Prague pandemonium – Part 3

As Sasha and I walked past the man with the cash, I noticed that there was a bank of small tv screens hidden from view. It was of the cubicles and other areas of the club. I didn’t notice it, but there must have been a camera above us in the cubicle. He must have been watching us. Perv. His mixing desk was from where he controlled the music for the stage and the cubicles.

Sasha went back to the table where I had found her and I returned to my bemused friends.”How was it? What happened?” they wanted to know. All I said was “Why don’t you go find out for yourselves?” Over the course of the next hour they both did exactly that. My best friend went with Sasha too and came back smiling for the rest of the night. My other friend went with a weird-looking blonde called Simona who sent him back with ruffled hair and a stupid grin. He complained that she had scratched his chest with her nails. We all just laughed.

Satisfied with our time there and seeing that the dancers on stage were the same ones again, we decided to move on to another club. All three of us were curious about what else the night offered. We were having long-overdue fun. It was now dark outside and much cooler than in the club. Tourists were milling around with the strip club touts pestering groups of men. A white guy came up to us and he was a tout too. He was French and spoke excellent English.

“My friends, would you like to enjoy the classiest club in town? Follow me.” His patter was simple and effective, without any of us uttering a word we meekly followed him, smiling to ourselves and each other. Such was our openness of mind to sample what Prague had to offer that a total stranger could literally lead us astray so easily. How did he know we spoke English?

The tout led us across the square to a doorway with a neon sign above it that hinted at what was inside it. My friends were unsure about this club. I asked the tout if I could go in an see what it was like. It seemed like a fair compromise and he said “Sure, come with me” which I did while my friends stayed outside. I thought their caution misplaced. Chickens.

Frenchie led me through the doorway that also became a flight of stairs down to a noisy subterranean beat. The tout had a word with the obligatory security guard and cashier while I stuck my head inside. It was also a large room with a stage, but this club was jam-packed full of people sitting at circular tables surrounded by low beige 1970s -looking padded swivel chairs. All the tables seemed occupied by men dressed like me with heavily made-up, lavishly dressed ladies by their sides.

On the stage was a troupe of female dancers dressed in Carmen Miranda outfits doing a dance routine that seemed well-choreographed. They all knew where to move to and when, all in time with the samba music that was blasting everybody. The dancers simultaneously took their tops off, revealing their breasts, but it was all artistically done without a hint of depravity or seediness. It seemed in keeping with their performance. There was no reaction from the audience.

I stepped further in to the room to get a good view of what it offered. I wanted to see if there were any free seats for me and my friends. There weren’t any. In the gloom of the cigarette smoke, at the far end of the room, I could see a busy bar. I noticed that several of the women were looking at me. “Odd”, I thought. My friends and I were non-smokers and this place felt like a cancer-trap. Given that there were no free seats, it was a non-starter. The tout and his entourage agreed and I was allowed to escape to the fresh air up above at street level.

While I was sacrificing my health, my friends had noticed another “club” that they thought worthy of investigation. I told them of my findings and we headed across the square to this new venue that seemed to occupy an entire three-storey building just off the square. We went up to a booth that had a man behind a glass pane acting as the cashier. “How much for entry?” I asked, now expecting him to understand English, which he did. “Three hundred for entry. Drinks cost extra.” was his terse reply. We weren’t big drinkers and the lively, raucous sounds inside beckoned.

A dark corridor lead us to the frivolity and it spewed us out into a cavernous room, filled with tables, seats, people, music, smoke, voices and a sight I’ll never forget. On the stage, a few yards from us, was the biggest four-poster bed I had ever seen. On it was about twenty naked girls, cavorting energetically with dildos, vibrators and other assorted toys. It was a full-on lesbian orgy!

They were 69-ing, going down on each other, fisting, vibing, dildoing, fingering, you name it, it was happening!

My friends and I were rooted to the spot, our faces frozen. I was taller than my compatriots and stood behind them. I looked around the room and saw that it was more like a hall. In another era it must have been a theatre. In the centre was tables and chairs with people, while above us was another floor, a balcony with tables and seated couples looking down on the stage. Around the perimeter of our floor, all the way around against the walls on a purpose-built raised platform, were small tables with just two chairs. Each table had only one woman seated at it. Every single woman seated at these tables was looking at me and my friends. There was at least thirty of them and they were glaring at us.

I have always wondered what it felt like to be a innocent Christian thrown into a Roman coliseum, with hungry lions prowling around me. Now I knew.

“Uhm, guys, look around us,” I said to my mesmerised friends. They slowly and reluctantly looked away from the stage. After a few seconds my best friend said “Uh oh” in a bemused tone. My other friend let out a nervous laugh.

Becoming self-conscious I said, “Okay, I’ll go find out what the story is. Don’t leave me behind, you bastards.” The table nearest me had a pretty blonde seated at it and when we made eye contact she smiled politely.

“May I have a seat?” I asked as I went up to her. She kept her smile and nodded.

“Do you speak English?” I felt compelled to ask as I eased myself onto the seat, keeping an eye on my friends in front of me.

“Yes, a little bit. I am still learning,” she replied in an Eastern European accent that I knew wasn’t Czech, but couldn’t place.

She was in her mid-thirties, natural straight blonde hair down to her shoulders, lovely blue eyes and dressed in a black skirt, gold sequins low-slung top hinting at her breasts and a waist-length black jacket. What was she doing here, I wondered.

“Your English is good so far. Where are you from?” was my opening gambit.

“I am from Russia, near Moscow,” she answered proudly.

“My name is Phil. What’s yours?”

“I am Irina. Pleased to meet you. Where are you from?” she purred. I made no effort to shake hands. I was that uncomfortable with everything around me, the situation I was in, that my manners escaped me.

“So Irina, what goes on here?” I innocently asked, ignoring her question. Her smile vanished, she cocked her head to one side and her eyes dimmed. She was sizing me up and probably coming to the right conclusion. After a few seconds she spoke.

“There are shows all through the night. All sorts of shows on the stage. Not like that one now. I don’t like that.” She said the last bit with venom, her disgust apparent. She continued, “The waitresses bring you drinks. There are all sorts of ladies here that you can make friends with. What kind of ladies you like?”

I had never knowingly spoken to a prostitute in my life, but I knew that I was now. It became obvious to me in the blink of an eye that all the ladies sitting alone at the tables were prostitutes. What were my friends going to make of this den of iniquity?

“I like blondes. Blondes just like you Irina,” I answered truthfully. My words were hardly cold before I realized what a stupid thing I had just said. She wasn’t going to leave me alone now. Idiot!

Before she got a chance to sink her claws into me, I said “My friends need me,” which wasn’t too far from the truth, and I left the table without her saying another word. She must have thought me so rude.

“Guys, we’re in a whorehouse!” is what I blurted out to my friends over the din emanating from the stage as a few girls were faking (or perhaps even having) orgasms.

“Whaaat?!” and “Geeez…” was all they could say, their naivety revealed. I quickly explained my findings and, although this wasn’t our sort of place, we were unanimous in wanting to spend time observing the goings-on. A climax of collective fake climaxes on-stage resulted in muted applause from people around the tables in the centre of the hall. The naked girls on the stage swiftly departed amid their own giggles as stage hands dealt with the bed.

I suggested to my fellow adventurers that we investigate the balcony floor above, so we sped up the wrought-iron stairwell that led to it. There we found a bar area that had half a dozen pretty waitresses dressed in red cheerleader outfits with very short skirts collecting drinks for clients below. There were a dozen tables positioned against the railing with couples at each table, overlooking proceedings below. However, I now knew the women to be part of the establishment; working girls.

Seeing that there were no free seats and no standing room, we had no choice but to go back downstairs and try our luck there. We spotted an empty area at the back of the room in a corner with three seats and a very small table. It was the perfect spot for us to voyeuristically observe the spectacle before us.

I took a long hard look for a couple of minutes at the people sitting at the numerous tables in the centre of the room. A common sight was playing out at every table. Guys like ourselves found themselves flanked by young, attractive women, hanging off their man’s every word, laughing occasionally, flicking and playing with their hair, which was usually blonde. Periodically a waitress would go up to a guy, exchange a few words and then return with beers or a bottle of wine, occasionally champagne, usually shared with the “ladies” at the table. Glancing at a drinks menu card on our table I could see that the prices were on the exorbitant side for Prague, with a bottle of champers costing almost 50 Pounds. So this is where the club made its money, off the booze.

I turned to my right to discuss this with my friend, but found that he was engrossed in a conversation with a young woman who had pulled up a chair next to him. He was smiling and happily chatting away to her in Czech. Chuckling to myself, I turned to my left to point this out to my best friend only to find that he had an attractive blonde chatting to him.

A voice rasped in my direction, “Excuse me, sir. Where are you from?”, cutting through the air heavy from lame techno-music and second-hand cigarette smoke.

I looked up across the small table to see a very pretty brunette smiling at me. She was wearing a brown mini-skirt, brown three-quarter length jacket and a black sequins top that draped across a very impressive pair of breasts. She put her hands on the table in an attempt to have herself heard better, but I think she did so more than anything else to show me her cleavage. She was at least a double d-cup, possibly an e-cup.

I don’t know why I said or did what I did next. Perhaps it was the beers from the first club kicking in. Perhaps it was me wanting to have some fun. With my left foot I moved the table out of our way and said, “Why don’t you come sit on my lap and talk to me?”

The brunette smiled, stepped forward and half turned to perch herself on my lap. Before she could, I grabbed her hips, pulled her in towards me, slipped my hands down the back of her smooth thighs and made her straddle me. She was wearing black lace panties with a little red heart where her clit would be. Initially a little taken aback (almost as much as me) she relaxed and rested her hands on my shoulders. We were almost face to face. She had beautiful sparkly brown eyes that matched her outfit.

“I live in England,” is what I deigned telling her, not caring whether or not she believed me.

“What kind of fun you like?” She went straight for the jugular.

“What kind of fun do you offer?” I was curious to know, matching her directness.

“I don’t do anal” she said emphatically.

“How much do you charge” I said as casually as I could, hopefully hiding my incredulity at having this conversation a matter of seconds after clapping eyes on someone.

“Three thousand Crowns for everything you want in one hour,” came her reply as I ran my hands up and down her sides. She had a good body, firm and tight, no more than thirty years old. I was resisting the urge to fondle her breasts.

Prague pandemonium – Part 2

I went up to Sasha who was sitting thumbing her phone. She looked up at me and smiled. I hadn’t given it much thought and all I could blurt out was “Hi Sasha. Could I have a lap dance please?” Very classy and mature, I know. I assumed that she spoke English. I felt like a schoolboy looking up a pretty girl’s skirt and being caught in the act.

She leapt to her feet and motioned towards a doorway between us and the bar that I hadn’t spotted. I gestured for her to lead the way and once inside the doorway there was a male cashier sitting on a stool balancing a little cash box on a thigh. Next to him was a stool with what looked like a miniature mixing desk and a microphone resting on it. He was the booming voice that controlled the music and volume. He probably controlled the girls too.

“What you want? Basic lap dance or lap dance with touch?” Sasha asked matter-of-factly in a sweet girlish voice tinged with that sexy Czech accent. She was young, very young.

Of course I wanted to touch her. What man wouldn’t? “With touch” I answered, not exactly sure what that meant.

The man in charge said “One thousand five hundred Crowns.”

I gave him the money, he put it in his box and handed a round metal disk to Sasha. I had no idea what the hell was going on, what would happen next and what I had just handed 50 Pounds over for, but I was willing to go along with it.

Next to us were three cubicles with large, heavy red curtains screening any potential goings on from the outside world. They were all empty. Sasha led me to the one furtherest away. I think she could tell that I had never done this before. Maybe I was being paranoid.

Sasha pulled the curtains closed behind us. One side of the cubicle was a padded cushioned bench-like seat. On the opposite wall was a full length mirror. Everything was red and a weak yellow light shone down on the two of us from above. It was almost cosy except for the smell of sweat and cheap perfume that spoke of other’s antics.

“These are the rules,” she started telling me. “First, no touching between the legs. Second, no kissing. Do you understand?” she said in a mock bossy tone that masked her true feelings.

“Yes” was all I could stammer. Was anything else needed? My brain started racing, calculating what “the rules” didn’t cover that I might be able to experience. How far could I push my luck? What did I want her to do for me? What would she agree to do? Dare I ask her about a blowjob or would she be offended? Jesus, what am I doing here? What if anybody finds out? What if this is a trap of some kind?

Somehow music started playing and Sasha pointed to the seat. I knew to sit down and not talk – the show was about to begin. This sexy, stunning young woman closed her eyes and started moving slowly to the rhythm of the music. She started running her hands slowly and suggestively over her body, all the while gently swaying her hips. She was wearing platform stilettos and I could tell that she was still coming to terms with them.

Her act escalated in to her pouting and pretending to get turned on. She started unbuttoning her white blouse, letting it hang loose off her, exposing a very lacy red bra. She pushed her fine light-brown hair up with her hands, parted her lips, faking being in the throes of ecstasy with little moans and sighs. I was enjoying this visual spectacle, but it wasn’t turning me on. It was interesting to me that she was not making eye contact.

Sasha dropped her blouse to the ground and started rubbing her breasts through her bra. I was starting to feel self-conscious, even though she wasn’t looking at me. Was she perhaps actually enjoying herself? In a fit of fairness, I started unbuttoning my shirt. It was also rather warm in the cubicle. I unbuttoned my shirt and opened it so that she could see my chest and stomach, but Sasha didn’t notice; she was still keeping her eyes closed, provocatively running her hands over her upper body.

She unclasped her bra and slid it off, letting it join the white blouse on the floor. Her breasts were perfectly formed and tight, albeit a bit small for my liking. (Yes, I’m a breast man.) Her bright pink nipples were hard and erect, just asking to be kissed and sucked. She leaned forward, putting her hands over my head against the wall and wriggled her shoulders, her breasts dancing before my face. Now I was getting turned on.

She stood back up pushing off against the wall, but nearly lost her balance because the shoes were still new for her. Sasha quickly regained her composure and looked me in the eye, noticing my torso which lead to an involuntary smile. She wriggled out of her tight black skirt, revealing panties that matched the discarded bra. She spun around, leaned forward, put her hands against the mirror and pushed her backside towards my face. Sasha shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her butt cheeks taking turns to swell.

She had unblemished skin, nary a hint of ripples or cellulite, devoid of varicose veins. She was a fine specimen of a woman. I felt privileged to be seeing what I was. I couldn’t help but reach out and touch her backside with both hands. They felt supple and inviting. She let out a gasp of breath, but it didn’t sound disapproving. It was almost as if she had been waiting to be touched, wanting it, needing it.

Sasha straightened herself, turned around, put her hands on my shoulders and pushed me back in my seat. As quick as a flash she put a knee either side of my legs and straddled me, her breasts tantalisingly close to my face. I took my glasses off and put them on a small table to my right that was built in to the seating. I appreciated the thoughtful attention to detail.

She folded her arms around the back of my head and leaned forward, then began slowly dragging her breasts across my face from one cheek to the other. I couldn’t control myself and when the second nipple passed near my mouth I moved my face and sucked on it. For a second or two she let it happen, letting out another gasp of breath and making a satisfied “ugh” sound.

“No!” she said as she pulled back from me, her nipple popping out of my mouth. She kept straddling me, but brought one hand forward and waved a finger at me while making strong eye contact. I smiled in recognition of her admonishment. But I had broken one of the rules. Was she about to punish me in some way? Was the “dance” now going to end? Was some ogre in a security uniform going to pull the curtains open, drag me outside into a dark alley where a group of unshaven thugs dressed in black were waiting to beat me level with the filthy paving stones next to a dumpster? Neither of us said another word.

Sasha put her arm back behind my head and resumed sliding her breasts across my face, slowly moving in every direction possible. I resisted the urge to suck her tits and just enjoyed the feeling of her young, firm breasts. I put my hands on her hips and kept them there for a few seconds, letting her get used to my touch. Lightly sliding my hands up her sides seemed to cause her spine to stiffen. She put her face next to mine and started making moaning and groaning noises. I wasn’t fooled; I knew it was part of her act and entirely for my benefit, but it did feel good, hearing an attractive woman breathing and sighing in my ear.

I ran my hands over the top half of her body, all the parts I could reach, deliberately not going for her breasts but saving those for last. They felt good in my grasp; all the while she kept making noises in my ear, almost encouraging me to keep going, which I gladly did. She felt good. Her body was firm and tight. Then Sasha leaned back, keeping her hands behind my head and started moving her hips backwards and forwards. She was grinding her hips against mine. In effect, she was trying to ride my cock with her pussy while wearing knickers.

Suddenly she stood up, reversed against the mirror and slid her red lace panties off slowly, bending forward carefully, her breasts teasing me while she made eye contact. Sasha parted her lips with an expression of naughtiness as her panties fell down around her ankles. Were those undies going to get caught up in those ridiculous platform shoes? She leaned back against the mirror, putting her hands behind her bottom, her closely-shaven vagina on show for me.

She managed to step out of the trap around her feet and swivelled around, once again putting her hands up against the mirror and arching her back, pushing her backside out towards my face. It was an instinctual reaction on my part: I leaned forward, put a hand on each butt cheek and pulled each cheek outwards, exposing her bald pussy and little asshole. She didn’t recoil or flinch, but stayed in that position until I had had my fill of looking at this sight. When I let go of her cheeks, they slammed shut because they were so tight.

Sasha straightened her spine and turned around, once again pushing me back in to the seat. She was now totally naked and made for a magnificent sight. She stepped forward, straddled me again and started an abbreviated, faster version of what she had done the previous time that she had straddled me. The major difference this time was that she was stark naked.

We never said a word or made eye contact as she ground her pussy against the growing erection in my jeans. She was moving in time with the music. I think it was Enigma’s “Principles of Lust”. It was getting warm in the cubicle and not just for me. As I slid the palms of my hands down and around her body as she writhed away on my lap, her pert breasts on my face, I could feel that her body was warm and somewhat clammy. It made stroking her firm skin easier and even more pleasurable.

I put my hands on her waist and pushed my hands upwards towards her armpits, at which point I ran them down over her breasts, cupping them. They were definitely a b-cup and felt exquisite. Her little pink nipples now appeared somewhat darker. Blood was rushing to them and they felt hard. I gently tweaked each nipple with my thumb and index finger and felt her give more force to her next few thrusts down with her hips. I thought about sucking them again and decided against it.

I pulled my head back, looked to the side of this nubile stripper and caught sight of us in the mirror. It was a strange sight, seeing myself like this. In an almost out-of-body experience, I watched my hands move around her back, up towards her shoulders. In something I had seen in a porn movie, I grabbed her long light brown ponytail and gently pulled back on it. She made an approving “umm” sound and kept grinding away on me without skipping a beat. I let go and dragged my hands down her ribs, watching the skin furrow in front of my hands as I went down to her buttocks. I gripped her butt cheeks and pulled them apart, wondering if I could see her asshole in the mirror. I couldn’t because the angle was wrong and it was too dark.

For some strange reason I felt compelled to stand up. I wanted to feel her full weight in my arms, her naked, sweaty torso as closely as possible against mine. Not for a second did I give any thought to whether or not this was allowed or how she would react to such an aggressive and spontaneous manoeuvre. Aren’t all prostitutes and strippers supposed to keep control of the situation?

I leaned forward slightly, tightly wrapped my arms around her body and stood up. Sasha didn’t say a word or show any kind of emotion, she just stopped moving. She had wrapped her legs around my waist, her arms were around the back of my neck. I could feel her chest heaving from her breathing, her breasts moving against me. She was calmly resting her head against mine. I held her in this lover’s embrace for a few seconds, savouring the sensation of all that was her against me.

Having this beautiful woman in this position, her sole intent to please me, was having a multitude of effects on me. It was stroking my ego because I felt desirable, it was making me feel alive, making me feel manly…and making me horny. What was it doing for her, I wondered.

The music died and Sasha unwound herself off me, landing carefully on her silly shoes. “Time is up” is all she said as she gave me a sly look. I said “Thank you” to which she smiled. We got dressed without another word. I was in a mild state of shock. Never in my life had I imagined that one day I would do the things I had just done. I was surprised at myself, but not overly disgusted.

Prague pandemonium – Part 1

My best friend had just come through a nasty divorce and was somewhat confused about…well, everything frankly. I was much further down the road of recuperation than him, but it was Summer and fun should be had. I thought we could both do with some lifting of spirits. We had a high-school friend living in Prague who was forever inviting us over to visit him. At the beginning of the year he had found out that his wife had been cheating on him, he had separated from her and launched divorce proceedings. I thought it a good idea if my best mate and I visited our friend in Prague. The three of us could sit around, talk shit, catch up, have some laughs and maybe figure out the way forward together.

We flew out on the Saturday morning, meeting up with our friend before lunchtime at the airport. He came to fetch us with his son and we were all going to spend the weekend at his parent’s country house. They were away in South Africa where they spent most of their retirement years avoiding the Czech Winter. The house was a large multi-storeyed alpine-style house on a big piece of ground shielded from neighbouring properties by a mature, lush hedge. The sun was blazing overhead and the swimming pool looked very inviting.

For a few days we lazed around, had a barbecue with our host’s friends and relaxed. It takes about 3 days for the body to unwind sufficiently so that a holiday can be enjoyed. Once we had reached that point we decamped to central Prague and set up base in our friend’s city pad. His son went back to his mother as the school holiday was ending. The three divorced or divorcing guys sat around downing good, cheap Czech beers, bitching about women and relationships.

It was interesting to me to hear some of the things that my friends were saying as I had felt the same way when I was getting divorced six years earlier. They were embarking on a long road that was alien to them; all I could do was offer words of encouragement along the lines of “I got through it, you will too.” Nothing in our teenage years prepared us for being in this situation 25 years later.

My best friend and I spent a day sight-seeing together as he had never been to Prague before while I had in 2006. If you’re into architecture and history, then you have to visit Prague. If, like me, you have a thing for pretty blondes, then Prague is a must-see. On any street corner I could stand rooted to a spot and swivel around gawking at one stunning blonde after another for hours. It’s like an all-day procession of lookers coming off of a conveyor belt. I have never been to anywhere quite like it. There must be something in the beer that causes most little Czech girls to grow up to be blonde beauties. Don’t believe me? Go see for yourself.

With such an abundance of attractive women, it isn’t too surprising that Prague has something of a busy nightlife…the naughty, seedy nightlife. You know that Christmas carol about “good king Wenceslas”? Well, there is a square (which is more of a long boulevard) named after him that has the vast majority of Prague’s “gentleman’s clubs”. There are about a dozen strip clubs cited in and around this square. From dusk touts start appearing, pestering passing men with leaflets extolling the virtues of the shows and girls that their club, which is always the best club, offers.

I had been to a strip club once as part of my best friend’s stag do. That was years ago, 1998 to be exact, back when we were both getting married and bright-eyed and bushy-tailed about everything. We had both enjoyed that night, so I thought “Why the hell not do that again in Prague?” It might lift my friend’s spirits out from the dark well of despair that they were drowning in. Suggesting my idea one night resulted in a muted response, the two of them just looked at each other, blinking and smiling. It didn’t take much coaxing and cajoling from me to get them to agree to give this a go. We agreed to sample this side of life the following night.

It was getting dark as my friends and I made our way on to Wenceslas Square on a Wednesday night. Tired tourists were enjoying their evening meal at pavement cafes and restaurants as another hot day gave way to what I hoped was going to be an even hotter night…in the strip clubs.

The three of us must have looked like the typical guys that go into strip clubs because within a minute a tout came bounding up to us, brandishing freshly printed leaflets. I asked “How much is entry and the drinks?” He was a black African guy, from Nigeria I think and he spoke good English. “Boss, for three hundred Crowns you get entry and three free drinks. Is cheeeap.” he implored.

So for less than ten Pounds Sterling we could get entry and a few free drinks – that was cheap. Perhaps too cheap. I was suspicious. “So what do the girls do?” I asked. “Anything except sex. Price depends on what you want. Everything negotiable. The womens is hot!” was the touts sweaty reply. My friends seemed shocked, even the one who lived in Prague.

We repeated this conversation with a few more touts, all of whom were illegal immigrants from Africa, all offering the same prices and deal as the first tout. All that differed was how “hot” they described the women to be. My friends were satisfied that they now knew the score and were comfortable choosing a club to start with. The nearest one had a clean, modern frontage so we decided to take our chances in there. It seemed safe.

The very first tout we spoke to sidled up to us and walked with us despite our ignoring him. We walked up to the doorway where a burly security guard was standing next to someone acting as a cashier. All this person had was a table and chair, with a metal cash box on the table and a stack of voucher books next to it. We handed over our money and were presented with a voucher booklet each in exchange. These were for our drinks, which was a selection of either beer, sodas or coffees; three pictures for each type which could be individually torn out. The security guard took our right hands and stamped a small ink emblem on the top, then waved us inside. The cashier, guard and tout then engaged in a conversation, which probably involved the tout getting some kind of commission.

The doorway lead down a flight of stairs that opened out in to a reception area dominated by a bar counter. We ordered our drinks and turned to our right, which was the only direction to head towards given that to our left were the toilets. Bright light shone into our eyes and our ears were suddenly bombarded by loud music. Undeterred I walked into the light and my friends followed me.

Through the offensive light I could see the hint of a table and chairs to my right and I headed for it, my mates in tow, our ears being assaulted by a constant rhythmic “Boom. Boom. Boom”. Out of the glare of the head-on lights I could see our surroundings clearly. We were in a large room laid out in a horse-shoe shape that could hold no more than 40 people. Around the outside of the horse-shoe was a terrace of tables with chairs and booths with bench-like padded seating. All of the seating was in a dusty red material and the wooden tables were painted black. In the centre of the horse-shoe was a catwalk stage with a shiny stainless steel pole at the end closest to the entrance.

There was only one other person sitting in the customer’s seats and it seemed that he was slightly drunk given how he was slouching in his seat, staring blankly with droopy eyes at the only girl on the stage. She was a brunette with a slender body and only wearing a bikini bottom. Her breasts were small and saggy, her nipples large, brown and hard. She was pretty enough, her face caked in make-up though, but constantly smiling as she went about her routine of endlessly gyrating up and down against the pole.

With drinks in hand I led my friends to a booth to the right side of the stage. I wanted a good view of all the proceedings in this alien environment, not just of the girls on the stage. I wanted to take in as much of this new, unfamiliar world as I could; to take it all in; digest it, analyse it, understand it. Titillation was a bonus for me, while it was the main event for my clinically depressed friends. On the other side of the room, close to the bar, I could see four women sitting talking and occasionally looking at us. They were in their twenties and thirties and I got the impression that they worked there, given the garish nature of their appearance: sequins, leather, plastered-on make-up, loud jewellery, high heeled shoes and overly-quaffed hair.

The club had obviously just opened and we were the first customers in for the night, except for the solitary drunk who was in danger of falling asleep in his seat. The brunette ended her routine by lying next to the pole, faced the drunk, splayed her legs in the air and ripping her bikini bottom off…and held that position for a few seconds. The drunk’s face lit up as he smiled. The dancer regained her composure and expertly leapt to her feet despite wearing high heels. She collected her scattered items of clothing and retreated to the dark side of the stage to disappear behind some curtains. The drunk lamely applauded.

This was not what I was expecting, it was seemed somewhat silly and even bordered on pathetic. My friends were bemused not because of what they had just seen, but I think more from where they found themselves. They were both guys who, like myself, got serious too soon in their life and didn’t play around at all. They hadn’t bedded scores of girls and done crazy shit at parties in their teens and early twenties. We were all straight-laced and moralistic – boring basically. I was further out of a relationship than my friends and intent on having some fun. What fun exactly, I quite honestly had no idea, but was interested in finding out what was on offer.

The music ramped up, a voice said “Sasha!” and a stunning fair-haired girl appeared on stage. She had a very trim figure, a pretty face, was quite tall with hair in a pony-tail down almost to her waist and was wearing a gold trench-coat. I recognised her as being one of the four women that I had spotted at the back of the room. She couldn’t have been more than 25 years old, possibly still a teenager.

Her routine was something that I would describe as classic. If you’ve ever seen snippets of a striptease on television or in a movie then you will have seen what she did. Her body was very tight and she had perfectly rounded, dense b-cup breasts with cute, small pink nipples. Her breasts didn’t flap about as she moved, but rather merely gently wobbled. I liked the look of her. There was an innocent awkwardness about her that appealed to me. I think she had a problem with her high-heeled shoes and didn’t make as aggressive or flamboyant moves as her predecessor. Sasha ended her routine without the parting of the legs move and disappeared behind the curtain accompanied by rapturous applause from our table. Okay, it might just have been me.

As if it was timed, the brunette that had been doing her stuff on stage earlier suddenly appeared at our table. She immediately started speaking English to us. How did she know?! Once the fake pleasantries were over (amidst stupid boyish grins from us) she moved on to the topic of private dances.

“Would you like private dance?” she purred in a sexy Czech accent, looking each of us in the eye in turn.

All three of us swallowed our adam’s apples. The music seemed to die down just then so that all of Wenceslas Square outside could hear our conversation.

I spat out the obvious question, “How much?”

She smiled and said, “A thousand Crowns for dance with no touch and one thousand five hundred Crowns for dance with touch.”

I looked at my friends. They were like statues in their seats, frozen by her words and seemingly having been struck by lightning too. Their faces showed shock, surprise and consternation. I could tell that they didn’t have a fucking clue about what to do or say. Sensing that neither of them were interested in taking up her offer (I wasn’t either) I somehow found the necessary words.

“Thanks, we’ll think about it. Maybe later”.

She smiled gracefully and left our table. As I watched her leave I saw that a few more men had taken up seats around the room and that several more were at the bar getting their drinks, obviously newly arrived. The voice on the tannoy announced “Monica!” and the music ramped up to a crescendo again.

The new stripper took to the stage and, how shall I put it, she was slightly past her prime. She was at least in her late thirties, probably in her forties and possibly in her fifties. My friends and I let out a simultaneous, collective “Jesus”. She was also a brunette and a little bit short for her weight…she was chubby. Now I don’t mind a little “cushion for the pushin” but there are limits.

She went through her routine with an ease that indicated that she had done it a million times before. I found myself grimacing and bracing each time she teased that she was about to take an item of clothing off. My mates were letting out little chuckles of embarrassment now and again. By the time she was down to her knickers I was ready for the show to end. Her breasts were big and droopy. Her nipples were large and dark. I think she must have been a mother. I felt sorry for her.

Her routine ended with her also lying on her back, lifting her legs in the air, parting them impressively and then whipping her knickers off and holding that pose for a few seconds. The drunk, who was sitting closest, had her pussy in front of his face and the sight of it stirred him from his half-slumber. His face came to life with shock, his lips parted, his spine stiffened and his eyes widened. Monica sprang to her feet, gathered her gear and slipped behind the curtain. The drunk got up and walked out.

The music subsided and I looked around, spotting “Sasha” sitting alone at a table near the bar area. She looked like a secretary, having changed in to a black skirt and white blouse. I had never had a lap dance in my life, but she was ideal to be the first to show me what it involved. She was possibly the prettiest girl I had seen in Prague. Of course by now I might have been wearing beer goggles and infused with some Dutch courage. There was a rush of blood to my head (the upper one) and I stood up, noticed the look of surprise on my friend’s faces and said “I’m going for it.”

Date #1 – The first goodbye – Friday 20th July 2012

My date of the previous night with Baltic Babe filled my brain on the Friday morning. My handling of Tech Titan was starting to bother me. It was a mishandling. I was being unfair to her. I couldn’t do this double dating thing. It felt like I was being dishonest with both them. It was obvious to me that she didn’t do half as much for me as Baltic Babe did. I resolved to do the honourable thing, as difficult as I found it, to tell her goodbye. I was flying out to Prague on holiday the next day with my best friend, so I wanted a clean conscience that allowed me to enjoy my time away.

Tech Titan was working from home and we agreed a time in the afternoon for me to drop by. I had told her that there was something I wanted to discuss with her. Why I didn’t just tell her over the phone, well, once again, I don’t know.

At the agreed time I was there and for the first time she invited me inside. Her place was a riot of colours and textures. I doubted that she had ever seen an episode of “Changing Rooms”. The lounge was dominated by an old black leather sofa. The room was somewhat untidy, despite an obvious attempt at tidying up had been made for my benefit it seemed. Books and magazines had been hurriedly crammed into unsuitable shelves, post was collected in a big heap and shoved on top of a music collection. The place was small, but adequate for a single working woman. The kitchen was tiny and so was the bathroom. I didn’t get to see the bedrooms.

I had made her a little present by way of a cd of the songs that we liked from “Rock of Ages” that I had collected and burnt to the disk. This gesture broadened her nervous smile. I knew it was a guilt-offering. She offered me a drink and out of politeness I accepted. I didn’t want to launch straight in to it, but wanted us to be comfortable in each other’s company first. There was a edginess to her behaviour which was understandable given how I had framed the reason for my visiting.

Drinks close to hand we sat on the sofa, facing each other. I started to explain my conflicted feelings. I tried as best I could to soften the blow with words that I had mulled over in the morning. Telling her that liked her as a person seemed to soothe her, but it was the saying that I didn’t find her physically attractive upset her. I didn’t labour over my words and stopped as soon as I could, knowing that she got the gist of the message. I was dreading how she was going to react.

She sat there motionless, blinking occasionally. A little tear slid down from one eye and followed the crescent of her chubby cheek. Tech Titan started crying, slowly and gently.

I felt awful.

Her lips pursed, tears flowed from both her eyes and eventually her shoulders started to heave. Neither of us said a word or made a sound. She cried silently.

After a few seconds in which time seemed to slow down, in mid-sob, she blurted out “But I really like you!”

“I like you too. You’re a great person. I just won’t like you in the way that you deserve,” is the best I could come up with in that instant.

I had a lump in my throat. I can’t handle seeing a woman cry. I think it stems from when I used to see my mother crying after the latest fight with my father.

“This is the third time this year that this has happened to me,” she wailed.

“Every time I start to like a guy he dumps me,” she sobbed.

All that I could muster in response was “I’m sorry to hear that.” The front door seemed so far away at that moment. This was going worse than I had feared.

Tech Titan then started to cycle through the stages of shock. I knew that when she got to anger that shortly afterwards I could and should leave.

In a logical fashion driven by emotion she started to ask me why I felt the way I did and what can be done to change that. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that obesity is a turn-off for me – that would have crushed her. Instead I repeated what I had said earlier. She wasn’t convinced and I got the impression that she suspected that there was something that I wasn’t telling her.

She was right, of course. I hadn’t told her about Baltic Babe. It would have been hurtful, but she was persistent. So I thought about it for a second, considered again the ramifications, decided to be totally honest with her and said “There is someone I have met this week that I’m more taken with.”

Tech Titan’s tears instantly dried up and her eyebrows started duelling.

“Oh, is that so?!” she snorted.

To my surprise that piece of news snapped her out of her emotional thrashing about and focussed her. Anger had set in. I think it’s a better emotion than despair. Anger has some dignity to it.

“I thought you were hiding something from me,” she said bitterly with a touch of righteousness.

I said nothing, hoping that it was time to bring matters to a close and make my exit.

“I’m starting to think there’s something wrong with me!” she wailed and started crying again, sobbing and now rocking backwards and forwards in her seat. Despair was back, with a vengeance.

It took another half an hour of my telling her soothing things about herself, helping maintain a sense of self-worth, disagreeing with her statements that questioned her looks and personality, making vague promises of helping her sharpen up her bad dating site profile and generally doing a damage limitation exercise.

Once her wailing and gnashing had ceased and a calmer, more normal demeanour had set in, she asked, “Can we still keep in touch and be friends?”

“Of course!” was my reply.

I had never been friends with a woman I had dumped. I had never in my life dumped a woman, not even in school. I was always the one getting dumped. I was, however, curious about whether I could be friends with a woman that I had dated; it would be a new experience for me.

Now you know how my first goodbye went.

Date #2 – Traditional dinner date – Thursday 19th July 2012

I invited Baltic Babe out for a meal after work on the following Thursday, to which she agreed. This was a record of some kind, surely – three dates in 6 days? We met at Tottenham Court Road Tube station on a perfect Summer’s evening. I lead us to a Belgian bar for pre-dinner drinks. She had previously mentioned her liking white beers and this place came to mind. I unceremoniously but naturally grabbed her dainty little hand and lead her in to the packed bar. She seemed a little surprised by my audacity but couldn’t stop smiling. We shared a drink and made small talk, all of which helped her ease out of her work mode mentality. We strolled to a new Belgian restaurant and all we had was eyes for each other. I recall that the service was bad and the food ordinary, but neither of us cared. Over the course of the evening I had presented her with a little gift that I had made for her. It was a disc of music of a pop group that we had previously discussed. She seemed touched by the gesture.

Conversation between us was stimulating as usual and at the end of the meal, she asked me something which caused me to take her hands and say “The way I feel about you right now, I am happy to close down all my dating profiles and see where things lead with you.” Her hands gripped mine tighter upon hearing that. I meant every word I said. Perhaps it was premature of me, but it was how I felt.

I was in awe of her and struggling to hide it, all after only so few dates. She was the most intelligent, feminine, elegant, refined woman I had ever met. The only thing I could find wrong with her was her desire to have a child.

My mother’s code of gentlemanly conduct demanded that I escort my Baltic Babe to Liverpool Street train station, despite it being totally in the opposite direction of where I should have been heading. It was late and there was a chill in the air. I put my arm around her to keep her warm. She slipped an arm around my midriff and then put her other hand on my stomach. It wasn’t long before she slipped some fingers between the buttons of my shirt and started feeling my stomach muscles and scissoring my body hair. Like that we walked northwards along Charing Cross Road and through the streets of London.

At Tottenham Court Road Tube station I stood in front of her on the very long escalator. I decided to seize the moment. I took my glasses off, held them by my side and turned around to face her. We were now of equal height. She had a quizzical look on her face, suspecting that I was up to something. I said “I have another present for you.” She looked down to my hands around my sides. I reached up with my free hand, cupped the side of her face with a few of my fingers in her fine blonde hair and leaned forward to kiss her.

I was expecting that she would either pull back away from me, or just give me a quick peck on the lips or possibly even slap me for being so presumptuous or impetuous. I never expected the response I got. Our lips locked and hers were soft and moist. We kissed gently and then it happened. She proceeded to rape my mouth with her tongue. Her little tongue probed slowly and carefully in to my mouth. She clamped her hands around my skull. Her tongue penetrated ever deeper in to my face. Her eyes were closed but mine were now wide open, looking alarmed no doubt. We were oblivious to everything and everyone around us. Nobody could help me.

Her tongue started to swivel around in my mouth at an increasing speed. Was she intent on counting how many teeth I have? I had paid a South African dentist a good deal of money for the fillings I had and they were in serious danger of being dislodged. A variety of images were flashing through my mind. One was of a drill coming straight for my face. Another was of a washing machine on spin cycle as her tongue forcefully rolled around inside my head. Eventually she stopped and let me go. I stood there for a few seconds, stunned, dazed and confused. I could feel saliva sliding down my chin as she said demurely in her sexy accent “Hmm…I like this present.”

As first kisses go, this was memorable stuff. This little vixen had ambushed me and I liked it. There was definitely a naughty and sensual side to her. The more I got to know her, the more I liked her. This is what I wanted.

I looked her straight in the eye and said “You’re trouble.” Naturally she asked why, so I explained. “You’re trouble, because I can fall in love with you.” She smiled.

There’s a line from “When Harry Met Sally” that I carry with me in my heart. It occurs towards the end of the movie. Harry says to Sally, “When you realize that you have met the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, the rest of your life can’t start soon enough.”

We made our way to the Central Line platform to catch a train which would whisk us off to Liverpool Street station. She grabbed my hand and dragged me along the platform to a quiet area at the end of the platform. I was struck by her tenacity as she gripped my hand, as if she was a caveman making off with his prize. It seemed the natural and right thing to do, so I hugged her. My arms easily folded around her petite frame; I enveloped her. I could feel her delicate arms reaching up to my shoulder blades, the hands never destined to meet. Her head of fine blonde hair nestled snugly in to my chest. She was a good fit. All she said after running her hands over my torso was, “Hmm, you have muscles.”

Our train arrived and we stood on it holding hands whilst a free hand kept our balance. We didn’t speak and just looked at each other and smiled, contentedly both. The information board at Liverpool Street station showed that her train home was departing within a minute, so once again there was a disappointing brief goodbye, but this time it involved a quick kiss before she ran off. I stood and watched as she became smaller by the second, eventually vanishing in to a carriage. I felt good. I felt alive.

I didn’t know where this journey would end, but I know where it started.

Date #1 – Rock of Ages – Wed 18th July 2012

I had mixed feelings about seeing her again, but Tech Titan wanted to see “Rock of Ages”, the stage show in the West End of London. I had heard good reviews of it and was curious as it seemed to be my kind of music i.e. 80s rock. A night of entertainment with easy company was infinitely better than another night of sitting around listening to by best friend moaning about his deranged ex-wife.

Late on the Wednesday afternoon I went around to Tech Titan’s house and this time she gave me her house number, so I rang the bell and waited. She came down, we greeted with the customary peck on each other’s cheek and walked to the nearest Tube station. As usual she was in an upbeat mood and very chatty. I sat there smiling politely but in my head a battle was raging. As much as I liked the person, I wasn’t physically attracted to her, she was just too big. The thought of having sex with her did not appeal at all. What was I going to do?

We made our way to the theatre where the musical was being staged to collect the tickets before the show. I expected to pay for the tickets as I was accustomed to doing so. In my world the gentleman pays for everything when on a date with a woman. I wasn’t being chauvinistic, but chivalrous. My mother brought me up funny.

Tech Titan had outflanked me and had bought the tickets online and already paid for them. I wasn’t comfortable with this. It went against my gentlemanly code. I didn’t know how to react to this. As it was more than an hour before the doors opened I suggested that we go have a coffee and light dinner. I felt compelled to pay for everything from then on.

We found a Costa Coffee on the fringes of Covent Garden just as a rain-shower starting sprinkling us. We ordered coffees, sandwiches and cakes. Tech Titan ate with gusto and had more than me. I consider myself a big eater and am over 6 feet tall. She was almost as tall as me and wider. Any gland problem she might have had was being exacerbated by her ferocious appetite.

The show was excellent and we both enjoyed it, discovering that we had very similar taste in music. We caught the Tube back to her house where my car was parked. Conversation still flowed easily, but the whole time I was wondering what I would say or do if she invited me in to her place for “coffee”.

I don’t know why I did this, but I took her hand as we were walking back to her place. Her smile told me that she liked this. To this day I do not know why I did that. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

My stupidity didn’t stop there. Once we were outside her front door, I really excelled. I leaned forward and kissed her. She responded positively and we kissed for a minute or so. What the fuck?!

I wasn’t particularly horny. I wasn’t expecting her to invite me inside. It just seemed like the thing to do under the circumstances. It was a spectacular failing of self-control on my part.

Before she could ask me inside if she wanted to, I said “Good night” and walked off, leaving her standing at her front door with a beaming smile on her face.

What the hell happened there?

Date #2 – Second date and on the river – Sunday 15th July 2012 –

Baltic Babe and I had swapped a few more emails that Friday night and agreed to meet on Sunday at the Embankment in central London. I had planned the day ahead for us and she was happy to go along with whatever I had in mind. Baltic Babe was late, texting me that she had overslept after a late night. She joined me in the queue at the ticket office for Thames riverboats on the Embankment. She had seen a movie the previous night “Seeking a Friend for the End of the World” which she poo-pooed as being silly. Standing in the pre-noon sun, we made small talk. All the while I secretly marvelled at how attractive I found her. I felt compelled to wrap my arms around her and give her a bear hug, but didn’t.

We caught a slow riverboat down to the old Millennium Dome as the Summer sun bore down on us. We sat near the bow and to the left so that she had a view of what there was to see. We didn’t do much spectating because we were engrossed in conversation. Baltic Babe liked discussing quite weighty, serious topics like the state of the economy, international politics and conspiracy theories. I enjoy and know quite a bit about such matters and found it refreshing chatting to a woman about such matters, especially one who seemed genuinely interested.

She didn’t know about the newly-opened cableway across the Thames next to the O2 Centre, so we did that. I had brought a camera and took some photos of her in the cablecar. She was a little under-prepared in the wardrobe department as it was chilly near the river, so I ensconced her in my jacket. She seemed to appreciate the gesture. I had brought a camera and we took turns taking pictures of each other as we sat alone in a cablecar suspended over the Thames.

After the cableway I led her over to the Dome and took her to a South African restaurant. For a petite-framed woman, she had quite an appetite on her. She had a steak as big as mine, but preferred a beer while I had a cider that she found far too sweet. Her table manners were impeccable; I value that in a person.

All the time conversation flowed effortlessly, regularly punctuated by laughter. I loved the sound of her laugh. We found what each other had to say of great interest. She was highly intelligent and interested in the world that we lived in. We fed off each other intellectually. With every passing minute I could feel her being more right for me, such was the intensity and quality of our interactions.

Baltic Babe and I could have talked until the sun went down and came up again; that was the impression I got. It was time to bring the date to an end and we made our way to a DLR station. At a flight of steps I decided to try something cute. It was a silly thing my mother had once told me about. I turned to Baltic Babe and asked “Do you like chicken?”. She replied “Yes, of course” to which I responded with “Take a wing then” and pointed an elbow towards her. She laughed out loud at the silliness of this, smiled coyly and put her arm through mine. Like that we made our way down the stairs, but upon reaching the platform, she didn’t let go. I liked that. We must have looked like such a youngish couple in love, standing there like that.

Once on the driverless train, we sat side by side, now even more comfortable with each other given that a bit of physical contact had been made. She told me that she had developed a back problem, probably brought on by her sedentary working life and stress. Her physio had said that she was to refrain from sex for a few months. I didn’t know if she was just testing me for a reaction, warning me off from expecting easy sex with her, but I couldn’t help but only smile. I didn’t say anything. I did want to have sex with her, but much more than that, I wanted to make love to her. I was aware that I was becoming quite taken with her.

There were several opportunities over the course of the day to have kissed her. I badly wanted to kiss her. I wanted to scoop her up in my arms, look her straight in the eye and slowly lean in toward her lips with mine, hoping that she responded positively. However, the urge was overcome by that nagging thought at the back of my head that she wants a baby. Every time that thought entered my head my ardour would subside.

Her train home was from Liverpool Street train station, so I escorted her there. On an escalator down to the concourse, I stood in front of her. I don’t know why she did this, but she felt the left side of my body with her hand, gently rubbing up and down my ribs. It set off a variety of emotions in me. I wasn’t too sure what to make of this, especially as I wasn’t expecting it. I said nothing of it and walked her to her platform from which a train was about to depart. We said a hurried goodbye and she scampered off. I went home in a foggy daze. I really liked everything about her, except for the baby thing.

I wanted to know more about her as I found her fascinating. The worlds we grew up in were so very different and we both enjoyed hearing and telling each other about our childhood years. We seemed to be able to tell each other about things we were mutually interested in and tell it in a similar way. There was a definite meeting of minds between us. More importantly and to my great relief, she loved my sense of humour. I could make her cry with laughter, literally. She just got my twisted, dark, sarcastic, naughty and unconventional view on the world and scenes before us.

Baltic Babe was too rare to simply ignore and walk away from.