COLUMNISTS

Deidre Dare

After a few champagnes at Turandot last Friday night, my date, a new guy whose identity I really, really mustn't reveal unless the idea of being gunned down in cold blood appeals to me (it doesn't) suddenly decided to take me to a Gentlemen's Club. I've been to many of these types of places.

Used to be, before all the "sexual harassment" shit went overboard in the West, that we lawyers frequently took clients or colleagues to such places. We'd all drink too much and get lap dances at the table, and generally bond with each other over both.

Later on in life, in Bangkok, my New Zealander Boyfriend taught me Whoring 101, which I passed with flying colours. Let's just say: I moved on from lap dances and found out how good women can be, let's say, "Downtown." After all, they know the equipment better.

My date was not a patient man (I think that, in his line of work, patience is not considered advisable). Within 10 minutes of our arrival he'd picked out two girls and suggested we have a "private dance" in one of the little rooms off the dance floor.

A "private dance" turns out to be sex in Moscow. In my experience, this is unusually convenient. In other countries, if you want to have sex with one of the girls, you need to pay the bar a hefty fee and take her home with you.

And my experience in this area is vast: I've whored in Thailand, Central Europe, London, Australia, New Zealand and Singapore.

But, Moscow has a lot of conveniences that other cities lack. For instance, gypsy cabs. I remember a time last summer in Paris, late at night, when a friend of mine, who also lives here, and I stood helplessly on a street corner with our hands out. Of course, no one stopped and it took us forever to get home. You can't get around other cities at night.

Or another example, 24-hour flower shops. Or cash machines that give all different kinds of currency. Or our reliable metro. Or empty gyms.

Anyway, into the little room, which contained only a bed, we went, where our clothes were removed and all genitalia sprayed with disinfectant (as if that would work. Come on!).

I went for my girl-on-girl action in one corner and left my date to his action in another.

"Hey," he suddenly said to me, laughing, "look at this!"

I turned my head while my girl kept nibbling my neck and lips.

His girl was on her knees between his legs and nothing was happening, if you get my drift.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Not me," he answered with another laugh. He found it hilarious.

He went on like that for about half an hour and then gave up. (I think he started reading the paper because he started to talk to me about Obama's re-purchase of US Treasury Bonds from China. As I recall, he did not like this new policy.)

"Maybe I chose too quickly," he suggested as we sat down for another drink after our time had run out. "Let's take a little while this time and pick one who really does it for me and we'll take her back to your place."

I was agreeable and we played with some beautiful naked girls and drank some more gin until he said "Can I have this one?" clutching a nubile young thing.

Back to my place we all went, where I politely went out for some champagne to leave them alone for a while. Upon my return, I found the guy laughing again. Nothing again!

"Come here," he said to me, patting the bed.

I went over to them and he started kissing us and, eventually was able to have the experience one is supposed to have while whoring.          

"What was the problem?" I asked after the girl had left.

Well, it turns out, he fancies himself very, very much in love with me. (Oh, I sigh: don't they all?).

Here's how he summed up whoring the next morning in bed, after two satisfactory experiences he had with me: "Look, baby, I spent $2,000 last night for a relatively uninteresting orgasm and you just gave me two wonderful ones for free. You do the math."

All I could say was: Thank God I had just had a bikini wax.

xxoo, DD

Deidre Dare's novel "Expat" can be read online at: www.deidredare.com