“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.