SEXIS WRONG

vate room and draws my blood. Under Nevada state law, I
must test negative for chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis, and
HIV before I can register with the county sheriff and get my
work permit. After the blood draw, I have the world’s fastest
and most painless gynecological exam. A man enters
the room, deftly inserts a plastic speculum into my vagina,
glances around inside, and says, “Thank you, ma’am.” He
leaves without ever having made eye contact, and I hardly
felt a thing.
The brothel is on a ranch in rural Nevada. In 1971 Nevada legalized
prostitution in rural counties with populations of fewer
than 200,000—and only within state-licensed brothels. Prostitution
remains illegal in the counties housing Nevada’s main
cities—Reno, Las Vegas, Carson City, and Lake Tahoe. City
governments fear that too much tolerance of whoring might
scare away tourists and detract from their main business,
San Francisco is known for its bright,
witty whores.
which is gambling. Still, the women who work illegally in the
cities far outnumber the brothel-workers in the sticks.
The ranch looks like a large trailer home with a fence around it
and a few cows lowing in the backyard. The front door opens
onto the parlor. When a client steps inside, the girls scurry
into line-up, and the madam introduces us one by one. Most
clients are too overwhelmed to choose right away and head
for the bar at the opposite wall. To the left of the bar, a long
hallway leads to the girls’ rooms, where we sleep and turn
tricks. The rooms are like any cheap motel rooms except for
an emergency button and intercom system—so the women
at the front desk can hear what’s going on. As I’m filling out
my paperwork, the madam suddenly comes barreling down
the hall, belting, “Somebody’s in trouble!” It turns out that
one of the new girls pressed the emergency button, thinking
she could order drinks that way.
I feel somewhat protected here—but at what price? I’m forbidden
to work outside the brothel. I have to abide by their
rules and give them half my pay. It doesn’t feel that different
from the classic trade-off, where “good girls” give up their
sexual freedom in hope of protection from sexual violence.
Of course, the laws regarding prostitution are not primarily
intended to protect me. The fact that we can only work in
state-licensed houses keeps the brothel-owners in business
and protects the neighbors from whores running loose in
their streets and backyards. State regulations benefit everyone
but the working girl. (This is why most politicized whores
want prostitution decriminalized, as it is in Amsterdam, but
not legalized, as it is in Nevada.) Meanwhile, the brothels pay
as much as 70% of the county’s property taxes—hence, the
friendly relations between the bordellos and their neighbors.
I had no problem getting directions to the nearby brothel from
a cheery housewife watering the plants in her front yard. Try
asking the locals on the streets of San Francisco the way to
the nearest whorehouse, and you’ll see how unusual this is.
But the neighbors’ friendliness is the benign face of surveillance.
At nine the next morning, Stan takes me to the sheriff’s
office, where I present my test results to get a work
permit. The secretary looks downright grandmotherly, but
she doesn’t take her job lightly. She orders me to stand on
one yellow line while she photographs me, then another yellow
line while she takes my fingerprints. During the fingerprinting,
she yanks my hand—causing me to stumble across
the line. “Don’t cross the yellow line!” she barks, as if I’m
a dangerously confused teenager behind the wheel for the
first time. After fingerprinting each thumb, finger, and all four
fingers together on each hand, she checks me
for identifying birthmarks, scars, and tattoos,
as if there were a high probability that I’d escape
from prison or that she’d have to identify
my mangled body. By the time she finishes, I feel like I’ve just
been through an “arrest drill” for hookers.
Upon my return, the madam introduces me to Starlet, who
will show me the ropes. There’s something very prudish and
schoolmarmish about her, despite her see-through red dress
and platinum hair. She opens a thick, black binder and starts
reading me the “house rules” one by one.
All new girls work from 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. You
can stay in your room if you want, but as soon as
the bell rings, you have to be up in the parlor and
ready to go.
Never answer the door yourself. You’ll be fined
$100 each time you do. When the bell rings, you
get in line with the other girls, and the greeter
will answer the door and introduce you to the customer.
You aren’t allowed to talk to the customer
while you’re in line. That’s called “dirty hustling.”
Some girls do it, but you’re not supposed to.
Sometimes the customer picks someone right
away, but most times they don’t. They’re too intimidated
by all the girls, so they head straight to
the bar. You aren’t allowed to speak to a customer
before he’s ordered his drink. Once he’s ordered
his drink, you can come on to him all you want—
but don’t butt in while another girl’s talking to
him. That’s “dirty hustling,” too, although lots of
the girls do it.
220 EVERYTHING YOU KNOW ABOUT SEX IS WRONG