Who's been to a brothel?

This can be a mature topic, or we can offer whatever our own experience is regardless of what that experience is. We are not required to have opinions, or conclusions, or even concerns. We can be open to serious points of view, or humor, or curiosity. Thanks for your contribution.

 

A man introduces his son to life on the road as an OTR driver. Driving the truck is of secondary importance. Surviving out here is.

Los Angeles market district, 1990. A pimp gets in the truck and asks, are you gentlemen interested in any ladies? No, the man replies, no vices. I will ask if you’ll show us around the area. My son will be working here and needs an orientation. The son hops in the sleeper.

The pimp sits the passenger seat and proceeds to show them around: park here to sleep, not here; those are “transformers.” You don’t want those, etc.

When the tour is finished, again the pimp asks if the gentlemen want any ladies. No, the man says, we’re not interested in vices. Thanks are given, along with a cigarette, some cash, and off the pimp goes pleased with an easy transaction.

The man and his son are to spend the night there parked along the road. This is the life. Other rigs and drivers are there, too. They meet an old driver and have supper together at a restaurant across the street. Tired from a long day, they go to the truck sleeper for a night of rest.

Two after midnight. Commotion outside. The driver from dinner. Old, fat and pasty white in nothing but his saggy briefs. Running for all he’s worth down the street. Yelling, my wallet, my wallet, my wallet!!!

Far ahead. Not to be caught. Runs a girl into the night.

The man laughs and says to his son, that’s why we don’t need vices.

 

Hwy 99 rest area outside Turlock, CA. A driver takes a nap, gets up, and is doing his log. Other trucks line the parking.

Large seventies American four-door sedan pulls in. Out jump three women who walk away. The driver pays little attention.

A woman climbs onto the steps at the driver’s door. 40. Dirty blond, shoulder length hair. Average face, smiling. Jean skirt, white t-shirt, no bra, prominent nipples.

She says, do you take ladies for a ride in your truck? Friendly like. Smiling.

No, the driver says, I’ve gotta get to Stockton, with no time to spare.

Okay, she says, any chance I can use your radio?

Sure, he says.

She gives him a CB channel and calls to the big sedan. No go here, she says, describing the truck she’s at. She thanks the driver and moves to the next truck down. Does the approach and hops right in.

The driver listens in for a few, as all three ladies work the rest stop from truck to truck, sometimes making entry, sometimes not. Always maintaining radio contact with the driver in the big sedan.

 

For every silly story that goes nowhere, there are thousands of discreet transactions between the lonely and those with other needs.

Some might be harmless. Some are not. Few are truly professional. Too bad, that.

You’ll here about the one, not the other.

 

Anytime guys start joking around about how they want to depart this world, a good friend of mine says “I want to die in a shootout in a whorehouse at age 99” and I reply “I want to be the one shooting at him”.

 

Weird story.

Last week I was in Waco on business. Catching up with coworkers that I get to see face to face maybe once or twice a year, at the hotel bar, drinking $15 old fashioneds that somebody is going to have fun explaining on the expense report. While wandering between bar and lobby for the occasional refill, a girl follows somebody into our little group. Soccer mom type. Flirty from square one.

Conversation starts light, with the "what do you do, why are you here" lines, but it starts getting real racy real fast. She tried to bring three of us to her room. She grabbed two of us by our thighs and tried to point us to the elevator. I'm flattered, but sorry, I just can't participate in a spitroast with people who collect a paycheck from the same organization that I do. That's weird.

Then we notice that she's working the room, propositioning everybody. She's seemingly in every conversation and no conversation at the same time. This is a wide lobby with maybe 20 people in four different clusters. Strange things are afoot at the Garden Inn. People start saying their goodnights and peeling off to their rooms, alone, with a glance over their shoulder to make sure that they aren't being followed into the elevator. And then I see the endgame.

This gal had been running up a huge tab at the bar. See, she was banking on making a profit that night, but by closing time, she just needed one customer to settle her beer bill. And with her trying to cast such a large net, people caught on to her game before they got hooked in. She had no money to pay her tab. By the time she was down to "just settle my tab and let's go have some real fun" everyone was either driven off or they were just there to spectate the drama. We didn't have to wait long. Being a hotel bar in Waco, close out time was a very conservative 10pm sharp.

The last thing I saw was this lady being escorted from the property by the local constable. Off to destinations unknown. Sorry lady. Better luck next time.

 

Consider yourself lucky.

 

Happened to me in April 1995. Sort of happened. Well, it happened but to a coworker.

A co-worker and I were pulling an equipment trailer north on US 95 in Nevada. We had gotten a late start that morning, from the vicinity of Beatty. The equipment trailer was a double axle, bumper pull that weighed in at 10K lbs. We were pulling it with a circa 1992 Chevy K3500 crew cab with DRW and 454 CI V8, and a manual trans. The whole truck was a bean counter special, having started out as a light-duty 1 ton cab-chassis, to which the bean counters added a steel utility bed and steel topper. With a full tank of gas and my supervisor on board, it weighed in just 300 lbs under its GVW. (Yes, all this spec stuff matters.)

In turn, the under hood stuff reflected the bean counting of General Motors. It had a long serpentine belt. The alternator, power steering, water pump, etc. mounts on the lee side of the engine--not under much tension--were made of cast iron. Those under vibration and tension were made of about 10 gauge stamped steel.

It was about 10 am and we heard a clunk, followed by a sound not unlike someone lassoing a barrel cactus. Then all the dash warning lights lit up, the engine quit running, and--of course--the power steering shut down. With the clutch disengaged, I coasted to a stop onto the shoulder. We got out, lifted the hood, and had a look. The serpentine belt had shredded into about four concentric circles of differing widths, ending up in different spots. I had not been permitted to carry a spare due to the cost of buying it. We were carrying some powerful FM 2-way hand-held radios, but we were far out of range of the base station.

We were stopped pretty much nowhere, but maybe a mile south of Lida Junction where there was one of the ubiquitous, ah, small multi-room cottage businesses that dotted the rural Nevada landscape at the time. So my coworker, Bob Smith (not his real name of course), volunteered to hike to the small cottage business and call for help. I handed him a couple liters of water and Bob hoofed his way north.

Meanwhile, I set out the necessary triangle reflectors and then untangled the shredded serpentine belt from the fan and other items, while keeping an eye on Bob with binoculars. Some time after it was certain that Bob had made it to the small cottage business at Lida Junction, a nice lady who was a Nevada State Highway Patrol officer stopped to ask if I needed help. I thanked her and explained that my coworker, Bob Smith, had walked to Lida Junction to call for road service. But I asked if she was willing to drop one of the two-way radios off for Bob up at Lida Junction. She was happy to do so, and she returned about 30 minutes later telling me that Bob was well and had arranged for service.

Later I discovered that Bob had made the call, and that the owner was giving him a tour of the facility when the NHP officer arrived. The NHP officer banged on the inside door, shouting "You Got A Bob Smith In Here?" It turned out that Bob had nearly crapped his pants when he heard that, until he remembered that he was inside a legal business.

 

Subic Bay PI. The whole town is a brothel. If you've been there you know what I mean.