El Corruptor

A rubber miniskirt, football socks, and platform boots were all he needed to walk confidently through Amsterdam Centraal. He dressed as lust for the day, a vision burnt into my retina to my deathbed. I was eating overpriced chicken wings while people-watching at the IJboulevard -my favourite place to draw in the city-  and during Pride, a great spot to see how creative visitors’ outfits are each year. Bedazzled: in; pink: out. I have been hearing horror stories about how crowded everything has been the first two weeks of WorldPride in Amsterdam. From 4-hour lines at Club Church, 7-hour waits to enter the gay sauna, and more than 100 guys cruising at Vondelpark, to the point that, more than sexy, the whole experience has been declared uncomfortable and “sad”. So, here I am at Amsterdam Centraal, not only confirming that short shorts are still very much in vogue among gay guys, but also wondering whether parade day would be the climax of Pride, or an expression of exhaustion from an event that still has another week to go.

The day officially started at Cuckoo’s Nest, where, judging by the crowd outside, the youth appeared to be celebrating somewhere else. In the darkroom, things were a bit more diverse, with a mix of regulars and new people that made the room feel refreshing regarding the heat and humidity from the high number of bodies gathered in the same place. Not surprisingly, many activities were happening in public, with a single guy sucking up to 7 men, which I’m still undecided about whether it is a great skill or being plain selfish. I understand, from the blowee point of view, that it is a safer bet to go with the person showing what they’re capable of in real time, rather than risk choosing someone passively standing at the corner. But if after 20 minutes waiting to get a beer at the bar, you’re still willing to stand in line for a blowjob, maybe what really gets you off is waiting?  I won’t comment about the hoarding bottoms, because the fair distribution of dick between gay men is a revolution I do not consider will see in my lifetime. 

Most of my Cuckoo’s friends were enjoying the day and the new visitors. The Romanian guy I befriended during my last visit with Pepi was making a show with a cutie in one of the open cabins. He grabbed me to join, and we fooled around for a bit until I decided to move on because I did not feel the other guy was into me. By this point, I had dropped the idea of getting another drink at the bar, so I stayed in the darkroom where there was still a bit of space to breathe. I saw a shirtless black guy wearing elf ears, a leather bulldog harness, and a blue handkerchief -oral sex- together with a yellow tie hanging from the middle (… vers???) of the back of his jeans. Suddenly, a lady wearing a white outfit, more appropriate for a horse race than a darkroom during Pride, came downstairs guarded by a guy. She walked around, keeping a hand on her feathered hat, making very loud comments about everything she was seeing with his companion. As expected, it did not take long for them to get the first insult, starting a fight. I texted Y, telling him I was going to try to get into the Prik party while they were rushing off, exchanging swearwords with a tiny guy.

In reality, Pride is rather a predictable event. Specifically in Amsterdam, if you see the parade once, you have seen them all. It might lack some big corporate boat, depending on whether they are canceled at the moment or not, but the overall feeling is always the same. However, an area where the city shines is the big number of hot guys, part local from the Netherlands, and part international, called by the city’s reputation. Among this year’s beauty trends is the full embrace and display of back and shoulder hair, something we fully support at El Corruptor. Do the most of what you got rather than fit an ideal. After 30 minutes staring at the ass of the cute cowboy wearing a rope around his neck in front of me in line for the Prik party, I texted Y that it was not realistic to get inside. I decided to go to Dirty Dicks instead, one of my favorite cruising bars in the city.

Open from 20:00 to 3:00, Dirty Dicks is a traditional Bar de Timbre (Buzzer bar) in Warmoesstraat, once the heart of the city’s fetish scene, now turned into a crowded street of characterless stores for tourists due to its proximity to the Red Light District. Yet, during Pride there is no need to buzz because the place is so full that the door remains open to allow some ventilation. The routine at the bar demands that you leave your jacket -or clothes- at the wardrobe, and immediately order a drink. The mandatory drink eases the need for an entrance fee, which, if you are poor and in need, means you can afford as many dicks as you can get for the price of a cola. Some traditions must never die. Divided between two floors, the bar and social area are at the front of the venue, followed by cabins with gloryholes, a sling, sofas, an Andrew’s cross, more cabins, and a tube for watersports. The second floor has the darkest pitch-black darkroom in Amsterdam, and the creepiest mannequin wearing rubber gear any fetish locale has ever needed. Dirty Dicks is a place that upholds the old gay scene in the city, and where people go to fuck with what’s in hand, and make it rough. 

“This is not very much my vibe,” said a guy to his friend in the middle of the darkroom. I related; it was so crowded that I did not enjoy myself for fear that, if there was a sudden fire, nobody would come alive from the place. I moved to the ground floor, where light and space increased by 10%, and drank my beer next to a couple arguing in the middle of the general orgy. “This is not about politics, it is about human rights!” said the guy who was originally from the US. “Shut up and kiss me already!” replied his Dutch partner. Looking around, I saw many people jerking off and giving blow jobs, a panorama that compels me to comment. I am, by no means, an expert cocksucker, but if one is going to bend the knee on a beer and who-knows-what-else wet floor to suck a dick, at least make an effort! Show some commitment, make it count! Common people, we can do better!      

A beautiful guy I had been oogling was ready to make a move with another guy. While cruising, I am always curious to know who ends up with whom, and this beautiful guy with no body fat or defined muscle was rejecting everybody who dared to approach him. I saw him grab his bulge and slowly walk towards a guy next to me, who was very similar to the guy next to him, and when I checked the whole scene happening on my side, I realized the three of them had the same haircut, the same eyebrows, the same beard. The beautiful guy chose a muscular version of himself, who also could be any other muscular bearded guy at the bar. When both of them took their cocks out, first I noticed the beautiful guy had a huge one, second, that both had a Prince Albert. At that moment, I understood the feeling of cruising during WorldPride in Amsterdam: It felt like looking for a job on LinkedIn. Every dick has 100 candidates, and after a couple of thrusts, most holes decide to go with applicants whose skills more closely align with their current needs. The possibility of sex is high, but the quality is low, and the key, at the end of the day, is how to stand out from the crowd. The reason why the beautiful guy got my attention was that, in a sea of muscles, he had none.

A couple of years ago during a Lab.Dance party in Berlin, I was surrounded by hundreds of guys fuckings like there was no tomorrow, most of them traditionally handsome. To make the picture clear, I felt I was at a fitness convention or a Onlyfancers meet up. Nevertheless, from the whole night, the only person I remember to this day is one of the bartenders. I could draw him from memory. He had dark curly hair and was wearing a rubber apron with a frontal opening and a cock ring. He was thick, with the most marvelous ass I have ever seen. The whole experience of asking for a beer to him was as if the testosterone-filled ambient was boosting his already high sex appeal to fentanyl-level. I am not immune to muscle, but between all those similar bodies, I realized the power of being different. That night, I did not see a hot guy; I witnessed a natural wonder.

At the Hunger Games of WordPride at Dirty Dicks, some did what they could to get noted, but most people, as on LinkedIn, resigned themselves to the idea of trying and accepted that it might not happen. The beautiful guy with the Prince Albert, who after some interaction with his muscular counterpart decided they were not a match, was seated at the entrance looking at the street, checking the people coming in. I was almost done with my beer when I noticed a shirtless, skinny guy looking in my direction. He was rather feminine, carrying the energy of a siren turned human for a day. He was wearing leopard-print shorts and large mirrored earrings, and he was connecting with the guy immediately next to me: a tall, masculine redhead wearing a white t-shirt that said “let me smell your pits.” black leather suspenders, trousers, and a cap. I saw them walking toward each other, and without exchanging a single word, the redhead guy knelt down and submissively started sucking on the feminine guy’s cock. I knew that if I wanted to keep a nice memory of WorldPride, I should do it with an image of hope: a belief that cruising is alive, that it is sexy, unteachable, and an unspoken language living somewhere within whatever we call gay culture now.  

I decided to leave the party then. Walking up Warmoesstraat’s mess and reflecting on the marketing lessons of WorldPride, I realized that next time, I really need to find my differentiating factor.   

Fun is not a word I would use to define my time in The Hague at KABK. Yes, it shook the basis of my understanding of art, forced me to confront how people see what I do, and question the spaces my work should inhabit. But after 8 years living in the Netherlands, it is hard for me to think fun is something you can find in The Hague. A dreadful path of struggles and self-doubt, for sure, but fun? Never seen her. Yet, if there is something the city can do, it is to tease you with the promise that, somewhere, there is much more than what you are seeing. Once a guy told us that The Hague has one of the most vibrant and evasive underground scenes in the country, and I believe him because any evidence of an out-of-the-norm life has totally evaded me, except at two places: the gay cruising nude beach, and Maze, a darkroom a hundred meters away from my old studio at KABK.

Divided into two sections, a sex shop at the front of the store and a labyrinth-shaped darkroom at the back, Maze is the closest cruising place you can find to The Hague central station.  My first impression of the place is always the smell, a mix of plastic and poppers that hits you like a wall as soon as you cross the entrance door. I was prepared to be welcomed by the archie-sexy Gideon, but instead, at the cash desk was working the “Limp guy”, a character responsible for most of the complaints about the venue on Google Maps, and who, contrary to the bad reviews, has always been very nice to me. While paying the entrance fee (10 euros including a euro coin for the locker), he explains to me that is Tuesday’s naked party, hence I must undressed, which I did, only to be remembered that this is The Hague and naked means keeping your underwear, so for the rest of the night I was the only naked person between halfdressed people covering their crotches while walking around.  

The evening was slow, and there was a silent agreement that the few guys at the venue did not want to have sex with each other, resulting in them all being located at the entrance of the darkroom in dire need of someone new to shake the dynamic up. Between the sex shop and the cruising area in Maze, there is a heavy plastic curtain that makes a very specific sound. Once you enter, you see the lockers, two big rooms showing straight and gay porn, a toilet, a urinal with a shower next to it, and a hidden room with two chairs, a mirror, and a screen. On quiet days, some regulars wander between those rooms and corridors idly, and as soon as they hear the sound of the curtains, quickly move to the back of the store where the maze and gloryholes are located. There, each one has their strategy for the hunt. 

However, that night nothing was happening, and to fight boredom, I tried to start some conversations, but if it is already difficult to talk with gay guys in a cruising context when you are dressed, imagine being the only naked person in the whole venue. I could feel I made people uncomfortable just by getting closer to them. A beautiful young guy, someone you would see in a hip place in Amsterdam more than in Maze, took my talking as the definitive cue to leave, quickly dressed, and walked out without looking back or replying to my greeting. A couple more failed attempts, and I finally managed to talk with a guy in his 30s who told me he enjoyed that “management improves the music”, and he heard the good time to visit was not during the parties, but at lunch hours. So I chose to leave and come back at lunch break another day.

It was Friday, and Maze was full of people who could cruise at 14:00: unemployed or retired. Still no Gideon in sight. I noticed most of the action was happening in the screening rooms close to the entrance. An old guy with a chain necklace, jockstrap, and a Prince Albert was getting sucked surrounded by a group of guys jerking off and looking at him. A similar circle jerk scene was happening in the other cinema. That day, I finally understood the layout of the mysterious room with two chairs and a mirror. One guy sits in the center to jerk off and look at the screen, while someone can sit on the second chair, waiting for the sign to blow the person in the center off. The mirror gives another view to the blowee. Although it is not as professional as other darkroom setups and feels a bit Ikea, the idea behind it is quite sexy. Better done than perfect.   

Determined to compensate for the disappointment of my previous visit, I went to the back section where all the cabins are. In Maze, everything is connected, meaning all walls have a hole, either for a blowjob or to peep inside. You learn where the holes are by looking at how other patrons behave. I walked around to sense the day’s vibe, and I saw a guy lying down totally still, as if he was sleeping; David Hockney; a beautiful chubby guy who locked himself alone in a cabin; and other retirees looking to snoop some action. The lights that day were particularly strong, and blinded for a second, I bumped into a two-meter figure who efficiently moved me aside and kept walking. When I could see again, I distinguished a very tall grandpa wearing a red wig, red top, black miniskirt, torn fishnet tights, and black high heels, all very unsuccessfully feminine. It was almost intentionally showing the lack of effort. Again, I guess better done than perfect. 

If I have to describe the behaviour of most visitors to Maze, I would say they vary in age and mostly feel closeted. They enter without making eye contact, go directly to the cabins, and put their dick inside the gloryhole without caring much what’s on the other side. For the rest of the attendees, who are there to suck dick, it seems like the ideal situation until the DL top turns around and starts begging to be fucked. Then both cabins open, and the dynamic kicks off again, repeating until there is a match. I like to see who ends up with whom.

I heard the sound of the curtains and saw a massive two-meter-tall white guy, clearly closeted, covering part of his face with a cap. You can picture a wife, two kids, and 30 years shared mortgage on a house in Rijswijk.  People ran to the back and positioned themselves in different cabins waiting to be selected by the new guy. I was late in the race to the maze, so I had to stand up under a red bulb in the corridor, in direct view of the moment when the massive guy got closer to the cross-dressed grandpa, and together got into a cabin. I moved and snuck into the crowd looking inside through the multiple holes; they were surrounded. What a sight the massive guy was, his skin looking like Greek marble, tights that could end world hunger, and a face that could not hide excitement. I find it a bit of an overreaction because the cross-dressed grandpa was giving him an extremely uncommitted handjob. The whole scene reminded me of Sister Hong, and made me wonder if, in general, I would enjoy cruising more if I wore a wig. Annoyed by all the people peeping, the grandpa started desperately covering the holes with their hands. When they covered mine, I saw the shine of a wedding ring. 

Maze does not feel the same. I am aware my opinion is distorted by nostalgia, and the things I have done and tried since then, but I cannot shake the feeling that if gay life has changed for the worse in the last 8 years in the Netherlands, it is more evident in places like Maze, where the fringes and the center of the gay spectrum meet. Long gone are the days when I used to steal poppers from people hiding them in my socks, or when I met a sex addict with whom I felt was melting into a single blop of pleasure while smelling his armpits. There is no Gideon to ogle while smoking and trying to make small talk, and no naked people at its naked parties. When walking out that Friday, I saw a muscular black guy who looked at me up and down and popped his tongue. I recall a Dominican athlete I met once there, a monumental body of muscles who, after doing whatever he wanted with me, gave me a miniskirt as a token of appreciation so I could “look like a woman”. Maybe then, he already knew the secret to finding joy in cruising.