Amsterdam, 1998. On the way home after an evening of pinball, pool, and porn at my local gay watering hole, I stop at a snack bar called The Penguin for a late-night bite to eat. I order my favorite Dutch treat – a kaassouffle (deep fried cheese) – and while I wait, strike up a flirtatious conversation with the attractive young guy behind the counter. All of a sudden, he gives me a quizzical look.

“I know you,” he says.

“I don’t think so,” I say. Although I’d like to get to know you, I don’t say.

“Yeah. I recognize your voice.” He grins from ear to ear. “You read those dirty stories on the radio.”

My cheeks blush bright red, dooming any attempt to deny the truth.

“You listen to Alien?”

“Every Sunday,” he says with a wink. “Sometimes customers stick around so they can hear the end. You’ve…