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.