For the second time in my life—but only the first time by my choosing—I was in love with a stripper. Whether or not one of my more questionable girlfriends of the past actually took her clothes off for money is still up for debate. She denies it. It is what it is.
The first time I saw Sasha, I couldn’t take my eyes off her, the way she strutted around enchanting patrons for a dance. Hot Peppers is one of the most notorious
tourist traps strip clubs in Prague.
To be honest, this was my first experience at a strip club. I heard horror (or is it whore?) stories of third-string talent showering their cesarean-scarred body in a rain of $1 bills. In a country where the lowest denomination of paper currency is equivalent to $5, would I be causing a hail storm all night with my 20 Kč coins?
Halfway through a cold Pilsner, I realized nothing would have prepared me for what happens three floors below Wenceslas Square.
The ratio of male to female was roughly 99:1, which seemed about right considering all the British stag parties. One confident lady made her way up to one of the many soon-to-be grooms and snatched and ice cube from his drink. With a wave of her hands, the ice cube vanished.
You didn’t have to see where it went. The combination of laughter and applause revealed that any longer, this ice cube would melt.
A quick veni, vidi, veci the ice cube appeared again, hovering over the lucky lad’s drink for a second, before finding its way into his lips.
Sasha didn’t rely on cheap “magic” tricks to gain attention. Her presence was hard to ignore. If I only knew how soft her sun-kissed skin was from the first time she stole my attention, I would have run out of money.
My buddy Georg noticed my attraction to the brunette bombshell. While I was fetching our next round of beer, he kindly bought me a “private” dance—German generosity at its finest.
I didn’t know at the time, but there were two options: No touching and touching. The former ran about $50; the rules being pretty self explanatory. The latter had a steeper price of $75, touching permitted … both ways.
Did I mention how soft her skin was? She had to marinate in a bath of baby oil for hours to be that soft. Yeah, you can guess which option the generous German chose for me.
Before you think I’m a complete scumbag, SPOILER ALERT: there was no “happy end”.
After a few failed marriage proposals, my five-minute dance was up.
“I enjoyed—uh—meeting you,” I confessed.
“Maybe you can come back and see me.” She had me right where she wanted me.
The next beer slipped down with ease. I had to spill the beans to Georg.
“Thanks, man. You’ll definitely be the best man at our wedding.” I was still optimistic.
A few beers and too many hours later, it was suddenly 5:30 a.m. We both had to be in class by 8:00 a.m.
The metro wasn’t running yet and we had no idea how to get home by the street car. Neither of us were in any state to try and read the Czech street names to figure our where we were. How are there so few vowels in these words?
We jumped in a cab.
“Vis—viso—visochzhazyk?” I directed our driver. Nope. No way in hell was I going to remember what street we lived on, let alone how to pronounce it.
“Hotel Clarion,”I said, remembering the massive hotel was right across the street. Close enough.
Prague started to wake as I headed for bed.
I hope you all had nice dreams. I’m sure I will.