Prologue
“That’s it... let it out...” I told my friend while half-heartedly holding a fistful of her hair back.
She was hunched over what I desperately hoped, for her sake, was a recently cleaned toilet, violently expelling those fries she had earlier in the evening, now in liquid form. The sounds of gagging punctuated the incessant buzzing of the lights above us. Their harsh, pale phosphorescence made sure to dispel any last shred of dignity either of us might’ve had.
“Yeah, I know. I know.” I continued to reassure her, all the while glancing down at my phone.
I was surprised to see it was already 2 AM. I guess time really flies when you’re stuck babysitting a twenty-something-year-old woman, making sure she didn’t run off with the first foreign guy that paid her any amount of attention. Then again, I couldn’t complain too much, since I wasn’t the one footing the bill for our trip. I could barely scrape together rent, and yet there I was, in Amsterdam, living it up like I didn’t have two overdue car payments waiting for me back home.
Once she was finally done unloading the contents of her stomach, Brit used some toilet paper to wipe her mouth and looked back at me with a strained grin:
“Never eating street food again.”
“Oh, for sure, it’s definitely that and not the eight shots of vodka.”
“I’m telling you man, it’s those fuckin—”
She retched and then swallowed, her eyes tearing up again. I rolled mine and left her to her dry heaving, sauntering over to the nearest mirror. I reluctantly looked into it, like I was bracing myself for what I was about to see. I have no clue why I thought a mullet would be a good look back then. It was giving off way more trailer trash vibes than the tomboyish, 2003 Scarlett Johansson aesthetic I was going for. I leaned closer and attempted to fix what was left of my make up while catching a glimpse of Brit’s reflection finally managing to stand upright on her own. There was a flush, followed by, “Okay. I think... I think I’m good.”
We exited the bathroom together. Outside, the party was still going strong. The main floor of the club was so packed that I began to perceive everyone else as this amalgamation of limbs and other stray body parts, all moving together in a vaguely coordinated rhythm. The waft of cheap perfume and sweat caused my own throat to start tingling.
Just as I thought that we were finally done for the night, I was suddenly approached by what had to be the handsomest woman I’d ever seen. Her features were sharp, as though they had been meticulously sculpted onto her face, complemented by a pair of piercing, blue eyes. Her platinum hair was drawn back in a tight bun—almost as tight as the black dress shirt she wore, which adhered to her broad-shouldered physique, highlighting every inch of it perfectly. I’ve got to admit, I definitely found myself second-guessing my sexuality for a moment there.
She winked at me and said a few words in Dutch, handed me what I thought was a business card at first, and then just walked off. It didn’t take long for me to lose her in the sea of partygoers. I felt Brit slide up next to me as we both examined the rectangular piece of textured paper I was now holding.
The flashy, over-the-top lettering was pretty tough to read. It was as if whoever designed it had just discovered what fonts are. But after flipping it over and staring at it for a while, we got the overall gist. It was an invite to some kind of fetish party. I winced, knowing what was about to come.
“Duuude!” An all of a sudden sober-sounding Brit yelled in my ear.
I could still smell the booze and vomit on her breath.
“No.”
“C’mooon!”
“Dude, no, the fuck would we even do there? Did you bring a spare gimp suit?”
“You can’t tell me you’re not curious, though! Like, I’m not saying let’s go and jump headfirst into the fuck pit or whatever it is they do there, but I at least wanna check it out!”
“Not happening.”
“C’mon! Think of the stories! Twenty years from now, when we both can’t remember the last time we had an orgasm, we’ll be laughing our asses off about this!”
I should’ve said no, or rather said no harder, but Brit knew me too well, unfortunately. I was curious too. I mean, how often do you get invited to sex parties by a smoking hot European? I obviously wasn’t planning on joining in on the actual “group activities”—I was way too self-conscious for that—but indulging in some light voyeurism couldn’t hurt, could it?
