admin
08 Ağustos 2023, 21:06
Chapter 1. "Pumpkin"
Monday, July 18, 2016
Flagstone, Nevada
"What the heck am I doing?" The troubled grimace on Lindsay Delacroix's face belied her youthfulness as she gazed at the eclectic, Spanish-style house. A terrible knot bounced around in the pit of her stomach and her temple pulse-point twitched with anxiety. Lindsay's psyche screeched at her to turn and run away, but she refused to budge, convinced the key to a successful future awaited within those walls.
Everything looked identical compared to the online photographs she'd studied so meticulously over the past several months. The desert scenery surrounding the house provided breathtaking background views of orange-banded canyons, towering yellow limestone peaks, sandstone crags, crumbling rocks, and an assortment of colorful wildflowers. Nestled at the end of a cul-de-sac, the property looked normal with its white stucco exterior, red tiled roof, manicured grounds, spacious front patio, and dense shrubbery.
Yet Lindsay knew it was anything but normal. This house represented all the immoral things she'd been taught to avoid while growing up in a conservative, religious family. What happened in establishments like this, she'd been told, was dehumanizing and potentially even life-threatening.
That voice from within continued to protest.
Don't do this.
Save yourself.
Run!
But Lindsay again chose to ignore it.
"Well, I'm here. I'm actually here. Wow. Might as well go through with it, huh? There's no turning back now." Lindsay again spoke out loud as she applied a fresh layer of lipstick and fluffed up her hair.
Need to look my best, right? This is the biggest day of my life. Random thoughts swirled through her mind much like gray ash and dust did in the desert air all around her thanks to a strong, gusting wind. Mom and Dad would throw a fit -- maybe even disown me -- if they knew what I was about to get myself into.
She took a deep, fortifying breath and tipped her chin high with conviction. I'm gonna do it. It's time to be a big girl for once and move onto the next phase of my life. Don't be afraid. You've got this.
Still brimming with nervous energy, Lindsay managed a brave face, flung her backpack over her shoulder, and walked toward the seemingly routine, inconspicuous desert house.
Stay strong. Everything is gonna be alright.
Besides, the 18-year-old had nowhere else to go. Thanks to that Uber ride just to get here, she was out of money.
Lindsay had fallen in love with Las Vegas after a whirlwind sightseeing tour and staying at a hotel there last evening. An oasis of lights, sounds, and uncaged debauchery in the heart of the Mojave Desert, Sin City was more like a theme park than an urban metropolis -- it could awe as much as it could overwhelm, and that was part of the appeal.
Known for its luxurious rental properties, the clink and ring of slot machines, world-class shows, and a cornucopia of fine dining, Vegas had more than earned its moniker as the entertainment capital of the world. Activity raged everywhere, and the exotic parade of tourists from all walks of life boggled Lindsay's young, impressionable mind. And the Las Vegas Strip itself? It was a flamboyant, boisterous, and wildly eccentric adult fantasyland -- especially after dark -- where anything was possible, and reality (and all its pitfalls) ceased to exist.
But here, 150 miles north in Flagstone, Nevada, things were different. Rich in tradition and nineteenth-century architecture, this tightly knit community offered peaceful living and affordable housing. Many locals were descendants of the original settlers, and while friendly, were also protective of their way of life and resistant to change.
An old silver mine, abandoned long ago, was strewn with wrecked and twisted debris. The Flagstone Historical Museum was bursting with artifacts, including one of the original train engines used to haul ore from the mine. The town's biggest attraction, Crown Hill Cemetery, was the final resting place for hundreds of outlaws and murderers from the 1800s. With gunslinging once a favorite pastime, many locals insisted it was haunted.
"Well, this sure ain't Vegas," Lindsay observed.
The temperature on this bright and sultry Monday morning was 105 degrees Fahrenheit, typical weather for July, but Lindsay was accustomed to sweltering heat like this. Just three weeks ago she'd been standing on stage under the blazing sun at her high school graduation in the small town of Citronelle in the southeastern California desert.
She left those old stomping grounds behind yesterday morning, as well as her parents, three sisters, and everyone else she'd ever known and loved, and took a charter bus from Palm Springs to Las Vegas. It was a long, grueling trip, and Lindsay was still feeling the effects of it. Her mother insisted she had no idea what she was doing and was downright crazy to Harbiye Escort (https://www.pompaci.net/istanbul/harbiye) venture out on her like this at such an early age.
But Lindsay had a plan.
She just didn't tell anyone what it was.
Not even her lifelong best friend, Evie Bancroft.
Lindsay wanted to get away from Citronelle for as long as she could remember. Sure, it was home, but nothing ever happened there, and no one ever left. The next closest sign of civilization was 30 miles away. Between it and Citronelle there was one lonely highway and a whole lot of empty space. In her mind, continuing to live in that town was a dead end and offered zero opportunity at a successful future.
For years, Lindsay clung to the hope that something better was out there waiting for her but wasn't sure what, or where it was. And unless she went out and searched, Lindsay knew she'd never find it because it sure as hell wouldn't come looking for her in Citronelle.
At first, securing leading roles in television and on the big screen was going to be her ticket out of the boondocks. She'd be a Hollywood icon, drive around in a Porsche, live in a mansion on the beach, and have an entire staff of servants dedicated to her every whim. Her life would be glitzy and glamorous and full of excitement.
It was an idea shared by hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of little girls who dreamt of one day becoming a star in Tinseltown. But as she got older, reality set in. Lindsay had a better chance of winning the Powerball than becoming the next A-list actress or magazine cover girl. She possessed the look and certainly didn't lack self-confidence but was smart enough to realize there were two chances of succeeding in showbusiness: slim and none. Those long odds, she concluded, were not worth her time or effort.
Still, Lindsay wanted to ditch Citronelle and do something fresh and exciting with her life. With her two older sisters attending USC and Arizona State, respectively, going off to college was out of the question. There was no way her parents could afford the tuition. Besides, Lindsay lacked motivation during her high school years and flat-out didn't care about learning or trying to do her best. Getting accepted into a top-flight university would be an uphill battle with less-than-favorable GPA and SAT/ACT scores.
She was also tired of dipping and frying corn dogs for minimum wage at the town fairgrounds like a mindless zombie every summer. Ewwwww, gross . . . corn dogs. Lindsay shuddered at the thought. It was the only available job for her in town and further evidence she needed to escape the purgatory her life in Citronelle had become.
So, at the beginning of her senior year of high school, an idea popped into her mind and wouldn't go away. At first, Lindsay found the thought utterly repulsive, but soon the perversity of it intrigued and excited her like nothing ever had before.
Why wouldn't it? It involved having sex.
Lots of it.
And this girl loved sex.
Lindsay did exhaustive research on every active brothel throughout the state of Nevada and what it was like to work at one. She read every news article, blog post, and website message board available on the Internet related to them.
Brothels (or to be blunt, whorehouses) were 100 percent legal in select, lesser-populated Nevada counties. Advocates claimed that visiting one was the safest sex anyone could ever have in their life. A million times safer than, say, picking up a random chick at the neighborhood bar and taking her back to their bachelor pad for a one-night stand.
All aspects of a brothel's day-to-day operations were regulated and subject to the strict scrutiny of the Nevada State Legislature. Every sex worker was routinely screened for STDs. If diagnosed with an infection, they weren't allowed to return to work until cleared by a physician. Failure to comply would lead to a jail sentence for the lady, and license cancellation and permanent shutdown for the brothel itself.
There had never been a case of HIV reported in the LPIN (Legal Prostitution in Nevada) system. Mandatory HIV testing began in 1986 and a mandatory condom law followed two years later. Each year, it seemed that safety protocols for the industry became even more stringent.
Lindsay created dummy accounts on Twitter and Instagram so she could follow as many working girls (i.e., prostitutes) she could find. Lindsay even socialized back and forth with those who were gracious enough to respond. Claiming to be 24 with legitimate aspirations of joining the business, she asked countless questions and processed all the feedback.
Some brothels were glamorous, upscale resorts while others operated in tiny, rundown shacks. They went from one extreme to the other, like comparing that Porsche to an old clunker.
But when you got down to it, at least for the customer, what did it matter? Women were women and sex was sex, so if Escort Harbiye (https://www.pompaci.net/istanbul/harbiye) a customer found a connection and enjoyed themselves, it's doubtful whether they'd remember it happened in a glittering palace or a hundred-year-old house in dire need of repairs.
On the higher end, a legalized working girl could make between $1,500 and $2,000 an hour for a standard session, but only at those posh, extravagant resorts outside of Las Vegas. Though banned in Las Vegas itself and all of Clark County because the population exceeded the state-imposed limit of 700,000, a handful of brothels could be found in adjacent Nye County.
According to Lindsay's research, working at them was competitive and demanding -- almost to the point of being cutthroat -- and the girls had to pay substantial fees (rent, supplies, food, cleaning, etc.) daily.
Way up north, closer to Salt Lake City than Las Vegas, earning power was far less -- just a couple of hundred bucks an hour. Those brothels were in quiet desert towns without much else going on. A healthy chunk of their clientele were locals who led normal lives and worked at the casino or in the mine and didn't have a surplus of money to throw around. Working at them wasn't lucrative as certain days came and went without a single customer stopping by.
But the vibe at the smaller houses seemed much more relaxed and easygoing. Management still charged a daily rent, but according to Lindsay's probing it was in the $20 to $30 range (compared to down south where it was close to $50) and general expenses were covered for the most part. The ladies got along and supported one another. Many posted comments on social media about the comfortable living conditions and how they didn't have to pay for any frivolous expenses. Despite slower business and excess downtime, they claimed to be happy.
Prostitution was illegal in Reno and Carson City as well, but a few miles away in Lyon County, brothels offered higher earning potential than those along the northern beltway. A greater population and their proximity to Sacramento and San Francisco meant more business. But the negative drawbacks at these western houses ramped up, too. Management could afford to take liberties with their employees, make outrageous demands, and charge higher fees.
After months of deliberation, Lindsay decided to apply online at Happy Ending Ranch in Flagstone (population: 1,100.) Aesthetically speaking, Flagstone wasn't much different than Citronelle or the towns further north. But it was closer to Las Vegas (a two-and-a-half-hour drive compared to six or seven) and attracted more customers because of it. High rollers and big shots from the casinos would drive there looking for a good time with pocketfuls of cash to burn.
The typical working girl at Happy Ending Ranch netted between $300 to $350 an hour while entertaining a client. It was on the low end compared to the larger houses, but Lindsay was okay with that. Those amounts came courtesy of some friendly patrons she met through social media. Lindsay asked a select number of prostitutes what their earnings were as well, but never got a response from any of them.
That's because in-house employees discussing prices through online communication or over the telephone was illegal and warranted an arrest. In the eyes of the law, that's considered solicitation. The only place any legal negotiating could take place was in a private room within a brothel itself.
Happy Ending Ranch had a few nice bonus perks, too -- it provided both meals and supplies, such as condoms, wet wipes, hand sanitizer, and other essentials free of charge. Working for less money was a welcome trade-off for not owing exorbitant living fees and being in a less stressful environment. The ladies weren't in constant fear of losing their jobs, either.
But the main reason Lindsay chose this specific brothel was she hadn't read one negative word about it. Customers raved about the girls and how friendly and attentive the staff was. The owner went out of his way for the customer, and judging by pictures she'd seen, Lindsay thought he was easy on the eyes, too.
Patrons also spoke far more glowingly of the ranch's atmosphere than they did any other in the state. In a way, it seemed too good to be true. Some clients traveled thousands of miles and only visited for an hour or two yet kept coming back multiple times a year. Reading the message board and watching videos, Happy Ending's girls were tight-knit and friendly. Lindsay thoroughly analyzed their exchanges on social media and found no hint of petty jealousy.
At the bigger houses, the atmosphere was all business. Those brothels, particularly the ones closer to Vegas, were a well-oiled machine whose sole purpose was to make money -- which they did hand over fist. That model worked well for them, too.
But veteran whoremongers (or mongers, an industry term for repeat customers) complained there wasn't the special Harbiye Escort Bayan (https://www.pompaci.net/istanbul/harbiye) touch found at the rural houses. The high-dollar brothels didn't offer an unforgettable experience that would attract returning business like the smaller ones did.
It was get in, get out, keep the assembly line moving -- a well-oiled machine, indeed. They could afford to be this way because with tens of thousands of tourists cycling through Sin City every day, new customers were always coming through the doors, whether it was with a purpose or out of sheer curiosity. Athletes, celebrities, multimillionaires, and Fortune 500 CEOs were frequent guests. So was the common, everyday working man vacationing from thousands of miles away who didn't realize the prices were way more affordable in Humboldt, Elko, White Pine, and Lander Counties.
It was sex. And with Vegas being close by and having such constant demand, prices were inflated.
Additionally, turnover was high and morale shaky. Lindsay read several horror stories about certain things the girls did to each other during disagreements. One urinated in another's suitcase, for example, and didn't tell anyone about it for four days. A massive firestorm ensued with both ladies getting terminated and moving onto separate houses.
And then there was the lawsuit.
Lindsay wanted no part of any drama, so decided to apply at Happy Ending Ranch. Even former employees didn't have anything negative to say about the place. Everything was positive. They loved the management -- especially the owner -- and the rest of the staff as well. It came recommended for both first-time and veteran working girls.
Plus, at most houses, the minimum age for employment was 21, which disqualified Lindsay. But here, it was 18. Each county had its own rules.
NOTICE: Cell phones, pagers, personal digital assistants (PDAs), laptops, recording devices, and two-way radios are prohibited on this property and will be confiscated.
Lindsay's face twisted as she scrutinized the sign at the entrance. She assumed it was to protect anonymity and safety and that such a rule was for the clientele, not the working girls. Surely, management wouldn't forbid their employees from using cell phones, would they? But just to be safe, she stashed her wireless device inside her backpack anyway.
Lindsay reached out a tentative finger, pressed the doorbell, and heard the chime go off from somewhere behind the thick, reinforced mahogany.
And as if on cue, she started doubting her decisions. Maybe I have it all wrong. Am I about to make the biggest mistake of my life? One I won't ever be able to recover from? Lindsay's heart was pounding in her chest as she wondered what awaited her on the other side of the door.
You're insane, but welcome to the rest of your life, girlfriend. This is what you wanted. Time to get fucked for a living. She gripped the hair at the back of her head with both hands, groaned miserably, and shuffled her feet. Hey, they can put that on your tombstone! Lindsay Michelle Delacroix, December 4, 1997 to . . . whenever. She was a prostitute and got fucked for a living -- and she liked it. A cocksucker du jour.
The young woman blew her cheeks out with a heavy breath, lifted her chin, and took in the surroundings one more time. This sure isn't Citronelle, either. She knew all too well her mother was against the idea of prostitution, legal or otherwise. Mrs. Delacroix claimed that brothels were "houses of ill repute" and the women who dared work at them "unholy sinners." She enjoyed watching daytime talk shows a little too much and insisted sex workers were the lowest form of scum on the planet and would forever rot in Hell.
Lindsay's face went pale at the thought of her parents ever finding out she was here. Mom would spaz out. Dad would have a heart attack and call the National Guard -- no, he'd do one better -- he'd get Seal Team Six and have me extracted.
After a full minute, the door had yet to be opened. Maybe everyone was still sleeping? Lindsay knew the majority of brothel customers showed up at night under the sanctity of darkness, but the place had been open for almost 90 minutes. Someone had to be awake and lurking about inside, right?
Impatient, Lindsay hit the buzzer again and experienced more pangs of self-doubt and trepidation. Coming here wasn't an easy decision, but at least it'd been a well-thought and informed one (or so she hoped.) Lindsay again reminded herself that this was what she wanted to do with the next phase of her life.
It was her one-way ticket out of Citronelle, too.
A man opened the door and greeted her with a cheerful smile. "Hi! Good morning! Welcome to Happy Ending Ranch!"
Dressed from head to toe in black, the gentleman's face was aged with lines giving him a distinguished complexion, his hair dark with silver streaks, and he had green eyes that reminded Lindsay of the forest on a calm day.
She found herself intrigued by how handsome this man looked. Lindsay had countless fantasies of being with an older, far more experienced man who could show her how things were supposed to be done in the bedroom. In those fantasies, she imagined herself as defenseless and at her lover's mercy.
Monday, July 18, 2016
Flagstone, Nevada
"What the heck am I doing?" The troubled grimace on Lindsay Delacroix's face belied her youthfulness as she gazed at the eclectic, Spanish-style house. A terrible knot bounced around in the pit of her stomach and her temple pulse-point twitched with anxiety. Lindsay's psyche screeched at her to turn and run away, but she refused to budge, convinced the key to a successful future awaited within those walls.
Everything looked identical compared to the online photographs she'd studied so meticulously over the past several months. The desert scenery surrounding the house provided breathtaking background views of orange-banded canyons, towering yellow limestone peaks, sandstone crags, crumbling rocks, and an assortment of colorful wildflowers. Nestled at the end of a cul-de-sac, the property looked normal with its white stucco exterior, red tiled roof, manicured grounds, spacious front patio, and dense shrubbery.
Yet Lindsay knew it was anything but normal. This house represented all the immoral things she'd been taught to avoid while growing up in a conservative, religious family. What happened in establishments like this, she'd been told, was dehumanizing and potentially even life-threatening.
That voice from within continued to protest.
Don't do this.
Save yourself.
Run!
But Lindsay again chose to ignore it.
"Well, I'm here. I'm actually here. Wow. Might as well go through with it, huh? There's no turning back now." Lindsay again spoke out loud as she applied a fresh layer of lipstick and fluffed up her hair.
Need to look my best, right? This is the biggest day of my life. Random thoughts swirled through her mind much like gray ash and dust did in the desert air all around her thanks to a strong, gusting wind. Mom and Dad would throw a fit -- maybe even disown me -- if they knew what I was about to get myself into.
She took a deep, fortifying breath and tipped her chin high with conviction. I'm gonna do it. It's time to be a big girl for once and move onto the next phase of my life. Don't be afraid. You've got this.
Still brimming with nervous energy, Lindsay managed a brave face, flung her backpack over her shoulder, and walked toward the seemingly routine, inconspicuous desert house.
Stay strong. Everything is gonna be alright.
Besides, the 18-year-old had nowhere else to go. Thanks to that Uber ride just to get here, she was out of money.
Lindsay had fallen in love with Las Vegas after a whirlwind sightseeing tour and staying at a hotel there last evening. An oasis of lights, sounds, and uncaged debauchery in the heart of the Mojave Desert, Sin City was more like a theme park than an urban metropolis -- it could awe as much as it could overwhelm, and that was part of the appeal.
Known for its luxurious rental properties, the clink and ring of slot machines, world-class shows, and a cornucopia of fine dining, Vegas had more than earned its moniker as the entertainment capital of the world. Activity raged everywhere, and the exotic parade of tourists from all walks of life boggled Lindsay's young, impressionable mind. And the Las Vegas Strip itself? It was a flamboyant, boisterous, and wildly eccentric adult fantasyland -- especially after dark -- where anything was possible, and reality (and all its pitfalls) ceased to exist.
But here, 150 miles north in Flagstone, Nevada, things were different. Rich in tradition and nineteenth-century architecture, this tightly knit community offered peaceful living and affordable housing. Many locals were descendants of the original settlers, and while friendly, were also protective of their way of life and resistant to change.
An old silver mine, abandoned long ago, was strewn with wrecked and twisted debris. The Flagstone Historical Museum was bursting with artifacts, including one of the original train engines used to haul ore from the mine. The town's biggest attraction, Crown Hill Cemetery, was the final resting place for hundreds of outlaws and murderers from the 1800s. With gunslinging once a favorite pastime, many locals insisted it was haunted.
"Well, this sure ain't Vegas," Lindsay observed.
The temperature on this bright and sultry Monday morning was 105 degrees Fahrenheit, typical weather for July, but Lindsay was accustomed to sweltering heat like this. Just three weeks ago she'd been standing on stage under the blazing sun at her high school graduation in the small town of Citronelle in the southeastern California desert.
She left those old stomping grounds behind yesterday morning, as well as her parents, three sisters, and everyone else she'd ever known and loved, and took a charter bus from Palm Springs to Las Vegas. It was a long, grueling trip, and Lindsay was still feeling the effects of it. Her mother insisted she had no idea what she was doing and was downright crazy to Harbiye Escort (https://www.pompaci.net/istanbul/harbiye) venture out on her like this at such an early age.
But Lindsay had a plan.
She just didn't tell anyone what it was.
Not even her lifelong best friend, Evie Bancroft.
Lindsay wanted to get away from Citronelle for as long as she could remember. Sure, it was home, but nothing ever happened there, and no one ever left. The next closest sign of civilization was 30 miles away. Between it and Citronelle there was one lonely highway and a whole lot of empty space. In her mind, continuing to live in that town was a dead end and offered zero opportunity at a successful future.
For years, Lindsay clung to the hope that something better was out there waiting for her but wasn't sure what, or where it was. And unless she went out and searched, Lindsay knew she'd never find it because it sure as hell wouldn't come looking for her in Citronelle.
At first, securing leading roles in television and on the big screen was going to be her ticket out of the boondocks. She'd be a Hollywood icon, drive around in a Porsche, live in a mansion on the beach, and have an entire staff of servants dedicated to her every whim. Her life would be glitzy and glamorous and full of excitement.
It was an idea shared by hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of little girls who dreamt of one day becoming a star in Tinseltown. But as she got older, reality set in. Lindsay had a better chance of winning the Powerball than becoming the next A-list actress or magazine cover girl. She possessed the look and certainly didn't lack self-confidence but was smart enough to realize there were two chances of succeeding in showbusiness: slim and none. Those long odds, she concluded, were not worth her time or effort.
Still, Lindsay wanted to ditch Citronelle and do something fresh and exciting with her life. With her two older sisters attending USC and Arizona State, respectively, going off to college was out of the question. There was no way her parents could afford the tuition. Besides, Lindsay lacked motivation during her high school years and flat-out didn't care about learning or trying to do her best. Getting accepted into a top-flight university would be an uphill battle with less-than-favorable GPA and SAT/ACT scores.
She was also tired of dipping and frying corn dogs for minimum wage at the town fairgrounds like a mindless zombie every summer. Ewwwww, gross . . . corn dogs. Lindsay shuddered at the thought. It was the only available job for her in town and further evidence she needed to escape the purgatory her life in Citronelle had become.
So, at the beginning of her senior year of high school, an idea popped into her mind and wouldn't go away. At first, Lindsay found the thought utterly repulsive, but soon the perversity of it intrigued and excited her like nothing ever had before.
Why wouldn't it? It involved having sex.
Lots of it.
And this girl loved sex.
Lindsay did exhaustive research on every active brothel throughout the state of Nevada and what it was like to work at one. She read every news article, blog post, and website message board available on the Internet related to them.
Brothels (or to be blunt, whorehouses) were 100 percent legal in select, lesser-populated Nevada counties. Advocates claimed that visiting one was the safest sex anyone could ever have in their life. A million times safer than, say, picking up a random chick at the neighborhood bar and taking her back to their bachelor pad for a one-night stand.
All aspects of a brothel's day-to-day operations were regulated and subject to the strict scrutiny of the Nevada State Legislature. Every sex worker was routinely screened for STDs. If diagnosed with an infection, they weren't allowed to return to work until cleared by a physician. Failure to comply would lead to a jail sentence for the lady, and license cancellation and permanent shutdown for the brothel itself.
There had never been a case of HIV reported in the LPIN (Legal Prostitution in Nevada) system. Mandatory HIV testing began in 1986 and a mandatory condom law followed two years later. Each year, it seemed that safety protocols for the industry became even more stringent.
Lindsay created dummy accounts on Twitter and Instagram so she could follow as many working girls (i.e., prostitutes) she could find. Lindsay even socialized back and forth with those who were gracious enough to respond. Claiming to be 24 with legitimate aspirations of joining the business, she asked countless questions and processed all the feedback.
Some brothels were glamorous, upscale resorts while others operated in tiny, rundown shacks. They went from one extreme to the other, like comparing that Porsche to an old clunker.
But when you got down to it, at least for the customer, what did it matter? Women were women and sex was sex, so if Escort Harbiye (https://www.pompaci.net/istanbul/harbiye) a customer found a connection and enjoyed themselves, it's doubtful whether they'd remember it happened in a glittering palace or a hundred-year-old house in dire need of repairs.
On the higher end, a legalized working girl could make between $1,500 and $2,000 an hour for a standard session, but only at those posh, extravagant resorts outside of Las Vegas. Though banned in Las Vegas itself and all of Clark County because the population exceeded the state-imposed limit of 700,000, a handful of brothels could be found in adjacent Nye County.
According to Lindsay's research, working at them was competitive and demanding -- almost to the point of being cutthroat -- and the girls had to pay substantial fees (rent, supplies, food, cleaning, etc.) daily.
Way up north, closer to Salt Lake City than Las Vegas, earning power was far less -- just a couple of hundred bucks an hour. Those brothels were in quiet desert towns without much else going on. A healthy chunk of their clientele were locals who led normal lives and worked at the casino or in the mine and didn't have a surplus of money to throw around. Working at them wasn't lucrative as certain days came and went without a single customer stopping by.
But the vibe at the smaller houses seemed much more relaxed and easygoing. Management still charged a daily rent, but according to Lindsay's probing it was in the $20 to $30 range (compared to down south where it was close to $50) and general expenses were covered for the most part. The ladies got along and supported one another. Many posted comments on social media about the comfortable living conditions and how they didn't have to pay for any frivolous expenses. Despite slower business and excess downtime, they claimed to be happy.
Prostitution was illegal in Reno and Carson City as well, but a few miles away in Lyon County, brothels offered higher earning potential than those along the northern beltway. A greater population and their proximity to Sacramento and San Francisco meant more business. But the negative drawbacks at these western houses ramped up, too. Management could afford to take liberties with their employees, make outrageous demands, and charge higher fees.
After months of deliberation, Lindsay decided to apply online at Happy Ending Ranch in Flagstone (population: 1,100.) Aesthetically speaking, Flagstone wasn't much different than Citronelle or the towns further north. But it was closer to Las Vegas (a two-and-a-half-hour drive compared to six or seven) and attracted more customers because of it. High rollers and big shots from the casinos would drive there looking for a good time with pocketfuls of cash to burn.
The typical working girl at Happy Ending Ranch netted between $300 to $350 an hour while entertaining a client. It was on the low end compared to the larger houses, but Lindsay was okay with that. Those amounts came courtesy of some friendly patrons she met through social media. Lindsay asked a select number of prostitutes what their earnings were as well, but never got a response from any of them.
That's because in-house employees discussing prices through online communication or over the telephone was illegal and warranted an arrest. In the eyes of the law, that's considered solicitation. The only place any legal negotiating could take place was in a private room within a brothel itself.
Happy Ending Ranch had a few nice bonus perks, too -- it provided both meals and supplies, such as condoms, wet wipes, hand sanitizer, and other essentials free of charge. Working for less money was a welcome trade-off for not owing exorbitant living fees and being in a less stressful environment. The ladies weren't in constant fear of losing their jobs, either.
But the main reason Lindsay chose this specific brothel was she hadn't read one negative word about it. Customers raved about the girls and how friendly and attentive the staff was. The owner went out of his way for the customer, and judging by pictures she'd seen, Lindsay thought he was easy on the eyes, too.
Patrons also spoke far more glowingly of the ranch's atmosphere than they did any other in the state. In a way, it seemed too good to be true. Some clients traveled thousands of miles and only visited for an hour or two yet kept coming back multiple times a year. Reading the message board and watching videos, Happy Ending's girls were tight-knit and friendly. Lindsay thoroughly analyzed their exchanges on social media and found no hint of petty jealousy.
At the bigger houses, the atmosphere was all business. Those brothels, particularly the ones closer to Vegas, were a well-oiled machine whose sole purpose was to make money -- which they did hand over fist. That model worked well for them, too.
But veteran whoremongers (or mongers, an industry term for repeat customers) complained there wasn't the special Harbiye Escort Bayan (https://www.pompaci.net/istanbul/harbiye) touch found at the rural houses. The high-dollar brothels didn't offer an unforgettable experience that would attract returning business like the smaller ones did.
It was get in, get out, keep the assembly line moving -- a well-oiled machine, indeed. They could afford to be this way because with tens of thousands of tourists cycling through Sin City every day, new customers were always coming through the doors, whether it was with a purpose or out of sheer curiosity. Athletes, celebrities, multimillionaires, and Fortune 500 CEOs were frequent guests. So was the common, everyday working man vacationing from thousands of miles away who didn't realize the prices were way more affordable in Humboldt, Elko, White Pine, and Lander Counties.
It was sex. And with Vegas being close by and having such constant demand, prices were inflated.
Additionally, turnover was high and morale shaky. Lindsay read several horror stories about certain things the girls did to each other during disagreements. One urinated in another's suitcase, for example, and didn't tell anyone about it for four days. A massive firestorm ensued with both ladies getting terminated and moving onto separate houses.
And then there was the lawsuit.
Lindsay wanted no part of any drama, so decided to apply at Happy Ending Ranch. Even former employees didn't have anything negative to say about the place. Everything was positive. They loved the management -- especially the owner -- and the rest of the staff as well. It came recommended for both first-time and veteran working girls.
Plus, at most houses, the minimum age for employment was 21, which disqualified Lindsay. But here, it was 18. Each county had its own rules.
NOTICE: Cell phones, pagers, personal digital assistants (PDAs), laptops, recording devices, and two-way radios are prohibited on this property and will be confiscated.
Lindsay's face twisted as she scrutinized the sign at the entrance. She assumed it was to protect anonymity and safety and that such a rule was for the clientele, not the working girls. Surely, management wouldn't forbid their employees from using cell phones, would they? But just to be safe, she stashed her wireless device inside her backpack anyway.
Lindsay reached out a tentative finger, pressed the doorbell, and heard the chime go off from somewhere behind the thick, reinforced mahogany.
And as if on cue, she started doubting her decisions. Maybe I have it all wrong. Am I about to make the biggest mistake of my life? One I won't ever be able to recover from? Lindsay's heart was pounding in her chest as she wondered what awaited her on the other side of the door.
You're insane, but welcome to the rest of your life, girlfriend. This is what you wanted. Time to get fucked for a living. She gripped the hair at the back of her head with both hands, groaned miserably, and shuffled her feet. Hey, they can put that on your tombstone! Lindsay Michelle Delacroix, December 4, 1997 to . . . whenever. She was a prostitute and got fucked for a living -- and she liked it. A cocksucker du jour.
The young woman blew her cheeks out with a heavy breath, lifted her chin, and took in the surroundings one more time. This sure isn't Citronelle, either. She knew all too well her mother was against the idea of prostitution, legal or otherwise. Mrs. Delacroix claimed that brothels were "houses of ill repute" and the women who dared work at them "unholy sinners." She enjoyed watching daytime talk shows a little too much and insisted sex workers were the lowest form of scum on the planet and would forever rot in Hell.
Lindsay's face went pale at the thought of her parents ever finding out she was here. Mom would spaz out. Dad would have a heart attack and call the National Guard -- no, he'd do one better -- he'd get Seal Team Six and have me extracted.
After a full minute, the door had yet to be opened. Maybe everyone was still sleeping? Lindsay knew the majority of brothel customers showed up at night under the sanctity of darkness, but the place had been open for almost 90 minutes. Someone had to be awake and lurking about inside, right?
Impatient, Lindsay hit the buzzer again and experienced more pangs of self-doubt and trepidation. Coming here wasn't an easy decision, but at least it'd been a well-thought and informed one (or so she hoped.) Lindsay again reminded herself that this was what she wanted to do with the next phase of her life.
It was her one-way ticket out of Citronelle, too.
A man opened the door and greeted her with a cheerful smile. "Hi! Good morning! Welcome to Happy Ending Ranch!"
Dressed from head to toe in black, the gentleman's face was aged with lines giving him a distinguished complexion, his hair dark with silver streaks, and he had green eyes that reminded Lindsay of the forest on a calm day.
She found herself intrigued by how handsome this man looked. Lindsay had countless fantasies of being with an older, far more experienced man who could show her how things were supposed to be done in the bedroom. In those fantasies, she imagined herself as defenseless and at her lover's mercy.