The year was 2011, and my 26-something self and a few buddies decided that our end of summer trip would be spoiling ourselves by visiting Europe over a 13-day span. I must admit, it was a bit ambitious to think that we could experience three different cities in such a short amount of time, but, hey, we were young, cheap and tried our best.
Naturally, the cherry on the top of the trip was going to be Amsterdam.
With weed and prostitution legal, we knew that the city has debauchery just waiting for us to get into on every single corner. Add in the fact that we were staying just two blocks from the infamous "Red Light District"—where us Ugly Americans could act as such, somewhat appropriately—and it was like a kid in a f*cking candy store.
I'll never forget how the day started off. We were so hungover and still high from the space cakes that we had eaten during our first night—which is an entirely different story for a different day—that we had told one another that we should have a more "chill" day after killing our bodies over the first four nights of the trip.
Of course, that didn't happen.
Deciding to go see the Anne Frank House, the line was a "ridiculously long" 15-minute wait. We quickly opted for the nearest bar, drinking vodka and being told how dumb we were for eating space cakes the night prior by our waitress—who we, secretly, thought hated us.
Bar hopping led to more drugs, more shots and a casual stroll up and down the Red Light District, literally window shopping for what our near-blacked out minds found to be the most attractive prostitute.
At some point, my buddies and I separated from one another, leaving a very drunk and horny 20-something alone in a city that has nearly no limits.
I found myself lost, in the Red Light District, trying to figure out where I was, knocking on every single prostitute's and sex shops door in hopes of "just sleeping there for a bit." Mind you, it was near five in the morning at this point.
Finally, one door slowly swings open, with a petite, blonde-haired girl in white lace lingerie just a few feet from me, speaking a language that was so foreign to me that I had no idea what to say—especially as messed up as my low-functioning brain was at that point.
She calmly pulls me up the stairs and into a shared room, where a couple beds, chairs and, yep, even a tub were. Seeing as how it the shop was technically closed, it was just her and I in the room, which, naturally, got my drunk, hormonal mind racing with the sexual possibilities.
Asking for money, her broken English tells me that it's "40 Euros for sex." That's a problem, because I only have 10 Euros.
I begin bartering with her and come to the conclusion that, for my 10 Euros, I could have sex with her, but there would be "no touch." Yeah, I thought it was a joke, too.
She slides a condom on me, lies on her back and inserts my semi-hard penis into her vagina, leaving both of us underwhelmed and left with a lack of enthusiasm as I thrust in and out at a snail's pace.
Obviously not feeling that position, she bends over to go doggie style, where, almost immediately, I perk up and think, this is where things are about to get fun.
The second I lightly tap her butt, she turns around and reminds me, "no touch."
We go for a minute or two, both getting into it.
I try another tap on the rear, with the same result, "no touch."
At this point, I'm not sure what to do, as I'm left wondering what I can do to make this feel as close to real sex as possible. Sadly, there's not much.
I end up pulling out, sitting on the bed and trying to talk to her about how she got in the business, condom hanging off me and her sitting with her panties stretched around her ankles. Hell, I even offer to grab a cup of coffee with her since the sun's rising at this point—since my still drunk head could use a wake me up.
She calmly denies me—good call—and escorts me down to the door, leaving me on the cold street in the Red Light District to try and navigate myself back to my hotel.
It takes me two hours, with lots of help from homeless people and degenerates trying to help along the way, leading to me getting back to the hotel around eight in the morning, ashamed and exhausted from my night with an Amsterdam escort.