This is not a regular "feel good" story about prostitution, but a gritty look into the ugly underbelly that is the sex trade.

My introduction to the world of prostitution began on a trip I took a few years back. I was in the Netherlands with the editor of Lowbrow, El Hombre. It was a three-week trip. The first two weeks were a blur of free drinks and food. The trip changed when El and I traveled alone for the last week. It all started when we stayed a few days in Den Haag. It is a very nice city. It had everything you could want in a city: a huge nude beach on the ocean, great pubs, drug dens (if you like that kind of thing), and a red light district a block away from the hostel.

We found 'the stroll' by accident. As we were walking home from downtown and we walked past a wide street that looked like a walking mall. I noticed a lady jump up in a second floor window way on the other side and then she ran away from the window and disappeared. We looked at each other, said "STRIP CLUB" and started walking down the street. We were drunk again because we found an English pub that brewed their own beer. We had to try all of the brands. I noticed after we entered the street that we are the only ones talking. Everyone else on the street was quiet, avoiding eye contact. Suddenly, it hit me. "Wait a minute! Everybody here is a guy! El, do you know where we are? The RED LIGHT District!" We walked around for a little while longer before deciding to go to the hostel and either eat or drink; I am not sure which now.

We met up with a couple of blokes in the hostel bar that wanted to go downtown in a group. A very good idea. One was an Australian and the other a British nerd accountant. Fairly fun guys. On the way downtown, we happened to walk through the Red Light Area. It was well lit and the safest way to go down town... It was! After a night of drinking and pub hopping and listening to the Brit jabberblabbing about sexy birds this and I'm so cold that, we headed home and somehow happened to walk through the forbidden area again. This time it was packed. We walked around picking out girls we liked. The girls smiled at us, talked to us, flirted with us, but as Canadians, we could not do anything about it. We could not cross that line. Believe me, I ran up to the line screaming and waving my arms like I was on fire and the water was in her window, but I could not cross that line. I was like a mime pushing on the invisible box. "Sweet Baby Jesus why can't I have sex with whores!?!" I screamed from my knees. I even had El Hombre (or El Diablo as I like to call him) offering to pay the 100 Guilders (about $80.00 Canadian). "Somebody has to have sex with a prostitute," stated El Hombre with horns pointing out of his head and his forked tongue tasting the air for weakness. El Hombre loves weakness. He loves to wield power over people. You see, he wanted to do it too, but he was in a deep and committed relationship with a super sexy broad back home. That's why he couldn't do it. Or so he said. I think it was because if I caved, he could run my life. I know a lot of girls that like me more then they like El Hombre. These girls might not like me any more if they knew I had sex with a prostitute and consequently may like Hombre more since they pushed all the like they had for me onto him. One should be very careful if one accepts money from El Hombre, as he is always planning something. My inability to nail a whore was not the problem. Most of them I would have been glad to have sex with and wanted to nail. It was the handing them the money. It's like entering a fishing derby (fish, get it) and then going to the fish store and buying the best, biggest red snapper in the place.