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This story begins with a strange liaison of the electronic sort. Saul is a banker in Europe who has taken a fancy to me, by way of our Internet relationship. We indulge in an adult variety of penpalship. Of course Saul knows what I look like, but I do not what to expect of Saul. All I know is he is close to me in age, and the sound of his voice is friendly.

He wants me to come and visit him in Amsterdam. I am reluctant but very curious about him and Holland. As an adolescent, insecurely convinced of my heterosexuality, I was excited by stories of the country's open morality. Sexy girls, women really, in the shop windows, offered like some exotic merchandise, as well the hashish and pot shops. It seemed an emerald Oz of forbidden delights. I was concerned about the expense. Was not Amsterdam very dear? A place for diamond dealers? A place of illicit trade? Saul's e-mail assured me I could stay with him, or if I preferred there were plenty of modest hotels with very comfortable rooms for a hundred guilders a night, breakfast included. Saul also dropped the name of Bartholomew Klemper in my lap.

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There are many escort services in Holland, Bart's being one of the better sort. He offers his clients young men from all over the world. One may look at, and read about them-- or shall I say us-- through his well-organized web site. I talked with Bartholomew at length and sent him photos in preparation for my visit, which by this point was inevitable. My tastes have changed since my adolescent days, but I am very glad there are a few places in the western world, where, for about $150 you can, have a very nice dinner (four-star), followed by Bach or Mozart at the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra, and then while having your cock sucked (professionally or recreationally) smoke a big fat joint-- and you will have broken absolutely no local laws.

I got to Amsterdam, somewhat disconcerted that Saul has become incommunicado. One of the escorts at Bart's suggested he was acting odd lately and company business forced him to move to Zurich. I called several times and left messages. We were never able to connect. All his advice turned out to be quite accurate. I checked into a small room, with a comfortable bed, a shared shower, and a buffet breakfast for 125 guilders. For next to nothing, I picked up a cell phone and went to work for Bartholomew.

In between agency calls, I explored the winding ancient streets in a kind of ecstasy. I spent a full day in the Rijksmuseum. I went to the famed red-light district, which ironically surrounds an old church. I am moved to tears at the Anne Frank house by an exhibit of flags-- generic ones symbolizing the madness and tyranny of nationalism. I sip strong espresso in coffee shops. I heard Mendelssohn's violin concerto played by a lady in a purple dress. I fall in love with the Dutch.

I think the two most astonishing features of Amsterdam are the flower market, and the canal system. There are flowers of every shape, of every color, for what feels like a mile. The miles of canals add to the romance of this place. The canals also tell a tale. Amsterdam is a city built on borrowed land. When you work hard to claim land from the sea, you learn concern for what's truly important in life. The Dutch word schipol (of Schipol Airport) is a reference to the drowned merchant vessels that were lost there, too heavy with the riches of trade. In a dark hour of a battle, when Louis XIV's armies seemed sure to take the then walled city, rather than surrender and become a subordinate to the Catholic Sun King, the Stadholder ordered the flood gates opened. They drowned the advancing enemy into retreat, as well as their own city, rather than lose it. When you walk the canal streets you feel the history here. I expect anyone who sets foot in Amsterdam must feel a bittersweet joy. It will be a sad day if ever the ocean in her cruelty claims this place.

On the last day of my visit, Bartholomew and I were walking together in the Amsterdam Historical Museum. He stopped to answer a phone call. Going for a lunch with Bartholomew invariably meant being left to one's own devices while he chatted on an unending stream of cell-phone calls. While he talked, I observed a projection map. The screen showed the first settlements, two simple rows of houses on the banks of a river, some 1200 years ago. The projection changed showing the first canal rings. Next followed the construction of a horseshoe-shaped wall enclosing and protecting the city. The final projection is that of modern Amsterdam, grown far beyond the walls of the original city-state with sprawling suburbs.

The call is one I can do. Bartholomew asks me if I want to go see a regular client and I accept. He explains that the fellow is rather particular. He wants to chat an hour first, then if there is chemistry, he will have a second hour for sex, with the possibility of an overnight. As it turned out, Frank and I would share many hours in each others company.

I went to the Hotel Victoria. Originally this was the residence of a merchant trader who would watch from the turret salon for his ships returned from the Orient and Dutch colonies. The harbor has been replaced with the central train station. The Victoria is one of the more elegant places to stay in town, and the rooms are unusually large. Frank McDowell, I'll call him (protecting alike the innocent and the guilty), is warm and welcoming. He is sipping some red wine and offers me a glass. We occupy a parlor space in facing chairs and chat for close to an hour. What (else) do I do? Where am I from? How do I like Amsterdam? Where have I traveled? I answer with candor and we discover a few compatible interests. Frank is also a fan of Baroque and classical music, in particular, opera. He's originally from New York, Staten Island to be exact. He wanted to be away from America, see the world, and so took a post with a large corporation. His office is in Rome, but he travels for his company all the time. He is vague about his work and suggests it involves a financial consulting firm. He is in Amsterdam for a few days with meetings, then on to Zurich, Vienna, Prague, then back to Rome. It sounds like an exciting life. I wonder if this could be Saul incognito? But enough shop and small talk, it's off to bed!

I have this weakness for redheads and the sex is electric. In spite of, or because of his 40 or 50 years (it is so hard to tell how old a redhead actually is) he behaves with schoolboy enthusiasm in bed. It was as if the man had not had sex in years. After we are done frolicking like forest nymphs, we decided to check in with Bartholomew. Things going well, very well in fact, we are going to dinner. Bartholomew is so diplomatic, he doesn't even bring up the money issue. He is so well organized. Bartholomew has a predetermined price list, set up like menu items at a fine bistro. Do you want a brief one-hour encounter, dinner and dancing, an overnight companion, or someone to vacation with for a week? All major credit cards are accepted. All very civilized.

Over dinner it's apparent that whatever it is Frank does at his office, he is accustomed to being in command. He reminds me of a military man, as well as a diplomat. He has been to every continent, with the exception of Australia and Antarctica. He speaks a dialect of Yoruba from working at a bureau in Nigeria for several years. He also speaks Italian, and is learning Romanian for an upcoming assignment. He suggests we might meet next time I'm in Amsterdam, or when he makes it back home to New York. I agree that I would be delighted to see him again. At our parting, I get a strange feeling there is more to this man that he is willing or able to tell. Bartholomew and I meet briefly the following day to settle accounts and exchange pleasantries. Bart tells me that Frank is rather taken with me, he called to say so after our dinner and dance.

When I arrive home, Toronto feels empty and cold. Too modern, lacking a back-story. I went to the travel agent the following day to book another Amsterdam flight over the Christmas holiday, only this time I would stay longer. Three weeks ought to be adequate. Through e-mail Bartholomew arranged another meeting. Frank would be glad to meet me again. He will be in Holland for a few days the second week in December and we plan an overnight session.

The sex is again exquisite, made even more adventurous by Thomas, another escort from the agency. He joins us for a few hours, before he goes off to his other job at the hospital. Thomas is a doctor. What's most interesting about the skin trade in Holland is how matter-of-fact it is-- for some people, not so much a career as a pleasant wage-paying hobby.

Frank and I sleep in the next morning. After a decadent brunch, we spend the better part of the next day together wandering the canal streets. We laugh about lightning bolts and venture into a Catholic church that is concealed from the street. During the reformation it required this disguise and resembles a storefront. Once inside the store, a false bookshelf-sliding door opens unto a vast cathedral space painted in carnival colors. We visit the house of the nationally heroic Rembrandt Van Rijn. We also pay a return visit to the Amsterdam Historical Museum. There are so many museums in Amsterdam, you could go to one every day for a month and still have a few remaining unseen. We part, agreeing to meet next in New York in the spring. Bartholomew is agreeable and accommodating.

Through e-mail and phone calls, we settled on an earlier date. I received an electronic return airline ticket to New York for the middle of February. Frank would try to meet me, but at the very least arrange for a car. We would stay at the Empire Hotel, as being most convenient to the Metropolitan Opera, where we would see three performances. I was to be his companion for a week. I might be left to entertain myself for some of the trip, as Frank had meetings with company officials and family friends. We'd go to dinner almost every night. We'd see my favorite museums. We'd paint the town red, as they say, whatever the hell that means. We would do the only two free things in New York, ride the Staten Island Ferry, and walk through Central Park. He said one of the things he liked about me, and one of the reasons he felt comfortable inviting me, was that I appeared rather run-of-the-mill. No overt flamboyance to raise the red flags of anyone we might run into that he knew. As well as the airline tickets, he sent me five hundred dollars for any incidentals. I was unable to spend it, as Frank picked up every tab.

He was with the car when I arrived at La Guardia. It had been more than four years since I'd stepped foot in New York. I forgot on what a mammoth scale everything is. Streets that looked like outdoor hallways, walled by a continuous series of buildings, each interesting. They say you can tell a tourist, because they are always looking up in amazement. We toured the Frick, the Guggenheim, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. To my astonishment, Frank had never been before. I didn't think there was such a thing as a New Yorker who hadn't paid a visit to the Metropolitan Museum. There are as many levels of membership to the Met as at the Imperial Court of ancient China. It's an endless labyrinth of halls and rooms, filled with some of the finest works of art and examples of mankind's striving for the divine. It seemed not to impress Frank much. He seemed to enjoy the live shows more than anything else. We went to the observation level at the World Trade Center, and gazed out at mankind's striving for the commercially divine. When we were at the base of the towers, Frank made an offhand comment, "To think, those crazy fuckers thought they could take it down with a truckload." Looking up to heaven beside these stone, glass, and steel giants, it did seem the fool or the devil's ambition that they should even try.

I forget at what point it became a jest between us about what it is exactly Frank did for a living and what company he worked for. I made ridiculous guesses. Did he launder money for the New York mob overseas? Was he in the diplomatic corps, an ambassador's attaché? Was he James Bond's real-life alter ego? An assassin? Smuggler? Thief? It seemed possible he might be all these things, and none of them. It was merely a game. I'm quite used to clients being rather private about their affairs. I play along. He laughed at my guesses. I was worried about feeling captive, but was permitted much free time, and the time we spent together was better than fine. The sex was excellent, exciting, and mutually satisfying. The meals were lavish, and there was only one night we missed going to a Broadway show or the opera. Oh, and the pay would make a handsome down-payment on a modest property.

When it came time to leave, I felt as though I wished we'd have a second week together. We talked of the possibility of meeting again before he left for his assignment in Romania. We would meet one last time in April. Midway through the trip Frank promised to tell me his actual profession, if I had not guessed it by then. It never occurred to me. He was smiling like a demon when he told me. My lack of composure must have expressed both my shock and discomfort at the news. I am told the Spanish architect Antoni Gaudi is being considered for sainthood. If he's approved, he will have the distinction of being the only saint to have been killed by a speeding trolley car. No doubt, Gaudi and I wore the same facial expression at that auspicious moment. Shock and realization. In fairness to Frank, I asked myself if I were in his shoes, would I act differently? I think I would do exactly as he did. It makes perfect sense now, doesn't it St. Antoni?

Frank often made elusive references to his "Boss" in such a way you thought of Marlon Brando in The Godfather. This image was reinforced by his flawless Italian, which he made use of in Little Italy at an antipasto bar we dined at. He also knows Latin. His so-called "Boss" is quite the CEO; in fact he sits upon the throne of St. Peter. Father McDowell-- pardon me, Monsignor-- rose through the ranks of the Roman Catholic Church befitting someone of his education, social standing, and drive. I have little doubt he would have been made a bishop or cardinal were he so inclined. The transfer he requested, to do missionary work in Romania, was made to avoid political entanglements at his company, the Roman Catholic Church. I was one of maybe a dozen men he enjoyed, like a feast before a fast. Still, I quite like Frank. He is cultured, well versed in history (better a biased familiarity than none at all), and extroverted. He is downright acrobatic as a lover and easily familiar with techniques you might request a professional to perform. Sadly, he seems to lack the capacity to be honest with himself. In a way I pity him this. Yet he did not lie to me, so much as he merely failed to be complete with the truth. He does work in finance, for the Vatican-- a very large multinational corporation-- that offers its employees the opportunity to enjoy subsidized world travel, a near limitless expense account for its management team, to be used for every type of legal problem or entertainment imaginable, and finally and do we mean finally, one last all-expenses paid trip to the pearly gates, with a reservation at the very finest hotel the next life has to offer, in the best part of town, nowhere near those upstart, expansion-minded Muslims, or the quiet Jewish quarter. All they ask of their servants is to preach that age-old command: "Do as I say, not as I do."

Editor's Note: Brad Nollant (bradinthered@hotmail.com) is currently seeking a publisher for a new work of non-fiction, of which this is the first chapter.

Author Profile:  Brad Nollant
Email:	bradinthered@hotmail.com