Monday, July 16, 2018
Flagstone, Nevada
"What the heck am I doing?" The troubled grimace on Lindsay Anastacio's face belied her youthfulness as she gazed at the eclectic, Spanish-style house. She squeezed and twisted at her fingers and did her best to suppress any thought of the wicked, sinful impurities she was about to inflict upon herself by being here. Lindsay's moral compass screeched at her to turn and run away, but she refused to budge, convinced the first step toward a future of independence awaited within those walls.
Everything looked identical compared to the online photographs she'd studied so meticulously over the past several months. The desert backdrop provided spectacular views of orange-banded canyons, towering yellow limestone peaks, sandstone crags, crumbling rocks, and an assortment of colorful wildflowers. Nestled at the end of a cul-de-sac, the house looked normal with its white stucco exterior, red-tiled roof, manicured grounds, spacious front patio, and dense shrubbery.
Yet Lindsay knew it was anything but normal. This house represented all the illicit things she'd been taught to avoid while growing up in a conservative, religious family. According to her mother, what happened in establishments like this was dehumanizing and potentially even life-threatening.
Don't do this. That voice from within continued to protest. Save yourself.
Run!
But Lindsay ignored it ... again.
"Well, I'm here. I'm actually here. Dope. Might as well go through with it, huh? There's no turning back now." She spoke to herself as she applied a fresh layer of pink lip gloss and touched up her mascara.
Need to look my best, right? This is the biggest day of my life. Random thoughts swirled through her mind, much like gray ash and dust did in the desert air all around her thanks to a strong, whipping wind. Mom and Dad would get all salty, maybe even disown me, if they knew what I was about to get myself into.
Lindsay wrung her hands out and willed herself to pull it together. I'm gonna do it. She gave her too-short shorts a self-conscious tug and tipped her chin high with reinforced conviction. It's time to be a big girl and move onto the next phase of my life. Deep breath in, slow breath out. Remember, fear is for the weak!
Lindsay managed a brave face, flung her backpack over her shoulder, and began walking toward the entrance. It's just a job interview, right? You worry too much.
Besides, the eighteen-year-old had nowhere else to go. Thanks to that Uber ride to get here, she was out of money.
Lindsay fell in love with Las Vegas last evening after a whirlwind sightseeing tour and staying at a hotel overnight. An oasis of lights, sounds, and uncaged debauchery in the heart of the Mojave Desert, Sin City was more like a theme park than an urban metropolis. It could awe as much as it could overwhelm, and that was part of the appeal.
Known for its luxurious rental properties, the clink and ring of slot machines, world-class shows, and a cornucopia of fine dining, Vegas had more than earned its moniker as "The Entertainment Capital of the World." Activity raged everywhere, and the endless parade of tourists from all walks of life boggled Lindsay's young, impressionable mind. And the Las Vegas Strip itself? It was a flamboyant, boisterous, and wildly eccentric adult fantasyland where anything was possible, and reality, with all its pitfalls, ceased to exist.
"Hmm, this sure ain't Vegas," Lindsay said out loud.
Located 175 miles upstate, Flagstone was once known as one of the most rough-and-tumble mining towns in the Old West, claiming many lives to gunslinging and brawls. Saloon girls, prospecting, gambling, and lawless streets were all too familiar during its heyday in the 1870s. But the Flagstone of 2018 was a friendly little community whose charm was evident in its people and its shops.
An old gold mine, abandoned long ago, was strewn with wrecked and twisted debris. The Flagstone Historical Museum featured several artifacts, including one of the original train engines used to haul ore from the mine. Outdoor enthusiasts enjoyed a sanctuary to plants and animals in the Calafell Canyon National Wildlife Refuge, while history buffs could explore the town's most notable attraction, Crown Hill Cemetery. It served as the final resting place for dozens of murderers and shady characters from the town's violent past. Many locals insisted those evil, resentful spirits haunted it to this day.
The temperature on this Monday morning was 106 degrees Fahrenheit, typical weather for July, but sweltering heat like this didn't faze Lindsay. Just three weeks ago she'd been standing on stage under the blazing sun at her high school graduation ceremony in the small town of Citronelle in California's south-central desert.
She left those old stomping grounds behind yesterday morning, as well as her parents, etimesgut yabancı escortlar three sisters, and everyone else she knew and loved, and took a charter bus from Palm Springs to Las Vegas. Both her mom and dad insisted she didn't know what she was doing and was downright crazy to venture out on her own at such an early age.
But Lindsay had a plan. She just didn't tell anyone what it was, including her lifelong best friend, Evie Bancroft. I feel terrible. There's never been any secrets between us.
Lindsay had wanted to get away from Citronelle for as long as she could remember. Sure, it was home, but nothing happened there, and no one ever left. The next closest sign of civilization was thirty miles away. In her mind, the entire region, with its barren wastelands, sand dunes, and dry lakes, was featureless and inhospitable. What irritated her more than anything was the sense of trapped isolation. Continuing to live in Citronelle was a dead end and offered no opportunity for a successful future. Hmmph, I don't want to turn into the second coming of my mom.
For years, Lindsay clung to the hope that something better was out there waiting, but wasn't sure what, or where, it was. And unless she went out and searched, Lindsay knew she'd never find it because it sure as hell wouldn't come looking for her in Citronelle.
With her two older sisters already attending USC and Arizona State, going off to college was out of the question. There was no way her parents could afford the tuition. Besides, Lindsay lacked motivation during her high school years and flat-out didn't care about applying herself or even giving the slightest effort. Getting accepted into a top-flight university would be an uphill battle with less-than-favorable GPA and SAT/ACT scores.
Dipping and frying corn dogs like a zombie for minimum wage at the fairgrounds every summer could no longer be an option, either. Ewwwww, gross ... corn dogs. Lindsay shuddered at the thought. I. Can't. Even! It was the only available job in town, and further evidence she needed to escape the purgatory Citronelle had become.
So, in the fall of 2017, an idea popped into her mind and wouldn't go away. At first, Lindsay found the notion downright repulsive, but soon the perversity of it intrigued and aroused her like nothing ever had before.
Why wouldn't it? There was sex involved.
Lots of it.
And having sex was this girl's favorite activity.
Lindsay did extensive research on every active brothel throughout the state of Nevada and what it was like to work at one. She read every news article, blog post, and website message board available on the Internet related to brothels -- whorehouses, to be blunt -- and delved into their long, checkered history.
Lindsay created dummy accounts on Twitter and Instagram and followed all the "working girls" she could find. She even socialized back and forth with those who were gracious enough to respond. Claiming to be twenty-four with aspirations of joining the world's oldest profession, Lindsay asked countless questions and processed all the feedback.
Though wrought with controversy and fierce opposition, brothels are legal in Nevada counties where the population does not exceed 700,000 people. This means brothels are illegal in Clark County, home to Las Vegas, and Washoe County, home to Reno. Carson City, an independent city, outlaws them as well. For counties with less than 700,000 residents, decisions to permit these houses of prostitution are up to local officials.
A small scattering of municipalities in seven of the state's seventeen counties are the only places in the United States where buying or selling sex is legal.
Advocates claim that visiting a brothel is the safest sex anyone could ever have in their lifetime. That's because all aspects of their day-to-day operations are subject to the strict scrutiny and regulations of the local county, as well as the Nevada State Legislature.
Ordinances mandate every sex worker must undergo stringent medical testing on a recurring basis. If a test result comes back positive, they may not return to work until cleared by a physician. Failure to comply would lead to a jail sentence for the lady, and license cancellation and permanent shutdown for the brothel itself.
After months of social media communication with employees and patrons alike, Lindsay applied online at Happy Ending Ranch in Flagstone. Aesthetically, Flagstone wasn't much different from Citronelle. It was a sleepy desert town with century-old buildings, cottages, and decaying homes. It's like I never left home. Mountains hugged the horizon and residents enjoyed great game hunting and trout fishing in the surrounding landscape.
Despite the familiarity, Lindsay chose Flagstone and this specific brothel, anyway, because she hadn't read one negative ankara yeni escortlar review about it. There were complaints about all the other houses in multiple forums, but customers raved about the girls at Happy Ending Ranch and how mellow the staff was. The owner went above and beyond for his clientele, and judging by the pictures she'd seen, Lindsay thought he was easy on the eyes, too. He's sexy as all hell. Customers also spoke far more glowingly of the ranch's vibe than they did any other in the state.
In short, Happy Ending Ranch seemed like the ideal spot for Lindsay to get her feet wet in the industry. She'd gain valuable experience as an employee here and could, in theory, work her way up to the bigger and more well-known houses where the real money was.
Lindsay's face scrunched as she read the battered metal sign mounted on the front door.
NOTICE: Cell phones, pagers, personal digital assistants (PDAs), laptops, recording devices, and two-way radios are prohibited on this property and will be confiscated.
She assumed the sign was in place to protect anonymity and safety and that such rules were for the general public, not the working girls. Surely, management wouldn't forbid their employees from using cell phones, would they? But just to err on the side of caution, she stashed her wireless device deep inside her backpack. Ain't no one touching my phone.
Full of apprehension, Lindsay reached out a finger, pressed the doorbell, and heard the chime go off from somewhere behind the thick, reinforced mahogany.
And as if on cue, she started doubting her decisions. Maybe I have it all wrong. Are Mom and Dad right? Seriously, do I know what I'm doing? Am I about to make the biggest mistake of my life? Lindsay's heart was pounding as she wondered what awaited on the other side of the door.
You're insane, but welcome to the rest of your life, girlfriend. This is what you wanted, and now it's here. Time to get fucked for a living. Yeet! She gripped the hair at the back of her head with both hands, groaned miserably, and shuffled her feet. Hey, they can put that on your tombstone! Lindsay Michelle Anastacio, December 4, 1999 to ... whenever. She was a prostitute and got fucked for a living -- and she liked it. A cocksucker du jour.
The young woman blew her cheeks out with a heavy breath, told herself to stop over-analyzing this, and took in the peaceful setting one more time. She knew all too well her mother was against the idea of prostitution, legal or otherwise. Mrs. Anastacio claimed brothels were "houses of ill repute" and the women who dared work at them "unholy sinners." Mom is so savage. She enjoyed watching daytime talk shows a little too much and insisted sex workers were the lowest form of scum on the planet and would forever rot in Hell.
Lindsay's face went pale at the thought of her parents ever finding out she was here. Mom would spaz out and need years of therapy to recover. She inhaled slowly to calm her escalating heartbeat. Dad would have a stroke and call the National Guard. No, he'd do one better ... he'd contact Seal Team Six and have me extracted.
After what seemed like an eternity, the door had yet to open. Maybe everyone was still sleeping? Lindsay's research suggested most of the denizens of these "cathouses" showed up at night under the cloak of darkness. But the place had already been open for ninety minutes today. Someone had to be awake and lurking about inside, right?
Impatient, Lindsay pressed the buzzer again, shifted from foot to foot, and emitted a screechy, low-pitched whine. C'mon, let's get this over with. Showing up here wasn't an easy decision, but at least it had been an informed and well-thought out one. Lindsay again reminded herself that this was what she wanted to do with the next phase of her life. It was her one-way ticket out of Citronelle, too. I never want to see that shithole again!
A much older man opened the door and greeted her with a cheerful smile. "Hi! Good morning! Welcome to Happy Ending Ranch!"
Dressed from head-to-toe in black, the gentleman's face featured prominent cheekbones, heavy brows, and a defined jawline. He was tall and lean, had a dark, healthy tan, and green eyes that reminded Lindsay of the forest on a calm autumn day.
"Hi." Lindsay again tugged on her denim shorts and stared at him with a mixture of wonder and heat. She found herself intrigued by how handsome this silver fox looked. Lindsay had countless fantasies of being with an older, more experienced man who would control her in the bedroom. In those fantasies, she imagined herself as defenseless, like a submissive plaything, and at her lover's mercy.
In his early to mid-fifties, the man looked familiar. That face. I know I've seen your picture before, sir. Who are you? What is your name? She racked her brain for sincan oral yapan escortlar an answer, but soon got derailed by another impulse altogether: dropping to her knees and taking his cock into her mouth. Lindsay already wanted to taste this sexy stranger, to swallow his sperm, and show him what a good girl she was.
She squirmed in place as a burning twinge flared between her thighs. Through the thin fabric of her tank-top, the twin peaks of her nipples stiffened into view. Lindsay's libido, already the stuff of legend at Citronelle High School, was raging out of control. Her curiosity was running wild. It began with X-rated thoughts on the long bus ride yesterday and peaked during an overnight masturbation session at the hotel. After all her careful planning, Lindsay was finally at a brothel.
And she knew what happened at these houses of ill repute.
"May I see your ID, please? Need to do an age check."
"Uhh, sure. Hold on." Lindsay's imagination crashed back down to Earth as she fumbled through her backpack and presented her California driver's license. My ID, huh? What a buzzkill.
Suddenly, she realized where she knew this man from -- the online videos about Happy Ending Ranch and in various related pictures, too. She couldn't recall his name offhand, but knew he was an employee. He's not the owner. I'd recognize him in a heartbeat. Perhaps he was the head of security? The lead bartender?
Lindsay wondered when she would get to meet the owner and considered herself lucky that she might work with not one, but two gorgeous older men. I'd let both of them smash me at the same time.
"Oh, Lindsay! Lindsay Anastacio! We've been expecting you." The man moved aside and swung his arm out in a welcoming motion. "I'm Jim Mayer, the house manager. Come on in! So nice meeting you."
"It's nice to meet you, too, Mr. Mayer." House manager, huh? You must be second on the totem pole. Lindsay offered a sweet, adorable smile as she slipped by and made her way into the front foyer. It may have looked like a typical family home on the outside, yet inside it was anything but. This crib is lit! Lindsay surveyed the fully stocked wet bar, wraparound mirrors, and the stripper pole in the background with a rigid posture and big, round eyes.
This den of iniquity -- think sports memorabilia, poster prints of rock-and-roll legends and adult film stars, peeling paint and bright neon signage, and padlocked doors leading God-knows-where -- was Flagstone's gateway to glamourous women and thrilling good times.
The lobby featured two booths and four bistro tables with worn, leather-backed chairs, with the bar itself as the focal point. Hardcore pornography played on two separate flat-panel television screens, and a sprawling glass showcase featured exotic toys available for purchase. That strap-on dildo is straight fire! Look at the size of it! A jukebox with records, touchscreen games, mismatched glassware, a fake mounted fish, and a pool table in dire, yet technically playable disrepair added charm and character. Open doorways flanked either side of the counter area with raggedy old curtains draped in front of them. The air smelled of cigarette smoke, booze, and sex. Is this what people mean when they say dive bar?
"You took a bus from Palm Springs to Vegas, right?" Jim ran Lindsay's driver's license through a machine and handed it right back. "Did you have a pleasant trip? Run into any problems?"
Warm and inviting, Jim spoke from the chest, not the head, and conveyed richness, wisdom, and stability. After years of dealing with boys her own age, this was a welcome change of pace for Lindsay. Finally, I get to be around people with the same maturity level as me.
"Nah, the trip was Gucci." Lindsay sensed Mr. Mayer was sizing her up. She had the innocent girl-next-door vibe down pat, standing five-foot-three with blonde hair and deep blue eyes atop a petite, blossoming frame. Back home Lindsay was the two-time reigning Homecoming Queen, an accomplishment less impressive given that her graduating class comprised a mere sixteen students. She took great pride in a made-for-sex body but considered herself more cute than hot. An easy, charming disposition made her irresistible; Lindsay could cast a love spell on any man she looked at.
"My only gripe is, it took too long. Ten hours from Palm Springs to Las Vegas with a gazillion stops and breaks." Is that a cigarette vending machine in the corner? What seemed like decades-old wafts of smoke lingering in the air would take some getting used to. Reminds me of Grandma's before she went to the nursing home. "I don't know why they found it necessary to pull over at every single rest stop." She rolled her eyes. "It was so extra."
Confused, Jim tilted his head at that last remark.
Despite her complaining, Lindsay thought the bus ride was a steal and would do it again. I like to complain. Dad always said I was a brat. Just thirty-five dollars to uproot her life to a whole new world? Can't beat that.
The Uber ride from Vegas had been more efficient and comfortable, and the driver was a riot, but it set Lindsay back $221 and all but obliterated the rest of her budget.