Brothel Read Free Page B

the time men reached the front door after walking up a sixty-foot pathway, women had arranged themselves in a lineup in the center of the parlor. Customers were greeted by the spectacle of twenty or thirty women of all shapes and sizes and in various degrees of undress, standing at attention like arow of X-rated Barbie dolls. “Welcome to Mustang Ranch, sir,” said the floor maid, who greeted men at the front door. “These are the ladies available to you. Ladies, please introduce yourselves.”
    One by one, the women went down the line offering their working names, aliases such as Bambi, Fancy, and Champagne. On cursory inspection, most of the women appeared pleasant, smiling cordially but reticently, in compliance with house rules. A few dared to flirt more candidly, teasing with a sly wink or flashing a coquettish glance. On closer examination, the women’s eyes revealed more genuine feelings: annoyance, indifference, desperation, disdain, agitation, and occasionally intoxication.
    The customers didn’t seem to notice. They were simply too stunned. Some communicated their astonishment with awkward exclamations: “Holey moley!” “Wow, what a spread!” The dramatic ones staggered backward; a few even clutched their chests. One astonished man dressed in a cotton jersey and sneakers stood motionless and asked, “What do I do?”
    “You choose, honey,” said the floor maid. It was her responsibility to shepherd along baffled customers.
    Finally, after scrutinizing the women for a few seconds, he pointed nervously to one on the far right, at the end of the lineup. “The animal print outfit,” he exclaimed. Like many other customers overwhelmed by the formation, he had failed to catch the women’s names.
    Many seemed to get stuck on this detail. “Can they do that again? Say their names again?” asked a balding man in his forties,dressed in a red polo shirt, khakis, and leather loafers. The floor maid maintained her hospitable smile, but furrowed her eyebrows to indicate that she had no intention of making the women stand on display a minute longer. When the man still didn’t pick, she shrugged and gave a nod to the women to disband.
    Irene remarked that the floor maid on duty that night was strong on sales and peddling the merchandise. Instead of asking customers
if
they would like to select a lady, she asked, “
Which
lady would you like to select?” When a customer opted for a drink at the bar instead, she pitched hard, telling him that any woman of his choosing would be more than willing to serve him drinks in her room. I watched as several men submitted under such pressure. (Unlike Nevada’s so-called parlor houses, Mustang was a bar house, which meant customers didn’t have to select immediately from the lineup but could opt first for a drink at the bar. After downing some liquid courage, however, customers were expected to choose a prostitute. To that end, women one by one approached the barflies and tried to lure them back to their rooms.)
    Once a man picked a woman, he followed her back to her room to negotiate a “party.” Most customers settled upon a price, which usually ranged between $150 and $500 (“fantasy sessions” cost more), depending on the time of day, the day of the week, the customer’s attitude, and how drunk or high he was. Mustang accepted cash and most credit cards, but not American Express, which refused to service houses of ill repute, legal or otherwise. An innocuous, unincriminatingcompany name appeared on the invoice; at Mustang it said Nevada Novelties, Inc. There was even an ATM in Mustang’s parlor, in case customers ran out of cash. Customers who couldn’t reach an agreement on price with a prostitute got “walked,” or escorted back to the front parlor, where they were free to negotiate with a different working girl. With an average of six customers per day, prostitutes earned $300 to $1,500 daily.
    As the staff grew more comfortable with my presence over the