One of the Millionaire columns
The millionaire and his calvary of eroticism
Some people lack the courage to enter a brothel, others stay away because
they lack the money for adventures of this sort. Among millionaires, of course,
visits to the knocking shop are a favourite pastime, so it was pretty clear that
sooner or later certain friends of mine would draw me into their depraved
company. I held them off for as long as I could – until the recent birthday
of a press magnate who shall remain anonymous. And then I lived through my
calvary of eroticism, to which I shall now bear witness.
As a Czech literary classic Karel Poláček would have it, there were five of us. No sooner were we through the door than our path was blocked by a mountain of not-too-bright flesh, so it was hard to believe we entering the gates of Paradise. Seated downstairs in the spectral light of the stroboscope were three women in red satin, who ten years earlier had been dismissed from their jobs on a building site for „unsightliness“. The fact that they were hanging around in their underwear in this small subterranean space I ascribed to some unfavourable combination of circumstances. I wasted no time in asking my more experienced friends when the young lady tarts would appear. I learned in no uncertain terms that I was an idiot, that the tarts were the persons I have just described – what had I been expecting, then? I thought it best to avoid the subject. Without further ado – on the verge of tears and with a fistful of small change – I headed for those poor creatures parked there in the corner like three small tractors. Two of them looked so apathetic their engines might have been borne away for an overhaul. The third was a little more welcoming: she showed me her crooked teeth and coughed – like a miner hawking coal dust after his shift. Then to my astonishment one of the less lively ones stood up and swept away to a nearby podium, where she took hold of a pole.
It is a struggle for my pen to form the words to describe what followed. My friends claim to this day it was an example of what is known as the ‚striptease‘. But from close up it looked like an overfed maggot boring its way into a shoulder of beef. Then Slippery Sam the barman insinuated his way to our table. He asked us if we wanted company, if we would be ordering cocktails for the ladies. In the general rush of tenderness I requested a teddy bear, but the barman just pulled a face and directed the lace cavalry and its drinks over to our table. The moment the women sat down I was reminded of the night I'd spent locked in a pantry as a punishment. Within half an hour I would come to consider the recollection of my claustrophobia one of the most beautiful of my childhood; at least no one spoke to me when I was in that pantry. The ladies' flesh was pushing me deeper and deeper into the cushions of despair.
Over the next hour various offers were made. I responded to each with a refrain of We Shall Overcome. The ladies were obviously amused by this. When some time later out of sheer desperation I declared myself to be homosexual, they embarked upon a giggling fit to burst a piston and all three of them wanted to take me to their room. In the face of such dismal odds, things as a whole ended reasonably well.
The birthday-boy and two more magnificent men went off with the ladies „to perform the act of love“ and I fell into a pleasant doze right there on the black faux-leather upholstery. Then we handed over a sum which might have bought us a moped and staggered out together to face early-morning Prague.
But there's no doubt it was worth the money. No moped, no matter how fast it is, has as much to tell of the hardships of being as this agreeable night-time panopticon.
Here you can read more about the millionaire´s life of adventure.