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As I walked into the city on the main street, Damrak, leading directly from Amsterdam’s central train station, I nervously fingered the folded e-mail I’d been carrying tucked in my wallet for the past month and a half. Damrak changed into Rokin, and at the end of canal off the Amstel River, I made a right onto Heiligeweg.
I had thought of this possibility on and off for the whole cruise down the Rhine from Mainz to Amsterdam, but I hadn’t really taken the chance it would work out as having the whisper of a prayer. We were at the end of our cruise and—magically—the opportunity had just clicked into place. We had a free afternoon in Amsterdam; our ship was docked right next to the Central Station, well within walking distance of the center of the city; and my wife had declared that she was off on a shopping spree with other women from the cruise and that I jolly well could find something to entertain myself for the afternoon.
Little did she know just how right she was.
I hadn’t had an encounter with another man the entire two weeks of the voyage, and I was pent up with confused urges—I wanted to take someone and at the same time I also wanted to be taken. I’d been cooped up on a luxury river boat with a gaggle of aging widows too long. I needed release. And now all of the opportunities had fallen into place.
I passed the Bloemen Markt—the area of the morning wholesale flower market—and crossed two canals, and there, just as the e-mail had told me, was Kerkstraat and the prominent sign for Thermos, the renowned gay bar and sauna. I’d been able to tell for several streets that I was in the center of gay life in Amsterdam.
I stood there and swallowed hard. Until now I’d told myself I was just checking out where Cowboy’s son’s club was. I’d even decided I would have innocently passed by here if my wife and I had taken a walk through the streets of Amsterdam this afternoon—just to be able to tell Cowboy I had seen his son’s place. My wife had voiced interest in seeing the red light district, which stretched between here and where the ship was docked, so continuing on to here would seem natural enough, and I could plausibly claim I didn’t even know about this section of the city.
Cowboy was a legend in Bangkok, where we had twice lived before. He was an imposing and charismatic black former professional U.S. basketballer who had run afoul of the law and retreated to Thailand, where he had opened a chain of highly successful bars catering to the whole range of preferences—as he himself had done. He and I had had our moments in which he had demonstrated that the whispered claim that he had the biggest cock in Thailand could be credibly defended. But my wife had also known him as well, as he was one of the stars of the embassy bowling league and was celebrated throughout the international community in Thailand for his good humor and generosity in charity work.
We had continued to correspond over the years, and when our Christmas letter for this past year had informed him we were taking a Christmas and New Years cruise down the Rhine, ending in Amsterdam, Cowboy had messaged me that a son he’d sired on a Dutch woman, one of many by-blows, I was sure, owned and operated a gay club in the city and would, Cowboy was sure, love to meet and accommodate me. The son had had enough success as a middle-weight boxer in Europe that he’d managed to follow his father’s footsteps as a club owner. I was sure there would be no opportunity to follow up on Cowboy’s invitation, but I had folded the e-mail and stowed it away in my wallet and then just put the whole matter in the back of my mind.
But here I was. The e-mail had told me the club, named Chester’s, the son’s first name, could be found just steps from Thermos on Kerkstraat—and here, by the alignment of the stars and thanks to two weeks on a ship with people reminding me how fleeting life and desirability were, I stood, conflicted. I knew what I wanted, but I had resolved to behave myself on this vacation.
It wouldn’t hurt just to see what kind of place the son had, though. I walked more than a block beyond Thermos but saw no evidence of the club. Almost relieved, I retraced my steps, ready to return to the ship. I’d let Cowboy know I looked for the club but couldn’t find it.
And then the sign materialized as I got closer to Thermos. It didn’t look like a club, though—more like a storefront gay porn shop specializing in magazines, videos, and DVDs. I went in just to make sure, asking the heavily tattooed and pierced clerk behind the register whether this was where the Chester Club was supposed to be. He assured me I was in the right place and guided me to the back of the shop, pulling aside a beaded curtain and ushering me into a small bar area that probably looked a lot better at night, filled with young men, than it did empty in the middle of the afternoon.
There was, however, a good-looking, well-built guy behind the bar, cleaning glasses, who seemed to know who I was when I asked him if Chester was around and that his father in Bangkok had suggested I look him up. The young man poured me a beer and showed me to a nearby banquette.
While I waited for whatever would happen next, a few middle-aged men drifted through, entering from the shop area through the beaded curtain and disappearing through another curtained door on the opposite wall.
The beer half gone, two men materialized from this second doorway. One, the bartender, returned to his duties and soon brought two more beers over to the banquette. The other young man, however, took my breath away. It was almost as if I had been transported back more than two decades in time. The man who came over to my table was a near duplicate of the Cowboy I had known, locked in the time when we both were twenty-five years younger. But he was even more studly than I remembered his father as having been. He was heavily muscled in keeping with his boxing background in contrast to his father’s thinner stature and greater height, and he benefited from the softer features and color that came from the mixed American black and Dutch parentage. Chester had the same open, winning smile that served his father so well, though. And he was just as charismatic and welcoming as his father was.
We sat for a good half an hour, talking of his father and of Bangkok and of the son’s life in Europe as well. It was clear that Cowboy hadn’t just abandoned the son that his no doubt had so casually sired. And it was equally clear that the son worshipped the father. Chester’s mannerisms and expressions were honestly inherited from the father, and I found myself beginning to ache for him as I had for his father decades earlier. Memories of his father’s legendary cock working inside me flooded into my consciousness, and I was becoming quite horny.
While we talked, a few more men entered from the shop door and exited directly through the door at the rear. I watched this progression and my curiosity was piqued. Chester discerned not only that I was curious but also that I was in the need of attention. I have no doubt that when Cowboy informed his son that an old friend from Bangkok might be coming by, he had clearly spelled out the nature and extent of our friendship.
“Would you care to come back through that door those men have entered?” Chester asked me. “I think you might enjoy what we have back there.”
I would have followed Chester anywhere at this point. The room he then took me into was darker than the club area, at least the half of the room he sat me in. The other half of the room, which was behind what might have been a one-sided glass window, was brightly lit. It was lined with a rich, blue velvet material—floor, walls, and ceiling—and there were divans of the same blue velvet scattered about on three levels rising to the back of the room. And draped on these divans were nearly a dozen naked, handsome young men, easily discoursing with each other, not paying any attention to what was happening on the dimly lit side of the glass.
Two of the men I had just previously seen entering this room while I was talking and drinking beer with Chester in the bar area were deep in conversation and negotiation with another man, who obviously was some sort of host. As I watched, fascinated, the host picked up a wall phone. All of the naked young men looked over to toward what appeared to be a speaker hanging on the wall, and a young blond smiled to the others, rose and blew them kisses, and exited through a door at the side of the room. One of the men on this side of the glass was ushered out of a door on the same side of the room. It didn’t require much of my imagination to figure out what business was being conducted in this room.
“Do you see anything you like?” Chester asked me. “I can offer you any of these young men for half price—which we mark in these little packets.” He held up silver-foil packets of condoms. “Because you are a friend of my father’s, I can wave the house fee. It wouldn’t be fair to wave the young man’s fee as well, though. I apologize for that, but I’m sure you understand. For you, it would be 50 euros for one packet and another 25 for each succeeding one. More than three, though, and you would have to make an additional selection and pay the base 50 euro-fee again. I’m sure you can understand the need for that as well. We can’t work our boys too hard. And for you, we needn’t talk about session time limits. Are you interested? I would be very pleased to accommodate you.”
My head was reeling. I’d never paid for sex before in my life and vowed I never would. But the circumstances were compelling here. Not only was my need great—and quite obvious to Chester as I watched the luscious young men on the other side of the glass move languidly around—but it also would be an insult to both father and son, I thought, if I refused the offer. Still, my mind was racing to surface all of the reasons to chicken out.
“They look so young,” I said. “Too young.”
“Ahh. This is Amsterdam,” Chester said softly. “The age of consent in the Netherlands is sixteen, not eighteen as it is in the United States.”
A mixture of relief and regret flooded into my body and the tension began to flow out. This was my out. I didn’t have to fight farther with my demons.
“I am an American,” I said, trying to fill my voice with regret. “I can’t forget U.S. guidelines and I must admit that I agree with them. I just couldn’t manage with the younger age, I’m afraid.”
“That needn’t be a problem,” Chester countered smoothly. “That one and that one are over eighteen. Does either one appeal?” He had pointed them out by name, but I was too nervous and discombobulated by the situation to retain the names.
I was trapped. I looked at both of the young men he pointed out, and although they both, indeed, appealed to me, a willowy redheaded youth arrested my attention. I had wanted to fuck a man for days, and my attention had latched onto one of the waiters on the ship as my fantasy partner. There was enough of a similarity between the youth being offered to me here and the waiter of my fantasies that my juices started to flow and desire and the heat of animal rut began to push out all of my reasoning to the contrary. As my desire for the young man rose, however, it fought with an overriding desire for Chester himself. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was as masterful a top as his father had been. But Chester hadn’t offered himself, so I did what I could to concentrate on the redhead.
Clearly pleased both with my choice and that I had chosen—and that I had bought two packets—Chester led me through a door while the young man was called forth and exited from the glassed room. We met in the hallway beyond the room. Chester said something to the young man in Dutch, and the young man smiled shyly at me—his expression one of complete openness and willingness. Either he was a consummate actor or he was pleased with what he saw in me, an attitude that heightened my desire for him.
Leaving Chester behind, the young man preceded me up two narrow flights of stairs. Watching his butt cheeks tighten and loosen as we went up the stairs, I couldn’t help myself—I reached between his legs from in back and caressed his cock, which began to fill out. He turned to me with a smile, and we engaged in our first tender kiss there on the stairs before he turned and climbed more slowly now, his thighs bowed out around my invading hand.
From the third floor landing, we entered a small, but well-appointed bed chamber with a double bed in the center and mirrors on all walls and the ceiling over the bed. A small bath with a shower was located through another door in the wall. Immediately upon entering the room, the young man slowly undressed me, and we engaged in some lip work and hand exploration before he led me into the bath and we showered together. He soaped me and then knelt and sucked me to fullness in the shower. He opened the first packet and crowned my cock, and I spent my initial 50 euros taking him, both of us standing, from the rear against the Dutch tiles of the shower under a fine misting of water.
He was well-schooled in his trade and made me feel like I was taking a fresh, yet willing virgin for the first time.
When he had cum for me and I had cum in him, he rolled off the condom and disposed of it and then soaped and rinsed me off again. He then toweled me and I stood there and watched and reloaded as he put on a show while he toweled himself off.
When I was engorging again, he went over to the bed and sat at the foot of the mattress, laid back on the bed, spread his legs, and raised his arms in a come-hither motion.
I came hither and hunched over him. We kissed as he played with my nipples and I with his. As my cock stiffened, he widened and raised his legs farther and I rubbed my cock up an down in his ass crack and across his puckered hole and began and increasingly intrusive and frenzied dance of rubbing along his hole and poking at it with my prick.
He was moaning and writhing under me, giving a good show of wanting and needing what I had to give him but being fearful to give up his “virginity.” I’d never had this feeling of taking a young man for the first time again and again before, it was driving me wild. He barely had time to roll the second condom on me before I was thrusting myself inside him, taking him with vigor and a force that I could no longer control.
He was arching his back and bucking against me and crying out his ravishment so loudly that I didn’t hear Chester enter the room until I felt his strong hands on my hips. I looked around in surprise, not being able to turn really, because my cock was buried in the redhead’s ass to the hilt, but Chester pulled away enough for me to see that he was only wearing a condom.
He was even more magnificent and muscle-hard than I had remembered his father to be, and what he was swinging between his legs rivaled his father and would make the old man proud. He was a beautiful, glistening, hard chocolate brown, and my knees went weak at the sight of him.
He covered me closely from behind, his cock running up the small of my back, and after kissing me possessively on the lips when I turned my head to him, he nuzzled the hollow of my neck with his lips and whispered in my ear that what he was going to give me was a present from his father—in memory of our good times together. Then he knelt behind me and worked my asshole with his tongue as he guided my stroking inside the redhead with his beefy palms on my hips.
It wasn’t only the redhead who was sighing and moaning now.
There was no waiting for it when Chester was satisfied with his preparations and stood behind me. He thrust inside me in a long, gliding stroke just as I remembered his father doing, and while he rode me hard and deep, memories of the Cowboy technique flooded in and I writhed and flipped off into a seventh heaven of my own, being barely aware of the warm wetness of the redhead spouting up my belly followed quickly by my own ejaculation. Then the redhead was gone and Chester pushed me up on the bed on my belly, straddled my hips between his strong thighs, pulling my legs together and tightening my ass channel more closely around his thrusting cock—which just kept jack hammering down into me as he pushed down on my shoulders with his hands. I was exhausted when I heard him cry out and felt the condom balloon out with his semen deep inside me.
Chester left me briefly, but then both he and the redhead reappeared and pushed me over on my side. The redheaded youth exchanged my spent condom for a fresh one—which I hadn’t purchased. But before I could point that out, he had come down on the bed and nestled his back against my chest and guided my recovered cock inside him from the rear. Then Chester, freshly sheathed, came down behind me, sandwiching me—me sidesplitting the redhead and Chester sidesplitting me—in a languid three-way fuck that lasted for a good half hour.
When I felt I was able to walk again and Chester and I were cooling down with a postcoital beer in now more active bar downstairs, I pointed out that we hadn’t settled the bill and that I was quite willing to pay for the extra packets. Chester just laughed, though, and said that he hadn’t believed it, but his father had been right—that I had been as entertaining for Chester as he had been asked to be for me and that he’d cover the redhead’s fees himself.
It’s wasn’t particularly late, but it was dark as I walked briskly back to the ship through streets of the red light district of Amsterdam—paying no attention to the undulations and invitations of the scantily, black-laced-clad women in the glass windows. My thoughts were still in the thrall of the Cowboy and Chester duo. Like father like son—and a very good like it was.