To those of you clamoring for the what's been dubbed "Brothel Story," I'm afraid the brothel part is anti-climactic as it gets. Incidentally, are those of you who wouldn't have gone swimming with Marlene Dietrich and Cary Grant at all surprised that your fellow readers found that aspect of the story more compelling than "Christ"?
Here's the story anyway (Those of you who wouldn't have gone swimming with Marlene Dietrich and Cary Grant will probably want to click over to Olsen sisters' blog now):
Late one night several years ago, circumstances landed me in a dull Manhattan bar with five 30 and 40-something Wall Streeters, exemplars of Fairfield County Republican upstanding-ness all, happily-married-with-Volvo-station-wagons and that sort of thing. I only knew one of them, and barely. All have surely forgotten that I was there (I was hardly "celebrated" back then"). In a couple cases (we'd singlehandedly boosted Cuervo's share price that night), they'd likely forgotten me by the time they struggled to get out of bed the following day.
"Wanna have a little fun?" said one, Chip (names and stuff like that have been changed to protect myself), asked the rest of us. I figured the question was rhetorical. But the others, with a much clearer idea of what "fun" was, offered replies to the effect of "Hell yes."
Even though he had a cell, Chip went to a pay phone, dropped in a quarter, dialed, then started speaking in code, CIA-like. After he hung up, he sauntered back to us and said, proudly, something like, "The eagle lands at one."
Next, we were at ATMs, withdrawing the max. We had a one a.m. reservation at a "club" with a $500 cover charge. As you either know or have guessed, "club," once the cover tops $30, is a euphemism for brothel, which in turn is a euphemism for "whore house."
"Now, why, Rance," you may be asking, "would you go to a whore house, let alone one that charges $500 to get in?" Simple answer: Curiosity. I'd never been to any brothel. Never paid for sex in any fashion, unless you count drinks. And I had no interest in doing so. But I'd never had any idea there were places like this "club"--it was secreted in a townhouse in a quiet, exclusive part of the city. And, having recently come into some money, the chance to experience it seemed worth the price of admission to me.
At the appointed hour, cabs deposited us at a four-story brownstone on an East-Sixties block where the fixer-uppers run $6 or $7 million. At the door, Chip handed $3000 to a guy who could've eaten Andre the Giant whole. Permitted entry, we climbed a flight of stairs to the living room, which took up the building's entire second floor. Having hardly any taste, I can't say with certainty that it was well-appointed. But I'd guess so. Lots of dark-wooded Colonial antiques, that sort of thing. And, of note, plush armchairs and sofas, and in them, in cocktail dresses, six of the most stunning women I'd ever seen.
Our $500 entitled each of us customers each a drink--I had a can of beer--and a "massage." The other five boys, knowing the drill, quickly chose "masseuses" and bounded upstairs with them. The woman no one else chose would rank to this day as one of the three or four most beautiful dates I've ever had. Call her Janet.
Janet took me to a fourth-floor bedroom which consisted of, principally, a massage table and a canopy bed suited to Buckingham Palace. "The massage comes with your cover charge," she said, "excluding tip." She then rattled off a list of alternatives which ranged from a "squeak job" (because you're wearing a rubber) for $500 to the $1000 "Gold Package." Again, those prices excluded tip. In spite of Janet's appeal, I, apologetically (leave it at philosophical differences for now) opted for just the massage. To my surprise, she stripped to nothing (in less time than it takes to snap your finger) to administer it. Businesslike, she instructed me to "follow suit, or, ha ha, birthday suit, and get on the massage table."
Her massaging offered evidence that very few customers ever chose massaging. As she repeatedly rubbed my shoulder blade for no apparent reason, she tried to make conversation, like a barber would. Stuff like "So what do you do?"
And that was as far as it went. Can't get anymore anti-climactic, right?
There's one detail that merits mention, though. I responded, with vague details, that I was in entertainment. Turned out she aspired to do the same--legitimate entertainment, I mean. The prostitution gig (from which, she claimed, she often took home $5000 a week) subsidized her efforts to become a full-time actor.
By the end of the allotted half-hour (announced by a gentle knock on the door), our interesting conversation had ranged from audition preparation to Stanislavski. She was, I thought, very bright. And I'm glad to say, she's gone on to achieve some success in her preferred field. I don't remember her name (She gave me her business card, crossed out "Janet" and the phone number on it, then wrote in her real name and home number--she claimed that's what they were anyhow. In any case, I didn't keep the card). So I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure she's in "The Passion of the Christ." And no, not as Mary Magdalene.
I realize this is not a huge whoop of a revelation. I'll be satisfied, though, if just one of the sanctimonious folks who've been saying the likes of "Mel Gibson and his company are saints" reads this and spills coffee on his lap.
Now before you go winging off "Rance, you massage-only-notwithstanding, whoremongering lowlife" comments, let me try and put this in some perspective. What's the most common entry in any yellow pages. Car dealerships? Restaurants? Not even close. The answer: escort services. And I read that in Victorian England, of all places, brothels were equally popular. Here's one more piece of evidence for the defense: An actor I know and two of his male colleagues were recently taken by private jet from LA to Vegas. A producer, wooing them for a project, picked them up at the airport, drove them (by Hummer, of course) to a hotel, and took them up to a suite the size of a golf course where twelve rented bombshells in negligees sat at attention. The producer proudly listed some of the men's magazines this "roster of vixens" had graced and said to the men from LA, "You each take any three you want into the next rooms, and me and my boys'll take the leftovers." One of the actor's friends wasn't into women. The other friend now rates this among the best days of his life or anyone else's. The actor decided to play the slots (don't get fresh; I mean, he went downstairs to the casino and killed the time gambling) until the meeting they'd come for.
Having been cursed like the cat with curiosity, I now have racked up plenty more, far seamier, stories of illicit sex and exploitation. It should be noted that most are probably tame (save the mutual-defecation bondage one) compared to what you can find in five minutes with Google. The point is, that sort of shit happens in our world, exponentially more often than most people know or would like to believe, particularly those people reading the Olsens' blog. Am I trying to make an argument that that sort of shit is in any way okay, should be less repressed, or let out into the daylight based on de facto popular vote? No, that's not it at all. Like any ranter, I just want to expose the truth. And like any poor bastard, I want to acquit myself as much as possible. Because someday, perhaps, a woman I love may read this, and she won't be into that sort of shit.
Later,
R
Posted by captainhoof
at 12:03 PM CST
Updated: Wednesday, 17 March 2004 12:17 PM CST
