Katerina

---

Book excerpt

Prostitutes. I never fucked one­­ before, not because of the lack of opportunities (I live in Prague after all) but simply because I possessed a certain set of standards. I was clean, but not always. Chlamydia sneaked up on me once in my capricious youth (not from a hooker, but with her promiscuity she might as well have been one) and I really didn’t fancy another trip to the sex clinic. The nurse judging me again with her patronising stare while I’m filling out the form, telepathically telling me that I’m older than most of these kids and that I should’ve known better. Yeah, alright. I should’ve known better—but fuck it.

My cunt of an ex-girlfriend swapped me for a career, indelicately breaking my heart in the process, and I embarked on a path of self-destruction, in other words drinking and fucking anything with a pulse—just to get it out of my system. It worked for a while. Until I started pissing out this weird, cloudy discharge. I knew I caught something then and attempted to banish my stupidity by breaking the bathroom tiles with my forehead.

I really should’ve known better but my God, I hate condoms. I slipped one on to begin with, but I just didn’t feel a goddamn thing! The rubbery bastard isolated me too much. The fact that she had a parachute instead of a vagina didn’t help, either. So I ditched it. Big mistake.

Now in my 30s, I’m more responsible or so I thought.  Besides, I’m still young and handsome. Why on Earth would I need to hire a vagina when I can still get one for free? Why do men do it anyway? Most of these pussy-selling wrecks are ridden with diseases, too drunk or high on drugs to even register what’s going on half the time.

Is that part of the attraction? Is it because it’s fast and discreet? No questions asked? No strings attached? What their spouses don’t know won’t hurt them kind of thing? A cheeky treat for the penis? Like munching on a burger when you’re on a diet? (no pun intended). I often wondered what sort of losers pick up street hookers. Were they the stereotypical bald, sleazy, sweaty, pot-bellied, semi-impotent old men you see in movies?

Guess it comes down to personal taste. I always had a sophisticated palate. I wouldn’t poke these sluts with a metre long stick—let alone my cock! I’d rather keep fucking my right hand than one of them. I wasn’t desperate for sex. I didn’t plan paying for sex.

I drove to my humble flat after work, located in Wenceslas Square (and the Red-Light District part of Prague). I lived there for seven years now and although I was fed up with the hookers, pimps and junkies hanging around it—I had a sentimental attachment to the place. The cosy, spacious rooms, wooden beams connecting the walls, the ornamented ceiling. The flat had a character. I could smell the history. The only let down were the locals (and non-locals who came here for stag parties).

And there she was, patrolling the corner—stalking her next prey. Her Denim skirt raised high, no panties underneath to allow easy access (that’s a wild guess) black, shiny Cossack boots and that pleading look in her eyes that shouted “Buy me! Buy me! I’m yours!” The very same look she offered to ten other men that night.

The most vital thing­­ to remember is not to make an eye contact. If you do, you’ll signal your interest and they’ll approach or follow you afterwards. I made that mistake before. Now I just blank them every night when I turn corner and drive past. Usually they’re transparent to me, nothing more than stains on a wall. But this night was different.

I parked the Skoda outside my flat and emerged from the car.

“Wanna blowjob for 200, hon? The best one you ever had,” said a high-pitched voice from behind me.

I dropped the keys, startled.

“No, get out of here.” I said in a dismissive tone, bending down and picking the keys up.

“Oh come on, babe. It’s just 200 crowns. You’re in for a treat,” she said, poking her tongue out.

She stood directly underneath the street lamp; I did a double take and saw a brief glimpse of her pierced tongue. I always wanted to sample one of those. Not hookers, we covered that, but a blowjob with a pierced tongue. Apparently, it really was a treat and for 200? That’s a bargain for sure. Nowadays you spend that kind of money on a lousy pub lunch, so why not on a stimulating blowjob? 

I gave her the once-over. She seemed pretty—younger than the others. Maybe 19? She was slim and petite, not yet ruined by years in the trade. That was my impression anyway. Her ginger hair was tied in a pony-tail (she was sensible at least, there’s nothing more annoying than a girl sucking your dick and interrupting it by constantly brushing away hair from her mouth). Her lips were plump, bouncy. Always a plus.

“What’s your name?” I asked after my inspection.

“Ginny.”