That was the name of the Easter event at Marilyn Night Club.
It sounded like a promisingly spicy night, especially since one of the dancers goes by the nickname “Bunny,” and if you managed to guess which one she was, you were in for a surprise. Know any other strip clubs in Budapest this creative? This place is bursting with ideas! Every Thursday has its own themed event, well thought-out and packed with partygoers. The high-quality Lap Dance, Pole Dance, and Table Dance performances make sure the nights stay hot and unforgettable.
Easter’s always had a hint of cheekiness to it anyway. The tradition of sprinkling girls with perfume may be slowly fading, but it used to be a big deal. Even as kids, it was the perfect excuse for a bit of early flirting. I remember always heading to the prettiest girl’s house first, though I had to wait my turn, obviously, since I wasn’t the only one who thought she was the prettiest. Funny enough, the most beautiful painted egg never came from her. It usually came from someone I never expected.
Adulthood’s not all that different, really. You learn that the most beautiful woman always comes with a wait, and even then, there’s no guarantee that what she gives you in return is worth it. Meanwhile, there are those less glamorous, yet totally charming girls who take the time to craft the perfect Easter egg (figuratively speaking, of course.
I grew up in the city, so I only had one real countryside Easter experience in my life. I must have been 16 or 17 when my parents decided we’d spend the holiday with our rural relatives. I had mixed feelings,I wanted to stay in town with my friends, but I didn’t get to see my cousins very often, and we always had a blast together. The trip was long and painfully boring. The trunk of our old Lada was stuffed with gifts on the way there, only to be just as stuffed with gifts on the way back.
Ten minutes after arriving, my cousins and I were already roaming the village streets with their friends, plotting which girls we’d visit to sprinkle with perfume on Easter Monday. And that’s when countryside Easter really started to get interesting. We were at that age when our only priority was girls. Nothing else mattered.
My first surprise came early Monday morning. I saw my cousins in full suits and ties, staring at me like, “When are you changing?” I was not prepared for this. Back home, we never squeezed into our eighth-grade graduation suit just for some sprinkling. My uncle offered me his jacket, but I politely declined since it was six sizes too big and smelled like mothballs. Naturally, I hadn’t brought any cologne either. My mom handed me hers with strict instructions: one spray per girl, it was very expensive.
And so, five lanky teenagers set off: four in tight suits and shiny shoes, and me, the city kid in jeans and sneakers.
The very first house made me realize that “sprinkling” meant something completely different out here. In the city, the girl would come to the door, you’d recite a poem, give a quick spray, get your egg, and move on. In the village, you got invited inside, offered pastries and drinks, and the parents actually sat you down for a chat. It was painfully awkward at first, until someone brought out the homemade pálinka, and the mood got a lot more relaxed.
Maybe it was the pálinka, or maybe we just visited the prettiest houses, but somehow every girl looked beautiful. Still, there was one girl I remember clearly. We were technically there to sprinkle her little sister, but the older sister… wow. She was something else. A couple of years older than us, which probably made her seem even more magical. And I wasn’t the only one who thought so, the whole gang was crushing on her.
There wasn’t much to do in the village, so every evening we just hung out in the streets. Quite a few of us would gather, but I was really just waiting for her. Her sister showed up, she didn’t. So I asked the younger one about her. She told me her sister liked my cologne the best. That was all I needed to hear.
I snuck back to the house, stole my mom’s precious Givenchy perfume, and sent it to the girl with her sister, along with my address, so she could write me if she wanted. The next morning, we drove back to the city. My mom scolded me for “losing” her perfume while sprinkling. I stared out the window, hoping to catch one last glimpse of that girl, but no such luck.
A few weeks later, my mom came home from work, exhausted and buried in grocery bags, nothing new. She was flipping through the mail when she suddenly called me over.
“Anything you want to tell me?” she asked in that mom tone no teenager wants to hear.
I gave her a confused look. She shoved an envelope under my nose. “Smell it,” she said.
It smelled like Givenchy. I didn’t even get a chance to react before the back of her hand gave me a love tap to the neck. But I didn’t care. I sprinted to my room with the letter in hand. Looking back, it didn’t really say much, but back then, every blurred word soaked in perfume felt like the centre of my universe.
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