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xmag.com : August 2001:Moonlight Bunnyranch

Photos, left 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 Bunnyranch)

After 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...


That's it.

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 window.

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 your desires.

"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."


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
its noblest.

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 fulfilling.







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