Houses are worth about half what you owe, gas is rocketing past four bucks a gallon, food’s gotten so precious you’re eating more lettuce than meat, and you’ve already told the kids to forget those elite universities and instead plan to attend local community colleges while they scramble for fast food jobs. Don’t be ashamed. Hold your head high. Countermeasures are essential. You can justify your new plan. Countless Americans are researching the same venture. Go ahead and proclaim it: you’d love to open a whorehouse and already would have if you’d only known how. To survive, you just need special guidance. Don’t worry. There’s no charge. Just visit MyFabulousWhorehouse.com and read how happy and successful entrepreneurs sell hot tail.
Thank you for saying it. Thousands of us in this country have already done it and so have scores of thousands globally. I’m proud I improvised. My real estate agency in Newport Beach had lost half its annual sales, I’d defaulted on all of my inflated investment properties, and my principal residence, within sight of John Wayne’s former place, was and is way under water. My wife, accustomed to leisure and luxury, had become quite tense and unresponsive, so I told her, “You want to live the way we had been, then help.” She surprised and delighted me by agreeing to move with me into an apartment and use our beautiful home to host a carefully-screened group of wealthy men who are utterly spoiled by our staff of four beautiful Southern California ladies. At first we trusted the employees with receipts exceeding several thousand dollars a day, but that proved unwise. My wife volunteered to move back into our home, albeit into the maid’s quarters, and is proving herself a shrewd and tough madam. In a few years we’ll be out of debt, if we can maintain our primary business. And we’re determined to do so. Whenever the police come – prompted by fussy neighbors, they’ve made a few visits in nine months – my wife simply explains the only way we can keep our home is by renting spare bedrooms to college students and young career women. We now instruct gentlemanly clients to avoid ostentatious entrances by calling shortly before arrival so our big garage door can be opened.
It’s always rankled me that I’m a better computer technician than Bill Gates, at least some who know have told me I am, but I’m neither the innovator nor entrepreneur he is, and have laid off as many people as I’ve hired since the late seventies. Some are now working in Asia. And my former wife, last I saw on Facebook, resides with one of them. I hope they’re enjoying half the proceeds from the sale of our fine house, in which she, a math professor, had also dutifully invested. I now rent a modest three-bedroom home on a large wooded lot outside gloomy Seattle. Acknowledging that I’d probably always need some supplementary income, though not from a wife, I started another business and resolved to keep it small. I never have more than two girls working for me and don’t worry when there’s only one. While I apply technology in the den, my most profitable ventures occur in two rear bedrooms and put about a grand a week in my pocket. I won’t be living near Bill Gates but won’t be in the street, either.
A bold and creative attorney I have been since my valedictory graduation from a distinguished law school several years ago. I have defended businessmen accused of beating their wives, professional women said to have clobbered their cheating husbands, and many of both genders who swore roadside sobriety tests were unscientific and inaccurate. Alas, many such businessmen are now bankrupt, the professional women earn less than they did five years ago, the drinkers are indigent, and all now use public defenders. As a result I’ve been cruising nightclubs and hotels and even a few scary streets of Sacramento, seeking advice from veterans. The ones with pimps I immediately eliminated. And no, I’m not therefore the pimp of ladies I’ve hired. I’m their attorney, working on a commission. In that capacity I last week rented three low-end motel rooms. Lots of bad dudes came around and few had money for my girls. I’d like to operate in private but the walls of my condominium are rather thin and my neighbors snooty. Maybe my office would be a divine location. There’s parking in the back. What do you think?
I guarantee all of you I’m a bright girl and would have gone to college if I didn’t have what I believe is a biological disorder, common to many, that always makes me drowsy and often fall asleep within ten minutes of starting to read. And I’m referring to textbooks, cookbooks, newspapers, literary fiction, romance novels. I don’t like reading anything. As a result, I’m only able to get jobs as a waitress, department store clerk, or receptionist, and none of them makes me feel good or enhances my pocketbook. I figure I’ll move up by getting married but always end up with bums and must listen to lectures by friends and relatives that women who go out with losers are seeking what they feel they deserve. I don’t want to debate that. I want a drink and go to a popular disco in a large hotel and sail through the evening as I usually do, dancing and flirting, and spend the final hour talking to a sincere guy about ten years older than my twenty-five. He asks for my phone number and says, “I’d like to take you to dinner.”
Maybe I should say yes. I consider it but instead reply, “I’m a pro.”
“You pay, I play.”
“I thought you were a regular woman.”
“I’m a regular working girl.”
“What do you do?”
“By day, I’m a secretary.”
I feel his fantasies disappear and he rises before he sits back down and asks, “How much?”
“Depends what you want.”
“For one time.”
“Fifty,” I say.
“I work exclusively in my apartment. It’s safe and comfortable for both of us.”
He follows me home and ends up spending a hundred. I decide to visit bars and discos around town three or four nights a week, rotating among many so I’m not too regular. Lately, I’ve been going places new to me where the guys are older and have the means to pursue a pretty young woman. I always sip a soft drink until someone starts buying. Even then, I stick to nonalcoholic beverages. I think I’m playing it smart. I require my clients to use condoms, and have already ordered two uncooperative guys to leave. I pray I’ll never have to use the pistol hidden in my bedroom. Even after six months in this part-time business, I only entertain an average of two men a week so doubt my landlord and neighbors are suspicious. I’m starting to get some regular clients, once or twice a month guys, and earn as much as two thousand a month for not so much work and no worries about pimps. I just hope no guy who thought he was about to get lucky tells security.
Notes: This is one in a series of stories about poverty, prostitution, and slavery. In the spring, these pieces will comprise a book titled “In Other Hands.”