sex, after all, he was paying for that but because he immediately felt old and unsure of his own appeal as a sexual partner. Logic told him that the same rule applied; the boy was a professional, so if he found the client repulsive, he wouldn’t show it and nobody’s pride would be hurt. Nevertheless, faced with this muscular figure, brimming with health and vitality, John felt inadequate and wished he were twenty again.
“Shall we deal with the finance first? Get it out of the way?”
“Okay, whatever you say.”
It was expensive but John didn’t plan on making a habit out of this; it was a one-off experiment and he paid up readily.
“What now? I’m new at this and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.”
Guido was a professional and put his hands on John’s shoulders.
“Well, why don’t we go into the living room and have a chat, or would you rather everything happened here in the hallway?”
“Oh sorry, yes of course. Would you like a drink or something?”
“Not for me no. I never drink when I’m with a customer but you go ahead if you like, that’s fine by me.”
John led the way into the living room where he’d already closed the curtains, even though it was still light outside. He felt more comfortable with the thought that it was more private that way and anyway, he was a product of his upbringing and making love usually happened at night and he could never shake that off, no matter what the sex manuals said. He’d always found daylight sex somewhat intrusive, as if daylight were some sort of spectator to the intimate. He poured himself a stiff drink and sat down nervously opposite Guido, whose confidence was betrayed by the splayed legs and relaxed posture and above all the all-knowing smile.
“Now, what would you like to do? I understand from the office that you have no special requests but maybe you forgot to mention something, something you’d really like?”
‘God, he’s good,’ thought John, ‘okay then, here goes.’
“Well actually…”
Just then the doorbell rang, as John had known it would. He was just pleased that Guus was on time.
“You’ll have to excuse me for a minute, that’s a friend who’s come to pick something up. I’ll just be a tic.”
“Go right ahead, I’ll stay quietly here.”
John closed the living room door behind him, rubbed his eyes furiously to make them red and puffy and answered the door.
Guus hadn’t heard them calling for him from the other room; he was in his own little world. He couldn’t believe how good he felt looking like he did now. It was a complete transformation and he blushed as he realised what he must have looked like in the past.
‘I was a joke, a parody,’ he thought bitterly, ‘no wonder they were laughing at me behind my back but why didn’t someone tell me sooner? Shit! I was an embarrassment.’
He suddenly looked hard at himself in the mirror. Was he still an embarrassment? Was he still that fat slob in ill-fitting, flowery dresses? What was it John had said? ‘Like a sumo wrestler but without the personality.’ It had been a hard lesson but the image that stared back at him gave him a different feeling; a feeling of confidence and self-worth, that he was still fat but was wearing clothes and make up that made him look classy and stylish. He even dared to hope that he looked sexy.
The door burst open and Pieter swept in, looking as natural as ever in his tailored trouser suit.
“Guus, what are you doing? We’ve been waiting…Good God!”
Guus looked at him, suddenly overcome with insecurity. What did that ‘Good God,’ mean?
“Guus, you…you look…wonderful!”
Guus grinned from ear to ear. That was all he needed to hear.
“Oh, you think so? Oh I’m so pleased, you’ve no idea how pleased I am. Thanks Pieter. Now you’re sure you’re not just saying that?”
“No bloody way my friend. You look like a million dollars. God what a difference! Not that you didn’t look nice before, I mean…”
It’s okay Piet. I know what I looked like before, you don’t need to try to make me feel better.”
”Well, what are you waiting for? Come on in. A diva should greet her public.”
The meeting proceeded as it normally did, with one startling difference. Instead of being a quirky fringe figure, more often mocked than admired, Guus found himself centre stage and loved it. Even a newly subdued and chastened Chris paid homage to the new star in the firmament.
“Guus, I know I haven’t always been kind to you in the past but I hope you’ll forgive me because now, I have to admit, you look fabulous! Where did you get that skirt?”
Guus was sorely tempted to say, ‘Oh this old thing…’ but resisted. He knew this was the occasion of his rebirth and he knew that they knew that everything about him was new and remodelled, so he decided to tell the truth instead. Admitting to his fashion mistakes in the past wasn’t hard and admitting that John had played an integral part in his makeover was something he was proud to do. He wasn’t the best looking at the gathering, nor was he the best dressed if the truth were known; he was quite willing to let Chris have that honour as usual but the transformation from ugly duckling to graceful swan was so profound, that everybody else paled in comparison and he posed for photos as happy as he had ever been. John would be so proud.
John’s experiment wasn’t going quite as well as he’d hoped. Guido had undressed them both expertly and had been equally skilled at manipulating John’s body but no matter how his brain responded to the new sensations and no matter how much he rationalised that he was being touched in ways which set his nerve ends jangling, he stubbornly couldn’t rise to the occasion.
“Don’t worry,” Guido had soothed in response to his embarrassed apologies, “Just relax. You’d be amazed how many people this happens to. I used to take it personally but this sort of thing can faze the most sexual of men. Does this feel good?”
John couldn’t deny that it did but knew there was something missing; knew that his lack of honesty was the problem, not the ministrations of his partner.
“Uhm, I don’t know how to put this and please feel free to say no if you want but would you mind if we tried something else?”
“Okay, you’re the customer. What did you have in mind?”
Half an hour later, John lay back exhausted. He’d just had the most complete and exciting sexual experience of his life. Guido was already dressing and smiling down at him.
“I enjoyed that John. Why didn’t you say what you wanted at the beginning? You should never try to hide your real nature, it only makes you unhappy in the end.”
“I don’t know; nervousness I guess. I’m still a novice at these things. I’m really grateful though. I now know a bit more about myself and you were really good. Thanks.”
“Hey, no problem. If you want to do this again, just ask for me by name but I’ve got to go now. So, take care and remember, don’t be too hard on yourself in the future; just let yourself go okay?”
After he’d left, John lay back on the bed in the gloom and blushed at the extent of the pleasure he’d just had. His confidence had grown to such an extent that he wanted to open the curtains and exhibit himself to the world.
‘This is me,’ he thought. ‘It’s taken me all these years but I’ve finally discovered what it is that can make me a happy man. Christ, I wish I’d done this years ago.’
He let his hands wander back and forth, over the stiffened material of his bra and slide down over the sensuous silk of his underwear. Slipping his thumbs under the elastic fastenings of the suspenders, every hair on his legs stood up as if responding individually to the caress. Closing his eyes and letting his imagination wander, he recreated their earlier games and with a hitherto unknown freedom, once more gave way to the sort of pleasure he’d denied himself all his life.
Guus was getting a little drunk, though as far as he could remember, he’d only had two or three glasses of wine. He felt faint and a little nauseous and the corset was beginning to constrict him. As with all novelties, the effect caused by his entrance had worn off with most people and he found himself in his accustomed position of being on the fringes of conversation groups. Not that he minded particularly; it gave him a chance to observe the games people played; something he’d always been uncomfortable with. He was a straightforward man, with a straightforward life and the addition of women’s clothes didn’t change that, the way it did with some. It constantly surprised him how otherwise sober and essentially Calvinistic members of society could mutate into the flamboyant and exhibitionist, after assuming their alter egos. A generous supply of alcohol invariably hastened the process but with many of these people, Guus thought they were missing the point. For him, the thrill was in the dressing-up but for others it seemed that there was a need to assume a female identity as well and then, not a realistic one. He saw them as parodying women and in that respect, he couldn’t see the difference between them and drag queens, although most people present would have greeted the very suggestion with horror.
Unusually, Pim sidled up to him for a chat. Guus had never really felt comfortable with the normally austere banker and even though to all intents and purposes, the social differences disappeared when the group assembled, Guus was often uncomfortably aware of the gulf between Pim and himself in ‘normal life’ and couldn’t help feeling that he should metaphorically ‘doff his cap’ each time they met.
“I haven’t had a chance before Guus but I must say, you look extremely elegant tonight.”
Coming from Pim, this was praise indeed and Guus knew it.
“Thanks Pim, that’s much appreciated. I was so nervous but thanks to John, I think I’ve pulled it off.”
“Without doubt my friend, without doubt.”
Pim had delivered his compliment as a gentleman should but finding little else in common with Guus, was already looking around the room to find a decent conversation.
“You look superb as usual.”
Guus meant it. Pim never tried to imitate youth as a woman. He dressed in much the same style as he did as a man and in homage to his own age group. His designer clothes were always elegant and chic; his make up and hair more suggestive of a well-bred lady than a premiere socialite and although he was by no means the oldest in the club, he exuded seniority and aloofness.
“Thank you. It’s Molenaar you know, though I have to admit my dressmaker has adapted it to my size and I suspect Frans would be less than amused but then again, I see it as a compliment to his art.”
“Oh absolutely.”
Guus could hear himself becoming subservient again and tried to change the subject.
“When will this weather break? Mediterranean weather is all well and good but in Holland, it just doesn’t seem natural. I can’t wait for…”
“Excuse me Guus, it looks like André wants a word. Speak to you later.”
Guus knew he wouldn’t, the audience was over but he felt satisfied with the compliment he’d been given. He absent-mindedly turned to look at the wall clock and was horrified to find that it was nearly eleven o’clock. The combination of his elation, the wine and the longer summer daylight had conspired to make him forget the time. Panic hit the pit of his stomach like a stone and he barged his way across to Pieter in a most unladylike manner.
“Christ Pieter, I’ve got to go. Annie…I’m supposed to be at the gym…I’ll never get away with it…she’ll smell the wine…shit! I’m done for!”
His face was flushed crimson and he could hardly breathe. The words spilled out incoherently and he was in a cold sweat. Suddenly the room seemed unbearably hot and crowded and all he wanted was to be home, in his armchair in front of the TV.
Pieter broke off his conversation and looked at him, concern etched on his face.
“Okay Guus, don’t panic. I’ll give you a hand. Come on, let’s go and get you out of these clothes. Guus…Guus? Are you okay? You’ve gone very pale.”
Perhaps fortunately, Guus was not aware of the bedlam he caused as he crashed unceremoniously to the floor. He had half turned and collided with a startled Kris, who was carrying a tray of newly refilled glasses, the contents of which arced through the air in a fountain of unstoppable red stain. At least half the room were faced with dry cleaning bills as one after the other; carefully constructed fashions succumbed to the unexpected shower. The cacophony of shrill protest was loud enough to disturb Pieter’s elderly neighbour, who unfairly cursed the students across the canal and drifted back into sleep. Pim looked disbelievingly at the flecks on his Molenaar and truly wished that Guus would die on the spot. Only Pieter saw the situation for what it was and knelt down by the fat man, his skirt bunched up around his waist, lying unconscious on his carpet.
“Shut up everybody, shut the fuck up! Somebody call an ambulance.”
21. Arend the Lemming
Amsterdam
Dear Rob,
Thanks for your letter and the photos. Ah, happy memories eh! Especially the one of me with my trousers round my ankles in Stanley Park! If I’d known you were sticking your lens into my private affairs, I would have demanded the film then and there! Oh well, apart from a few curious squirrels and that persistent Pekingese and of course, apparently, your good self, I don’t suppose the residents of Vancouver will be overly upset by my toiletries. However, I am curious where the owner of that pooch was at the time.
Would you believe I have some good news to report for once! You were probably feeling pretty smug, receiving letter after letter brimming over with disasters and congratulating yourself that you weren’t here in Amsterdam to share them with me. Well, I’ve actually met someone and dare I say it, with fingers crossed and my hand firmly knocking on wood, he could be the new ‘Mr. Right’. His name is Dennis and he’s Irish but speaks passable Dutch with a cute accent. He’s slightly ‘vertically challenged’, in that he’s about one metre seventy-five or so but as they say, good things come in little packages and he is a good thing, and not so ‘little’, if you get my drift! He’s got short, dark hair, amazing green eyes; a hairy chest, legs, buttocks and arms and to top it all, a smile to absolutely melt away all your cares. Oh, did I forget to mention he’s in pretty good shape too? Not sure how old he is; a few years younger than me I suppose but who’s counting? A couple more things; he’s got a nipple ring and the cutest tattoo just above his groin.
You’re probably wondering where I met this paragon of manhood? Well, it was in the sauna of all places. I was bored to tears and feeling horny, so off I trolled, on a gorgeous, sun-drenched afternoon into that steaming hot cauldron of vice, not expecting to meet a soul except the ancient and the desperate; don’t you dare say I would have fitted in perfectly! Anyway, after the usual promenade and obligatory sauna and steam, I did the tour of the cabins and the ‘galerie des grotesques’ and wonder of wonders; there he was, doing exactly the same. Well, you know me; when I see something that good, I pull out all the stops. I dived into a vacant cabin and hurriedly posed in what I assumed was a lascivious and irresistible manner and lo and behold, he accepted the invitation. Actually, joking aside, I was totally amazed when he showed interest. It turns out he’d seen me downstairs and liked what he’d seen; little moi, can you believe it! Then he lost track of me until he spotted me plodding along the corridor. He was on the point of looking for a cabin when he saw me disappear and figured I’d found one and was about to hook up with someone else. He said he wasn’t sure if I’d fancy him or not! Have you any idea what that does for a manic-depressive’s confidence? Needless to say, I was putty in his hands! Seriously though, it was so nice, so tender and there was an immediate connection, just what I needed. Of course, this being my story, you won’t be surprised to hear that there is a teensy-weensy complication! Yes, you’ve guessed it; just like all the other cute men in Amsterdam, he’s ‘married’! No, before you ask, not to a woman; I wouldn’t fall in love with a bisexual; they’re schizophrenic and never leave their wives. Slight problem this but I’m not letting it worry me really; let’s just say that I now only have stumps for fingers!
He’s been with this guy for years and Dennis was actually at the sauna that afternoon with him and a group of friends. To give him credit, he told me straight away; well, after the sex and ergo - after I was hopelessly hooked! ‘Oh well,’ I thought, ‘I’ve had a nice time at least’ and I swear, if that had been it, I would have walked away with a smile on my face and a happy memory and no hard feelings; until, that is, he asked me if he could see me again! I know, I know, I should still have walked away etc, etc but I was feeling pretty vulnerable after the events of the last few months, as you know and there was that chemistry! Anyway, to cut a long story short, I have seen him again, three times actually and quite frankly, if I’m heading for a fall, I don’t care. He hasn’t said he’ll leave his friend and nor do I expect, or want him to. I’m lying of course and trying to convince myself that that’s the politically correct and morally right thing to think but it’s all bullshit because I’m in imminent danger of falling head over heels for this guy. Wouldn’t you think I’d know better after all these years? And wouldn’t you think that after what Freek did to me, I wouldn’t want to wish that on someone else sitting at home thinking all’s well with their partnership? Not a bit of it! I’m clearly as big a bastard as the next man and have learned absolutely nothing from twenty years on the gay scene. It reminds me of that joke: you know, the definition of a true friend is if you trust him implicitly with your boyfriend and your credit card and he meets your boyfriend, blind drunk, with said credit card and pin number and it doesn’t even enter his mind! Well, I’m the one who would see the opportunity straight away! Before you say it, it’s not just the power of the cock that’s driving me on; we definitely have something, Dennis and me; some intangible empathy that you meet only a few times in a lifetime and like a lemming faced with the run to the cliffs, I can’t stop myself rushing recklessly towards disaster. Oh well, if you don’t hear from me in the next couple of months, you’ll know it’s gone horribly wrong and I’ll have been scraped up as road-kill from under a tram.
It’s funny you know, after all the conversations we had in Vancouver about the answers to life’s problems and all that, we had a sort of family heart to heart the other day. I can’t remember the last time I spoke to any of my family about anything deeper than the price of carrots but one evening, over the washing up, (well, filling the dishwasher actually and the arguments thereover); it was Michel who started it off by asking me whether I missed Freek.
You have to picture the scene; another stifling evening; the balcony doors wide open and the sparrows choking on the smog. Did you know that sparrows are disappearing in Western Europe? They reckon it’s something to do with air pollution. Doesn’t seem to affect pigeons though and they shit in vastly greater quantities!
Anyway, we were all in the living room, sat around the dining table, ploughing our way through several bottles of cheap plonk after the meal. I say all: there was Michel and boyfriend, Henk by name and a sweetie, though not long out of nappies; Huub and Sjoukje, whose ‘temporary’ stay is rapidly becoming permanent and yours truly. I’d just vent my spleen at Michel, whose tardiness at the dishwasher was irrationally getting on my tits, (blame it on the heat, or the change!) and he accused me of being a frustrated old spinster! Needless to say, I hadn’t told them about Dennis at this point and frustrated I’m not! I took umbrage at this slur on my character and things would have developed nicely into a bog-standard, brotherly row, if he hadn’t come up with that question. It took me by surprise. I’m well aware that to my younger siblings I must appear as some dinosaur relic, especially when I blow a fuse at the thumping drone of the latest House hit, or DJ of the moment. I tried playing Donna Summer, or Sylvester, or the Village People one evening and they looked at me as if I’d dropped in from Mars! Now, I ask you, who can keep their feet still to 80’s disco! The youth of today, that’s who! Anyway, I’m procrastinating. The conversation transferred to the dining table and I had to admit I missed Freek; to their obvious delight that long-held theories had been proved right. I did qualify it by saying that it wasn’t really Freek that I missed but the comfort of having a partner and that’s true. Having said that, I realised I’d given a very good argument for ditching Dennis as quickly as possible. If I really want a live-in relationship, then Dennis is a non-starter.
Anyway, in order to prick their smug psychological assessments of the state of my mind, I told them all about Dennis. They were shocked, can you believe it! Even Michel, who as an apprentice slut is making very good progress, wrinkled his, as yet unwrinkled brow and tutted. I suddenly felt morally degenerate, in the face of this collective, generational disapproval. What is it with the young? They’ve never had it so good. They’re as free as birds and sexually, totally unrestricted and yet they have these old-fashioned values, when it comes to their elders. I was firmly told that it was morally reprehensible to try to steal someone else’s partner away and I felt about ten years old. Okay, I know they’re right but fuck it! It takes two to tango and Dennis has free choice in the matter, doesn’t he?
From that low point, things got better and we had a really long and deep discussion, (aided by the drink of course) about all sorts of subjects. Actually, I loved it. I felt a real connection and considerably less alone. Up to now, I’ve been under the misguided illusion that, as the house owner and resident elder statesman, I have to bear the responsibility for everyone’s physical and mental well being. For the first time, I think, I realised that my two brothers are fully developed people in their own right and perfectly capable of putting the world to rights if needs be. I don’t need to do the worrying for all of us and that was quite a relief. Maybe I can get on with the rest of my life, knowing that problems can be shared. Does that sound too Oprah?
I am beginning to feel my age these days though. I’m only forty I know but more and more, I’m being reminded that the years are taking their toll. It’s not just that I share a house with the unceasingly energetic; it’s lots of little things. Let me give you an example: I was walking through town the other day and I saw this absolute stunner walking towards me and before you say it, I know I’m supposed to be in love but a sensible girl always keeps her options open; it’s the safety valve thing. Anyway, I fluttered my eyelashes and acted coy, as one does and the creep looked right through me as if I didn’t exist. Now that would be fine if it was just a one-off but if the truth were known, it’s happening quite a lot recently and I’m beginning to get paranoid. Dennis is without doubt, a catch and I think most people would agree about that but somehow that doesn’t count. You’re only as good as your next conquest in the gay world. It doesn’t matter if you’ve had three hunks in a row; if the next one turns you down, you can be crushed! Or is it just me? I’m trying hard to believe that if someone doesn’t find me sexually attractive, his response is more a statement about whom he finds attractive rather than a negative reaction to me. Is that realistic, or am I being blind to my shortcomings? Why can’t I be happy with who I am and more importantly, why can’t I be happy with the fact that I’ve attracted someone like Dennis? Why do I have to keep looking for affirmation? Is it a gay thing, or is it a ‘me’ thing? All advice from far flung Canada welcome, as long as it’s positive advice. Sometimes, a friend doesn’t need to be brutally honest you know.
Okay, I’ve laid myself bare and exposed my insecurities, again! Just ignore it; life is really not that bad. Well actually, it soon could be but this time in the financial sphere. There’s every chance that the Social Services are going to stop my benefit after the Stasi-like, Fifth Column infiltration and the photography debacle. As I mentioned in my last letter, they called me in for a ‘discussion’ the other day. I turned up, having prepared my speech for most of the night before. I thought that if they were going to stop my money, then at least I’d get in my heartfelt protest at their underhand methods and make life as difficult as possible. As it turned out, the whole meeting was over in twenty minutes. I made my point pretty strongly but it was deflected at every opportunity and I got the distinct impression that mine wasn’t the only protest they’d heard. Anyway, the outcome of it was that, in the best tradition of civil service operations, my case would be reviewed and I could expect to hear their decision within six weeks. I don’t know for sure but I think it just might be okay; especially as I assured them that I wouldn’t be trying to earn unofficial extra money in the future. There’s a possibility that I might get a sharp rap on the knuckles and a warning never to be a naughty boy again but then again, my intuition could be totally wrong (again) and I might have to earn an honest living for the first time for a while. I’m starting to scan the newspaper columns for suitably interesting jobs just in case. If you’ve got any ideas please don’t hesitate to put them forward; as long as they’re within my capabilities that is and anatomically possible!
Well, I think that’s just about all the news I’ve got for the moment. Oh hold on, before I sign off; the phone’s ringing…
……………………
…Okay, first I’m glad I didn’t send this letter; I’d feel pretty foolish having to send another one straightaway. Actually, I feel pretty foolish anyway. No, not foolish, downright suicidal! I’m writing this about an hour after the phone call because I needed an hour and a couple of stiff drinks to pull myself together. Thank God nobody’s in at the moment but me; I don’t think I could face a torrent of ‘I told you so’s’ right now. That was Dennis and he’s decided to tell me that it’s all off. I can’t quite believe it. Course, he didn’t have the guts to tell me to my face; that would be too much to ask I suppose. Shit! What now! Apparently, in his wisdom, he decided to be honest with Franck (his partner) and spill the beans about me and…you’ve guessed it, Franck was not exactly over the moon about the arrangement! What really gets me is that Dennis actually asked him if he was okay about my being in the picture for a while. Now, call me old fashioned but you don’t ask your lover of some years, with whom the sex has probably lost its sparkle, if he minds you hooking up with some fresh meat and expect him to sit back and wait patiently for the storm to pass. I know some do but I don’t. Madness! Why couldn’t he have just continued with me as ‘a bit on the side’, I mean, good God, that would be exciting wouldn’t it? This is emotional correctness gone mad. He is clearly not in the top drawer of intelligence quotients because he said he’d fully expected that Franck wouldn’t mind! Yeah, right! Anyway, another one bites the dust as they say. I apologise now for any misuse and abuse of clichés in this letter but as you can tell, I’m not quite my usual erudite and articulate self at the moment. Okay, that’s it! No more playing the doormat! I’m going to use what few years of attractiveness I have left to seduce the few who still might be interested and cast them aside afterwards like empty wrappers. Fun, fun, fun; that’ll be me from now on. I’ll go back to being the party girl I once was and don’t you think I don’t mean it. Life’s too short and all that shit. I mean, Christ, I hardly knew the guy did I? What am I getting upset about? Oh fuck! There’s the phone again. I don’t want to talk to anybody at the moment; I’ll let it ring…
………………….
Needless to say, I couldn’t resist picking up the phone; it could have been an emergency and although I feel a bit sheepish, I’m going to leave the last paragraph in this letter; it illustrates the helter-skelter nature of my life at the moment. Yes, it was Dennis again; he’s coming round in about half an hour. Why? Your guess is as good as mine. He just said he needed to see me and of course, being the softest touch in the western world, I agreed without question. So, I’d better sign off now and do the quick shower and change of underwear thing. Well! You never know do you? You can hold back on the lilies for now, the optimist in me has just resurfaced. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Yours schizophrenically,
Arend
Amsterdam
Dear Rob,
Thanks for your letter and the photos. Ah, happy memories eh! Especially the one of me with my trousers round my ankles in Stanley Park! If I’d known you were sticking your lens into my private affairs, I would have demanded the film then and there! Oh well, apart from a few curious squirrels and that persistent Pekingese and of course, apparently, your good self, I don’t suppose the residents of Vancouver will be overly upset by my toiletries. However, I am curious where the owner of that pooch was at the time.
Would you believe I have some good news to report for once! You were probably feeling pretty smug, receiving letter after letter brimming over with disasters and congratulating yourself that you weren’t here in Amsterdam to share them with me. Well, I’ve actually met someone and dare I say it, with fingers crossed and my hand firmly knocking on wood, he could be the new ‘Mr. Right’. His name is Dennis and he’s Irish but speaks passable Dutch with a cute accent. He’s slightly ‘vertically challenged’, in that he’s about one metre seventy-five or so but as they say, good things come in little packages and he is a good thing, and not so ‘little’, if you get my drift! He’s got short, dark hair, amazing green eyes; a hairy chest, legs, buttocks and arms and to top it all, a smile to absolutely melt away all your cares. Oh, did I forget to mention he’s in pretty good shape too? Not sure how old he is; a few years younger than me I suppose but who’s counting? A couple more things; he’s got a nipple ring and the cutest tattoo just above his groin.
You’re probably wondering where I met this paragon of manhood? Well, it was in the sauna of all places. I was bored to tears and feeling horny, so off I trolled, on a gorgeous, sun-drenched afternoon into that steaming hot cauldron of vice, not expecting to meet a soul except the ancient and the desperate; don’t you dare say I would have fitted in perfectly! Anyway, after the usual promenade and obligatory sauna and steam, I did the tour of the cabins and the ‘galerie des grotesques’ and wonder of wonders; there he was, doing exactly the same. Well, you know me; when I see something that good, I pull out all the stops. I dived into a vacant cabin and hurriedly posed in what I assumed was a lascivious and irresistible manner and lo and behold, he accepted the invitation. Actually, joking aside, I was totally amazed when he showed interest. It turns out he’d seen me downstairs and liked what he’d seen; little moi, can you believe it! Then he lost track of me until he spotted me plodding along the corridor. He was on the point of looking for a cabin when he saw me disappear and figured I’d found one and was about to hook up with someone else. He said he wasn’t sure if I’d fancy him or not! Have you any idea what that does for a manic-depressive’s confidence? Needless to say, I was putty in his hands! Seriously though, it was so nice, so tender and there was an immediate connection, just what I needed. Of course, this being my story, you won’t be surprised to hear that there is a teensy-weensy complication! Yes, you’ve guessed it; just like all the other cute men in Amsterdam, he’s ‘married’! No, before you ask, not to a woman; I wouldn’t fall in love with a bisexual; they’re schizophrenic and never leave their wives. Slight problem this but I’m not letting it worry me really; let’s just say that I now only have stumps for fingers!
He’s been with this guy for years and Dennis was actually at the sauna that afternoon with him and a group of friends. To give him credit, he told me straight away; well, after the sex and ergo - after I was hopelessly hooked! ‘Oh well,’ I thought, ‘I’ve had a nice time at least’ and I swear, if that had been it, I would have walked away with a smile on my face and a happy memory and no hard feelings; until, that is, he asked me if he could see me again! I know, I know, I should still have walked away etc, etc but I was feeling pretty vulnerable after the events of the last few months, as you know and there was that chemistry! Anyway, to cut a long story short, I have seen him again, three times actually and quite frankly, if I’m heading for a fall, I don’t care. He hasn’t said he’ll leave his friend and nor do I expect, or want him to. I’m lying of course and trying to convince myself that that’s the politically correct and morally right thing to think but it’s all bullshit because I’m in imminent danger of falling head over heels for this guy. Wouldn’t you think I’d know better after all these years? And wouldn’t you think that after what Freek did to me, I wouldn’t want to wish that on someone else sitting at home thinking all’s well with their partnership? Not a bit of it! I’m clearly as big a bastard as the next man and have learned absolutely nothing from twenty years on the gay scene. It reminds me of that joke: you know, the definition of a true friend is if you trust him implicitly with your boyfriend and your credit card and he meets your boyfriend, blind drunk, with said credit card and pin number and it doesn’t even enter his mind! Well, I’m the one who would see the opportunity straight away! Before you say it, it’s not just the power of the cock that’s driving me on; we definitely have something, Dennis and me; some intangible empathy that you meet only a few times in a lifetime and like a lemming faced with the run to the cliffs, I can’t stop myself rushing recklessly towards disaster. Oh well, if you don’t hear from me in the next couple of months, you’ll know it’s gone horribly wrong and I’ll have been scraped up as road-kill from under a tram.
It’s funny you know, after all the conversations we had in Vancouver about the answers to life’s problems and all that, we had a sort of family heart to heart the other day. I can’t remember the last time I spoke to any of my family about anything deeper than the price of carrots but one evening, over the washing up, (well, filling the dishwasher actually and the arguments thereover); it was Michel who started it off by asking me whether I missed Freek.
You have to picture the scene; another stifling evening; the balcony doors wide open and the sparrows choking on the smog. Did you know that sparrows are disappearing in Western Europe? They reckon it’s something to do with air pollution. Doesn’t seem to affect pigeons though and they shit in vastly greater quantities!
Anyway, we were all in the living room, sat around the dining table, ploughing our way through several bottles of cheap plonk after the meal. I say all: there was Michel and boyfriend, Henk by name and a sweetie, though not long out of nappies; Huub and Sjoukje, whose ‘temporary’ stay is rapidly becoming permanent and yours truly. I’d just vent my spleen at Michel, whose tardiness at the dishwasher was irrationally getting on my tits, (blame it on the heat, or the change!) and he accused me of being a frustrated old spinster! Needless to say, I hadn’t told them about Dennis at this point and frustrated I’m not! I took umbrage at this slur on my character and things would have developed nicely into a bog-standard, brotherly row, if he hadn’t come up with that question. It took me by surprise. I’m well aware that to my younger siblings I must appear as some dinosaur relic, especially when I blow a fuse at the thumping drone of the latest House hit, or DJ of the moment. I tried playing Donna Summer, or Sylvester, or the Village People one evening and they looked at me as if I’d dropped in from Mars! Now, I ask you, who can keep their feet still to 80’s disco! The youth of today, that’s who! Anyway, I’m procrastinating. The conversation transferred to the dining table and I had to admit I missed Freek; to their obvious delight that long-held theories had been proved right. I did qualify it by saying that it wasn’t really Freek that I missed but the comfort of having a partner and that’s true. Having said that, I realised I’d given a very good argument for ditching Dennis as quickly as possible. If I really want a live-in relationship, then Dennis is a non-starter.
Anyway, in order to prick their smug psychological assessments of the state of my mind, I told them all about Dennis. They were shocked, can you believe it! Even Michel, who as an apprentice slut is making very good progress, wrinkled his, as yet unwrinkled brow and tutted. I suddenly felt morally degenerate, in the face of this collective, generational disapproval. What is it with the young? They’ve never had it so good. They’re as free as birds and sexually, totally unrestricted and yet they have these old-fashioned values, when it comes to their elders. I was firmly told that it was morally reprehensible to try to steal someone else’s partner away and I felt about ten years old. Okay, I know they’re right but fuck it! It takes two to tango and Dennis has free choice in the matter, doesn’t he?
From that low point, things got better and we had a really long and deep discussion, (aided by the drink of course) about all sorts of subjects. Actually, I loved it. I felt a real connection and considerably less alone. Up to now, I’ve been under the misguided illusion that, as the house owner and resident elder statesman, I have to bear the responsibility for everyone’s physical and mental well being. For the first time, I think, I realised that my two brothers are fully developed people in their own right and perfectly capable of putting the world to rights if needs be. I don’t need to do the worrying for all of us and that was quite a relief. Maybe I can get on with the rest of my life, knowing that problems can be shared. Does that sound too Oprah?
I am beginning to feel my age these days though. I’m only forty I know but more and more, I’m being reminded that the years are taking their toll. It’s not just that I share a house with the unceasingly energetic; it’s lots of little things. Let me give you an example: I was walking through town the other day and I saw this absolute stunner walking towards me and before you say it, I know I’m supposed to be in love but a sensible girl always keeps her options open; it’s the safety valve thing. Anyway, I fluttered my eyelashes and acted coy, as one does and the creep looked right through me as if I didn’t exist. Now that would be fine if it was just a one-off but if the truth were known, it’s happening quite a lot recently and I’m beginning to get paranoid. Dennis is without doubt, a catch and I think most people would agree about that but somehow that doesn’t count. You’re only as good as your next conquest in the gay world. It doesn’t matter if you’ve had three hunks in a row; if the next one turns you down, you can be crushed! Or is it just me? I’m trying hard to believe that if someone doesn’t find me sexually attractive, his response is more a statement about whom he finds attractive rather than a negative reaction to me. Is that realistic, or am I being blind to my shortcomings? Why can’t I be happy with who I am and more importantly, why can’t I be happy with the fact that I’ve attracted someone like Dennis? Why do I have to keep looking for affirmation? Is it a gay thing, or is it a ‘me’ thing? All advice from far flung Canada welcome, as long as it’s positive advice. Sometimes, a friend doesn’t need to be brutally honest you know.
Okay, I’ve laid myself bare and exposed my insecurities, again! Just ignore it; life is really not that bad. Well actually, it soon could be but this time in the financial sphere. There’s every chance that the Social Services are going to stop my benefit after the Stasi-like, Fifth Column infiltration and the photography debacle. As I mentioned in my last letter, they called me in for a ‘discussion’ the other day. I turned up, having prepared my speech for most of the night before. I thought that if they were going to stop my money, then at least I’d get in my heartfelt protest at their underhand methods and make life as difficult as possible. As it turned out, the whole meeting was over in twenty minutes. I made my point pretty strongly but it was deflected at every opportunity and I got the distinct impression that mine wasn’t the only protest they’d heard. Anyway, the outcome of it was that, in the best tradition of civil service operations, my case would be reviewed and I could expect to hear their decision within six weeks. I don’t know for sure but I think it just might be okay; especially as I assured them that I wouldn’t be trying to earn unofficial extra money in the future. There’s a possibility that I might get a sharp rap on the knuckles and a warning never to be a naughty boy again but then again, my intuition could be totally wrong (again) and I might have to earn an honest living for the first time for a while. I’m starting to scan the newspaper columns for suitably interesting jobs just in case. If you’ve got any ideas please don’t hesitate to put them forward; as long as they’re within my capabilities that is and anatomically possible!
Well, I think that’s just about all the news I’ve got for the moment. Oh hold on, before I sign off; the phone’s ringing…
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…Okay, first I’m glad I didn’t send this letter; I’d feel pretty foolish having to send another one straightaway. Actually, I feel pretty foolish anyway. No, not foolish, downright suicidal! I’m writing this about an hour after the phone call because I needed an hour and a couple of stiff drinks to pull myself together. Thank God nobody’s in at the moment but me; I don’t think I could face a torrent of ‘I told you so’s’ right now. That was Dennis and he’s decided to tell me that it’s all off. I can’t quite believe it. Course, he didn’t have the guts to tell me to my face; that would be too much to ask I suppose. Shit! What now! Apparently, in his wisdom, he decided to be honest with Franck (his partner) and spill the beans about me and…you’ve guessed it, Franck was not exactly over the moon about the arrangement! What really gets me is that Dennis actually asked him if he was okay about my being in the picture for a while. Now, call me old fashioned but you don’t ask your lover of some years, with whom the sex has probably lost its sparkle, if he minds you hooking up with some fresh meat and expect him to sit back and wait patiently for the storm to pass. I know some do but I don’t. Madness! Why couldn’t he have just continued with me as ‘a bit on the side’, I mean, good God, that would be exciting wouldn’t it? This is emotional correctness gone mad. He is clearly not in the top drawer of intelligence quotients because he said he’d fully expected that Franck wouldn’t mind! Yeah, right! Anyway, another one bites the dust as they say. I apologise now for any misuse and abuse of clichés in this letter but as you can tell, I’m not quite my usual erudite and articulate self at the moment. Okay, that’s it! No more playing the doormat! I’m going to use what few years of attractiveness I have left to seduce the few who still might be interested and cast them aside afterwards like empty wrappers. Fun, fun, fun; that’ll be me from now on. I’ll go back to being the party girl I once was and don’t you think I don’t mean it. Life’s too short and all that shit. I mean, Christ, I hardly knew the guy did I? What am I getting upset about? Oh fuck! There’s the phone again. I don’t want to talk to anybody at the moment; I’ll let it ring…
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Needless to say, I couldn’t resist picking up the phone; it could have been an emergency and although I feel a bit sheepish, I’m going to leave the last paragraph in this letter; it illustrates the helter-skelter nature of my life at the moment. Yes, it was Dennis again; he’s coming round in about half an hour. Why? Your guess is as good as mine. He just said he needed to see me and of course, being the softest touch in the western world, I agreed without question. So, I’d better sign off now and do the quick shower and change of underwear thing. Well! You never know do you? You can hold back on the lilies for now, the optimist in me has just resurfaced. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Yours schizophrenically,
Arend
The Amsterdam Series
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20. Guus and John push the boundaries
21. Arend the Lemming
