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Prague’s Finest Prostitute

I was hesitant picking up a street whore in Prague because, as anywhere, off the street, you just don’t know where the fuck it’s going to end up.

Wenceslas Square

The ladies in the Wenceslas Square smack dab in the middle of Nove Mesto (New Town) were “ok”. All wear the standard Czech-whore outfit in black: polyester pants, platforms, pullover sweater, babushka coat/hat, and raccoon-eyed make-up. You could spot them a mile away. Thirty degrees and still the ladies are strolling. And the price was right too for at 1,000 kc (about $30 US) you get a half-decent prostitute. But, as I said, you don’t know.

I’m all for prostitution, especially when its legal in just about every country on the planet except The States. I have no morals, but I’m not an idiot either. I never walk into a joint I can never walk out of. To hell with this nonsense. There’s gotta be a brothel around, and since this is the Former Eastern Bloc and all the trappings that go with it, the use of old fashioned brothels are apparently abundant. Anything from moderately priced to so outrageous you’d consider it obscene.

There was one upscale joint I peeked into; just off the square through a window in the door-and saw the doorman getting a blowjob from one of the girls. He looked up, shocked at my gawking, knocked his whore to the ground, jumped out of his chair, wet wanker slapping against his legs, and hobbled over without bothering to hitch his pants. He shouted through the door, “Cover one-hundred American!”

I laughed, “No wonder it’s packed tonight,” and noticed it empty and promptly about-faced. Hundred my ass. Fuck him. At this point I got hungry.

Now, Wenceslas Square is not the nicest place to visit in Prague. It’s commercialized, overcrowded at times, and exists solely for the tourists. The “Square” is actually a rectangle with one long continuous road that angles deceivingly up at a steep incline. On either side of the square you have the obligatory souvenir shops, but also McDonald’s, Burger King, KFC, Pizza Hut, and dozens of other American companies, all here for the express purpose of sucking every last dollar out of the locals and for the tourists too scared to try the tasty kielbasa sausage-dogs from the corner street vendors.

During the day the place is benign, shoppers shop, but come nightfall, watch out. The hookers and dealers and the nastier leftovers from the old days come scurrying out from under their corpses. You’d be hard-pressed to find any similarities between night and day.

The areas of inner-city Prague are divided into three distinct easy-to-walk-to districts. The Nove Mesto (New Town), where we’re at now; Stare Mesto (Old Town) where you can find your famed astronomical clock and cafes; and then the alleyways that lead to St. Charles Bridge; which, is lined with more pubs than you can shake a drunken Marionette at. There are other areas, like the Josefov (Jewish) Quarter, and the neighborhood below the castle (Mala Strana), but you can get lost. That’s what Prague is also famous for: dizzying labyrinths that could have you wondering for hours….

I went into one of the McDonald’s they have in the square, exactly one block down from another McDonald’s. It’s filled with Czech teens that can’t get into the pubs. Which is odd since pre-teens can order beers at sidewalk venders.

I swear, there was one girl, maybe ten years old; she goes up to a food stand, orders a two-liter Budvar and then she walks toward me where I’m sprawled out on a bench with my own bottle of wine. In broken English she asks for a light. I wait a beat, then say, sure, why not? Hand her my lighter. She says cheers, we clink bottles, and she’s off. That, my friends, is the attitude of Prague in a nutshell…

Aside from the teens you have the tourists brave enough to be out in this part of town after dusk, and of course the streetwalkers who head to McDonald’s, apparently after their tricks, for French Fries.

I was in line shouting my order at a kid when I smelled them come in. You can’t hide that smell, especially if you don’t shower afterwards. In Paris it’s all right for a man to smell like he’s been fucking; other men will respect him. But here, a gaggle of raccoon-eyed whores clip-clopped up to the counter and made heads turn. The stench of cum, sweat, piss and the back rooms of all the strip joints I ever sweet-talked my way into came with them.

These chicks don’t do you on the streets, they’ll take you to a room God knows how far from the square, but the fact that they do stink is reassuring. At least they fuck you; it’s not a con. Still, I wanted a brothel…

I had my Happy Meal then across from a table of whores on break and avoided eye contact because the Prague foot-prosty is an aggressive sort. Physical force is sometimes necessary to bat them away. That done, I continued on my “run”…

I was passed a flier earlier in the day when I went to get change at the American Express office, right across the street from the memorial the Czechs set up every Easter commemorating the spring invasion of the communists. Some dude had set himself on fire on that spot in protest almost forty years ago. I stand there now as I gaze up the street and see a blue, neon sign. I think the joint’s name is ALTAR, or ATLAN. I don’t remember.

A ten-dollar cover awaits you at the end of a long walkway. Intimidating doormen guard every entrance, side room, and closet, and are not the least bit hospitable. You pay your cover to a grandmotherly-type at coat check and led downstairs.

Prague Castle

Every size, shape, and color. The best the Bloc can offer. Forget the rumor that Eastern European girls are a collection of mustaches and steroids. Fuck that notion indeed. Hot Czech women are right up there with the Parisian dames.

You find a long bar to the left, gaudily lit like a Reno lounge in the wee small hours of the morning. Dozens of hotties line the row of bar stools, but I know from doing this so many times before that they’re usually the lousiest in bed.

Great bodies, but their smiles are half-assed, frozen in the perpetual boredom that eventually overcomes them; there’s no pretence of desire in the eyes, and they sit or stand as dull as a deer in the cross hairs of a hunter’s rifle.

Yes, the point of getting a whore is to have a hole to sink yourself into, but you also go for a show; you’re paying for a performance that’ll get you off. Faked and rehearsed, but goddammit, at least there’s no bullshit and, most importantly, you know exactly where’s she’s coming from.

I bypass this and head toward the back of the showroom, with sofas in the dark. For there you have the fat chicks, the midgets, and the amputees, but you also have the middle-of-the-road girls.

Maybe they’re new. Shy. Haven’t serviced so many as yet. Maybe she doesn’t know how to attract a man’s attention, or maybe she isn’t a whore because daddy went to her at night while mom slept off another “headache” in the next room, no, maybe she’s whoring because her family really needs the money. Maybe she’s attractive in an unspectacular way. Little make-up. Nice dress but not too revealing. Dressed, oddly enough, like she’s going on her first date.

And they’re pretty good in the sack. Have few rules, seem to enjoy being touched, and might even kiss and cuddle because they actually dig you. Not all the time, but it’s more than you get with Miss Tits on the pedestal.

There’s a stage surrounded by U.S. college frat boys, pot hazed, who somehow managed to stumble out of Amsterdam, get across the continent, only to pass out at the doorsteps of Prague. Maybe a hundred boys gawk at the lipstick lesbian act, and all shift uneasily as the fuck-show goes on next.

He’s an older man, 40ish, with a U.S. flag handkerchief wrapped over his head and he sports a tremendous hard-on. He fucks a blonde gymnast. She bends and contorts, shifting on cue to the techno blasting over a fantastic sound system. Blow job, pussy-eating, anal, under, on top, doggy; the whole bit lasts 20 minutes, and, most effectively climaxes with Bonnie Taylor’s “Another Eclipse of the Heart.”

The DJ comes on after each act and screams, “WHISKEY TIME! TIME FOR A WHISKEY BREAK! THE NEXT SHOW IS IN TEN MINUTES! MEANWHILE WHY NOT ENJOY A WHISKEY? WHISKEY TIME GENTLEMEN!” Whiskey being the most expensive drink at the bar. The lads and I were sticking with the cheap local Pilsner Urquell.

They give you this card, and each time you order, the bartender stamps the price on it. Nobody else there accepts cash. Another grandmotherly-type (because, I guess they’re the most trust worthy) is the only one to get your cash before you leave. If you lose this card it’s an automatic $500 fine.

I find my honey then standing by the women’s room. White dress. 5’ 7”. Slender but meat on the bones. Classy heels, not those clownish platforms the other whores wear. Long hair, relaxed, not teased. A trace of make-up. Alluring smile. And, interestingly, a tan despite the lack of sun in the Czech Republic. That, I think was one of the last things the Russians took before they put the cat out and turned off the lights.

Rust-coffee-hair highlighted a gentle face. Medium breasts. Nothing manufactured. Killer legs too. Never was a legman; was always into ass, snatch, face, tummy, and tits, everything but…and feet. I notice feet a great deal.

We hit each other with the eye contact-coy, sensual-and I approached. It had been an hour of booze and entertainment, but I wasn’t in a rush. I’m not a kid anymore. If I’m going to commit, spend my cash, my time, I at least better get somebody who I think might be a great lay. At least in theory…

The stage was changing for the next act, the boys were clamoring for more drinks, the place was pumping at 4am. I pressed myself against her. Soft, inviting, and she pushed back, giggled.

I covered her neck with baby-kisses creating a remarkably strong erection. The first since Amsterdam. I had spent a week in Berlin and that can kill a man’s libido believe it or not because the only thing a man can do there is drink for the love of god.

She turned then, looked at my bulge, and put her arms around my neck and hugged me as would a girlfriend who hadn’t seen me the whole weekend during YEAR ONE of a relationship. That initial yearning for each other is the best part. The rest simply serves no purpose…

“You like me?” she breathed into my ear.
“You want to go in back?” she invited.
“You speak English well.”
“No,” and giggled again, bashful, unassuming, yet the magnetism was there. Maybe that was her shtick. “I speak very little,” and she made a motion with thumb and forefinger.
“I’m not that little,” I sneered, not able to think of a wittier line. “I have a big cock to fuck you, baby.” Yeah, that always gets them, Jimbo. I pressed into her crotch and she raised a leg and rubbed against my thigh. “Not so innocent are you?” I said.
“I love you,” and she licked my ear, nibbled on its lobe.
“Ok, ok, you got the part, honey.”
“What?” she put her arm round my waist. “Come, we make love. Or fuck. What do you want?”
“We’ll see. What are the prices?”
She quoted me the following list: one U.S. dollar is equivalent to almost 38 of theirs:
1) One-hour w/girl. Private rooms w/shower. 2,000 kc
2) One-hour w/girl. Hot tub. 2,000 kc
3) 45 minutes w/girl. Private room w/shower. 1,850 kc
4) 45 minutes w/girl. Hot tub. 1,850 kc
5) Two hours w/girl. Private room. Hot tub. Bottle of champagne. 7,000 kc

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