ΜΆ San Antonio, Texas - February l899
Who is he, and why do I feel something for him?
My mind searches for answers, even as my body otherwise engages him--unspeakably so.
Had he asked for me? Am I the girl who offers that special thing? Most of all, will he come back for me later on?
Leaning forward in the way she taught me, the way Parisian girls do, and knowing today might be my only chance, I make clear I am a modern girl, open to modern ways of joining with men.
Gripping the tall oak bedpost with both hands and showing him the woman in me, I open until I hurt, and closing my eyes, I listen for his breathing.
He is a quiet sort, leaving a woman searching for clues to who he is and what he wants. "You have taken girls this way before, haven't you," I gasp, "before today, I mean."
Saying nothing, he seizes my loosened hair and, jerking my head back, treats me like an unbroken filly mare. My reason collapses as he drives himself like a stake into me. Deep in my rectum, the one orifice I have not offered anyone else, he takes ownership of me, if only in the moment. I like that he does.
Though I know of him, I do not know this man. Word about him is out and about in San Antonio's sporting district. The other working girls know; they jockey in line to be first up whenever he stops by.
He had visited previously, though not since I arrived; I would remember. He is not like the other cowboys; he is lean and handsome, and his black eyes follow the women who swirl around him. When he visits, the house's habitual prattle heightens as girls, like bunnies, scamper about, primping and fussing in hopes of getting at him for an evening's romp.
A woman needs to like a man's look; I like his. He has dash about him, a disregard, though he comes across in a subdued kind of way, a quiet way. In passing, Fannie mentioned him. If half of what she hinted is true, I want him all the more, even in my off-limits backside, where his substantial manhood currently lodges.
When he calls at Fannie Porter's Sporting House, the instant competition for his attention surges, intensifying suspense in the otherwise restrained atmosphere of the bawdy place.
Two Sundays ago, I became Fan's newest girl. Being the least senior put me last in line for walk-ins. To get me, a fellow has to point me out. If he does not, he joins with another, and being overlooked is hard on a girl's feelings.
Somehow, today, he is mine. Is he partial to my look? Is he drawn to my womanly curves? The seniority rule is unfair, but my madam has overruled it, and I do not complain.
Fan's is the best boarding house in the little city. Everybody knows about boarding houses, including so-called upper-crust ladies who secretly pant to see the goings-on inside.
By God's grace, upstanding or 'regular' women, despite their ardent curiosity and the ease with which they pass judgment on us, 'fallen frails,' are not allowed in. These curious kittens want to nose about and should mind their own business. However, women's wariness keeps them away, and they shun Fannie's place. Association with such a house plays poorly in polite society; it prompts questioning looks and compromises a woman's virtue.
Instead, proper women make up stories of lurid trysts. They say groups of men stand in line to take not-so-innocent girls in Fannie's front parlor; ridiculous! Such is the reality of the situation; either through jealousy or fear, it is the style of tall tale proper people improperly spin.
Fannie is hardly my first madam. I am experienced and have worked in two other houses; I liked neither. The 'Dirty Em' in Deadwood and the 'House of Mirrors' in Denver proved seamy. Our money was stolen, and girls got fined for minor infractions.
On the other hand, Fan treats us like a madam should, as ladies. We are clean and well-fed; our near-celebrity station separates us from fancy women elsewhere.
Fan dresses us posh; we are true sport-side girls. We are attired in the latest styles from far away St. Louis and, yes, even New Orleans, making us the envy of other fair belles. It is why the sheriff of distant Austen and even an 'honorable' councilman or two make the long trek to Fan's on the off-chance of finding that special lady who will carry out that special thing.
For going on a year, my friend worked for Fan. Della convinced me to come here. "It's the best place, Etta," she gingerly insisted. "It's the finest, you know, to make a quick buck." Down on my luck, I needed money, and since such employment requires another's reference, Della put in a good word.
Fannie Porter's is a small house with only a few girls. "Fan pays us regular," Della proclaimed. "And there's not no trouble due to the high clientele that frequents the place." Though I believed her, for a time, I dithered. I was not a high-class courtesan type, but Della persisted. "Etta, please, go meet Fannie; she'll hire you; you're beautiful and have the prettiest eyes east of Langtry. With your innocent look, men will pay serious money for the likes of you."
The following day, shivering, penniless, stranded on the frontier, and desperate to get to New York, I walked to Fan's at the corner of Durango and South San Saba Streets.
At the back door, the girls' entrance, Butterfly Barton, the former slave and Fannie's chief housekeeper, greeted me. Her half-smile, though welcoming, set her boundaries. "I done seen many an upmarket hen cluck on in through dis here chicken coop, Missy, and you ain't no different. A pussy's a pussy. Still, good lucks to ya." Taking my cloak and scarf, she motioned me to a small office at the center of which stood a wood stove, its crackling fire most welcome on a wintry day. "Dis here, Miss Etta Place," the housekeeper gruffly grumbled.
The sharp-eyed, elegant woman sitting at the miniature roll-top desk looked up but only fleetingly. Butterfly, about to leave, turned back to me and said, "Best'a luck to ya, honey." Then, with a telling giggle, she coyly added, "Da Wild Bunch be 'n town dis here week. You gonna be one busy dove-a-da-roost. Come Monday mornin', you be havin' a raw lady-slit I more 'an suspect."
Quietly stepping away, the old woman left me alone with the infamous madam. Attractive and middle-aged, she presented kindly but regarded me with no-nonsense firmness. "I only take in the best girls," she curtly declared. "Keep clean, very clean." Highlighting the point, she raised an eyebrow. I knew dousing my private parts after each visitor finished his business was rule number one.
"Of course," I assured her. "I always--"
"You needn't reply, Miss Place. I'll talk, tell you the rules, and you listen so we understand each other. Take off your top. I need to see your breasts."
I watched the floor as she watched me unbutton my immaculate Lolita Gothic blouse. "On second thought, you'd best remove everything," she added. "I need to know you are a good fit for our guests." Her eyes continued wandering, and she nodded several times in what I took to be approval.
Keeping my arms at my sides, I did my best to project comfort. However, with the top of my dress bunched at my waist, and despite a past that was less than proper, I accepted Fannie's scrutiny as the motherly woman sensed my self-consciousness. She stood and circled me, studying my essentials as she moved.
