Where do I begin? I didn't think that I would have the words to tell you how I feel on my one year anniversary of working in a brothel. Twenty four hours ago I wasn't even thinking about it. Twelve hours ago I was getting drunk, and a year ago at this hour I was sitting in a kitchen in a brothel, that looked so alien to me I couldn't even imagine what was in store for me. I remember how I felt boarding those planes to Nevada, I remember trying to imagine the things that would happen to me, the people I would meet and how it would train me to be a different kind of person.
Let's start twelve hours ago, I was getting drunk, I'm still drunk. I was sitting with the love of my life, at a bar, and we were getting drunk. Sometime between four am and six it all began to get blurry. I remember the conversation revolving around me being more open, about what I want, about making decisions. So I decided we needed another round. In the hindsight of it all maybe I didn't make the responsible choice, because I am convinced that if I was more responsible I wouldn't feel today the way I do. We went home and went to bed after this, and what did I do that I never do, I slept through my alarms, two to be exact. I never do that. I'm always punctual, the theatre made me so, but with the alcohols aid and the fact that when I am in bed lying next to him I feel most happy and peaceful, my subconcious didn't want me to get up.
My day has been off ever since. I can't get it together. I sped to work half drunk and half hung over. I climbed into a shower that I enevitably collapsed in and cried like a baby. I laid in my bed and didn't make line ups because I looked haggard and I wandered around the house aimlessly. Eventually the bartender sensing something was wrong told me I could talk to her if I needed to, and served me a beer and a shot and I sat crying into my liquor.
Today has not been my day.
So how can I reflect on this. A year of my life has been spent in a legal brothel, I've only taken five weeks off the whole year. I work seven days a week, twelve hours a day and plenty more overtime to be able to pay my bills.
I've had good days, bad days and everything in between. Let's just say this year has been a roller coaster. So what have I learned? What basic epiphany can I take away from all of this? HUMAN IS HUMAN. That's as basic as I can get here. Humans are animals, were rude, crude and wonderful. Were just trying to make it work. Survive. Piece all this shit together and live, then die. Sex is a part of life. Most of all I've experienced my most human emotions, connected with anger and jealousy and love and joy.
So what have I learned about myself? I'M ALIVE. I've always felt that no matter how young I am I was always 24 going on 40. So young but inching closer and closer to the conclusion that life had nothing more to offer me than what I already had. Let's just say I've lived a colorful life so far, I'm intelligent and pretty and never stopping, I moved six times in one year for christ sakes and I never thought I would stop, but now I know what I want. Most of all I just want to go home at the end of the night, climb into bed with the person I love most and just have a moment to forget all the crazy things in life. I want to be stable for a moment.
In the past year I've fucked a lot of people, drank way too much, been harassed, cried a lot more than usual, laughed a lot more than usual, lost some friends, gained some friends, I've been loyal and honest, I've done some things that maybe I'm not so proud of, and I've fallen in love.
I think I've experienced enough.
Most of all I'm learning to be completely open, I have the person I love to thank for this, all he asks is for me to be honest and open, and that's something that's never come easy to me. I think all of this happened for a reason, the people I've met, the experiences, it's all for a reason. And most of all that thing about being more open can only make me a better writer and artist in the end.
So I'm inching closer to who I am supposed to be in this life. I can only hope that maybe it all can settle down long enough for me to write that last great american novel.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The Fine Print
If there's any kind of advice I could give someone wanting to work in this industry it would be to make sure you're observant, that you pay attention to everything. I have a friend that tells me this all the time, he tells me to pay attention to everything. After having thought about it for...well months...it's true, to survive you must pay attention to everything. I could make this broader and extend the advice to life in general but I'm not thinking about taking over the world just yet.
Today it's about paying attention to your job and those around you in the brothel world. This job just isn't about fucking people, its about being observant enough to understand your client, to choose wisely and try to gain the most from those observations. We'll go back to the old saying of...Don't judge a book by its cover.
Those men that some girls find repulsive, those that look poor, are often sometimes the biggest pay offs in the business. Just because a man has Armani taste and a Jaguar in the parking lot doesn't mean he's going to pay you anymore than the minimum if at all. Those men are usually good for a round of drinks, a jukebox donation to keep the wolves at bay and then once his vodka and tonic kicks in he's down the cul-de-sac making the rounds, and as he slips out the door the shallow promise of "I'll be back..." glides into the air and lands on pessimistic ears.
Even just working here for a year it brings out the pessimist in me and all my coworkers of what someones word actually means. Honesty is for saints, not for hookers.
It's those you see in the crowd, the nervous and the nerds, the once a year vacation trick that spends, because they've saved up to do so, and they don't want anyone to hold back. They expect a good time for the amount they pay. They expect their kinky and closeted fantasies to come to life, and when the money is right they get what they want.
It's the observant ones that triumph in these situations. Its not just about the clients though, its about the whole picture, what information you can attain from all the things happening on the floor.
Your business is to know your client better than they do, and to know the girl sitting next to you, to know what role you're playing for the night, are you yourself, or are you the innocent country girl who knows how to screw sweet then dirty? It all depends on what you see in the night, in yourself, what role the others have adopted and its in your best advantage to try and fill in the gaps.
Beyond the floor there is the twisted maze of the house. Not only are you navigating a set of unwritten rules that keep the etiquette copacetic among you and the other girls but the house itself has rules.
Its the girls that blindly walk around waiting to be led by the hand that can't and wont survive this environment. You have to be with it so to speak and on your game if your not all your potential money goes down the drain. Some seem oblivious to repercussions of missed line ups and dirty hustling, but to each his own, you can log these actions but keeping your sanity means keeping to yourself and minding your business before all others, because there's no one who's going to hustle for you.
Today it's about paying attention to your job and those around you in the brothel world. This job just isn't about fucking people, its about being observant enough to understand your client, to choose wisely and try to gain the most from those observations. We'll go back to the old saying of...Don't judge a book by its cover.
Those men that some girls find repulsive, those that look poor, are often sometimes the biggest pay offs in the business. Just because a man has Armani taste and a Jaguar in the parking lot doesn't mean he's going to pay you anymore than the minimum if at all. Those men are usually good for a round of drinks, a jukebox donation to keep the wolves at bay and then once his vodka and tonic kicks in he's down the cul-de-sac making the rounds, and as he slips out the door the shallow promise of "I'll be back..." glides into the air and lands on pessimistic ears.
Even just working here for a year it brings out the pessimist in me and all my coworkers of what someones word actually means. Honesty is for saints, not for hookers.
It's those you see in the crowd, the nervous and the nerds, the once a year vacation trick that spends, because they've saved up to do so, and they don't want anyone to hold back. They expect a good time for the amount they pay. They expect their kinky and closeted fantasies to come to life, and when the money is right they get what they want.
It's the observant ones that triumph in these situations. Its not just about the clients though, its about the whole picture, what information you can attain from all the things happening on the floor.
Your business is to know your client better than they do, and to know the girl sitting next to you, to know what role you're playing for the night, are you yourself, or are you the innocent country girl who knows how to screw sweet then dirty? It all depends on what you see in the night, in yourself, what role the others have adopted and its in your best advantage to try and fill in the gaps.
Beyond the floor there is the twisted maze of the house. Not only are you navigating a set of unwritten rules that keep the etiquette copacetic among you and the other girls but the house itself has rules.
Its the girls that blindly walk around waiting to be led by the hand that can't and wont survive this environment. You have to be with it so to speak and on your game if your not all your potential money goes down the drain. Some seem oblivious to repercussions of missed line ups and dirty hustling, but to each his own, you can log these actions but keeping your sanity means keeping to yourself and minding your business before all others, because there's no one who's going to hustle for you.
The 25 Hour World
I haven't been loyal to you like how I've been loyal to my job or brothel. It's been months since I've posted anything and maybe it's because after a while you lose a little piece of yourself in this world of constant waiting, of 2am clients and early morning bloody marys.
I would like to tell you that the last few months have been nothing but roses and romance but this is reality and there's only one true word to describe the past months and that is...strange. There's no real way to paint a picture for you unless I maybe commissioned Dali's zombified corpse to do so...and that thought is pretty strange within itself.
So I'm going to do something I would rarely ever do and brush past those absent months and let them go because the past is the past. I know it must seem strange (there's the key word again) but it's for the better, and yes there's plenty of things that have happened that would make for witty and amusing anecdotes but maybe you just need to chalk it up as my missing years, like how there's that whole section of Jesus' life missing from the Bible.
So I'm going to cut to the chase, this strange world I'm mixed up in that never closes it's doors is only bound to get even stranger.
In the past month my brothel has to say the least not been doing well. There seems to be a real lack of clients and on top of that girls. Somehow this business that many still see as recession proof is just like all the retail outlets and video rental stores. It pains me to see it this way, I have a genuine love for this house and for the people that work here, but it has become increasingly hard to see the positive in what is seemingly on its last breath.
There is a kind of loneliness in the house these days. Barren rooms and quiet halls seem to stretch for miles as you escort the lucky few who still value a tour to see the VIP suites that are much more affordable than their illustrious titles. Not only is there a loneliness in the house but also for the girls. So many come and go so quickly because business is slow that it makes me wonder if I am just too loyal and foolhardy to see that its time to move on.
So tonight I'm sitting in the back of the parlor by the open window, and I'm looking out at the sunset over the hills of Moundhouse and I'm wondering what kind of life I'm missing, what kind of places and towns I should be driving through on a summer road trip, maybe there's a good bar with a house ale to die for I'm missing out on.
I think about all those things, they've been on my mind since the summer began, and I know that there's a lot more life to live than within the brothel walls...but today it's business as usual. I'm going to sit in front of this window until the moon is visible and wait for another lonely person to walk in the door, because when there's someone else there the quiet halls aren't so bad.
This isn't just about the lack of people hanging around these days. There's a lot more going on in these 24 hour worlds, and the sign outside my window jokingly promotes that we're open for 25, my day just got longer it seems. I stare at the sign as girls names flash in red. Girls that I knew, legends to the house, and among the mix is my own, and I wonder if in the 25 hour world there is any glory or fame to having such promotion. Most people think my name is Jennifer because they've never even heard Juniper, or maybe my annunciation is a little off when I introduce myself. There's always something to work on.
I know there's a lot of questions here, and many for me are rhetorical. I even know the answer to some, but its just not the right time to see the answer in print. I was always told in school that its good to ask questions. That that's how we learn. I think it is the questions that we ask ourselves the ones we can only answer, they are the scariest and most important ones of all.
These days I find it harder to sleep and that the constant rotation of pork and chicken meals at the ranch is killing my sense of taste. What's still good is beer, I look forward to my shifts end, because I know there's a beer waiting for me behind some local bar. That's the beauty of this 25 hour world, your vices never have to sleep either.
I would like to tell you that the last few months have been nothing but roses and romance but this is reality and there's only one true word to describe the past months and that is...strange. There's no real way to paint a picture for you unless I maybe commissioned Dali's zombified corpse to do so...and that thought is pretty strange within itself.
So I'm going to do something I would rarely ever do and brush past those absent months and let them go because the past is the past. I know it must seem strange (there's the key word again) but it's for the better, and yes there's plenty of things that have happened that would make for witty and amusing anecdotes but maybe you just need to chalk it up as my missing years, like how there's that whole section of Jesus' life missing from the Bible.
So I'm going to cut to the chase, this strange world I'm mixed up in that never closes it's doors is only bound to get even stranger.
In the past month my brothel has to say the least not been doing well. There seems to be a real lack of clients and on top of that girls. Somehow this business that many still see as recession proof is just like all the retail outlets and video rental stores. It pains me to see it this way, I have a genuine love for this house and for the people that work here, but it has become increasingly hard to see the positive in what is seemingly on its last breath.
There is a kind of loneliness in the house these days. Barren rooms and quiet halls seem to stretch for miles as you escort the lucky few who still value a tour to see the VIP suites that are much more affordable than their illustrious titles. Not only is there a loneliness in the house but also for the girls. So many come and go so quickly because business is slow that it makes me wonder if I am just too loyal and foolhardy to see that its time to move on.
So tonight I'm sitting in the back of the parlor by the open window, and I'm looking out at the sunset over the hills of Moundhouse and I'm wondering what kind of life I'm missing, what kind of places and towns I should be driving through on a summer road trip, maybe there's a good bar with a house ale to die for I'm missing out on.
I think about all those things, they've been on my mind since the summer began, and I know that there's a lot more life to live than within the brothel walls...but today it's business as usual. I'm going to sit in front of this window until the moon is visible and wait for another lonely person to walk in the door, because when there's someone else there the quiet halls aren't so bad.
This isn't just about the lack of people hanging around these days. There's a lot more going on in these 24 hour worlds, and the sign outside my window jokingly promotes that we're open for 25, my day just got longer it seems. I stare at the sign as girls names flash in red. Girls that I knew, legends to the house, and among the mix is my own, and I wonder if in the 25 hour world there is any glory or fame to having such promotion. Most people think my name is Jennifer because they've never even heard Juniper, or maybe my annunciation is a little off when I introduce myself. There's always something to work on.
I know there's a lot of questions here, and many for me are rhetorical. I even know the answer to some, but its just not the right time to see the answer in print. I was always told in school that its good to ask questions. That that's how we learn. I think it is the questions that we ask ourselves the ones we can only answer, they are the scariest and most important ones of all.
These days I find it harder to sleep and that the constant rotation of pork and chicken meals at the ranch is killing my sense of taste. What's still good is beer, I look forward to my shifts end, because I know there's a beer waiting for me behind some local bar. That's the beauty of this 25 hour world, your vices never have to sleep either.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Shock Treatments
If I gave you all a piece of paper I know everyone could write at least one fear they have down on it. Even those that think they are absent of fear, they say nothing scares them will eventually have a moment of awe when the adrenaline hits them and that sinking feeling rushes in.
There's common fears, and phobias, spiders, clowns...carnival fun houses (don't ask). Yet, if I had to pin point an occupational fear there would be only one...
Christmas morning started off slow. The night before was a parade of drunken men in small to large groups. They came and went, some stopping by, some drinking more, a rowdy group of Chinese cooks lined the bar to toast with a shot of Hennesey, one of the girls shouted to them across the room:
"Who's ready for sex!?!?" All the girls promptly raised their hands. The drunkest of the grouped stuck out his chest.
"I'm ready, it's going to be good too, you're gonna love my skills."
"Then you're ready for an orgy?" I asked.
"I can take you all on, you'll love it too, you'll be paying me for it..."
The girls erupted into laughter.
"I don't know what holiday you think this is, but it ain't April Fools around here." I retorted.
In the early morning the house was quiet. The girls sleeping away a night of drinking, until a bell rang.
A gaggle of Mexican construction workers, still too drunk from whatever corner bar they had spent the night in dragged themselves through the door, ordered a round of Corona and talked loudly amongst themselves.
I locked eyes with a shy one sitting in a corner, he looked away and back, blushing in between glances, until he slide from his perch and joined me by the bar.
He was nervous, spoke broken English but told me that I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, he gave me five dollars, I put it in the jukebox. A few moments later we're back in the room, negotiating a quick party. I felt in the giving Christmas spirit so I gave him more time than I usually would.
The routine began. He imagined himself a great lover, huffing and puffing, big thrusts, slow thrusts, he tried to brush my hair over my ear, it was all very theatrical...then it ended.
I climbed off the bed in my usual routine grabbing a towel off the shelf to help him clean up, and that's the moment my heart dropped to my feet. I looked down about to pull the condom off with the towel, very standard for me to help them clean up, I paused in my tracks, staring down to see that it had ripped all the way through. That tiny barrier that was in those previous moments a guard to all my fears was now shredded. A million and one thoughts went through my mind then I snapped to, helped him clean up, got him dressed, got my clothes on, cleaned the room and escorted him back to the parlor, all with a smile on my face.
I asked the bartender for a moment, I need to take a shower, I told her. As I walked back to the room I felt a little sick, and I ripped my clothes off, turn the shower all the way to hot. There's nothing you can do at that moment, standing in the shower, scrubbing yourself as much as you can, a million little things run through your mind. I sank to my knees and began to cry, hyperventilate a little...I heard my phone ring.
Tears streaming down, I answered to my best friend, who at that moment was probably having a good afternoon, before becoming very concerned at my current state. We discussed the situation and resolved to a subject change after a few moments.
Once the initial shock had died, and the momentary insanity was gone I began the next step, prevention.
I contacted a friend who could help me plan out a course of action to get the morning after pill, set up a doctors appointment and then offer advice on how to breath until the STD testing could be done. The whole mess started a long drawn out process.
I got dressed again, did my hair, and make up and then put my smile back on and walked back out to the floor.
All the Mexicans were on their fifth or sixth round, a girl was dancing on the pole and dollar bills blanketed the floor, each hand throwing them out in flurries of hoots and whistles.
I wanted a seat where I could watch the action but keep a distance, trying to keep it all together. I sat by the jukebox and picked out the dancing music.
I felt someone watching me and I turned my head to find, the shy man I had just partied with sitting across from me. He sat with his beer and began to talk to me, asking me questions of my likes and dislikes. He rambled for a while searching for words in English that would convey his point. He asked me if I like him.
I have nothing against him so I said yes, I told him he seemed nice, he blushed at this.
"I like you, I like you a lot...you think you come and live with me...I will treat you good."
I explained to him that I couldn't leave my job, I had a different life outside my work and that he was kind but, no.
"I take good care of you, love you, marry you, when you're done with your job I wait for you to be done, if you come live with me."
I told him no again, telling him he should live his life, there's other better fish in the sea I explained.
"You're so beautiful Juniper, you want children?"
I swallowed my heart back into my chest. "No." I said and excused myself back to my room.
I waited until they had left before emerging back out into the parlor.
The rest of the night I spent drinking, each man coming into the house bought all the girls drinks, it's the time of year to do so, be generous that is, and the music kept playing, the laughter filled the room again and I sat at the end of the bar until the night shift bartender showed up, who is also a close friend.
At that point the bartender and I adjourned to a dark corner to give one another moral support as we shared stories of our collective holiday woes.
So, this saga isn't really about all the bad things, the negative thoughts that ensued, but more so about the fact that it's over a week later and I'm still here, pregnancy free, STD free, and working.
It's a part of the business, you do all you can to protect yourself, but it happens, it's an unfortunate accident but nothing to stop your life over in the end. We all have the risk factors in life, and I've survived one more.
I have a feeling 2011 is going to be a better year.
There's common fears, and phobias, spiders, clowns...carnival fun houses (don't ask). Yet, if I had to pin point an occupational fear there would be only one...
Christmas morning started off slow. The night before was a parade of drunken men in small to large groups. They came and went, some stopping by, some drinking more, a rowdy group of Chinese cooks lined the bar to toast with a shot of Hennesey, one of the girls shouted to them across the room:
"Who's ready for sex!?!?" All the girls promptly raised their hands. The drunkest of the grouped stuck out his chest.
"I'm ready, it's going to be good too, you're gonna love my skills."
"Then you're ready for an orgy?" I asked.
"I can take you all on, you'll love it too, you'll be paying me for it..."
The girls erupted into laughter.
"I don't know what holiday you think this is, but it ain't April Fools around here." I retorted.
In the early morning the house was quiet. The girls sleeping away a night of drinking, until a bell rang.
A gaggle of Mexican construction workers, still too drunk from whatever corner bar they had spent the night in dragged themselves through the door, ordered a round of Corona and talked loudly amongst themselves.
I locked eyes with a shy one sitting in a corner, he looked away and back, blushing in between glances, until he slide from his perch and joined me by the bar.
He was nervous, spoke broken English but told me that I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, he gave me five dollars, I put it in the jukebox. A few moments later we're back in the room, negotiating a quick party. I felt in the giving Christmas spirit so I gave him more time than I usually would.
The routine began. He imagined himself a great lover, huffing and puffing, big thrusts, slow thrusts, he tried to brush my hair over my ear, it was all very theatrical...then it ended.
I climbed off the bed in my usual routine grabbing a towel off the shelf to help him clean up, and that's the moment my heart dropped to my feet. I looked down about to pull the condom off with the towel, very standard for me to help them clean up, I paused in my tracks, staring down to see that it had ripped all the way through. That tiny barrier that was in those previous moments a guard to all my fears was now shredded. A million and one thoughts went through my mind then I snapped to, helped him clean up, got him dressed, got my clothes on, cleaned the room and escorted him back to the parlor, all with a smile on my face.
I asked the bartender for a moment, I need to take a shower, I told her. As I walked back to the room I felt a little sick, and I ripped my clothes off, turn the shower all the way to hot. There's nothing you can do at that moment, standing in the shower, scrubbing yourself as much as you can, a million little things run through your mind. I sank to my knees and began to cry, hyperventilate a little...I heard my phone ring.
Tears streaming down, I answered to my best friend, who at that moment was probably having a good afternoon, before becoming very concerned at my current state. We discussed the situation and resolved to a subject change after a few moments.
Once the initial shock had died, and the momentary insanity was gone I began the next step, prevention.
I contacted a friend who could help me plan out a course of action to get the morning after pill, set up a doctors appointment and then offer advice on how to breath until the STD testing could be done. The whole mess started a long drawn out process.
I got dressed again, did my hair, and make up and then put my smile back on and walked back out to the floor.
All the Mexicans were on their fifth or sixth round, a girl was dancing on the pole and dollar bills blanketed the floor, each hand throwing them out in flurries of hoots and whistles.
I wanted a seat where I could watch the action but keep a distance, trying to keep it all together. I sat by the jukebox and picked out the dancing music.
I felt someone watching me and I turned my head to find, the shy man I had just partied with sitting across from me. He sat with his beer and began to talk to me, asking me questions of my likes and dislikes. He rambled for a while searching for words in English that would convey his point. He asked me if I like him.
I have nothing against him so I said yes, I told him he seemed nice, he blushed at this.
"I like you, I like you a lot...you think you come and live with me...I will treat you good."
I explained to him that I couldn't leave my job, I had a different life outside my work and that he was kind but, no.
"I take good care of you, love you, marry you, when you're done with your job I wait for you to be done, if you come live with me."
I told him no again, telling him he should live his life, there's other better fish in the sea I explained.
"You're so beautiful Juniper, you want children?"
I swallowed my heart back into my chest. "No." I said and excused myself back to my room.
I waited until they had left before emerging back out into the parlor.
The rest of the night I spent drinking, each man coming into the house bought all the girls drinks, it's the time of year to do so, be generous that is, and the music kept playing, the laughter filled the room again and I sat at the end of the bar until the night shift bartender showed up, who is also a close friend.
At that point the bartender and I adjourned to a dark corner to give one another moral support as we shared stories of our collective holiday woes.
So, this saga isn't really about all the bad things, the negative thoughts that ensued, but more so about the fact that it's over a week later and I'm still here, pregnancy free, STD free, and working.
It's a part of the business, you do all you can to protect yourself, but it happens, it's an unfortunate accident but nothing to stop your life over in the end. We all have the risk factors in life, and I've survived one more.
I have a feeling 2011 is going to be a better year.
Friday, December 24, 2010
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.
Friday, December 17, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, December 6, 2010
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.
(This story is by far my favorite day thus far in the brothel, we truly had too much fun.)
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."
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.)
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