I’m not sure how the Dutch see themselves from an international perspective, but aside from the fact you can smoke dope legally (although I hear they have cracked down on tourists visiting the country for that specific purpose), I believe the majority of people associate the country with sex. Maybe not the entire country, but when you here the word Amsterdam you tend to think of prostitutes in windows and live sex shows…and smoking dope!

I was fortunate for a time because my brother’s best friend from primary school (who I grew up with) was half Dutch and spent a good few years working in Amsterdam, which meant I always had free accommodation in a rather luxurious gay bachelor pad when I was inclined to pop over and taste the delights on offer. Since then he has decided he isn’t gay and was straight after all (bet his ex-girlfriend was pissed when he rejoined the hetero team). Now he’s married with babies and living in a far more ‘family friendly’ area of the country.

Anyway on my first visit, being my temporary GBFF (Gay Best Friend Forever – well for the duration of the long weekend) he was attentive and showed me all the wonders of the city. Because his father was Dutch he had family further away from Amsterdam and suggested we visit because they had their annual beer festival on – it could make for a good day. Who was I to refuse my host?

I have to confess it was an inspirational idea on his part in respect of immersing me in the culture of the people. I learned to love chips with mayonnaise and that 1 Euro for a pint of beer is not only cheap but will have you wasted in a very short space of time.

My mother had this theory that the Dutch aren’t keen on fat people (my host’s father had never been particularly kind to her) and I have to say my subsequent experience has made me realise her assumption wasn’t too far from the truth.

There I was, drinking and enjoying the atmosphere when a lovely young boy came and spoke to me. He looked about 16, but was perhaps a little older. I was in my mid twenties at the time but it was all harmless fun. He couldn’t speak a word of English and I couldn’t speak a word of Dutch, but when it comes to casual sex, conversation isn’t a necessity for the event to take place. Alcohol, body language and physical attraction is all that’s required. As we drank and became tactile, enjoying the crowds and music we got a little hands on.

He implied to me that he was going to visit the bathroom and signaled for me to mind his drink. I smiled and nodded and off he went. No sooner had he gone than his father, who’d be standing at the table next to us strode over; a man on a mission. Unfortunately for me he could speak English.

‘Stay away and leave my son alone when he returns back.’

I was somewhat taken aback and said I really felt the decision was up to his son. As I voiced this thought his son reappeared and spoke in Dutch to his father. He was irritated by the exchange and stood firm by my side, drinking his beer. His father, physically tried to drag him away and I was obliged to enquire as to what exactly the problem with him having a drink with me was.

‘You’re too fat. You’re grotesque. My son can do much better than you. Stay away, I will find him someone else.’

Sadly back then I wasn’t as good at disguising my emotions publicly as I am now. Outraged, embarrassed, full of self disgust and loathing and more than anything hurt, I retreated immediately, telling me host I needed the toilet. As luck would have it he had missed the entire scene, so I was spared the mortification of him hearing me referred to as ‘fat’ and ‘grotesque’. His 50% Dutch DNA may have had him applauding the man or joining in with the verbal insults about my weight, instead of defending me!

I left the alfresco drinking area and made my way into the heaving bar and headed straight for the ladies cubicle. I can’t deny I needed to break the seal after drinking an extraordinary amount of beer, but in truth I figured by the time I’d had a good old cry over the humiliating fat attack, father and son may have moved on to find someone skinny.

Allowing myself ample recovery time, I decided to venture back out to find my friend. The difficulty was the bar was massive and when I walked out, I couldn’t see my host for love nor money. Without a mobile phone and any concept of the national language, I had no other option other than circling and scrutinizing every patron in the bar in the vain hope that I’d spot him ordering drinks or coming up from the toilets himself. I was at the point of getting panicking when a brutish drunk asked if I wanted a drink.

What I actually wanted was to scream, cry, wail, drop to my knees and beat my breast with both hands but a drink with a hunk from Holland didn’t seem a bad substitute.

Whether it was because he towered over me at 6’4 and was built like a brick shit-house or he preferred a fuller figure I didn’t get an anti-‘fat’ vibe from the man. What I did get was a pint of beer and a rather nice kiss.

There’s something rather sexy about linking your arms around a stranger’s neck and forgetting yourself in the crowd of public onlookers as the kiss gradually develops into a more feverish and intense experience. A foreign tongue in your mouth in a foreign land.

Having been rejected, it was a relief to have it counteracted with lusty intent from another individual. Feeling his erection against my stomach took the sting out of my earlier encounter.

His English was very broken but when coming up for air he asked if I wanted to take a walk along the pier. I didn’t even know there was a pier. My first thoughts were related to the predicament of having lost my brother’s best friend and in that respect my guide; wandering away from where we’d last been together was unlikely to improve my chances of finding him (if anything disappearing would seriously hinder my tracking him down to return me home safely). That said, I knew he wasn’t going anywhere because we were waiting for the appearance of a few of his cousins. As we’d already been separate for over half an hour, I figured a tiny stroll couldn’t hurt.

The throng of an entire town being drunk had been a little overwhelming so I found it a relief that the pier was completely empty. It was only tiny, with few boats but it was pretty with the sun setting. An idyllic location to finish off what we’d started in the bar.

The soft lighting flattered his looks.; it was as if he’d stepped out of a Hollister or Jack Wills advertisement. He was tall and broad and as we resumed kissing I reached under his shirt to find the mass of the man was muscles. The toned frame combined with piercing blue eyes, buzz-cut length brown hair, even lips and a noticeable tan had me forgetting the boy and his fatist father.

Nothing’ beats a proper kissing section. Like when your teenagers and on the brink of embracing your sexuality. Too shy to go straight to sex, but keen to explore so starting at first base with kisses. That’s what his mouth felt like on mine. In my head it was a picture-esque image of a real man kissing me with the water behind and hazy orange skies.

He wasn’t, however, a teenager on the brink of embracing his sexuality. He was a man and I was a woman and as soon as my hands went from under his shirt to trying to edge down into his jeans it was game on.

I kicked myself for having dressed down that day. Had I worn a skirt or dress it would’ve made the sex easier, but I hadn’t. I had to kick off my trainers and lose my cargo pants within close proximity and cross my fingers there’d be no passer-byers to see us and no gusts of wind to sweep my clothes out to sea.

For the first and only time in my life, he actually lifted me onto the top of the rail of the pier which wasn’t to high and without a word smoothly slid in his cock. I have to say, his penis was in perfect portion with his build. Plentiful in length and girth my moaning aloud was a result of instant gratification. As he worked his massive shaft inside me, he refused to kiss but insisted on maintaining eye contact for the duration. His expression was one of determination. Upon each moan released in accordance with his ploughing, he would glide in deeper each time to elicit a more audible groan.

When the ramming became too powerful and I thought he might bang me into the sea, I was obliged to steady myself by wrapping my legs tightly round his waist and my arms round his neck. At this gesture he seemed please with his performance and broke into a smile. It was only then he kissed me. I could feel his hips wanting to jerk harder, but my vice-like thighs were restricting him. Before I knew it he had lifted my off the rail and was fucking me as he stood. It did give him deeper penetration, as well as a thorough work both aerobically and anaerobically. I was concerned his thighs might give way and he wouldn’t have the stamina to keep up the speed while supporting my weight. Full marks – he didn’t.

Bouncing up and down on his boner and his breath warm and panting in my ear had me, literally, dripping and wet for him. My self-consciousness prevented me from responding too ferociously to his vigorous pounding. Truth be told, while I enjoyed the stretch workout he was giving my vagina and the mental image of the stallion mating with me in public view, it was his fucking me without any aid of a bed, rail, wall or toilet that delighted me. Even then, I resisted revealing how much more of his cock I needed in me. I was wanton and wanting, but when you have issues around weight they can impinge on all aspects of your life – including sex.

I was actually relieved when he came. Disappointed because I was loved the rawness and roughness of his technique, but happy that I could clear my mind of the potential guilt I’d have if he gave himself a hernia by choosing that position.

He may not have had much grasp of English, he did fully understand the concept of chivalry and helped collect my clothes and shoes, then kept watch as I dressed. He escorted me back to the pub, bought me a drink and assisted me in circling the venue in search of my friend. Transpires the pub was two premises linked together. I’d gone to the toilets in premise one but exited the toilets into premise two and hadn’t noticed the difference. The alfresco area I’d been scouring wasn’t the section we had been drinking in. As soon as I was in the original alfresco area I saw my host and he waved me over (I was grateful the man that originally ruined my confidence had departed, with his son in tow, seeking a skinnier venue).

‘I take it you were having a poo and not a wee,’ said my friend.