This story was published as a part of the Only fools die of heartbreak collection by Equus Press.

They were serving 50-Kc beers, which was better than the place that had them for 90. O.K., it was 90, but at least they would serve them – brought over by a busty babe in a g-string and her nipples popping out the bra top. Here, you had to go to the bar – running the gauntlet of whores and back.

Two chicks were on the stage, licking beaver – the big finale. The little blond spread the fat blond’s legs and leaned in, her own cheeks spreading right in front of us. Ringed boobies dangling. At that moment – just for that moment – you couldn’t look anywhere without flashing on cunt and ass. Ah, perfect. It was the last free blast – they’d start making you pay for a look from here on out.
Watermelon and papaya and lilac colored lights bathed over the beauties while “More Than a Woman” rolled on the sound system. The beaver-lapping finished, one of the lovelies brought out a small silver insert. In it went, then out . . . in it went, then out – yeah, nice. They did a final writhe and moan, curtsied and picked up their stray lace. Three or four guys in front clapped – a dude in a wheelchair and his pal; two fellas in baseball caps.

Two fresh dancers appeared on the twin mini-stages, the Tom Jones version of “Kiss” blasting. The whore battalions moved out across the room. Whores to the left of me, tramps to the right. If it had a heartbeat, they’d try to make a sale. Some were not bad; some were in deep trouble. The cocoon-like darkness did much to conceal whatever “blemishes” there might have been. What you were left with were cleavages bursting from glowing brassieres, open mouths and pleading eyes, naked ass cheeks wobbling and bending over atop four and five inch heels. . . .

“Sorry, I tonight only watch,” I said in Czech to three or four of the “butterflies.” Then I told a few: “Not now, maybe later.”

The truth is, when the cunt show stops, your mind can wander. I felt my back ribs, right side, hurting again. It had only been a few days since it happened – slipping on the stairs in my socks while rushing down with a glass full of red; getting fully horizontal in the air; crashing down on my elbows and spinal sections number seven and nine; somehow keeping hold of the glass – but the wine flying across the stairs and wall.

This was during my mother-in-law’s 60th birthday party, with about 30 people in the attic. I made a fearful groaning and shaking, yet no one appeared. I forced myself up, spent the next two minutes wiping up most of the wine with my socks. Still no one appeared. I returned to the party, looking little different but for new purple socks and a few purple patches on my pants. I poured a new glassful, toasting the party people.

Afterwards, the next day, I would say to Dee, “Shit, look at that, somebody must have spilled wine on the wall. Why are all your mom’s friends such drunks? Don’t worry, I’ll paint it over.”

Dancers writhed against the poles to “Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing.” Another of the whores had taken a fancy to me. She sat down, warm hand on my knee. She was a bit plumpish, wearing a short black skirt rather than cunt-huggers – but a full and not-unpleasant face, hair tied up at the back of the head. This type, somehow, has always come on for me, wherever I’ve been. Well, and they’ve always been whores, or at lot of them have seemed to lean that way. . . .

“Looking for friend?” she said in English, “I can give massage you. One thousand crown.”
“I don’t speak English,” I said in Czech. “I’m from Lithuania.”
“Lithuania?” she said in Czech. She smiled. “You are tired? Let’s get room. Maybe massage? One thousand crowns.”
“I don’t know. . . . Maybe later. I only want to relax right now.”
“I relax you with massage. You work all day? Striptease and massage – 1,500 crowns.”
“How much is the room?”
`“For you,” she shrugged, “same.”
“How about a blowjob?”
“You want blowjob?” She raised a soft hand and stroked my cheek, then kissed me on the ear, hot and wet. “Striptease and blowjob – for you, 1,500,” she whispered. “Only for you.”
“How about 500 for a blowjob?”
“No, O.K. – but 1,000 for just massage and blowjob.”
“Yeah,” I said, “Maybe later.”

Bargain night at the whorehouse. Always a deal on. My new girlfriend smiled, squeezed my knee, walked off somewhere.
I looked around. Nobody seemed to be buying. Shit, the Thursday night doldrums. A group of the whores had apparently got bored with the lack of action and were sitting a few tables away, sucking at bright green and orange cocktails. One opened a bag of potato chips. A chick on the stage wiggled and threw off her top to a techno disco version of “Candle in the Wind.”

The pickings did seem a bit thin. There were maybe 40 guys, most of them in packs of twos or threes. The basic division in a whorehouse of this type is between the schmucks – the tourist drunks, shabby old men, boys in baseball caps, the cripples and creeps, poufs such as myself – and what could be called the “operators.” The operators are almost instantly recognizable – thick and muscle-bound, for the most part, many with shaved heads or buzzcuts, small eyes and fairly threatening demeanors. They are semi-well dressed, dark sweaters and members-only style jackets, and waft a heavy stench of cologne. They are the mafia bodyguards, the drivers, the beat-down guys, the low-level thugs without the pull for a private suite.

The operators will mainly be sober, drinking cola or tomato juice or tonic water, though they may also be on pills. It is not always clear why they are there. Many obviously think it is “the place to go.” They sit there admiring the babes, coiffed and blazing white teeth, engaging the whores in conversation. Others appear to be auditioning for some film or stage role as a “strip club heavy.” Still others seem to be on covert missions – spies, in other words. They have followed someone there, or they are searching for some whore who ran off from somewhere else, so they can threaten her or hack her up later. Some are also probably “boyfriends” who followed their whore from Kiev or Chisinau or Poděbrady or Liberec or Kladno or where ever, still holding the flame for her “dancing career” against all evidence. In any case, the ratio was about 2:1 schmucks to operators on this night.

A tall brunette came over. She was wearing a shiny baby blue bikini. “MASSAGE, SEX OR PLO-JOB!” she trilled. “Who’s ready?”
Here grapefruit sized boobs were busting out all over. Thin waist and broad hips; gold bellybutton ring; nice oiled thighs; slender calves descending into six-inch black high heels. Face a bit blocky and pocked, but overall really not bad. She was flaunting in a fury, pumping the hard-sell – maybe she had made a backstage bet, or the pimp had threatened to cut off her nose.

“What kind of whores are you? Those dirtbags out there are drunk and there’s money in their pockets! What’s wrong with you? Go out there and get it!”
“But they act like fags – ”
“Or virgins – ”
“They’re scared – ”
“They can’t get it up – ”
“Buncha cheap shits – ”
“You worthless sluts! I ought to cut your tits off for that! Now here’s the deal: Everything’s 100 crowns off for the next hour. Everything. If you don’t pay me for at least two cocks sucked in the next hour, you’re on the train back to Moldova – minus one nipple! You want to go back to Brno? Moldova? Bratislava? Ukraine, wherever you’re from? Don’t think I won’t do it. I can go out right this minute and get 50 whores to take your place! Whores from around the world are begging to get in here. This is downtown Praha! European Union! You hear me? Now do it, or it’s your tits I’ll be wearing tonight!”
“Yes, Mr. Pavel. . . .”

The tall brunette posed in front of the corner group of guys, hard nipples poking, ear hoops dangling. She grabbed the top of the bikini bottom and pulled it up her cunt until the shaven cunt sides were pushing out. She wiggled her boobies and blew a kiss.

“SEX, MASSAGE OR PLO-JOB!” she pleaded in English. The accent was heavy and cutting, yet beautifully understandable – almost as if she was joking.
“COME ON GUYS, LET’S GET GOING! SEX MASSAGE OR PLO-JOB!”
Somebody said something behind me, I didn’t catch it. She came up and leaned over to talk to them, her thigh two inches from my head. I could see the little hairs on the thigh. Ah, it was nice.
“Well, huh, um, huh huh. . . .”
They were American guys.
“We just, uh, came for the show. . . .”
“I give you private show. Anything what that you want. . . .”
“Uh. . . .”
She suddenly stood back and looked at me.
“Oh, you’re cute,” she said. She brought up a hand and touched my chin, cocking her head to the side slightly.
“Thank you.”
“Massage? I give good massage. Whatever you like. . . .”
“Yes? Ball massage?”
“Oh, yes, my lover.”
“Yeah, well – maybe later.”
She blew me a kiss and walked off, her ass cheeks bobbling wonderfully.
“Aw, dude. . .” one of the American geeks said.
“I’d like to see that Russian again. She was hot. . .”
“Dude, they’re all hot. . . .”

The giant brunette clearly had been hot, but she had come on too strong. Nobody could hold up to that. Maybe that was her way out. You come to a Prague whorehouse to find some beautiful, meek, shattered east European sex slave to abuse. You don’t come to be man-handled by some ball-ripping amazonka sperm bank. Well, some might.

I stayed for the end of “Cat People,” then got out of there. It was still early, about 2:20 or so. I went up to the big drag and saw a night tram on the way. Super. I figured to ride it on up, then stop in at my non-stop for a bag of bottles to get me through the rest of the night.
I got on. The damn thing was crammed full – mostly young people. How horrible they were, all of them. Pushing up against me, the stink of them – the fat, horrible pimpled faces, smelling of beer and the revolting gyros, the ketchup pizzas, the horseradish and tartar sauce that the street vendors shoveled up after midnight. Their lips were greasy with the stuff. And stupid hats, dumb combat boots, shaved heads and earrings, old army jackets, pigtails, camouflage pants, marijuana-leaf tie-dyes. Ghastly over-fed tubs leaning over midget four-eyed girls. Idiots with hunting caps and goatees, sickly red faces mumbling at each other, awful frizzy hair in bandannas. Dreadlocks. Cloudy eyes and blotched skin, dreadful dyed hair, smeared lipstick. Obese guys with multiple piercings of nose, lips, ears. Every semi-attractive woman in a skirt cancelled by some mongrel with a beard. Some of the beards had been braided, colorful threads woven in. Horrible, horrible. Faces resembling pigs, goats, gorillas, monkeys, birds, bugs – and all fat.

They were voyagers on the thrill ride at the MacBeefy’s Prague Experience™ theme park, featuring hookers, prostitutes, 11-year-old drug-dealers, skinheads and their lovable pals, a cast of freshly murdered, mentally deficient gypsies. Plus: Drunks drunks drunks drunks drunks! A heart-pounding, heartwarming loop-de-loop of fun and horror sure to leave you dizzy. Special Guest Star: Dead young American, run over on the train tracks.

There wasn’t much to say. It was a total failure – Darwin’s defeat, Freud’s triumph. I could hardly believe it. I felt like scratching myself and vomiting. Prague had never been like this before. Had not, never. The world clearly had taken a turn for the worse. Don’t let anyone tell you different.