Red Lighting It

"You know what bothers me," he says as we're walking through town.

"Lots of things, I'm sure." That's me being smart.

"My laugh. I feel like my laugh's getting old."

"Getting old?"

"I laugh like an old person. It scares me."

I imitate what I imagine an old person's laugh would sound like and it comes out all ho-ho-hoee, like a Santa laugh, a nice deep guffaw. I think about it though, and even though I don't hear it myself, I know what he means, and I'm scared for him. First the laugh, then the knees, and pretty soon you've got a crooked back, you're walking with a cane, dark hairs winding their way out from your earlobes, and you're always forgetting where you are. Someone told me that your ears and your nose are two things that never stop growing. Live long enough and you become all ears and nose, which explains a lot, and yet not nearly enough.

We creep towards the red light district, pulling coats snugger over our exposed necks and the wet cold that somehow manages to find its way past all the layers. The closer we get, the more we hear whispers directed towards us from faceless African men standing in shadowed alleys - "Cocaine, ecstasy?" Maybe I should be used to this because I'm from New York, but I'm not, because there's something darker going on here, something that makes it more sinister than your average pot pusher pretending like he's telling you a secret as you walk past him in Washington Sq.

The neon lights stretch down an avenue-length street, on either side of the only canal where there seem to be swans at all times of the day. I glance at the tiny cars parked alongside it and bet myself that, if I wanted to, I could probably push them into the water.

It's exactly as people told me it was going to be, all these random women standing in front of windows posing, pointing, puckering their lips. They point at various people that pass in front of the store fronts and motion them to come over, to have a little preliminary business meeting. I notice one girl dressed in jeans and a Rutgers sweatshirt, and I wonder who exactly she's trying to be. Her hands stuffed in her pockets, she leans back a little, hips thrust out, and she stares you glances at you with total disinterest. Maybe she's for the guys who want to live out some sort of fantasy of being with an aloof college student.

Another woman we pass looks middle-aged, homely and sad. She has on a black brassiere and black stockings with a garter. It's a reject from "The Graduate" who somehow made her way to this place. What is she doing here? This time I guess that she might be filling a void for divorced men who miss their wives and want to spend a night with someone who reminds them of the woman who mothered their children, who they spent decades being married to. I don't know, all speculation of course.

Some guys creep upto the doors and peek their heads in. I watch transactions unfold. One guys slips into the house and a blind goes down over the window, like an "out to lunch" sign.

"That man is going to have sex."

"OK..." My friend didn't really notice but it doesn't seem to phase him.

"Isn't it weird that I just saw someone go into a room with someone else who they're going to be messing around with in a few minutes? I feel like you don't usually just see something like that unfolding in front of you."

I'm being too obvious about it. I'm approaching this too much like a tourist and not enough like a cool and collected customer who should be taken seriously. I don't want to be taken seriously, trust me. I have no interest in getting myself scissor-pressed between a stranger's legs. And it's not solely the fear of diseases or the idea that someone can come by and steal all my clothes and money while I'm distracted. But it's also just depressing to me, like I'd feel bad about myself. Maybe my personal expectations are too high. I don't know.

But at the same time that I'm just being curious, I'm also getting a little annoyed that no one is taking me seriously. Whether the women in the windows are picking up on my vibe, I don't know, but I do know that none of them are looking at me the way they're looking at some of these other guys. None of them are motioning to me or mouthing some secret Dutch message from behind the glass.

What the hell? I have a moment where I wonder what it is about me that makes them ignore me as a potential customer. Should I be offended? It seems silly, and yet I can't help but want to be wanted even by them. A few times I make more of an effort, staring one of them down to see if she'll actually make eye contact with me, but then in those instances I'm the one chickening out, and I look away before she even has a chance to notice.

I'm shy. Maybe it's because I know that it's not just one of those passing looks you might get on the street, the little smile you catch when you see someone look up from a book they're reading on the subway. This is a laced look, something that carries the weight of a twenty minute rubber session and a fifty Euro note (or so I'm told).

"Live sex show. Live sex show. See five fantastic acts including the Banana Show and Author's Alley."

My ears perk up. Author's Alley? Sounds...like it's something a writing enthusiast might be into. Sounds like it might be for a more intellectually minded clientele.

"What's that about?"

"Well," he leans in closer, like he's about to tell me something he hasn't told anybody else. "Let's just say she writes something without using her hands."

My mind's doing summersaults trying to decipher this guy. I want to be wowed, but the only things I can come up with don't really impress me enough to spend the money.

"Let's go in," someone suggests. "I mean, we're in Amsterdam. If you're not actually going to end up paying someone for sex, shouldn't we at least pay to see it live?"

No, not really. I don't think that's a necessary a logical conclusion you should be reaching. But I don't say anything, I just thank the "usher" and walk away, cutting down a smaller street and away from the sound of opening and closing doors.

"It's OK to be gay," the usher yells after me.

Yeah whatever.

My friend laughs.

"Dude, you sounded really old just now."