Jack had never 'paid for it' in his life, but in all likelihood, that would change today, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. He drove through the Nevada desert northwest of Las Vegas, and a number of issues warred against each other in his mind.
This was an alien landscape for a Yankee. It was a Tuesday afternoon in August, and it was hotter than the hinges of Hell. There was nobody else on the road. The sky was a shade of blue, the depth and clarity of which he had never seen before, certainly not in the Northeast. The bare, tan-colored earth was like the surface of the moon, with its deep empty lake beds surrounded by spiky mountain ranges.
He didn't feel like he belonged here. He drove a rented car that was unfamiliar to him. Even the speed limit was foreign to him; lashing across the desert at 75 miles per hour on somebody else's wheels was a completely new experience to him. So was paying a prostitute for sex, but he was about to do it.
He had to keep reminding himself that it was legal here. Back East, there were massage parlors he knew sold sex, but he had never considered it because he was afraid of being arrested. He was also afraid of disease, but he had read that infection was completely unheard of in Nevada bordellos. The girls were examined and tested every week, and condoms were required for everything.
He came to a turnoff with a battered sign and a flashing light. Just like it said on the website. Left turn, drive four miles, look for another sign.
Jack reflected briefly on the wedding ring on his left hand, and what it meant in the context of what he was planning to do. He wondered if he should take it off or something, but he reflected that professional girls must always guess the truth; Ninety per cent of their clients were married. He left the ring on. He wasn't really very troubled about his marital status; he'd had no carnal relations with his wife in months. She was so consumed with career and ambition that she had no interest, and made no bones about saying so. After 10 years of marriage, everything was a struggle of Shakespearean dimensions: To be or not to be, to have kids or not to have kids, to fuck or not to fuck . . .
"I'm sorry Jack . . . I just don't have it in me . . . I need some time . . . " Jill had said sadly, as he left for the airport a few days earlier.
"How can you let me leave town sexually deprived? This is Las Vegas, after all . . . What happens if I get lucky, in more ways than one . . . "
"More ways than one? Well, let's see. If you win a lot of money, make them give you a check. If you get lucky the other way, my advice is...use a condom," she said simply, and she turned to walk away. Jack tugged at her sleeve and stopped her.
"That's no answer . . . The problem is not just lack of pussy . . . I love you too much to . . . "
Jill regarded him for a moment, then took his right hand and pressed it to her lips before speaking.
"I'll always love you and I know you'll always love me. Just do what you must to survive, and always come home to me."
Then she turned firmly on her heel and walked away.
Two more miles to go, and Jack could see a group of dusty ranch buildings and some dim neon on the horizon. So his wife wouldn't fuck him, and she had just told him to go find some other woman to screw.
'Great,' he thought to himself; 'just what I've always wanted.' But in his heart, it was not true: He was a writer by trade, and the kinds of women he met in his travels were not the promiscuous type. He knew a lot of them were lesbians, and the rest seemed to be leading the solitary writer's life for good reason: they were not very attractive, or personable, or outgoing, or . . .
They weren't his type. They weren't Jill. But he was at the end of his rope, and he was going to explode if he didn't get laid. He didn't know for sure if Jill was serious in her instruction, but he could usually tell when she was kidding or not. She wasn't kidding: 'Use a condom.'
'Ok,' Jack thought, 'I will.'
Jack pulled into the parking lot, and shut off the engine. It was a gritty desert area but the well-kept buildings looked safe enough. On the right was a sort of all-purpose bar and general store with a few disused gas pumps out front. The brothel was behind a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire.
'Trying to protect the virtue of the ladies,' Jack surmised. A fencepost held a doorbell and some instructions: 'Ring here for service.'
'Service, indeed,' thought Jack. He rang the bell.
There was a lull as Jack regarded the colorful building inside the fenced compound, then a door opened and a buxom blonde woman came out and opened the gate. She was dressed in a sort of abbreviated house dress and wore high heels and fishnet stockings. She was pretty and young, about 25, he guessed, or about 10 years his junior.
"Well, hello, darling," she said, "and what are you doing out way out here in the desert in the middle of the summer, in the middle of the afternoon?"
Jack was taken aback. He wasn't sure what to say. Was there some kind of protocol? His silence was prolonged, and the madam took pity on him.
"Jes' kidding, honey. I know what you want, and we'll take care of you. Come inside before your eyeballs fry." She took his arm and led him inside, and closed the door behind them.
The air conditioning was a definite relief, and he was momentarily blinded, coming from the brilliance outside to the dim lighting of the parlor. There was a sofa against the outside wall, and a stone fireplace on the wall facing. There were doors at either end of the room.
"My name's Kelly," the madam said, in a very businesslike way.
"I'm Jack."
"Take a seat on the couch and I'll go get the girls." She opened the door to his left, which revealed a small cupboard with a telephone in it. She picked it up and pressed a button, and a buzzer sounded softly.
Jack sat down as instructed, and within a few moments the door to his right opened, and eight girls came in, forming a line before him. They were of all shapes and sizes, generally attractive and all of them scantily dressed. As if to remind him of the reason for his presence here, his erection began to come to life.
"Okay, ladies . . . Say hello to Jack," said Kelly, and they sounded off down the line from his left to his right.
"April," the first one said.
"Tina."
"Crystal."
"Nikki."
"Mimi."
"Shelly."
"Bunny."
"Tina--No, Gina! Gina!" said the last one, flustered. She looked around and the other girls giggled, and her face went beet red. She was about 5' 2", dressed in a black bra with matching panties. She was a redhead, and had very pale skin; she was also somewhat small-breasted. Of average weight, she wore a sheer, satiny wrap over her shoulders and lace-top thigh-high stockings. Her looks were nice though not remarkable, but something in Jack's heart went out to her.
"What did you say your name was?"
"Gina," she repeated, reddening again. The girls laughed louder then, and she covered her face with her hands. "These goddamned names!"
She was really cute, thought Jack, and he felt his arousal begin to build.
"Let's go, Gina," said Jack, and Gina looked almost surprised as the other girls filed out.
"Thanks, Jack," she said. "Let's go to my room," she said, and led the way through the door on the right, and down a paneled and carpeted hallway.
"Ever been to a brothel before?" Gina asked, and 'no' was all he said. Gina's room was small but tidy. A king-sized bed took up most of it, so much so that it was positioned flush with the mirrored far wall, in order to allow the door to open and close; access to the bed was from one side only. The walls were paneled, and at the foot of the bed was room for a makeup table and dresser, and a small sink. A door, ajar, revealed a small bathroom. Against the wall to the right of the bed was a small table covered with a crocheted coverlet, holding a small Tiffany-style lamp and a book: 'Sonnets from the Portuguese,' by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Jack picked it up.
"You reading this?" He asked.
"Yes," replied Gina. "Surprised that a courtesan would be reading it?"
"No, I . . . " Jack was nonplused briefly, then said, "I admire you for it. English poetry was my major in college." They stood together in silence for a moment. "Well," he said finally. "Guess I'm not in Jersey any more."
"Not in Jersey, no." Her eyes speculated. "What made you pick me?" she asked, at last. "There are prettier girls and younger ones . . . "
Jack reflected on this, and finally said, "I'm not sure about all this. It is something new for me, and I like the fact that I'm doing it with a girl who doesn't seem to know what her name is."
"Good answer," Gina smiled, and laughed a little. "We all use fake names, and I usually call myself Tina, but a new girl came in today who uses that name, so I got confused. Today, I'm Gina. Tomorrow, who knows. Maybe I'll start calling myself 'Elizabeth Barrett Browning'."
"I don't think a lot of guys will get it," Jack ventured.
"No, I don't think so, either." She regarded him, and Jack looked closer at her. She had shoulder length red hair, and she wore heavier makeup than it seemed she needed. Close up, he had a better handle on her age, and was surprised that she seemed to be close his age: very late twenties, very early thirties.
He didn't really know what he had been expecting; maybe someone younger, and more traditionally beautiful, with longer legs and bigger tits. But as she stood before him now, he was deeply attracted to her, mostly because she was not all of those other things. She slipped the light robe off her shoulders and it fell to the floor, and Jack was smitten. He began to ache for her.
After a brief conversation, they arrived at an appropriate figure to pay for an hour of her time. Gina excused herself, and went out of the room, cash in hand. While she was gone, Jack pondered what he should be doing. He wore jeans, a polo shirt and a pair of moccasins. His erection was growing with anticipation, so he kicked off his shoes and pulled off his jeans, and hung them on a hook on the back of the door. Then he lay down on the large bed, and waited for the lady to return, which, at length, she did.
She breezed into the room and spoke, with seemingly genuine gaiety.
