When a Young Scottish Lad Falls into the
Hungarian Cesspool
I was working at an investment bank in
Budapest in 1999 when my boss called and said he was sending the new Scottish sales-trader
for the London office out to have me train him.
His name was Connor Stewart. I’d already
spoken to him on the phone a couple times and he seemed like a good guy. We both shared a unique sense of humor that
allowed us to make fun of ourselves or do almost anything if it brought out a
good laugh.
Connor arrived in town on a Sunday
night. I met him for dinner and gave him
a rundown of the office and my thoughts on the market. The restaurant was pretty dead, so it was
easy to talk. It was obvious that this
kid was revved up and ready to attack the job with everything he had, which was
a good sign. He was still young and
inexperienced and I tried my best to guide him through the most common investment
banking pitfalls, namely, letting the extreme money go to his head and then
becoming a pretentious prick who values people on the money they have instead
of the values they exude. I thought the
discussion went well.
After a while, Connor asked me why I
wasn’t working out of London, the bank’s flagship office. “London’s not for me. They keep trying to get me to move there, but
I enjoy being out here in the trenches. Also,
taxes and costs are much lower and my clients prefer having someone on the
ground that they can talk to.” Connor
didn’t say a word as he digested what I saying.
I added, “You’ll also see that being out here has other benefits-
there’s a cultural awakening unfolding across the region. It’s fascinating to be part of it.” We then went on to discuss the region’s
history, local scene, wild nightlife and also the role of a broker to entertain
visiting clients.
“I’m telling you,” I said, “some weeks
I’ll have multiple clients passing through and all of them want to hit the
strip clubs after running to meetings all day.
I never knew the extreme perversion of the rich until I started working
at the bank…it’s crazy, but I also understand it. These strip clubs are off the charts. They’re full service and the girls are
stunning and have an enthusiasm you wouldn’t expect. You don’t find places like this out West.” As I said this, Connor’s moved to the edge of
his seat and was staring at me as if I was quoting verse. He started asking all kinds of questions about
how things worked at the clubs, what services, how much it cost... He wanted a full rundown of the underbelly of
Budapest society, so I filled him in without any filters.
I had a client from New York coming
through town at the end of the week who I was certain would want to take a dip
in the Cesspool and told Connor that he should come along for the company meetings
and dinner as part of his training. I
then offered the young Scotsman a preview of these dens of iniquity. I wanted him to be prepared ahead of the
meeting for debauchery inspired by the days of Caligula. “That would be fantastic mate!” He said.
We agreed to go out on Tuesday.
On Tuesday, we worked until just after
8pm and then went to dinner. By the time
we finished eating (and drinking a couple bottles of wine), it was well past
10pm. We then went to what I considered
the best club in the city, which was also the place I planned on taking the
client to.
In Eastern Europe during this time, a
lot of the strip clubs offered full services and I made sure to again fill Connor
in on how things worked and what he could expect. I also told him the lingo so he would know
when a girl was offering a standard full contact lap dance and when she was
offering a private room to do the “hibbity-dibbity” if you know what I
mean. Connor was bouncing in his seat
and shaking his head with a wide grin.
He said he had never been to any places of ill repute before. I told him not to fret, he didn’t have to do
anything he didn’t want to and that he should just look at the night out as a
reconnaissance mission ahead of the client dinner. “Just because the buffet is open, doesn’t
mean you have to partake in its offerings,” I stressed in an effort to calm him.
When we entered the club, we got a
table in the back corner away from the stage.
I find that these out of the way tables offer the best privacy and get
the best service because of it. Of
course, being a tall, handsome Scotsman in his mid-20s with highlander blue-green
eyes, he was an immediate magnet to all the Hungarian and Slavic ladies. My concern that he might feel intimidated or
nervous was greatly misplaced. He was
entertaining multiple girls from the get-go.
His enthusiasm and evident joy were contagious- it spread among the
girls like a virulent case of the Clap and soon all the ladies were stopping by
our table.
We continued to party – drinks, shots, money
and debauchery were all out in heavy force.
Late in the evening, a new stripper arrived wearing red lingerie, a
garter belt and four-inch heels. She was
probably returning from a private party or something, but it didn’t
matter. She was gorgeous. A true vision of seedy exuberance and, being
the professional that she was, she immediately honed in on the new blood- this young
prince from Edinburgh throwing money around like it was two day old haggis
after a Burns night.  |
| Haggis- A Scottish classic made of sheep heart, liver & lungs minced with onion and spices served in sheep stomach- Yummy! |
When “Red” arrived at our table, it was
hot and heavy from the start. I’d seen
this look on clients many times before and it was clear that my job as guide
was over. I’d taken the rookie as far as
I could. He knew the terrain and the
costs. It was up to him to decide what limits
he wanted to push on this particular initiation by fire and it was up to me to
give him some space and anonymity to explore the moral boundaries that
confronted him. I finished my lap dance,
tipped the girl, paid the bill (on the corporate credit card) and told the Scot
that I was done for the night and departed.
The next morning, I arrived at the
office at 8am. By 8:30am Connor was
still MIA. Our Hungarian traders asked
where he was. I told them we had a big night
out and that he’d arrive soon. When they
asked what we did, I only mentioned the restaurant that we went to and then
added vaguely that we went out for some drinks after. This was a professional courtesy. I wasn’t about to undermine young Connor’s
standing in the office by telling the staff that we tied one on at the city’s
best whorehouse to the wee hours of the morning and that I left him there drunk
as a skunk to sink or swim in the deep end of the Cesspool with a hot blond in
red panties and heels. What kind of a
guy would I be? That was no one’s
business but his own.
About a half hour later just as the market was about to open the door to the
trading room was kicked open with a loud bang- the Hungarian traders jumped
back and I swung around to see this mad Scotsman, evidently still drunk with
his arms raised above his head in victory yelling, “I SHAGGED A STRIPPER LAST
NIGHT!!!” He bellowed it so loud that the
entire office, even the accounting girls way in the back heard the news.
Clearly, the girl in red left our
Scottish lad feeling awfully satisfied, but still, I found this type of entrance and
announcement a bit much. I’d never
seen such pride and lack of shame about whoring before. Here I was trying to keep the night under
wraps to protect his reputation and now this guy bursts in like screaming bagpipes
yelling that he slept with a prostitute? I couldn’t believe it and could only chalk it up to him being a
Highlander- and that must be the way they do it up there.
 |
| Just the way they do it up there.... |
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Speaking about other ways of doing things, have you read about the time I did laundry at a dinner party? It didn’t go as planned- check it out by clicking the link below:
