Skip to content
Advertisements

Posts from the ‘Travel Nevada’ Category

Brothels Baby, in Beatty, Nevada

About 100 miles outside of Las Vegas, we stop in Beatty for the night. While having a cold one and a pizza, a local guy strikes up a conversation. “You guys have to visit the Hardluck Mine Castle.” He hands us a brochure.”My real name is Ed, but everybody calls me Billy Bob. You know, Death Valley is only a few miles away from here.”

“I’m more interested in the brothels,” I say.

“I used to be a bouncer at one,” Billy Bob responds. “I’ll tell you what, if you buy me a drink, I’ll take you there.”

Mare, Billy Bob and I squeeze into my pick-up. A few miles later, we pull up to “Bikini’s,” conveniently located next to a landing strip.

We sit at the bar, several feet from a totally nude dancing woman whose poses become somewhat gynecological.

A hot brunette with long legs sits next to me. She extends her hand. “I’m Desire.” I stare into her eyes for a few moments. “My real name is Candy, but they gave me this name. (I wonder why “they” changed it.) “What would you like?”

I lick my lips and look over at Mare, who is talking with Billy Bob. “What about you, me and her?”

“Absolutely!” Desire walks to  Mare’s bar stool and hugs her from behind. She whispers something into her ear. “I don’t know about this,” Mare responds.

“At least let me show you the rooms.” Desire walks us into a courtyard with a row of rooms. Mirrors line the walls and ceiling and a container of condoms sits next to the bed. I must say that the place is spotless. I watch Desire’s reflection as she engages in a form of focused frottage with her every move. “We all live across the courtyard.” She points to another row of rooms.

 “Let’s do it. Five hundred dollars for half an hour.”

We politely decline, and head back to the bar.

Desire massages Mare’s neck. “They will let me go down to three hundred dollars, but that’s as low as I can go.”

The bartender hands Mare some “fu-fu” drink. The next time I turn around, she dances on the stage, holding the pole. “You are the one who sets the limit,” the bartender says to me as he watches Mare. When Mare takes off her shirt, I walk to the stage. Without a word she falls over my shoulder, and I carry her to the truck. Billy Bob follows. He wants to continue the party. We wisely decide to call it a night. Hey, we have to save ourselves for Vegas, baby! Ron Mitchell

Advertisements