The Girlfriend Experience Ch. 01

Chapter One

Monday, July 16, 2018

Flagstone, Nevada

"What the heck am I doing?" The grimace on Lindsay Anastacio's face belied her youthfulness as she gazed at the eclectic, Spanish-style house. She twisted and plucked at her fingers and did her best to suppress any thought of the wicked impurities she would inflict upon herself by being here. Her moral compass pleaded to turn and run away, but she refused to budge, convinced the first step toward independence awaited within those walls.

Everything appeared identical compared to the online photographs Lindsay had scrutinized over the past several months. The desert backdrop provided spectacular 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 house looked normal with its white stucco exterior, red-tiled roof, manicured grounds, and dense shrubbery.

Yet Lindsay realized this house was anything but normal. It represented all the sinful things she had been taught to avoid while growing up in a conservative, religious family. According to her mother, what happened in establishments like this was dehumanizing and potentially life-threatening.

Don't do this. Her inner voice continued to protest. Save yourself.

Run!

But Lindsay ignored it.

Again.

"Well, I'm here. I'm actually here. Dope. Might as well go through with it, huh?" She spoke to herself while applying a fresh sheen of flamingo pink lip gloss. "There's no turning back now."

Need to look my best, right? This is the most important day of my life. Random thoughts swirled through her mind much like gray ash and dust did in the desert air thanks to strong, whipping winds. Mom and Dad would turn all salty, maybe even disown me, if they had any idea of what I'm about to get myself into.

Lindsay wrung her hands out and a deep furrow tangled her brow. I'm gonna do this. She gave her too-short shorts a self-conscious tug and tipped her chin high with false bravado. It's time to be a big girl and move on to the next phase of my life. Remember, fear is for the weak.

Lindsay maintained a brave face, flung her backpack over her shoulder, and footslogged across a path of marble steppingstones toward the entrance. Settle down. It's just a job interview. She rubbed her forearms to combat a sudden chill. You're such a worrier.

Besides, the eighteen-year-old had nowhere else to go. After paying for an Uber ride to travel here, she was broke.

Lindsay fell in love with Las Vegas after a whirlwind sightseeing tour and staying at a hotel there overnight. 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 awed as much as it overwhelmed, and that was part of the appeal.

Known for its luxurious rental properties, the clink and ring of slot machines, top-rated 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 endless parade of tourists from all walks of life boggled Lindsay's naïve, impressionable mind. And the Las Vegas Strip resembled a flamboyant, boisterous, and eccentric adult fantasyland with limitless possibilities where reality, with its pitfalls, ceased to exist.

Hmm, this sure ain't Vegas.

Located 175 miles upstate, the town of Flagstone grew up in anticipation of the Union Pacific Railroad, which began its expansion across the American Plains in the 1860s. When the tracks finally met the settlement in 1872, its tents, huts, and businesses multiplied at such a rapid pace that Flagstone earned an anything-goes reputation. Saloon girls, prospecting, gambling, and lawless streets abounded. Its success during the subsequent mining frenzy led those who settled there to build mansions, opera houses, schools, hotels, and everything in between.

Today, Flagstone honors its past with many of the board sidewalks and buildings being restored. Twisted debris littered Grasberg, an old gold mine abandoned long ago. The Flagstone Historical Museum features countless artifacts, including one of the original train engines used to haul ore from the mine. Outdoor enthusiasts enjoy a sanctuary for plants and animals in the Calafell Canyon National Wildlife Refuge while history buffs can explore the town's most notable attraction, Crown Hill Cemetery. It serves as the final resting place for dozens of shady characters from a violent, bygone era. Many locals insist those spirits haunt it to this day.

The temperature on this Monday held steady at 105 degrees Fahrenheit, typical July weather, though sweltering heat didn't faze Lindsay. Three weeks ago, she celebrated on stage under the blazing sun at her high school graduation ceremony in the small town of Citronelle in California's southeastern desert.

She fled those old stomping grounds yesterday morning, leaving behind her parents, three sisters, and everyone else who mattered, and took a charter bus from Palm Springs to Las Vegas. Mr. and Mrs. Anastacio insisted she had no clue what she was doing and was downright crazy to venture out on her own at such an early age.

But Lindsay had a plan. She just didn't tell anyone what it was, including her lifelong best friend, Evie Bancroft.

For as long as she could recall, Lindsay wanted to ditch Citronelle. Sure, it was home, but nothing ever happened there, and no one ever left. The next closest sign of civilization was thirty miles away. In her mind, the entire region, with its barren wastelands, sand dunes, and dry lakes was insufferable. What aggravated her most was the sense of trapped isolation. Continuing to live in Citronelle offered no opportunity for a successful future. Hmmph, I don't want to morph into the second coming of my mom.

For years, Lindsay clung to the hope something better was out there waiting but wasn't sure what it was - or where to find it. And unless she drew the courage to branch out and search, Lindsay realized she'd never find it because it sure as hell wouldn't come looking for her in Jerkwater, USA.

With her two older sisters attending Pepperdine and Cal State Berkeley, 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 applying herself or giving the slightest effort. Getting accepted into a top-flight university would be a daunting task with less-than-favorable GPA and SAT/ACT scores.

Dipping and frying corn dogs for minimum wage at the fairgrounds each summer could no longer be an option either. Ewwwww, gross ... corn dogs. Lindsay choked down an uncomfortable swallow. I. Can't. Even. As the only job available to her in town, it provided further evidence she needed to escape this purgatory.

So, in the fall of 2017, an idea popped into her mind and refused to go away. At first, Lindsay found the notion downright repulsive, but soon the perversity of it intrigued her like nothing ever had.

Why wouldn't it? It involved sex.

Lots of sex.

And having sex was this girl's favorite activity.

Lindsay did extensive research on brothels in the state of Nevada and their working conditions. She read every news article, blog, and message board available on the Internet related to brothels - whorehouses, to be blunt - and examined their long, checkered history.

Lindsay created dummy accounts on Twitter and Instagram, followed all the "working girls" she found, and socialized back and forth with those gracious enough to respond. Claiming to be twenty-four with aspirations to join the world's oldest profession, she asked numerous questions and gathered useful feedback.

Though fraught with controversy and heavy opposition, brothels are legal in Nevada counties where the population does not exceed 400,000 residents. This means brothels are illegal in Clark County, home to Las Vegas, and Washoe County, home to Reno. Carson City, an independent city, outlaws them as well. But for counties with less than 400,000 people, decisions to permit these houses of prostitution are up to local officials.

A small scattering of municipalities in seven of the state's seventeen counties are the only places in the United States where buying or selling sex is legal - provided it happens inside one of these brothels.

Advocates claim visiting one is the safest sex anyone can have in their lifetime. That is because every aspect of their day-to-day operation is subject to the strict regulations of the local county as well as the Nevada State Legislature. Ordinances mandate all sex workers must undergo stringent medical testing on a recurring basis. If a result comes back positive, they cannot 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 of the brothel itself.

After months of social media communication with employees and patrons alike, Lindsay applied online at Happy Ending Ranch in Flagstone. Aesthetically, Flagstone wasn't much different from Citronelle - a sleepy desert town with century-old buildings, cottages, and neglected homes peppering the streets. The nearest town was seventeen miles away and housed a mere 160 residents. It's like I never left home. Mountains hugged the horizon and locals enjoyed wild game hunting and trout fishing in the surrounding landscape.

Despite the cruel familiarity, Lindsay chose Flagstone and this specific brothel, anyway, because she hadn't read one negative review about it. Complaints infested online forums about several other houses, but customers raved about the girls at Happy Ending Ranch and how mellow the staff was. The owner went above and beyond for his clientele, and judging by his photographs, Lindsay considered him easy on the eyes too. Goddamn, that man is fine as all hell. Customers also spoke far more glowingly of the house's vibe than they did of any other in the state.

In short, Happy Ending Ranch struck Lindsay as the ideal spot to test the industry. She'd gain valuable experience as an employee here and could, in theory, work her way up to the larger and more well-known houses where the real money was. I'd give anything if I could score a gig at Chastity's Ranch one day.

Lindsay's forehead scrunched as she stared at the battered metal sign mounted on the front door.

NOTICE: Cell phones, pagers, personal digital assistants (PDAs), laptops, recording devices, and two-way radios are prohibited on this property and will be confiscated.

She assumed the sign's intent was to protect anonymity and safety and such rules were for the public, not the working girls. Surely, management wouldn't forbid their employees from using cell phones, would they? That'd be whack. But to be safe, she stashed her wireless device inside her backpack. Ain't no one touching my phone.

Lindsay extended her finger, pressed the doorbell, and an incessant chime emanated from somewhere behind the thick, reinforced mahogany.

And as if on cue, the sound set off an avalanche within her. Maybe I have it all wrong. Are Mom and Dad right? Seriously, do I understand what I'm doing? Thoughts swirled, rushed and chaotic. Am I about to make the biggest mistake of my life? Her mouth twisted to one side.

You're insane, but welcome to the rest of your life, girlfriend. This is what you wanted, and now it's here: time to get fucked for a living. She gripped the hair at the base of her skull as her pulse staggered. Hey, they can print that on your tombstone. Lindsay Michelle Anastacio, December 4, 1999, to ... whenever. She was a prostitute - and she liked it. A flicker of a smile passed over her lips. A cocksucker du jour.

The young woman blew out her cheeks with a wheezing breath, told herself to stop over-analyzing this, and surveyed the peaceful setting one more time. Her mother was against the idea of prostitution, legal or otherwise. Mrs. Anastacio claimed brothels were "houses of ill repute" and the women who dared work at them "unholy sinners." Mom is such a Karen. She watched daytime talk shows and insisted sex workers were the lowest form of scum on the planet and would forever rot in Hell.

If she ever finds out I'm here, it will be a disaster. The color drained from Lindsay's face. Mom would spaz out and need years of therapy to recover. She bounced and shuffled on her insoles. Dad would suffer a stroke and call the National Guard. No, no, he'd do one better. He'd contact Seal Team Six and have me extracted.

Still, the door hadn't opened. God, what is with this place? Was everyone still sleeping? Lindsay's research suggested most denizens of these "cathouses" showed up at night under the cloak of darkness. But the establishment opened ninety minutes ago. Someone had to be awake and lurking about inside, right?

She pressed the buzzer again, shifted from foot to foot, and emitted a screechy, low-pitched whine. C'mon, let's get this over with. Showing up here wasn't an easy decision, but at least it had been a well-thought-out one. Lindsay again reminded herself that this was what she wanted to do with the next phase of her life. It doubled as a one-way ticket out of Citronelle too. I never wanna see that shithole again.

The rust-stained knob wheeled around, and the door squeaked, groaned, and scraped open, and a much older man materialized sporting a warm smile. "Hi, how's it going? Welcome to Happy Ending Ranch."

Dressed from head to toe in black, the gentleman's face featured prominent cheekbones, heavy brows, and a defined jawline. Tall and lean, with a dark, healthy tan, he had green eyes that reminded Lindsay of the forest on a calm autumn day.

"Hi. I'm great, thank you. How are you?"

"Good, good. It's a lovely morning, isn't it?"

She again tugged on her denim shorts and couldn't peel her eyes off this silver fox. Lindsay often daydreamed of being with an older, experienced man who would control her in the bedroom. In those fantasies, she was defenseless, a submissive plaything, and at her lover's mercy.

She craned her neck, her blue eyes shining, and nibbled on a finger. That face. I know I've seen your picture before, sir. Who are you? What is your name? She racked her brain for an answer but soon found her thoughts derailed by another impulse altogether: dropping to her knees and taking his cock into her mouth. Lindsay yearned to taste this sexy stranger, to swallow his sperm, and demonstrate what a productive, hard-working employee she could be.

She yanked her hand away from her mouth and squirmed in place as a twinge flared between her thighs. Through the thin fabric of her tank top, the twin peaks of her nipples stiffened into view. Lindsay's libido, already the stuff of legend at Citronelle High School, was raging out of control. X-rated thoughts on the bus ride led to and peaked during an overnight masturbation session at the hotel. After all her careful planning, Lindsay was finally at a brothel.

And she knew what happened at these houses of ill repute.

"May I see an ID, please? Need to do an age check."

"Uhh, sure. Hold on." Lindsay's imagination crashed back down to Earth as she fumbled through her backpack and presented a California driver's license. My ID, huh? What a buzzkill.

Realization dawned - she recognized this man from the online videos about Happy Ending Ranch and various related pictures too. She couldn't remember his name offhand but felt certain he was a high-ranking employee. He isn't the owner. I'd know Mr. McCarron's face in a heartbeat. Perhaps the head of security? The lead bartender?

Will I meet the owner today? Lindsay considered herself lucky she may work with not one, but two impeccable older men. I'd let both smash me at the same time.

"Oh, Lindsay. Lindsay Anastacio." The knowledge brought a grin to his lips. "We've been expecting you. I'm Jim Mayer, the house manager." He stepped aside and extended an arm. "Come on in. So nice meeting you."

"It's nice to meet you, too, Mr. Mayer." House manager, huh? You must be second on the totem pole. One side of Lindsay's mouth curled up as she slipped by and navigated into the foyer. The structure gave the impression of a typical family home on the outside, yet inside Lindsay surveyed the wet bar, wraparound mirrors, and the stripper pole in the background with a rigid posture and wide-eyed countenance.

This den of iniquity - think sports memorabilia, poster prints of rock-and-roll legends and adult film stars, peeling paint and bright neon signage, and padlocked doors leading God-knows-where - was Flagstone's gateway to glamorous women and salacious good times.

This crib is lit.

The lobby featured two booths and four bistro tables with worn, leather-backed chairs, with the bar itself as the focal point. Hardcore pornography played on two separate flat-panel televisions and a sprawling glass showcase displayed exotic toys available for purchase. OhmiGod. Is that a strap-on dildo? Look at the size of it. A jukebox with records, touchscreen games, mismatched glassware, a fake mounted fish, and a pool table in dire, yet technically playable disrepair added charm and character. Open doorways flanked either side of the counter with raggedy curtains draped in front of them. The air reeked of nicotine, booze, and sex. Is this what people mean when they say something is a dive bar? Several placards indicated condoms were "mandatory", yet Lindsay inclined her head and smirked at a specific sign: Get your woody serviced here. That's cute, it's funny.

"You took a bus from Palm Springs to Vegas, yes?" Jim ran Lindsay's driver's license through an electronic scanner and handed it back. "Did you have a pleasant trip?" His gaze anchored into her. "Run into any problems?"

Warm and inviting, Jim spoke from the chest, not the head, and conveyed richness, wisdom, and stability. After years of dealing with boys her own age, it provided a welcome change of pace. Finally, I'm around people with the same maturity level as me.

"Nah, the trip was Gucci." Lindsay sensed Mr. Mayer was sizing her up. She possessed the innocent girl-next-door vibe, standing five-foot-three with blonde hair and deep blue eyes atop a petite, blossoming frame. Back home, Lindsay was the two-time reigning Homecoming Queen, an accomplishment less impressive given her graduating class comprised a mere sixteen students. She took pride in a made-for-sex body but considered herself more cute than hot. An easy, charming temperament made her irresistible.

"My only gripe is it took too long. Ten hours from Palm Springs to Las Vegas with a gazillion stops and breaks." Is that a cigarette vending machine in the corner? Lindsay blinked and drew in a lungful of air. What seemed like decades-old wafts of tobacco smoke would take some time getting acclimated to. Reminds me of Grandma's before they dragged her off kicking and screaming to the nursing home. And what was the deal with this unholy music? Sounds hardcore ancient, like some eighties hair metal or something. "I have no clue why they found it necessary to pull over at every single rest stop." She rolled her eyes. "It was so extra."

Despite her comments, Lindsay thought the bus ride was a steal and would do it again. I like to complain. Dad says I'm such a whiny brat. Just thirty-five dollars to uproot her life to a whole new world? Can't beat that.