Have no fear, Irene is here! I couldn’t believe
that Donna’s lifelong friend had followed over to Amsterdam from Glenrothes,
Scotland. I remembered the first week Donna had moved into my place on Camrose
Drive, Irene and Fiona had called from the Greyhound bus station and now this.
Oh well, I knew at least she wasn’t going to be sharing our room. Or was she?
We walked into the
elevator and headed down to the lobby and lo and behold Irene was there in all
her glory with her boyfriend, Steve. Steve was a low key individual who more
than made up for Irene’s boisterous, bubbly demeanor and I was glad he would
probably hold back her reins. After hugs and kisses from the girls, we went
into the bar and ordered some drinks.
“I canny believe you
came here on our honeymoon, Irene,” Donna laughed.
“What are best pals
for?” Irene shot back. Steve and I just looked at each other with “what are you
gonna do” expressions. It seemed that they were only here for a couple of days
then were going to tour the countryside leaving Donna and me to our own marital
bliss. Still, I could appreciate Donna had such a good friend that wanted to
give her a royal send off into married life. I don’t think I have any friends
that are so loyal. In fact, in the twenty years that I’ve been in Tennessee,
not one friend of mine from L.A. had even come to visit. (hint hint).
After Steve and Irene
retired to their room, Donna and I went to a local bar to take in some of the
color of Amsterdam. They had this drink I got into called Geneva, that was a
lot like Ouzo and it had the same powerful kick. I ordered one for me while Donna
stuck with a gin and tonic. I noticed there was a pool table in the back with
some Rastafarian holding court. He was winning every game so I casually
strolled over and put a coin down on the table indicating I wanted a go. It was
eight ball. The rules of this particular game was that you had to bank the
black eight ball in the final shot to win—and you had to call the pocket it was
going to land in. No problem. I was down five balls when he finally missed his
shot. I knew I had to clear the table which I did. The last shot was an
unbelievable bank shot which sent the eight ball scurrying to the far corner
pocket and dropped in the pocket. I won three guilder. I knew it was going to
be a magical night.
Donna then tried to
persuade me to go to a live sex show. I was dumbfounded. Here was the demure
Scottish lassie, one that I thought was so pure and innocent and she was trying
to lead me into a place where people screwed their brains out on a stage. I
needed a few more drinks for that. I got good and buzzed then agreed to the
proposition.
“I’m not asking you to
go up on stage and perform, only be a silent observer,” she said.
On the way there, I
saw a torture museum. I wanted to stop there first to get me in the mood. Sick
right? I was stalling and she knew it. After making the rounds and sticking my
head into the stockade for fun, (Donna almost got her head in), we were ready
to go to the Moulin Rouge in the Red Light district.
We took our seats in
the fourth or fifth row of the theater and waited with anticipation for the
show to begin. There were a few preliminary male and female dancers who looked
quite nice with costumes that rivaled the Follies Bergere brought up to date
for the 1990’s. Then came the main event. A young naked couple in their early
twenties pranced around the stage and began to have intercourse. I was
embarrassed as hell and wasn’t turned on in the least. It was almost funny the
way they acted, like they were shaking hands (except it wasn’t hands they were
shaking) at a business meeting or buying insurance. I wondered how they could
keep it up (literally) for more than half an hour. I kept pretending I was an
alien sent to earth to observe the strange customs of its inhabitants. It was
the only way I was going to get through it without laughing. I have a tendency
to have these strange fantasies whenever I’m in a situation where it is
embarrassing to be human. Sorry, I got to go, my spaceship is double parked.
We went back to the
hotel and in my mind I was going to try out a few of the pointers I picked up
on stage, without the yawns and lack of interest, of course. Unfortunately, by
the time my head hit the pillow at one a.m. I was dead to the world. The
private show would have to wait.
The next morning we
were heading back to Glenrothes for a few more days and then home to America as
married folks. I wondered how being a team would affect my life now. How would
my friends act now that I was the only one who wasn’t single? I would have to
revise the use of the pronoun “I” and insert the word “We” instead. It was
going to have to take some getting used to. Still I was excited and looked
forward to getting back home as Mr. and Mrs. James Haymer. But most of all I
missed my dogs—OUR dogs.
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