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Reijer's World: Like A Haarlem Flower Girl...

by Reijer Breed in Columns & Opinions , 02 May 2017

Dit artikel is ook in het Nederlands beschikbaar

I was in the Zandvoort dunes, naked. The sun was comfortably warming my skin, and occasionally I would get up to see if any guys were around. After a while, this man with a semi-erect cock approached me. He saw me too, and squatted in front of me, saying: “I’m Paul from Haarlem.”

 “Hi, I’m Reijer from Wormerveer,” I answered. “What a strange name,” he said. “Yes,” I said, “I was named after my grandfather from Alkmaar.” He grabbed my head and shoved his cock in my mouth.

After I had swallowed, Paul asked: “Fancy a walk along the beach?” I nodded and collected my stuff. We left the dunes, while talking nineteen to the dozen against the wind. Paul and I didn’t notice we had passed the restricted nude beach zone. “The COC is worth it on a Saturday. You should drop by for some dancing,” Paul said. “I’ll think about it... It should be fun,” I said. “We organize the COC nights for the Zaanstreek. You should drop by there as well.” “I promise,” Paul said, and kissed me. Holding hands we walked on. “Do you know the song ‘Terug naar de kust?,’” I asked Paul. He nodded, and together we sang that wonderful song by Maggie MacNeal.

Oh, hoe kom ik hier vandaan
Was ik maar niet weggegaan
’k Hoor de branding in mijn hoofd
Had ik eerder maar geloofd
Wat die stem toen heeft voorspeld
Dat geluk verdwijnt voor geld
Mist en regen, westenwind
Zeg mij of ik ’t ooit weer vind
Mist en regen, westenwind

Ik wil terug naar de kust
Heel ongerust
Zoek ik de weg naar de kust
Bijna niet bewust van de dreiging dat daar m’n jeugd voorbijging

(Oh, how do I get away from here / Hadn’t I but never left / I hear the breakers in my head / Had I only earlier believed / What that voice had predicted / That happinesss disappears for money / Fog and rain, westerly wind / Tell me if I will ever find it again / Fog and rain, westerly wind // I want to return to the coast / Very worried / I’m searching for the road to the coast / Almost unaware of the threat that it’s there that my youth has passed)

“What are we doing here?” A police car unexpectedly stopped next to us. It scared the hell out of us. Two angry policemen looked at us. “We are supposed to wear swimming trunks on this part of the beach, gentlemen,” one of the policemen said. “But the gents are not complying, asking for a fine. And we are here to serve! We’re writing you up.” Perplexed, Paul and I looked at each other and laughed. It pissed off the coppers even more. “Ah, so we think this is all a joke. You are about to find out.” We gave our names and addresses. They were actively scribbling.

Weeks later I was walking around in Haarlem. “Hey hottie,” a man said while tapping my shoulder. It was Paul. “Wanna grab a cup of coffee?,” I asked. “Fine,” he said. We were happily chatting. “Most people see each other in clothes first, then naked. With us, it was the other way round,” Paul said. “But I like you with your clothes on as well.” “And,” I asked, “do you know who did not come at all that time?” “I live around the corner. Come along then. I’ll make it up to you,” Paul suggested. And that promise was fulfilled, as in my thoughts the Haarlem flower girls in days of yore were fulfilled by their boyfriends.

* The fine Paul and I got was for fifty guilders each.



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