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About Amsterdam

So, I’m prowlin’, yeah, lookin’ for one. Not my usual gig – I’d rather bid on a cursed mask or summat. But there she is, leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a fag like she owns the night. “What’s yer price, love?” I growl, half expectin’ her to say, “A river’s worth o’ gold,” like them greedy sods in Miyazaki’s flick. She laughs – rough, like gravel – an’ says, “Firty quid, big man.” Thirty! I’m gobsmacked, mate. Thought it’d be more, what with inflation an’ all.

Sex Worker Secrets of Amsterdam’s Red Light District

Now I’m all muddy, and I gotta head to a meeting. Ugh. I rush back home, change, and head to the meeting spot on the Hoofdweg. I’m late, of course. I walk in, and everyone’s staring. I’m like, “What? Did I miss the memo on dress code?”

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