Hired a Street Hooker, Condom Breaks and I Keep Fucking Her

The salacious tale of “Hired a Street Hooker, Condom Broke and I Keep Fucking Her” is one that would make a distinguished European gentleman blush, or perhaps grin with depraved delight. Picture this – a randy fop, dressed in a crisp three-piece tailored suit, prowling the seedy streets of Amsterdam’s red-light district in search of a quick, sordid rendezvous.

The air is thick with the aroma of hashish, spilled beer, and the desperation of lonely men. Neon signs flagrantly advertise the depravity within: “Live Sex Show” glitters garishly alongside “Peep Show” in an ‘80s font. The capitalist spirit is alive and well in this den of iniquity.

Our debauched young bachelor spots his chosen paramour – a nubile, producer-found actress in the throes of her first paycheck, preening and pouting from behind a red-lit window. He ticks off her assets like a jeweler appraising a diamond: golden hair, perky breasts, and long, coltish legs that won’t quit. She’s clad in skimpy lingerie, heels too high, and a vacant gaze that hints at a wondrous lack of inhibitions.

The price is agreed upon, first in knowing winks and camera asides, then in cold, hard Euros pressed into manicured hands. Up the narrow steps they go, the bachelor’s ancestors sternly a-word-dishing from beyond the grave, and enter – not a stately apartment or cozy hotel room – but a dank, fluorescent-lit cubicle barely larger than a galley kitchen.

With a clatter, the last of their inhibitions hits the floor as they begin to paw and writhe on the cheap mattress. Silly words like “relationship” and “commitment” hold no meaning here – this is a savage encounter, pure and simple. The camera lingers lovingly on panties peeling away and a dick slicked with lube, acting as its own narrator.

Then, the moment we’ve all been waiting for. A voiceover, gravelly with barely repressed glee, intones: “Oooh, the condom just broke! I’m so scared, but I just…KEEP…FUCKING! KNOCK HER UP! OKAY!” And with that, the last vestiges of a responsible decision-making process are hurled out the window, never to be seen again.

The financial and emotional costs of this transaction are never explored, of course. This is a morality-free zone, where one can whip a dick out in broad daylight and throw on a condom like the hero in a Western putting on his six-shooter. All that matters is capturing the gasping ejaculations, the gobbling gurgles, the wet slap-slap of raw, unprotected sex.

In a final flourish, the camera zooms in on the gargling actress, her free-run messiah’s jizz dripping down her chin and pooling in her cleavage. She gazes out from beneath golden bangs, equal parts Beatific and blasé, a porn star sphinx with a satisfied set of jizz glazed lips. The End.

Thus concludes our abbreviated tale – a voyeuristic peek behind the curtain of Europe’s seedy underbelly. From London’s tawdryinded ’80s fleshpots to the velvet-roped bordellos of Barcelona’sakis, the continent remains one vast Secret-Diary-of-a-Call-Girl-type treasure trove, to be mined for titillation, trashed for sociological dissertation, and occasionally, castigated by a socially conscious few.

And our hero? A widening cheshire cat grin spreads across his face, in hijinks as old as the hills themselves. Ah, to be young, dumb, and full of….well, you can guess what. Until the next time.