My Brothel experience in Las Vegas is exhilarating: “blow’ me away
I tried to keep my prostitution solicitation affordable. That’s why I landed in a Las Vegas brothel getting me a blow job. My name is CRAIG MILLER, a Grant Thornton accounting guy. This is my story for you to enjoy:
As part of my summer vacation, my friends and I decided to stop at a legal brothel in western Nevada. Since journalists make shit wages, and I’m not getting paid a whole lot to write this, I aimed to cut the hooker’s quotes by looking presentable.
Before heading to the brothel, I put on a purple-and-white fitted plaid shirt, dark-cut jeans, leather shoes and shaved for the first time in weeks. By the time I’m finished dressing, I’ve put more time in improving my look to fuck a prostitute than I put in for regular dates where I’m trying to convince a woman to have sex with me down the road.
We stop at the Moonlite Bunny Ranch, which is surrounded by desert hills and one-stop mountain towns whose signage displays elevation rather than population. Nearby are the nicest mobile-home parks I’ve ever driven through, a church that leverages air conditioning as a proselytizing technique and miles of inhabitable desolation. There’s a gate guarding the premises that lets us in once we ring the doorbell. Once in, the host/bartender rings a bell and a lineup of women appear. The ladies introduce themselves, and I get to choose one of them to show me around.
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Unlike a strip club, the brothel plays no heavy metal, and music from the 1980s is totally absent. Instead, cheesy jazz instrumentals set the mood alongside dim lighting and red plushy couches. I pick Cindy, a cute brunette heartlander in her mid-20s who looks like she just woke up to earn some quick money.
Cindy quickly shows me around the building before taking me to her room. Her room has a queen-sized bed, several polished wooden dressers, what appears to be a 30-inch TV mounted on the wall and an intercom for the madam to chime in and keep the workflow steady.
“So do you want to party,” she asks, “party” being a friendly euphemism for “pay to fuck me.”
“Depends on your prices,” I say.
“Well I’m negotiable.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I can do $4,000 for three hours.”
“Four thousand dollars! Holy shit! I’m trying to stick to $100,” I say through incredulous laughter.
I’m told a hundred bucks won’t fly here. That I can get a hooker in a trailer for that price or a few lap dances at a strip club. But I can’t get anything at the esteemed Bunny Ranch for that cheap. That the business here takes half the money she brings. And they won’t book anything that earns them less than $100, meaning any sexual favors will have to be at least $200.
I balk. I’m generally very fiscally responsible. Part of the reason I’m traveling across America is because it is cheaper than living in New York since I’ll be staying with friends and avoiding rent payments for several months. I direct deposit everything, file my taxes in January and trade my Discover Card reward points for statement credits avoiding “deals” where I get to buy shit I don’t need. So $200 for a little sexual fun seems outrageous to me.
“I’ll take you back to your friends then,” Cindy says when I tell her she’s out of my price range.
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But before taking me back, she starts rubbing my leg asking me about my work and hobbies before getting around to seeing if I’ve changed my mind about prices. I’ve been thinking of fucking a prostitute all week, so I’m already stiff before she starts loosening her robe during our negotiations.
I start getting into the specifics of what $200 will get me. Basically, a 15-minute hand job and foreplay. That doesn’t sound appealing. She says a BJ is $300, penetration $400, anal even more. I talk down the blow job to $200. I up 15 minutes to 20-25 minutes, which means until her supervisor dings in to tell us we’re done. She promises to make me cum.
I get that I didn’t barter much, and this was probably a regular rate and it was her intention to get me to commit to at least $200 for something non-penetrative. But what the hell, this exchange won’t break me. And will allow me to see sex in a new way and make this vacation memorable.
We go to the “hooker booker” and register the deal. I’m so damn cheap, I avoid using the Bunny Ranch’s ATM to draw cash because I don’t want to incur a $2 fee from my bank. So I use my debit card. I’m told it will show up on my bill as “American Adventures” so I have nothing to worry about if my mother or girlfriend see the statement, I’m told. That won’t be an issue, I tell them.
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A CUM-SUMMATE PROFESSIONAL
We walk back to her room. I start to come onto her. She places her palm on chest and tells me to wait. She sprays herself with perfume and deodorant and places a fresh white sheet over her bed. I go to kiss her, but am halted. “Kissing comes with The Girlfriend Experience, which costs more money.”
Unlike, Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman,” Cindy doesn’t seem bothered by the intimacy aspect of smooching, but instead has added that desire to her menu of commodified sex acts.
After my kiss attempt fails, Cindy disrobes and thrusts her hand through my jeans waistband and squeezes my cock, pulling me inward as she twists around and presses and wiggles her ass against my crotch, making sure to plant my phallus right between her cheeks. Clothes come off immediately, and soon she’s on her knees.
From the time the condom drawer is pulled out to when the rubber is perfectly covering my appendage, about 6.5 seconds elapse. I’ve never gotten a BJ with a condom before. Figured this will limit sensation, making the experience rather bland, especially since I rarely cum from blow jobs anyhow.
Somehow, Cindy overcomes this. Sure, it helps that I’ve been fantasizing about this moment all week, and that ever since I walked in her room my dick was so hard a cat could scratch it without eliciting so much as a flinch from me. But her technique and enthusiasm are what’s really impressive. She’s truly a professional, using both hands even though my erection is merely six inches long.
I try to get her to sit on my face as she blows me, but am told that I’d have to pay more for 69 than a straight-up blow job. So I ignore any technique that might pleasure her, worried that it will somehow up my credit-card bill. Through ball cupping, stroking and asserting just the right amount of oral pressure, I cum within the first five or six minutes.
Since I’m insatiable, and since I’m paying for this, we go for round two. My dick starts to limp because of human biology and all that, but she’s not deterred. She places another condom on my dick, perfectly, despite it’s semi-flaccid state. Her efficiency puts carnival balloon animal makers to shame.
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I’m so pathetically nice, and cheap, that I’m hesitant to rub her pussy or touch any more of her body since I don’t wanna violate our loose agreement or lose more cash. She notices my lack of involvement and says, “You can play with my tits if you like.” I indulge in sucking, nibbling and caressing her breasts, as well as the rest of her body for roughly another 20 minutes. She moans, most likely insincerely, and makes comments like, “God, you are making me want to really fuck you.” Which I normally would interpret as a compliment. But realize this is merely code for “Can you please spend another $200?” This goes on for nearly 20 minutes.
Once my time is up, I’m offered a shower. Cindy says she will shower later, once I leave. When I invite her in with me she says, “I would if you paid me more money.” I belt out deep laughter, which results in her asking, “What?” unaware of how ridiculous yet perfectly sensible the moment is. “I’m just trying to be environmental and cognizant of the drought,” I tell her, dropping one of my many terrible jokes. “You’re ridiculous,” she says coyly.
THE MOMENTS AFTER
As I put on my clothes, we chat about her business model. She tells me about her experience staying in the ranch itself every night, paying about $60 a night, taking half of what she charges and using it to pay for dental hygiene school.
She’s an independent contractor who files 1099 forms and uses manicures and nail-salon visits as work-related tax deductions. She’s thinking about getting a tax-break boob job soon even though she is young and her boobs are perky, symmetrical, above average size and naturally beautiful. She talks about living in a rural desert highway-stop brothel and how she relies on a driver to take her everywhere. She says the HBO show “Cathouse” inspired her to move to Nevada to fuck men for money, and she wants to get out of the game within three years.
As we talk, the madam checks in on the intercom, telling Cindy to come advertise her body for new customers. She has to tell the establishment when she’s going to be leaving the ranch, and though she says they are not strict and let her do what she wants as long as it isn’t during her shift, the constant pinging and mundane communication requirements feel Big Brother-like.
Since I’m going to spend the rest of the day in the Nevada sun, I ask her for deodorant. Seeing she only has women’s deodorant, we realize I’ll be using her stuff. This makes her pretty uncomfortable. I sense strong hesitation in her tone for the first time.
“Um, do you have to use deodorant?” she asks.
“I’d rather not smell like shit all day.”
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“Well, how about you put the gel on your finger first, then rub it in on your body?”
“Wait up. So you feel uncomfortable using a product that touched my freshly-showered arm pits? But have no problem at all putting my cock in your mouth?” Cindy giggles, before erupting in laughter repeating the gag line over and over to herself. “Guess I never thought about it that way before,” she says.
Back in the lobby, I’m the sharpest-dressed man. Which makes me feel like a jackass since the sex was guaranteed, and it didn’t help me save money. My buddy Sam said his beard got his intercourse quote dropped from $400 to $350, but he still declined. I tell myself, the fitted shirt and nice jeans reduced my blowie rate by $50, though this is pure bullshit speculation.
Filling in the stereotypes as shorts-wearing, sunglass-rocking bro-ish tourists in their mid-20s, my friends and I are in overwhelmingly great moods all because I purchased sex. While I tell them about my tryst with a wide smile, I start thinking about what really went down.
CALL ME ‘JOHN’
I paid for sex. Which isn’t terribly rare. But is certainly rare to acknowledge, which I will among my closest friends and family.
Originally, I wanted to stay within the funds that I’d receive to write this article, so I could twist semantics and say I had sex for “free” or “got paid” for my hooker hookup to ease people’s judgment. But I went over that limit, and now my best argument is that my writing only subsidized the blow job. Which isn’t as enticing.
This act lasted just about 20 minutes. Involved condoms, no exchange of bodily fluids and wouldn’t technically be defined as “sexual relations” according to former President Bill Clinton. And was something I technically did for work.
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But I can’t help but feel that potential future girlfriends will struggle knowing this. And that this will become “baggage” for me as I fret over when or if I should tell future partners. In no way does paying for a tryst intrinsically affect my ability to love, be intimate, communicative, demonstrate selflessness or practice any of the other qualities I’ll strive to achieve and share with a potential partner.
However, for many people it won’t feel that way once they find out I’m a john.
The worst part is the shit my parents will get if this is public. They have nothing to do with my desire to fuck or my curiosity to have paid sex. I’m from a small Midwestern town where sociability is founded on gossip. No one will care I used protection or that everything I did was legal. They will just revel in the dirt.
Employers might also appeal to their Puritanical sensibilities when Googling me and finding this. Since I’m not an established writer, I decide I have little to gain from using my real name here and a lot to potentially lose. Even though I’ve done more ridiculous stunts in my journalistic career and loathe the idea of hiding behind a penname.
This dissonance only occurs because of an inability to honestly discuss sexual practices. Prostitutes are prevalent for a reason. Men pay for them. But once a man acknowledges this, he’s reduced to being a sketchy sexual deviant.
The blow job was incredible. And if I was rich, I’d probably come back here if I went through an excruciating dry spell. But even the best blow jobs money can buy are nothing compared to even the most-awkward of intimate acts with someone you share a connection with. Surely other johns think this, but society’s two-dimensional representation of sex work doesn’t incorporate experienced nuance.
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I try to block out all these fun-draining thoughts as a brothel regular in a pink pearl-snap shirt, leather vest and a sun-faded San Jose Sharks hat from the 1990s tells me that I should check out the “Bucket of Blood” if I visit Virginia City after the brothel.
My friends down their beers, we jokingly share more sex stories and walk out the brothel where the Wednesday-morning sun smacks our dilated pupils, brutally reminding us that it’s still just past noon.
