Photo: Testemale

Everyone deserves a cold beer after a good day of surfing.

Everyone deserves a cold beer that bit more after a great day of surfing the fabulous west coast of Africa.

Dark, exotic, hot… Senegal, Africa!

Rather than the sweaty hotel bar next to the mosque, we decided to go slightly upmarket, to a pool bar to indulge ourselves with AC. You know the kind of place; low lights, mellow vibes, leathery furniture and a long modern bar with high stools. The pool tables were in perfect condition, smooth green felt under the neon lights, polished black wood with gold trim.

We were the only white guys, of course, amongst a couple of tables with smart Dakar businessmen in suits. We hit a few frames and were about to order another round, when the entrance door opened.

No one really paid attention to the newcomers, but the newcomers scanned the place in a matter a seconds. Next thing, five buxom, high heeled, red lipsticked, tight jeaned and even tighter topped beautiful prostitutes were at the bar, eyes fixed on the white boys. Now I’m not talking about a group of scraggy, haggered, diseased looking hookers.

I’m talking about indescribable ebony beauties, so lithe and long and curved and strong and so full of impossible sex magic that they looked as if they had invented the very art of penetration, or at least were direct descendents of those that had. Now our crew were all either married or not really down with whoring, hence our quandry. We didn’t want to be rude, but didn’t want to end up in a compromised position, much less HIV positive.

They steadily approached the table, like stalking cats or more like panthers, each eyeing their pray, each going for the kill.

Briefly they stood next to the table, then sat on it, one even started lying on it, tits pressed again the green felt as I was setting up a opposite side of the table for a crucial shot. I lost concentration.

We knew that buying drinks wouldn’t help, that would surely encourage them. Instead, we opted to offer them to play. ‘My one’ broke and potted, and said ‘un euro’. I agreed to a tariff of a euro per shot. She then proceeded to clean up the table in one fabulous break. Hitting the ball with power and accuracy I’d never seen, I wondered how these girls had not joined the pool version of the ‘WQS’ and qualified.

On the other tables, scenarios of a similar order were playing out. All the boys got annihilated by the hottest, darkest, sultriest pool sharks of all time.

Some time later, some twenty euros lighter I left the bar, still a proud family man, and with just a tinge of regret of some other nature.