All posts by Grey Knight
Grey Knight

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.

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.”

Quiz on my face – Late June 2012

My best friend and I were living together. I had finally left my long-term girlfriend at the beginning of the month. The novelty of sitting around feeling sorry for yourself wears off quickly. He had been internet dating for a few months, but without much luck. Just one oddball that he found interesting and entertaining, but distinctly not relationship material.

His preferred dating site was offering a night out to members that was a cross between a comedy night, a speed dating event and a pub quiz. Ladies would be assigned to tables where they would remain for the evening. The men would move between the tables after a few questions in a pub quiz that involved topics such as love, romance and relationships. It was a manner of getting everybody at the table talking, a la speed dating, but on a group basis. After a couple of rounds when men had changed tables a few times, proceedings would be interrupted by a stand-up comedian. After that the quiz and table swapping would resume. Nice idea right? It’s all in the execution.

My friend and I would go together, but truth be told I wasn’t that interested, I was far more interested in changing my belly-button fluff. He needed a wingman and I felt compelled to oblige given that I was staying with him and had done so at short notice. This was a big step in his world, walking in to a room full of single women. I found the thought of it slightly daunting myself. It didn’t seem too far off from walking past the cosmetics counters in a department store, staffed by those overly made-up women who glare at you if you’re a man, as if you had just groped their backsides.

I arrived early and scouted around the venue, walking through the roads and sidestreets of London that surrounded it. True to form, my mate messaged me that he was going to be late. He’s always late. I reckon he’ll be late for his own funeral. So I had little choice but to enter the venue a few minutes before the stipulated time. It was in a pub that had turned it’s main floor in to a seating area with collections of tables and chairs. There were about a dozen people present, mostly women, scattered about. The hostess at the door took my name and gave a me a table number to start off at.

I stiffened my spine, took a deep breath and walked toward the bar. I got the distinct impression that eyes were following me. I ordered a cider and looked in to the mirror behind the counter that spanned the wall. I noticed two women at different tables looking in to the back of me. Drink in hand I turned to go find my seat at table 8. The table was against a window and two relatively attractive fair-haired ladies in their late twenties or early thirties were sitting there talking to each other.

I sat down and introduced myself to them. They reciprocated and easy conversation ensued. They were friends and one of them (the less attractive one) was actively looking for a new relationship. The more attractive one, ok the one I fancied more, wasn’t looking as she had just come out of a relationship. We chatted about anything obvious and it became apparent to me that the less attractive one was very chatty with me, very forthcoming in conversation and was leaning in towards me. The one I liked the look of was leaning back in her seat with her arms crossed.

When I told them that I was there just a wingman for my best friend and wasn’t on the prowl as I had also just come out of a relationship, the whole dynamic changed in seconds. The less attractive one sat back in her seat and didn’t say a word to me the rest of the night, while the one I fancied unfolded her arms and became very chatty.

The venue was filling up quickly and eventually another youngish lady joined our table. She was petite and so softly spoken that I couldn’t hear a word she said. Then two guys in their early thirties joined our table and the whole tone of the evening took a turn for the worse. These two were so noisy, boisterous and embarrassing that I could only but keep quiet for a few minutes. The less attractive gal starting chatting to them, encouraging them almost and the noise level became unpleasant. I suspect that they had some Dutch courage in them. It became impossible to hear anything that the softly spoken little pixie said, even though she was sitting at my shoulder. A few more men and women joined our table, but I couldn’t catch their names as the two jackasses were making so much noise.

Eventually the master of ceremonies took to the stage, welcomed everybody and explained the procedure for the evening. After 3 quiz questions, all the men were to move to another table in a clockwise fashion. Ladies “teams” would remain seated and claim the answers or points for their table, the men were just helping out. Each table had to have a name. One of the jackasses suggested “Quiz on my face” and for some reason, nobody suggested anything else and table 8 became known as that.

Inane questions about all things related to love then ensued. This resulted in pandemonium at all tables. Most of the men at all the tables went in to over-drive trying to show off and it became almost impossible to hear anything. Because it was so noisy, the only way to make yourself heard was to be as loud as possible – and everybody across the room was doing this. It was a horrible experience. Is this what happens when a room full of testosterone and oestrogen meet?

I sat back in my seat, slightly disgusted with proceedings and really not enjoying myself. The attractive gal to my right leaned forward and we started chatting as best we could, ignoring everyone else. She had an easy smile, twinkling eyes and pleasant demeanour. If I was on the prowl, I would go for her. Looking around the room I could see three more women that I liked the look of. Going to their tables was going to be interesting but hopefully we could hear each other.

The comedy act took to the stage and she was Romanian with a perfect grasp of the English language with only a slight hint of an accent. While she was doing her routine, I became aware of the fact that the attractive gal to my right was repeatedly knocking me with either her left leg or left arm. I thought nothing of it and dismissed it as just her being a fidget.

It was time to move to the next table and all the men stood up. It was only then that I noticed how short the two jackasses at my table were. I’m six foot one inch tall and these two twats barely came up to my shoulder. I wondered if there behaviour was driven by Short-Man’s Complex. I now thought of them as two little yapping dogs, mouthing off in an attempt to get attention – any attention. I bade the ladies at my table farewell and moved over to my new table.

There were five women in their late twenties or early thirties at this new table. The Twats and two other oddballs caught up to me. I deliberately moved as quickly as I could wanting to have a few moments alone at the new table. I introduced myself and shook hands with each of the ladies, repeating each of their names as we shook hands and made eye-contact. One of them I liked the look of, but before any clever conversation could commence The Twats started their loud boyish behaviour. I looked at the ladies and could see that they were a little taken aback, not knowing what to say.

Three of the ladies were work colleagues, while the other two were independent. “Quite brave of a woman to come to an event like this by herself” I thought to myself. Or really desperate…or really easy…or badly wanting a baby. One of them, Helen, who had come by herself, wasn’t the best looking gal at the table (only one was), but she had bags of confidence and was quite lively. For some reason I believed her the type to take one guy home on the night and have a good time in bed with him, then kick him out asap and never see him again. I could never be with a woman like that.
Three questions were fielded and raucous pandemonium reigned almost throughout. I didn’t get much chance to talk to any of the girls and the one I liked the look of was seated furtherest away from me. Then it was time to move to a new table. Once again I moved fast because at this new table there was a very pretty blonde that I wanted to talk to. Not because I was hoping anything would come of it, but largely because I find blondes irresistible. Sad but true. After the round of quick introductions I immediately started talking to my target. It turned out that she was Czech and her English was not good at all. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. What must it feel like to be in city like London, single and not being able to speak the language? Especially London where everything moves at lightning speed, people don’t have much time for each other and there are multitudes of accents and cultures to contend with.

The room quietened down as the master of ceremonies was speaking. Except for one of The Twats (the gobbiest one) and one of the oddballs who were engrossed in a heated debate over something. Everybody near to hand was staring at them, but they were oblivious to the world, intent on their little duel of egos. The Oddball was a lanky, geeky character with a bizarre name. When introducing himself he compounded his bad initial impression by spelling his name out, emphasizing that it has a “y” and not an “i” in the middle of it. Their high-spirited exchange wasn’t going to end soon and even the MC had stopped speaking and was also looking at them. I tapped the oddball, who was to my right, on the shoulder and told him that the MC was speaking. He stopped momentarily and then resumed his heated exchange with The Twat. Only they were speaking in the room and everyone present had now turned to look at them.

I was getting annoyed by these two, so I grabbed the Oddball by the shoulder and said “Mate, shut up! You guys are disrupting the show. Everybody is looking at you.” Undaunted, he shrugged my hand off his shoulder and turned to The Twat, intent on carrying on. The Twat meanwhile had heard what I said, looked around and realized what was happening and turned away from the Oddball. Thus their argument died and the MC recommenced with proceedings.

Many people kept their gaze on these two numpties for a few seconds afterwards. I reckon most were thinking what I was thinking, which was “And that’s why those two are single.” They used their personalities as a contraceptive. This evening was becoming a drag, perhaps not just for me.

My mate then arrived, late and last, as was his style. He always claims something about making a grand entrance. I always say a lot of negative things in response. He joined his table, acknowledged me with a smile and got in to the spirit of things. I wondered what he was going to make of all this.

Three more questions and much more noise. I didn’t bother making small-talk with any of the other ladies present at my table. I was now not in the mood. I looked over to my friend and saw that he was leaning forward, a stern face, battling to make himself heard at his table too and probably struggling to hear anybody, just like everybody else.

There was a pause in proceedings and another comedian took to the stage. His routine wasn’t that funny and I suspect I detected a collective sigh of relief when he left the stage. It was time to change tables again. I made a beeline for the next table because a little cutie that I had been eyeing all night had a seat open next to her. I was trying to make the best of the evening and seeing if I could strike up a conversation with her was an appealing idea. She was just over five foot, thus short, petite frame and had long, curly, light brown hair…and big fat juicy boobs.

I got my seat next to her and didn’t waste any time in getting chatting to her because I knew the window of opportunity was short. There was a lull in proceedings, so I got more time with her than I had anticipated, which was good. We chatted amiably about all sorts of things. She was Scottish, from the Highlands and had been in London for a few years. She was very friendly, bubbly and conversation flowed easily. She was asking questions and initiating topics of conversation which gave me the impression that she was enjoying my company. The conversation took a turn for the serious when she started asking about children. I answered quickly and honestly that I had decided against it. It was as if I had hit her through the face with a fresh, wet Scottish salmon. Her whole demeanour changed and she partially turned away from me, her face visibly unhappy. I was astounded by her sudden change in attitude. I tried to continue the conversation, but she wasn’t interested, only giving curt replies and little eye contact. The evening was getting worse with each change of table. Could it get any worse?

The usual three questions were fielded amidst the predictable torrent of verbal diarrhoea and cock-fighting between the guys. Surely women were not enjoying this spectacle? Perhaps they were inwardly laughing at these jackasses, especially The Twats? I tried making small talk again with the Scottish lass but it was obviously wasted breath on my part. I couldn’t make conversation with the other women at the table as they were mesmerised by the shenanigans of The Twats. A drinks break was called and the bar was flooded within seconds. Great, already bad behaviour was now going to be compounded with alcohol.

For the lack of anything else to do (I’m not a big drinker and the bar was crowded) I turned one more time to the Scottish lass and asked if she would like a drink. “No” was her curt reply. “Rude little bitch” I thought to myself.

I was starting to look forward to the next table change. In fact, I was starting to look forward to the evening ending. I looked over at my mate at another table and could see that now he was slouched back in his seat, his hands playing with his phone, not talking to anyone and looking around the room. It seemed he wasn’t enjoying himself either.

The table change was called, I bid the ladies at my table farewell and moved over to the next table which had been obscured behind a column. There were four Chinese ladies sitting there. Only one of them spoke English. I was spotting a trend here. I was dreading the next table change. What awaited me then? Medusa, Catwoman, Miss Haversham, Cruella Deville and Sharon Stone?

Even The Twats fell silent at this table. The Oddball starting texting people on his phone. I tried to get a look at the next table. This was where the last of the three cuties that I had spied out earlier in the evening was. The optimist in me said, “Things can only get better”. I made some small talk with the Chinese girl who spoke English, largely as a way of defusing the obvious tension and discomfort in the air at this table. What the hell were they doing here? What was their game or expectations? I was too polite to ask.

The last of the three questions were fielded and the answers were scribbled down by a lady at each table and then taken to the stage where the MC sat dealing with the administration of them. It was suddenly and unexpectedly announced that the evening was ending. People were surprised, as was I, but I was also slightly relieved. I was willing to forego meeting the last cutie. What was the point? I wasn’t looking for a relationship.

The scores were totalled and the winning table was…Quiz on My Face. Back where it all began, all those hours ago, two in fact. Back where there was time for a decent exchange of banter and even an involuntary touch or two. Back where someone not looking had met someone not looking. A wingman met a winglady.

The MC invited people to partake of the bar revisit someone you “found interesting” and almost immediately unnecessarily lour music started playing. I thought for a moment about going back to table eight, a.k.a. Quiz on My Face and chatting to the very first two gals I had met. I looked over at my mate, saw the pained expression on his face and knew instantly that he wanted to go. His tilting his head towards the door confirmed it. I bade my table’s ladies farewell and made my way over to the door where my mate and I met up. We agreed that we wanted to leave. As we turned for the exit I noticed the Scottish lass walking past. We made eye-contact, I said “Good night” with a smile. She just glared at me and walked out. I was stunned by her behaviour.

Outside my mate and I walked past a table where the four Chinese women were sitting smoking. They just looked at us as we walked past. I felt a little bit bad about not going to say a few words to the two girls at table eight, but I was happy to be leaving.

My friend and I sat on the train home discussing the night’s events. We were of a like mind – that it was an unpleasant experience. Neither of us were keen to repeat it.

Before I fell asleep I thought about the behaviour of the men that night. It bordered on disgusting. Women can not find that attractive, all that verbose, loutish behaviour, chest-thumping and cock-measuring. I was so very different to all those guys that I observed. How would I be received by women? What was my marketability on the dating scene? Who could I meet?

I was very curious. There was only one way to find out.

I decided to go internet dating.

And that is how it began…all so innocently and so well-intentioned…