Prague pandemonium – Final part

At about two in the morning we were starting to flag. We were tired and our enjoyment level was starting to wane. The free drinks could not have been alcoholic as I still felt sober, as did my Czech friend, whilst my best mate is a tee-totaller who lived off colas. Nevertheless, satisfied with our time there, we called it a night and caught a taxi back to our city pad.

The following day, the Friday, we decamped back to the house in the countryside, with no intention of sampling the delights of Prague’s clubs again. On the Saturday at noon we were flying back home to London via lovely Luton airport. As the day wore on, however, my best mate and I found ourselves contemplating another night of naughtiness instead of sitting around in front of a television. Our friend had his son for the weekend, starting late on the Friday afternoon. The four of us went out to a local restaurant, but my mate and I couldn’t resist the pull of Prague’s clubs. We could watch tv at home. Our friend understood and we were sad to leave him to his fatherly duties.

We caught a train in to the city and had only one destination in mind: where we were the previous night. The club was open from eight in the evening until six in the morning. Out of sheer silliness my mate and I agreed to pull an all-nighter, just for the hell of it. I didn’t think we could do it.

The Nigerian cashier at the front door recognised us but laughed at my request for a repeat customer discount. The giant at the security area recognised us too. I got chatting to him and found out that he was Slovakian.

“My friend, have you ever played rugby?” I asked.

“No, what is dis?” came his brutish reply.

“It’s a game where big strong men run with a ball.” I explained. He seemed disinterested.

“In France they will pay you three hundred thousand Euros a year to play rugby.” I continued. His eyes lit up.

“Check it out. You are perfect for it.” I enthused, being serious, genuine and alive to the prospect of having security on my side.

“Okay, thank you,” he retorted as we headed for the stairs that led to our entertainment for the night.

Once downstairs my friend and I walked past a large table occupied by a dozen strippers. We later commented on how we could feel their eyes following us. The club hadn’t been open long and we had our choice of table, so we found a cosy booth with just two seats. It was on the top of a terraced step with an unobstructed view and closer to the stage than the previous night’s table. This was going to be our spot for the night.

A tall stripper with tattoos that covered her chest was performing an elaborate act high on the pole. Within minutes a pair of hands slid over my face, covering my eyes. I gently took the feminine hands and turned to see that it was Daria, the brunette stripper from the previous night.

“You come back so soon?” she enquired, with a touch of sincerity as she smiled at me. She had such a sweet nature.

“Yes, we missed you, Daria” I said laughingly. Daria laughed too. The tall blonde from the previous night that my best friend liked came over to the table, ignored me and started chatting to him.

I think that they were both genuinely surprised to see us again. A little banter ensued and the exchange ended with Daria saying with an American twang, “Hey, if you want another private lap dance later, I’ll give you a special nice one, okay?” as her cheeks rolled into little tight balls, almost as tight as her backside.

What did a “special nice one” entail, I wondered. I fell for her ploy: hook, line and sinker. I wanted to know more.

The evening followed it’s predictable course, which is what we came for. The same dancing professionals did their stuff, as impressive as the previous night. The strippers on the night were of a higher calibre in terms of technique. It seemed that on Friday nights, when the stag parties come to town, that the better strippers are allowed to ply their trade. Only a few faces from the previous night were familiar.

One new face stood out as she did her act on the stage before us. She had curly blonde hair, was taller than average, had big breasts (at least c-cups) and had more flesh than her colleagues. I’m not saying she was fat, I’d say she was denser, which I liked. When she came around to the tables after her performance had ended, I couldn’t say “no” to her offer of a private lap dance. As we walked to the big red curtain, Daria and I made eye-contact and she gave me a disappointed look. I mouthed to her “later” but she wasn’t convinced.

“Monika” was the name of the girl who led me behind the curtain. It was mentioned when she was on stage. I was looking forward to feeling her tits in my hands. There was another lap dance happening in the booth furtherest from us. All I could see was the back part of a profile of a girl as she was doing her thing on some guy. Once I was seated it all felt very private. Monika started her dance, swaying suggestively, moving her hips and shoulders in time to the music. She was quite pretty, knew how to pout and the sparkle in her eyes told me that she was enjoying herself. I learned that I liked it when a stripper maintains eye contact with me.

I don’t know why, perhaps it was a rush of testosterone, or a little bit of alcohol, but I unbuttoned my shirt. Monica froze and “Wow!” fell out of her mouth. I had been going to the gym almost daily for most of the year, ridding myself of the rage that I felt towards my ex-girlfriend. Having a stripper pause and involuntarily flatter me, stroked my fragile ego.

It was when she straddled me that I got a good look at them. Under each nipple was a scar that fell straight down. Her boobs were fake. They didn’t feel too good either, like water-filled balloons that had leaked. Disappointment. Daria’s breasts felt better. I said nothing.

Monika wrapped her arms behind my head and rubbed her breasts in my face. She leaned back, looked me straight in the eye and said “Slap me, hard.”

“Where do you want me to slap you?” I asked, masking my surprise, curious as to what I literally had on my lap.

“Anywhere, everywhere. I like it.”

So I slapped her.

I raised my right hand and swiftly brought it down on her left buttock. She caught her breath, stiffened her spine, let out a satisfied gasp and ground her hips harder into my lap. I raised my left hand and slapped her right buttock, slightly harder. She gasped and rode me faster, all the while her hands behind my neck.

I repeated what I had just done, faster this time, even harder and her exertions increased. Was she getting off on this? I kept in mind that her breasts were augmented, so I only lightly slapped the sides of them. She liked it. I slapped anything and everything. Occasionally I would grip the flesh where my hand landed. She liked that too. I liked how her body felt, shame about the tits. I could feel her skin becoming warm and clammy as she rode me in mock cowgirl fashion.

This little vixen had a pleasure-pain thing going on. I was happy to be giving her pleasure too. This was a memorable lapdance. Having slapped and groped all the parts of her body that my hands could reach, with the exception of the groin area and her face, I was starting to run out of ideas. My right hand found the end of her long, braided ponytail and I gently pulled on it.

“Hey, no!” came her startled response, with her slipping out of character for a few moments. I let go of her hair; she didn’t like that then. Was it an extension? She looked over at her colleague, fiddled with her hair and smiled. The “dance” resumed; both of us were perspiring.

There’s a passion in me that comes out when sufficient foreplay has happened.

I tightly wrapped my arms around her and stood up. She let out a sound of surprise, but didn’t resist. I stood there with her legs wrapped around me, her arms around my neck and her head next to mine. She was breathing heavily.

I just wanted that feeling again. That feeling of a man lovingly holding a woman against him, cherishing his prize. Not necessarily dominating her, but more protecting her. Showing her his physical strength and at the same time his strength of character, his self control, by way of not hurting her.

“Okay, time is up” is all she said after a few seconds. I had lost all sense of time. Monika lowered herself off me and smiled at me, a genuine smile. I had enjoyed that, more for her kinkiness than anything else.

She got dressed while I buttoned my shirt. There was a new couple in the booth immediately next to us, the other couple had already left. I hadn’t noticed any of them coming and going. Did that happen when Monika had my face in her ample cleavage? Is that why she did that? So that people couldn’t see each other? If that was the case, then I appreciated the consideration and attention to detail.

“I go shower now,” she said to me as we parted the heavy red curtains. I said “Thank you” and Monika walked off towards a door next to the bar area. I returned to my best friend, who was waiting patiently at the best table in the house.

“You were gone a long time. What happened to you? ” he asked.

“How long was I gone for?” I asked, still oblivious of time.

“That was over half an hour,” he said. Had I got something of a freebie off a stripper, I wondered to myself.

Normal service then resumed. Really good strippers, the best we had seen in Prague, did their thing on the stage before us. The professional dancers in their lavish costumes answered their calling. A groom on a stag weekend got dragged on the stage and was publicly humiliated for his friend’s amusement. Table dances happened around us and soft-sell girls offering their charms occasionally came to our table.

The tall blonde from the previous night ended up taking my mate behind the curtain. I was happy to see another side of him, a side he probably wasn’t aware of either. His divorce was the worst I had seen in real life. He was due some fun. He deserved it. He needed it.

While he was gone I found my thoughts wondering over to the Baltic Babe side of my brain. I wondered where she was, what she was doing, who she was with. What was I going to tell her about this week?

My friend returned, smiling and happy with what his money had bought him. The evening pleasantly trundled along and Daria caught my eye a few times, upon which we always smiled. I know, I know. She did that with all the boys.

It was well after midnight and the club had quietened down. The drunken, rowdy stag parties had left and a calmer atmosphere prevailed. I was getting a little bored. Daria’s enticing offer of a “special nice one” could no longer be ignored.

She was sitting at a table with five other strippers, engrossed in conversation. One of them, one I had never spoken to, noticed me as I walked up to them and she caught Daria’s attention. How did she know? I made eye contact with Daria and, without breaking stride, without saying a word, I cocked my head towards the red curtain. Daria smiled knowingly, got up and followed me.

We were both smiling as we took up our positions in the empty private area. Despite her fake boobs, I was looking forward to this experience. She seemed willing to do a little bit extra, but that was just sales patter, right? The customary fast-paced music with a driving beat started playing. Pretty little Daria started her routine. To make things interesting for her, I unbuttoned my shirt. My chest and stomach muscles caused her to stop momentarily and also just say “Wow!” Was this a learned response for strippers or was it sincere? I couldn’t tell.

“How do dancers know when fifteen minutes is up?” I asked, which caused her to resume her hipswaying.

“The girls listen to the music as they work a client. It’s usually four or five songs that make fifteen minutes. If a girl doesn’t like the guy, then it’ll be four songs and she’ll stop because he won’t know how much time has passed. On very rare occasions a girl will do more than fifteen minutes. Monika really liked you.”

I was surprised that she knew how long Monika and I had been together. I remembered how earlier in the evening when I had dismissed a brunette stripper by saying that I preferred blondes, that minutes later a blonde stripper approached me. It was becoming apparent to me just how much the girls spoke to each other, a veritable intelligence network, sharing commercial information for financial gain. A sisterhood of profit.

“I made Monika sweat. She asked me to slap her.” I shared.

“Oh, you know about that. You made her sweat? You did well.” she answered enigmatically as she took her bra off and proudly displayed her perfect but fake breasts.

“Do you like them?” she asked.

“Yes, they are very nice.” I lied. I was impressed by her good English though.

“They cost me five thousand Euros. They’re still a little sensitive, so please be gentle,” she implored. I agreed.

“My real name is Eva.” she confided. I felt honoured by her opening up to me, even if she was grinding her crotch into mine.

“How many nights a week do you work here?” I asked, now curious about the secret private life of a stripper.

“Weekdays I work as an event organizer for a commercial company. The pay is bad, so I do this job twice a week. My family think that I am with my boyfriend.”

“That must be tricky. You must be tired tonight seeing as you worked last night.” I said as I licked an erect nipple.

“I am a little tired. I’m hoping that the boss lets me leave early tonight.” she said as she rubbed her breasts in my face.

“Have you travelled much?” I asked for no reason in particular.

“I have lived and worked in Paris and Miami. Two years in America.” That explained her fluency in English.

“Wow! How did you manage to do that?” I was genuinely interested to know.

“I went with men who told me that they loved me. I believed them.”

I said nothing, feeling a little sad that a sweet person such as she seemed to be had had her innocence stolen. Before the conversation became too heavy for her, Eva pushed herself off of me.

She got down on her haunches and pretended to lick up the insides of my thighs. Her little pink tongue was out and she kept eye contact. Neither of us spoke. Was this going to be the “special nice” bit?

When Eva got to my crotch she pretended to give me a blowjob. She put her hand on top of my erection in my jeans, the only time a stripper had touched me there. She rested her hand there as she pretended to suck away at my invisible cock. All the time she kept strong eye contact with me, which was a massive turn on, because it felt so personal.

After a minute of her doing this, I asked “Do you like doing that?”

“When I’m in love” was her reply, her head bobbing away without missing a beat.

Eva proceeded to give me a better fake blowjob than some blowjobs have been in real life. That wasn’t difficult given that I had only been with three women in my life. However, my ex-girlfriend could suck the chrome off a towbar.

This sweet, pretty, naked little stripper with big, fake breasts and no more than 25 years old then mimicked swallowing cum out of my cock as it came in her mouth. She made approving, satisfied sounds and threw her head back, kept eye contact, opened her mouth and pretended to show me my invisible semen before swallowing it. She rubbed around her mouth and chin with a hand that she then slid down her throat and rubbed over her breasts.

Eva then smiled, stood up and climbed on to the bench, thrusting her bald pussy into my face. It wouldn’t have taken much for me to have leaned forward slightly, stuck my tongue out and licked her swollen clit. I had the good sense and self control not to do that. She had one hand on the ceiling and reached down with the other, using two fingers to separate her pussy lips, exposing her red, round clit. She then pretended to ride my face and do so until she made herself come. She was quite a little actress.

I tried pushing my luck by saying, “Why don’t you sit down next to me and show me how you play with yourself?”

“No, I don’t do that for anyone, not even a boyfriend,” was her irritated response. I had gone too far.

“Okay, time is up,” she said with a smile. I had lost count of how many songs it had been, but I knew it was more than five.

As was the norm we got dressed silently and walked to the red curtain, the doorway to another reality. I thanked her and all she said was “I’m going to see if the boss will let me go home now,” and off she went. I never saw her again.

“Are you paying these girls extra or something?” is what my friend said when I got back to the table. I smiled and didn’t care how long I had been away. I had enjoyed myself.

My friend went with the tall, blonde stripper one last time. Yes, the same girl again. That was so typically him – stick with what works. It was that thinking that had kept him in his shit marriage for so long.

When he came back we looked around to see that we were amongst the last patrons in the joint. It was almost six in the morning and we were tired, but happy. We left an almost deserted club and reached the cool, fresh air of a Prague Saturday morning. A few hours later we were asleep on a plane heading to England, unsure of what awaited us there…that crazy little thing called “Life”.

Prague pandemonium – Part 5

On the Thursday night the three of us met a female friend of our host for dinner. After a few drinks, in a moment of reckless irresponsibility, we convinced her to come along to the club that the taxi driver had recommended. We ended up back at Wenceslas Square where we found the club that has the name of a James Bond villain. An enormous Nigerian guy was the cashier and he was bemused that a woman was coming in to the club. Once past him there was an airport-style security search which told me that the club was either well-run or that there was a rough clientèle. This security area was overseen by the biggest man I had ever seen: at least seven foot tall and bursting with muscles; nobody was going to mess with him.

As usual a stairwell lead to a downstairs area which was several times the size of any of the other clubs I had seen. There was a large bar area to the right that had a dozen tables and chairs and was well-lit with a few couples chatting and drinking. To the left was a cavernous expanse that was the stage occupying the centre of the floor surrounded by booths occupied by mostly men. There was a pole at the end of the stage, essentially in the middle of the room, that extended up to the heavens. It was three storeys high and there was a nearly naked woman performing near the top of it. Above us was another floor with more people sitting at tables. This place was of a scale unlike anything I had ever imagined possible. It was bigger than all the other clubs of the previous night put together. It was a cathedral of…what, I wasn’t quite sure yet.

The four of us found a table in a corner and took in our surroundings. The air was smoky and upbeat music accompanied the dancer on the pole. Small groups of men sat at the tables in the booths and would periodically be visited by women who were obviously part of the establishment, given their extravagant dress and confident demeanour. A short conversation would ensue, probably involving her offering some kind of service. At one of the tables a “table dance” was happening – an attractive young woman was writhing naked on a table in front of four guys. The woman on the pole had slid down and ended her routine to appreciative applause.

A waitress in jeans and t-shirt came up to us and politely asked what drinks we would like and courteously dealt with our coupons that we had received from the cashier as part of the entry fee. A troupe of six female dancers in flamenco costume took to the stage and delivered a slick, professional performance that didn’t involve getting their kit off. They were professional dancers plying their trade in less than salubrious surroundings.

It didn’t take me long to discern that this club was unlike any other we had visited. The atmosphere was more laid back, the focus was on fun, the girls weren’t coked-up whores, the waitresses were pleasant, heartfelt laughter was to be heard and people treated each other with respect. It was worlds apart from the last club of the previous night.

An attractive stripper took to the stage and wowed the audience with her performance. You could see that she had been professionally trained, given her poise and enjoyed what she was doing. Her smile was genuine because her eyes smiled too. Even our female friend was impressed by the spectacle. I was concerned that we were going to scar her for life by coaxing her in to such a place, but we all got lucky in that this club had a touch of class about it.

And so the evening went, a strip show followed by a dance act, one after the other, very little pause. Our female friend said that she had to go, her daughter’s babysitter was becoming expensive. We bade her farewell and her friend walked her to the door. Not long after his return did one of the club’s girls come up to our table.

“Good evening, gentlemen. How may I entertain you?” I was taken aback by her manners, it was a blast of fresh air compared to the previous night.

“What’s on offer?” one of my friends asked.

“There is a rate card on the table. Have a look and I’ll return later,” she said smilingly as she slid a plastic-coated menu across the table towards me before walking off. I was surprised at the low-pressure demeanour and appreciated it. I wondered if the girls were holding off from visiting our table because we had a woman present.

The rate card was in English, French, German and Spanish. It laid out the prices of drinks as well as the prices of the various “erotic menu” items. The price of a table dance could be shared between participants, but no touching was allowed. It was good value at a thousand Crowns (30 Pounds) when shared. A private lap dance was also a thousand Crowns and if you wanted to touch, it was one and half thousand Crowns (50 Pounds). A lap dance lasted 15 minutes, the card said. No other club provided this level of clear detail, which made life easier for everybody.

Four strippers took to the stage and each of us liked the look of a different one. After their act completed and the professional dancers were doing another of their costumed performances, two of the four strippers came over to our table. The one I liked wasn’t one of them, but the two present were quite attractive. One was a tall, slender blonde with small breasts and the other a pretty brunette with large breasts.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Did you enjoy our performance?” the blonde asked.

“Yes, very much.” my friends said in unison, their enthusiasm genuine and boyish. I kept quiet.

“Would you like a table dance or private lap dance?” asked the brunette stripper.

“Um, ah, err…” stammered my friends.

“I have an idea,” I said. “Is there any chance of a three-way lap dance with touch, three dancers, five minutes with each of us?” I thought there was no way that they would agree to this. What was I thinking? Where did that come from? My friends looked puzzled too.

The two strippers said something quickly to each other in Czech and it was when I saw my Czech-speaking friend smile did I know that the deal was on.

“Which other girl you want?” the blonde asked.

I described the one that I liked, a short blonde with large breasts, and the two of them immediately strode off without another word. My friends agreed that this was a good idea and offered value for money. The tightarses. I just wanted to feel three women for the price of one, in case the one I liked on stage didn’t live up to expectation.

Within a minute the three strippers we favoured had sped up to our table, smiling, having found my preferred stripper and said for us to follow them. As my friends and I sheepishly traipsed after the excited strippers, I was aware of heads and eyes around us turning and watching us, following us. How dare they be so hypocritical and judgemental! Or did they know something that we didn’t?

The strippers lead us to a curtained off section underneath the stairs and opposite the bar area. A man at a little table with a cash box took our money and the girls led us behind the heavy red curtain. There were three red cushioned benches in booths separated by small vertical dividers covered in the same material as the benches. My friends and I took a seat each, unable to see each other. After the previous night’s shenanigans, we were now somewhat familiar with proceedings and at ease.

Magically and mysteriously (sarcasm here) music started playing and I looked around to see if I could spot any cameras, but couldn’t. In front of me was my short blonde who, up close in better lighting, wasn’t as attractive as I thought. She had a stud through her top left lip. Why do people desecrate their bodies? She made little eye contact, never said a word and I just ran my hands over her body. She went about her routine with all the charm of a mechanical bull. I didn’t know which was more fake – her breasts or her enthusiasm. She was nice from far, but far from nice. I wasn’t enjoying myself.

The first song ended, the girls swapped booths and the tall, skinny blonde came my way, wearing just her knickers and a smile. The next song started, the blonde started dancing suggestively in front on me and within seconds was straddling me. Her little breasts were real, as was her enjoyment of what she was doing. There’s nothing like a happy stripper. Because of her more positive attitude, I enjoyed my minutes with her.

The second tune ended and the busty, pretty brunette came my way, wearing just a smile. I wasn’t expecting to enjoy my time with her, largely because she wasn’t blonde. But, she was very pretty with rosy round cheeks and a twinkle in her eye. The previous two girls both had thousand yard stares. She had a curvaceous but firm body, which I like and she kept strong eye contact, which made the experience feel more personal. However, her breasts were also fake. They felt like balloons filled with water and not pleasant to grasp, albeit somewhat strange. I had never felt fake boobs before until this night, but the novelty wore off very quickly.

All she said to me was, “My name is Daria. You are the guys who came in here with a woman?” Had she seen us enter? Were people talking about us for having done that? Had we broken some rule?

The final song ended and the ladies got off our laps. None of the stripper’s exertions led to my getting turned on. No hint of an erection at all. Sad but true. It was strange to be standing in the common passageway, watching strippers getting dressed, with my best friend standing beside me. If our parents could see us now.

The three of us went back to our table which was still unoccupied, which was surprising given how busy the place had become. The evening settled into a comfortable pattern of energetic strippers on-stage, followed by the slick dance troupe, occasional table dances nearby, interspersed with visits to our table by friendly strippers, whom we would deflect. One of the professional dancers was a stunning blonde whose poise and elegance reminded me of someone.

There I was, surrounded by all this debauchery and what was on my mind? Baltic Babe.

Prague pandemonium – Part 4

“How does it work? Where do we go?” I asked, having no intention of following through, just fact-finding.

“On the top floor there is many rooms. Good security, very private, nobody disturb us. You must use condom and pay in cash,” was her matter-of-fact reply.

Even if I was that way inclined, I didn’t have that kind of cash on me. The devil in me urged me to push my luck. “How much for just a blowjob?” I asked, struggling to hide a laugh.

“Same price for that,” she said disapprovingly, wincing as she spoke.

Wow! A whore with standards. Interesting.

I wondered if my friends were having the same conversation.

“We go now?” she half asked, half instructed.

I thought quickly and said, “No, not right now. I want to see some of the shows first. Maybe later.”

She didn’t like that, her face told me so and she instantly pushed off against me, stood up and walked off.

“Well, that was interesting,” I thought to myself. “So that’s what goes on here. Every one of these girls is trying to get a guy to take them upstairs. I wonder what goes on up there. I bet there are cameras everywhere.”

I looked to my left and my best friend had a different young woman talking to him. I was glad for him. He had probably never had this much attention from women in his life, even if they were whores. I looked to my right and my other friend was still talking to the same girl, except that he had ordered a bottle of champagne and they were sharing it. What the hell was he doing? Was he trying to make friends with her? Didn’t he understand the score here?

The master of ceremonies took to the stage and announced, in perfect English, that the “extra, extra, extra large show” was about to begin. What the hell was going to happen now? Bawdy music started playing and the fattest woman I have ever seen in my life rolled on to the stage. Oh my god. She started stripping, all the while smiling as raucous laughter came from the audience. Her rolls of fat had rolls of fat; it was not a pretty sight. She had so many rolls of fat that you had to look carefully to make out her breasts. Her thighs were so chunky and her tummy hung so low, that her vagina was hidden. Her skin was very rippled from all the cellulite and her legs had “very cross” veins. I had never seen anything like it in my life before and never wanted to again.

I looked away, unimpressed, to see what other people made of this. Most were transfixed by the extra, extra, extra large farce on the stage, but then I spotted a sight far more interesting. At a large table near us there was a table dance happening. I had heard of this but never seen it before. An exceptionally attractive blonde, just the type I like (aquiline features and dirty blonde hair), was stripping, gyrating and writhing on a table. Her client was a big fat balding guy, in his fifties, wearing a black shirt with pin stripes of various colours. He reminded me of Jabba the Hut. It was a scene straight out of The Sopranos, clichéd as it was. Beautiful young girl degrading herself for the amusement of disgusting slob. I felt sorry for her. To her credit though, she did have a perfect body, with a flawless skin and plump c-cup breasts.

The whale of a stripper thundered off the stage and was making her way around the room, teasing men, nay traumatising men, by pretending to want to sit on their laps or straddle them. She could quite easily have flattened any man in his chair as it gave way under them if she did. My best friend is only five foot five inches tall and scrawny; I was starting to fear for his safety. The crowd guffawed and roared with laughter at the terrified expressions on men’s faces as “Miss Extra Large” approached them. One guy got up and ran away just as she was about to rub her breasts in his face. Luckily the behemoth didn’t come anywhere near us and waddled back on to the stage. Her act concluded with her sliding scarves between her thighs and under her breasts only for them to disappear there, under her rolls of lard. Mercifully she departed to rapturous applause; I think the audience was happy to see her leave too.

As music filled the room, I saw that my best friend had another working girl chatting to him. I could tell that he was getting irritated, his nervously tapping foot told me so. My friend to my right was slowly getting drunk as was his companion. They had polished off the champagne and were now on to beers. She was struggling to remain upright and my mate was almost sliding off his seat. This prostitute was young. She was wearing braces on her teeth. Her negligée-like top’s straps had slid off her shoulders and she was sitting there with her pert little breasts totally exposed, but she knew and cared not as she swayed in her seat, her eyes glazing and her head nodding. Was she going to pass out or vomit?

“I think you need to get her out of here,” I suggested to my friend. He agreed, stood up, took one of her arms, leveraged her up and half carried her out to the foyer. No sooner had he left when a swarthy latino-looking guy slumped in to his seat next to me.

“My friend will be coming back soon,” I said as I leaned over to this stranger. He looked in his late twenties or early thirties. He seemed just under 6 foot tall and of medium build. I could take him if I needed to fight him for my friend’s seat.

“I just need a minute to rest,” he huffed back at me, obviously a little out of breath.

“What have you been doing?” I asked.

“I was upstairs with one of the girls” he replied with a naughty smile. I knew exactly what he meant.

“Was she any good?”

“She was fucking amazing. All these Czech whores are,” came his reply.

“How do you know?” I cheekily pushed my luck with this chatty John.

“I do international sales for my father’s agricultural business in Brazil. I travel a lot. Czech whores are the best in the world!” I wasn’t in a position to disagree, but wondered just how many prostitutes he had been with in his life and if he would ever tell his wife if he ever got married.

“Do you have a light” he asked.

“No, sorry. Don’t smoke,” I replied.

Without another word the Brazilian got up and walked off in search of a light. A few seconds later my friend returned to his seat, chuckling to himself. He had found a rest area for the working girls and propped her in there, leaving her to be cared for by her own kind. No sooner had he sat down when one of the waitresses in a little red cheerleader outfit came up to us.

“What you want to drink?”she asked gruffly.

“We don’t want drinks now, thank you,” I answered, gesturing at the empty champagne and beer bottles on the table, trying to make her believe that I had drunk some.

“You must buy drinks!” she barked.

“No!” I barked back, surprised at her rudeness. It was perhaps a tactic of hers that worked with other patrons, but it wasn’t going to work with me. She gave me a dirty look, ignored the empties on the table and strutted off.

My best friend leaned over to me, having just fended off his latest visitor and said “This isn’t fun.” In my heart I agreed with him, but my head was saying “This place is fucking crazy! Cool! What else is going to happen?!”

Just then another pretty prostitute came up to my friend to my right and a predictable conversation commenced in English and then swapped into Czech. Seconds later the same thing happened to me and then my best mate, each attracting another new “friend”. We all made pleasant small talk and the girls got to understand that we weren’t buying and left. Seconds later the same thing happened again. And again. I don’t now how long this went on for.

At one point I looked around the walls and saw that the small tables furtherest from us were empty. The tables closest to us were all occupied by couples of girls chatting and occasionally looking our way. All the prostitutes were in close proximity to us.

It was now two in the morning. We were probably the only patrons who had not been upstairs. The unsuccessful whores’ only hope of making some money that night lay with us. At one point they were three deep, literally queuing up to talk to us. At first the attention was flattering, but quickly became irritating then highly annoying.

To me it was like a pit full of sequinsed snakes that were slowly slithering towards their prey, now cornered and each snake waiting its turn to come forward to take a bite, to sink their feminine fangs into the fleshy wallet, injecting their poison of seductive words.

I found Irina, the very first girl I had spoken to, sitting before me. She was drunk, smoking a cigarette and in a belligerent mood.

“Why you come in here? Why you no go with any girl? You gay?!” she began.

I wasn’t impressed. She wasn’t pretty any more, especially not by waving a smelly cigarette around in front of my face.

“I’m sorry, Irina. My friends and I are not like the other men who come in here,” I proffered, hoping she would understand and regain a degree of civility. Naïve fool.

“You no belong here. You no men,” she spat and drunkenly got up.

Apparently hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Is there a saying for frustrated, rejected, desperate whores?

I’ve known my friends for 25 years and they’re rubbish poker players. Each of them has a “tell” and I was seeing it then, that moment when they’re uncomfortable. My best friend goes quiet and my other friend can’t stop making nervous laughs. It was time to go.

We extricated ourselves amidst cries of “No, don’t go” and dirty looks. Finding ourselves in the fresh air of Wenceslas Square we heaved sighs of relief. None of us enjoyed that experience. We were a little shaken up by it and found ourselves laughing as we recounted some of our conversations with the girls.

In the taxi back to our base I asked the taxi driver if he knew the name of the best club in town, wondering if he would mention where we had just been. He mentioned a name that was new to us and my friends and I looked at each other…and smiled.