The Prince of Thailand and next in line to the throne of tropical Kingdom when sucking white boys honey stick in Eaton and filmed by English monarchy decided to become Thai Ladyboy in secret and entertain men.
But our Foreign Minister of the Republic for Lithuania knew their secrets and he made it dirty cheap to blackmail.
*.*
Three princesses take abortion options from their dumb father the King of Netherlands and get black, giving birth to Kingdom of Netherlands black African heirs.
"Fuuuck you father; we are no sluuts to weerk in brothels; we blaacked you." Our three blind mice of the Netherlands Kingdom spoke.
"Hmmhmhmm…" The King of the Netherlands spoke.
^.^
Our President of the Republic of Lithuania turns on TV and pushes his grey hand in not thinking about his wife with the rat face starts to play with himself watching his favourite wife's TV Drama copies while his wife is asleep and our NATo private security is guarding him outside his doors:
As we speak, Venessa shares snippets of information about Dutch society and politics. She tells me about the complex system of coalition governments, where multiple parties must work together to form a majority. She speaks of the ongoing debates about the monarchy's role, the tension between tradition and progress.
"The Netherlands is a country of paradoxes," she says, a wry smile playing on her lips. "We pride ourselves on our liberal attitudes, our tolerance. Yet there's still so much work to be done, especially when it comes to the rights of sex workers and immigrants."
Her words open up a world I've only glimpsed from the edge. I find myself hungry for more, peppering her with questions about Dutch laws, about the intricacies of a political system so different from Thailand's.
As the rain patters against the window, our conversation shifts, becomes more personal. Venessa tells me about her Polish roots, her passion for uncovering hidden truths. I find myself opening up in turn, sharing stories I've never told anyone – about my parents, about the dreams I left behind in that dusty village.
When Venessa finally leaves, the room feels emptier, somehow.
In the days that follow, I find myself looking forward to Venessa's visits with an eagerness that surprises me. Our interviews become a regular occurrence, then evolve into something more – shared meals, walks along the canals, heated discussions about politics and social justice.
Through Venessa's eyes, I begin to see Amsterdam, and myself, differently. She introduces me to a world beyond the red-light windows – to activist groups fighting for sex workers' rights, to community centers offering language classes and legal aid to immigrants.
One sunny afternoon, Venessa invites me to accompany her to a political rally. It's a small gathering in a park, people holding signs and chanting slogans. I stand at the edge of the crowd, feeling out of place until Venessa takes my hand, drawing me in.
"Listen," she says, her eyes shining with excitement. "This is democracy in action."
I listen, and slowly, the foreign words begin to take shape, to carry meaning. They're talking about immigration reform, about workers' rights. About people like me.
As the rally disperses, Venessa turns to me. "What did you think?"
I struggle to find the words. "It's... I've never seen anything like this. In Thailand, such a gathering would be... dangerous."
Venessa nods, her expression serious. "Freedom of assembly, of speech – these are fundamental rights here. But they're rights we have to keep fighting for, to protect."
Her words stay with me, echoing in my mind as I stand behind my window that night. Each transaction, each interaction, is a statement.
I am here, I have rights, I deserve respect.
As spring melts into summer, I find myself more and more involved in Venessa's world. I sit in on interviews with local officials, help translate for other Thai women working in the district. I attend workshops on legal rights, on health and safety protocols.
And all the while, something else is growing – a warmth in my chest whenever Venessa is near, a flutter in my stomach when she smiles. It's a feeling I'm not ready to name, but it's there, undeniable as the sunrise.
One evening, as we walk along the Prinsengracht, Venessa turns to me, her face alight with excitement.
"Amsterdam Pride is coming up," she says. "I think you should participate."
I stop short, staring at her. "Me? But I'm not... I mean, I don't..."
Venessa shakes her head, taking my hands in hers. "Pride isn't just about sexuality, Warinya. It's about visibility, about standing up and being counted. Sex workers have always been part of the LGBTQ+ community's fight for rights and recognition."
Her words stir something in me, a longing I've kept buried for so long. To be seen, truly seen. To stand proud in the light instead of hiding in the shadows.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "I'll do it."
Later on, Venessa introduces me to a group of sex workers who are organizing their own contingent for the parade. We make signs, plan outfits, practice chants.
The night before the parade, I stand before the mirror in my small room. The woman looking back at me is not the same one who arrived in Amsterdam months ago. There's a fire in her eyes, a set to her jaw that speaks of newfound strength.
For the first time since I left Thailand, I allow myself to think of my parents. What would they think if they could see me now? Would they be proud of the woman I've become, or ashamed of the path I've taken?
I close my eyes, sending a silent message across the miles. I'm doing this for you, too, I think. For all the dreams you had for me, for all the dreams I'm only now learning to have for myself.
As I turn away from the mirror, my gaze falls on the notebook Venessa left behind after our last meeting. It's open to a page filled with her elegant handwriting. Unable to help myself, I lean in to read:
"In Warinya, I see the resilience of the human spirit, the power of one voice to spark change. She is not just a subject for my article; she has become a mirror, reflecting back the best of what journalism can be – a tool for empowerment, for connection, for transformation."
I trace the words with trembling fingers, my heart swelling with emotions I can't quite name. Tomorrow, I will march in the Pride parade. I will stand tall, carrying my story – our story – for all to see.
In Amsterdam, I came seeking safety, seeking a better life.
What I've found is so much more – a purpose, a voice, and perhaps, just perhaps, the beginnings of love.
I thought about my week of espionage in government building.