Page 4 of Monarch
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 10thOctober – 17thOctober.
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, Icanstop 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.
Chapter Two
Roos
I’ve always loved Amsterdam in autumn. It’s not a city that stays uncomfortably hot in summer – maybe only for a few weeks – but regardless, I’m still grateful for the fresh air that the new season brings. The slight chill I feel has me pulling at the neck of my coat, all while keeping my other hand on my bike’s handlebars, but I welcome it. Just like I welcome the leaves changing colour from green to yellow to orange and red, and how this time of day – early evening – gives everything a golden hue. Perhaps my love of autumn has something to do with my childhood growing up on a farm surrounded by fields and trees and plants, which all changed so dramatically at this time of year.
I miss it. I miss home. Sometimes, I even miss my family too.
Maybe I should turn my bike around and go back to my apartment so I can call my parents and find out if they still don’t want to speak to me? Maybe even that terrifying prospect would be a smarter way to spend my time. As devastating as I suspect it could be – my father shouting at me, my mother hanging up on me – it would still stop me from doing what I know is a big mistake.
But I’m starting to think I have a thing for red flags. I’m starting to wonder if I’m like a bull and have to run towards them, rather than scampering away like somebody more sensible than me.
