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Laying there on the sofa, really not able to get up, slipping in and out of Technicolor dreams, I was almost certain the sound coming through the bedroom door was my wife being fucked. How could that be, that I, a very jealous new husband, doesn't even want to go in that room. The pot was much, much more potent than what we smoked. Maybe it was mixed with hash, I was too destroyed to know. Either was available here in Amsterdam. I looked out the window and could see the buildings on the other side of the canal.

We had met this group in the red light district. The invited us for a drink at a bar in a side alley. Their English, like most of the Dutch, was perfect. They were 10-15 years older than us, 30s or 40s, I couldn't be sure. But the pretty blond who sat next to me placed her hand on my thigh and squeezed it at the appropriate points in the conversation. Sitting next to Sarah was a nice looking man, slim, like me, but, somehow, like all Europeans, seeming more elegant. I wondered if his hand was on her thigh. Then as we all laughed, I saw her sit up startled, but then she didn't move. Back home, I would have grabbed her and left, furious at her for even letting that happen. But a honeymoon here, so far away, where we were having sex three times a day, somehow, it didn't make me angry but sort of made me feel more romantic towards her. Damn right she is a pretty lady, I thought.

Now here we are on the third floor of this old house on the canal. Devilish narrow stairway; we all made it up tipsy from the drinks, but ...

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