Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (3 page)

The 30th of April is a date etched into the Dutch psyche at an early age. It is the biggest celebration in their calendar—a public holiday commemorating national unity. The streets teem with people and bicycles, and it heralds the approach of their all-too-short summer.

I hadn’t had much time to digest my meeting with Paul from the previous evening, but I knew I wanted to see him again. I was intrigued and attracted. His extreme candour had caught me off guard and I wanted to get to know him better. I fervently hoped he wouldn’t think me too old; I contemplated whether he was too young for me.

Miraculously, I found him in the crowd. He waved enthusiastically. He was wearing a white sailor top, although everyone around him was in orange, the national colour derived from the historical House of Orange-Nassau dynasty.

‘I wasn’t sure if you’d turn up,’ he said as he embraced me.

‘Yeah, well, I wanted to see you again.’ I was always forthright in matters of the heart.

‘Great. Me too. I’m really glad you came. I can dink you around on my bike. Today, the whole country parties. I wanna teach you about all things Dutch.’

Paul’s energy and enthusiasm were infectious. He seemed to want to do everything all at once. He wanted to teach me Dutch, show me landmarks and tell me about himself, in between asking questions about my background. Netherlands history was obviously dear to his heart, and I could see his national pride and passion oozing through our conversation as he spoke of how his people had suffered under German occupation. I loved it when he spoke Dutch. Effortlessly, he would switch between languages.

‘Have you been to the Anne Frank House yet?’ he asked. I wrapped my arms around his waist while he pedalled furiously. ‘There are two places every tourist should go: that and the Milky Way. You have to see Anne Frank’s House first, because most people who go to the Milky Way get so stoned they don’t remember anything about Amsterdam after that.’

‘Yeah, I spent a few hours there. It’s very moving. I was brought up Jewish, so I know people who’ve had similar stories.’

‘Wow! I love Jewish people.’

‘Well, we weren’t religious, but it was the culture with which I identified. Growing up, I was certainly on the receiving end of anti-Semitic taunts like Dirty Jew.’

‘I’ve often wished I was Jewish.’

Paul’s reaction was fascinating. I felt a real connection with my adopted heritage, but never before had it been greeted with such enthusiasm. I would have to try to find out why.

‘You know, Amsterdam has a strong connection with the Jews,’ observed Paul. ‘It’s always been a very tolerant place. Look at Spinoza—his family fled Portugal and ended up here.’

‘Yeah, I remember reading about him in first year philosophy.’

‘So, how about a joint? I know I feel like one.’ Paul propped the bicycle against a bench and sat down to catch his breath.

‘Mmm . . . I think I’ll pass,’ I said. ‘I’m not used to smoking and I got pretty ripped last night.’

Again, I watched as he tore off his rolling paper and blended the mix in his plastic bowl. He sniffed his thumb and forefinger, as if sampling the bouquet of an expensive wine.

‘You sure you don’t want some?’

‘Well, maybe one toke—just to keep you company.’

As he lit the joint, I was conscious of his attentiveness and his studied, deliberate movements, designed to enthral. And the truth be known, I was attracted to him. Very attracted. I could feel myself falling for him.

It had been an astonishing day and I didn’t want it to end. My head was still spinning from my ‘Dutch lesson’—the landmarks and language were becoming familiar. I was already feeling at home in this picture-postcard world of narrow streets and canal houses. As my personal tour guide, Paul constantly entertained me with stories, often putting on accents and voices. His sense of humour had engaged me and I wanted more.

‘How about we go back to your place,’ he suggested. ‘I want to see some of your drawings.’

I was mortified—there was no way I’d be showing him my artwork. The few drawings I’d done on my travels were clumsy and not fit for anyone’s eyes, let alone a potential love interest.

As we climbed the stairs to Jeff’s apartment, Paul said: ‘I want to draw you. You have a beautiful face.’

I was embarrassed by his obvious flattery, although it wasn’t the first time an artist had wanted to draw or photograph me.

We sat on the couch and he sketched. I was keen to see how he saw me. When he finished, he turned his sketchbook around. He’d made me look stunning.

‘Oh, God, you’ve flattered me,’ I said. ‘I had my portrait done when I was five and the artist gave me really big eyes and thick lips.’

‘But that’s how you look. You’re gorgeous. I’m not exaggerating your features.’

‘But my skin’s terrible. Look at all my pimples.’

‘It doesn’t matter—you’re still beautiful. You could be a model.’ He paused. ‘Do you wanna make out?’

I was floored. ‘Make out’ wasn’t an Australian expression, although I could figure out roughly what it meant. Did it involve sex, or was it just heavy petting? I wasn’t sure, but I was keen to find out. I was smitten.

‘Okay,’ I said. I climbed the ladder to the loft bed and he followed.

A coyness paralysed me; I had lost my natural forwardness as I waited for him to make the first move. Paul, unexpectedly shy, was nervous and tentative as he kissed and caressed me. Sensuously, we undressed each other as I savoured each moment. His touch had awakened a new sexual frontier in me and I knew I would do whatever he wanted, like putty in his hands; I would give myself to him completely without wanting anything in return. As our bodies entwined beneath the covers, I inhaled his sweet scent, the sweat from the day’s cycling providing a powerful aphrodisiac. He was passionate and considerate. His body was spectacular—youthful and muscular.

Our breathing quickened as he entered me; I gasped as I let the full force of my emotion take me to the edge: orgasm upon orgasm.

This was no ‘notch on my belt’ lusty fuck-fest; this was intense and I had tapped into a deep well of emotion. It was not about sexual pleasure, although there was plenty of that; rather, I was on a higher plane of passion than I had ever experienced before. There was an undeniable purity about our coupling. I basked in his presence, like a sunbather soaking up rays.

He made love to me all night and I knew by morning that I was in love.

2

I needed to vacate Jeff’s place soon. While visiting an American artist who taught in the hot-glass studio at the renowned Rietveld Academie, one of his students told me he was squatting in a huge building colloquially called ‘Aorta’, full of apartments, one of which had a vacancy. He said to come over and he would introduce me for the ‘interview’ I needed to undergo.

The four housemates and I sat around their kitchen table drinking coffee. They were just like any of the other women I had shared houses with over the years, except they spoke Dutch. Hendrika, the dowdiest of the four, seemed to hold the most sway, although her English was the least fluent. She explained that this was a legal squat and there would be a nominal rent. Then she questioned me on my sexual leanings.

‘Do you like women?’ she asked me. She explained that they were all bisexuals or lesbians—she was a dyke—and they were not too fond of having men around. They ran a lesbian radio station from there, and had a big banner outside the building promoting their program.

I’d already noticed the massive canvas draped across the third floor, with its painted female symbols and slogans. Apparently the apartment was one of the best-known militant lesbian-feminist households in Amsterdam.

I explained that I was a feminist, but not a lesbian. ‘But I don’t have a problem with anyone else who is,’ I quickly added.

Hendrika said she was happy enough for me to move in and the others nodded in agreement. I thanked them profusely—I had passed my interview.

The Aorta squat complex comprised a gallery, shop and numerous residences. Number 232 was a narrow five-storey-high building in the canal-house style. Graffiti covered the entrance and a pink ‘punk’ cafe was situated next door.

My room was on the ground floor and looked directly on to the footpath. It had large mullioned windows and a curtain for a door. Diagonally across the road was Queen Beatrix’s Royal Palace and one block away was the main post office. It was prime real estate—a stone’s throw from Dam Square, the historic centre of Amsterdam. There was a mattress on the floor and a chair. This was more than I could have hoped for.

I bonded easily with my housemates. The women, all students, were welcoming and we sat for hours drinking Dutch coffee in the fourth-floor kitchen. Most were heavily involved in the squatter movement and other social justice issues.

I rang Paul and told him about my new place. I knew he wanted to see me again, and I wanted to see him; it had already been a week since our night together.

‘Did you say you’re living in the Aorta squat?’ he asked, obviously impressed.

‘Yep, that’s the one. Opposite the palace.’

He told me it was the most famous squat in Amsterdam and had played a prominent role during the squatter riots a few years before. It was an old newspaper building belonging to Holland’s major daily paper, the
Algemeen Handelsblad
. Many such commercial properties had been left empty for tax reasons, at a time when large numbers of students were homeless. The whole city had been in turmoil.

‘Even my mother went to the protests. Jeez, how did you manage to talk your way into there?’

‘It wasn’t hard. I guess they liked me.’ I laughed.

‘Well, I like you too. A lot, as a matter of fact. I’d really like to see you again.’

‘Mmm . . .’ I hesitated. ‘I’d like to see you as well, but it could be problematic. You see, it’s a lesbian household and they don’t take too kindly to men.’

‘What! Do they want me to cut my dick off? Fucking extremists.’

‘No, they’re not like that,’ I protested. ‘They’re lovely women, but they’re just happier being surrounded by other women.’ When I suggested it would be better if I came over to his place, he invited me to dinner.

Paul lived in high-rise student accommodation a short bus ride away on the outskirts of Amsterdam—technically, Amstelveen. It was called
Uilenstede
in Dutch or ‘Owl City’. His room on the ninth floor looked out over a canal and other identical apartment blocks. A tiny ensuite and balcony completed the one-bedroom unit.

He took me to the communal kitchen. ‘Hey, this is awesome,’ I exclaimed, staring in amazement at an expanse of wall cupboards that had been decorated in a facsimile of one of Mondrian’s colourful abstract paintings that I recognised immediately. Someone had obviously gone to a lot of trouble, even painting the hinges and handles.

‘I knew you’d like it. I sit here drawing sometimes,’ he said. ‘The white background with its grid of black lines is calming.’

I had studied Piet Mondrian at art college and loved his balanced geometry and his use of primary colours. Apparently, we were both fascinated by the Dutch painter’s exploration of the relationship between art and mathematics.

Paul seemed like a kindred spirit—a really creative person with whom I could have deep conversations about art. Even so early in our relationship, I felt as if I had found a soul mate. I wanted to do art with him—to share our creativity and inspire each other. We would be each other’s muses.

I stayed for a week. For those seven days, we hardly got out of bed.

‘I feel like John and Yoko in their hotel in Amsterdam—except there are no press here,’ Paul joked.

We had moved Paul’s single mattress onto the floor and borrowed another. The tiny room was now wall-to-wall bed, as even the bar fridge door could not be opened.

Our lovemaking became less tentative: we were a little surer now of our emotions. I’d had many more lovers than Paul, but what he lacked in experience he made up for in enthusiasm. It was as if he wanted to work his way through the Kama Sutra with his own creative additions: eating strawberries and cream from my crotch or covering me in cooking oil—his boundless imagination led the way.

I never refused him, even when my insides felt fiery from the rawness. I had never seen such a perfect specimen of manhood— and although the mere sight of him excited me, it was his wit and charm that made me desire his body.

His tenderness too astounded me—he had a maturity far beyond his years—but he also possessed this boundless sexual energy that made him enormously attractive. And he could switch between softness and strength, depending on his mood.

Even after an energetic round of lovemaking he would regale me with anecdotes—showcasing his repertoire of accents—that had me in stitches. Often, he would write me love letters, in Dutch or English, with cartoons to make me laugh. Sometimes we read, together or out loud, as if we were children. At other times, we photographed each other candidly, usually nude.

He had taken to constantly telling me he loved me; that he didn’t want to lose me; that he always wanted to be with me. I was more guarded, but had also declared my love. We were in love and it was perfect.