Ah, the brothel. Even for those of us who couldn't muster up the balls to go in if you loaned us several sets of balls (please don't do that), it's always an interesting setting for films and TV shows. We feel like we know how one works, even though our most authoritative reference is a Simpsons episode about a burlesque house. Cracked wanted to know if such places are really everything the movies make them out to be, and also how to find one, and what you do when you're in there (it's mostly pillow fights, right?). So we interviewed a woman who once worked as a madam at an illegal brothel. Here's what she told us.
#5. Managing a Whorehouse Is a Lot Like Managing Anything Else
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I responded to an ad on Craigslist for a spa in need of massage artists. The interview was simple: They took me to the back, explained that I would be an "independent contractor," and that I would be giving relaxation massages -- not therapeutic ones, because those required a license. They also made me sign a "contract" against doing anything illegal, which helped add to the legitimacy of the whole thing. All the other girls signed contracts, too. I think the goal was to protect the owner in the event we were busted.
"Brothel?" he'd presumably say, "I had no idea. For you see, these women all signed contracts saying they were massage artists. All this sex-having must have been spontaneous!"
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"Maybe if you weren't so uptight, you'd enjoy some totally-out-of-nowhere sex!"
It didn't take me long to realize that this massage parlor was clearly a brothel. I was there only a few hours before they asked me to be night manager, which is generally not a great sign of a legitimate business. The fact that our job description was "make men feel special" was another. There was also something suspicious about the fact that our spa was located in an industrial district of town, surrounded by warehouses. I agreed to work there anyway because I was desperate. My boyfriend, who had been very abusive emotionally, had just tried to kill me, and I lost my job like two days after leaving him. I didn't apply for the position thinking I'd work at a brothel, but once I found out, I didn't care. I myself was not touching anyone, and I didn't particularly care what other people got up to in the privacy of their own rooms. I could string two words together and handle myself in an emergency, and that's what they needed.
I was surprised by how absolutely mundane it could be. One girl was in college to be a pharmacist. Another had three kids and no child support and was desperate for money. It was the same list of coworkers you'd expect with any other entry-level position (pun intended as hard as it can be). In some ways it was like you'd expect -- girls walking around naked, painting each other's nails -- but the rest of it was run as a normal business. It wasn't even open late; we closed at 11 p.m. That was because the kind of people you probably assume frequent brothels are the kind that tend to stay out late at night. We didn't want them. Can you blame us?
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"We've got church in the morning!"
Most of our clients were average businessmen. They were in town for work, staying at a nearby hotel and in search of some of that exotic, two-towns-over strange. The weekdays, not the weekends, were actually busiest, because most of our clients were married men. So if you showed up at 10:30 p.m. on Friday expecting a weekend-long bang fest, you'd be greeted with a "closed -- please cum again later" sign, because weekends are slow, so we shut up shop a bit early.
The business was even registered as a "relaxation clinic" under a LLC. So we could put our work history on a resume, and as long as our next potential boss didn't show up every Tuesday for some offside ball-handling, it'd look perfectly normal.
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"Thanks for applying. Hey, don't I recognize you from ... uh ... softball?"
#4. Hiding In Plain Sight Works, Even If You're Really Bad At It
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The girls were all required to show up for work wearing scrubs. Scrubs are scientifically proven to be the least sexy possible garments. They made the girls look like anything but prostitutes, and that was the exact vibe we wanted. We were in an industrial district, but a cafe and a couple of little stores lined the main road. Behind us were a bunch of huge warehouses for things like Amazon and UPS. My boss's cover story was that our little "relaxation spa" was intended for all the tired workers at the park.
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"We're ready to relax you now."
On paper, all of that sounds like expert covert hustling. This place must be the SPECTRE of illicit humping! In practice, it was hilariously obvious. The outside of the building still had a plumbing warehouse sign that we couldn't be bothered to take down. Clients couldn't simply walk in -- they had to make appointments and be buzzed in, even if they were already in the front parking lot. Then a girl would come to escort them in and out. Yep, a lot of the ol' in and out. We had a laundry service; that's necessary for the line of work, obviously, but you try explaining away all of those fluid stains from what's supposed to be a "spa."
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"I can't believe we spilled yet another bottle of massage oil! I tell ya, we've got to stop hiring people without thumbs."
Part of my job was to make sure no used condoms got into the laundry baskets. That happened a few times and it made the cleaning people suspicious. So we had to shake out each individual sheet and check for condoms and other contraband, like drug paraphernalia. I wore rubber gloves for that duty. Strangely, "condom wrangling" was not listed in the initial Craigslist ad that I responded to.
#3. You Field Some Strange Requests
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We had a foot fetish guy who would call and keep me on the phone for like 15 minutes, asking for details on what each girl's feet were like. He wanted to know what specific type of nail polish they used, down to the brand and shade. He didn't want the girls to touch him. He'd give them foot rubs and jack off on their feet, and that was everything this guy needed for a fulfilling relationship.
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It was a little weird that he boomed "Now the masseuser has become the masseused" every time, but whatever.
That was, comparatively, pretty normal. Working that job gave me a new appreciation for how bizarrely specific some fetishes are. But you've got to respect someone who knows exactly what they want. Like the guy who brought a red fishnet body glove into his session, asked the girl to put on it and a pair of flip flops, and then had her get down on her hands and knees and bark at him like a dog. Again, there was no actual "sex" -- all he wanted was to admire a poorly-accessorized dog woman.
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Honestly, it was less creepy than if he had requested the other version.
It was part of my job to know the girls well enough to be able to answer fetish questions about them. I had a book with all their pictures, but I'd also have to make a note of what shades of nail polish and lipstick they were wearing, what sort of bra they wore, how authentic their Mastiff impression was -- anything someone might ask about before coming in for their scheduled sexytime. If it had been a legitimate business, I'd have been our social media coordinator. But Twitter wasn't an option, so instead I took notes on the stains in everyone's underwear.
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