The Girlfriend Experience (Chapter Seventeen)

Chapter Seventeen


Monday, June 10, 2019

Flagstone, Nevada



“So, we’re currently filming at a brothel one hundred and seventy-five miles north of Las Vegas?”

“Yes,” Pamela answered.

“Many people, people who’ve never been to Nevada, believe that prostitution is legal in Las Vegas, but it’s actually not. But outside of Las Vegas and its vicinity, outside of Clark County, specifically, it is legal.”

“Yes and no,” Pamela said. “State law mandates that all Nevada counties with more than seven hundred thousand residents, like Clark County, where Las Vegas is, prostitution – brothels – are, is … prohibited. Seven hundred thousand is the magic number, the strict cutoff point. But for counties with a lesser population, like Sulaco County, where we are, it can be legal, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it always is. Meaning, each individual county, each city, even, can dictate whether brothels are allowed in their jurisdiction or not.”

“And how long have you worked here?”

“It’ll be thirteen years next month.”

“Thirteen years? Wow, that’s a long time.” Mark Fasick, a filmmaker based out of Carlsbad, California, was interviewing Pamela inside the parlor at Happy Ending Ranch with a video camera trained on her for a documentary on prostitution that he was producing. This interview had been in the works for several months, with Pamela and Colt only recently agreeing to it once Fasick agreed to ask a preapproved set of questions. If anything, they believed the exposure would be free advertising for their business and specifically, Pamela herself, and help attract new customers. Plus, Pamela had a story to tell, and wanted the world to know that not all sex workers were horrible people and needed to be demonized.

“Have you worked at any other brothels here in Nevada or perhaps even abroad?”

Her lips pursed. “No, I haven’t. No need to; I love it here.”

“How did you get your start in sex work? What made you choose this profession?”

“I grew up in Florida, and on my eighteenth birthday, I signed up on a webcamming site, got approved, and was doing live nude shows later that night. I mean, I love being on camera, always have, and thought webcamming would be awesome because, hey, I’d be getting paid to be on camera. I’ve always been sexual, too, and I’m certainly not shy or bashful. In my mind, there is nothing wrong with that either. It was a perfect fit.

“Webcamming opened a lot of doors for me. It opened my eyes to the opportunities that were out there if I were willing to, you know, use my body as a vehicle to make money. Just because you’re young, you’re in high school or fresh out of high school, you don’t have to be broke.” Pamela’s nose twitched. “You don’t have to be the French fry girl at McDonald’s like I once was, by the way, and making minimum wage.”

“Did you webcam strictly for the money?”

“The money was a big part of it, and still is today in my current situation, I cannot lie, but I also enjoyed webcamming. I enjoy what I do now too. I enjoy being an exhibitionist.” Pamela lifted her shoulder in a half shrug. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t do this because the money would never be enough.

“When I was webcamming, I wanted to delve deeper because, you know, other opportunities were out there. So, in March 2006, three months before I graduated from high school, and two months after I’d turned eighteen, I started dancing at this strip club outside of Miami, where I grew up, on Friday and Saturday nights. People never believe it when I tell them I went to high school in the day and danced on a pole at night.” Pamela laughed, a hearty, genuine chuckle. “But I did, and the money was awesome, it was spectacular. I was making three thousand dollars, easy, over those two nights, on top of what I made on weeknights camming.” A smile tugged one corner of her mouth upward. “I was young and felt like a pop star, a billionaire, because I had the ability to go out and buy whatever I wanted. I was making more money in a week than what my parents made, combined, in a month.

“And then, of course, working at a strip club, any girl is going to get propositioned every night without fail.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Some strippers will tell you that oh, no, that doesn’t happen at my club, management would never tolerate it, but it happens at every club. There are rare exceptions, I’m sure, but strip clubs are generally a front for prostitution and if you’re young, if you’re saving for school or struggling to pay the rent, it’s tough to turn down five hundred or a thousand bucks to sneak into the back room or go to some motel after your shift ends and have sex for an hour or two. Especially being young and naïve, not knowing the dangers because, you know, everyone at that age thinks they’re invincible. Oh, nothing bad will ever happen to me.

“But my issue was, in school, word got out that I was working at the club, and suddenly, I had classmates, even school faculty members, begin showing up and seeing me naked, buying lap dances from me. Some even propositioned me.” She drew in a long breath. “That was awkward, to say the least, and once I graduated, I needed a fresh start, something new.

“Knowing there was more opportunity out there, and I’d already sold my body for sex, anyway, I hopped in my truck and drove cross-county to Nevada and took a job here at the brothel. Again, I was eighteen, and had this brand new, fully decked-out truck with all the bells and whistles, a Ford Ranger, that I’d paid for in straight cash … thanks to the webcamming and stripping I’d done in high school. I loved having sex more than anything – still do, actually – and back then, when I started here, I was getting paid to have it in a safe, legal environment. I wasn’t breaking any laws, there was zero risk involved on my end. Life was awesome. For me, personally, it couldn’t have been any better.” That’s because I met Colt and immediately fell in love with him too. But Pamela wasn’t about to divulge that in the interview. Mongers need to believe I’m single and available because it adds to their fantasy.

“What are some other reasons you’ve heard that girls start doing sex work? Whether it be webcamming, in a strip club, a brothel, or on the street? I’m sure you’ve heard it all over the years.”

“Yeah, I have. I’ve heard everything. Some come from broken homes. I never experienced that personally, thank God. I have a good relationship with my parents, always have. They did their best while I was growing up. I cannot complain. They were good, typical middle-class working parents, and treated me and my siblings well. Other girls, they get mixed up with the wrong crowd, and need the money to support an abusive boyfriend or husband, their pimp, or maybe foster a nasty drug habit.

“I’ve known some who have a sick family member – a mother, a father, even a child – who is in desperate need of medical care, and sex work provides the necessary financial resources to get them that care. Others are single parents, single moms, and do this to give their kids the best life possible. And others, well, they simply want the money so they can blow it on frivolous things.” Her tone went flat. “Those are the type of girls who flop and fizzle out and leave the industry more broke than they were when they first entered it. As someone who has been doing this seemingly forever, I try to educate all the younger girls who come through the house about finances, about being smart, and thinking about their future. But not everyone wants to listen, and I understand that. I was once their age too. When you’re young, you have the all the answers, and you don’t need anyone’s help.”

“Do you have any children?”

“No. Maybe one day, but definitely not anytime soon.”

“Can we circle back to your time as an exotic dancer for a moment? You were still in high school and had classmates, even school employees showing up, you said, and that was difficult to deal with, but what were some of the other downsides?”

“The stigma that went along with it. It was terrible, disheartening.” Pamela bowed her head, lost in thought for a moment. “Somehow, I was able to keep the fact I was stripping from my parents, but had to skip my high school graduation ceremony because I didn’t want them to go there and hear rumblings or whatever from others about what I did on the weekends. I wanted to keep my mom and dad away from any of that because, by that time, pretty much the entire school knew. That’s another reason why I moved so far away … got that fresh start. It was a big deal for me, too – graduation, that is – because I’d worked hard, I’d studied, and had good grades. I was so looking forward to that ceremony and hated having to skip it.

“Stripping was tiring and exhausting. I did twelve-hour shifts – five at night until five in the morning. It wore on my body and everyone in the club was smoking, and I’d go home and feel all grungy and gross the next day. I’d take five, six showers to try to get that nicotine smell off.

“And like, it upset me because other people in my life knew I was stripping – again, the stigma – and the way they treated me was unfair. Just going to the bank, for example, and turning in my ones was such a terrible ordeal. Oh, my goodness … don’t get me started.

“But here, in the brothel, everything is confined and because of the rules, industry-wide regulations, and other issues, we pretty much stay here twenty-four/seven. This is our own little world and judgment, ridicule … that’s never a concern. This is so much better than a strip club.”

“You never leave?”

“Once or twice a week,” Pamela amended. “But if you’re gone for more than thirty-six hours, Sulaco County rules state that you must get retested for safety’s sake, and that gets expensive. I’ll take a trip to Vegas, or a little town up north I enjoy, but I’m generally back the same day. It’s good to get away for a few hours.”

“So, back to the strip club. How did you get started with that?”

“There was this quote, gentleman’s club, maybe three miles from my high school, and I saw online they were looking for some new dancers, and I was interested right off the bat. I went and auditioned there … the guy who got me my start, his name was Adrian, a really nice, sweetheart of a guy, he suggested I stop by that Saturday night, just chill out, and watch how they did their show, maybe get some ideas, and see if this was the right move for me.

“I watched, I went that Saturday night and watched about one song, and I said, Adrian, put me up. He goes, are you sure, and I said, put me up. I already had my lingerie, some minidresses and heels; I’d come ready to go. I fed off the energy … it was exhilarating. I’d been a ballet dancer in the past, had years of cheerleading, and used them as a basis for my striptease. There was this circle stage and they had the chairs around the circle, you know, and I was hooked. I made eight hundred dollars that first night and never once looked back. They wouldn’t let me use my real name, obviously, so my name was Lexus there.”

“How did the money payouts work?”

“I’m sure the rates are higher these days, but back then, the house fee was seventy dollars. Meaning, just to walk in the door and show up for work, I had to pay seventy dollars. I had to hand it over right away. Then, for every lap dance, no matter if it was the twenty-, twenty-five- or thirty-five-dollar variety, the club took ten bucks. But the good thing was, I got to keep all my tips. So, I’d keep the cash on me all night or stashed away in my locker, and at the end of the shift, Adrian, for example, would come at me and say, Lexus, you did forty-four dances, you owe us four hundred and forty dollars … or whatever.”

Fasick turned to the next page in his notebook. “So, we’re at Happy Ending Ranch, two-and-a-half, three hours from Las Vegas, in Flagstone, Nevada. Do you know how many prostitutes this brothel employs?”

“We currently have seventeen in our ecosystem, I believe, but there are usually only six to eight here at any given time. Four or five of us are what I’d consider full-time … we’re here three weeks out of every month – the owner, the general manager, his name is Colt, mandates we take one week off every month, else we’d be here nonstop – and then the other girls, those who aren’t here as often, rotate in and out as needed, maybe tour for a week or two every now and then, every couple of months.”

“Do you live in Nevada as well?”

“No, I live in Florida.” Maryland, actually. For privacy reasons, Pamela didn’t want the masses to know she was from Baltimore. I don’t need anyone tracking us down. “I moved home to Miami eight years ago and commute between there and here every three weeks like clockwork.” She tilted her head to the side and smiled. “That’s a lot of frequent flyer miles.”

“What is the process for a customer when he or she walks into a brothel? Is Happy Ending Ranch open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week?”

“Seven days a week, yes, and we’re open from ten in the morning until three at night. There’s more business at night, obviously, and it can get quite rowdy at times, but we have our fair share of business in the morning and afternoons too. Oftentimes, I’ll sit at the bar in the morning and read a book, or work on my laptop, and I’m the first girl a customer sees when they enter the brothel.”

“Describe the typical man who comes into a brothel. What is he like?”

“Most are nice, really respectful; they’re complete gentleman, and it’s a stark contrast to the type of guy, I can promise you, who propositions a streetwalker at midnight in North Vegas, for example, or downtown Los Angeles. I … I could never do that. I’d never put myself in a vulnerable position like that.”

“This is a clean, well-run place,” Fasick commented, glancing around the parlor. “I sensed that when I spoke with the owner earlier. What type of emotions do you cycle through working here? Do customers ever make you angry, or offend you? Do you go through bouts of depression, anxiety? Ever feel disrespected?”

Pamela shook her head. “No, can’t say that I do. I have in the past, for sure, when I was at the strip club and dealing with my issues in school, but I’m older now, more mature, wiser, and I’ve learned to roll with the punches. I’m a people person, a positive thinker, and always filter out anything negative. Life is too short, you know? I have wonderful relationships with my clients. Many are recurring; they buy me gifts, treat me like a princess.”

“The session, the time these men purchase to be with you … it’s called a party, right? That’s the industry term?”

“Yeah, it’s a party, not a session.”

“How much does it cost to party?”

“Every lady is different in that she sets her own prices, but I cannot say anything specific because I could get into a lot of trouble with the law if I did. The sole place pricing can be legally discussed is in a girl’s bedroom between client and provider only. Anywhere else, even over the telephone, it’s considered illegal. We have customers who call all the time and ask the bartender, the owner, how much does it cost to be with a certain girl, but they’re never allowed to tell. It turns some away, but employees here, they’re not going to jeopardize their freedom. I will tell you, though, parties can get awfully pricey.”

Fasick steepled his fingers together in front of him. “Brothels attract a higher, more refined clientele than, say, some downtrodden, angry drunk guy cruising the Las Vegas Strip at night after he just lost his life savings at the blackjack table. Do you ever feel endangered here?”

“Oh, no, not at all. The house has security measures in place and the sheriff’s station is right down the street. They could be here in less than sixty seconds if needed. Plus, I meet and talk to all my clients beforehand, especially the new ones, and if I ever get a bad vibe, I simply refuse to party with them. That’s my right, our right. We’re not forced to party with anyone if we don’t want to.

“The way it generally works, to answer your earlier question, is a customer comes into the house and requests what’s called a lineup. All the available girls go to a specific area, line up and introduce themselves, and the customer picks whichever one they want to party with. They talk at the bar, get to know each other, and then go back to a private room and negotiate terms and prices.”

“And you said you can refuse them?”

“Yes, but that only happens once or twice a year for me. I mean, if a guy is nice, respectful, courteous, I’m good, I’m cool with all different types. That’s all I ask for, really. Age, disability, looks, experience level … none of that means anything to me. This job has taught me that what a person looks like is meaningless. I just want my clients to be nice. I want them to enjoy themselves, too, have a good time, and let loose. I mean, what’s the point of coming to a brothel if you’re not going to enjoy yourself?”


* * *


Behind the bar, Colt sat with his arms crossed – well outside the camera’s range – and kept a stern eye on the proceedings. Mark Fasick was a professional in the film industry with a long list of credits. He was respected by his peers; he had to be, else Colt wouldn’t have allowed this interview to be conducted after all the background checks and digging he’d done to be certain this man was legit.

Dude is paying us a thousand bucks for this interview, too … let’s not forget that.

It may have only been seven o’clock in the morning, well before opening time, but Pamela had already uncorked her body in a sexy black velvet dress with a bodice so tight she could barely breath and satin and lace trim that showcased far more of her ass than it concealed. And just to prove that she meant business, Pamela wore her favorite pair of come-fuck-me boots, sheer black platforms with seven-inch block heels and laces wound up to her knees. This woman was living proof that blondes had more fun.

A professional in her own right, Pamela knew how to talk and present herself, with that sweet and silky voice, and certainly own her sexuality. She sat upright on the bar stool, her back arched, breasts thrust forward, legs crossed, with one strap of the dress pushed down her shoulder.

You’re hustling through this interview. Indeed, Pamela claimed that her primary goal with this sit-down interview was for potential customers to watch it and feel compelled to book a party before even meeting her in person. Later this year, Fasick planned to release a video expose on LPIN through his production company, and Pamela, with her wealth of experience and outstanding customer reviews, was going to be one of three featured sex workers in it.

Thirteen years. Colt grimaced and flexed his leg outward. His thirty-one-year-old wife was more active now than ever, having booked a record number of parties in May. What happened to you seeing mongers via appointment only? To having a lighter workload and safeguarding your back? Yeah, that idea didn’t last very long, did it? Colt’s brows scrunched, and he grumbled inwardly. Once again, Pamela was the Queen of the Lineup. When are you ever going to quit this job so we can finally have kids?


* * *


“What does your family think of you doing this? Have they found out your secret since your high school years?”

Pamela winced. “I held out telling them for the longest time, but back in January, I finally came clean and fessed up. What happened was a girl that used to work here, her family found out what she was doing, and it created major drama, and everything went downhill quickly. I’ve seen countless girls in this industry exposed to their families over the years, and never thought it would happen to me, but this one specific case changed my whole outlook, and I came to the realization that my family, especially my parents, well, they deserved to know.

“Things were rocky at first, but they came around, my mom more than my dad, and I think I’m closer with her now than I’ve ever been. She and I talk every day on the phone and she’s curious about the guys I see, the money I make, all the gifts I receive.” What concept she still doesn’t seem to grasp is that my husband is basically my pimp. “Mom knows I’m safe here. I’m comfortable, I’m well off, and have quite the nest egg stashed away in savings.

“Whatever we as providers charge our clients, the house takes fifty percent, but I’m cool with that because everything within these walls is legal. I’m safe, secure, and have the backing of management and all my fellow sex workers. Discretion is paramount; what happens in the brothel stays in the brothel. Some girls, I’ve known some who come work here behind their husband’s back, pretend they’re on a business trip, and basically lead a second life, a double life, for a week or two. It’s exciting for them, thrilling, but no one here would ever out them to their husband or family. Colt, the big boss, wouldn’t tolerate anything like that. He wants everyone to get along and for there to be zero drama, zero issues, and no fear of another girl stabbing you in the back.

“I can’t speak for other houses, but in this one, at least, there’s a sense of family. All the girls, we get along, and I couldn’t imagine my life being anywhere other than here. That’s why I’ve lasted thirteen years … and hopefully thirteen more.”

Colt groaned and covered his eyes with a hand.

“What is your favorite type of customer?”

“Anyone who likes to talk and shows a genuine interest in me and my well-being. I’m very outgoing, friendly, and can talk with anyone. I love to talk. All my clients are special, they’re important, wonderful people, and I treat them that way. And if they show me that same courtesy, well, we’ve hit a home run, and I’ll give them the best sixty minutes of their entire life. I sell genuine experiences here, not a quick one, two, get out.”

“It doesn’t have to be sixty minutes, right?”

“No, it can be whatever the customer is willing to pay for. I’ve booked anywhere from ten-minute parties all the way up to an entire week. Years ago, one customer said he wanted me to be his wife for the week … and paid me accordingly.”

Fasick inclined his head. “And when it was over, it was over … just like that? It must be difficult to be so intimate with a man, or even a woman, and then watch them walk out the door when their time is up, knowing you may never see them again.”

“It can be, yes, and that’s one of the tougher aspects of my job. But with me, I prefer not to cut my clients off just like that. I mean, if I sign onto the brothel’s website right now, I can guarantee you that I’ll have six, eight, ten e-mails from overnight, and I do my best to respond to them each and every day. There are clients I see only once a year, but I have constant communication with them because we’re always e-mailing, kind of like pen pals. I take my time and respond to each client individually … authentically. I don’t type out a few generic words and cycle onto the next one. That … that’s not me. E-mailing is a way to stay up to date and when the time comes that they’re finally here, and it’s time to rock, the party takes on special meaning because we’ve kept in touch and maintained our connection.”

“I should mention that when we spoke off camera, before the interview began, you said you’re open to seeing women in the brothel, married couples, as well as men, obviously. Are you bisexual in your private life?”

“I don’t consider myself bisexual; I’m pansexual, meaning any attraction I feel isn’t directed at men or women, I don’t specify or consider their gender, I’m simply attracted to people. But men, women, transgender, non-binary, I’m open to a relationship with anyone. What I like to call myself is gender-blind.”

“Do you do drugs or alcohol at all?”

“I drink on occasion, sometimes more than others, but I’ve never done drugs of any kind. Never smoked any weed or anything like that either, even cigarettes. That’s why I said the nicotine smell at the strip club got to me so much. Maybe once every couple of months I go overboard and get totally drunk, totally wasted, but I’m usually on the up and up, the straight and narrow.”

“You typically see your clients one hundred percent sober?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Other prostitutes I’ve interviewed say they need alcohol or drugs to cope and make it through each party. It dulls their senses, turns off their emotions.”

Pamela shrugged. “Why would I want to do that? I love my clients. I genuinely love my job, what I do, and want to give all my clients the best, most authentic experience possible. Sometimes, I admit it, it can be grueling on my body – I’ve had a couple of health issues arise – but that comes with the territory. I provide all my clients love, companionship … good vibes, and again, there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a service they purchase, and I take pride in providing that service to the best of my ability.”

“What are some of the health issues you’ve had?”

“I had a serious spinal injury that put me on the sidelines for five months last year. That wasn’t fun, and suddenly not having sex after having it for so long, day in and day out, that was a massive adjustment, but everything is better now, my back is cured. When I was rehabbing, I think my body went into withdraw or something because I wasn’t having sex anymore. It was really weird, odd, and it made me realize how important my job is to me.

“But the most common health issue is a yeast infection, or a bacterial infection, because that’s what happens when you have sex a bunch. You’re more prone to those infections and, because of that, you always have Monistat and a bottle of Diflucan, which is the antibiotic that you get from your doctor to get rid of any bacterial infections.”

“Are most of your clients married? The male clients?”

“Yeah, they are, but I don’t have an issue with that. Really, neither should their wife. I’m not doing this to steal anyone’s man. If a wife doesn’t want her husband to look elsewhere for sex, or pay for it, well, maybe she should treat him better in the bedroom. That’s my philosophy.

“I had one client who wanted nothing more than to rub baby oil on my back and give me a massage. Believe it or not, that’s all he wanted – no sex, nothing else – and he told me his wife wouldn’t let him do that to her because she didn’t want baby oil messing up the bed sheets.” Pamela rolled her eyes. “I mean, come on … that’s pathetic. All the poor man wanted was to massage his wife, pleasure her.”

“Do you believe prostitution should be legalized?”

“I do. I really do. Outside of brothels and other countries where it is legalized, the prostitution business is dirty and disgusting, it’s filled with people exploiting innocent girls – I’m talking the streetwalkers in Vegas, Los Angeles, elsewhere, all the human trafficking that goes on worldwide – until you legalize it. Once you legalize it, everything changes. Street pimps would all but vanish and girls wouldn’t have their money ripped away anymore.

“Plus, if there ever was an issue, a safety issue, a girl wouldn’t have to potentially incriminate herself by going to the police and saying hey, this man, this john, assaulted me last night, he roughed me up, he robbed me. Guys who pick up streetwalkers can get away with so many things, horrible, evil, despicable things, because the girl is scared to report them to the police in fear she may go to jail herself. If prostitution ever becomes legalized, that wouldn’t be a concern, and johns would behave a lot better … like the ones we see here at the house where it is legalized, it’s regulated, controlled, and they know there will be heavy consequences if they step out of line.

“Sometimes I feel guilty because of the girls who don’t get accepted into a brothel yet feel the need, for whatever reason, to sell their body, and go the illegal route, the independent route. Because, you know, that could be me. It could very easily be me if Colt, thirteen years ago, chose not to hire me. I’m not going to lie; I dabbled in it during my strip club saga. Yet here, in a brothel, as I said, I’m safe, I have no worries, and I’d certainly never do anything under the radar again. If there are ever any issues, which is rare, it’s taken care of by management … swiftly.

“In this business, if you think about it, I’m at the top of the food chain. There’s no better place for any sex worker to be than in a brothel. And for the girls who don’t have that opportunity, the opportunity that I did, yeah, I feel guilty. Very guilty, and sometimes I wonder what my life would be like today if Colt had turned me away and I went down an alternate path. Would I be a sad statistic like so many others? I wish Colt and Jim, our house manager, would hire every girl who applies here, give them that safe haven, but they can’t. That’s not feasible. I wish it was, but it’s not. True feminists support legalization.”

“When you were younger, growing up, did you have dreams of doing something other than this?”

“Becoming a top model or A-list actress and making it big in Hollywood was my grand plan. Again, I love being in front of the camera. For a while, I was convinced I’d be a megastar one day, but as I got older, reality set in. I had a better chance of winning the Powerball than becoming the next it girl in Hollywood. I realized there were two chances of succeeding in show business: slim and none. Millions of girls have the same aspirations I did, and there’s just a limited number of spots available, you know? So, that’s when I started considering sex work.”

“How about pornography? With your love of the camera, did you ever entertain the thought of becoming an adult actress?”

“I thought about it, yes, but decided against it in the end.” In all honesty, Pamela wanted a run in porn because it would’ve skyrocketed her marketability as a prostitute. I could charge mongers four or five thousand dollars an hour, if not more. Depending on her popularity, she could conceivably have a long line of adoring fans wanting to fork over their cash. “Getting into porn just wasn’t something I wanted to do.” No, correction – it was something Colt didn’t want me to do.

“Do you have any regrets about the life you’ve chosen?”

“No, I’m happy, I have no complaints, no regrets. Are there things I wish I could’ve done differently? Handled differently? Yeah, of course, but such is life, right? I have my family, my friends, my health … what else is there?

“The thing is, what I’ve concluded is that I can’t change anything that’s affected my life in a negative way. I can’t go back in the past and choose a strip club fifty miles away, instead of three, for example. That decision ultimately forced me to ditch my family, everyone I’d ever known and loved, because of the ridicule I endured, and move thousands of miles away to Nevada. I can’t dwell on it forever, either, else I’m not gonna go anywhere. So, what I’ve done is embrace the negative experiences, have them empower me, learn from them, and let them push me forward to be a better person, a better human being.”

Fasick nodded. “Figuring out ways to let go of negativity, to let go of anger, is the key to being happy.”

“Honestly, it is the key. I’m not saying that I’ll never forget, because it’s things you’ll never forget … but it’s forgiving for me, for the inside of me, so I can move on with my life instead of allowing negativity to have power over me. It’s how I can talk to my mom, my family, after hiding this forbidden secret from them for so long. I’m not afraid, not ashamed, certainly don’t feel guilt … I just wanna push forward. To me, guilt is expendable.”

“Have you been in love before?”

“I have, yes, but don’t actively date anymore, and I’m celibate outside the brothel. I’ve found that relationships and this business, they just don’t mix.” Colt insisted I not mention our marriage or reference him in any way like that. “I mean, I have everything I could ever want and need here at work. I thrive on attention, getting noticed, and I love receiving gifts from my clients, whether it be gift cards, lingerie, clothes … shoes, whatever. Gifts are my love language, the quickest way to my heart, and certain clients are very giving, they’re very generous, and I appreciate that. They make me feel special, valued, and I love that … I love them. I really do. Not gonna lie … this job, getting paid to have sex, feeds my ego.

“I wouldn’t trade what I do now for anything.”


(End of Chapter Seventeen - to be continued)