The Curious Case of CC Button

I got old in Prague. Amazingly, it happened after getting younger.

I’ve started telling people that I’m 28. Why? 30 is old at hostels. I’m always the oldest, by a lot. I’ve never lied about my age before, and I usually don’t have a problem with 30 because I don’t feel old. This trip, I do. Well, not old, but the gap between me and my Generation Y travelling companions is painfully apparent at times.

I fucked a 23 year old. It’s true. He couldn’t believe that I was “28”, thought I was in my early twenties. Yep. Not only did I fuck him, I lied about my age to do it. There’s a special place in hell reserved for people like me. I honestly don’t know how I put up with men when I was 23, at that age they are fucking horrible in bed. They have no idea what they are doing, they learn it all as they get older and leave a trail of unsatisfied women in their wake. The sex was dreadful, which is surprising because he was a freaking fantastic kisser. It was so bad I called it halfway through,”Dude, honestly, you’re just terrible at this. It’s like you’re just trying to jerk off using me. I’m going back to my room.”

I didn’t say that. I’m not that mean. I did stop it midway through, though. Pretended that I was uncomfortable about his friend being on the top bunk- which I sort of was- and that his friend probably didn’t appreciate being jack hammered gently rocked to sleep.

I’m swearing off younger men. I’d prefer someone older than me, anyway. Unfortunately, younger men are attracted to me like Lindsay Lohan to cocaine. They seek me out, often in the middle of the night, it’s never a good idea, and there can be regret in the morning.

Last night, I almost didn’t get let into the club. The bouncer asked me for ID, which I didn’t have.
“Get your ID and you can come in,” he said, blocking the door.
“Her handbag was stolen!” one of my companions helpfully offered, before adding, “Oh god, I think I’m going to spew.”
I pleaded. He shook his head. I couldn’t believe it. “For gods sake, I’m older than you. Look at the lines on my forehead, do you really think that I am under 18?”
He refused and I buzzed around him like an insistent little bee. Eventually he snapped, shaped up to me and pushed me with his chest, telling me to “just fuck off”. No lie.

One of the perks of being a psych nurse is that you become quite nonplussed when confronted with potential violence. I stared at him with a bored expression. Looking back, I’m lucky he didn’t punch me. I handled that situation with the misplaced sense of security that only someone who grew up in a non-violent household, and has found herself with non-violent men, can have. I wanted to say to the bouncer, ‘Look, I’m clearly in a state of arrested development, it’s true. I mean, I’m giggling and drinking cask vinegar wine with a bunch of 23 year old girls, but this doesn’t mean I haven’t been on this planet for three decades.’

Eventually, I wore him down. I lasted maybe half the time it took me to actually get in. I was never a club rat, and last night I remembered why. It was called the Retro Music Hall. It was actually House Music Hell. Two minutes of the repetitive beat and my brain began to dribble out of my ears. I followed the girls onto the dance floor and endured three minutes of young Czech guys grinding against my leg.
I said to one guy, “Honestly, just stop. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
The deafening music meant he apparently didn’t hear me. He pointed to his cheek.
“I’m not kissing your cheek. Does this actually work with Czech women? Go away.”

I fled to the fringes, bottle of Stella (that I had only paid $2.50AUD for!) in hand. I was happy to watch the dance floor with a bemused expression. However, when a woman stands alone in a club- and I only learnt this last night- what guys actually see is a big neon sign with ‘Hello! I’m after some dick, please! Swing it this way! Come at me with it!’

Before we left for the club, I sat with the girls of the hostel in the common room. We drank cheap wine, gabbed about boys, discussed genital piercings, and laughed. Honestly, I preferred that. The introvert in me prevails.

Earlier that night I had run into an older Czech man who ran the company I did the Underground Torture Chamber tour through. He recognised me and we chatted over a beer. That was awesome. It gave me an insight into life in Prague, the history of Prague, he even shed light on why the cabbie ripped me off. That conversation left me richer than the nightclub ever could. I think that the best way to travel- and gain something from it- is to hit the places where the locals drink and talk to them. That’s how you feel the country that you are in. You can’t pick up the vibe of a city in a deafening nightclub. Hurling yourself through Europe, fucking and drinking as you go, may be the way for twenty-something’s to travel. I’m beyond that. I can get drunk and fuck back home, I don’t have to travel much further than Glebe to accomplish that.

Realistically, I have done my years of Hunter S. Thompson style debauchery. They were fun. Really fun. But I don’t want to repeat them, I’m happy with the blurred memories. I don’t necessarily think that this makes me old, but I’m certainly at a different place to my travelling companions. However, I think I may keep masquerading as a 28 year old, though.

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