Added: Nechelle Beyers - Date: 21.02.2022 02:46 - Views: 28652 - Clicks: 3804
Thirty summers ago, I met some of the whores of Winnemucca, women I carry around with me to this day. Their faces crystallize, freeze frame-style, in my memory: Sophie with the bleached blond hair, but only at the roots, wearing fuschia nails of a color not found in nature.
I was 22, green as grass, as my city editor kept telling me, and working for my first newspaper, which shall remain nameless. Matt hollered at me every morning at 7 as I walked into the newsroom. Those three yesterday sucked! Who taught you anything about being a reporter?
Any kind of defensive response was out of the question. I had no defenses and was a good year away from anything resembling professional self-esteem. He was also right about me. A non-swimmer in the newspaper world, I had jumped into the deep end of what appeared to me a big-time pool, despite my credentials as editor of my college paper and an intern at a wire service.
I wanted to write profiles, not investigative pieces or coverage of boring Sluts in winnemucca nv and trials. I wanted to unearth the history of the region and show people why it mattered. I wanted to write about the raw, wild land that was my beat pretty much all of the state of Nevadaand its problems with water and development and cattle and people.
Most of the all, the people. Gee, I thought, what if I could interview some of the women who would be losing their jobs? King, later a good play and even later a bad movie. So I suggested the concept to Matt, who snorted. I drove down the mountain to be with my boyfriend on weekends.
I called the boyfriend, who lived miles away in the old apartment we once shared.
He, also a journalism major and former managing editor of our college paper, agreed. So on a hot August Saturday I took off for Winnemucca in my Honda Civic across the great read: boiling state of Nevada, carrying extra water, extra Wheat Thins, extra batteries for the tape recorder, extra pens and extra notebooks.
Desert stretched for probably miles ahead, plenty of time to daydream questions and imagine the people I would find as the odometer tripped past oceans of sand and islands of cactus. I pictured a frowzy, bosomy redhead in a leopard print tank top on the line. Yeah, I can find some girls to talk to ya. Where ya from again? The chorus, enthusiastically sung by the Texas Aggie football players on their way to the best little whorehouse goes like this:. Twenty-nine miles until we get to heaven Twenty-nine miles until our plans are made Twenty-nine miles until we get to the Chicken Ranch Where sissy guys and Aggie boys get laid!
The women of the Chicken Ranch are typically portrayed in the play by bouncy, big-breasted, equally enthusiastic young ladies, happy to see this band of fellas pull up in a big bus. Much singing and dancing commences, this being a musical. It made me smile to think about it.
Then I came to. These are real, uh… ladies of pleasure. I hit more than one tumbling tumbleweed and they bounced across the road like jackrabbits, and I stopped for gas once and to potty at least twice, humming the song most of the way. I felt like a real journalist on a mission, one with a good story ahead. I can really do this. In my memory, it gradually came to light like a mirage shimmering in the desert heat. When I stopped the car, it looked like a run-down motel alongside the road, nothing special, no red light. One story, white wood sides, pink trim, small air Sluts in winnemucca nv in windows along the side.
It shattered my illusions from the first glance. I touched the worn metal knob on the shabby blue door and went in. A small motel lobby with a small counter and a water cooler in the corner greeted me. A woman behind the chipped Formica-topped counter stood as I walked in. She was a brunette, 30ish, dressed casually in jeans and a white blouse with a vest that buttoned down the front. Sequined butterflies appeared to flit about on the vest. I introduced myself and asked for the manager. She came out from behind the counter and sat on a tall stool and gestured for me to sit in the only chair in the room, a faded green faux-leather recliner.
My eyebrows shot halfway up my forehead. I expected a little more small talk first, not to just plunge in, but this was a woman who got down to business fast. I hurriedly got out my tape recorder and notebook, asked her if it was OK to record her.
While she was gone, I madly scribbled notes about the place—how quiet it was… were there any customers at the Sluts in winnemucca nv I took notes on the interior, though it was mostly unremarkable—no Playboy magazines on the counter, no fringed lampshades and red lights or anything. I realized that this was not where anything important took place, that the action must be behind the curtain.
I had to get back there. I had to think of a way to talk her into letting me….
I gathered my equipment and followed, ready for a dimly lit room, perhaps with the infamous red lights. One of the women was smoking. Have a seat. I offered my hand to the women nearest me and, as a group, they nodded, silent. I withdrew the hand, pulled out my notebook and tape recorder, thinking they all look about my age. They watched me intently, but no one offered anything to start. I got pretty dumb answers, too. I tried asking about how each of them had gotten into the business, but no one said much. I realized I had no idea what their proper job titles were. They said they had regular physicals and blood tests, required by the state.
One said she liked the work; the other two said nothing. Ready to thank them for their time and leave, I closed my notebook and turned off the recorder. My eyes fell on Sophie smoking at the far end of the table, her fuschia nails tapping an erratic staccato on the Formica, her eyes narrowed as though squinting into the sun. Finally, she focused on me. I looked back into her eyes. The three of them nodded. Sophie stopped tapping and puffed a bit more. For some reason, Sluts in winnemucca nv broke the ice. The others nodded and began to tell me about their work.
The fact that it brought them good money for not much effort. How they felt more like actresses performing roles men fantasized about. That what they really wanted was to be at home with their husbands or boyfriends or children. I had never thought hookers might have children. Stunned, I listened without taking down a word. I work in a brothel. She looked Sluts in winnemucca nv me for another half minute.
She looked at the other two women. Marla called to the manager that we were leaving. I heard no response, but we walked back out through the office, through the parking lot and waited to cross the street, these three whores and me. On that note, we walked into the diner, four young women probably all thinking about men, and took a booth at the back that seemed like their regular table. They each ordered coffee, I ordered a Coke, and they told me everything I wanted to know. They were matter of fact about offering sex for money—not sad, not sentimental, no hearts of gold that I could see.Sluts in winnemucca nv
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The Whores of Winnemucca