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.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
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 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.
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