I was. Once.
Driving West to East. A long time ago. When they still had 8 tracks in auto dashboards.
I had vowed to hit one of the houses, just out of curiosity.
I stopped at one in one of the small towns that line the interstate out of Reno, and heading for the Utah border.
I ordered a Coors at the bar. Small beer, a stubby I think they're called.
The ladies gave me a tour - it was a slow night. What I remember was this big room and big bed. They had a name for the room, I can't remember. There was mirror on the ceiling above the bed. And some stuff that looked like maybe the paraphenelia for B&D.
I think the price for a few hours there was $200. In today's money I'd giuess around $600. Hell, I'm not the governor of New York. And B & D never held all that much interest to me.
I asked the hard-faced blonde if we could go back to the bar so I could contemplate it all. "Nobody's tying you down here," she said.
I wondered if she was being clever, but the stupid look on her face informed me she wouldn't know a double entendre if it bit her on the clit.
Pass there.
Drove more on the endless no-speed-limit highway. Hit this town, Wendover I think, last town before Utah.
Same thing. I go to the bar and pay full price for a stubby beer. Black female bartender then rings a bell before I could even take a sip.
Out from various rooms emerge 8 or 10 women, in various states of undress. They form a neat line about 8 yards from me.
You're supposed to look them over and then point to one. Just like being in a butcher shop. "That prime rib looks good, Mr Schreiber. I'll have three lbs. Oh, and please add a soup bone for the dog."
Feelng like a fool I point to one tall full-breasted blonde. An old quip from one of my young bar buddies when I was in High School came to mind, pretending to be priates: "Yo, bartender! A lusty, busty wench for me and my men!"
I was thinking she was going to sit down and we'd talk, kind of get-acquainted sort of thing. That's how it done in Mexican whore bars and brothels. You talk for awhile, then decide if she really appeals to you, and if the price sounds right.
Not here. She took me to her room, explaining that the girls lived there for 3 days while they worked, then took a few days off, then back to the grind (if you'll pardon the expression).
Her bedroom was very clean, very neat, cozy. A bunch of books lined the walls. She mentioned one, a history book that she was reading.
She then explained the services and prices. I think I went for the blow ending in a fuk. The price: $50. Again, that number today would like be three or four times that amount.
I didn't know then that on slow nights, like that one was, you could bargain. So I shelled out the $50.
She then did the short arm inspection, as they call it, or used to, in the Army. Squeezed it to see if any discharge. Then put some kind of antiseptic on it. ]
Commercial sex is a dirty and dangerous business.
I lay on the bed, as instructed, like a good boy, and she went down on me. She was giving me my money's worth, bringing me to a near ejaculation, then slowing down. Very professional.
But I wanted to try to make a motel in Salt Lake; east to west I'm always rushing, some day I'll take two months and see the country.
Eventually, I told her to lay down, so I could get the second half of what I'd paid for. She looked suprised, like I was turning thumbs down on her accomplished fellatio.
Not at all. But it was all too scripted. Some other time, maybe. Late at night in the wilds of Northern Nevada, and racing the moon - no.
I banged her and popped in the usual two minutes, standard for human and simian primates.
Later she said: "I was surpised you wanted to do that." (Well, I'd paid for the main course, as well as the side dish, but I didn't mention that.)
"You prefer using your mouth?" I asked. Yes, she said. "Too much wear and tear on the body with standard intercourse."
(With Mexican prostitutes you will rarely - not never, just rarely - find one that will fellate. They prefer the horizontals, and don't much worry about the wear and tear on the treads.)
I told her I was on schedule on a cross country trip. She said she understood, that they got a lot of truck drivers stopping off for a quickie.
I asked her if most of her business came for the cowboys and farmers in the sourrounding fields and mountains. "Some," she said. "But we really do well on the weekends,when the Mormons drive in from Salt Lake."
Mormons drive in from Salt Lake, I asked, incredulous. "Sure," she replied. "Long row of cars from the East, every Friday night."
And, she added, they gamble too.
OK, I had heard about the so-called Jack Mormons, Latter Day Saints in name only. Wonder if they wear their Holy Underpants to the whorehouses?
Later, in New York, I sent the lady a book. On history. History of her profession. She likely found that one more interesting than tbe one she mentioned to me.
Driving West to East. A long time ago. When they still had 8 tracks in auto dashboards.
I had vowed to hit one of the houses, just out of curiosity.
I stopped at one in one of the small towns that line the interstate out of Reno, and heading for the Utah border.
I ordered a Coors at the bar. Small beer, a stubby I think they're called.
The ladies gave me a tour - it was a slow night. What I remember was this big room and big bed. They had a name for the room, I can't remember. There was mirror on the ceiling above the bed. And some stuff that looked like maybe the paraphenelia for B&D.
I think the price for a few hours there was $200. In today's money I'd giuess around $600. Hell, I'm not the governor of New York. And B & D never held all that much interest to me.
I asked the hard-faced blonde if we could go back to the bar so I could contemplate it all. "Nobody's tying you down here," she said.
I wondered if she was being clever, but the stupid look on her face informed me she wouldn't know a double entendre if it bit her on the clit.
Pass there.
Drove more on the endless no-speed-limit highway. Hit this town, Wendover I think, last town before Utah.
Same thing. I go to the bar and pay full price for a stubby beer. Black female bartender then rings a bell before I could even take a sip.
Out from various rooms emerge 8 or 10 women, in various states of undress. They form a neat line about 8 yards from me.
You're supposed to look them over and then point to one. Just like being in a butcher shop. "That prime rib looks good, Mr Schreiber. I'll have three lbs. Oh, and please add a soup bone for the dog."
Feelng like a fool I point to one tall full-breasted blonde. An old quip from one of my young bar buddies when I was in High School came to mind, pretending to be priates: "Yo, bartender! A lusty, busty wench for me and my men!"
I was thinking she was going to sit down and we'd talk, kind of get-acquainted sort of thing. That's how it done in Mexican whore bars and brothels. You talk for awhile, then decide if she really appeals to you, and if the price sounds right.
Not here. She took me to her room, explaining that the girls lived there for 3 days while they worked, then took a few days off, then back to the grind (if you'll pardon the expression).
Her bedroom was very clean, very neat, cozy. A bunch of books lined the walls. She mentioned one, a history book that she was reading.
She then explained the services and prices. I think I went for the blow ending in a fuk. The price: $50. Again, that number today would like be three or four times that amount.
I didn't know then that on slow nights, like that one was, you could bargain. So I shelled out the $50.
She then did the short arm inspection, as they call it, or used to, in the Army. Squeezed it to see if any discharge. Then put some kind of antiseptic on it. ]
Commercial sex is a dirty and dangerous business.
I lay on the bed, as instructed, like a good boy, and she went down on me. She was giving me my money's worth, bringing me to a near ejaculation, then slowing down. Very professional.
But I wanted to try to make a motel in Salt Lake; east to west I'm always rushing, some day I'll take two months and see the country.
Eventually, I told her to lay down, so I could get the second half of what I'd paid for. She looked suprised, like I was turning thumbs down on her accomplished fellatio.
Not at all. But it was all too scripted. Some other time, maybe. Late at night in the wilds of Northern Nevada, and racing the moon - no.
I banged her and popped in the usual two minutes, standard for human and simian primates.
Later she said: "I was surpised you wanted to do that." (Well, I'd paid for the main course, as well as the side dish, but I didn't mention that.)
"You prefer using your mouth?" I asked. Yes, she said. "Too much wear and tear on the body with standard intercourse."
(With Mexican prostitutes you will rarely - not never, just rarely - find one that will fellate. They prefer the horizontals, and don't much worry about the wear and tear on the treads.)
I told her I was on schedule on a cross country trip. She said she understood, that they got a lot of truck drivers stopping off for a quickie.
I asked her if most of her business came for the cowboys and farmers in the sourrounding fields and mountains. "Some," she said. "But we really do well on the weekends,when the Mormons drive in from Salt Lake."
Mormons drive in from Salt Lake, I asked, incredulous. "Sure," she replied. "Long row of cars from the East, every Friday night."
And, she added, they gamble too.
OK, I had heard about the so-called Jack Mormons, Latter Day Saints in name only. Wonder if they wear their Holy Underpants to the whorehouses?
Later, in New York, I sent the lady a book. On history. History of her profession. She likely found that one more interesting than tbe one she mentioned to me.
