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Saturday, September 11, 2010

Lesbians and the Leidseplein Part Three: The One That Actually Deals With Lesbians in the Subject Matter

I'll say that the Hans Brinker rarely disappoints.  They set the expectation of high standards purposefully low, so any good that comes from your stay is really treasured.  With the constant turn over, and being a favorite stop for on again off again tours, the wait is never long before there was a whole new crowd, all ready to drink and smoke as much as possible as they are only there for a few days.  Everyone is there for a party, and that's just fine.  The only other place I've heard of that's remotely as pure fucking awesome is The Clown and Bard in Prague.  I've never been, but the word of mouth is fantastic.

Along with the large groups were pairs and single travellers.  After the weekend came to a close, the English boys headed for home.  Now on my own and seeing no need to take my custom elsewhere, I was booked into a six bunk dorm that was home, for the time being of some of these odd socks.

A pair of Italian girls shared the rack across from my bed.  It turned out they were from the far north, on the Alpine border with Austria, and spoke German.  Only one spoke any English of note and conversations were difficult at best.  I'm sure they were nice enough and they did invite me out to go bong smoking or some such thing, but I could only think about not being able to have a good chat.  Fortunately my upstairs neighbor was a delightful, sweetly attractive Kiwi called Sue.  She was half Maltese, and had skin of the sun-kissed, deep brown eyes and could pack away pints without destroying her curvy, leggy, athletic form.  What a cool chick.

The rooms at the Brinker offer little joy.  The walls are white plastered concrete, bare concrete floors, sets of old, banged about lockers, the three sets of bunks and the separate white tiled bathroom.  I was under the impression it had another function before becoming a hotel.  I thought perhaps it may have been a hospital, but now rather fancy it was a barracks.  I've stayed in, and have heard of a few former prisons in use as youth hostels, but I discount this notion in the case of The Brinker.  It's in far too public a place, and could never have been a secure building.

You could, however, billet reservists, who would then have the large public square to drill on.  It makes so much sense to me.  I've written a review on Trip Advisor, but it's too early to tell whether they'll publish it.  The action is not much more than another small grade stunt to get my name out there. 

Sue and I started in drinking early on, palling up with two Aussie blokes, one a florist here on buying business, and another I can not rightly recall.  In the early afternoon we all headed down the street to The Dolphins, a relaxing dreamy little coffee shop that is a pleasure just to hang out in, breath the air, take on caffeine and THC while the hours while away.  This was back before all this progressive crap: the smoking ban and the mushroom prohibition.  Time was the Smart Shop Conscious Dreams, with the chill out lounge across from the hotel sold at least six different varieties of 'shroom.  I had bought some earlier, and wasted my money on a sham product labeled "herbal ecstasy".  If it were anything, it wasn't powerful enough to be detectable above my constant inebriation.  The mushrooms would be different altogether, and with patience, I would finally get a real E buzz.

The four of us made it back to the Brinker in time for its famous happy hour.  Drinks on the half, breaking every now and again to smoke a blunt in the darkening light of a late summer's eve.  I began to really dig Sue, but there was also Fleur, a curly mopped redhead of a dynamic energy and fine figure, who was on the hotel staff.  We had chatted earlier in the day as I sat at the bar reading Joe Sacco comics I'd bought from the store a few doors down.  English books were hard to find but the ones they did have were superb.

Now that she was off work, Fleur was just as into the party as the rest of us, and I were feeling fine myself.  It was a great night so far, and I was hanging out with two very fine women.  The sun had long since gone down, I remember, we had all been down to the stuffy little club they had in the basement.  There I was, on the restive little street, many hours gone, pulling on the last fire of the evening.  Movement caught the corner of my eye, and turning my head I saw Fleur leaning in towards Sue, who had her back against the building's wall.  Perhaps a little presumptive at first, edging on forceful, Fleur split Sue's lips with hers and playfully plunged her tongue into her startled open mouth.  The initial shock over, Sue fell into the kiss and explored Fleur in a precociously sensual way.  One of the hottest things I've ever witnessed.

A little disappointed in my luck, I finished up my smoke and took myself to bed, after Sue suggested I do so once they caught me staring.  Later on, Sue got back to the room and related her experience to me.  She had never been inclined to experiment with her own sex, and Fleur, who turns out to be a card carrying Sapphyte

Sue was off and running the day after next, going to visit family in Malta.  I was offered the chance to go with her, accommodation would have been taken care of.  It was an intrigue, but I really couldn't afford to go.

We spent the next afternoon stoned in the park near the Van Gough Museum.  A man approached an outdoor cafe on a bicycle.  He was dressed in a green and orange superhero get-up, including mask and cape; a guitar was slung across his back.

Dismounting, he announced to his new audience that he was "Superman, the one song singer."  True to his word, he played and energetic number, then passed around the hat.  In no time, he was back on his bike, and gone from the scene.  Yep, Amsterdam can be like that.

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