The Girlfriend Experience Ch. 31

Chapter Thirty-One

Friday, April 30, 2021

Flagstone, Nevada

Jim Mayer relaxed at his usual perch behind the counter, surveying the small, dark parlor. Back in the day, this vintage establishment was often buzzing with customers and employees alike, the smell of beer, and the sound of laughter. Music would be playing and sometimes a lucky gentleman would coax a lady out on the small dance floor, which pretty much was just an empty space created by pushing some tables back.

An alcoholic beverage in hand, Jim thought of all the conversations he had participated in here over the decades with customers. Whether it was discussing which team would win the Super Bowl, World Series, or NBA Finals, travel experiences, political debates, gambling advice, the meaning of life or, the most common, the type of woman they were attracted to, Jim had heard it all. In time, a prostitute would show up one way or another, giggling, and plaster herself to the gentleman on side-by-side barstools.

Jim had watched this scenario play out thousands of times. Guy meets girl. Guy and girl flirt for an hour or two, go back to a private bedroom, and have a wild time. And then guy and girl go their separate ways.

It wasn't the stuff epic love stories were made of, but in Jim's life, it had been a familiar scenario, and a key part of his job. He was a nanoscopic, yet instrumental piece in providing the patrons of Happy Ending Ranch a five-star experience. Jim made it a point to give all he had to every customer in every interaction. He didn't half-ass or sleepwalk through anything where his job was concerned. Every monger is a VIP and should be treated as one.

He flexed his fingers. I'm so glad things are finally going back to normal tomorrow. Jim tasted his brunch, winced, and cooled his burning tongue with another gulp of beer. For a hungry man, pizza from Tesoro's Restaurant and Lounge was a delight and never failed to leave a symphony of flavors in his mouth. And there was nothing quite like a cold beer after, well, a cold beer, right?

Click! Clack! Click! Jim glanced up at the sound of Lindsay Anastacio's footsteps as she sashayed into the bar from the eastern corridor.

"Look, I'm sorry, but I didn't have time to finish them yesterday," she said into her smartphone. "That's why I'm coming over at three o'clock to finish them. We've had a ton of new applicants coming in for interviews with the reopening, so Colt and I have been hella busy."

Lindsay's voice was familiar, even comforting, but something Jim hadn't heard much of over the past year by virtue of the COVID-19 lockdown. Damn that virus! All the safety measures and precautions the world had to take because of it was drastic overkill in his eyes.

A red stanchion sign near the entryway brought an irritated grimace to his face.

NOTICE: Masks that closely cover your nose and mouth are required for everyone.

"Yes, I know. I'll be there no later than three, I promise." Lindsay wore a black Chanel suit that was all business and sexy heels that weren't as she stepped behind the counter and eased by Jim, making an extra effort not to touch him in any way. "Look, if you need to stall them, push the meeting back 'til four o'clock. Have Blake prep them, and I'll have the remaining paperwork ready for him by then. The ink will still be wet, but at least it'll be done." The twenty-one-year-old poured a glass of chardonnay and sipped it dry. "Yes, I know. I swear, I won't be late." She plonked the glass into the sink. "Oh, and I need photocopy dupes of all the licenses ready for me when I get there. Okay, great. Thank you so much, Devon. I appreciate everything you and Blake have done for us. Colt does, too, believe me. It doesn't go unnoticed."

Wow. His head tilted, Jim couldn't contain his smile as, once the call was over, he watched Lindsay strut back down the same hallway. She needs some fries to go with that shake! Three years ago, who would've ever imagined that this emotional, oversexed turnout fresh off the street would one day be dealing with the brothel's lawyer, Blake Epstein, and his team, and setting up power broker meetings with city hall? On one hand, it astonished Jim that Colt trusted Lindsay enough to handle the final few steps of their grand reopening, set for ten o'clock tomorrow morning. But on the other, Jim wasn't surprised. That girl has matured so much from when I first met her, and it's been an absolute joy to watch.

Even compared to last year, it's like night and day.

When the Coronavirus pandemic shut down Nevada's legal brothels on March 20, 2020, Jim found himself scrambling to make ends meet. As the house manager at Happy Ending Ranch, he was accustomed to making $85,000 a year working only three weeks every month but managed to scrape by on $20,000 over the past year. I did the best I could, as many little odd jobs that I could find.

Several prostitutes, including Lindsay, did online sex shows and had to resort to a conventional job - what those in the business called a "square job" - to survive. Kayleigh says she hated working at the supermarket even more than the corn dog stand in California.

That's why Lindsay and Jim, and so many others, were ecstatic when Governor Steve Sisolak cleared the way for Nevada's twenty-four brothels to reopen on May 1, 2021, after a thirteen-plus month shutdown.

I had no idea how much this place was ingrained in me until it was so cruelly taken away. Jim had been employed here since 1983. I have no intention of ever retiring either. No, the fifty-nine-year-old wanted to work until the bitter end. Besides, my role here will be increasing soon.

Brothels were among the final businesses throughout the state allowed to reopen. Deemed a "high-risk business and activity" - nonessential my ass - they were forced to remain closed even as hotels and casinos began reopening last summer, and close-contact businesses such as tattoo parlors and strip clubs in recent months. Where's the logic in that? A sex worker from upstate sued Sisolak over the decision but dismissed the lawsuit later.

When Colt posted on the website that Happy Ending Ranch would be reopening its doors this coming Saturday, his cell phone rang nonstop, and e-mails flooded in for reservations. For the first time in its history, the brothel was nearly booked out. That's why we're hoping to hire some turnouts to help with the walk-up crowd. Lindsay, for example, had five clients scheduled per day for the next eight days. Mariko had a forty-eight-hour GFE lined up with Dominic, her most loyal monger from Great Britain, the instant the doors opened in the morning. Jim stifled a chuckle at the thought. Good 'ol Dirty Dom asked if it was okay if he slept in his rental car in the parking lot tonight.

The most daunting aspect for courtesans during the worldwide shutdown, besides the fact that working at a brothel wasn't exactly ideal resume fodder, was many found themselves blackballed from the government benefits provided for other service workers suddenly out of work. It took months for lawmakers to extend unemployment benefits to independent contractors, and some pandemic-related grants and loan programs, including stimulus checks, precluded sex workers completely.

These girls are in a legit business like everyone else; they pay their taxes. Many applied for a small business administration loan but were denied because of what they did for a living. That is so unfair. It's discrimination!

About half of Nevada's legal sex workers previously moonlighted on the illegal market for additional income. When COVID struck, that number skyrocketed. And for someone like Scarlett, well, that decision proved to be devastating. Scarlett was arrested (and convicted) in Las Vegas for solicitation and is now legally barred from working in a brothel for five years. And Colt said Scarlett would never work in this house again, period, at least as long as he remained in charge of it.

However, the number of clients who reached out for sex plummeted to historic lows, thus the market became oversaturated with women hoping to score a payday, and that made things even worse. Nicolette said trying to make ends meet was like spitting on a house fire. Risks abounded; these women had to resort to finding new places to advertise themselves on the Internet, to send personal, sensitive information into a black hole of people they hoped didn't extort them.

Sahara and Riley chose not to return rather than adhere to Colt's strict mandate of vaccinations and weekly COVID tests. I'm gonna miss those two crazy chicks. Jim winced again. I am glad, though, they got hired on at Chastity's. If anything, Jim hoped the lockdown had taught Sahara and Riley how to manage their money better. Maybe one day they can come back and work with us again. Was that a tear sliding down his cheek? I sure hope so.

Even with the reopening, the familiar trappings of pandemic life would linger for a long, long time (if not forever). I don't think they're ever gonna find a cure for this. The house, particularly the bar itself, would operate at a reduced capacity, and those pesky facial coverings were mandatory everywhere except private bedrooms. A working lady cannot do her job with a mask on!

Jim tapped his knuckles on the countertop and sighed. Batten down the hatches, girls. Tomorrow, there'll be rough seas ahead. The brothel was all but guaranteed to shatter its daily sales record. It's not often we actually have to turn mongers away, but we will for the next week or two.

In fact, they may eclipse their highwater mark multiple times. This feels like the leadup to Black Friday. ...

The doorbell rang, causing Jim to whip his gaze around and offer a visual sweep of the security feed from outside. Hmm, that girl ain't no monger. Despite excess signage that the house wouldn't open until 10:00 a.m. Saturday, potential customers had been trying to find a way inside for the past four days. Jim ignored them for the most part as the majority gave up and went away, but he had to announce via the intercom that they were still closed for the more persistent ones. We had to call the sheriff on one guy because he flat-out refused to leave.

No, this young woman standing outside definitely wasn't someone looking to spend money here. She's a moneymaker herself. Mercury-red fingernails ran through her chestnut brown hair, tossed over one shoulder, and her skin was a golden bronze from so many hours spent in the sun. Must be our ten-forty appointment. Jim's sneakers scuffed the floor as he hurried over to the entrance.

The old door emitted a tight yawn, and a porcelain face filled the thin crack between them. "Hi. I'm Christina, and I'm here for a job interview." A myriad of emotions flitted across her features.

"Hi there, yourself, and welcome to Happy Ending Ranch. I'm Jim Mayer, the house manager." He opened the door wider and extended his arm with an inviting gesture. "A pleasure. You're here for an interview, you say? You're the girl from Ohio, right? May I see some identification?"

"Of course." Christina visibly swallowed, which Jim took note of, as she reached into her clutch and surrendered her driver's license. Anxiety swirling through an eighteen-year-old turnout who'd been lured here by the pulse of sex, anonymity, and money happened to be a common occurrence in these parts. Certainly nothing Jim hadn't dealt with before.

Christina Marie Bramwell. Concordia, Ohio. Jim inclined his head as he matched the photo with the girl opposite him. Reminds me of Sahara, only younger. She wore a slinky little black dress and an N95 mask that covered her nose and mouth, just like he did. Born October 29, 2002 ... yep, eighteen, and of legal age. Jim had been exposed to more supermodel-type women than he could count, and he'd slept with many of them too. Yet, standing before him, Christina Bramwell easily ranked in the top ten percentile. He sensed something about her as well, a quality he and Colt looked for in turnouts. That indescribable bit of magic, that glint in someone's eyes, that magnetic presence. She was sweetness and seduction all wrapped up in a lovely, waifish package and blessed with an innocent visage. To a certain section of their clientele, Christina could potentially be the perfect fantasy playmate. Hopefully she pans out.

"Wow, Christina. You're quite the attractive young lady."

"Thank you." She breathed out an easy laugh.

"Have you experienced any fever or chills in the past ten days?" Jim had to run through Colt's safety checklist with anyone who entered the house. What a mood killer. "Have you had any new or unexplained symptoms consistent with COVID-19 such as onset of cough, shortness of breath, difficulty breathing, loss of taste or smell, or muscle aches? Have you been exposed to anyone who has tested positive for COVID-19 in the past ten days? Have you taken part in any international travel recently? And may I see a vaccine card?" After checking off all the appropriate boxes, Jim scanned Christina's forehead with a noncontact infrared thermometer. "Alright, why don't you step inside?"

"Thank you. Hmm, this place is bitchin'." Padded stools were wedged up against the brass foot rail at the counter. A wall of alcoholic bottles provided the backdrop and upside-down stem glasses in racks hung from the ceiling. "Looks just like the photographs on the website."

"Did you find us okay? You actually drove here all the way from Ohio, am I right?"

"Yeah, I did, and I stayed at this crappy little dive a block or so away last night." Christina quickly realized she wouldn't receive a taste of those world-famous Las Vegas accommodations there, either, not with trash blown up against the curb and littering the parking lot, uneven sidewalks with weeds growing through the cracks, and a vacancy sign that only partially lit up. "The Twin Tops Motel." Her own heels clacked against the floorboard.

"Ahh, the Twin Tops. I'm good friends with the owner, Keith. He's an awesome guy. Do you need a drink or anything? Water, soda, coffee?"

"Not yet." Christina's eyes crinkled at the corners as she broke off on her own and moseyed on up to the bar. Being here was so much better than having to worry about those shady characters sitting outside their motel rooms in plastic chairs. "I'll let you know if I do."

"So, that drive ... wow. And at your age." Jim grumbled and slogged his way back behind the counter, his right knee flaring with fiery slices of pain. "Man, I hate getting old." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "How long did it take you to get here? Must have been quite the challenge."

"It wasn't bad." Christina shrugged as he scanned her driver's license and returned it. "It was like, eighteen hundred miles or something, and I split it over three days. I spent Tuesday night in Kansas City, Wednesday in Denver, and then last night here in Flagstone. I was gonna stop in Las Vegas first and go on a sightseeing tour but was too tired. I'll definitely go there before long."

Yeah, I like this gal. Christina's essence, her calm personality, and the way she spoke so eloquently. She's got my stamp of approval already. But, even more important - nice rack, nice ass.

"Can you empty the contents of your purse on the bar and place your suitcase there, too, and open it for me please?" Christina's pupils dilated as Jim added, "It's a standard safety check for drugs or any other illegal paraphernalia. This isn't aimed specifically at you; we search every employee's belongings whenever they enter the building."

"Yeah, sure, no problem." Christina's eyebrows knitted together as Jim began sifting through her personal items.

* * *

Otherwise, Christina felt like she was in a dream as she gazed up at the slow-paddling ceiling fans. Don't worry. He's not gonna find anything incriminating in your bag. It was a simple, single-story home, painted a pristine white and fronted by tall shrubs that sheltered most of the columned porch from view. How the hell did they fit fourteen bedrooms in here? She touched the chipped paint on the countertop. I can't believe I'm finally here.

Christina's original plan was to quit high school the day she turned eighteen and drive straight to Nevada, but the Coronavirus put a cramp in that. I almost went the porn route instead. But she'd spent years dreaming of what it might feel like to work in Nevada, or more specifically, a legalized brothel. It would be so far removed from the life she had known (and become bored to tears with) growing up in the suburbs of Cincinnati. After several months of biding her time, once Governor Sisolak's announcement came early this week, Christina made arrangements, packed a suitcase, and got in her car.

And dropped out of high school a month early.

If I don't get hired here, I have an interview at The Velvet Pearl in Kennecott tonight.

A firm hand on her lower back pulled Christina from her thoughts.

"Have any trouble during your cross-country road trip?"

That deep voice sent a shiver right through her. She turned, and - good golly. Standing before her was six-foot-two of richly tanned, deliciously muscled male. Who are you and where did you come from? His hair was the color of steaming mocha and coiffed meticulously, hanging just an inch above his crisp white dress shirt and blue tailored suit. Christina opened her mouth to respond, but her tongue went dry, and no words came out. The man's cologne created a pleasing cloud of spice and cinnamon. She reached for the bar stool behind her and grasped it, needing support, and managed a smile.

"I'm Colt McCarron, the general manager and owner of Happy Ending Ranch." His eyes swept over her, causing her insides to turn to silly putty. "You'll be interviewing with me." A grin lifted one side of his face. "Nervous?"

What's your body count? Christina cleared her throat but still felt her heart beating like a drum. Holy crap. Get a grip. This man's name was Colt, right? Definitely not the type of guy I expected to find in a whorehouse. Colt may have had this crazy effect on several women, and here Christina was gushing over him too. She didn't gush. Ever. Especially over a man older than my father. What the hell?

"Don't worry. It's okay to be nervous."

Christina saw the spark of something wicked and mischievous in his eyes, like he could be either in a heartbeat. A bad boy vibe that increased her wanderlust even more. Oh God ... this is my potential new boss too? She felt her chest and face flush with warmth and crossed her arms tight. Okay, okay, I gotta stop this. The last thing she needed was to become one of those girls who swooned every time her boss appeared. I want to build a career, not a reputation.

"I'm sorry. I just spent the past three days in a car and I'm still tired. It was a long trip, but I didn't necessarily have any troubles during it." My lord, you are a sexy, sexy man. "And I'm not nervous either."

"Okay. You're not nervous. Could have fooled me." He held a hand out. "Nice to meet you. Again, I'm Colt ... Colt McCarron. And you are?"

"Christina Bramwell." She felt the tension dissipate within her. "It's nice to meet you too." She shook his big, strong hand, and when Colt held the grip for an extra beat, Christina felt the tension rushing right back. "Jim, may I have that bottled water now?"