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.