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"So how would my fucking dozens
(soon to be hundreds) of other men for money affect me and my
husband? Would we come out of this healthy and horny? Or jaded and
resentful?" | 
Part One: Choices
"What if you get married? Will you tell your husband
that you were once a prostitute?"
"I'd tell him the truth," I say
into the telephone. It's hard to concentrate with Teri Weigel flashing me
her perfect DD tits. She mimics my face, and I look away to keep from
laughing. A commotion erupts from the parlor. It sounds like a party is
going on, and I'm missing it.
"I'd only marry someone who can
accept me," I tell the DJ.
But I miss his response. Violet, a San
Francisco-based strumpet and Poppy Brite fan, is tapping me on the
shoulder. She indicates a client has asked for me. Annoyed, the DJ ends
the interview abruptly. I never tell him that I already am married, and
have been for six years. Maybe it's better that way.
Before I
started working at the Moonlite Bunnyranch
Brothel, my husband Bryan and I discussed the idea at length. I
had an article due on Sunset Thomas' next appearance there, and I knew my
novel would benefit from the experience. We researched safety and health
issues to our satisfaction. But there was another concern. The emotional
concern. We'd already dabbled in swinging, but we were always together.
Even when we retired to separate rooms, I could still hear my husband's
excitement, as well as hers. I'd sense the sexual energy searing through
the wall, close enough to taste. So how would fucking dozens (soon to be
hundreds) of other men affect us? What about the 500-plus miles of
separation? Would we come out of this healthy and horny? Or jaded and
resentful?
"I'm not worried," Bryan told me a week
before I went to Reno. What began as a discussion of prostitution had
quickly turned into something else. He relished his tinge of jealousy. He
savored the loss of control. My going to the Moonlite turned him on, and
already he had me half-undressed in the dining room with my ass pressed
into the cold glass tabletop. His arms around me, he said, "I think it's
hot. You and all those men."
Well, having a reasonable conversation
at this point was like discussing Renaissance philosophy with a
Mississippi Senator getting a blowjob. And pretty much every conversation
ended this way. So I made the best decision I knew how. I used William
Blake's reasoning, that you "cannot know what is enough until you know
what is too much." I was curious. I wanted to know if I'd like the
unfamiliar sex. I wanted to know if I'd cum, and if I'd get tired of
screwing or just want it more.
A week later, Bryan drove me to the
airport. After a hug and a kiss, I got on the airplane. A weeklong
adventure awaited.
That week turned into three.
Part Two: Complication
"I think I understand your fetish," I told Bryan over
the telephone. I'd just wrapped my first night at the Bunnyranch. It was
morning, and I felt tired but strangely invigorated. I couldn't wait to go
to sleep and dream about what I'd just done.
"My fetish?" Bryan
said.
"Yeah. That feeling of no turning back. It's sorta
surreal."
And it was. There were several times the previous evening
when I felt like I was looking down at myself, wide-eyed and blushing.
Once I got a client into my room and felt the silk camisole slip from my
body, I was committed. This stranger was going to fuck me. Why turn back?
I was safe. I felt sexy and alive. There was no reason to stop, and yet I
couldn't believe that I was actually going through with it. It turned me
on, and I had my first orgasm with someone besides my husband. I had to
tell him. I decided to wait and do it in person.
I stayed longer
than I expected. Weeks passed. I interviewed many of the ladies, and new
ones arrived every few days. My novel had started taking turns that I'd
never expected. Bryan supported me, but I knew he was dealing with
loneliness. With plenty of notes in my laptop and ten grand in my pocket,
I decided it was time to go home.
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