SEXIS WRONG

A San Francisco Whore
in a Nevada Brothel
Lisa Archer
I’m sitting in the parlor of a legal brothel in Nevada. I’m the
only one here who didn’t get her nails done on Tuesday. Marta
has red nails. Gina’s are deep burgundy. They could be in a
Lancôme ad at Nordstrom. When the bell rings, I scurry into
the line-up with ten other girls. There are a few dark-haired
women, a few with small breasts, but we’re far outnumbered
by tit jobs and platinum blondes. Some of the women look at
me funny, because when we’re not in line-up, I read or write
email.
I’ve been working in this brothel for five days. Like many
women, I started doing sex work to put myself through grad
school. The inspiration for this trek to Nevada
came from an acquaintance who made
$10,000 in two weeks. I was sold. Plus, I
didn’t have to worry about being busted. In
1998, the San Francisco vice squad cracked
down on middle-class whores like me who
did in-call. They arrested consenting adults in the privacy of
their own homes—and they targeted the key organizers and
groups promoting prostitutes’ rights. I was naked in bed with
a client when a cop burst through the door and pointed a gun
at my head.
I was one of thousands arrested in this crackdown. We each
received an official-looking letter detailing our options: Fork
over $1,000 cash or face charges. I didn’t pay, but the charges
were dropped. It was a scam. The vice squad lined their
pockets with cash, and the press skirted the issue, aside from
two pieces in a local weekly.
Here in this Nevada house, the threat of arrest is lifted, so
I can shed the precautions and inhibitions I’ve adopted like
a second skin. I can talk about sex and money in the same
breath without worrying whether a prospective client is a vice
cop hiding a microphone. This is a relief, but safety (and legitimacy)
comes at the expense of some freedoms.
As an illegal, self-employed whore in San Francisco, I worked
under a diffuse but constant threat of arrest. The Nevada
brothel, by contrast, is saturated with its own set of rules and
regulations. In this legal but tightly controlled laboratory, the
intimidation tactics are more direct: I’ve been registered with
the police, photographed, fingerprinted, and surveyed.
I fly into the Reno airport and meet the “runner” who will
drive me to the brothel—a swaggering, poker-faced gent
named Stan. Jogging beside him to the van, I ask if we can
The inspiration for this trek to
Nevada came from an acquaintance
who made $10,000 in two weeks.
I was sold.
stop to pick up some baby wipes, antibacterial soap, and paper
towels. “We’ll take care of all that,” he says, “but first,
we’re going to the doctor’s.”
The madam had told me over the phone that as soon as my
plane landed, I’d go straight to the doctor, and it would cost
$85. Stan pulls into the parking lot of a building that says
“Fast Medical Clinic”—the McDonald’s of health care. I fill
out paperwork with my name, address, birthdate, person to
contact in case of emergency, place of employment, and, of
course, occupation. I’ve completed forms like this for numerous
jobs, but this is the first time I’ve written “prostitute” on
the application. I spend a good ten minutes agonizing over
which of my friends would be least fazed by a phone call from
a legal brothel saying that I’m hospitalized or dead.
Once I turn in the paperwork, the nurse takes me into a pri-
A SAN FRANCISCO WHORE IN A NEVADA BROTHEL 219