Credit: Indiana Joel/Xtra
Hard Labour
6 min

My client asked me to wear a balaclava during sex

I look more like a bike courier trying to stay warm and less of a sex worker

I’m standing on a dark road in the middle of the Dutch countryside. The moon is peeking through the clouds, a light mist rising over the fields. I’ve been biking close to an hour, a lot longer than I thought it would take. I keep stopping to look at my phone to make sure I’m going the right way.

He’s given me the name of his hotel, but not the room number, which always makes me a little suspicious. Failing to get that vital piece of info might mean you’re going to be stood up. But I’m only in Amsterdam for the night and I don’t have anything else to do. So even though it seems a little sketchy, and even if I do get stood up, at least I’ve enjoyed a midnight bike ride through North Holland.

His hotel is oddly situated, next to a highway overpass but surrounded by fields. Why would someone stay out here when the centre of Amsterdam is where the action is?

There doesn’t seem to be a bike rack in the parking lot, so I just leave my wheels leaning against a fence. It’s unlikely they’ll get stolen at this hour.

I walk into the lobby past a few staff smoking on the front steps, staring at their phones. Once I spot the elevators, I step into a little alcove off to the side. Some hotels have odd policies about guests after a certain hour, so I don’t want to make it look like I’m anything other than a paying customer.

I text him to say I’m in the lobby. “Five minutes,” he replies.

I text back to ask if I should come up to his room or if he’s coming to collect me. He instructs me to return to the parking lot. Weird. Maybe he’s coming out through one of the side doors to get me? I walk back outside, past the smoking staff, around the corner of the building, still trying to seem nonchalant.

“Okay,” I text. “Back in the parking lot. Where should I go?”

Three minutes later, I still haven’t received a reply, so I text again.

“What’s up? Am I coming in?”

I’m starting to think my stand-up sense was correct and I should hop back on my bike to start the journey back to Amsterdam. But finally, he replies.

“Okay,” he writes. “I believe in you. Room 438.”

I believe in you. What does that mean?

I head back inside and catch the elevator up. He opens the door to his room just as I’m about to knock, hurriedly ushering me inside. I’m greeted by a short man holding up a bottle of red wine. He asks me if I want some. I nod and he hands me a disposable plastic cup, filling it nearly to the brim.

After exchanging a few words, I realize his English is almost non-existent and suggest we switch to Dutch. I ask where he’s from and he mentions a smaller village in the south of the country that I’ve heard of, but never been to. He’s just visiting Amsterdam for the weekend. I ask him: if he wanted to see Amsterdam then why is he  staying all the way out here rather than downtown? He glances at the floor and says something about liking it better out here. I decide to leave it at that.

Abruptly, he tells me to get undressed. I remove my jeans and T-shirt, but leave my underwear on. He didn’t give me a lot of detail on the type of session he wanted, besides the fact that he’s a bottom. He’s still fully clothed, and I push him gently back on the bed, starting to unbutton his khakis. I pull them down slowly to reveal his red bikini briefs. Pushing his legs apart, I crouch between them and press my lips to his neck.

He starts to moan and his body begins to convulse. He grabs me forcefully, his pelvis thrusting towards me as if he’s having a seizure.

Although lazy bottoms aren’t that interesting to fuck, at least they’re manageable. But these hyperactive types? They’re a pain. They bounce all over the place once you’re inside them, threatening to bend your dick in a way it’s not supposed to be bent.

I grab his thighs with my hands and push them down, trying to hold him still as he pushes back against me.

“Get it!” he suddenly blurts out.

I offer a confused look.

“The table,” he says, pointing behind me.

I look back and notice a little white shopping bag next to the wine on the desk. I ask him what he needs and he makes a motion with his hands, as if putting on a hat. I walk over to the desk and glance inside the bag. I pull out what looks like a black balaclava, but made of stretchy nylon rather than wool. Printed on the face was a realistic image of a human skull stencilled in white.

I turn back to him, holding it up, and he makes the motion again, as if saying I should put it on.

Okay, this is interesting.

I slide the tight cap over my face and find the eyeholes, pushing a few strands of hair out of the way. He immediately moans in ecstasy. I walk back to the bed, catching a view of myself in the mirror. It’s a strange look: less sex worker preparing to fuck and more bike courier trying to stay warm.

I return to my position between his legs and pull his underwear down, his cock springing free. He reaches up and grabs my shoulder, pulling me on top of him and kissing me hard through the opening in the mask. With the addition of this new costume element, I’m not totally sure how I’m supposed to act.

Until now, the scene has had more of a romantic vibe. Is it supposed to get aggressive? Kinky? Are we playing roles now? If so, what are they? Serial killer/helpless victim? Vengeful ghost/haunted human? Bike courier/package recipient?

He’s not giving me any cues, so I just have to go with the flow. I grab some of the lube next to the bed and massage it gently into his hole.

“Ready?” I ask.

He nods. I slide a condom on and try to penetrate him. It’s tight but I manage to get in, and pause for second to let him relax before I start thrusting. He moans, louder this time, and starts thrashing around again. I grab his thighs, putting as much of my weight into them as I can, trying to hold him still, as I ease slowly in and out of him. He grabs his cock and starts pulling at it furiously. It only takes about 10 seconds for him to shoot.

I ease out of him and head to the washroom. Leaning over the sink, rinsing off my dick, I start to wonder, what exactly is his kink? Is it the specific image that turns him on? Just the fact my face is covered? Or does he need the balaclava to make the experience sufficiently anonymous for him to engage?

I peel it off, my skin shiny with sweat underneath, my carefully coifed hair standing on end. I splash some water on my face and pat it dry with a towel, before doing the same with my hair, trying to pull it into some kind of shape for the bike ride home.

When I return, he’s fully dressed, standing with a wad of bills in hand. He nods silently to me and I take them before putting on my shoes, grabbing my bag and stepping out into the hallway. I glance at my phone as I walk to the elevator the whole scene lasted less than 20 minutes.

My bike is right where I left it against the fence. The ride back is shorter since I know the way and don’t have to keep stopping to check directions. The sky has cleared a bit and the moon is shining down. What just happened?

I assume this guy is closeted and in Amsterdam for a little action. I guess it’s possible he genuinely didn’t want to stay downtown and would rather crash at this strange hotel in the countryside. Maybe he’s worried about running into someone he knows in the city, prompting questions about what he’s doing there.

And the mask? He might like the anonymous feel of the encounter. At the same time, the skull image is so specific it seems like a fetish. Maybe something he developed watching porn? I’m always trying to figure out what someone wants in any given moment, which can be complicated by a language barrier, shyness or because they just don’t know what it is.

But while I want to know what they need, the why is often elusive. And frankly, unless they feel like sharing it, it’s not really any of my business. I’m just here to offer a service, not to help them discover the reason they’ve asked for it.

I lean forward and keep pedaling, the lights of the city getting brighter through the misty air.