I don’t hate Mondays, personally. I suppose mine similarly to everyone else’s. I wake up around 8 am. I drink semi-crap coffee, that I drowsily make in my small kitchen, pull out milk from my white fridge. Grab sugar from the small pot, shaped like an apple, that’s next to my fridge.
My grandmother had one that was similar. The sugar apple, not the fridge. It even has a small spoon, shaped like a fat green worm. I never add much, just enough for a swirl of glucose and caffeine to adequately prepare me for the next chapter of my morning.
At 8:20, I head out my door to my favorite jogging route. I enjoy Amsterdam. It’s a clean city. Kind. It’s not unusual for people to nod as we pass on the path. After my run, I duck into the local gym and tear into a toning routine that I’ve had for three years. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, I focus on arms, shoulders, and back. Tuesdays and Thursdays are for legs.
One of my first clients was a personal trainer. While beneficial, the appointment was eye-opening in a bit of an awkward and uncomfortable sort of way. Not that they were unkind, but shortly after providing them the much needed and well bought orgasm, I was then exposed to a number of tips and tricks that could solve my “tummy troubles”.
So this is why I don’t hate Monday’s. I’ve never really been conditioned to hate them. I don’t have a desk job. I don’t have to force myself from the bed, only to put up with a nagging boss for eight straight hours before shuffling back to my small apartment. I don’t work sales, or have to deal with the troubles of others.
I’ve had all the training. I’ve gone to school, received excellent marks and was a superb student, I just never entered the workforce. Well, any workforce that’s legal outside of Amsterdam’s red-light district.
I’m a prostitute. An Amsterdam escort (I have a profile at Top Escort Babes, which is a website that has a wide variety of girls in different European countries, like in Portugal, UK, Romania, Hungary and one of the biggest selection of Amsterdam Escorts).
Call girl, hooker, window girl. Whatever you’d like to call it. I work four evenings a week, and make more than enough to cover my bills and with enough left over to enjoy a comfortable existence. Nothing fancy or luxurious, but enough to keep my life simple and uncomplicated.
Which reminds me, when I’m done with this mornings regime, I need to go buy milk.
Tuesdays are largely the same as mondays. I get up, I jog, I work out. I go about my day. Sometimes I read, sometimes I write. When my friends from Uni are free, we go out for drinks, and I get to listen to all of the delightfully menial things that they go through at their jobs. Not that mine is really all that different.
If I’m late, I have to listen to a full dressing down from my manager. Sometimes, after particularly long shifts, my feet and my knees ache. Often I get tired of the monotony. I listen to the problems of my coworkers. I listen to the issues of my customers. In fact, if a busy night crops up, and we’re low on girls- I even get asked to take extra shifts.
Which is exactly happened last night. I rarely take the extra nights, but my schedule was open and I wasn’t about to turn down a bit of extra cash. My job isn’t exactly physically taxing. It can sometimes be a bit emotional, but really, it’s like any other retail job. You show up as a warm body, you get work done. Sometimes the work is interesting, sometimes it’s frustrating.
Last night turned into one of those nights that is really wonderful. So benignly enjoyable, you tend to recognize why it is you perform your chosen profession in the first place. Often, it’s not really even something you notice until your shift is done, and instead of feeling exhausted or the elation of freedom, you just feel warm. Warm, content, and happy.
I stand in a window. Sometimes I sit. Sometimes I wear lingerie, seductive, soft and black. Sometimes I wear teddies or bright bikinis that flash in the black light that shines just behind the red lit windows. No matter what I wear, I flash skin and coy smiles at passerby’s.
In Amsterdam, you meet all sorts of people. Tourists, locals, men, women… Every night is something different and fresh. Sometimes you talk, sometimes you don’t. But with every client, no matter who they are, or where they come from, you haggle. You always talk prices and services before you open that door.
Tonight, I had a flurry of clients, including a sweet older woman, and the standard rash of drunk boys from stag dos or walking tours. But I ended my night with a two-hour client. While not unheard of, it’s still pretty rare.
Most people that are willing to pay that kind of money have used escort services before. They understand that there is an entire world of women to choose from. They pay for things like dinner and incalls. It’s rare that this type of man would come to the Red Light District looking for a few good hours to spend with a window girl.
But, tonight was that night. It started out as the standard 50 euro for a bit of oral fun and about 15 minutes. No haggling, no reiteration of rules or what was provided. 15 minutes turned into 30, he was prompt with payment and added extra in case we went over. We spent two hours playing. Fucking. Laughing. Talking. It was really good fun. Natural, relaxed. He wasn’t drunk and I wasn’t bored. He talked about his life, his family. How his sister has just had twin boys. How his job takes up too much of his time.
When all was over and our two hours were up, he left with a kiss to my cheek. Nothing over the top. Nothing bittersweet. He was happy to go, and I was glad to see him out.
So, just one of those nights. Happy to walk home with some money in my purse, and some good times in my head.
Oh. Today was one of those days made for sleeping in. Slightly rainy and a bit cool. Where the whole world looks like it’s struggling to wipe sleep from it’s eyes. My bed is incredible. I live a relatively frugal life, but in my bedroom? I splurge.
So today was a day made for nothing. I burrowed into my massive duvet and slid under my high thread count satin sheets. With piles of pillows and mountains of blankets all vying for their own chance to wrap up my delicate frame in their embrace.
Friday is a good day for parties in the Red Light District. The streets are always filled with people on this night. Waves of people walk by, curiously looking at what the windows may hold for them. Just them.
You see, it doesn’t matter how you feel about sex work- sex work likes you. Sex workers love people. We love to talk and chat. To feel sexy and to make you feel sexy. I love the shy guy that gets shoved up to my window by his boisterous friends, just to quickly look away as I taunt him by pressing my breasts against the pane. Everyone laughs, even the shy one.
Women are drawn to the windows almost as often as men are, however the are the worst at getting caught with photos or videos. Word to the wise ladies, get caught taking photos here and prepare for your camera of choice to be thrown in the canal.
Unsolicited photos of us are incredibly rude. If you’d like any part of our services, you have to pay- just like anyone else.
Working in Amsterdam’s Red Light District is safe. Since 2000, the city legalized prostitution, to help stave off all the horrors that black market sex and human trafficking have brought to the profession. The plan was ingenious. My work stays at work. My home remains the same.
The city itself is pretty fantastically safe on it’s own, but the set up for sex work here is brilliant. There are rules and laws enforced to keep people safe. I pay taxes on my income. The beauty of being a sex worker in Amsterdam is that it’s a legitimized profession. People don’t look down on you for doing it. Doctors don’t shun you, women don’t spit at you, guys will still date you. Apart from the occasional angry wife, it’s a safe and largely carefree job. Which is probably the main reason I keep the job I have.
Good money, great hours, and it affords me a life that I want to live at this time. Your 20’s are for exploring, and that I happily do.
I spend my Sundays like any other good Catholic- on my knees. Sundays are often my favorite, because all the party boys and “OMG! I’m so drunk!” Girls have taken their leave of the district until next week. Sunday is for the real enthusiasts.
The men and women who adore and appreciate our services. The ones who have spent an entire week, breaking their backs at jobs they hate or in homes they don’t feel appreciated.
On Sundays, these people come to me. They come to feel loved, and desired, and special. They come to feel important and looked after. Sundays are for worship, and it is the client to which I pay my dogmatic respects. Thank you for being kind, thank you for needing me, and thank you for not haggling so much on this oh-so-sacred day.