Redhead

Shy she was, and she was called Irene – the redhead at reception. She laughed and avoided my gaze when I asked her for a room. She blushed when I asked for cocaine. She turned and bent down to do nothing more than show her ass.

She handed me my room keys: “I’ll bump in to you,” she said, with that slight, high voice. Then she grabbed the phone hook to pretend somebody had an urgent call. She ignored me out of the lobby, and I went.

Dutch girls are so nice, so shy, so easy. But a Dutch girl in bed is like driving a Porsche at 150 miles per hour. Getting there costs a few seconds, and your feel it, but once you’re there… Blood pressure, stiff, truth. Yihaaa! Until the end of the universe. Only Porsches will not be venereal.

Irene was 23, studied at some university or other; I don’t remember what or where it was. She loved me gently, without the sadism and the subcutaneous self-hatred, which the chicks in LA are so fond of. After sneaking into my room, she pushed her lips against my fly without any hesitation – but never asked for coke. Not even for a drink. God must have made a special deal for the Netherlands: He exchanged the sun of LA for nubile student girls. Girls without sadistic tendencies. Girls who want nothing but temporary love with Hank Moody.

She seemed young. I thought of Mia, felt Mia (half-expected a blow to the jaw). I feared she was underage. But fear not, Dear Reader, she was definitely over eighteen. She had at least a drivers license. As far as I know, in the Netherlands, you have to be 18 years old to drive a car, or whatever you may be riding. Irene had license to ride me.

Today Irene was not behind the desk. That, or she’d dyed her red hair into pale blond. Or she was not really Irene. She really was not. The pale blonde was short and fat and made no effort to do anything to sell me: no sex, no drugs, no alcohol. She just did her job. It’s a shame how people just do their work without regard to the enjoyment to be. Or Hank Moody to be. As if they do not live. Just doing ones job makes me tired.

“Irene is not here”, the thick blonde says. “She has emigrated.”

It was no joke. I wasn’t dreaming, and I wasn’t hallucinating because I was off my nut on so-called “Nederwiet.” (Tip for tourists: in something called ‘Dampkring’ they sell something called “nederwiet.” Smoke it, and the Infant Jesus is with you the rest of the day, to keep you warm – even if you don’t think of Karen). The truth was: Irene had gone to Israel. Sunday was her last day. Hank Moody was apparently her last fuck in Holland.

Now I can’t sleep. There are only hollow spaces in my head, filled with stupid, unwanted thoughts and desires… Irene had a tattoo on her ankle. Red hair is beautiful. Karen has a tattoo on her back. My desires to have Karen are as easy to remove as tattoos. And Becca…

Do I miss Becca? Fathers may miss their daughters.

As God did love Amsterdam, so did He send Hank Moody.