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.