Category Archives: Experiences

Singles night

I have a dentist appointment in London in the late afternoon and just before leaving home I got an email from a dating site. It’s advertising their monthly singles evening in a pub in central London. I buy an off-peak train ticket to save money, deciding to kill time after the dentist at their ‘event’.

You can not imagine how far out of my comfort zone it is to walk into a setting like that, all those single people, oestrogen and testosterone in the air, booze-fuelled antics, all sorts of crazy people, knowing full-well that I never hit it off with anybody on that dating site, all the women off it who I had taken on a date were hard London women with clear agendas involving money.

I decided to push my boundaries as part of overcoming my Avoidant Personality Disorder. Having time to kill I tell myself that it’s okay to just sit quietly in a corner and observe the shenanigans. Treat it as research for my blog. Yes, research, there that feels better. I won’t strike up a conversation with a single woman. I’ll just sit and analyse the rabbits during mating season. I’ll leave at 7pm.

I get there just after the doors open at 5pm and there are three other women already there sitting chatting. I buy a cider from the bar and find my ideal spot where I can see everyone arriving and do my voyeur thing. I start thumbing my phone.

A few minutes later a voice asks if the seat opposite is free. I look up and there’s a cute little 30-something girly with light-brown hair blinking at me. She starts talking to me. We get along fine. She starts playing with her hair. I notice that she has a tongue-stud (which means cock-sucker extraordinaire). Despite sounding thoroughly English, she’s German. She has even lived in South Africa for a while and loves Cape Town. She wants kids. I’m actually not that attracted to her, good banter, but that’s all.

A fat, ugly English guy in a grey suit arrives and he buys a bottle of wine and stands at our table. I find that odd. The whole place is empty and he stands on top of us. He makes no effort to talk to us nor makes eye contact. Within 15 minutes he finishes the bottle of wine and goes back to the bar. The German girl says to me, “Did you see that?” and we laugh. I don’t want to spend the entire evening talking to her; it’s not what I came here for. So I decide to test something. I start telling her about my blog.

She asks me more probing questions about my blog, so I tell her, not really sure how she’ll react, but I’ve learned that women don’t like the idea of possibly being an entry in somebody’s public diary. I sense her withdrawing and it doesn’t take long before she says that she has to go home. I ask her her age and she tells me 33. By now other people had arrived and she could have tried her luck elsewhere in the room, but she left. I’m disappointed in myself that I might have ruined her evening.

As she’s leaving two other women come up to her and ask, “Are you leaving?” She says she is and they take the two seats opposite me. The one woman is a mixed race brunette and the other is a stunning milky-white-skinned brunette. The latter gives me the look women make when they fancy a man. I’m surprised. This isn’t what I came here for; I just want peace and quiet.

I ignore them and they start talking to each other. As they get seated the English guy returns with a bucket of ice and Moet champagne. Nobody says a word to him and he just stands there, but by now the place is nearly full so I excuse his presence. I notice the stunning brunette occasionally looking at me, smiling and then looking away. She is easily the most attractive brunette I have ever seen. She has beautiful blue eyes.

For more than two years all I have been interested in dating is blondes. It’s the default filter on all the dating sites that I’ve used. Now Life is teasing me with a beautiful brunette.

I’m intrigued. My people-watching idea becomes an afterthought. Has Fate handed me an opportunity here? Only one way to find out. How do I do this? A plan comes to mind.

The mixed-race friend is telling the stunner about her new boyfriend’s latest text message, complaining that she can’t figure out the sub-text to it. I see my chance.

“Excuse me, but if you would like some help in translation, I can help. I speak Man,” I say.

“Do you understand Australian Man?” The friend asks.

“Almost. I’m South African,” I respond.

“Oh my God! My best friend is South African!” exclaims the stunner.

From that moment on the three of us engage in good banter. I make a concerted effort to deliberately address the bulk of my interaction to the friend. I want to build anticipation in the stunner, who I am interested in, as well as not come across like any other guy by showering the prettiest girl with all the attention. She’s probably used to attention from men. I’m playing subtle. The friend leaves to go buy drinks and order food.

The Englishman to my left is making his way though his champagne and tries to strike up conversation with any woman who passes by on the way to the bar. I don’t know what he’s saying to them, but they all stop, pull a funny face, either say nothing or utter something short, then continue on their way.

Conversation with the two ladies in front progresses at a pace and the stunning brunette hangs on my every word. We swap names and she struggles with mine. She looks a bit young though. No more than 33 I surmise. It doesn’t matter to me as it’s not likely to lead to anything. This is just fact-finding of some kind, I tell myself. As we talk the stunner starts asking me all sorts of personal questions such as why did my last relationship come to an end, etc. I feel like I’m being interviewed for a job. I give the friend a bemused look and she just smiles knowingly.

I then turn the tables and start asking questions of my own, but being more indirect. I start guessing their nationalities because I detect an accent in the stunner. I start with the friend, making the stunner wait for my attention. I guess the Caribbean influence correctly but am off the mark; she’s quite a mixture. The stunner I initially think is Czech, which she instantly rebuffs, but I’m convinced of it. So I suggest Polish, to which she has an offended response. (Polish women have a bad reputation as sluts amongst the Eastern European women). Only someone from that part of the world will know that and react as she does, so my initial region is correct, but I still think she looks Czech. Then it dawns on me and I say it, “Slovak!” and her face lights up. The friend smiles.

I’ve been on dates with two Slovakian girls before and I found them delightful. Their culture is considered as stuck in the 1930s by the other Eastern European cultures (I’ve worked with many people from that part of the world.) I find that appealing, because my mother brought me up to be a 1950s gentleman. Only someone equally old-fashioned would appreciate my manners.

After a bit more of a grilling by the stunner do I realise that her and I are actually a good match in many ways. She doesn’t want kids, loves travel, has an intellectual/cultural bent, is amazingly 43 years old (the same as me)…and we fancy each other, but I’m trying hard to not let it show. I find my thoughts wondering if there is relationship potential here, after all, happiness is not a hair colour. The now-drunk Englishman lurches forward and says something to the friend. She pulls a quizzical face and moves back away from him. We resume our conversation.

I get a tap on my shoulder and turn to see the Englishman shouting at me, “You, sir, are a user!”

“Sorry, what?” I retort, shocked at the insanity of this intrusion.

“You’ve only had one drink the whole time you’ve been here. Look what I’ve bought in the same time. Don’t you know how to socialise?” he bellows at me at the top of his voice.

People around us are shocked and things go quiet.

“I don’t have to be drunk to have a good time. Now leave us alone,” I say as calmly as I can.

No, he won’t quit. He keeps ranting about how little I have spent compared to him. I realize that every women he has tried speaking to has rebuffed him. His ego can’t take it. His sense of failure compels him to assert himself somewhere, somehow and he’s seemingly chosen me because I’m close at hand. He keeps going on as loudly as possible about my ‘bad form’ and I can see that he’s not going to stop any time soon.

“Mate, what are you trying to do here? Are you trying to provoke me into going outside with you?” I say. That makes no difference and he keeps sounding off like a little baby sitting alone in the middle of a room all by itself. He keeps going on and on. You can’t reason with a drunk; my father taught me that.

In front of me is the type of guy who would have been a bully at school. Bullies only respect someone standing up to them. I’ve never been afraid of a bully, so I lean over into his face, our noses almost touching and say as menacingly as I know how, “I used to be a bodyguard in South Africa. You can’t imagine the things I can do to your corpse.” (Which I mean. Gore does not shock me; I’m desensitized to it from all the things I’ve seen in my life.)

I turn away from him and try to resume my chat with the two sweet women before me. Their faces portray absolute horror at this arsehole’s behaviour. I notice that people around us, men and women, have now scattered, anticipating a fight. This guy is big, but I’m taller, stronger and I’ve never lost a fight in my life because I’m always willing to go that one step further than the other guy. However, that’s not what I came here for. I’m not going to let matters degenerate into childish fisticuffs. I’m getting too old and wise for that shit.

He starts saying all sorts stereotypical rubbish about South Africans, being a bigot, revealing to all and sundry just why he is single. He’s making a complete arse of himself and some people are starting to laugh at him which makes him think twice.

People resume talking and his audience is thus gone, so he simmers down and finishes his last glass of champers. I’m keeping half an eye out for a glass or bottle coming my way from my left. I try to carry on as if nothing has happened, but the two women in front of me are in shock, their faces ashen. What was a pleasant evening for some is now destroyed. The stunner gets up and runs away. The drunk slob moves off too.

The friend says to me, “Jesus, that was intense. She’s gone off to have a cigarette now.”

My pumping heart slows down upon hearing that the stunner is a smoker.

This is how life fucks with me.

I think my facial expression showed what I was thinking and feeling because the friend says, “oh, she’s not a heavy smoker, only two or three a day.”

Her words don’t change my sense of disappointment. I make small talk with the friend, trying to calm her down which I succeed in doing. The stunner returns, reeking of smoke and visibly shaking. I succeed in calming her down too. I leave them to finish their food in peace and go to the bar to get myself another drink. While I’m standing in the queue, I feel a hand getting slapped down on my shoulder. I turn and its the drunk, argumentative Englishman; I’m ready to duck a punch.

“Mate, I just want to say, no hard feelings, heh?” he says with a bad slur.

He’s more drunk than I realized and he stammers so badly that I can’t make out anything he’s saying to me, but the tone is conciliatory. I discern him saying, “I’ll see you here in twenty years time,” which makes no sense to me, but I just smile, agree and make appeasing, passive overtones. He shoves a twenty Pound note in my hand and drawls, “Here, you’re a good chap. Buy yourself a drink on me,” to which I say thank you. He’s such a fucking idiot I may as well take his money. I don’t think he has much idea of what he’s doing or saying, but eventually he staggers off.

I return to the table and the ladies look pleased to see me. I guess they were checking out my body while I was standing in the queue. Until now all they could see was my torso and they had no idea how tall I was. The stunner gives me a beautiful smile and I look around the room of at least 200 people, mostly women and realize that she is the most attractive woman here. How lucky am I ?

Not so lucky.

To be continued…

Do you have Avoidant Personality Disorder?

This Grey Knight has a weakness in his suit of armour. It’s difficult to spot and few assailants have ever got close enough to exploit it, but those that have managed to have done great damage to me. You see, just beneath the surface of this imposing frame, not far from what seems like a normal, well-adjusted person is a crinkle in my psyche, an imperfection in my emotional make-up.

Like anyone else, I guess, all my life I’ve thought that I’m normal and that most people are just like me, except for a few oddballs and nasty people. All along I’ve lived with what I thought was just one of the negatives of human existence.

It was when I was watching a YouTube video with The Cockaholic that I learned of ‘Cluster B personalities’. My enquiring mind demanded that I know more. There are four types of these: Narcissist, Histrionic, Borderline and Anti-Social. I saw that in my dating experiences I had encountered several Narcissists and a couple of Histrionics. A friend in the know has suggested that Krazy Girl was of the Borderline Personality Disorder variety. All good to know.

What my reading on the internet then led to is ‘Cluster C personalities’ of which there are the ‘Dependent’, the ‘Obsessive Compulsive’ and the ‘Avoidant’. I am the latter.

My blood ran cold as I read a description of myself that I could never extol or describe any better.

I’ll quote Wikipedia:

Avoidant personality disorder (AvPD), also known as anxious personality disorder, is a Cluster C personality disorder recognized in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders handbook as afflicting persons who display a pervasive pattern of social inhibition, feelings of inadequacy and inferiority, extreme sensitivity to negative evaluation, and avoidance of social interaction despite a strong desire to be close to others. Individuals with the disorder tend to describe themselves as uneasy, anxious, lonely, unwanted and isolated from others.

People with avoidant personality disorder often consider themselves to be socially inept or personally unappealing and avoid social interaction for fear of being ridiculed, humiliated, rejected, or disliked. As the name suggests, the main coping mechanism of those with avoidant personality disorder is avoidance of feared stimuli. Avoidant personality disorder is usually first noticed in early adulthood, with both childhood emotional neglect and peer group rejection being associated with an increased risk for its development.

People with avoidant personality disorder are preoccupied with their own shortcomings and form relationships with others only if they believe they will not be rejected. Childhood emotional neglect—in particular, the rejection of a child by one or both parents—has been associated with an increased risk for the development of avoidant personality disorder, as well as rejection by peers.

It goes on to list a variety of issues that afflict most people at some time, but with AvPD most of these feelings are permanent.

The ones that I’ve never felt are:
– Avoids physical contact because it has been associated with an unpleasant or painful stimulus
– Severe low self-esteem
– Emotional distancing related to intimacy
– Feeling inferior to others
– In some extreme cases, agoraphobia
– Self-loathing

What I feel on a daily basis is the following:
– Self-imposed social isolation
– Hypersensitivity to rejection/criticism
– Extreme shyness or anxiety in social situations, though the person feels a strong desire for close relationships
– Feelings of inadequacy
– Mistrust of others
– Highly self-conscious
– Self-critical about their problems relating to others
– Problems in occupational functioning
– Lonely self-perception, although others may find the relationship with them meaningful
– Uses fantasy as a form of escapism to interrupt painful thoughts

The World Health Organization’s ICD-10 lists avoidant personality disorder as anxious (avoidant) personality disorder. It is characterized by at least four of the following:
1. persistent and pervasive feelings of tension and apprehension;
2. belief that one is socially inept, personally unappealing, or inferior to others;
3. excessive preoccupation with being criticized or rejected in social situations;
4. unwillingness to become involved with people unless certain of being liked;
5. restrictions in lifestyle because of need to have physical security;
6. avoidance of social or occupational activities that involve significant interpersonal contact because of fear of criticism, disapproval, or rejection.

Every single one of the above applies to me. I’ll share how this all manifests itself in my existence.

I dread social settings. Being part of a group activity makes me go cold inside and my stomach tighten. I am at my best on a one-on-one basis. Even a third person being present makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. Anything more than three people and I’m instantly in defensive mode, even if I’ve known the people present for many years.

When I’m walking around my town’s high street all the time I feel that most people are looking at me. I try not to make eye contact, so when I do I always easily see several people looking at me. This just reinforces my beliefs and feelings that I’m not like other people. I don’t see other people staring at each other, but there are always people staring at me. As a teenager I put it down to my gangly awkwardness, as an adult I ascribe it to my height, build and dark hair. I know that many women like tall and dark men, but the attention makes me feel uncomfortable.

I don’t like being the centre of attention. At school, when it was time to present anything in front of a class, I’d make sure I wasn’t there. I’m never the life-and-soul of a party (not that I’ve been to many) but am more likely to found in the kitchen or doing something useful for the group. I prefer to be in the background, orchestrating events and suggesting ideas.

I’ve developed coping mechanisms to deal with my feelings towards other people. I always walk fast because I feel that makes me less visible so people can’t stare. I never maintain eye contact with anyone, am sometimes thumbing away at my phone, thus looking downward, but my favourite escape that calms me is to be listening to music via an earpiece. That makes it all feel okay because it’s like I’m moving through my own private movie scene being accompanied by a soundtrack of my choosing. Sometimes at work I pretend to be listening to music, but it’s just a ruse to get people to leave me alone, freeing me from idle, puerile office banter.

My working life has been the biggest challenge, pain and disappointment of my life. I’ve always found myself in an office environment, a most unnatural construct for most people, but for me it’s a particular hell because I feel so visible and thus vulnerable. My coping mechanism has been to put my head down and work like a Trojan. This has had the unintended consequence of me being perceived as a good worker by my bosses. I’ve been rewarded with preferential treatment from them which has perpetuated the negativity of the setting because people now look at me with jealousy or disapproval. Yes, I’ve been relatively successful in my jobs, but I’ve always been the outsider, the lone wolf. I am now so accustomed to it that I prefer things that way, not because I like it, but because I know how to deal with it.

Better the devil you know is not my preferred way of doing things, but whenever I can I orchestrate things so that I work alone, preferably physically so. I commandeer a free space somewhere, put up a physical barrier of some kind and then I can’t see anyone’s judgemental eyes. I find it much easier to do my own thing than ask permission or seek forgiveness. I am not afraid to be unpopular in a workplace, because that just makes it easier to move on when the opportunity presents itself. Permanent employment has felt like a prison sentence to me, working on a freelance basis has proved more emotionally acceptable because I know exactly when it will be over.

This lack of fearing unpopularity has been a mixed blessing. Because I feel it almost inevitable in certain settings with people I do not know, it has lead to me being ruthless at times. I’ll even confess that it has made me a horrible person, a heartless bastard especially when in an all-male environment. I have had no compunction in resorting to bloody violence to get my way. Men really are like dogs in that we adhere to a pack mentality…and there can only be one top dog: me. I don’t fear violence, in fact, I like it because I know I will always win. There’s a certain look men give off when they realize that they can’t defeat me because I’m always willing to go one depraved step further than them. I’ve never started a fight, I’ve only ever finished them. Sadly, the few times my ex-wife and ex-girlfriend saw my vicious streak when I was provoked led to them losing some respect for me and having it replaced by a little fear. On a positive note, I feel that my days of brutality are well behind me; I’m now too old for that shit.

As I have got older these feelings of social inadequacy have grown and become more prominent in my daily existence. As I did away with my young man’s White Knight Syndrome, this avoidant mindset and accompanying behaviour pattern has grown. I can see that it’s getting worse as I experience more negative things at the hands of people.

Why am I like this? All my life I have felt like the outsider in any group setting. It all started when I was little.

My parents were badly married. My father was a raging alcoholic and often out of work. My mother was always at work during the day. They fought every dinner-time and all weekend. I was an only child, so when the fighting started I used to run away and hide in my own little world. My mother was overly protective towards me; overbearing and controlling in fact. She had me when she was almost 41 and I was her way of dealing with her shit life. I was the one thing she cherished…and could control.

When both my parents had jobs when I was under six years old, a maid would come take care of me and the apartment. She was under strict instructions to never let me outdoors. For years I would sit at the window watching the other kids play. A couple of times I sneaked out to play with them, but the maid caught me and took me back inside, fearful of losing her job. I think that’s how I developed my observant, analytical, voyeuristic streak.

Then one day my mother said to me that one of the kids had invited me to their birthday party. I was so excited. On the day of the party, I woke up early, relishing the chance to finally get to play with the other kids. My mother had bought a navy-blue trousers with harlequin waistcoat, white shirt and sky-blue bow-tie. (Yep, my mother dressed me funny.) By lunchtime I was tired and asked my mother if it was okay for me to nap for a little while and that she must wake me for the party.

She didn’t wake me and I slept the entire afternoon. I missed the party and I was upset. I convinced myself that now, for sure, the other kids would never want to play with me ever again. I resumed watching them from a distance, in my prison, overseen by the maid.

The city where we lived was a compromise choice for my parents because they had married across the cultural divide. In Apartheid-era South Africa, although both were white, my father was an Afrikaner and my mother of English descent, this was a socially inappropriate union. Their families shunned them and they moved to a city where nobody knew them, thus neither had friends or family in this neutral city. I have no recollection of us ever having visitors in the first 10 years of my life. Sadly I also have no recollection of ever being hugged or shown any kind of affection by either of my parents; they were too busy with their private war.

I can count on my one hand (and have fingers left over) the number of times I interacted with other children before I had to go to school at the age of six. On the very first day of school, my mother said to me, “I want you to be the cleverest kid in the class. I want you to get the highest marks for every subject.” I said, “Yes, mom” and I did exactly that for the next eight years.

All the other kids in my class were different to me. They also all knew each other. They went to pre-school crèche together, which my mother didn’t want me to. From day one I felt like the outsider, but it was in effect, just a continuation of what was the norm for me. I couldn’t figure out how to fit in, but I figured out how to excel and I became the class “brain”. Not the typical geek, because I was bigger than the other kids, so nobody picked on me. I just felt that collectively I was being shunned. Inadvertently I had made things worse for myself by becoming the “brain”, but I only figured that out in later years.

Because of my intellect, physique and forceful nature (courtesy of being a badly-socialised only child) I was the captain of every team in my school career. I was unknowingly a so-called “alpha male”, but largely because all the other kids were intimidated by me. It was easier to lead and browbeat kids into line, than to learn how to compromise and fit in.

My mother then decided that I should go to a different high-school than what my few primary school chums went to. So I arrived at a new school, at the age of thirteen, knowing nobody. Again they all knew each other, having been to the same primary school for the previous eight years. Again I was the outsider trying to break in. Teenagers can be nasty and very cliquey. My first year of high school was awful; nobody wanted to be friends with me. I remember a couple of break times taking myself off to the toilets and sitting in a cubicle, sometimes crying. Eventually a couple of boys warmed to me.

Then tragedy struck. My father dropped dead from a heart attack a week before my fourteenth birthday. That was 1st September 1985; it was a Sunday. On the Monday morning my mother went to the bank to tell them that my father had died. The bank manager instantly froze all the bank accounts and my mother had no cash. There were no friends or family to borrow money off of. There was no food in the house, as bad luck would have it. By the Wednesday night my dinner was a cereal with hot water. That’s how the next 10 years of hardship with my mother began.

We were literally left penniless. I stayed off school for a few weeks and when I returned all the kids ignored me. Nobody wanted to speak to me, they were all so uncomfortable around me, not knowing what to say. I became a social outcast and, as usual, it wasn’t of my making. The last few months of my first year of high school passed in splendid isolation.

My mother decided to move to another city, where her family was, who had promised to help out. So at the age of fourteen I went off to another high-school. And guess what? Yep, as usual, I was the outsider looking in. However, money was a massive problem for me and my mother. Her nephew (my cousin) owned a scrap metal yard and he gave my mother a full-time job as his book-keeper. I worked for him on weekends (occasional Sundays too) and all my school holidays. I skipped being a teenager and got thrown into the adult world. This made it harder to relate to kids my own age, teachers even; they were all so immature.

I had very few friends in high-school. My best friend was the class “brain”, but he was puny, so us two outcasts hung out together. I had very little to do with girls because I didn’t have time and I didn’t have money. I couldn’t take a girl back to my place, it was a dump and my mother was always there. I felt like no girl would be interested in me because I was so poor.

My stand-out moment in high school was the prom. I didn’t have the money to buy an outfit and one day in class several of the kids, all of whose parents were wealthy, belittled me publicly for claiming to not have the money for everything that was involved. This public grilling went on for ages. They just couldn’t understand that my mother and I didn’t have money. I didn’t go to the prom; the only kid not to go.

I would say that my teenage years were characterized by a feeling of never fitting in anywhere. I sometimes think I haven’t really outgrown that. Whenever I tried to join a group I was rejected, so I learned to reject groups. As a teenager I aspired to normality, decency and respectability. Respect is something important to me. I didn’t get much of it growing up, so I value it. It’s why I can’t love a woman that I don’t respect.

Because we didn’t have money, I couldn’t go to university. The law of the land said that I therefore had to do national service. I am a mixture of Afrikaner and English, so I was fluent in both languages and mindsets. When the other conscripts found out that I was not “pure”, I was shunned. I only had one friend during national service. I was a target for everyone else after that because nobody would side with me. I learned to really fight, physically and otherwise, then.

After that was over I had to get a job and in 1992, the world was in recession. My best friend’s father got me a job in the local municipality. At the time, Apartheid was collapsing and as a white man I was, once again, a target. Local government implemented affirmative action policies and I was told that no matter how hard I studied or what I did, I would not be promoted. My then girlfriend (now ex-wife) was facing the same limited options in her working life, although she was a qualified accountant. We decided to leave South Africa, the only environment we’ve ever known.

We arrived in England at the age of 25, never having been abroad and knowing nobody. Life was tough in the beginning. We both endured a lot of discrimination because we were immigrants. Once again, I was an outsider. We went through a lot together and it pains me that today we are not on speaking terms. I have reached out to her a couple of times asking if we could be friends, but she rejected the idea.

Of all the aspects of this Avoidant Personality Disorder I’ve been blind to, that what has sabotaged me the most, I would say emphatically is the mistrust of others. I can see that I have found comfort of being with woman such as my ex-wife, Sweet Thing, Busty Blonde and Busty Czech because I felt that I could trust them. (All of them are Cluster C – Dependent). As soon as another woman or date gave me any reason to not trust them then my Trust Demon took over and events followed an almost predictable, speedy downward spiral as I emotionally withdrew. At least I’m aware of this now.

The second greatest effect has been that of judgementalism. On the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator I’m an INTJ – Introversion, Intuition, Thinking, Judgement – one of the rarest personality types. It’s the last letter that has become exaggerated in my being. Because I fear being judged, I thus am highly judgemental of other people as a pre-emptive defence mechanism. I’ll reject them before they reject me.

When it comes to romantic relationships I need to feel I’m in control of the relationship, that makes me feel safe. Any hint of vulnerability and I fear being taken advantage of. This started at age six when the girl next to me would hold hands with me, then ask me to help her with her maths. I eventually realised that she was using me, so I stopped helping her. My only girlfriend I had in high-school cheated on me when I had to go away to do National Service. My ex-wife didn’t love me for the last five years of our relationship. My ex-girlfriend lied to me from day one and all the way through our relationship.

People have always been a source of anguish in my life, never a source of pleasure. However, aside from this and Avoidant Personality Disorder, my greatest positive emotion is that of wanting to give love. I think that my disorder has influenced this because not having received much love, there is an innate need within me to express it.

A case can be made that I’m now scared of women, but I don’t think that’s true. I just haven’t met the right one…The One. I realize now that I need to be with a submissive woman. I’ve been oblivious to this. This might have played a role in some of the experiences that I’ve had dating. Non-submissive women will have detected my wanting to be the senior partner in the relationship and that made me wrong for them. Some of the stronger-willed women and I clashed and would have continued to do so if a relationship were to have been mutually pursued. I think this is especially true of my ex-girlfriend and I who clashed daily. The Saffa (Histrionic) and Musician Gal (Narcissist) would have been a replay of that.

In the workplace I express, vent even, but in my private life I bottle my feelings up because that’s what a man’s supposed to do, don’t you know? Sup it up. Don’t show any weakness in front of the womenfolk because it rattles them. Be a man.

When my last job came to an end in August last year, I was leading a team of people who didn’t like me and ganged-up against me. It got ugly and became my worst nightmare. I felt humiliated and I walked out. I got a settlement payment from the company. I haven’t worked since then.

The thought of going back into an office environment nauseates me. I was never happy in my working life, always prostituting myself for the money. I have absolutely no interest in IT, an industry populated by ego-maniacal geeks fussing over petty things, always missing the big picture. (Ever wondered why software is like it is? Now you know.)

Since August last year my ‘working days’ have been me sitting at home by myself, happiest when writing my heart out, only going out to get food (listening to music) and the gym at lunchtimes (again with headphones on). There have been times when weeks have gone by without my talking to anyone. I can not remember another time in my life when I have been so happy. I have felt so calm and tranquil. I’ve loved it.

Don’t worry, I’m not some anti-social, rude, obnoxious, control-freak retard who wants to be a hermit. On the surface I must seem perfectly normal. I’m polite, considerate, humorous, easy-going and a whole host of other good things. I can walk into a job interview, make a positive impression, get interviewers laughing and talk myself into a job. I feel my fears and I ignore them, because my desire to succeed is greater.

It’s just that I am at my best when alone with only one person. If it’s a group setting then it is preferable to be with people whom I have known for a long time. In typical introvert fashion I feel exhausted after a lengthy social engagement, even if it is with people I’ve known for years. An extrovert feels energized by socialising, but I don’t, I need to recover and I seek out solitude and silence.

All I want is silence. That can’t hurt me, that I am comfortable with. I am at my absolute best when alone, with my thoughts. When given time, space and the tranquillity to express myself, to be creative because, like manic-depressants before lithium, it all feels bearable then.

I don’t think I’m disturbed, I just need silence and solitude more than most. My scars need time to heal.

Oh, how I crave silence, for it is then that I feel I am on the comforting edge of heaven.

Disturbed – “The Sound Of Silence”

Meeting Ann St Vincent

I met someone remarkable recently. She’s a fellow blogger who calls herself Ann St Vincent. ( http://annstvincent.com/ )I’m a follower of her journey because in many ways, seen from a high level, we have been treading a similar path.

We’ve both been trying to find meaningful love while trying to make sense of what is going on around us right now. Along the way we have both discovered that the way forward lies behind us. Until we make peace with our past the future will be a repeat of a sorry old scene that always ends the same way.

I’m aware that it is an easy mistake to form an impression of someone from their blog. We’ve been trading witticisms and barbed comments on each other’s blogs for two years, so when the opportunity arose to meet her, my trusty steed couldn’t keep me away.

A cool, blustery Saturday afternoon outside a bustling Tube station was the setting for our first face-to-face encounter. I wasn’t too sure what to expect. This would either be a waste of time or the total opposite.

My initial thought upon meeting is how tall she is for a woman. I wasn’t expecting that. The vibe she exudes is positive and energetic. Her intellect was quickly on show as her rapier-like questions poured down on as if fired by a battalion of archers hiding behind the ramparts of an internet firewall.

My plan for the afternoon involved taking her to St Katharine Docks to share a convivial drink on the balcony of the Dickens Inn. I know that she has read my every post so she might appreciate the significance of the setting where the majority of my dates have happened. Alas, the public transport system wreaked havoc on my plan and we ended up only halfway there, at Piccadilly Circus to be exact, when I had to conjure up an alternative plan.

I remembered a nearby funky pub where I took The Model for our first date. The rugby World Cup was on and an important game was being shown on a huge television that other patrons worshipped. I positioned myself strategically so that I could watch the game over Ann’s shoulder. If she was a talkative bore I could make the most of it.

I don’t know what happened during that game because Ann was sparkling company. We could have talked all night about anything and everything that the rising moon overhead cared to cast it’s gaze over. I was concerned that we would degenerate into swapping unpublished details about penile playthings, but that wasn’t the case. Instead we had great banter that made our time together fly by.

When I inevitably and sadly escorted Ann back to her lodgings for the night I got the feeling that she didn’t want to say goodbye. We fumbled our parting, but I know that we’ll see each other again.

Even after spending the time with her as I did, it still isn’t clear to me how her story will play out. Perhaps like mine?

What I do know for sure is that anybody who counts Ann as a friend should consider themselves lucky.

Claude Debussy : Clair de Lune

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.