Chapter One
Mari
Now - October
It takes me less than three minutes to nearly get killed by a bike.
I exit Amsterdam Centraal station fine, I walk a few hundred metres towards the bustling centre of the city, but then I hear an angry ringing of a bell, and just as I look around, there is a man on a bike ploughing towards me.
His expression tells me he has no plans to move out of my way, so I yank my suitcase and jump back just in time.
He shouts something at me as he flies past, and I take a moment to hyperventilate and stop my life flashing before my eyes.
Maybe that was an omen. Maybe this was all a big, big mistake. Maybe I should have kept Amsterdam on my no-fly list for the rest of my days.
But that is ridiculous. Amsterdam is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. And the tattoo convention I’m here to attend is one of the largest and best in Europe.
Besides, it was ten years ago. Lexi left ten years ago. They probably aren’t even here anymore.
And why should I let them dictate what I can and can’t do? Especially after ten years.
Fuck them. Fuck Lexi.
That’s what I hold onto as I use the map on my phone to navigate my way to the hotel I’m staying at, taking extra care not to get mowed down by any bikes.
When I arrive at the townhouse where my hotel is located, I’m surprised by how nice it is.
Even in the dark of night, I can see how smart it is, with fresh paint and well-maintained hanging baskets of flowers.
Overlooking a canal framed with trees that are orange and red with autumn and lit up by the sepia hue of the streetlights, the townhouse is black with white rectangular multi-paned windows.
A gold plaque next to the huge front door tells me I’m in the right place.
After struggling up the few steps to the door with my bags, I walk into a smartly decorated foyer.
Shit, Mum spent some money on this, I think, as my Vans trainers squeak on the tiled floor. I make a mental note to thank her as soon as I can, and then I check myself in with a polite man in a suit who only misgenders me once and blushes profusely for doing so when I correct him.
Once inside my room on the second floor, I’m yet more amazed that I have a canal-side view, and I spend more than a few minutes just standing at the window watching a lit-up tour boat go by and more bikes pass on either side of the water, the riders shadowy figures.
I text Mum in the group chat I have with her and her wife, Dove.
Dove texts back immediately, like she nearly always does.
Mum replies as I’m taking a few photos for Dove.
I text back.
Mum says.
I send over far too many blurry photos of the view and of the hotel room, which is clean and neat with possibly the biggest bed I’ll ever sleep in.
Dove replies.
Mum instructs before adding,
I pocket my phone and smile. Mum has offered me the chance to come to Amsterdam Tattoo Convention before, but I’ve always refused.
I’d like to say it wasn’t because the city was tainted by Lexi, but that would be lying.
But truthfully, I was also reluctant to go, to be the one to represent my mum’s tattoo studios at the convention.
For a long time, Mum and Dove went and made a weekend of it.
Dion went once five or six years ago, but he didn’t want to return.
And for the last few years, Emmy, who manages Kay II in Bristol, has been the one to fly our flag.
But this year, Mum asked me if I’d like to go.
I think she’d used the words ‘Are you ready to go?’ and after I’d stopped bristling at the implication, I accepted.
I do feel ready. I feel ready to elevate my profession. I feel ready to explore this city and change its meaning in my life forever.
Sitting on the bed, I take my phone out of my pocket. I’m about to open my map again and find out where I can get a quick bite to eat nearby rather than pay through my teeth for room service, but I’m immediately distracted by a bunch of notifications.
Oh, yeah. I did change my settings on the train from the airport.
My settings for K1NK, that is, an app that connects like-minded kinksters for play.
I only use it when I’m away from home – my town is far too small and gossipy – and it’s been a long time since I had some fun, so I’m quick to scroll through the notifications.
Most are for messages sent from a variety of characters.
I check out profiles quickly and efficiently and follow back the ones who look appealing, which obviously means the queer ones, the ones with switch tendencies, and the ones with similar interests to me: rope play, impact play, wax play and edging.
The last message I read is the one that captures my interest most. HungTransMan has me smiling from his handle alone, but his message has me more than a bit interested.
After following him back, I’m quick to Google QISS in Amsterdam, and I find my breath quickening when it reveals it’s a queer sex club. Or a queer adult play club, if you want to beat the algorithm.
I’ve never been to a play club before.
I spend another few minutes looking at photos, reviews, and other mentions of QISS before I admit to myself that I’m very, very intrigued. When the club’s address reveals it’s walking distance from my hotel, I decide to take that as my new omen.
I text back to HungTransMan and then tuck my phone away.
I refuse to sit around and wait for a reply, as curious and yes, horny, as I am, and when my stomach growls, I pull my coat and scarf back on and leave the hotel to search for some food.
Without my luggage and my focus on getting to my hotel, I’m able to wander around Amsterdam’s cobbled streets with a bit more awareness.
The city is coming alive with people heading to bars and restaurants, and happy chatter and the metallic rumbling of bikes linger in the air despite the cool temperatures.
When I find a burger takeaway that doesn’t look like it’s going to give me food poisoning, I order a vegan burger with sweet potato fries and sit in the window to wait.
When I pull out my phone, I’m only a little disappointed when I see HungTransMan hasn’t replied to me yet, but I decide not to overthink it. Before I know it, I’m on Instagram.
I blame my exhaustion for my scrolling without thinking. I blame the burger taking so long for me ending up on Lexi’s Instagram page. I don’t know what I can blame for the way my breath hitches when I see a new post there.
Lexi hasn’t updated their Instagram in over six months.
I know because I check far too regularly.
But right there in the top left corner is a new post. It looks out of place because it’s not a photo of Lexi’s art or their face blurred or otherwise obscured for the camera – because of course, for Lexi, even a selfie has to be ‘Art’.
It’s a photo of the ground floor of a canal house, not dissimilar to my hotel.
And yet, it’s different because it’s been converted into a shop front with a huge glass front all lit up inside.
No, not a shop, an art studio. I read the caption.
New Exhibition @Spiegelsplek 10th October – 17th October.
That’s it. That’s all they’ve said after more than half a year of nothing, no updates, no photos for their twenty-two thousand followers. I wonder if any of them feel as hard done by as I do.
Which just makes me all the more annoyed as I look up the address and see that it’s a ten-minute walk from my hotel. Is everything in Amsterdam this close to each other?
Is this another sign? I wonder before I can stop myself. And how I wish I could stop myself.
Well, I can stop this right now. I am not in Amsterdam to go to one of Lexi’s art exhibitions. I did not come here to see them.
My burger arrives just in time, and I am quick to take it back to my hotel, where I devour it while sitting next to the window, watching the city move into the night. I’m grateful when I feel tired enough to get ready for bed, haphazardly unpacking a few things in the process.
By the time I’m tucked up in the world’s most comfortable bed, I’m only a little saddened that HungTransMan still hasn’t replied.
I’d been hoping he would take my mind off Lexi and their exhibition.
But weak as I am, I find myself going back to that Instagram post and reading some comments to see if they’ve replied to any. They haven’t.
Because of course not. Lexi doesn’t give a shit about all the people congratulating them and saying they can’t wait and applauding them for yet another exhibition of their art.
Lexi is selfish and self-focused. And I am not going to go anywhere near that art studio while I’m here. No way.
Fuck Lexi. Fuck Lexi. Fuck Lexi.
I let myself repeat that until I fall asleep, promising myself when I wake tomorrow, I won’t think about them ever, ever again.