to right: Barely Legal Mel tells a dummy he was great...the
Ranch's exterior...warning sign en route to the Ranch...dark-skinned
beauty with nifty booty...blonde Anne with black boa...Air
Force Amy licks her own nips...(photos courtesy of Moonlite
an 18-year marriage that ended in heartache, recriminations,
custody battles, inter-family threats, lawsuits, counter-lawsuits,
and criminal charges that were eventually dismissed, I
took a sobering inventory of my battered soul and realized
exactly what it was that I sought in women...
The pootie tang, the whole pootie tang,
and nothin' but the pootie tang.
Fuck relationships. Fuck jealousy. Fuck
bitterness. Fuck all those dashed expectations and smashed
vases. Fuck all those half-assed pretensions toward love
and flowers and faggy little unicorns which float over
blissful feather beds where happy couples sleep, free
of genital warts and morning breath.
Eighteen years of wedded agony drained
away my will to live in the same way that it squeezed
every residual drop of beauty from a wife who once wasn't
bad-looking, leaving only crow's feet, endless acreage
of cookie-dough flab, and tits which sagged so low, they
looked like dueling loaves of French bread.
Moments after I paid my divorce lawyer,
and weeks before I wrote my first alimony check, I decided
that the ravaged marrow within my weary bones
needed some rejuvenation. So I dropped a dime in the slot,
dialed my travel agent, and booked a flight to Reno, where
gambling and hookers are legal.
Reno's environs host a handful of cathouses,
but none gets as much press, nor relies so heavily on
clever marketing gimmicks (midget porn stars?!...hiring
cockless shlemiel John Wayne Bobbitt as a driver?!?...offering
99% discounts to elected officials?!?!?) as the Moonlite
Bunnyranch, located on a rocky bluff east of Carson City.
Once the low rung on Nevada's legal-brothel totem pole,
the Bunnyranch was resurrected by entrepreneur Dennis
Hof in 1993. Hof, who calls himself "the Pimpmaster General
of America" and likens his domination of the pimpin' industry
to that of Colonel Sanders in fried chicken and Bill Gates
in computer software, pumped megabucks into the ailing
brothel. What was once a stench-ridden House of Ill Repute
now is a state-of-the-art adult-entertainment emporium
hosting a healthy stable of foxy fillies reclining in
a germ-free environment of smoke, mirrors, black lights,
and fluffy cushions.
The Moonlite Bunnyranch is so snazzily
clean, it's almost the sort of place where you'd bring
your mother, if she was into eating pussy. It boasts none
of the sleaze or stink with which you'd normally associate
the term "whorehouse." I half-expected the sort of hourly
fleabag situation where you slip a twenty to some guy
sitting under a light bulb behind a cage who shoves you
a rusted key to an unlit room that smells like rancid
pus and dirty ass cracks, where crabs
hop off the sheets and a red neon sign
that says MOTEL buzzes and flashes right outside your
Instead of all that, Hof promises an
"adult Disneyland." Without fail, his women are beautiful.
Their breasts range in size from mosquito bites to bowling
balls, their skin from ivory white to darkest chocolate,
and yet each girl is tantalizing. They are tested for
infectious diseases weekly, assuring that their ripe
cantaloupes and fuzzy peaches are fresh 'n' clean for
your enjoyment. They rise to greet you--at least a dozen
of them at any given time--with seductive smiles as
you enter the Bunnyranch's main parlor, but yet they
don't throw themselves at you. Instead, you are invited
to sidle up to the well-stocked bar and take your time
deciding which slice of streamlined snatch best suits
"The Moonlite Bunnyranch
is so snazzily clean, it's almost the sort of place
bring your mother, if she was into eating pussy."
Me, I've always been smitten with a
case of Jungle Fever, so I selected a nineteen-year-old
black girl with a greasy Jheri curl and a bubble butt.
We negotiated a price for "half-and-half" (preliminary
blow job followed by fucking until I shot my load) and
retired to her cozy room, where she lit some incense
and tuned her radio to a slow-fuckin' funk groove. She
told me to lie on my stomach as she slathered some cedar-cented
oil between her palms and commenced to slowly kneading
all the marital discord out of my muscles.
Thoughts melted into instincts. That
tight little soul patch between her silky legs. Those
firm little Hershey's Kisses on her chest. That ass
on which you could balance a candelabrum. That sweet
salty sweat. The entirely involuntary way in which my
body sprung to life.
She tenderly washed my Monument to Whiteness
with an antiseptic wet-nap and gingerly snapped a condom
onto it. Light meat pressed against dark meat under
glowing psychedelic lights.
I left the Ranch with a smile on my
face and a renewed appreciation of the relative usefulness
of women and money. I get sex for money, and she gets
money for sex. The negotiation is honest. You both know
what you're getting, and there are no hurt feelings.
We pay for food, clothing, and shelter, yet many of
us still have problems with the idea of paying for sex,
which is more essential to life than anything else.
The World's Oldest Profession is in many ways
I didn't feel cheated. I didn't feel
bitter. I didn't feel unsatisfied. I felt alive for
the first time in decades. I can always make more money,
but I can never get back all those years I wasted. I
tried sex-with-meaning. I tried it for eighteen misery-laden
years. And I tried sex-for-money in the newly blooming
desert one hour last spring, and it was infinitely more