The Giver

When I think about the holidays, I think about family and decorated Christmas trees. I don't have very many traditional things that I hold onto anymore. I'm not religious, and this is the second year in a row I haven't gone home to see my parents for Christmas. If you knew them well, you would know that spending the holidays alone and without family is not hard for me, it's less stressful and not a detrimental to my psyche.

Memories of past holidays often involve a recollection of heated debates, a lot of goofiness and a little over fifteen years ago Christmas was a lot of fun, besides the wonder of being a child in a holiday that is really brought to life for children, it was easy to see the joy. We had big Christmases, with the grandparents, all my siblings were still around and in good mental health. Somewhere in a box in Florida there's a video tape with the evidence of a joyful family holiday, Christmas 1992, the last time we were all together, all laughing, eating, happy. It was a good holiday, even though Grandma still managed to knock down the tree, that was more of a tradition than anything. 

This Christmas I'm working, which most likely means a lot of down time, waiting for someone to sneak away from their own family frivolity for a little "something-something" on the side. 

What most people don't realize is that, just like me, there are many more people out there alone on the holidays, and more often than not their willing to pay for the little bit of company they need to get through a season that is traditionally for family unity. 

I'm not worried about how I spend my holidays, I do not foresee a holiday sweater and a brood of children at my feet in the the future. I'm not that kind of woman. What I am though is a giver.

I find my joys in what I can give to others. Whether its an open ear, some advice or a little "something-something".  I don't need tinsel or mistletoe (although one genuine holiday kiss would be the only wish I may have this season). 

Today I was with someone who stopped in on a whim. He is new to Nevada, he has a family, a good job and extra cash in hand. The kind of person that is sweet and gentle, and sometimes gets in trouble. He was in a lot of pain, having been in a accident that left his hips disjointed and is awaiting a corrective surgery. He hadn't been with anyone intimately in a long time. So today, it was his day to spend a little on himself. He explained he spends most of his money on his family, buying them all gifts, anything they want, he helps his little sister out a lot who's about to graduate high school.

When the party started I knew he was nervous.

"Has it been a long time?" I asked, already knowing the answer just by the way he stared at me as he ran a gentle hand over my body.

"Yes..."

I explained to him that I like what I do, and I showed him my oral skills, explaining to him that I'm a giver and it makes me happy just to know he's happy. He had no complaints. When it was over he held onto me and explained he hadn't been with anyone since the accident.

"It's just nice to be held sometimes." I stated

"I do like it....I do like it." He held onto me tighter.

When the cashier called time he professed his desire to return again, and I told him I would be here.

Granted he paid for my time and services, but I gained more out of being able to touch him, not in a physical manner, but in a way that someone hadn't been able to in a long time, I gave him a connection, a moment of happiness and peace. Those moments are greater than gold. 

People think, ah but the money, you are a hooker...you get paid for that kind of performance. It is part performance, you have to give them what they came to you for, but it takes a genuine heart, a real touch and emotion to get them to open up to you, to touch their heart in some way and I am very proud of my ability to be a giver.

Some peoples holidays are about family, and decorations, gifts, egg nog, and all the little things wrapped up with shiny bows. All I know is that my holidays are a little unconventional, but still as meaningful as any, because I get the chance to give and receive as much as anyone, and that is what keeps the holiday spirit going, the ability to give no matter where you are, or what you do in life...to give willingly to others is a great thing.

The Hustler and I

When you live in a brothel you're not just meeting customers from all over the world, you're living with a variety of people as well. Down my hall my closest friend here is Filipino/Mexican, our two neighbors are Iranian and a Kenyan, on the other halls we have girls from Missouri and California. All of these girls are different body types, different skin tones, some are bilingual.

Together we call our house the IHOP, short for the International House of Pussy. It's a clever marketing tactic to those men who seem taken aback at the veritable buffet before them in a line up.

When I arrived here in August there was even more variety, having been the end of summer it meant that there were more girls in the house. Yet, it wasn't just the vast variety of the girls that impressed me in those first few weeks, but also the staff. The working girls are only part of the house, the staff are those that come in and out daily in rotating eight hour shifts, they truly allow us to function for twenty-four hours a day.

Along with our five cashier/bartenders, we have a live in maintenance man, and a maid who comes five days a week, also a book keeper that comes in the early mornings, and a runner that will take you to the store or to and from the airport. From what I understand back in its glory days our little brothel had many more people on staff, and even more men that flooded through the doors to keep everyone so busy that it was hard to keep up with the demanding customers.

I could write about the drama that takes place between the girls, but if I did that I could easily have to write for six hours a day non-stop to chronicle all the nuances of smack talk that are created within these walls. Though I find that if you look even harder the true drama and even more entertaining facets of smack talk are created by the staff.

If anyone has ever seen a play, and even more specifically the play Noises Off, you may better understand the defining line between the girls and the staff. In this scenario we can surely say that the girls are the performers, but behind every good performer is an even more dysfunctional and ever so diligent crew. I know, I got a degree in theatre and if there is one thing that my eight years behind the scenes has ever taught me it is that you can relate most every situation, group of people or world scenario to the theatre. So I'll do just that.

When I think about who in both the brothel and a theatre has the most power over each moment I know it would be the director in theatre and the house manager here in the brothel.

When I walked through our doors the first time I was greeted by our manager. He had a phone pressed against one ear, but he still took the time to smile and shake my hand. He wore white track pants with white shoes and a plain t-shirt, atop his head sat a baseball cap with a single "W" stitched into it.

In my first two months working at the ranch I saw a flood of cashiers get fired, it became evident at this point that there is not job stability in a brothel. Our manager fired a slough for shady deeds, one girl said she had to go out to her truck to get something during the middle of her shift but she never came back. Another only lasted a day before claiming she was pregnant and never returned.

Whether the pressure of running the back cashier duties and bar tending had gotten to them, or that they couldn't handle listening to negotiations, there are many things about working here that can and will make you uncomfortable if you're just the innocent bartender.

Our manager as well would frequently tell us that he had no idea what to expect when he had started the job, and by the time I got there a month after he had, he was still shaking his head from time to time in silence while he surveyed the floor on busy nights. It's one thing to be orchestrating the big show, it's another to participate. When he had to do line ups he would escort the customer to the line and then quickly look away, in embarrassment. I could only guess that the fact of the matter was he had a daughter sitting at home, and to watch so many young women in this way tugged a little at his heart strings. What disturbed him even more was probably the fact that we all took to it like ducks to water and often reveled in our bawdy nature.

It takes a certain kind of person to be able to chaperon a large group of hustlers and I couldn't think of a better person than our manager.

He was a tall and handsome black man, who boasted more often than not about his side career as an MMA fighter. He rarely slept, if ever, late at night he would come from one side of the house where he lived in the presidential suite and make grilled cheese sandwiches before pouring himself a double shot of Grey Goose and then would wander back to his lair.

His demeanor was boastfully confident, and he would often point out to people that he was an "asshole" but always managed to apologize if he felt he crossed the line. He wasn't afraid to sit at the jukebox for hours mixing Biggie with Ice Cube, then Bon Jovi

Most of the girls despised him for his up front and often argumentative nature, he was always the winner in a debate, he never bowed down to their unreasonable demands. This is what made him a good manager in my eyes his ability to bullshit his way our of the other girls own benign bullshit.

He was smooth in speech and more often than not when someone tried to tell their perception of him he would quickly remind them that, yes he did like rap music, but he was country at heart, pointing to the "W" on his cap he would say, "That's where I'm from...Wisconsin." He would then tangent about the hardships of running a major nightclub in the heart of Los Angeles, and the many business ventures he had supported over the years. He's the kind of person that even though you knew there was something about him, he wasn't going to let you peg him.

When I had come back from my vacation in late October I had come to find out that, he too, had been fired. Rumors swirled that he had slept with one of the girls, another was that he had too many complaints against him. What I knew though in that moment was that people had finally gotten to his core, and found out that he was not just our manager, but the biggest hustler of us all.

I remember the last time I saw him, I had taken the ride to the Reno airport with him. In those early morning hours we rode in the dark, him talking to his grandmother on the phone, in a very cordial tone, he's easily one of the most likable people you could meet.  He was dropped off first and as he got out of the car he told me that I should enjoy my time away, and that he expected me to come back so that we could have at least one sane person in the house at all times.

Our runner drove me around Reno for a bit and then I too took the long walk through the airport, expecting to see tired faces and wore out children. As I strolled down B terminal I saw a familiar figure, lean back in his chair in front of a slot machine, one leg extended  as he shoveled bills and tokens into the machine, he languidly tapped the spin button and the numbers whirled and dinged, he lost again.

As I approached our manger he looked up and said, "here comes trouble". He slide another five into the slot and tapped the button, he lost again.

"What do you think I should do?" he asked as the number on the screen blanked out to zero, and he prepared another five in his hand, straightening all the corners.

"I think... you should quit while you're ahead." I smiled.

"Is that your advice."

"Yep, always quit while you're ahead."

He pressed the button...nothing. He laughed and slide another bill into the machine.

I sauntered away, only in eye shot, and watched him work his way up and down the rows of machines, sometimes winning but mostly loosing. His flight began to board but he waited until the very last moment, the flight attendant called for late boarding. I stared down the row, saw him collect his jacket, he peered down at me and with a respectful glance, we both waved a hand in almost pseudo-salute with a  final passing nod, he pivoted and was the last to board his flight. He handed off his ticket and walked onto the plane with the swagger of a master hustler.

In later weeks, a friend who also is a staff member would tell me about the real nature of our ex-mangers business, about how he had fabricated most of his stories and actually how many bottles of Grey Goose were found under his bed. Despite these facts I still liked him, he was a good person, and knew how to handle a house full of estrogen better than most.

It just proves that just like in theatre it takes an overly confident director to work with the most difficult of casts, and just like that, it takes and even greater hustler to hustle a house full of them.

Green Light

"Green Light means go..." I shouted over my shoulder as I ran through the parlor and disappeared down C-Hall to grab a nail file from my room.

The previous night had been full of customers flowing in and out of the darkened parlor. It was filled with laughter and smiles, and music penetrated the walls with pounding beats. You could feel the energy in the air. At the time I was still only a month in the business, I sat in a royal blue bikini top, and bopped along with the music, my breasts bouncing to the beat, my make-up perfect, and my hair dyed teal.

It's the kind of work environment where you let go, of course my coworkers and I are also standing around in our underwear. Our manager sat at one end of the bar, the night bartender leaned against the back counter, lines of glasses behind his head, he lit a cigarette and let the smoke trickle from his lips and with his other hand he raised a coffee mug taking a long drag from the cup.

Our mangers night began early, having our bartender pour him another shot of vodka once his cup was empty.  Anyone could tell the atmosphere had began to wear on his nerves. Around the room a flurry of men jested to one another around the bar tables, a girl danced on the pole for tips. Another one pinched her customers nipples at the bar with his giggling over a half a beer. Some of us huddled together played a round of "Who would you do", pointing out who among the employees and working girls we would want to fuck starting with number five and working our way to one. 

The party was hopping. The kind of night to remember, where everyone parties and no one goes to bed worried about paying the rent for the day. 

In the morning it was quiet, no bells, just peaceful. The kind of Sunday morning people look forward to after a busy Saturday night. When I rounded the corner from C-Hall all I could see was a mass of people gathered round the bar. No customers, just employees.

Our manager and night shift bartender clung to the end of the bar, vodka in front of one, beer in front of the other. No one was on shift, the early morning cashier restocked the bar. A few early morning shift girls sat talking amongst themselves. Our manager half tipsy was engaging them in playful questions that most took as insult, too few really knew how to take his deadpan demeanor. What were the topics being discussed? Sex, guns, rock n' roll, and the events of the previous night, not our in house events but the situation they found themselves in across the street.

After most of us had ended out nightly fun, and the brothel had gone quiet, as the girls slept out bartender had decided to take our manager over to the brother across the cul de sac to introduce him to the owner. The owner of the competition being an old friend of our bartender and on very friendly terms with our own owner, it only made sense to have our manager become familiar.

They left drunk, head out the whole 44 paces away and ended up parked at our competitions bar. As we sat with them the next morning the story was recounted as something more like a farce. At some point our manager was forcibly removed from our neighbors bar and banned from ever returning. Later we would find out that he was trying to recruit girls to come to our brothel. Poaching is not considered in good faith in this industry. They then left, our bartender making peace enough to get our manager out the door and back to the safety of our brothel.

So there they sat, drunk at 8 am on a Sunday morning. We all round table conversed on many topics, bells rang, line ups happened, but they still sat at the bar, drinking, until finally a drunken decision was made between the two of them that our manager needed a gun, and our bartender being friends with the owner of the local armory knew just where to go. So triumphantly they got up and staggered out the door. The girls crowding the windows to watch them stumble down the road.

"Well, there goes fric and frac!" one of the girls said, "hope they realize at some point it's Sunday and that shit is closed."

"And that they're not going to sell a gun to two drunk idiots." Someone else pointed out.

Later after not so triumphantly returning without a gun, and still drunk they continued to sit at the bar and  drink. A friend and I sat at the little table next to the bar painting our nails. Our bartender every so often peaking over at us, inquiring what colors we were going to use next. I got up and crossed the parlor, determined to retrieve my nail file.

"Hey Green Light! Where you going?" called out the bartender

To which I responded "green light means go". My green hair had a way in which it enchanted people in those early days. Our bartender called me green light.

As we did our nails, I noticed the bartender looking over, periodically drinking his beer, lighting a cigarette and leaning back in his chair, he sat looking over his shoulder.

"What color do you want?" I called to him.

"What?" he said.

"Come over here, we're going to make you look pretty."

He sat down in the chair next to me and borrowing my friends black nail polish I took his hand.

"See this color goes with the black accents in your tie, and it's a very masculine color for you." I explained.

So there I sat painting his nails, as each one was finished he continued to explain that he didn't care if people did this kind of stuff because he wasn't afraid of what people think, he explained how he like different things, things that seemed unusual caught his eye.

All the while my friend and I laughed silently, watching our usually gruff and unapproachable bartender get a manicure. When they were finished they looked good.

"So this comes off with water, right?" he asked.

Everyone in the room laughed. The whole room had silently been amused by the whole process, having not known that he would allow a girl to paint his nails.

We explained that, no, it takes more than just water, he raised a painted hand to his mouth in shock and the whole room died crying with laughter. Our manager refused to help him, saying, "see, you let your guard down, and she got you."

After they were dry, and the joke was over, I took the nail polish remover and took the polish off.  Our bartender being the practical joker that he is, watched me do this..."I'll get you back one day Green Light.

All I said to that was..."bring it on."

(This story is by far my favorite day thus far in the brothel, we truly had too much fun.)

Perversions of the Truth

In this world there are little white lies. What we say about ourselves on a daily basis is often a version of the truth, a particular way in which we see ourselves or want to be seen. Often the little white lies are better for business than the full and immediate honest answer. Yet, even if the honest answer was given most people who step through our doors will accept anything, but most often regard a good portion of what we say as lies, and better business tactics. This still doesn't stop them from coming, time after time, they will come and sit, for the pure and simple reason that in the outside world they have their own perversions of the truth.

In the real world people may say that the only real way to get to know someone is either in the bathroom or the bedroom. I know a lot of peoples secrets, they trust us, they are paying us, but ultimately they trust us because they give up some of their deepest desires and allow us to help them achieve what they need most...a connection, a willing body and open ears, they come to us because they don't want to be judged.

There is a fine line. Something we all draw in the sand of each day that we get up for work and then we tightrope walk it daily. Today I'm an actress when they assume that's what a theatre degree is only for...tomorrow I'm an old pro that's been doing this kind of work for longer than my client suspects...on Thursday I may be 23 years old, on Friday I'm 29.

It all depends on what the client wants, what you want them to know and how to use the information they give you to your advantage. It means a sale, yes, you are getting money for making out as if you're the only 29 year old actress that is the best of the best at whatever sexual act they want you to perform. It excites them and even though there is always the looming question of whether or not you're telling lies, you know full well that they are not being completely honest in all the things they tell you and their not being completely honest with their wives, first of all on the fact that they see prostitutes and secondly about what they pay us to do.

Often people come to act out a fantasy, they need someone willing to perform the little things that maybe their significant other finds appalling, or an act that they've never been able to ask their wife to perform, either out of embarrassment or shame.

Every person in here is a perverted version of their true self. Some ask for a ten minute quickie just to relieve the stress from the day, others come in for the kinky. I've done quite a few kinky acts, whether it's light submission and dominance play or advanced nipple play.

Recently there was a client that when in the bar seemed to be what you may call a proper business man, penny loafers, an ironed polo shirt and pressed slacks. The usual attire of the recently retired or the vacationing professional. He engages me in conversation, (and there's always something you can relate to with someone. They may say something like oh yeah, I just passed through Sacramento, then you say I know all about Sacramento, I grew up in California, I've been there on vacation)...and the conversation begins.

He wasn't a talker, the conversation wasn't long before he asked to see my room, I take him back and negotiate a reasonable price and time for what he's asking.

The party begins...he wants to masturbate while he stares at my ass, it's simple enough, so I'm bent over on all fours and he's standing as the foot of the bed huffing and puffing. He strokes himself in odd uneven jerks and asks me every so often to look at his cock.

I say something like, "oh...you're cock looks so hard, how does that hard cock feel?"

He responds with, "mmmm...so goooood....can I smell your ass and pussy, I want to smell it...may I? May I? Please tell me I can?"

I nod, and smile, "I want you to smell them, how do they smell....? Does that make your nice hard cock feel good?"

At this point he's overjoyed, shifting his weight from side to side like an excited child at a candy store, he strokes faster and wants me to marvel at his hard cock again, he punctuates each stroke with a smile and continues to comment on how pretty my face is, and how precious I look, I'm a nice girl he says.

"Stroke it faster!" I demand. His face lights up to hear the pretty girl next door type demanding him to go deeper into his perversion. At some point he begins to say something about how sick this all is, that it makes him so hard, it's sick, he reiterates. I smile even bigger and tell him to go faster and with wide eyes I tell him how hard he looks how good it looks for him to do what he's doing. This only makes him smile more.

The party ends. He thanks me profusely, he's enjoyed himself thoroughly and wants to know if I'll be here the next time he's in town. Once back in the bar the conversation goes back to normal, we talk about vacations, our favorite lakes to visit. "I'm going to Disneyland next week!" he says. I think about how I was just there on my own vacation.



I think about myself in Disneyland riding Pirates of the Caribbean, laughing in line for the Jungle Boat Cruise and eating ice cream, no one around me the wiser about how I afforded the inflated ticket price.

It all seems like a divine comedy. Something vast and never ending, filled with little white lies, acted out by the many versions of our perverted selves.

What I was paid for is not something that gets me off, that's not the point. If I had a boyfriend in real life that was into that sort of thing, then by all means I'd do it for him because I understand that people need to splurge on their fantasies sometimes, and most of all to each his own. I'm not actually getting off on the act, I'm playing along, because what does thrill me is the fact that he's getting so much out of it. He's so happy and thrilled about the whole performance, and that's what gives me the satisfaction, that I've done a stellar job, enough for him to want to come back as repeat business. I like to see people smile, and if that's what it takes, so be it.

Musical Chairs

Have you ever played musical chairs? Now take that memory and think about the object of the game. The music plays, and stops and people get knocked out of each round until there's one person left sitting in the only available seat. Hooking is advanced musical chairs.

Instead of removing chairs the available prostitutes are the ones meticulously being taken out of rotation. All the while the jukebox blares out the chosen songs of the lady who has hustled the money to keep it going. When the jukebox goes silent each lady snaps into action, and rotates among available men to ask, "Would you like to donate to our jukebox?"

This is either received with a handful of cash, or in the seldom and most random occasion a flat out "no". When there's customers in the parlor the best bet is to keep the music going, it breaks the tension and provides a rhythm to the night that keeps the girls who wait on the sidelines focused and provides cover to the conversation of the active hustlers.

On a good night when there's more customers than girls it's a frequent event to watch the ladies dance on the brass stripper pole at the far end of the parlor, this usually garners attention, and even better tips.

The jukebox is the centerpiece of the parlor. It lights up and pulsates to the beat of the music and can download almost any song you desire. After having lived in this brothel for over three months it is common knowledge that the jukebox does not sleep and can wake you from yours at any moment, all kinds of music passes through the speakers and everyone who works here has a signature song. Whether it be something they dance to or something that speaks to them so much that every chance they get they hustle a dollar to hear it, the music of the night reins supreme in the world of brothel prostitution.

It took me a while to find my stride. In those first couple of weeks I sat and watched more like a patient observer, trying to take in the intricacies of the game. Those around me never saw me drink or dance.  Both of which are common occurrences among the girls that work here, some favor one or the other, and they are often done together.

It happened in the middle of the day of that first month living in the brothel, when nothing was going on, I think it was a Sunday. I wanted to groove to my own beat in the parlor while no one was around. So what musical artist could I turn to?...Marvin Gaye.

I deposited my dollar bill into the jukebox and let Mr. Gaye's "Got To Give It Up" flow out of the speakers. A song that I doubt had ever been played in the parlor before. Since the themes of most nights are popular rap and country, with some occasional rock mixed in.

If you ever look up the lyrics they seem quite fitting to my situation at the time, I myself could never really get down, or at least not all too often. My self-conscious nature impeded many years of uninhibited dance. Unless alcohol was involved, I had not dropped that bomb just yet.

I danced the length of the parlor, grooving to the music. Another girl showed up in the middle and joined in, then our manager stood at the perimeter watching the impromptu dance party that lasted the length of the song.  It was a lazy day that needed much merriment added to it.

Since then every time I'm in the parlor and the we have the jukebox pulsating, someone plays "Got To Give It Up". It's my song. Sometimes I hear one of the girls yell out, "dance for us Juniper", but I still reserve that for rare occasions.

Everyone has a song here, and when some of the girls leave us to go back to civilization we play their song like a siren call, a reminder of who is still with us in spirit of the nightly game, waiting for them to come back to work so they too can really get down.

Another Day, Another Dollar

I need to break away from the chronological. The last three posts have documented those (what seem to be) long gone first 48 hours. Here on out its going to be episodic, even thematic.

The most frequently asked question I get besides "Why? Why do you do this?", has to be "How long are you here for?" This question is often punctuated by my all time favorite assumption "Like a week or two, right?".

I usually pause for a moment, I giggle. "I'm here for the next three months." This statement usually brings a wave of shock that fades in seconds as they throw on their socks, I gather up the screw sheet into a bundle and like a happy hobo hooker and her favorite trick I offer him a drink at the bar, but usually end up waving them off through the door and I resume waiting for the next bell.

The whole process is pure repetition. It mimics an assembly line, filled with fast wit, timed responses and movements that become automatic if you party more than once a day. There's more meaning to the words "get em in, and get em out quick" in the these parts, and yes there's a sex joke in there too.

It's a good day if you can keep up your momentum, turning them in and out. The more you process the more money you make. All of this is punctuated by long periods of waiting, and even days of waiting. The assembly line goes on strike for hours to minutes to days.

These metaphors of course break down the personal, it tears out the romanticism or being a "working girl".  Love has nothing to do with my job, of course there is love for what I do, I don't just sit around and agonize about my career choice, the assembly line is an adrenaline rush like nothing else. I thrive on good days, and the longer the strike goes the more I yearn to work.  If you don't use it you lose it they say and it applies to hooking.

If you don't work in a couple of days the little voice in the back of your head pipes up and begins to tell you that your wardrobe is terrible, you don't wear enough make up and that a stair master is your only solution. This voice of course is a moment of doubt that you have to push to the back of your head because after all you know you're pretty and that there is no shortage of men in the world who would love to proposition you. Yet, dry spells do occur. Its the time of day, the time of season, and weather inevitably is you worst enemy.

Prostitution is a waiting game. Every woman sitting next you in that parlor is waiting, and what they are waiting for is the big one. The party that means a permanent vacation is in order. It's been known to happen from time to time even in this economy. One man with a bank account that has more zeros than overdraft charges can walk through the door, you never know.

Back in the heyday, about five years ago parties like this were common. The old school hookers did not want for anything, so they stayed in the business because the money was easy. They paid their bills, they bought all the things a girl could desire, and then the pot of gold went empty.

A good day in this era means that maybe you can afford to take a day off. So we work long hours, a twelve to fourteen hour shift, and some even for twenty-four, because in this game you have to play it right and be patient.

So far the winter is all about waiting, I get larger parties, but the days in between your big parties drag on for what seems like a century. So I begin to question the clothes I wear, the way I style my hair, and there's nothing more entertaining to do except to watch the snow fall.

The girls and I wait out each day in the hopes of making another dollar for those bills, those trinkets and whatever else we need to get by.

The Broken Girl

In life we make assumptions. Sometimes about decisions, and sometimes about people. A person who decides to become a prostitute has to learn to live with all kinds of assumed perceptions.

Even on the morning when I left Los Angeles I hadn't decided on whether or not to tell certain truths about myself to just anybody, hookers and regular outside folk alike. The man I sat next to on the plane to Reno would have looked at me differently if I had told him I was going to be a prostitute instead of working as a "freelance artist".

I was still very green on my second day in the house, and even more virginal looking than ever before as I turned in my sheriff card receipt to the cashier (who at the time was an ex-working girl herself). She gave me my shift hours, 10am-10pm, except Fridays and Saturdays where I would have to work until midnight.

"Go, ho out." she said as she waved the receipt back into my hand.

I didn't think twice about how my work uniforms had changed in the past five years. In theatre I wore comfortable black techie shoes and clothes. When I worked at Six Flags I had to wear my steel toe boots and black Dickies and a stiff poly-cotton blend shirt with the park logo.

On August 17th, 2010 I put on a black panty set, and wriggled into my sheer black slip. My black heels matched to perfection. I did my make-up and hair and sat on my bed waiting to hear the bell ring so I could make my first line up.

My work clothes felt good, light and drafty, as the air conditioner blasted my room to the same temperature as an igloo. I thought about my appearance, would I make money? In the later days of the week one of the girls would tell me that if a new lady doesn't make any money in her first week she's not meant to be a hooker. I wondered instead about the kind of men I would see in the line up, who would pick me? Who would be my first?

Before I came out to the ranch to work I had been in many long discussions with close friends and relatives about what this decision would mean, how I felt about it, and many of us talked about our perceptions of what the first day of work would feel like. Along with long discussions about those first feelings, I had conversations with some that spoke out about the negative effects of prostitution, the concerns behind what this would mean, and a lot of it revolved around reservations about the act of selling sexual services to strange men/women.

There's a vast perception of prostitutes in the world, and for the most part these perceptions do not always land in the range of positive acceptance. Most people do not understand why someone would choose this lifestyle, they cannot fathom that prostitutes have normal lives beyond the walls of the ranch, and mostly people can only see the dangers that reside in the trade.

My job is not a fantasy land. It's not filled with roses and romance. It's like any other profession, I have good days, I have bad days, days where I want to escape from my office, days that pass in the blink of an eye, and those that I never want to end.

That first day will always be surreal. I had to wonder if the decision to be a working girl was a good decision but I wouldn't know until I tried it.

BRRRRRING!

The bell went off and I ran down the conjoining halls until I found myself standing in the line up along with four other girls. The girls and I stood rigid along the mirrors of the dance floor. I chanted my name in my head, and tried to remember who I was standing next to so I would know when to say it.  My heart raced, I said my name and the man standing in front of us picked the girl standing next to me.

A couple more bells and nothing, a few men just coming in to drink and ogle the girls. I was walking across the parlor when my big sister motioned for me to join her. She pulled me to the side and asked me if I would like to meet a regular that comes in about once a week or so.

"He likes new girls," she explains, "its part of his fantasy to be a new girls first trick."

She escorts me across the parlor and I shake his hand and we trade names, I ask him if he would like to talk in my room. He nods so we begin our long walk to the back of the house, my big sister in tow, as she is supposed to assist me in my first few days in the house.

Once in my room my big sister explained the negotiation process, and once the deal was struck she demonstrated the visual check of his genitals that is required of us each time we negotiate a party.

We left the room, and she walked me to the office where we booked the party. As we walked all the way back to the room she talked me through the steps of what would happen, the party would start, finish and then I would have to respond to the cashier when she called through the intercom for a "times up".

"Sometimes he brings his glove." she says.

I think for a moment, what would he need a glove for? We're at the door and she waves me through with  a good luck pat.

Once in the room my client was already undressed, he watched me as I took my clothes off. He's done this before, he didn't need to be coaxed, he didn't need soft words or looks of feigned passion. He simply pulled me onto the bed, let me put the condom on and he seemed to levitate above me for a moment.

Once the moment had passed, he went to work. The tiny room was filled with his labored gasps, and the  occasional "Oh, baby, oh, baby". It was then that I noticed the lavender surgical glove laying neatly placed atop his discarded clothes. He pumped, and huffed, sweated and swooned then he motioned to put his hand between my legs.

"Please wear your glove."

He smiled and nodded before pulling it over his hand. He then resumed, laboring between sex and heavy petting. All the while I cooed, and moaned to his delight, and wondered when the cashiers voice would sound through the intercom. He had only paid for ten minutes.

This was supposed to be the moment of decision, and a moment that would tell me if I could handle this career move. I know for some it feels alien, as though you don't own your body, or you're watching a movie that you just happen to be participating in.

It didn't feel alien, I still owned my body, the only thing that crossed my mind was a few fleeting thoughts of who would be next and how would I feel about the whole experience once I finally retired.

"TIME!" blasted through the intercom, but he was already finished, and our clothes were already on.

I answered with a thank you.

A Home Away From Home

The parlor is much smaller than I had expected. When you walk through the door you're met by a digital jukebox on you left hand side, and as you gaze through the narrow length of the parlor in the very back your eyes meet a dance floor with a brass stripper pole. A sign hangs on the mirrors behind the pole that reads: Dance At Your Own Risk.

This narrow walkway through the parlor is flanked by the bar to the right, to the left a row of high bar tables and chairs waits, each seat almost facing the bar. The driver leads me past the bar, past the VIP Safari room and into the kitchen. He drops my bags and disappears for a moment, a girl walks past and into the office, then another girl appears and quickly descends down into the lower hallway.

An office attendant walks up to me and tells me to take a seat, she calls through her intercom and pages for a girl that will be my big sister. They confirm with the manager that I need to be put back into B hall.

My big sister appears and greets me with a smile, she's a voluptuous Iranian woman with long black hair. She takes a packet of paper work from the office and leads me on a tour of the house as we drag my bags along behind.

The halls filled with rooms sprout from the main parlor and seem almost labyrinthine. In the very back B hall my room is a tiny square with indoor/outdoor carpet. The queen sized bed sits under a window and a small sink faces it on the opposite side of the wall. The real bathroom is across the hall. In the room it feels glacial, the air conditioner on this hall goes full blast day and night. I would later find out that the climate control in the entire house is an ongoing battle that is never won.

All together the room looks like a Motel 6 room reject. My big sister whips out the packet and begins reading the house rules out loud, each one seems pretty basic, and not hard to follow, the packet is thick and filled with forms that require me to sign my real name and my new working name.

We're half way through when a bell rings, my big sister jumps up and runs out of the room, a few minutes later she returns out of breath.

"You're going to have to run to make those line ups, I don't know why they put you all the way back here." she says as she plops down onto the bed and resumes reading through the packet. Another bell goes off, and the process is repeated several times over before the house finally grows silent again.

On this first day the house seemed odd and almost misplaced in time. Its aura wreaks of better days long since past, but it still feels cozy and filled with potential. I watch from the kitchen as another line up is called, I try and peer past the bar to see the process and it feels distant, but the reality slowly seeps in that it will be less than 14 hours before I get to join them.

Monday night in the house is pizza night, my big sister sits with me in the kitchen and politely asks me questions about where I've come from, why I chose to come here, and probes me for potential prices that I will be giving to clients in my negotiations. She tries to help me out as much as possible, I can tell she's trying to ease me into things.

When the pizza arrives girls buzz through the kitchen, it's the cooks day off and many of the ladies whirl around not noticing me until they catch a glimpse at my teal hair.

The most commonly asked questions in my first week as a hooker are: So, why green? and, What's your name again?

Some seem confused as to why I would have teal hair, they make helpful suggestions on which colors would probably make me more money. I explain on numerous occasions my reasoning for the hair color and that my name is also my pen name.

"So, why Juniper?", they ask, and often they call me Jupiter on accident. This doesn't bother me, because Jupiter is just as pretty sounding I tell them. Some of them tell me that I'm very pretty and that I will make money because I'm young and white, and then they ask me to consider changing my hair to blond because its a big seller in this industry.

Around 8pm I wander back to my room, and I put on three layers of clothes, my room is now in the sub-zero temperature range, and I pass out.

My first day was exhausting, not physically, but mentally. I processed vast amounts of information in less than six hours, and I had to be up by 8 am to be driven to the sheriffs office and receive my work card.  I believe that at this point in my journey I look young and naive to all the other ladies, most have had previous experience working illegally, or have been in the brothels for many years. Most of all as I fall to sleep for the first time in the house, I think about how I would have never imagined I would tuck myself into a brothel bed, and fall asleep so soundly because it already felt like home.

Crossroads, and New Beginnings

Part I : Life and Death

I spent my childhood wanting to be a marine biologist. When I look back on this I remember that most all the girls in my class had this same desire. This fantasy of peering through a microscope and discovering new species was enthralling. I wanted to be out on adventures, near the ocean, living a dream that was a high seas voyage brimming with excitement...but I grew up. As time passed this passion for sea life became rearranged into many different facets. Instead, I focused on theatre in high school and decided to back pack through Europe once I had graduated...but sometimes in life the things we dream of are not always within immediate reach. Instead, I packed myself away to art school in southern California, still focusing on theatre, but I was still overjoyed to have the opportunity to leave my small hometown. 

In the past year I graduated in what would be the worst year for college graduates, even worse I had pursued a creative field and this meant no matter the economy (good or bad) I would not ever come out ahead financially. This doesn't bother me, I can live without luxury, but I knew paying off parts of that education would be like a long distance hurdle race. 

I've spent a year living with a question..."What will make me happy, what if anything will give me a sense of freedom?" Even if this be just an illusion, I often find that even some that believe themselves free are just peering intently between the bars of a gilded cage. 

What is real happiness if not just the simple choice of being happy. The path I've chosen for many years is one of bizarre convention. I graduated high school and went to college, a college that just happened to be an extremely liberal art school. I spent my life in a small town, big cities, suburban sprawl and feel the need to keep moving. My background is theatrical and entertainment based, so...what kind of path to happiness could I choose at a crossroad?

I chose legal prostitution of course! I have no intent of disguising the fact that this choice like all choices comes with risk, just risks that most people don't understand. People have a hard time believing the word prostitution when it flowed out of my mouth. Some took it as a joke, and others took it personally, going so far as to cut off contact due to moral objection. This didn't leave me bitter, it didn't even make me doubt myself, or the decision that I was about to make.  It only left me with a desire to keep an open mind to all opinions.

I left on Monday August Sixteenth for Reno Nevada. My flight left Burbank at 6:50am and I felt an anxious knot in my stomach. The day would be long, I would be tired, and ultimately I would find out if my perceptions of my destination would be correct, or if I would find a great fault in my logic. I had a layover in Phoenix, and I felt more at ease. I believe it was the fact that there was no real turning back at this point that gave me the determination to keep going. California was behind me, and much more was in store ahead.

Part II: Phoenix, and the Resurrection of Juniper Lee

On the plane I was seated next to a handsome man, a little older than me. He cracked a joke as we taxied the runway.

"So, is Reno home?" he asked.

I told him I was from Los Angeles, he talked about his home in Tahoe.

"What are you going to be doing in Reno?"

I said I was going there for work.

"What do you do?"

It was in this moment that I felt it necessary to not lie, if I said I was a hooker, it wouldn't be true, I had never actually been paid for sex before. I told I was an artist, which by all means is the complete truth. I told him I had a gig lined up when I got into town. He then introduced himself and shook my hand...it was my turn...

"...I'm Juniper." I said, as I took his hand.

"Juniper, pleased to meet you." 

I began to figure that if I was on my way to a new life, a life that would require me to change my name and act a part, I might as well begin in the first stages of my journey. This bright young man wouldn't know the difference, and by all means my real name was now only a relic, in Nevada I'm only known as Juniper Lee.

Part III: There's No Place Like Home

The Reno airport unlike other airports smells of desperation. Cigarette smoke wafts through the jet way and the sound of coins from slot machines followed be to the baggage claim. Once I hoisted my all too heavy suitcase from the conveyor belt I called my driver who would pick me up and take me to my new home. The phone rang, and he picked up, then the call got cut off. It rang again, he told me to meet him on the sidewalk, and that another girl would be riding with us.

The driver told me about the ranch, asked me questions that I would be all too familiar with by the end of the first week. We circled around again, but this time the girl was standing on the sidewalk, she jumped in the car and shook my hand and promptly passed out in the back seat. 

"You're going to be that tired too, in about a week." he gestured back at the snoring girl, "how long are you going to be staying?"

"Probably until mid October..."

"Whew, you're gonna need a break long before that..." he chuckled.

We made our stop at the doctor's office, and then proceeded back on the road to Mound House. For those that have never made the trip to this particular part of Nevada it's nothing overly exciting, rolling hills with shrubs that surround the basins that hold the towns and cities below. As we neared the brothels my driver pointed out a road that led to Virginia City, a historical town that sits on the outskirts not too far from my destination, as we pass the road to Virginia City I see a billboard advertising The Bunny Ranch. I remember when, as a kid my parents and siblings took a trip to Virginia City, we spent a whole day, wandering through the preserved streets that teamed with tourists. It felt odd for a moment to pass by one very vivid childhood memory and proceed to a very adult life choice. Once we turned down the road all I could see were billboards advertising hookers, and the neon flashing lights of the brothels that line the cul de sac. 

There's no real trees around these parts, the brothels surround the outer edge of a large parking lot, behind them are junkyards, and to a new observer on may only think of all the bad and seedy people that reside on the outskirts of town. The Kit Kat Guest Ranch is the first brothel you come to if you drive around the loop. We pulled in and the driver yanked out my bags and we proceeded to the gate where he punched in a code and then the buzzer went off. Once inside the gate we walked up the steps and into the parlor.

To be Continued...