New Year’s Eve in Austria – ANDIAMO in 2026!

2026 has arrived and I’m here to review and comment on this New Year’s Eve party at ANDIAMO in Villach, which, truthfully, leaves little to describe and much to discuss—but we’ll get back to that shortly…

The last day of this 2025 begins with a calm wake-up after the previous night at the club, where I found a good atmosphere but a certain lack of “raw material,” which is why I decided to give the place another chance on New Year’s Eve. The room at Frühstückspension Wernberg is warm and cozy; I slept peacefully, relaxed and nice and warm, while outside the night before the temperature had dropped to -8°C—basically a freezer.

Toward mid-afternoon I arrive at the venue. The indoor parking lot is full and there aren’t many free spaces outside either. I leave the “fuckmobile” out in the cold and head inside, lining up behind two travelers who arrived just moments before me. I paid the full entrance price of €139, because I was undecided about whether to go to Wellcum or come here, I didn’t want any obligations, and even though I’m generally broke, a few extra money don’t really change my life.

I’m given locker number 12, one of the small ones, but it’s enough since I left my coat in the car (experience teaches^^). There’s a steady flow of people, which doesn’t surprise me. I showered twenty minutes earlier and head straight into the arena. Lots of white bathrobes, few Andiamine around—definitely better than the day before, but with at least three times as many customers.
I almost struggle to find a free stool at the bar, order my first coffee, and look around. I immediately spot Loret walking by with a bespectacled colleague who seems about her age and vaguely similar in appearance—a standard “Draculina,” let’s say—and it’s with her that I’ll kick things off shortly.
First, though, I take some time to see if there are any noteworthy candidates, and there are a few. In particular, I see a petite blonde walk by completely naked, coming back from a room—not a great beauty in the face, probably because of a slightly prominent nose, but she’s not ugly either; and that little body is definitely worth noting and inspires good thoughts. Right after, another one passes by—I think she’s the youngest of the bunch. A slightly square face but overall cute, a bit petite but with the right curves in the right places. She looks promising, and she probably is, because both she and the other girl will be busy all evening until midnight, before giving themselves over to the celebrations and the mayhem. In fact, I didn’t even get a chance to talk to them, and I didn’t want to force things.

I treat myself to a glass of wine kindly offered by the house. For the occasion, in the raised area of the stage beneath the DJ booth, a table has been set up with tastings and wines available throughout the day, at least until dinner service started in the restaurant. I get comfortable, sip slowly, and keep looking around.

There’s also the dark-skinned girl from the day before, whom I thought was African but apparently she’s Puerto Rican or something like that—not that it really matters, but she’s got a pair of boobs that are definitely worth looking at, you never know. There’s another black girl in the lineup too, called Happiness, much more inviting despite that wig habit typical of African girls. She seems easygoing and we exchange a few words.
It makes me laugh that when I ask her what her name is, she answers “Felicità.” She repeats it three times because it sounds strange to me and I don’t get it, then the fourth time she says “Happiness!” and I go, “Ah! Felicità!” and she says, “But aren’t you Italian?” and I reply, “Yeah, but it’s better if you say it in English, otherwise nobody understands a damn thing.” I say goodbye and put her on hold for later, in case I don’t find anything better.

I see others who don’t inspire me, and as soon as Loret’s friend (from now on Lorette, I saw that it’s spelled that way and I’ll go with it) is alone, I approach her to see what she’s like. Her name is Jennifer and she looks a lot like an ex of mine with the same name (back when I was twenty). She seems playful and just the right amount of friendly. She’s certainly not the hottest of the bunch (and later, looking at the photos on the website, she actually seemed better in person), but those little glasses give me good vibes. On top of that, she doesn’t rush me, and that convinces me to take her upstairs.
We don’t talk about rates—I’m also here to get a feel for the situation and I deliberately don’t ask anything. In the room she only asks if I know the prices and what I’d prefer to do. “In the meantime, put it in your mouth,” is my simple reply, and she doesn’t need to be told twice. I have to say she looks better naked than in lingerie, and without those twenty-centimeter heels she has a more appealing build for my tastes, even if physically she’s very average. She works calmly—balls in her mouth, licking and sucking, she knows how to play. I let her lead the game: she covers the shaft, climbs on top of me and slides it in. I like the way she moves, I like those natural little tits, and above all I like that slutty look on her face.
But she’s the first of the day and she deserves the Sacred Sheep Test©. Very satisfying when she’s there with her ass in the air and her head resting on the bed. The half hour has already passed; today I’m more “allergic” than usual to condoms, but Jennifer from behind is a pleasure. I find myself gripping the headboard while she bangs into it and doesn’t lose position. She’s soft in just the right way, urges me to fuck her hard, with that Romanian accent that always makes me laugh a bit and sounds deliciously slutty (not my fault if all the Romanian women I’ve known were deeply slutty, and I’m not talking only about professionals).
I like her, but that latex is numbing my senses and finishing requires her intervention, otherwise we’ll be here until morning—or more likely I’ll die of exhaustion^^. I leave her backside, stay on my knees, pull back the hood of the royal bird and tell her what I want, or rather what he wants, since no more blood is reaching my brain and it doesn’t count for shit anymore. Jennifer goes back to playing with mouth, tongue, lips, and hands without interruption, bringing me to the edge several times without finishing me off. Then, when it’s time, she pulls back just enough, I shoot a couple of spurts in her face that surprise even me, and she ends things by taking it back into her mouth.
I don’t understand anything anymore, I watch the scene with half-closed eyes, and when she pulls away I collapse on the bed exhausted and stay there while she goes to empty the hangar and clean herself up. The girl knows what she’s doing; if she were even a bit hotter she’d be among the top in terms of professionalism (aside from the fact that in this case I wasn’t interested in French-kissing her—I’m saying this because some people can’t enjoy the rest without it, and I have no idea how she behaves in that regard).

The bill is steep, but expected: €250 for an hour with a doll available for rent, with that finale being the icing on the cake and worth the extra expense. Maybe I could have saved something by negotiating beforehand (from experience I’d drop the “maybe” for a regular client in the same situation), but even so—and I’m not certain—I wouldn’t have spent less than €210 anyway, and the difference doesn’t change my life. You definitely don’t come to these border fuck-joints to save money, or at least that’s no longer the case in 2026.

The situation in the main area is fairly lively; there’s about a five-to-one ratio between Polar Bears and girls, who I estimate to be just over thirty in total—I didn’t bother counting them one by one. I pass through the restaurant area to go outside for a smoke; some tables are already occupied by people who are probably starting to feel hungry, and the staff are bringing in the last “trays” of food to fill the buffet that will be opening shortly.

Outside in the “smoking area” (if only there were a real smoking room, but we’ll talk about that at the end), there are about ten bears out in the cold, gathered around two heating towers. There’s also the curly-haired, no-longer-young woman whose name I can’t remember, wrapped in a blanket (like Grandma Duck in front of the fireplace).
listen to the conversations of some young newbies, which always make me laugh a bit. In particular, there are two guys from Florence and two from Emilia chatting away, and they’re joined by a very hyped-up guy who says he had a foursome with three Andiamine earlier. He also says he’s drunk too much and that if he keeps going like this, between coke and Cialis his heart is going to explode (his words, not mine). There are some Austrians nearby too, but I have no idea what they’re talking about.
I leave the little sideshow and head back inside because it’s cold.

Back in the warmth, I flop down on a couch to watch the naked girls coming back from the rooms, just to get a sense of the situation. The little blonde with the long nose walks by—when she moves she looks like a bouncing mozzarella, with her tits and little ass jiggling. Honestly, her body makes me want her, but she’s really hyperactive and always busy.
Then a tattooed brunette passes in front of me—Ambra, if I’m not mistaken—petite and well-proportioned. I’ll see her several times passing by without ever talking to her. All in all she’s a cute little piece, but I couldn’t guess her age and her face doesn’t inspire much sympathy.
There’s also a short girl who, with her robe on in the lounge, looked vaguely doable, but seeing her naked you notice the flaws, and it made me think about how badly she’d compare to my old friend “La NanaBastarda” (same size, but a true mignon model).
Then I catch Lorette’s eye, reach her at the bar counter, and let her take me upstairs once again, because I don’t mind her at all.

Room 17. “What do we want to do today?” – “Put it in my face while you suck me, then I’ll tell you…” – Half an hour of mirror sheep-play games and a big finale. I had to make up for yesterday’s desire to finish between those oversized lips, and I satisfied myself.
We go back downstairs for the payment and I hand her the well-deserved three fifty-euro bills. For lack of alternatives and because she does know how to do her job, as far as I’m concerned she’s earned herself a customer for future visits (assuming I’ll feel like coming back anytime soon and that she’ll still be there—which is unlikely, considering that in about twenty days I’ll be in Bangkok).

A restorative hot shower and I go check out what the restaurant menu has to offer. I treat myself to a plate of linguine with shrimp, salmon, and baked scallops, then fruit and dessert, and finally a coffee. There’s also meat and plenty of other things that look good, but I don’t want to weigh myself down too much or I’ll end up beached like a walrus.

I go back outside to smoke and in the little garden fort I find practically the same people as before. One of the two guys from Florence is visibly ecstatic about being there at the club—his first time, he doesn’t know when he’ll come back, and he’s invested a good part of his thirteenth salary in this occasion. It makes me laugh to hear him talk, not out of malice, but because he reminds me of myself the first time in a fuck-joint: pure ecstasy and euphoria at finding yourself surrounded by so many available ladies in exchange for a bit of filthy money.
There’s someone talking about the room he just did, someone telling stories about the girls at a nightclub in my area (pretty famous in the scene), and someone talking about something else entirely. One guy complains about the small number of girls present and regrets coming to Andiamo instead of going to Wellcum. At that point, a longtime patron (who maybe, like me, doesn’t frequent the place as often anymore) points out that Andiamo is a different thing: here you don’t have to keep your guard up, while at Wellcum you do; Andiamo is more relaxing, and back when Wellcum didn’t even exist, this is where people came to look for paradise.
And I can only agree—not for nothing am I here too, even if honestly I was expecting more girls and fewer polar bears tonight. But aside from this small-big detail, it feels good, and things can only improve from here until after midnight.

I go back into the main area with a full belly, slip onto a stool for a beer—the bartenders are quite efficient despite the chaos, and the wait is very short. While I’m there looking around, a brunette arrives who isn’t a new face to me, even if I can’t remember where I’ve seen her before. She greets quite a few people who seem to be regulars, then approaches me with a smile and a certain friendliness. I let her talk for a bit and then reply in my own way: “Yeah, but like this it feels like you’re trying to sell me a vacuum cleaner.”
She laughs and continues: “So, with me you don’t fuck, but you tell me what you want and we do it.”
“And if you don’t fuck, what do you do, play cards?”
“So, I’ll tell you my menu…” and she actually starts listing a menu with price tiers and various options, some of which involve her defiling the client’s ass in different ways.
I’m forced to pull out the ancient wisdom of my homeland: “Neither for joke nor for fun do I want anything around my ass.” She’s taken aback for a moment and then replies, “So, I do mistress, sadomaso and all that stuff…”
I cut her off: “So… if you say ‘so’ one more time I’ll actually buy this vacuum cleaner.” She bursts out laughing like an idiot and carries on with her little show: “You’re funny, I like you.” Then she adds, “So let’s go upstairs, you and me, and I’ll do whatever you want.”
“So, since I’m funny, if you pay me I’ll come.”
From there, for the next ten minutes it’s all a back-and-forth of “so,” I tease her in a friendly way and she laughs. Every now and then she greets someone passing by and chats briefly, but she doesn’t leave.
“I’m going outside to smoke,” I tell her.
“I’m coming too, wait,” she says.
And I head back out into the cold and frost in the little fort with this likeable crazy Serbian woman named Dragana. When she told me her name and where she’s from, I added two and two and realized I’d probably already had dealings with her years ago—and that’s why she didn’t feel like a new face, even if my memory doesn’t retain absolutely everything.

In the smoking fort I once again find the same faces, which is normal since smokers tend to be the same people. She greets a couple of patrons she knows, and meanwhile the Florentine guy from earlier points out to me that he’d gladly do her, but she told him she doesn’t fuck (by the way, he’s twenty-three and I think she’s around forty, well kept—maybe a bit less, but I didn’t investigate). Anyway, I’m not interested in the item, and I take the opportunity to slip away nonchalantly and head back into the main area.

Meanwhile, the girls start changing and dressing in red. Some keep grinding through rooms, others are very relaxed and don’t seem to have much desire to work, or at least they don’t look for clients unless someone goes looking for them. Fair enough—it’s a holiday evening for everyone.
Then, as tradition dictates, the tombola starts, though it’s more like a lottery: some people win a free half hour, others a bottle of champagne, up to the first prize, which consists of 10 free entries to Andiamo—a pretty nice prize, I’d say. Every now and then there’s a little pole show, and also a nice lesbian duo between Dragana and another girl, with Dragana eventually putting her into doggy and mounting her from behind with a strap-on, which is vaguely pleasant to watch.
Midnight approaches. The music changes and the DJ throws in a bit of everything. Confetti cannons are handed out, glasses are prepared for the toast, the raised stage fills up and… “Happy Neeeeew Year!” As usual, I can’t help shouting my personal greeting. I fire off my confetti and knock back the bubbles. Then I grab another glass and make a round of toasts until I end up back on the lounger near the restaurant entrance.
Shortly after, Happiness appears again, leaning on a stool on the other side of the bar. She won’t be top-tier, but I’m in the mood for black and she’s got a nice little ass. I wait for her to notice my look, and when she does, I raise my glass in her direction. She stands up, disappears for a moment behind the dividers of the couches, and reappears straddling me. Nice and aggressive—I don’t mind at all.
After the New Year wishes she asks me what I want to do. I tell her I want to finish my drink. She says I can do that in a room too. I reply that in a room I prefer to do other things. She takes off that sort of open vest she’s wearing and literally slams her little tits in my face. “Sure?”
“Yes, then I think we’ll go upstairs.”
At that point she stands up and leaves the vest on me. “Bring it back when you’re ready,” she says with that bitchy little smile, and goes back to sit where she was before, turning the other way with a vague air.

I finish my drink, sneak up to her and grab her tits from behind. “Let’s go upstairs…”
“Ok.”
“…But I’m keeping this, you look better without it,” I tell her, holding her vest.
“Ok, let’s go.”
I’d say she’s a woman of few words, which is fine, but when we get to the top of the stairs all the rooms are occupied and there are two other “couples” waiting. The little cleaning guy is running like a madman back and forth as soon as a room frees up. The first key arrives—another girl takes it. The second one comes, it’s number ten, the other broad passes, Happiness takes it, sees it’s ten and stops.
“Uncomfortable room, do we wait or do you want to go in this one?”
“Let’s wait,” I say.
Two rooms free up almost at the same time and I get number 17—again. As soon as we go in she complains that the floor is all wet and a bit of the bed too, and that the previous girl could at least have dried a little.
“Come on, don’t get mad, the cleaning guy can’t run everywhere,” I tell her.
“Where I come from they teach women to clean, look at this mess…”
She grabs a towel and starts drying here and there. I’m not sure whether to appreciate her tidy attitude or laugh at the way she’s saying it. In doubt, I hop in the shower to freshen up the shaft while she slaves around the room, and when she’s done I join her on the bed.
“Satisfied?”
“No I’m not, those ones don’t clean anything, they don’t teach them how to be women at home… etc., etc.”
I notice a vague hostility toward the Draculinas, and the fact that it’s coming from an African woman makes me laugh a bit, but some of them are kind of feral and she’s not entirely wrong—what can you do.

I can’t help but bite her ass to bring her back into her role as a harlot, otherwise she glitches and starts cleaning the corridors too. “Nice little ass, and it’s good too!” The bitch laughs and, back in the mood, asks me if I already know how everything works. When I say yes, while she toys with my half-hard shaft with her hand, she asks what I want to do.
I raise a finger, place it on her lips. “I want these.” She settles between my legs, two little kisses, a taste, and then she makes it all disappear into her mouth with ease. “Fuck yes!” I feel like cheering. She laughs for a moment and keeps going.
She’s good, really good, but if I let her go on like this, in five minutes I’ll erupt like Vesuvius at Pompeii (an evocative name, by the way^^). And since she has a body I like and her face isn’t exactly Zendaya’s, I propose the Sacred Sheep Test©, which with that soft little ass is inevitable.
And I like her so much that, despite it being my third round of the day, with alcohol and fatigue starting to make themselves felt, I still manage to release the last drops of sacred nectar inside that African vulva in doggy style (with proper protection, eh, before someone gets the wrong idea).
Maybe some people care to know that she passes with flying colors: with that back bending like a willow branch and her following the rhythm with every thrust, and fuck, what a pleasure it is to slap that Nutella-colored ass! Maybe it’s the black effect, but as the first broad of the year she more than satisfied me, and aside from that wig habit—which for me is always a bit “meh”—for the rest she was a pleasant surprise.
She even deserved a deep-throat finale given her skill, but as an old friend of mine would say, “My balls were dry!” and it wouldn’t even have been that satisfying without drowning her properly. But seriously, with two fifty-euro bills I started 2026 in the best possible way, and considering the situation downstairs in the main room, that’s not bad at all.

This also marks the effective end of the games for me. All that’s left is to relax a bit before calling it a night—not so much because I want to go to sleep, but because the girls in the main room are now mostly focused on dancing and singing or keeping company with the regulars of the place. Something I know well and understand, because I used to be one myself, and when they know you all by name it’s normal for them to treat you like a friend, or at least with the kind of attention given to a good customer in any other line of business.

I take advantage of it for one last snack, since after midnight the buffet was refilled with smoked sausages, zampone with lentils, sausages, and goulash, and while I was at it I tasted the first three—just to go to bed light, obviously.

After the last coffee at the bar, while Dragana kept singing words I couldn’t understand, I smoked my last Marlboro in the little garden fort and, needless to say, there were more or less the same faces as always—plus an Austrian of Hungarian origin who doesn’t speak English but was having an interesting conversation with the now-drunk Florentine newbie, along with other characters who don’t understand two words of German, just like me. Still, after years between Germany and Austria I’ve developed an ear for various terms, and by instinct I often manage to grasp the general meaning of sentences even if not their entirety. I admit it was a funny little scene.
Outside it’s freezing, so I head back in. What’s left are the drunks, the die-hards, and little more, along with a handful of girls who have practically already stopped working and are just messing around with the staff and among themselves. I say goodbye to my first sheep of the year, sitting at a small table with company, and peacefully head off to return to the hotel, with ice on the windows and -8 degrees outside, in the sleeping landscape at the foot of the Alps.

I allow myself to briefly add a few other small notes or anecdotes from the evening, in no particular order:

While I was alone in the sauna, a guy comes out of the hot tub and starts rummaging through the pockets of the bathrobes hanging between the saunas. I assume he’s trying to figure out which one is his, but experience has taught me that it wouldn’t be the first time someone makes a mistake, so I keep an eye on him. Sure enough, he grabs mine. I have to step out of the sauna to tell him he took the wrong one and that if he checks the pocket he’ll find cigarettes.
Maybe he wasn’t completely clear-headed, because in his robe he had his glasses, which he had left elsewhere—and I know this because he showed them to me while passing back by the sauna glass, calling himself an idiot.
In the end, the Florentine guy did go with Dragana, and right afterward, in the smoking fort, he was ecstatic about having had mutual oral sex with her, praising her and obsessively repeating, “I licked her, and damn right I licked her,” and things like that. I admit it made me laugh a lot.
Worth praising is the more or less constant presence of Cristiano (who doesn’t know me because I prefer to keep a low profile, stay anonymous and above the fray—but of course everyone knows him, or at least anyone who’s been frequenting these places for a while^^).
Nice was the invasion of balloons from the net on the ceiling after midnight—they added atmosphere as well as a pleasant sense of chaos.
I couldn’t help but compare it to the New Year’s Eve party ten years earlier, 2015/2016, and I have to say I have very fond memories of that one—except for the excessive crowding in the hours around midnight, which was the only real downside back then. This time, instead, everything felt a bit more subdued, with an aftertaste of a parish-hall party that doesn’t really suit this type of venue. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t a good evening, but there is a difference, and above all there were too few girls for an event like this.
I probably shouldn’t be the one to say it—I understand that non-smokers don’t care and that whoever runs the place surely has their reasons for leaving things as they are—but a proper smoking room that isn’t a freezer would be very welcome. Even just setting one up in the unused outdoor bar area, with a partition to better enclose the space or a serious heater, and maybe a simple garden tunnel or similar solution to reach it when it’s freezing outside. Because smokers may not be many, but they’re there, and being able to take a break from the chaos inside or smoke a cigarette in the company of other patrons or a girl who smokes becomes a small added value on cold winter nights.
I’ll repeat myself, but if there had been twice as many girls it would have been much more enjoyable, and this is without a doubt a common opinion among almost everyone there. Also because there was no shortage of customers, and at certain moments it really felt like a gathering of polar bears without females, which isn’t the best look—especially for someone who’s never been there before and might not feel like coming back.
Finally, a personal reflection: once, border fuck-joints were for many travelers also places where you went to binge on sex in a relaxed and pleasant environment, but above all there were naked girls everywhere, and the services of the working girls cost less than those of prostitutes near home. That justified the trips and the hassle of coming to Austria for those who don’t live nearby and maybe have to drive 500 km to get there.
The idea that the girls are independent is correct, but they already were in 2009, and yet back then the €70 (initially €65) included almost everything except anal and finishing in the mouth, both options at the discretion of the girls, along with other less standard things that could be decided on the spot. What I mean is that today the base €80—also correctly stated at the cashier if you ask—certainly includes only “sex and covered blowjob,” while everything else is at the discretion of the prostitutes, without a clear guideline from the venue. This normalizes small extras that make everything more uncertain, and not just more expensive.
I’m the first to say that if someone doesn’t have money to spend, they can easily stay home—after all, this isn’t a basic necessity, and that’s fair enough. The point is that in this way you lose that magical, repeatable experience that it once was, and that helped make Andiamo famous and later Wellcum as well, as well as Fu Marina in Slovenia (which, incidentally, was siphoning off customers and workers from all the others, and no one will ever convince me that this isn’t the main reason it was shut down—but that’s another story).