My name’s Eddie, and I came to Amsterdam for the same reason every idiot Brit does: beer, neon, and the vague promise that two hundred quid would buy me more happiness than therapy ever could. The Red Light District is meant to be this wonderland, yeah? Rows of women in windows, all flawless, all staring like they can smell weakness. I wandered it like a man lost in a maze built out of perfume and cigarette smoke. Every window worse for my confidence. How do you choose when they all look better than anything you’ve ever had? Like being asked to pick which supermodel will laugh at you.
I picked Ana. Blonde, Ukrainian, eyes like she could spot a lie before you opened your mouth. Solid body, didn’t look like she came here for sightseeing. I paid, showered, stood there ready. Except I wasn’t. Captain didn’t salute. Nothing. Even closing my eyes and thinking about England didn’t help — God Save the King, Rule Britannia, nothing. Just silence.
She saw it instantly. No sympathy, no fake giggle. Just looked me dead in the face and said, “So what now, darling? You pay for fuck but your little soldier stay dead. We drink tea instead?”
I wanted the floor to open up. Pride shredded. So I stalled. Mumbled something like, “If it’s not happening, maybe we just talk?” She smirked, lit a cigarette, leaned back like she had all night. “Fine. Talk. Cheaper than cleaning sheets.”
And that’s how I ended up doing this instead.
Eddie: Right. So, Ana. Let’s start simple. How does this actually work? Not the tourist fantasy, the real machine.
Ana: Real is boring. I rent window, I pay fee. Security everywhere, cameras, panic button under bed. Men knock. I decide yes, no. No man walks in unless I open door. They pay, first thing. Always first. Money on table, counted. If he argues, out. Condoms always, no exceptions. Try to bargain, gone. Drunk? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Depends if he can stand.
Eddie: So not chaos. More like—
Ana: Routine. Rules. You follow mine or you leave.
Eddie: Alright, let’s cut to the chase. How do the Brits rank? Be honest.
Ana: Honest? Terrible. Always terrible. You arrive loud, already drunk. Football shirt sticking to sweaty back. Red cheeks, teeth… how you survive with those teeth? Socks still on. Holes, cartoon characters. I had one with Peppa Pig socks staring at me while he grunted. Romantic? No. Just pathetic.
Eddie: Christ. That might’ve been my cousin.
Ana: Wouldn’t surprise me. You strip like you’re auditioning for porn but look like potatoes rolling. Heavy breathing, chest hair shaved in stripes. Two minutes — done. Sometimes not even that.
Eddie: Two minutes? That’s basically endurance sport for us.
Ana: Don’t joke. Quick, messy, sometimes no finish at all. And then blame me. One man actually said, “You distracted me.” Distracted? Yes, my crime was breathing too loud.
Eddie: Alright, alright, national pride is circling the drain. Give me your worst British disaster.
Ana: Worst? Too many. But stag party, always. Let me tell you. Seven lads outside banging on glass, chanting. Inside, one idiot already half naked, trousers round ankles. He climbs on bed barking like a dog. Barking! His mates cheer outside like football match. He lasts thirty seconds, then pukes in bin. Smell of beer, kebab, sweat. I charge cleaning fee, throw him out. His friends clap like he won trophy. That’s British sex to me: bark, vomit, applause.
Eddie: Our cultural export. Brilliant.
Ana: More like cultural embarrassment.
Eddie: Do any Brits actually… succeed?
Ana: Rare. Once in hundred. Polite, quiet, pays, showers, asks what he wants. Five minutes maybe, but respectful. Says thank you. That’s already miracle.
Eddie: Sounds like a fairy tale. Do nerves kill us? I mean, look at me.
Ana: Nervous is fine. Better if you admit. “I’m nervous,” I adjust, slow down, maybe help. But men pretend macho. They choke, sweat, fail, then cry. Pretending is worse.
Eddie: Brilliant. So I should’ve confessed straight away.
Ana: Wouldn’t save you, but at least I wouldn’t laugh after.
Eddie: Charming. How do you actually decide who to let in?
Ana: Eyes. Always eyes. Too drunk, too arrogant, gone. Creepy eyes? Curtain closed. One bad feeling, I don’t risk.
Eddie: And if someone crosses a line inside?
Ana: Button. Security fast. Out in seconds. And blacklist. We women talk. If man is bad, his face spreads. Next time he knocks, no window opens. He doesn’t know why. Invisible wall.
Eddie: So you’re more organised than MI5.
Ana: Exactly. Men think they control here. They don’t.
Eddie: Let’s talk hygiene. How bad are we?
Ana: You? Brits? Worst. Beer sweat, Lynx spray like teenagers, bad teeth, bad breath. Some come unwashed, trousers sticky. I send them shower. If they argue, out. I don’t work with pigs.
Eddie: We invented soap, you know.
Ana: Then use it.
Eddie: Fair point. Any regulars?
Ana: Many. Married men mostly. They always start same: “My wife doesn’t understand me.” I say, “She understands too well, that’s why you’re here.” They laugh, but truth hurts.
Eddie: Do you pity them?
Ana: Sometimes. Lonely, old, young too shy. I see fear more than lust. But empathy is not discount.
Eddie: What do outsiders never get about this job?
Ana: They think it’s chaos. Or glamour. It’s neither. It’s a shift. Rent, clients, rules, home. Men think they buy me. They don’t. They buy minutes. That’s it.
Eddie: And do you want out?
Ana: Of course. One day. Save money, open café maybe. Serve coffee instead of cleaning sheets. But for now? I work.
Eddie: Alright, lightning round. Best client?
Ana: Clean. Quiet. Pays, leaves.
Eddie: Worst?
Ana: Stag. Always stag.
Eddie: One word for British men?
Ana: Hopeless.
Eddie: One word for Dutch?
Ana: Efficient.
Eddie: And one word for me?
Ana: Honest. You failed, but you admitted. That’s better than most.
Eddie: That’s my legacy then. Honest failure.
Ana: Yes. Put it on your grave. Next to your Peppa Pig socks.
Eddie: That’s my legacy then. Honest failure.
I pulled my trousers back on, dignity still somewhere on the floor, muttered a thank you, and slipped out past the glow of the window. The canals looked smug. I ducked into the nearest bar, ordered a pint, and sat there scribbling on a napkin before it slipped out of my head. She thought it was just a cigarette chat to kill the time with a useless client. I was already turning it into this — silently updating my blog, pint in hand, while she moved on to the next poor bastard
Not everyone flies to Amsterdam to ruin sex — some just overthink it from home. Same anxiety, fewer red lights. Anxiety and Sex: Myths That Ruin Intimacy
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