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...
