"I'll take you."

I looked up and to either side me, realizing he did mean me. I turned around slowly, looked over my shoulder and motioned for him to follow me. I led the way to my room, as I had seen the other girls do before me.

"Never seen you around here before, Fluffy."

I had the feeling he was grinning from ear to ear. "My name is Buffy." I stressed the B.

"Sorry, it's kinda hard to hear the names in there, plus there are so many girls to choose from.  What happened to your back?  You get stabbed or somethin’?”

God, he is asking about the scar running down my back.  “No, I had a Cesarean.”  Sarcasm dripping.

“Oh.”

How stupid could he be?  This is starting off badly.  Now  I could feel his breath on my neck. Yeah, if there were so many to choose from, why me? Panic.  Calm down.  Think.  Walk.  

I was not sure if I could go through with this.  It’s one thing to imagine how it would be, and quite another to be standing here, chosen by a man I never would have given a second or even third look.   I strained to remember what I was supposed to say or do first. I stood in the doorway, he walked in.  I took a deep breath and closed the door.

"What kind of party would you like?" I think party was the word she used.

"About $10 worth, I s'pose."  Already unbuckling his belt, I shifted my weight from foot to foot. This was most uncomfortable.

"Um-m, I have to get another girl in here to help me check you.  I'm kind of new." The sound of his belt buckle seemed too loud for this small room, too loud for my head.

"Don't bother me none if you want someone else to look at old faithful here. Pretty, ain't he?"  A nervous laugh as his pants slipped down around his ankles.  He handled his penis like it was some kind of a trophy.  I averted my eyes.

“Excuse me.”  God, I thought I was going be sick.  I headed for the door.  I opened it and found myself staring into the face of Candy.

“Figured you could use some help about now." Help... as far as I was concerned, she could do the whole thing.

"Hi sweetheart...I’m Candy, just going to give Buffy a helping hand to check you out.  Okay honey, just step back and let the little lady sit on the bed.”  He moved aside.  I sat down in front of his naked midsection.  “That's right.  Go ahead." She nudged my arm. 

"My hands are cold," I warned as I touched him.

"Boy...you sure have got the littlest hands I ever seen.   Ain't they cute though." That creepy grin again, from ear to ear.

"Makes anything I hold look bigger."  It was really annoying me for him to get personal, even though it seems people always notice my small hands. The only other person I ever saw with same sized hands as mine is an eleven-year-old girl. 

The touch aroused him making the milking process easier.  I saw a drop of fluid glisten and touched it to give it the stand test.  It was clear, I looked at Candy questioningly.

"He looks fine to me," Candy said, slapping him on the rear.  "You two have fun now." She left us alone, closing the door behind her.

I clenched my jaw, "Thanks a lot."  He handed over a ten-dollar bill. “If you want to go ahead and get undressed, I'll be back in a minute."

I made it this far, but was sure the worst was yet to come. I slowly walked to the kitchen to check in the money. Candy noticed me walk into the parlor and jumped up to follow closely behind.

"Congratulations, you broke luck early."

 "What?"

"Congratulations, you got your first trick early on in the shift; sometimes you have to sit around for hours before some guy finally picks you. That's hell."  She seemed pleased to point out my good fortune. What could she possibly know about hell?  I am the one going through this horrible ordeal right now.  I got my card punched and left, determined to get the whole thing over with as soon as possible, so I could say I had given it a fair try and pack my things and go home. This was not right for me; I am nothing like these women.

I lay underneath him feeling him pumping away, I thought of all the bad jokes about women I heard in bars.  Here I was barely able to tolerate the feeling of this man grunting and thrusting inside of me.  Most women do not have a mirror suspended over her bed reflecting the stranger’s frog-like movements.  From this perspective men look like frogs. The whole thing was most surreal; the black light gave off an eerie glow and I began to make silly faces at myself over his shoulder.  It was a decent enough  distraction. Then it happened, he finally climaxed. I fought the urge to push him off immediately, instead closing my eyes, exhaling a sigh of relief.

It was over and not as bad as I imagined.  It was not pleasant or fun, but short and ultimately bearable.  As I walked him to the door it occurred to me I did not know his name.  I laughed.  Is this how all of them would be?  For the life of me I could not think of a thing to say to him.   No way he would ever know he was the first trick of my life.

After the first one, most of the evening went by quickly.   Every time I would make a line-up I was picked.  Even when I just finished with a guy and there was no line-up, men were sitting around waiting for me to have a free moment.  I never could have imagined having to work this hard, and most for only ten dollars each.  Never underestimate the power of new pussy I suppose.

After about 11 p.m., after I had walked the latest customer back into the parlor, a rather gentle looking man motioned to me. I motioned him back to follow me. I barely got in the door when he started talking to me.  "I've been out there for a couple of hours and I noticed you've been constantly busy. Don't you ever get to take a break?" His concern was touching.

"No rest for the wicked, I guess." I was ready to get on with it, but thought it was unusual he should care, or at minimum act like it. This would turn out to be a rare event.

"What would you like to do?" I only wanted to get it over with.

 "I'd really like for you to take a few minutes to relax and talk to me." He was relentless.

 "I’d like to, but if we are just going to talk we'll have to go back out and join the others.  We can talk out in the parlor."

"No.  How much does it cost anyway?" He fumbled with his wallet.

"There is a ten dollar minimum, for 15 minutes." Hating like hell to have to admit it.  Much to my surprise he pulled out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to me.

"Go ahead and take it...we'll just talk for 15 minutes." His smile was reassuring confirmation of his intention. I left the room shaking my head; takes all kinds I suppose.

It was exactly as he said it was going to be; somewhat relaxing.  But only to a point; not too relaxing, because I still kept thinking he wanted something.  When the 15 minutes were up he handed over another ten-dollar bill, this time to pay for sex.  I had to admit this man was no dummy.  He practically assured himself of getting preferential treatment for being such a nice guy. He seemed to enjoy the sex, and for the first time I did not feel resentful about giving it to him.  When he left he said he would come back some time.

Before I knew it. Candy was tapping on my shoulder, "It's six a.m., time to quit."

"My, how time flies when you're having fun."  I could not help the sarcasm, although I was surprised at how easily and quickly it had gone. 

The first thing I did was to go to the kitchen and check the sign-in sheet.  I wanted to answer a niggling question; how much did I actually make?

The columns listed under “Buffy” were a couple of inches longer than any other girls’.  Adding up the first column I came up with a total of forty-two customers.  I counted again.  Surely I made a mistake?  There was no mistaking, the total was forty-two.  Adding up the money column next I came up with $720.00.  This was a lot of money.  Even after the 10% deduction for room and board, plus an additional 50% deduction for the house, it would leave a whopping  $324.00. (Of course, it did not include paying for supplies or tipping the help, which was required.) Still, this was more money than I ever made in a day, or even a week.

I did not realized how bone tired I was until once back in the solitude of my room.  While lying on the bed looking up at the now single reflection in the overhead mirror, I did some reflecting of my own. Most of the night had been a blur, but I knew what was happening to me.   I had so many questions, but on the other hand I also made a few discoveries. One being if I were to continue doing this, I had the potential of becoming a good prostitute...if I could keep up the pace.

That night I also realized these men were not just a commodity, but people who are just as capable of warmth as I could be.  It seems as though in each of my encounters there was one striking similarity: each one in his own way, showed some sign of really caring for me as a person, whether it was him wanting me to climax, or paying for me to take an honest to goodness break.

I had to admit for the most part, I was treated with respect.  I was surprised to realize if I was not it would be my fault; I held the power in this situation--once picked from the lineup.  You are virtually powerless until then, but from that point on it is your ball game. You are the person setting all of the rules; what he will get, how good he will get it, and so forth. In this respect I could enjoy it. I alone could determine whether the session was good or bad.

I opted for a cold Dr. Pepper to wash down the sleeping pill Dr. Nelson had prescribed.  I went out into the parlor to get one. I suppose one could consider it a bit masochistic, but in reality it was a “job well done” strut.

Two men approached.  “Wanna party?”

“I am off for the night.  Sorry, maybe another time guys.”  It felt really good to be able to say no.

Hell, it was after eight a.m. and I was still all keyed up.  When would the pill ever start working, and the excitement die down? Candy came by the room to say goodnight. “Hey kiddo, you did really good, I am proud of you.”

“Thanks.  How do you do this night after night though?”

“You’ll get used to it.  Remember, one trick at a time.  Now get some sleep, you’re going to need it.” 

The buzzer would ring just as I was drifting off, jolting me back into consciousness.  Just when body and brain had no more fight left, I succeeded in conquering sleep.

The room had remained dark enough to sleep.  The banging sound I heard I quickly realized was not in my dream, but at my door.  One of the maids opened the door, “Buffy time to get up.”

I silently thanked whoever had put up the aluminum foil, and openly cursed whoever had braved waking me.  “No shit?”  This would be how I would wake up every day, resentful and really tired.

The following nights did not go by as quickly as the first, yet they did not drag on either.  Serge was allowed to phone each one of us twice a week, plus we each could make two outgoing calls; three minutes in length. Unless of course you were to tip the night maid extra, then there were no limits, within reason (or pocketbook, I suspect).  It meant we got to speak with Serge at least eight times a week each, since we shared all of our calls.

Candy said she was sure the payphone was bugged, and not to mention either money or business during on our calls. However this did not leave a lot of room for talk.  I mean what else was there for us to discuss? The important things I wanted to tell Serge were saved for the mornings, when we could go to the Mustang bar.  (Not affiliated with the ranch, except by proximity, as far as I could tell.) 

There were two payphones at the bar and nobody to tell you how long to talk.  Each of us would talk to him for about twenty minutes. The entire conversation revolved around morale boosting since by that time of the day after working so hard each night, I was usually drunk enough for my deepest feelings to come out; including a pint or two of tears.  Overall surely they were better than no calls at all, at least for me. I really think if the FBI had been tapping the phone at Mustang, they would also be tapping the phones at the bar.  But after all, I was considered green in this business, what did I know?  I was not being paid to think though.

The Mustang Bar is a place, the only place we could go (besides the doctor) where we were not require to be paid for first.  You never abused the bar privilege.  Each of us upheld the sanctity of it by doing the right thing, getting as drunk as possible within the proper time limit.  As the only real privilege available, we were only allowed to go there on Sundays through Thursdays for forty-five minutes but not on those days if they fell on a holiday and only if we had ten hours off between shifts.  Our attire was casual, hooker-off-duty or whatever was easiest to throw on over our bikini.

One of the hired help from the ranch, usually Matt, would drive us over and pick us up when our time was up...for a couple of dollars.  The interior of the bar looked interesting compared to Mustang's.  A fake Tiffany shade was centered above and spotlighted the pool table, which was always busy.  The range of tunes on the jukebox was as broad as Minnie Ripperton's voice.  Over the bar hung an autographed picture of Hank Thompson, the country and western singer, truly one of the more eye-catching pieces. Various beer companies had left samples of their advertising art; the Rocky Mountain stream flowed on obliviously, endlessly, peacefully surrounded by lush green forests. Randomly stuck on the wall were bumper stickers exclaiming such things as; "Eat Nevada Lamb, 10 Million Coyotes Can't Be Wrong."

Tonight the bartender, Red, was working hard to get us all enough drinks. He was a pretty nice bartender and very speedy.  Why not after all, it was from us he made most of his living.  It was not unusual to leave him a ten-dollar bill for a tip.  After all, he did give us our last two drinks in paper cups to take away when we had to go back. They helped us to forget, to fall asleep at night. 

I noticed a couple of guys playing pool, recognizing one as a former customer.  Avoiding him like the plague, I took my drink and walked outside finally sitting down on a large rock, in the parking lot, overlooking Highway 30 and the early morning stream of trucks hurrying to get to their destinations. Once and awhile one would slow down and turn off at the Mustang exit.

Did it never cease?  I walked back inside for another drink and to try my luck one more time on the slot machines.  A sign placed over them stated, "This is a high class place, act respectable." I lost all my quarters.

Matt was honking the horn, signaling the end of the night's fun. We all staggered out with our "to-go" cups and piled into the old green station wagon.  I liked Matt, he treated me like a delicate child. 

Some things never changed, like how it was when you got back from the bar around seven each morning.   A couple of girls would be scattered around stretched out on the couches, left to cover most of the day shift since they would not be getting off until early afternoon.  One of the maids would be vacuuming the floor, each girl automatically lifting her feet as the vacuum passed underneath her.  So depressingly quiet I thought, unlike the crowded parlor at night with music playing and laughter filling the air.

The first place I always went, after a trip to the bar, was our girls' kitchen. There usually was not anything but junk food kept there, but this morning I got lucky, I found some bologna and cheese.  I piled it on making a great big old sandwich.  I would eat, then stop by Candy's room to say goodnight and rehash our conversations with Serge.  Before I would sneak out (house rules said no visiting other girls' rooms) and go back to my room, invariably I would ask to borrow her vibrator, explaining how my back was killing me. We both knew I was lying, but who wanted to confess to being horny when you worked in a brothel?  Every woman in there used a vibrator upon getting off shift, and many nights I would hear the happy hum of them down the sleeping women's hallway.  I guess I was adjusting.

Amazing how you could be involved in sex all night, but never receive any physical gratification. The rule, DO NOT COME WITH A TRICK, was not a difficult one to follow, rarely spending enough time with a man to become aroused, not to mention he was a stranger.  There was one drawback to the vibrator; occasionally a guy would want to use one in his session. How could you not respond to a vibrator?  But I rationalized at least it was the vibrator getting me off, not the man.  The rule was upheld.