The Darkroom Review

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.

Something nobody tells you when you are young is how much of adult life follows the same patterns you already know from high school. If we look back at our teens and the schools we went to, the experience was not particularly dreadful, but definitely not the golden years of self-discovery, parties, and sex that are the usual depiction of high school in the media. Our memory of that time is a long period of boredom, external duties, and unspoken social rules that you were expected to follow but never agreed to. Later in life, when you meet a new friend who is desperately seeking approval by constantly telling stories about how amazing their life is, you will think: high school. When a group of colleagues is clapping to every poor decision made by the manager and deciding who can have lunch with them, high school will come to mind. And when a group of clicky handsome gays set the mood of a whole party, you will grunt: high school.

For a while, we have been looking for a life drawing group where we can practice figure drawing with a model, a particularly hard skill that we are not good at.  So when we saw that Free Willie,  the latest addition to Amsterdam cruising clubs, has a clothing-optional life drawing event, we felt the call to go. The 18 euros admission fee covers 2 hours of drawing and materials,  including unlimited paper and charcoal bars, which is a great deal for Amsterdam. Most of the people were already on an assistance list, but you can get a bracelet at the entrance. Although it says clothing-optional, many people were naked, and we did not want to be rude, so we undressed jumping on one leg in the small corridor while hanging our clothes from the dick-shaped hook on the wall. 

The venue is small and nicely designed; you can see the attention to detail. The drawing session was on the dancefloor, next to the DJ booth, with people seated on stools, on top of the pool table -officially Free Willie is a naked pool bar-, and the sofa next to the entrance. The atmosphere was very friendly, with most participants in the 30+ age range. The model doubles as a host, leading the session. We started with 5 minutes “quick poses”, but soon realized he was not an experienced model. Do not get us wrong, he was an amazing host and made the whole experience very entertaining, but in terms of modeling, he only had one pose. After the short poses, we did some small challenges that people could win and get a paintbrush; the person with the most brushes would get the highest price of the night. 

“The next challenge is to make the most anatomically accurate drawing of my willie”. Kudos for the bravery of letting a group of gay guys trigger any new and old body dysmorphia issues you can have by looking and drawing your dick for 20 minutes. Until then, despite being part of a graphic gay project, we were failing miserably during the event, so we saw this chance as a way to redeem all those hours of looking and drawing strangers’ dicks from photos and finally win a paintbrush. Then, we tried some shading by smudging the charcoal. Yet, the result was disgusting. It was the model’s willie indeed… after skinny-dipping in a lake full of radioactive wastewater. 

We continue with some two model poses, imaginative drawings, and more small challenges. We felt sorry for the host, who was leading the session while skillfully navigating a drunk Dutch guy who was openly flirting with him and making jokes that nobody found funny. Let’s call it Dutch directness to what in other countries would be considered as being unable to read the room. For the final challenge, we made groups to draw the model -in the same initial pose- each focusing on a single body part. Our group consisted of a friendly couple wearing matching cock rings, a senior guy, and us. We had to draw the left arm, and our group ended up winning that challenge, but it was not enough to get the higher price of the night: a free entrance to the gay sauna.

Once the live drawing is over, the techno music is on, the venue is filled with smoke, and people are supposed to dance. But the place was half empty at 10 pm. We started a conversation with an Iranian guy who was very pleased with the latest bombing in Iran. We asked for a beer to the barman who replied “bottom or top?”. Confused, but not surprised by the sauciness of calling drinks in some gay bars, we answered “…bottom??”. The barman rolled his eyes, already feeling it was going to be a long night, and gave a drink. Later, we understood he asked “bottle or tap?”. More people arrive, some we’ve seen in Church or the sauna, many going to the dark area next to the bar, when we started noticing something we have repeatedly seen in Amsterdam: hot guys fucking between each other, and the rest of the people looking at them and not doing anything.   

Perhaps, we are asking too much of a venue. Or perhaps, we do not know our place in the hierarchies that determine who fucks or not in some cruising places. But we cannot help but find extremely boring the common dynamics where hot people fuck between them, while all the others look and do nothing all night. “I like to see handsome people fuck” says the Iranian guy, “they have the pretty privilege”. We saw the drunk Dutch guy, who was annoying everyone during the drawing club, fucking a handsome guy on a sofa, and we noticed that, despite not being attractive, he was very popular, which brought an uncomfortable feeling: how in some cruising places in Amsterdam, the idea of beauty is linked to whiteness. And we know that, in a moment when social media has flattened everything to the most simplistic definitions, talking about whiteness as a uniform concept is not helpful, because even within the concept white there are differences. But in our experience in Amsterdam, if you are a tall, younger-than-50, lean white guy, even if you are not attractive, you would do well. If you are not white, then you need features that compensate for such as muscles, a beard, youth, height, a big dick…

Let us be clear here, this is not a diatribe against smoking hot white guys; they can fuck whoever they want. This is a call to everyone to start enjoying their sexuality without wishfully waiting for the popular kids’ validation by noticing them. Or even further, to break the unfounded belief that linked the idea of beauty with enjoyable sex. Sexuality is a connection, and a chiseled body doesn’t guarantee that. “Do you know a place a bit more active?” asked a guy from Lebanon we had sucked before. We looked around, an empty dancefloor framed by naked guys holding their beers. “Anywhere” was the only answer we could give. We tried to approach the friendly couple wearing matching cockrings who were part of our drawing group, but they were in cruising mood, and we were not cool enough to relate to them. 

It was 12:00 a.m., and the palace was getting emptier and emptier. We entertained ourselves for a while watching an old daddy covered in geometric tattoos dance alone at his own party, unconcerned with the lack of party around him. Guess we also wishfully look at people in these cruising clubs. When he left, it was our call too. We saw a new wave of hot guys getting undressed in the corridor: big pecs, round asses, 190 cm, flat bellies, perfect skin. Amsterdam always has beautiful people hanging out together. While walking to the central station, we remembered the first time we saw a naked guy was at a life drawing class in Bogota when we were teens, which was a whole different experience from our routine at school. Maybe we should start our own life drawing club in Schiedam. We thought about the popular kids in high school and wondered if they had an Elite sex life, or if it was as unsexy as ours, a time we wouldn’t go back to.

I’ve been waiting for ten minutes in front of the police building for Pepi to arrive. It is a bit cold, and I have been walking around the city visiting art galleries. I am not in the mood to be standing waiting for things to happen anymore, but she likes to do the putivuelta together and insisted that I linger while she comes from work. It is 7 pm. “Sorry, the gossips at the after-work drinks were good this week.” She is already happy. We walked up the square to the Cuckoo’s Nest, nobody was outside.

“Uuu, the bald guy convention!” says Pepi as soon as we enter. The first floor is packed mostly with older men, some groups of friends, two girls -that’s new-, and some young guys standing holding their beer. The atmosphere is talkative. We sat at the bar next to a couple in their 30s who were not the usual type of clientele of this establishment. They were conventionally handsome, more the type of guys you see at a circuit party than an old darkroom in the center of Amsterdam. We ordered our beer (4.40 each) and immediately headed downstairs to the darkroom. Freed from Desire was blasting on the speakers.

With Pepi, there’s a strict pathway while doing the putivuelta in Cuckoo’s darkroom. First, we walk to the left corridor with the cabins. When we reach the wooden seat, we peek into the darkroom, and if the cabin in front of it is closed, we check what’s happening inside through the glass wall of the next box. Then, we continue to what Pepi likes to call the predatory corner, a section with a group of cabins under a bulb, where you can barely see the people inside the boxes, but they have a clear view of you. We continue through a dark section with two cabins and an open space with a stool, and then to the corridor back to the stairs, where there are two more cabins, a screen, and a rectangular brick pen.

“Not even to sell kidneys in the black market we have material tonight!” I laughed, but I get what Pepi means. The truth is, in Cuckoo’s Nest, some patrons rather than loyal costumers are more part of the bar’s inventory. The old guy seated on the wooden stool, the bald guy who fucks everything that moves, the Brazilian guy who never interacts with other people, the arab guy who plays hard to get. No matter the day or time, you will always find them there. A sure sign of a good darkroom is seeing people you cannot imagine having a life outside of it. Does the desi guy always flashing his big cock at the predatory corner stand in line to get his statiegeld and have long Zoom meetings for work? Unthinkable! This darkroom has plenty of those cases. 

It is no coincidence that Cuckoo’s have achieved breeding such a rich native fauna. Its darkroom is very well designed. For me, it should be declared a national monument of the Netherlands. People do not design darkrooms like that anymore. The spacious cabins, with lights that can be turned off, hangers for your clothes, long metal shelves for drinks, and solid wood walls with gloryholes, are a testament to other times. Yet, it is a pity that in such an inviting space, there is not much sex happening tonight.  Well, at least for most of us, Pepi is already on her knees sucking a naked guy covering his face with his hair. I will never understand how she does it. “Just go for it, be yourself!” she told me once at the naked beach in The Hague. But for me, cruising is more of a telepathy game than being comfortable in your own skin. I don’t speak cruising, and unless the other person is giving clear, almost physical cues, I don’t get the hint

Often, if sex is off the table, you can easily talk with someone you wouldn’t meet anywhere else. I tried to start a conversation with the guy seated next to me on the bench in front of the darkroom, but I only got back smiles from him. It took me a while to realize he was deaf. Suddenly, a chubby guy decided to start sensually dancing for me to the rhythm of Leigh Howlett’s remix of Holding on by Michael Watford. He opened his mouth and moved his tongue side to side while walking backwards until disappearing into the darkroom. Although flamboyant, I guess that’s the type of signs I get. I could barely decide if I was amazed or horrified when I heard a voice with a thick Spanish accent saying “Not my type…. Not my type….. Not my type!”. It came from a tall guy holding a beer while pointing to everybody who crossed his path. My deaf fella was moaning somewhere in a cabin, and I envy that he couldn’t hear the comments of the entitled pricks that seem to be invading gay spaces lately. 

I decided to walk again. I saw a shirtless Pepi stealing a dick that someone else was sucking. The couple of handsome guys we saw at the bar upstairs were now in an open box, putting on a show for everybody to see. Thick beards, toned bodies, Calvin Klein briefs, perfectly shaved pubes. Unfortunately, there was not much to see. Soon, I made friends with a Romanian guy who showed me a handwritten sign in one of the cabins’ ceilings: SUGE PULA, suck dick. Did someone bring paint and brushes into the darkroom? Eventually, I managed to hook up wth an indian guy. “It’s my first time here. Why is everybody walking?” “It’s the putivuelta” I answered. He looked at me confused, and I explained to him that most people were expecting the fuck of their life to come walking down the stairs next. “You are bad at sucking dick” he said after he came. “I am sorry, I am not the fuck of your life!” When I went to the bathroom to freshen up, I realized that he not only insulted my skills but also gave me a hickey. I guess it’s dickhead night at the Cuckoo’s Nest.

I went looking for Pepi to say goodbye. The same people we saw when we arrived were in the same formation, still not interacting with each other. I finally found her being the Lucky Pierre of the hot circuit couple. I pushed myself between her audience and waved goodbye to her. She sent me kisses with her right hand while keeping up the show. What a blessing to have extrovert sluts like Pepi in this world, or we wouldn’t have anything to comment on from the darkrooms. When I was leaving, I saw a DJ at the bar playing for an audience of 5 people. It is almost eleven, and the other sleazier and more naked bars in the city are opening, triggering a migration of all the guys who are still looking for the fuck of their life, that one that would make all the time waiting, all the steps walked, worth it.

Welcome to The Darkroom Review, the section of the blog where we talk about the things we’ve seen at the places where you can’t see much. Today, we feature our local darkroom, a venue that is quite bright because it is the biggest XXX cinema in the Netherlands: Erotheek Schiedam. 

While gay life in Rotterdam has been in intensive care since corona, with saunas and cruising bars closing around the city, the neighboring town of Schiedam -where the headquarters of El Corruptor are located- has mastered the art of giving a hint of gay to things that are officially not gay. Bars with rainbow flags and photos of the royals that are not gay bars; casual clothing stores where you can buy pumps and harnesses, and cinemas where the clientele is straight, until they are not anymore.

Part cinema, part large sex shop, the cruising area of Erotheek is located in the basement. After paying the 15 euros entrance fee, a staircase descends to a lounge area with a velvet round sofa in front of two doors. The entrance to the cinema is the door under the stairs, and the person at the register buzzes people in. Once inside, the place is divided between the cinemas and the cabins. To the left, the first room is the gay cinema, with chunky faux leather chairs that make a loud noise every time someone sits. Behind the chairs, there is a dark corridor with holes in the walls, a cabin with gay porn, and the lockers. On the other side is the hetero cinema -with the same chairs-  and an adjacent room with a screen, three chairs, and an Andrew’s cross that, as is often the case in this type of establishment, serves more decorative than functional purposes. One particular feature of Erotheek is a foam platform in front of the big screens, which allows those willing to lie down to put on a show for everybody. Going back to the entrance, there is another corridor of private cabins with locks, each showing either straight or gay porn, some without the faux leather chairs.

In general, Ertotheek’s facilities are well-maintained and easy to navigate. It is dated, which gives a very particular atmosphere. Although lube or condoms are not provided, tissues and trash cans are readily available. However, there is only one toilet, and it is not only located outside the cruising area but also locked. Customers must ask for the key at the cash desk, which requires people to go upstairs, altering the cruising experience. There are numerous signs warning customers not to pee in the trash buckets, which may be the reason behind the key policy. Still, considering that toilets are a basic service in a venue where people gather to have sex, we can only find locking a toilet patronising. 

The customer base is largely senior, to the extent that it makes you contemplate the possibility of reaching 75 years old and still horny. Is this my future? Yet, there is one feature that makes Erotheeks special. By not defining itself as a gay or hetero cinema, it attracts a broad range of characters that otherwise would not visit the place if it were aiming for the traditional gay cruising customer. This makes it one of the most inclusive places we have visited in the Netherlands, beyond those spaces that promote themselves as inclusive but have a rather homogenous crowd. Examples of things we have seen in Erotheek include: actual grandpas; crossdressers; lost straight couples who thought it was a swingers club; muscular guys looking for other muscular guys; a group of friends wearing biking leotards who go together to the XXX cinema after cycling some kilometers; filipinos; temporary workers from the harbour;  straight men who locked themselves in a cabin and later came out fully dressed as a women; Polish workers; approachable young guys; guys with canes; mean gays; and a specturm of horny men who enjoy sex regarding gender. Still, seniors are the core patrons 

Keeping in mind that the venue is also a large sex shop selling clothes, Erotheek might be one of the few places in the south of the Netherlands where customers can get, change, and fuck in a sexy outfit in a single day.  As a remaining cruising place, located in a city with a diverse immigrant population, and a door policy that welcomes most, if not all, people, it should not come as a surprise that Erotheek is capable of bringing together dissimilar customers, a fact that the administration has yet to come to terms with. Like it or not, they are providing a service for an audience with a very clear need, and the least they can do is to make their customers’ experience comfortable. Looking at other stores in Schiedam, we are sure their main source of revenue is not the sex toys.

Embrace: those who have always wanted to crossdress outside home, and those ready to include “when I fucked someone else’s grandpa…“ to their stock of anecdotes.

Release: collagen chasers and those new to cruising antics.

Explore: action is slow, but the sound of the faux leather chairs guides you to it.