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Amsterdammers call it the Walletjes - the Little Walls - but to the
rest of the world it's the Red Light District. I know it well now, its
rhythms and its tones - but three years ago I was just another weekender
in the February drizzle.

It was nine-thirty, ten o'clock maybe, and I had wandered up one
of the two canals that borders the District, and then wandered down the
other. Even dawdling, you can cover the whole area in less than
half-an-hour. I'd slid embarrassedly into a video booth and, for
five guilders, zapped through all sixty-two featured movies. As you
press the button that rolls through the channels, you begin to realise
that pornography relies for its effect on context. A visual overload
of random sexual imagery, though arresting, is not particularly erotic.
To get the required effect one has to pick a channel and stick with it -
which, at a guilder per minute, is scarcely an economic way of scaling
the heights or auto-eroticism.

'And anyway', I thought as I ambled back out to the street, 'you don't
come to Amsterdam to watch movies. You can get that stuff back home.'
Here, the attraction is the Live Sex Shows. Or, as the neon outside
The Banana Bar so artlessly puts it 'Real Fucking On Stage!!!!'.

After a series of furtive dummy-runs at various box-offices, I had
ascertained that the going rate for admission to a show was around
sixty-guilders. This struck me as a bit steep. However, I overheard
a doorman negotiating a group-rate with one of a large group of
German tourists so, adopting a Teutonic mien, I tagged myself onto
the end of the line and got in for forty. I may even have
chanced a 'Danke' to the woman who gave me my ticket.

Once inside, I detached myself from the Hamburgers and made for the
bar. The room was small, and the seats were arranged in concentric
semi-circles around a low stage. As I paid for my beer (regular
cafe prices, I noticed), three seats were vacated in the front
row. With a very un-English firmness of purpose, I jostled through
the throng and took my place at the very lip of the stage.

The first act was a blonde with a run-of-the-mill act that involved
baby-oil. However, my proximity to her glistening gash more than
compensated for any shortcomings in her unimaginative presentation.
It had been a while since I'd been this close to a wide-open snatch -
or, indeed, a padlocked one - and the mere novelty of the situation
proved enough to test Messrs Levis claims for the resilience of their
celebrated zip-fasteners.

The next act was a black gentleman, whose appearance did much to
re-awaken the flagging interest of the large minority of women in
the audience. He did little for me in terms of prurient curiosity,
but as he span on the spot, my fascination with the practical
demonstration of centrifugal force acting upon his impressive penis
meant that I failed to notice that the empty seat beside me
had been taken. However, when he adopted a press-up pose, his feet
practically on my shoulders, I averted my gaze and
saw that the place to my left was now occupied by a statuesque woman
with raven hair.

She was wearing thigh-high patent boots, net stockings and a leather
basque. Her eyes were lined with thick, jet mascara and in her
hand she held a small but effective-looking whip.

Even in Amsterdam, this was an unusual get-up for a night on the
town.

THe black gentleman was spinning again. Suddenly, he appeared to lose
control and, like a top, he careered towards the edge of the stage
and toppled over, landing across the laps of myself
and the dark-haired woman next to me. My beer went flying, and I
found myself with a handful of ebony buttock. There was general
hilarity as we pushed the embarrassed performer back onto the stage.

As an ice-breaker though, the accident was a absolute winner.

The dominatrix's name was Frijda. She was the next act on. She asked
me what I thought of Amsterdam. I asked her how many shows she did
a night, and whether she had to pay for her own costumes. We
bantered - even laughed a little.

The black gentleman's act was coming to a close, 'I must go on
now,' Frijda told me in her near-perfect, husky English. 'I have
a volunteer from the audience. Do you like it if it is you?'

I've never been a good volunteerer. I live in dread that some magician
or stand-up comedian is going to drag me on-stage and humiliate me
for the amusement of my fellow-punters. God alone knew what kind of
debasing charade might await on the stage of an Amsterdam Sex Show.
I stammeringly declined.

'No...I...I mean, thank you but... Not really my thing....um...'

She gave a good-natured shrug and stepped up the small stairs to the
stage.

She was, it turned out, very good. She prowled, feline, a look
of fierce disdain on her face. She fellated the end of the
whip, cracked it in time with the music. She bent over, her
back to the audience, and trailed the cord between her buttocks.
She slid her legs apart, and put her hands on the floor so that,
as she rotated her hips, the thin gusset of her black lace
panties was pulled taut between the lips of her cunt. I stared,
tongue lolling - but I must admit to a slight unease. I felt as
if I knew the woman personally.

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Then she descended from the stage and selected a shy-seeming young
man from an aisle seat. She led him onto the stage by his neck-tie,
and, as he stood there grinning sheepishly, she wrapped and slid and
curled herself around him, like a panther with an itch. She produced
a pair of handcuffs and secured his arms behind his back, and then
laid him down. She made as if to stand on him in her spiked heels.
She straddled his chest and hung her superb tits above his mouth,
shaking them from the basque with a fluid, practised shimmy of
her shoulders. At her prompting, the patsy lifted his head to lick
the small, tight nipples - but, of course, she whisked them away,
laughing cruelly.

Then she blindfolded him. He was helpless, cuffed and sightless.
The rest of us thought this terribly amusing. She unbuckled his
belt, and unzipped his trousers, pulling then down to his knees,
leaving his (sadly grubby) shorts in place. We all craned to
see whether he had a... no, he didn't. Difficult to tell
which possibility was the most embarrassing, I thought,

As the poor sap lay there, blindfolded and immobile, Frijda went
into the main part of her strip. She removed the basque and
fingered her firm breasts. The nipples were hard now - a neat
trick, I imagine, to do that to order. She ran her hands down to her
thighs and hooked the thumbs into the sides of the panties, teasing
them down an inch, so that a few dark curls were visible, I caught
her eye and she grinned at me. Then she turned and, looking over
her shoulder directly at my face, she peeled the underwear over
her round buttocks, stopping as they reached the top of her
slit - obscuring it.

I had to make a conscious effort to drag my gaze away from hers, in
order to take in the equally transfixing sight of her smooth round
arse, the black line of the panties blocking out her snatch like
a censor's overlay. Again, there were the peeping curls, nestling
beween her cheeks, the promise of a bumper crop to come. And, as
she swayed her butt from side to side, there was the intermittent
blink of her arsehole, on-off, on-off, like some wonderfully
obscene beacon guiding the weary traveller home.

Attempting to cover the manuever by leaning forward as if to
scratch my knee, I pressed my elbow into my crotch and rubbed
the length of my cock. Frijda had seen this one before. She winked
at me.

She straightened up and turned, dropping the panties to the floor,
and then lowering herself so that, from my vantage point, the view
of her cunt was framed by her parted legs in their stockings and
thigh-length boots. She was a mass of black hair; it was luxuriant,
tropical. Frustratingly, infuriatingly, it prevented a clear view
of her cunt-lips. I willed her to spread her legs wider, to pull the
folds apart, but she merely twisted to one side, reaching for
the whip.

Slowly, she teased the handle into her hole, coaxing it in, inch by
inch. It glistened as she pulled it out again - she was getting turned
on! - and then forced it back inside.

This was, of course, electrifying. My cock was pulsing dangerously
and I had to move my elbow away for fear of setting it off. But I
was still profoundly disappointed that I hadn't seen the flaps,
the open gash. What with hand and hair and handle, all I'd glimpsed
were flashes, intimations, hints of that longed-for pink.

The poor young man in the cuffs and blindfold was beginning to
look distressed. His head was twisting from side-to-side as he tried
to fathom what was going on. The music was reaching its obvious
conclusion as Frijda put one finger to her mouth, warning the audience
not to give the game away.

She took a step back from the edge of the stage and then delicately,
silently, placed one stilettoed foot on either side of the patsy's
head. Her upstage boot was no more than two feet from me as she bent
her knees and squatted. Although she was side-on to me, I could tell
that her ripe, wet twat was at last open, spread like a roadkill
between her thighs. I leaned to one side, but her bent knee
was in the way. I couldn't see it.

Carefully she reached for the young man's blindfold, and snatched
it off. He blinked, shocked, to find himself staring up into Frijda's
gash, less than a hand's-breadth from his nose.

And then she did something that has caused me countless nights'
fevered speculation. I have rued my lack of courage, my Anglo-Saxon
fear of being noticed, of making a scene. God knows, I've cursed
myself - and yet, I couldn't have said 'Yes' to her original
question.

As she squatted there, her magnificent, secret cunt hovering above
the pale tourist's face, she leaned towards me and, grinning, said,
'You don't know what you're missing...'

And then she lowered herself onto his mouth and rocked to-and-fro,
to-and-fro, to-and-fro....