“Be my dog.”

Out of 10, I made an effort of 4 to gather enough courage to enter the entrance of the Moulin Rouge. There were no other visitors in the entrance area of this enticing, mysterious, and small theatre building. Over the past several days, I have been deciding to make my biggest spending in Amsterdam in De Wallen. I was well prepared. When the big-built man at the door told me the ticket fee was 50 euros, I felt relieved about the money part. Now anxiety came from the uncertainty of what was waiting for me. What would the show itself be like? Would it be dangerous in whatever ways beyond my imagination?

“I am nervous!” I murmured to the big-built man, trying to portray an image of an Oriental woman with a mixed vibe of innocence and sophistication in this adult world. He smiled and showed me the way. “This way, take the staircase. The show is on the second floor.”

The narrow, warm, and dimly lit staircase guided me into a small bar-like theatre. The environment defined by a mixture of pub blue, black, and a bit of dark red. Some performances had already been on. I seated myself in the immediate seat, the one and only empty bar seat right next to the narrow entrance.

In front of me was a curly L-shape bar counter. When I had roughly settled myself, my big, puffy black winter down coat was squeezed between my legs and the front panel. My green Uniqlo soft purse, containing my mobile phone, my passport, one or two hundred euros in cash, two credit cards in a small card holder and the keys to my home around a 14-hour flight away were placed on my lap, giving me a peace-of-mind sense of security. I started to scan the room with all five of my senses.

I sat at one end of the L-shaped bar counter, the first tall seat. To my right was a white couple, probably in their 50s or early 60s. I said hi to the lady, a gentle, simple, scholarly-looking woman with thin-rimmed glasses. She wore a chunky knit sweater with a cream-colored background and some dark red patterns. I had an instinct that she was a sociologist at a university – probably a prestigious one in UK. The sweater was very thick, I imagined she might feel too hot in it. Using the corner of my eye to quickly scan her similarly scholarly-looking, traditionally glasses-wearing husband, my judgment of this couple being scholars was reinforced.

Next to them were two middle-aged Chinese men. Originally from China, although I have been overseas for two decades, I could sense China-Chineseness from afar, from one glimpse, or from a quarter-second of listening. They spoke in Mandarin, a bit louder than they were supposed to from time to time. To their right were several young Westerners. One young man was taking selfies during the break against the alluring wallpaper image. Two young and pleasant-looking white couples.

The Amy Winehouse–makeup-styled Asian bartendress-plus-DJ, who had an aloof yet sexy vibe, served me a 9-euro gin and tonic. I decided to drink sip by sip so that it could last the entire show. Across from her and her workstation, there it was: the captivating stage with blue light and a silver pole, emitting a mysterious and commanding presence.

Before I had fully and psychologically settled into the environment, the slim, beautiful, bendy, naked white girl finished her performance, walked down the stage, and left through the entrance next to me. The first performance ended.

After several minutes of my restless mental anticipation, the bartendress-plus-DJ put on new music – electronic music or something I couldn’t quite name, but could feel stirring the blood of the audience. The stage was ready. A you-can-never-guess-my-ethnicity-nor-age-nor-nationality kind of lady performer came in. Cheerful, elegant, seductive, she was gorgeous and radiant.

Apart from some ribbons around her neck and shoulders and fringes on her bra, she wore very little. The fabric of her bra and T-string was in a soothing combination of pastel green and golden yellow. When she walked or moved, the ribbons and fringes moved with her. She was gorgeous and radiant.

An amazing dancer, she performed on the stage and around the vertical pole. Facing the ceiling, she hooked her foot around the horizontal steel bar and bent her body downward. She smiled like a world-recognized dancer on an international competition stage. She winked and blew flying kisses like a lover about to leave tonight but definitely will see you again tomorrow. She was (almost) naked, small, beast-like, and passionate, as if the first woman created by God had just landed and touched the earth. She was gorgeous and radiant.

Here she was. She stepped down from the stage, walked toward the bar counter. My heartbeat became slightly faster. She announced in her no-one-could-resist beautiful voice, “Now I’d like to invite a guy.” She extended her hand toward one of the two Chinese men.

“Please.”

All eyes turned to the man.

“No.” That was what we heard from him.

The beautiful, nearly naked stripper, only a few steps away from this cadre-looking Chinese man, smiled again and said, “Please.”

A straight face, and another “no.”

I felt one or two seconds of awkwardness hanging in the air, along with the fuck-that-is-why-I-never-want-to-date-these-terribly-boring-Chinese-men disdain forming in my head.

The goddess turned to me. “You? Please.”“I am not a guy.” The answer was a bit stupid, but it came out of instinct. “It’s all right,” her beautiful voice said.

Curiosity, courage, defiance against some huge and suppressive culture I came from – I didn’t know which feeling I had in that one-tenth of a second. I got up and quickly put my green Uniqlo soft purse on the table in front of my UK-scholar-looking neighbour. She said, warmly and reassuringly, “I will take care of it.”

I was on the stage, sitting on a soft chair. The goddess instructed the nervous, lost me not to cross my legs. She smiled big and danced very close to me, sometimes sat on my lap – bendy, warm, beautiful, amusing. In one moment, for several seconds, she sat on my lap facing me, her soft, perfect, round breast rubbing against my face to the rhythm of the hot background music. It happened so suddenly, so warm, so funny, and, strangely, so touching. 

After a few more seconds, she lay prone with her belly on my lap and instructed me to pat her butt. I did. One song-lyric-like sentence flew into my head: “beat me gently.” I patted her butt. I winked afterward automatically, and in the dim, warm yellow light, I saw the audience on the sofa next to the stage smiling broadly. I felt happy.

Dimly lit, cozy, mysterious light. This place was mysterious, beautiful, intimate yet public. Where was I?

Then my cautiousness returned. The next section of the dance began. “Get down on all fours.” All right. I did. I raised my clueless face to her, waiting for further uncertainty.

“Be my dog.”

I crawled across the floor toward the affirmative, enchanting goddess. Sitting or leaning on the horizontal pole at the other end of the stage, with a silk ribbon running under her vagina, she handed me the other end of the ribbon and asked me to crawl back to the other end of the stage and pull it. I did.

“Slowly,” she instructed.

I did. “Ahh. So this is what the ‘ribbon show’ in the ad means.” The linguist part of me revived at that particular moment.

I went down from the stage to applause and laughter from the audience in front. I said, “You are so beautiful,” for the second time to the naked goddess who had been the queen of this small world, an elf, an artist, a warm, bendy, cheerful, ultimately beautiful human being, yet somehow higher than a human being. 

Back at my seat, I was still dizzy. My neighbour returned my purse and said, “Well done,” with a smile. During the break, I became the “star” of the audience. People passing through the entrance next to where I sat stopped to chat with me, praising how well I did and warmly asking where I came from.

The scholar couple said goodbye to me and left. The two Chinese men left as well. The seats next to me were then taken by a group of very young Western men, in their early twenties, or perhaps even eighteen or nineteen. I noticed how they used their light-hearted manner, ordering Coke and cocktails in loud voices, to mask their nervousness.

The next performance had a totally different vibe: a blue-coloured coolness, a bit of religious solemnness. A totally naked, expressionless young white lady holding a bunch of long white candles stepped onto the stage, placing the solemnly lit candles around her. Then she started to dance in a yoga- and modern-dance style, abstract, mysterious, bendy. At one point, she picked up one candle and thrust the base end into her vagina. Then she bent her body to an unbelievable angle, the candle sticking up, lit all the way.

Whatever words you could choose, obscene would be the last to describe such a vibe. What it suddenly triggered in me was the naked pool dream Tereza had in The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

The solemn performer exited, and the cheerful goddess in green and yellow who had invited me onto the stage reappeared. After several dances marked by lightness and delight, she once again invited two people onto the stage, one at a time. A young man from the “graduation party” group beside me was selected. He was asked to remove his top, revealing his well-built physique. The interaction was pleasant and cooperative, creating a playful man–woman dynamic. Then, a young woman from one of the couples was chosen. Equally pleasant, she appeared curious and giggled as she enjoyed herself. So did we.

As the green and yellow goddess finished this session and left the room, she passed by me and gave me a warm, easy hug. The next performance began. Surprisingly, the live sex was the dullest performance for me. It was beautiful yet not stimulating, technically flawless yet lacking something emotionally. That was something I could fully understand. It was a job, after all.

The performances came to an end, and the lights came on. I was still under the spell. People passing by remembered my moment on stage and stopped for brief, kind, and warm exchanges with me. The couple among whom the woman had also been invited onto the stage shared her curiosity and appreciation with me, just as I shared mine with her. She was from London, young and beautiful. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of life lay ahead of her.

I left Moulin Rouge and De Wallen, walking through the cold winter night of Amsterdam back to my temporary home. A long walk in coldness, solitude, foreignness, and dimly lit nighttime felt just right. I just stepped from a space I created – unusual, stupefying, cryptic, yet unmistakably clear – where I had cornered myself so I cannot evade a question, allowing courage to surface and bringing me one step closer to my fidelity to myself.