My Brothel Days

Posted: 24 May, 2015 in Daily Droppings
Tags: , , , ,

In retrospect, my time spent running the whorehouse was pretty simple; a very happy, if unremarkable period of my life.

I’d been in the city not so long, maybe a year, when my living situation became untenable. There was a divorce and a child and a new person, none of which is really worth explaining here. Anyhow, an acquaintance of mine, Layla, was out a tenant in the place she kept in the city for work. That work being whoring. She had shared the place with another sex worker who lived there full time off lease. The pair split the other two bedrooms for work purposes, but following a dispute involving money, as most disputes do, Layla ended up one person short for the place and as long as I didn’t mind listening to fucking a few hours a day I could have the room and the rest of the place to myself for cheaper than the last gal had paid. She even offered me the second room in case I wanted to turn it into an office.

For those first few months, times were grand and filled with parties and drugs and good food, but by the fall Layla and her partner took to throwing things at each other, so she and her kid moved to LA where she started a fine new career in pornography.

Plenty of time left on the lease (under that magical protection I have never seen before or since called rent control), meant I was left holding my dick and unable to afford the place on my own.

I reached out to another friend who I heard had recently taken up hooking, along with the former resident who still needed an office that wasn’t her home. The three of us redecorated the place, previously done up in garish pink, and I rented them the rooms on a per visit basis. They soon took another woman under their wing who wanted to expand her phone sex business into professional domination.

I made sure there were always drinks available in the kitchen and while they took clients I sat at the dining room table and wrote. The men who came through would drop money on the table and I would ignore them until they were at it. The women felt safer having someone there in case there was an issue, though there never was, and it provided some level of plausible deniability as no one ever had to exchange money.

The women cleaned up after themselves and on days when no one worked, I air BnB’d the place. I made rent with enough to pay the bills under Layla’s name. There were fewer parties, less lavish dinners, but I had a place to live and there was plenty of food and whiskey and time to write. I was happy.


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