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xmag.com : September 2000 : Sex Me

Sex Me by Teresa Dulce

Inside a Northern Nevada Brothel

I did it again. Lost another fucking customer. Two days ago I flew into Reno to work in a legal brothel. My friend came out earlier this year and she broke it down for me: You fly in, get picked up, go straight to the doctor, give 'em $85, spread your legs, get swiped and blood drawn. Then you go to the House and kick it 'till 10 am the next day. Doctor faxes your STD/HIV results to the House; this could be the beginning of the end because in order to work, nothing positive can come up. That’s a Nevada State Health Department requirement. If it's an STD you can remedy (like chlamydia or gonorrhea) you can try again later, but HIV+ results will prevent you working legally forever.
Okay, so I'm clean, which means, now I go to the sheriff's office and get my background checked, finger printed, and photo taken. It’s pretty damn ironic, but, in this County, any prostitution on your record may prevent you from working as a prostitute....Any-hoo, I'm
Snow White again, so, it's back to the House to work.

"I could not land a deal with the first fucking four guys I toured."


Line-up. This can brutal. Imagine a Jr. High dance only ten times more pressure. Line-up is when a customer comes in and the ladies stand up 'n pose while the House Mom introduces us by name. I'd say half the guys pick a lady from the get-go, and the other half go to the bar for a drink. If a guy goes to the bar, it's fair game to hustle a "tour" out of him. A tour is just another word for "let's go to my room and talk shop.” We're independent contractors and every lady has her own menu and pricing system, so, feasibly a guy could have 15 tours 'cause 15 women have a different rap. And this is where my troubles began.
I could not land a deal with the first fucking four guys I toured. Imagine taking money out of your wallet, flicking a Bic lighter and burning up your cash before your very eyes. So what's the problem? Because the House gets half of each job, I couldn’t help but divide the cost in two, computing what I was willing to do for half the customer’s total price. Anyhow, when a string of guys walk out without doing a twirl, the House Mom may raise an eyebrow? And she did. New girl blues. All in all, she was cool in the way she reassured me that it's my body and I should only do what I want to do for the price discussed. She also explained that the smaller jobs can be done in 10 minutes and that they do add up. Then it's a matter of time to hit it big with one guy.
I've fucked for less: Ego, Boredom, Mercy. So why not slide down here with my rate? I guess I'm blown away that guys would come to a brothel with only 100 bucks. (And no, I still wouldn't give it up for that puny number, but I will give him a table dance and he can jack himself off.) But what's up with that? If I was gonna make the drive and see a lady, I'd do it
up. More money = getting laid good and proper. I have four days left, so I’ve told myself—after dropping about $300 to get here (plane tix, doctor, sheriff's card, driver, extra stuff)—I'm gonna leave Nevada with a bankroll. So what’s it gonna be: quantity or quality? Shit. I gotta go. Time for another line-up. I feel like screaming: “I’m here to fuck for real cash!”
What’s the new working girl in town to do?

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