The History of Sex: Prague -- Another Kind of Christmas Market -- (Chapter X, Part 31)

Sure enough, the basement theatre of the Alhambra still exists, attached to a hotel and casino, but it's been overshadowed by the flashier name of Goldfingers.

I'm probably more excited than I should be to set foot in a club where I know Cold War spies used to get their kicks—I'll bet even Che Guevara whored here—but my American guide doesn't really know or care about the history.

He's never been here before, having assumed that it's just like any other strip club.

'Most of my clients when they come to Prague want stinkfingers; not Goldfingers—know what I mean?'


In that case, maybe they should sample some fried carp, a Christmas delicacy here.

Outside, the Yuletide market has been shuttered for the evening, but its tree is shining and Johnny Mathis is cooing 'Silent Night' over the square.

There's also a tree inside 'Goldfingers & Alhambra,' and if it's not exactly silent, it's certainly a relatively quiet night in the club.

IS THIS LOVE?

The ambience is that of an old theatre converted into a state-of-the-art strip joint.

While fat cherubs frolic across the ornamental carvings on the upstairs balcony, lights flashing red, blue, green and yellow explode off the disco ball on the ceiling, filling the club with swirling, Technicolor sperm.

The entertainment onstage consists of solo shows and synchronized stripping, usually with a leitmotif for added interest—Lesbian Slut-Nuns or All-American Horndogs, that sort of thing.

With or without the poles, the East Europeans perform death-defying dances on foot-high platform heels, getting naked to songs chosen by someone with an evil sense of humor.

'Is This Love?' wails the soundtrack. Somehow, I don't think so.

'Wanna Know What Love Is'? Well, this probably isn't the place to find out.

Feeling 'Torn'? Then you shouldn't have posed for defloration.com.

Weirdly, given the Alhambra's past, this is the only place I've seen in Prague where the girls strip down to their landing strips.

But the ironic coup de grĂ¢ce announces itself with a jangling intro—that unmistakable bass… the brassy trumpets—the James Bond theme!

All five women saunter onstage in 007 suits, brandishing pistols before getting very, very naked. 

Pussy Galore indeed.

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