better and wasn’t man enough to act.
I shoved my change into my pocket and cranked the beast over. I made a friend a promise and gambling wasn’t part of the deal, so I pulled past the casino and onto the highway, dodging that bullet one more time. At Sin City I took a left onto highway ninety-five. The Cock’s Roost was sixty miles from Vegas, just outside the Clark County line. Back in the sixties when prostitution was made legal the mob boys and the state struck a deal to keep it out of the gambling capitals of Vegas and Reno. The sex trade is small potatoes compared to the real cash cow, the twenty-four-hour hum of slot machines. The gaming business, with its stage shows and roller coasters was after all good clean all-American fun. The smaller counties were free to license brothels, it helped their tax base and hurt no one. They had strict health codes and the girl’s safety was protected. In a world that always had and always would have hookers, it seemed sane to regulate it. Not that anyone ever asked my opinion. The same hypocrites who screamed to outlaw all “deviant” sex acts were no doubt banging their interns behind closed doors. Power attracts creeps, that’s just the fact of the world.
It was about ten thirty when I started to see signs with a cartoon rooster and hens inviting me to stop on by for a good time. Pulling down the long driveway I discovered the Cock’s Roost, a squat, spread out complex of interconnected single story houses. The slapped together additions looked like sorry afterthoughts. An eight-foot cyclone fence surrounded the property. The fence was to keep the girls in. The way the rules worked is that while the girls were employed, they couldn’t leave the compound, they didn’t want them going to town and freelancing. The large gravel parking lot was only a quarter full. I parked the Crown Vic and slipped the .38 into a boot holster. At a gas station along the road I’d changed into my suit. Pulling up my bolo tie, I rang the bell. The gate opened with an electronic click and I walked the thirty feet up the path to the door where I was greeted by the floor manager, a professional looking older woman who piled her gray hair on top of her head in a tight bun. She smiled pleasantly and invited me in.
Twenty-five girls stood in a line waiting for my approval. They were all dressed in skimpy outfits, from lace baby doll nightgowns to short shorts with bikini tops. They each held out a hand and demurely said her name. “Lacy,” “Shayla,” “Daisy,” “Mercedes,” “Bianca,” “Trinity,” “Pleasure,” “Sunset,” “Savanna,” “Dallas,” “Phoenix,” “Cherri,” “Shanda,” “Jessie,” “Ginger,” “Kiki,” and “CoCo”. Their names like their breasts and their lusty smiles were all counterfeit. Not that most men would care, not as long as they knew how to make him come, which, by the way, ain’t really rocket science. All the dancers I knew had two fake names, a stage name and one to tell a big spender so he could feel like he really knew her.
At the end of the line of names I would never remember, the floor manager asked me to make my choice. It was all so cold and businesslike, devoid of any of the romance one might expect in a whorehouse. No old black man playing piano, no men playing cards and laughing with the girls. This was a place you bought sex clean and cold. I acted nervous, said maybe I needed a drink first. I moved to the small bar and the line broke up. The girls lounged around the lobby, some trying to catch my eye. Others wrote me off and sat chatting with their girlfriends. I ordered a rum and coke, sipping it while several young lovelies came by to see if I wanted a party. I told them maybe later and they drifted off. “Party,” that’s their classy way of saying “fuck,” it made it sound so clean and fun. “I would like an oral party followed by a you-peeing-in-my-mouth party?” Oh yeah that sounds so much better.
I shoved my change into my pocket and cranked the beast over. I made a friend a promise and gambling wasn’t part of the deal, so I pulled past the casino and onto the highway, dodging that bullet one more time. At Sin City I took a left onto highway ninety-five. The Cock’s Roost was sixty miles from Vegas, just outside the Clark County line. Back in the sixties when prostitution was made legal the mob boys and the state struck a deal to keep it out of the gambling capitals of Vegas and Reno. The sex trade is small potatoes compared to the real cash cow, the twenty-four-hour hum of slot machines. The gaming business, with its stage shows and roller coasters was after all good clean all-American fun. The smaller counties were free to license brothels, it helped their tax base and hurt no one. They had strict health codes and the girl’s safety was protected. In a world that always had and always would have hookers, it seemed sane to regulate it. Not that anyone ever asked my opinion. The same hypocrites who screamed to outlaw all “deviant” sex acts were no doubt banging their interns behind closed doors. Power attracts creeps, that’s just the fact of the world.
It was about ten thirty when I started to see signs with a cartoon rooster and hens inviting me to stop on by for a good time. Pulling down the long driveway I discovered the Cock’s Roost, a squat, spread out complex of interconnected single story houses. The slapped together additions looked like sorry afterthoughts. An eight-foot cyclone fence surrounded the property. The fence was to keep the girls in. The way the rules worked is that while the girls were employed, they couldn’t leave the compound, they didn’t want them going to town and freelancing. The large gravel parking lot was only a quarter full. I parked the Crown Vic and slipped the .38 into a boot holster. At a gas station along the road I’d changed into my suit. Pulling up my bolo tie, I rang the bell. The gate opened with an electronic click and I walked the thirty feet up the path to the door where I was greeted by the floor manager, a professional looking older woman who piled her gray hair on top of her head in a tight bun. She smiled pleasantly and invited me in.
Twenty-five girls stood in a line waiting for my approval. They were all dressed in skimpy outfits, from lace baby doll nightgowns to short shorts with bikini tops. They each held out a hand and demurely said her name. “Lacy,” “Shayla,” “Daisy,” “Mercedes,” “Bianca,” “Trinity,” “Pleasure,” “Sunset,” “Savanna,” “Dallas,” “Phoenix,” “Cherri,” “Shanda,” “Jessie,” “Ginger,” “Kiki,” and “CoCo”. Their names like their breasts and their lusty smiles were all counterfeit. Not that most men would care, not as long as they knew how to make him come, which, by the way, ain’t really rocket science. All the dancers I knew had two fake names, a stage name and one to tell a big spender so he could feel like he really knew her.
At the end of the line of names I would never remember, the floor manager asked me to make my choice. It was all so cold and businesslike, devoid of any of the romance one might expect in a whorehouse. No old black man playing piano, no men playing cards and laughing with the girls. This was a place you bought sex clean and cold. I acted nervous, said maybe I needed a drink first. I moved to the small bar and the line broke up. The girls lounged around the lobby, some trying to catch my eye. Others wrote me off and sat chatting with their girlfriends. I ordered a rum and coke, sipping it while several young lovelies came by to see if I wanted a party. I told them maybe later and they drifted off. “Party,” that’s their classy way of saying “fuck,” it made it sound so clean and fun. “I would like an oral party followed by a you-peeing-in-my-mouth party?” Oh yeah that sounds so much better.
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