If Cinderella was written today she might be a working woman; she would be a slave to her profession, not completely innocent but not quite yet a cynic either. She would be beautiful but unattainable and naturally men would still be baffled--her prince charming merely a myth. And instead of her shoe gracefully left behind, this time she would be in possession of something he left behind. Would she choose to pursue him? Or, would she still wait, albeit calculated, for him to come to her?
Like Cinderella, I've found myself in the unfamiliar. A new city, new culture, new people, and well, new dating rules to learn. Even the 'foreigners' I've met seemed to have gracefully mastered this new culture, easily playing along. In my first few weeks in Amsterdam I met a few different guys--none of them Dutch-- whom I didn't feel overwhelmingly attracted to but interested in enough to be slightly miffed when each time a fun, flirtatious night led to nothing. As for the Dutch ones, I had heard a few different things about them-- they don't ask woman out they've just met, they are cheap, they are often snobby, and lack passion--that I wasn't too eager to find out for myself.
Nevertheless, after making a few fun Dutch girlfriends I began to naturally surround myself with more Dutch people and frequent those bars that only locals know about and those same ones you are always relieved to have finally found. And despite all the rumors, I found that Dutch people were a lot of fun! One Sunday, after two previously late nights, a friend called me from a loud bar insisting that I make my way to the hip and tendy de Pijp area (where we had a been a few nights earlier) because a group of guys we met that same night were there and asking for me. Some what reluctantly and in my jeans and Converse sneakers I headed over.
It was only 7:30pm but it could have been midnight from the looks of the scene I fell upon. A mix between an American summer B.B.Q. and a chic bohemian Parisian bar, people spilled out of the bar and onto the cobblestone street, all laughing and yelling to one another (in Dutch would is not nearly as elegant as French). Inside, the bar was packed--streamers, which probably once hung from the ceiling now decorated the crowd and everywhere you looked people were smiling and dancing, greeting you as they passed by. My girlfriend was right in the middle of it with the same group we had been with before but within 15 minutes of my arrival she grabbed me a told me we were heading to another party.
We piled into a few different cars and headed towards what I expected to be another laid back but fun bar. What I didn't expect was to find myself queuing for a large club all the way across town. When we arrived, I was mortified-- I was wearing tennis shoes! I didn't think there was any way the bouncers would let me in amongst all the others who were dressed to the nines. The guys only laughed when I told them my fear, remarking that this wasn't Paris. Surprisingly, the bouncer barely blinked as he let me through with the rest. However, I am sure it helped that we didn't so much as queue as we did pass through to the VIP line and up to the large balcony reserved for a few tables.
Once inside my friend and I settled in quite easily-- she hadn't dressed for the occasion either and we laughed: we sensed that it was going to be one of those completely random nights where you end up having a fantastic time. Sipping champagne, I began chatting right away with one of the guys who was undeniably cute (which I should note I was completely attracted to) and who I had met previously. As the night wore on, he and I spoke often. He was flirtatious and fun but it wasn't until we began talking about sex that things began to change. He, like a number of guys I've met and even dated, found a fascination in discussing swingers clubs and I played along, enjoying the attention. Later on the dance floor he grabbed me and kissed me. I was hooked. But I wasn't intending to let him know that either. We flirted and kissed often throughout the night and I was over joyed by his fascination with me.
Around midnight, my friend and I with my new found flirt and his friend all decided to leave-- where we were initially headed I am not quite sure but the four of us soon found ourselves back at my apartment on the roof terrace. Eventually my flirt and I were in my bedroom enjoying more than just each others lips. But like Cinderella, the clock would strike the hour when the pumpkin would return. Of course, it is important to point out that a future in any real relationship sense of the word was out-- he was a complicated individual with what is probably best described as baggage. And he certainly wasn't looking (or had indicated at least) for anything more than fun sex, which I was up for. So, we had preview sex and after he and is friend left I resolved that if all it would be was preview sex (which was GREAT) then I was pretty satisfied.
But of course the shoe was left behind--or in this case a belt. If prince charming had left an article of clothing behind I am sure Cinderella would have shrugged and say, so? I found it amusing-- until the messages, which began as funny and odd left me over analyzing the situation. According the story, Prince Charming knew what he had to do-- find the girl whose shoe was left on his door step and marry her. Cinderella had no idea. Amongst the seedy red light district and promiscuous behavior, I normally would have thought of it as a souvenir. My flirt needed it back.
A week of amusing but slightly irritating messages between myself and his friend led me to believe the night was cheap. I was the bystander in the entire conquest made more obvious by the fact that I had to return the belt to someone else.
