Almost everyone knows two'and only two'things about Amsterdam. One, it's legal to smoke pot (it's not really, but that's another column). Two, prostitution is legal. Indeed, certain kinds of prostitution are legal.
The red-light district with women in windows is the most famous and serves as a huge tourist attraction, no doubt resulting in massive income for the Netherlands and prostitutes alike. The Prostitution Information Center, http://www.pic-amsterdam.com, is a resource for prostitutes and their clients. So, if I were a man, I could learn about pricing, rules on condoms and the proper etiquette for prostitute-client relations. If I were a prostitute, I could buy extra condoms and lubrication, check out the snack machine and chat with other prostitutes about the sex worker union (that's right'unionized).
While I was at the University of Amsterdam, I was treated to a discussion that changed my perspective on prostitution forever. Miranda, the founder, was our speaker. She had been a rebellious 16-year-old girl when she first had sex for money. Her father refused to buy her an expensive purebred dog. An older man made her an offer she couldn't refuse and she earned the money to get the dog. She occasionally used this source of income and eventually worked as a prostitute full-time.
She took us through her experience working in a sex club, where she had to entertain men at a bar with the hopes that they'd decide to pay for the extras; a brothel, where men came, chose their woman and had sex upstairs; and in the windows, where she was essentially her own boss, worked her own hours and could choose or refuse her own clients. Her favorite mode of sex work, due to the independence, was window prostitution. Her favorite clients were the teenage Italian boys who would come in groups, choose one prostitute and take turns. \They were quick,"" she said, ""and sweet."" She talked about these things frankly, matter-of-factly, as if it was old hat... and, of course, to her it was.
We were sitting in a semi-circle in front of her. Standing in the back of the room, in front of the window, was her husband. Behind him, out the window, I could see the church that they had been married in one year ago. Cradled in his arms was their newborn infant.
And, as Miranda talked about how many clients she could see in a day, what she would charge them (""fifty for a suck, hundred for a fuck"") and how much money she could make in a week, he absolutely beamed at her. He looked at her as if she was the most intelligent, well-spoken, beautiful, kindest, most wonderful human being he had ever laid eyes on. If we could have seen her like he did, she would have glowed a gorgeous, warm, yellow light. She was an angel and he was in awe.
As I sat there listening to her talk, I was struck more by her husband than by her. The typical American believes that a prostitute is essentially spoiled, ""damaged goods,"" inherently dirty and despicable. We can't conceive of someone loving one. But here was a man who loved a prostitute not despite her history of prostitution, but because of it.
As he listened to her talk about her experiences, he was nothing but proud. He admired her. I was blown away and I realized that, of course, I too, had believed in the myth that prostitutes were unlovable. As I anticipated visiting the Prostitution Information Center, I had expected to learn something about sex work. What I didn't expect was to learn something so profound about myself.
