I know it’s been a while since I last brought you all up to speed. From the moment I landed in NYC, it’s been non-stop glad handing, drinks, dinners, and wallowing in misery forgetting how bad the post-party come downs really are. All I have to say is, thank God for General Tso’s chicken. I’m too much of a pussy to dip into the Xanax that is reserved to combat my fear of flying, hence, I had to deal with the come-downs the old fashion way, force feeding myself Chinese food, and watching very bad movies.
I know I owe you my New Year’s resolutions properly written out, the Prague story, and of course, a play by play description of my bday and NYE fetes. As I’m in blogger backlog right now, and with a stats assignment looming overhead, we are going to have to take this slow:
Prague Part Deux:
I’ve never understood the point of moderation. Perhaps this explains why I’m partaking in the master cleanse a second time in less than a month, and how I ended up partying until 9am on New Year’s day, and possibly can offer insight into how I woke up in a twin size bed in a youth hostel across town, on my second day in Prague. And no readers, for reasons explained later in the story, I didn’t fuck sweet Calem. Actually, we slept Lucy and Desi style, with each of us sprawling out on our own twin size bed.
When we last left the story, I agreed to meet the gals from the synagogue at ten pm at Bar and Books. Now, I know I should be trying to do that whole ‘authentic’ Czech experience but first of all, I fucking love Bar & Books in NYC and needed to check out it’s international sister, and secondly, since Prague is so over run by tourists, there is no such thing as anything being ‘authentic’. Well, for 3500 Czech crowns maybe, you can buy something or convince someone to hang out with you.
Heading over to Bar & Books, by myself, was a liberating experience. It was the fist time that I was heading to a bar by myself, unsure whether the people who I was supposed to meet were actually going to live up to their word. Familiar with B&B in NYC, I was expecting to find the bored and lonely business man, eager to exchange the power of his corporate platinum card for my company.
I got dressed up in my usual regalia of femininity: short skirt, impractical heels that defied the cobblestone paths, and a tight booby revealing shirt. Of course, hair impeccably straightened, along with make-up applied with the precision of an under-age gal trying to get into a twenty-one and over club. It’s powerful being a gal, almost enough that is makes up for the disparity in income between men and women.
I walk into the bar and take a quick survey. Unlike its NYC counterpart, it doesn’t really cater to the out of town business man, but instead touristy couples looking for an intimate place to converse and participate in the mating ritual that will lead them back to a hotel room.
I order a martini, and stare at the tv screen playing an old bond movie, and wait for my friends. I got to B&B exactly at ten, and the girls warned me that they were chronically late.
It’s that nervous energy, that makes you do things faster, hoping that your quickened movements will somehow make your time go faster. My impatience just lead me to get drunk faster.
Fifteen minutes later, I was on my second martini.
I went from looking cool and confident, a lone attractive woman sitting at a bar, to mildly pathetic, turning her head around every five minutes, seeing whether it was my friends who walked through the door.
It was ten thirty as I sat contemplating the third drink. If I had drink number three, there is no way I would be able to walk home—and with the hatred for tourists on par with NY’s hatred of walking through the Times Square area during the summer—I would get fucked in a rate. To travel about a mile and half, taxis wanted about $20.
But it was only ten thirty, and I didn’t want to go back to the hotel room and admit defeat, that the wild night in Prague that I hoped for didn’t pan out.
As I’m ordering drink number three, a young, decent looking guy walks over to the bar, and sits a few seats down. In bar patron language, this usually implies that he wants to be by himself, and has no interest in chatting to anyone. But, as lonely as I’d been feeling, sitting at a bar, by myself looking like a lost puppy for her owner each time someone came in, I was going to force this kid to be my friend—even if it was just for drink number three.
And it’s ten forty-five at this point, I’ve given up hope. So much for the traveler’s code, taking care of other fellow traveler’s, “Guys, remember, I’m going there by myself, even if you cant hang out, just stop by anyway, to make sure I wasn’t kidnapped along the way.”
Uh huh.
I find out his name is Henry, a Frenchman who is studying in Oregon, who needed to get out of his hostel, so decided to walk into the first bar he saw.
“You know,” as he’s nearing the end of his drink, “I really want to party tonight. Would you be down to go clubbing after this?”
Now, was it smart to drunkenly ask Henry if he wanted to go out ‘clubbing’, by myself, wearing a short skirt in an unfamiliar city? FUCK YES! Should I ever be trusted to go out to bars by myself? FUCK NO!
As we’re talking about which clubs we’d head out, the gals from the synagogue walk in, apologetic for being an hour late.
“We stopped off to grab some dinner, and we didn’t realize what time it was. Oooh! That drink looks good! What is it?”
I let them each have a sip of my martini, and a simple meeting point was transformed into the first place on our pub/club crawl. And since I am a fast drinker, especially with candy flavored martinis, I order martini number four. While they are on the first one.
“Hey, Shannon, I want you to meet Calem. He was the guy who I was telling you about.”
I look him up and down. My type. Tall, broad, dark hair, and a very cute smile. When he opens his mouth, he’s becomes even more endearing.
“Nice to meet you Shannon.” In a very posh, public school boy accent.
But Calem, is eighteen. He is off limits. I don’t fuck men older than my father nor younger than me.
He had a very arrogant air about him that made it difficult to remember that he was eighteen. It was reminiscent of the NYC I-banker, fueled with confidence of his over-inflated bonus.
We chat. He is in film. Tells wildly entertaining stories about being a production assistant. I tell him about the ad world in NYC. We talk about food, and as I look down to light my cigarette, I notice a pinky ring.
“Dude, what the fuck? You don’t seem like a guido. What’s up with the pinky ring?”
“It’s over one thousand years of family history.”
Oh shit, he’s one of those boys.
Since we’re in Prague, we order a round of absinthe. Now keep in mind, I’ve had four martinis and now a shot of absinthe. I’m a bit drunk.
Around midnight we decide to head over to a lounge around the block to go dancing.
And I’m still drinking. Especially when he’s buying.
“Hey, I want to check out Bombay, come with me!” He says, as he puts his arm around me.
Now, I could say that I was so drunk at this point that I forgot that he was eighteen, but I didn’t. I was playing with him. Keeping the affection going, so I could save my money.
We head over to Bombay, where he proceeds to buy me more alcohol. And where it’s just me and him dancing. But nothing happens. More chat about bullshit, more free drinkage, and a little mild flirtation.
About an hour later we head back over to the bar where everyone else is, keep in mind, I find out on the walk that he didn’t tell anyone where we were going. And of course nobody is there.
“Dude, I’m really fucked up, could you make sure I don’t go home by myself tonight?”
Now, there is a lot of wisdom in hindsight, and since he was eighteen, I didn’t expect to do anything with him because—dude, that’s kinda fucked up. I mean, I was still a virgin at eighteen.
He buys me another drink, and by the end of my vanilla vodka diet-coke, he could have told me he was sixteen, the mock sophistication, the posh accent, and the free drinks put him back onto the market. So, I meet his mild flirtation with the only way I know, dirty dancing and doling out lap dances!
Now, keep in mind, Europe doesn’t have the Spanish and Caribbean influences like the US, they do not know how to dirty dance over there. They all do the white boy Williamsburg bop. The only women who shake their hips are strippers and escorts.
He pulls me, and starts to kiss me. On the couch in this very skeevy lounge.
The place is closing, and they are telling us, not so nicely to, “get a fucking room.”
I can’t bring him back to the hotel, and to be perfectly honest, I really don’t feel like heading home yet.
It’s funny, once you cross that barrier from mutual flirtation to agreement you want to hook-up with someone, body language completely changes. I went from the dominant leader who set the tone of the conversation at B&B to the little girl, who played into the fact that some eighteen year old was able to physically dominant me. As we were leaving, he went for my hand, and I met his touch with falling against his entire body. Allowing his arms to engulf my back, as I snuggled in close.
We go to some pub, and evidently in Prague, everything that doesn’t cater to tourists closes early.
“Dude! Let’s go to a strip club!”
Now, wondering the streets of Prague, looking for a strip club, is not a wise idea. It’s about on par with asking an eighteen yr old horny public school boy on vacation to “take care of you.”
At first we seek out the information somewhat wisely.
As the barman is throwing us out, “Hey, do you know where we could find a strip club?”
Then we get the great drunken idea that, since we were close to the four seasons, maybe the concierge would know!
Let’s think about this right now. Two drunk young kids are walking into the concierge of the four seasons, looking for a strip club at about four am. And no, they had no idea.
But the best place where we asked—an unmarked Benz parked outside of the hotel. We walked up to some dude (I am assuming someone’s driver), knocked on the window—waking him up, to ask him where a strip club was.
He had no fucking clue.
Now this is where my memory gets fuzzy. I think this is where we walk back towards my hotel on Wensselar Square, foraging for food. Now, I could have gone home after the McDonalds. And after the currywurst I had because the McDonalds wasn’t filling enough (that is attractive, making out with some eighteen year old, then stealing his fries—that he bought).
Instead of going to the hotel, I wanted to watch the sunrise over the Charles Bridge. Now, doesn’t that sound romantic? Sharing a sunrise with a new friend—NOT WHEN YOU ARE DRUNK AND TASTING LIKE A QUARTER POUNDER.
It’s six am, and the sun doesn’t rise in Prague for another few hours. And it is fucking cold. I am in a short skirt, and he is dressed in a sweater. We make our way to the bridge, and it’s completely deserted. Actually, it really was a beautiful sight. Except for the fact that I was so fucking cold.
I grabbed him and started shivering into his shoulder.
He tried to kiss me. And it worked for about ten minutes where I turned to him and was like, “Get me into a fucking taxi. I am freezing.”
Surprisingly, we find a taxi within a few minutes, and he tries to act all suave and talk the taxi’s price quote down—which was actually very reasonable by the way.
“Shut the fuck up, that’s a good rate.” I tell him, not wanting to anger the nice man who had a warm car.
Much like an feral kitten, give me some place warm, relatively safe, and I calm down. Poor boy, he probably had no idea what hit him. I snuggled up next to him, and was dozing off in his arms.
The magic was broken at the Charles Bridge. Cold and sobriety can take the momentum out of any potential hook up.
We get to his hostel, and he sneaks me upstairs to his room.
“Do you have a pair of sweats I could borrow, and where is the extra bed?”
Exactly what every man wants to hear, when he brings a girl home.
