On a trip to Prague with some of my dearest pals, we wound up in a bar called The Beer Factory. The concept of said Factory was this: each table had draught taps and a glass rinser; the taps were outfitted with a meter that counted the volume consumed; the volume was then published like horse race results on teevees around the bar so you could see how you ranked versus other tables. We immediately resolved to eliminate the competition–the 6 of us are professional drinkers after all.
One hour, and more than 25 litres later, the table of stubborn Germans finally succumbed to our relentless assault on their livers, and came across No Man’s Land, we assumed, to issue their own Treaty of Beersailles.
Defeated German- “Are you Scottish or Canadian?”
Chalk one up for the legendary Canucks, whose ferocity on the field of battle precedes them!
B- “Canadian! Why do you ask?”
Defeated German- “Because you are all wearing plaid.”
So we were. So much for legend.
Spilling forth from The Beer Factory, we were inundated with invites to see dancing girls, the prospect of which appealed to the beer in us all. With so many choices before us we used cold hard logic to decide which ballet to attend: the one that offered us two free beers. What better way to follow up 25 litres of beer than with more beer?
Following our shady little chaperone down a dark alleyway in the Old Town of Prague felt like the beginning of some foreboding Grimm tale. Stopping at a nondescript door with a bare red bulb over it, something should have tweaked; some instinctual self-preservation mode should have kicked in. But no–we entered after being asked whether we were Police without a moment’s hesitation.
Once inside, clutching our Pilsner Urquell (even the dodgiest Czech places serve great beer by default) we were led to the room with the stage. If this was a peeler bar, it was the quietest one I had ever been in. One tiny stage, with a girl quietly shifting her weight from foot to foot, with Guns’n'Roses played at a responsible volume level, were sending up flares in my beer-addled mind.
B- “It’s a brothel! I’ll bet my gold teeth!”
As we shuffled into a banquette table, I made sure that I was in the middle seat. There before me was my confirmation: a menu of services, printed out with clinically precise items like: one girl, penis in vagina; two girls, penis in vagina; one girl bubble bath with handjob; one girl bubble bath with handjob and finger in ass; and so forth. It’s nice to know what you’re buying.
We were getting considerable pressure to make a purchase, so I picked the item on the menu that seemed the most harmless: Les Bein Show. What I assumed was a friendly misprint, translated into the wrong language on the English menu, would–i hoped–avoid any of us requiring penicillin before the trip was done. I ordered, and requested the show be for “all my friends”, which seemed to rub them the wrong way–but I suspect they knew it was the only money they were getting out of a bunch of drunk hosers. After a considerable search for a partner (because a lesbian on her own is more of a passive lifestyle choice, and brothels are meant to be dominated by verbs) the eight of us piled onto a tiny elevator and pushed the up button. Little did we know, it was to be the only rise we were to enjoy that evening.
Escorted to a grand room, decked out with a seedy looking mattress on the floor–but a magnificent hot tub on a dais–we were informed by one of the entertainers that there were no CDs and that we’d be listening to the radio.
The girls climbed onto the mattress, but they looked less like lovers and more like two middle-aged men trying to hug each other at a funeral; we were not impressed, and started to fidget.
In a vain effort to spice up the most luke-warm “les bien” show the world has ever seen, they pulled young Jimmy onto the bed with them. His shirt was torn open to a collective cheer from the audience. . . then his pants and bloomers were pulled down. A hushed horror overwhelmed the fraternal squeals of glee–a scream caught in my throat.
Then, with one of the ballerinas perched on Jim’s chest, her unfettered baloney sandwich pressed against his throat to hold him still, the other began pulling on his free-range wang like it was the chain on a clogged olde tyme toilet. Jim stirred, but a pungent quiff from the baloney sandwich sentry inches from his nose knocked him back. Soon the “playful” pulling on his schlong took on a decidedly work-like quality. As sweat began to bead on both Jim and the dancer’s forehead she rated her weight on one elbow (which dug into what must have been his liver) and began pulling his cock like it was the cord on a flooded push mower. Finally–mercifully–the snake charmer in charge of his manhood, disappointed with the result of her enthusiastic tugging, elected to take things in a darkly masochistic direction; astride his waist, she grabbed hold of his belt buckle and drew it from his crumbled trousers like Arthur snatching Excalibur from the stone. The belt, like Jim, hung in a somewhat un-Excalibur-like fashion. . . but not for long. With absolutely no consideration for workplace safety, she began treating Jim’s purple-headed gladiator like the Roman masters of Judah Ben Hur, lashing it repeatedly; unlike Judah Ben-Hur, who bravely stood up to the Romans, Jim’s tiny chariot racer decided that his fate was now out of God’s hands, and solely at the mercy of an illegal immigrant.
To muster the blood flow required for a satisfying boner now would simply make the target for assault bigger, and judging by the physiologic response going on in my own trousers–where my penis was trying to do as turtles do–it was a safe bet that the show would never really get going. . . at least, i hoped not, if Jim was going to avoid any more head trauma.
The dancer with the belt, enraged with the lack of results, decided that if she couldn’t have an erection, then no one would, and coiled the belt around Jim’s little Michael Hutchence and, with two hands, began to choke it out. Thankfully, it was not long after the corporal punishment began that a commercial popped up on the radio and we were informed that the show was over.
Thank God it wasn’t satellite radio; we could have been carrying a eunuch out of that brothel.