And The Dickwad of the Week Award Goes to….

I’m not saying that one moment of being a dickwad or a douchebag means you are a complete and total dickwad. All dickwads and douchebags have their tender and heartfelt moments.

Certain moments however get to you more than most,
and for those moments, I will now be serving up the
“Dickwad of the Week Award.”

Dickwad of the week award goes to my new boss.
Granted, you have redeemed yourself, when
I was running an hour late at work and you let me make up for it by checking on plane tickets.
And granted, you have redeemed yourself by calling the owner of the place when I needed my drug fix.
But today you stepped into forbidden territory:

Stomping on a whore’s dreams.
Fuck you, boss man….first off, the only reason you know about my dreams outside of this place is because you had to be present while I was discussing YOU with YOUR boss. And when you say,

“Where you’re going, I’ve been there before.”
You bring up all the shiny and wonderful things that might possibly be related to my dream.
You say,
“I UNDERSTAND that the reason why you’re here is because you have a dream outside of here you are pursuing. If I coulda done what you’re doing, I woulda been there in a heartbeat. But my dreams, when I went and got them…I never had to do what you did.”

“Resort to other things?” I ask.

“Yes.” He says.

“Because your dreams and business ideas turned over a profit?”

“Exactly.” He says.

He says, “Now I know you want to see your name in lights and be on the front page of something…and the things you need to do to get where you’re going.”

“But I don’t KNOW where I’m going.” I say.

“That’s exactly my point.” He says.

End of conversation. He starts to leave the room.
“I’ve given up on what you’re thinking of. I’m moving on to a book deal!” I say.

Sigh.

BrothelBabe wants scientific answers! The 10 day fallout.

Every time I come here to work, about at day 10, plus or minus a few days, something happens which I call the “10 day fall-out.”

Call it homesickness, heartache, or a break down.
What I imagine is….your heart is a vessel for all these positive emotions.
Everything from your cat wanting to be held when you get home,
to the hand you hold with your forbidden lover, to your mother saying, “lets get lunch this week.”

All of your most recent memories have a 10 day holding time.

When the last drop of love drips out of your heart, like the last grain of sand
in an hourglass…something in you also runs out. Your body knows it, feels it, senses the loss, and doesn’t like it.

You’ve been physically cut off from all of the comforts of your other world back home, and when this moment of loss hits, all you can do is cry.

This time is strange as its the first time I have been back here not having an official boyfriend.
I HAD a boyfriend.
I HAD a ring. Well…he had it. Waiting to give it to me.
I didn’t want it.
I fell for somebody else – somebody forbidden.

Not intentionally either – I’m talking about the kind of love where you tripped, you fell hard, and there isn’t shit you can do about it. The kind where you say to yourself, “Really, heart? Are you sure?! I think you might have lost your mind.”

Knowing my heart no longer wanted to be with Mr. Sensible…I ended things with him some weeks ago, in favor of the untested waters of Mr. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

My boyfriend and I had a very different routine than this time’s 10 day Fall-Out.
Day 10 was when we would fight, and I’d want to break up.

This time all I could do was cry.
Because I miss everything that’s right,
but mostly I miss Mr. Wrong.

I wish I knew the science of “Day 10.” Alpha female, biological chemical warfare, explained. Maybe my ovaries sense the loss. Maybe after 10 days of a night shift, my dopamine levels are low, and the crying is due to a lack of natural sunlight. Its certain that exercise alone doesn’t fix it. No amount of treadmill running and pole dancing is a suitable cure.

Having this much free time working the night shift allows your brain the opportunity to get a little too imaginative. Your head spins around all the magical “what-ifs”.

What IF Mr. Wrong was suddenly available. What IF Mr. Wrong knew how I felt.
I don’t know that he knows. There’s plenty to dig up. We have facebook, after all…where I’ve left plenty of pieces making it easy for any love detective to put together.

Talking with my genius writer friend online, he said that I should tell Mr. Wrong how I feel. I type out a practice letter, as if writing to Mr. Wrong. My friend revised it. It became brilliance and simplicity, all in one.

I took that letter and re-fashioned it to my liking in an email.

Then I got reasonable, and asked myself questions.

What is the result of a whore saying “I want to be with you”?
You can’t really be with a girl while she lives in a brothel.
I’m here to take care of my life. Relationships seem imaginary.
Mr. Wrong is just as broke as I am so saying “lets run off and be together!”
is the biggest joke imaginable.

Unlike other women, I don’t seek to possess or own any man.
No man can truly call me “his” right now, and knowing somebody is the keeper of my heart would not change the reality of my situation.

That email? I saved it, and it will never be sent.
I have too much pride to be anything other than realistic.

Instead in my moment of longing, all I could do was text Mr. Wrong and say,
“How’s the weather back home? I’m missing it.”
As if to say, “I’m missing you.”
His response?
“It’s hot here too.”

Humpday Essay: Zapatos Bandito

Since Wednesday is “Humpday” and all – every week I’m going to give you a detailed description of whoever I bone on Wednesday – whether good or bad.

Zapatos Bandito

Its shortly after midnight.

There is one Mexicano in the bar.

The old owner of this place (god rest his soul) used to refer to the Mexicans as our “bread and butter” – especially come winter.

I didn’t much feel like talking or fucking but my co-worker Dinna (she is from Greece) down the hall tells me in her accent, “the Mexican in the parlor was looking at you. You should talk to him. He’ll be an easy $100.00 and he comes quick.”

(For those of you who don’t know, its standard fare that any time a Mexican comes in here, he can get a super quickie for $100.00. He’ll get 10 minutes or less on the clock, and any Mexican who tries to bargain for more, knows that he is trying to get more than the standard rate for the standard time. I have gotten more time out of a Mexican before, but they come in packs, and they come regularly – I don’t view them so much as sex as I do a means of “clearing my rent” for the day.)

I take my friends advice, and I talk to him. I talk first in english.

I get him to agree to go to my room.

Then I say, “como te llamas?” and I discern from his “blahblahblah” that he says, “you know Spanish, you are full of it!” and I tell him, “no I do not know spanish, I am from California, so I have a good accent.”

“My espan-yole es oooon po-kee-to.” I tell him.

Back in my room, my typical opening line:

“Sexo y mal mal?” I say (sex and blow job?)

“no, only sexo” he says.

“quantos tee-em-po?” (how much time?)

“quantos for twenty minutes” he says.

“beinte min-u-tos es dos ciento sinquenta.” (250 bucks for 20 minutes.)

“No no no!” He says. Too much.

He wants more time, he only has 100 bucks.

“Oh no!” I say.

“All the Mexicanos know you get dies minutos pour cien!”

“Keensay minutos?” he asks (15 minutes)

“Dos-ay minutos!” I say. 12 minutes. Final offer.

“No? Ok lets go. “

We start walking down the hall.

Almost back in the parlor he says,

“Trace-ay minutos!” (13 minutes.)

Ok, deal.

Whatever. I only make them put 10 on the clock anyway.

Which is above my typical “8 Mexican minutes” for 100 bucks.

They usually cum in five anyway, so it never matters.

I get back and this guy doesn’t want to take off his clothes.

“You don’t even wanna take off your zapatos?” I ask (shoes.)

No, he says. This guy wants to leave his fuckin’ shoes on.

Ok. Whatever.

Then I wonder if Dinna was getting karmic payback for when I dirty hustled her because this guy had a larger-than-average dick, fucked hard, and DID NOT CUM anywhere close to “early”! What the hell was she talking about?

He wanted it from behind, he wanted to put me in this weird sideways direction…and I’m sitting here thinking about all of this while my bed is moving sideways, I’m falling off, and the position is generally uncomfortable.

The sideways fuck hurts my pussy, and I don’t like these acrobatics.

At least I just worked out prior, and stretched, and did the splits. Otherwise, my legs wouldn’t have been so accommodating either.

The sweat…too.

One LONE BEAD OF SWEAT dripped from HIS FACE, as if in slow motion, on to MY FACE.

I really wanted to pry him off of me and was wondering when the hell the new boss was gonna call “time’s up.”

By the end of the fuck I knew I’d been had by Dinna. At least he paid my rent.

“Mas tiempo?” he asks.

Wanting to pay me for more time.

“No”, I say,

“Your penis is muy grande and my vagina is done.”

“Maybe next time you will take off your shoes!”

Money vs. Freedom – weekly reflections

Every Tuesday, I’m going to be sharing something that happened during the day/week that is a trade-off of money vs. the typical freedoms one might get living outside of here.

Today’s freedom?
The drugs you choose to put in your body.

Keep in mind, this is not the brothel that is on that TV show. We are not allowed to do any drug we want here. Recently there was a change of management. Before, things like…smoking weed on the back patio were acceptable.

Now the smoking weed thing is no longer acceptable. Which is fine – I never much liked weed.
But now, the management is trying to tell me what diet drugs I can and cannot do, which in this industry, is WAY WORSE than taking away somebody’s weed.

The drug in question:

HCG
(aka pregnyl, aka human chorionic gonadotropin.)

How long I’ve been using the drug:

On and off for some time.

Why the boss took it away:

NOT because it involves needles, but because he’s more familiar with its use in conjunction with steroids, a’la pro baseball player Manny Ramirez.
Keep in mind I have no idea of those kinds of uses. I’m only familiar with its much older use, which is a diet from the 1950s called “Simeons Protocol.”

What transpired:

The boss told me I can’t shoot up on the premises any more. A heated conversation.

Ending result:

I was furious and cried. NOT because I can’t do the drug. But because one of my precious freedoms had been taken away.

How I coped:

My 18 year old buddy joined me while I was a teary mess and I explained how ridiculous losing this particular freedom is. After all….a year ago it was common knowledge with the last management how much money I spent on cosmetic surgery. So part of the reason for the drug is to maintain the results of said surgery.

How I fought back:

Explained logically to the manager about said surgery, and how I’m paranoid about reversing the results of my very expensive, very painful surgery….and that my line of work both inside and outside of this house is all about how slim you are. He tells me, “you’re a beautiful girl, that’s your rule, not life.”

I also said, “if you’re gonna tell a girl something that’s going to make her cry, maybe try to do it when she isn’t on shift!”

“But I live here.” He says.
“Our shifts are only 12 hours. Find time outside of that.”
I also said, “If you’re gonna call me out, then you should probably start searching for drugs in every girls room, to be fair.”

Surprise display of character from the boss:

He calls me to the back office, and wouldn’t ya know, its close to 1am but he has the owner of the place on the phone, who says, “I know you girls have your vices, and you need vices for your sanity. If the drug in question is LEGAL enough that I won’t get busted by you keeping it in the house, then you can keep it.”

Lesson learned: Nobody in America likes to be told they can’t do something. Especially a whore in a brothel.

Monday Rundown: BrothelBabe’s Boffs of the week

Earnings before rent was taken out:

About 1000.

Total Boffs: I didn’t count the Mexicans….but the notable boffs were about five. If I can give you five every week, I will.

THE WINNER IS:

1. the 7  minute man race

Two college age guys run in here, the wind following them, and decided on their way down from Tahoe that they wanted to do a “seven minute man race” – which involved running down the hall naked together (yes, we got approval from management), each guy boffs a girl for 7 minutes, and whoever ends up in a 2nd holding area (where a super cute judge we appointed was waiting) wins! I told them to make it a real dude party, they each had to shotgun two beers when they finished f*cking a chick, and they agreed. This might be my all time #1! My BB (bed buddy, girl who I share a bed with) and I cannot stop laughing about it. Thanks boys.

2. Mr. 200%

a fit, blonde, blue eyed 44 year old who probably would have been VERY crush-worthy in his senior year of college, noticed me the moment he walked in the door, and I noticed him noticing me. He was all about my freshly shampoo’d hair and the fact that I looked like I just “threw on” the little dress I was wearing. He lied about his job at first. Or maybe he lied about it later…cuz first he said he worked in computers, then he said he worked for the government, and had gone to area 51 recently. But however you slice it, I soaked up every compliment of him telling me I was the prettiest girl in the house, and my favorite line was “You have me turned on two hundred percent!” I didn’t know that was possible, but I’ll take it.

3. Mr. Millionaire

Close friend who came with Mr. 200% – when I finished boffing Mr. 200%, he was there waiting…and was calling all the other girls “liars” because they refused to blow him without a condom on. Mr. Millionaire had a GIANT wad of cash that he had just won playing roulette. Supposedly he is a competitive gambler and had won a couple million bucks last year gambling too. This particular day he won 8 grand. And had to bring in the whole stack in his pocket. He handed me a benjamin for no particular reason, because he liked my face. He dropped a couple 20s on the floor which I was going to pick up but when another girl pointed them out, instead of giving them to her, he handed those to me too! Turns out Mr. Millionaire fancies himself a “producer” and when he found out I want a career in hollywood, he was ALL ABOUT taking me back to my room to discuss business. He told me I’d have to lose my ass and my hips…slim down, have to upgrade my tits by a cup size or two to “make my waist look smaller” and I’d have to get a  SERIOUS makeover- heels, updo, new makeup, new dresses, the works. He said he’d pay for it all if I came down to vegas, and that I needed to call him on Monday (today!) to discuss when that would happen. I gave him my phone number. The day after, he texted me wanting to know if I would be his “girl” going to Hawaii with him. I said he’d do better to put me to work first, and I wouldn’t go on any vacation for free, he’d have to pay me.

So far, he’s been the only man I’ve ever met who wanted to discuss business ideas while I was sitting on top. Brilliant. And thanks for the Benjamins.

4. Mr. “Don’t touch my wang.” Indian guys are always a special scenario because they never pull their foreskin back to clean off the smegma. This guy was no exception. Except he said he didn’t want me to touch his wang because it hurt, and it hurt to pull back the foreskin even more. Judging by the swelling of a vein on his wang, he seemed like he never beats off and the real reason it hurt was because he was majorly backed up. He wanted to have fun in the hot tub but the whole time didn’t want me to touch his wang. We had to switch condoms out of the jacuzzi…he didn’t understand that the heat of the water ruins the integrity of the latex. Once he finally got to the sex part, he came in like two seconds. He had time to keep going but he seemed embarrassed and wanted to get dressed and leave. Aww. I told him to practice pulling back the foreskin every day. He didn’t even know WHY you have to clean that area. Cause Smegma smells. Duhhhh.

5. Mr. Cum on my tits

I was half awakebut hadn’t earned my keep for the prior day so I went to a lineup and this older white dude picked me out of lineup. No work involved, easy! Except for the fact that he kept going soft during sex. His request? The no-condom titty f*ck. One of my alltime “imma barf” moments….but at least he got his holly jollies. That’s what we’re here for, folks.

BrothelBabe asks, what are you saving for?

I am Brothel Babe. I work at a legal brothel in the state of Nevada.

Here I am, saving up for my ever important existence.

One girl down the hall from me has been working here for four years. She is paying for her mortgage.

Another girl is saving for 100k a year tuition at a prestigious arts school.

A lady is saving to put herself into law school. She already has a business degree.

Two of the hardest working women here are saving up to go on a trip to Jamaica.

My one year anniversary for working in this industry just passed, and this week I established 3 financial rules for myself:

1. I can’t get social time til I make at least 1500 dollars

2. I can’t go back to my home town (to see my family) until I make 5000 dollars.

3. I can’t sleep with a guy on “the outside” until I make 10 grand.

You’ll learn why I set up these rules later.  Seeing that this is the 2nd great depression, falling in love is a mistake I can’t afford to have right now. And the way to my heart is through my vagina.  I think for the rest of the female world its through a man’s wallet. Not for me though.