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every last nuance of every last Rembrandt masterpiece, I was more than ready for a glass of something cold and bitter.

    A couple of minutes’ walk away are the tourist traps of the Leidseplein, packed and noisy in the hot June sun. Holland has been playing in a World Cup match this afternoon, so it seems half the people crowded around the pavement tables are decked out in the team’s traditional orange. It makes an arresting spectacle, but a friend at work told me I should bypass the bars on the square in favor of this place, hidden down an unremarkable side street.
    It seemed a little dingy as I walked in, but maybe that was just my eyes adjusting after the brightness outside. Gradually, I’ve come to appreciate its not inconsiderable charms: wood-paneled walls and furniture, stained even darker than their original brown by exposure to years of nicotine; tea lights flickering in heavy red glass jars on every table; posters celebrating the output of a dozen breweries across the Low Countries. And, most importantly, a beer menu every bit as extensive as my friend promised.
    After careful consideration, I plumped for a bottle of geuze, dry and deliciously sour in taste. The barman, who couldn’t be any older than twenty-one, went through the ritual of washing an already perfectly clean glass before pouring the beer with a flourish. As I relished the first sip, he adjusted the sound system, swapping it from a loop of bland Euro-ballads to low, dirty rock music, the kind whose bass line makes a direct connection to your crotch, impossible to ignore.
    So now I’m not just ready for a cigarette, I’m getting horny, too. It doesn’t help that the barman is rather cute, very tall and very blond, with traces of puppy fat still clinging to his cheeks. Maybe he’s a little young for me, but that doesn’t stop me looking and silently lusting.
    Mind you, Amsterdam has far more than its share of hot blonds. Like the policeman keeping a watchful eye on the
Leidseplein crowds, his uniform trousers clinging to his ass in a way that makes me yearn for him to press me up against a wall and frisk me. I’m sure that’s not a tactic favored by the Dutch police, but still my mind revisits the scene, fantasizing about the moment when he kicks my legs a little farther apart so he can pat his way up my jeans-clad thighs, closer and closer to my pussy…
    I shake my head to clear it of the thought and take another swig of my beer. It doesn’t help, because now sex is firmly on my mind. Just round the corner from here is a day spa and sauna. Passing it earlier, I saw another good-looking blond going inside. He didn’t notice me, and even if he had, I doubt I would have registered with him. The tight white underwear and accessories for sale in the window made it very clear this spa is for gay men—the memory of which only plants a whole new set of images in my mind. Men, lolling on the benches in the heat of the sauna, pulling aside towels to display their rapidly stiffening cocks. Long, muscled thighs being spread widely, so a blond head can bob obediently between them, mouth sucking hard…
    I shift on my stool, aware that the seam of my jeans is pressing insistently against my pussy lips. The barman catches my eye and smiles, as though he’s reading my thoughts and knows just how turned on I am. It’s no good. I fumble through my bag, searching for the packet of cigarettes and lighter I’ve stashed firmly at the bottom, so as not to tempt me.
    In common with most cities these days, Amsterdam has very strict rules on lighting up in public, and so I make my way to the little terrace outside. There’s one table, big enough for half a dozen people to sit around it. When I arrived, there was a group here, all dressed in orange and celebrating Holland’s victory, but now only two lads in their late twenties remain.
    One of them is drinking Kwak; I recognize the distinctive,
round-bottomed glass at once, held suspended in a stout wooden