发信人: roy_young(ㄟ)
整理人: roy_young(2003-01-15 11:12:16), 站内信件
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This article was written by Larry Dobrow
(http://www.tagmag.com/staff/)
Whether or not I'm opposed to prostitution is not a question that comes up very often in my life. I like to believe that my finely tuned moral compass allows me to differentiate between a harmless evening at a strip club and paying a woman for a half-and-half. Or maybe it's just that I'm cheap, and the difference between a $20 lap dance and a $800 blow job/tongue bath combo is too much for my wallet.
I had a chance to put this self-serving morality to the test during a recent visit to Las Vegas for a friend's bachelor party. One of the four members of our randy contingent sent out an email a few days before we left. It had only two words: "Chicken Ranch?"
Being a Vegas veteran and a borderline dirt bag, I obviously knew everything about the famed Chicken Ranch brothel. After several seconds of passionate debate, we decided to take a ride into the desert. It seemed like we were more interested in jump-starting our near-dormant senses of adventure than by a true desire to get laid.
The ride out was strangely sedate, especially for a bunch of guys whose friendship is based on sitting around and making fun of each other. There was a sense of stillness and anxiety, more as if we were preparing ourselves for the Bataan Death March than for no-questions-asked carnality.
The Chicken Ranch is located in blink-and-you'll-miss-it Pahrump, Nevada, about 60 miles outside Las Vegas. Except for the Ranch, the town could double as a set for a Clint Eastwood western. We followed the directions on a business card we'd been given the night before, which described the Ranch as "a quality setting where men relax and enjoy."
We arrived in about an hour and were buzzed in through a gate. The door opened, and the madam greeted us with a big smile. She sat us down in a parlor area, which consisted of a plastic-covered sofa and a display of Chicken Ranch souvenirs. They were just the kind of tchotchkes you'd want to bring home to the wife and kids after a business trip in Vegas: a shot glass, t-shirt or frisbee emblazoned with the logo of a whorehouse.
The madam asked, "Now, do you know how this works?" Nobody said anything, so I decided to take a leadership role and responded with a high-pitched "Yep." She smiled and said, "Good. The girls will be out in a jiffy."
After about five incredibly uncomfortable minutes of waiting, 20 women emerged, each in some form of undress and wearing enough makeup to clog the pores of anyone within a 40-yard radius. They introduced themselves one by one: Brandy! Shyla! China! India! I was tempted to introduce myself as Zimbabwe or Outer Mongolia.
The madam said, "Okay, boys, make your choices." The bachelor deferred, being too in love to even consider the possibility of seeking comfort in the arms of another woman. One of the others quickly grabbed the best-looking gal in the group. She smiled and led him through a door into the Great Unknown. The third member of our gang promptly made his choice and left.
And then it was my turn. I said that I wasn't interested in "anything, uh, sexual" (my exact words), but wouldn't mind a massage if there were any experts in the midst. Two girls stepped forward; I chose Christina. She was a pretty, light-haired brunette with a pavement-firm body and legs up to her ears. I introduced myself (the nom de plume was "Bill October," a play on baseball legend Reggie Jackson's "Mr. October" tag) and she led me through the parlor door.
The room into which I was ushered reminded me of the bedrooms of some of my high school girlfriends, right down to the flowery quilt and puffy, star-shaped pillows. Christina promptly explained the way things work. She described herself as an "independent contractor" who generally set her own rules as to what she would and would not perform. The Chicken Ranch, in exchange for providing shelter for about ten days per month, gets a 50% cut of her profits.
Christina wasn't especially pleased by my choice of a simple massage: She could obviously have been making more money with someone other than an uptight skinflint like myself. "You know," she confided with the air of a co-conspirator. "I give great massages, but I'm much better at other things."
When she finally accepted the fact that I was unwilling to spring for sex, she quoted the terms: $100 for a half-hour massage. My internal cash register nearly exploded, especially since I could get twice the back rub for half the money back at the hotel. Still, I had to finish what I started.
When the massage began (I kept my boxers on, just in case), Christina seemed very eager to reveal herself to me physically--I declined the "naked massage" option--and mentally. She told me about her family and her upbringing in Australia and Hawaii. It seemed a cheap tactic, as if she thought humanizing herself would make me more inclined to fork over $600 for what the Chicken Ranch menu calls "Fire and Rain," some kind of oral-based activity that I believe includes nitroglycerin and a sprinkler system.
After she was done telling me everything interesting about herself (this took all of eight minutes), she started to interrogate me: Where are you from? What do you do for a living? Are any of your friends in the market for a hand job? When I mentioned that I had spent some time in school up in Boston, Christina became extremely animated. "Did you see Good Will Hunting? Wasn't that a great movie? I can't wait to go to Boston someday and see Southie!"
More geographical hijinks ensued when I told her that I live in New York City. Apparently, NYC is a step below South Boston on Christina's pecking order. She has a "regular" who flies her into New York every six weeks or so, an assignment she doesn't especially enjoy. New York, according to her perspective, is "very cold during the winter" and "really dangerous and scary." I found it extremely amusing that she'd be terrified of the city. After all, this is someone who has sex with strangers in the middle of the desert.
One thing she does like about New York, however, is the shopping. On this topic, the following conversation ensued:
Christina: The last time I was in New York, a friend and I did some shopping. We went to the Manhattan Mall, which is just amazing--so many stores!--and we went to a big department store located near there. I can't remember its name...
Me: Oh, you mean Macy's, right?
Her: No, the store's name started with a 'D.'
Me: [lengthy pause] Daffy's?
Her: Yeah, that's it.
(Note to Mr. Mayor: there are trollops in town, and they're looking for bargains. Please legislate accordingly.)
And then the massage was over. Christina led me back towards the parlor, and we parted with a distinctly stranger-like wave and a "take care." I rejoined my peers in the bar abutting the parlor. Two of the three couldn't reach terms with their respective gals -- apparently, the going rate for simple missionary-style sex is as inflated as Internet stocks. Besides, their hearts weren't in it. Relatively speaking, I was the only one who "scored," proving that the cheap and guilt-ridden suburban kid deep inside of me will always win out over the wanna-be swinger.
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