My Visit to the Red Light District in Amsterdam

A visit to the Red Light District

It’s a section of town that all major cities should have. A small area in which there’s carte blanche for women to ply their trades if they decide to become professional whores. A place for men who are down on their luck or find themselves sexually invisible in a world that increasingly marginalizes them where one can drop by for a quick, and affordable sexual release with a pro. An area of town where sexuality – an essential part of the human condition – isn’t shamed or scorned.

Amsterdam’s Red Light District, well-criticized by prudes in the Anglo-American press, is actually underwhelming to the open-minded individual. There are strip clubs, clubs with full nudity, and even clubs that advertise live porno shows for a modest entrance fee. And then, there are the hookers dancing in windows under red lighting (hence the name Red Light District) waiting for the next customer to come by. Prices range from about 50⬠to 100⬠for full service.

Most of the working girls were average-looking, although there were some hotties interspersed throughout, waving at me as I walked by from rooms illuminated by a red hue. For those who are interested, I only sampled three women during my entire trip. (I spent the rest of the time in museums and other cultural centers.) I banged a Russian chick, a Dutch chick, and a South African chick. The South African chick was my favorite, since she treated me with respect and was the most fun to talk to out of the three.

The Red Light District is teeming with people, especially on the weekend. I heard languages and accents from all over the world, and everybody seemed to be having a good time. It didn’t seem seedy, and it didn’t seem like anyone was ashamed or should be ashamed for being there.

Anglo media frequently discusses the largely fictional human trafficking narrative and the so-called “humiliation” associated with sex work as it heaps nothing but scorn upon areas of the world where prostitution is legal. But, in my nightly walks through the district, I found no evidence of anything remotely resembling human trafficking, and as I stopped to chat with a few of the working girls none of them seemed like they were there for anything except of their own volition.

Nearby, there are stores full of pot brownies, paraphernalia, and product. As I walked through each of these stores in a thriving neighborhood I had the sinking feeling that any of those items would have me sent to prison for possession in America. As would renting some sex for an hour. And then my country has the audacity to tell me I’m free.

My experience in Amsterdam showed various sex businesses and even the recreational drug trade can be handled in such a way that they become practically invisible. They’re hardly the moral crusades deeply repressive Anglo culture makes them out to be. I was totally underwhelmed – as I was the first time I took a hit of cocaine years ago – and asked myself: That’s it? Why is this even illegal?

Much as John Locke fled the thought control, censorship, and intolerance of Anglo society for Dutch society in 1683 by relocating to Amsterdam, I find myself fleeing Anglo society thinking the same thing Locke wrote:

Every man has a property in his own person. This nobody has a right to, but himself.

I could feel that spirit here, and wondered why it has faded away after once illuminating the world as it emanated from Amsterdam – the bastion of tolerance. I don’t feel like I have property in my own person in America. I’ve never felt that way. That I own myself. That my mind and my body are my own. And, the situation is becoming ever worse as the nation lunges towards collectivism in various guises – namely, feminism and socialism.

The fact men are shamed for what goes on in the Red Light District day in and day out, and people are shamed and put into prison for possessing a drug which flows like water in Amsterdam enrages me inside. This is the rift between me and the U.S.

I don’t give a damn about pot, and I don’t rent whores that often. But, if I choose to do so, and I’m not harming anyone else, what makes my personal life the state’s business? Some might call that slavery.