Chapter Three
Mari
When she finally drops her hands, I sigh. For two reasons.
Firstly, with relief because she’s not bleeding. Her skin is intact, and whatever bruise I likely gave her is yet to blossom.
Secondly, I sigh because she’s beautiful.
A tall, slim woman, of a similar age to me, she has a long and perfectly triangular nose and a slightly pointed chin, like it’s the base point of a heart.
Her cheekbones are high, as is her brow, but between them are sparkling grey eyes that I can imagine looking blue in some lights and green in others.
Her lips are a darker pink than I would expect from her fair colouring, and that has me studying them longer than is perhaps socially acceptable after I’ve just smashed a door into her face.
“I am so sorry,” I say when she finally looks at me after checking her fingers for blood. “I didn’t see you, and I just–”
I stop talking when I see she’s shaking.
“Are you okay? Are you cold?” I start unwinding the scarf I have wrapped around my neck approximately ten times. It was my first crochet project ever, and it’s far too long and far too colourful, but I love it very much for reasons I do not wish to think about right now.
“No, I’m not cold,” she says finally, and I drop my scarf. “I think I’m in shock.”
“I’m not surprised; I really hit you hard.”
Her eyes narrow on me, and a ghost of a smile pulls those raspberry-coloured lips.
“I really am sorry,” I say again now I have her eye contact.
“Don’t be,” she replies with a smile that is more real. “I probably needed it, to be honest.”
My eyebrow quirks at that comment, but then I’m distracted by her accent. “Are you Dutch? Sorry, I don’t speak Dutch.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to apologise for that.”
“You speak English very well. You don’t even have much of an accent.”
“I work in English a lot. And I did my degree in languages. English and French.”
“Wow, impressive.”
“Not really,” she says, and then her gaze wanders around behind me.
I’m aware then that we’re stood in the middle of the narrow pathway outside the gallery on the corner of a bigger canal.
The occasional bike rattles past us, and one taxi is on the approach, its light shining on the top of its roof.
“Do you need a taxi? There’s one coming,” I explain. I’m very aware that I’m scrambling for things to say, ways to apologise, compensation to offer.
“No, I’ve got my bike,” the woman says, her gaze still not settled back on me.
“You can’t cycle after that. What if you’ve got a concussion? What if you pass out?”
She starts to move, perhaps to prove that she’s fine. “My mother cycled herself to the hospital four hours before I was born,” she says. “I’m pretty sure I can cycle even if I have a concussion.”
I follow her, increasingly worried she’s not okay, what with that misty look in her eyes and that dismissive comment. “I really do feel terrible.” I suck in a breath and a little bit of courage. “Maybe I could buy you a drink to apologise?”
“You’re offering me alcohol while you think I have a concussion?” She crosses the road and reaches a bike locked to the bridge’s railings.
“No! Shit, no. Don’t bars do, like, hot chocolate here?”
She stops unlocking her bike and looks at me, really looks at me. I was right; in the dimmer light away from the gallery’s front window, her eyes become darker, a grey-green like a forest cloaked in fog.
“You’re being very British about this,” she tells me.
“What does that mean?” I am audibly taken aback by her directness.
“You’re…” She searches for the right word. “Fussing.”
“How do you know so much about British fussing?”
“I have a lot of British friends,” she looks down, “A British ex, too.”
“Well, I’m very sorry to hear that,” I tease, and that gets another smile out of her. I stick out my hand. “I’m Mari, they/them.”
“I’m Roos, she/her.” She shakes my hand after only a second of looking at it like it might hurt her.
“Well, now you know my name and that I’m British and prone to a nasty case of fussing, I feel like you have to go for a drink with me. We’re practically friends.”
Her body shakes with light laughter. I’m annoyed at the rumbling of a passing tram for taking the full sound of it away from me.
“Fine,” she says, locking her bike back up again. “One drink.”
*****
Roos leads me onto a street that I can’t pronounce and she suggests a bar that is ‘queer-friendly’.
I’m not surprised she’s picked up on that, but I’m always curious what exactly tipped her off.
I suspect it was my pronouns, but maybe the X inked on the top of my hand caught her eye first?
Or was it my septum piercing or the one in my left nostril?
Or the way my short bob of messy curls has purple tips?
Maybe I’ll get to know her well enough to ask.
I’m starting to think I’d like to know her a little, or maybe a lot, better.
Which is obviously getting way ahead of myself. But I think I’m feeling salty after HungTransMan didn’t reply to me last night, and none of the other offers I got from K1NK were anywhere close to as appealing.
Inside, the bar is cosy. Most of the tables and chairs are that warm, slightly red-tinged wood, and over half of them are occupied.
Roos wasn’t lying. Judging by the patrons, this is a very queer establishment, and I immediately breathe a little easier because of it.
She leads me to a free table and takes off her jacket.
I do the same – although I need many more minutes for my scarf – and then I dump my phone on the table.
“What would you like?” I ask.
“Actually, that hot chocolate sounds good. But no cream.”
“Got it,” I say, and I walk to the bar.
I’m served quickly by a very smiley androgynous person covered in almost as many tattoos as I am. When I return to the table and put two yellow mugs down, Roos smiles at me and blushes profusely.
“I’m sorry,” she says as she wraps her hands around one mug. “Your phone lit up and I saw…”
I glance at my screen. It’s a K1NK notification.
“Oh, God, that’s embarrassing,” I mumble as I sit down and immediately turn my phone over.
“No, it’s not,” Roos says, sounding more forthcoming than she has since we met. “I’m on it too.”
My whole body lights up. And it’s not because I now think she and I are going to have kinky fun for the remaining three days I’m in Amsterdam. But because my body always lights up when I meet like-minded people.
Although, I wouldn’t say no to kinky fun with her.
“There are a lot of you on it in Amsterdam,” I say. “As soon as I changed my location and put up a post about being here and up for some play, the messages haven’t stopped.”
“Anyone interesting?” Roos asks, and I relax even more into my body and into this space.
“Yeah, one or two, but the main guy I liked the sound of kinda ghosted me or just dropped offline for some reason.”
“Hmm, give it time. Even kinksters have personal dramas.”
I snort. “Especially kinksters, in my experience.”
Roos laughs with me but then stops and rubs at her head.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, possibly redundantly.
“Yeah, a little. I can feel a lump coming now also.”
“Let me get you some ice.” I shift to get up and go ask the person behind the bar.
“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” She waves for me to stay sitting. “Tell me more about what you’re looking for. On K1NK, I mean. If you don’t mind sharing. Maybe I know someone who could be a good match.”
It’s like she’s speaking my love language.
“Well, I’m a switch,” I start in a low voice as we instinctively lean our heads closer together.
“I know that much. I’m still figuring out the rest, but I sort of see my switchyness as tenuously related to my gender expression, namely my fluidity.
But it’s more… sophisticated than just saying when I feel masc, I also want to dom.
In fact, more often than not, it’s the other way round.
“In terms of what I like. Well, there’s a lot, but I guess at the top of my list, I’d have rope play – I’m getting quite good at that – impact play, sensual play and sensory deprivation…
Oh, and wax play. I love that. I just recently had a partner who was into free use, and so I experimented with that once, but I’m still not sure how I feel about it. ”
When I finish talking, I can’t help but notice that Roos’ eyes – now more of a blue-tinged silver – have dilated and she’s not blinking.
“What about you?” I ask before clearing my throat.
“I’m a switch too, but I think I’m on a different journey than you.
For me, I feel like I started as a sub, but the more I learn about kink, and about myself, I can feel a shift to dominance being something I feel more…
at home with. I like… everything that you said, but also, I am prone to a bit of degradation and a little humiliation. Both as a Domme and a submissive.”
It’s my turn to have dry eyes from not blinking, and a very dry throat. I take a sip of too-hot chocolate and squeeze my thighs together.
“Do you know a club called QISS?” I ask, still keeping my voice hushed.
Her eyes light up. “Yes, I do.”
“Have you been?”
“Yes, a few times,” she says, and she looks at her drink, the brightness in her gaze fading a little.
“Is it worth me going there? While I’m here, I mean?”
Roos chokes on a mouthful of hot chocolate, and she’s still laughing after she’s put the mug down.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, bemused and bewildered.
“I can’t believe I don’t know why you’re even in Amsterdam, and yet I know you’re a rigger. I don’t even know how long you’re here for, but I know you like wax play!”
I start to laugh with her. It is pretty funny. And kind of unusual. Special, even.
“I’m here for a tattoo convention,” I say after we calm a little. “For four days in total. But I got here yesterday, so… I fly out Tuesday morning.”
Roos’ cheeks are pink from her laughter, and her blonde hair curls around her shoulders in a way that has me itching to run my fingers through it.
“That’s very cool,” she says. “And yes, you should try QISS. Although it’s quite difficult to get in as a visitor.”
“Oh.” I feel more defeated than I expect. “How would I get in?”
“A member would need to invite you, vouch for you. I know one.” Her eyes glaze over again. It intrigues me more and more every time it happens. “But that’s a dead end now. I also know a bouncer there, so it really depends-”
“Wait! Is he a trans guy?”
Roos frowns at me. “Yeah, why?”
“HungTransMan on K1NK?”
“Yeah, that’s his handle. How do you…” She glances at my phone. “Oh, was he the one who ghosted you?”
It’s my turn to blush. “Yeah.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. Joel is also a paramedic and pulls crazy long shifts, then sleeps for like ten straight hours. He’ll be in touch.” She looks me up and down, and my nipples immediately tighten. “I know it.”
“It feels like Amsterdam is a bit of a village,” I say. “Like everybody knows everybody.”
Roos leans in conspiratorially. “Or everybody has slept with everybody.”
We laugh together again, and when I take a sip of hot chocolate, I use the mug to hide my big, uncontrollable smile.
The best part about this evening is not that I’ve been able to share something I’m starting to understand is an important but complicated part of myself, although that is fucking wonderful.
The best part of this evening hasn’t been that I found a little queer corner and access to a queer and kink community, although that makes me irrationally excited.
The best part has been that, since I sat down in this bar, I haven’t thought about Lexi once.
And yet, today, they were all I could think about.
That’s why I was at the art gallery. I figured if I could just go and maybe see them, or even just their artwork, then maybe it would get them out of my system.
They would stop being an enigma, a skeleton in my cupboard, and now, apparently, my suitcase in Amsterdam.
They could be reduced to their most human, fallible, mistake-making self.
Maybe if I saw them, or their art, I would be reminded just how much they hurt me and just how much I need to let them go.
But I didn’t even make it through the door.
Instead, I met Roos.
Now if that isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is.