A Legend Of The World Famous Chicken Ranch Brothel

A year ago this November 8th, I participated fully in activities that would lead to many lives changing forever. This story is about how I left the World Famous Chicken Ranch a Legend for All Time.

FOREWORD:

Every Tuesday at the CR is Doctor Day. Each and every girl working the floor the current week (including the girls who go off-shift on Wednesday) is required to have a standard PAP test at a County certified clinic. This is the one day on our shift that we are permitted to leave the ranch and go into town.

They split the appointments between Morning Doctor's and Afternoon Doctor's so there are girls available for line-ups and for appointments with their out-of-town regulars. The docuseries, Pleasure For Sale, had been on US cable for the past 5 weeks and the episode with my spanking party scenes had aired the previous night. I scheduled my shifts at the CR to coincide with my episodes on cable, anticipating an influx of quality clients interested in my story, but instead, the "depressing" editing of the Sundance Channel producers coupled with the absurd marketing campaign launched by Chicken Ranch management resulted in the worst February and March in CR history. Regular CR girls saw our weekly commission checks dwindling to three figures and new CR hires spent their 10-day shift doing nothing but bitching and paying room rent. The energy in the House that week felt viscous and combustible. No one opened a window for fear of backdraft.

But I was determined to create experiences for myself and for all my House-Sisters that will benefit us all in the long run. My participation in Pleasure For Sale had been a naive first stab at bettering the common perception of professional working girls. At my initial screening, I had realized that what Joe and Harry Gantz produced summed up to professional suicide for all of the girls who participated. Throughout February and into March, I was doing damage control. And with my personal life swirling currents, no money coming into the ranch and my dearest bitches quitting week after week, I had shut myself in my room Sunday night and took myself off the floor for 24hrs.



TUESDAY, MARCH 18, 2008:

I was awake and conscious of the heavy silence in the House, or was that the king comforter under which I remained fetal for a good twenty minutes before I needed a cigeratte and a glass of water?

My room was dark -- only a cheese slice glow coming from beneath my room door and the blinking red light of my cf (a gang of unread texts and a dozen missed calls... 02:42.)

I didn't want to run into anybody. I couldn't explain myself. It was an extraordinary off-run of my performance art at the Chicken Ranch. My energy felt scattered and I avoided relating with others to minimize the sensation -- or lack thereof, literally. It was the final week of the Sundance Channel's series, Pleasure For Sale, and the response generated a slew of issues for which I felt personally and professionally responsible. There had been no parlaying, "being discovered" or pay-off for any of us -- the only reward presented was that of further, diligent work. It's like my saying goes, when life hands you rape, make rape-ade.

Thirsty, I took a deep breath and opened my door letting in light from The Pit. A green shamrock bead necklace was on top of my "Privacy Please" leather doorknob hanger. The drowsy memory of someone (Marina?) knocking on my door sometime earlier as I willed my ears back to sleep reminded me that the next shift of girls had come in to the House and I could normally be counted on to come round rooms with a warm welcome back! (Some girls got it more warm than others ;-p) I had missed all the St. Paddy's Day tomfoolerey -- that's right, I said tomfoolery.

The Night Manager was vacuuming unseen in the parlor as I quickly poured myself a fresh cup of coffee and glass of water. Back in my room, I lit up a cigarette, sipped hot caffeinated sugar and called my man back home.

The conversation was short -- in length, long on love -- as he had just fallen asleep "but wasn't sleeping" so I didn't want the last thing he heard before he rested was my negativity and despair and "I don't know if there is anything else I can do here" attitude. Somehow, because of the long-on-love part I guess, I managed to get all of that across anyway. I assured my man that I would work out and get myself ready for a successful day. I had assumed I was on Morning Doctors like the previous 3 shifts so I had four hours to get ready. Then, I was coming home on Wednesday, so all I needed to do was give one great final show for the House and strike my stage. I leave in 38 hours.

The hour on the stairmaster was delicious. The window open at my back, the early-spring mountain air charging my breath and 80s music guiding my pace. My ass looked hot and my quads trembled as I dismounted. Lit up a cigarette on the way to the water cooler and a long shower.

Fresh-faced and denimed, I decided I was ready to speak to humans. I went to the Managers Office and was told that I was actually Afternoon Doctor's so I got ready to work the floor.

First, I checked my voxmail. One of the girls who had left the CR in February was coming back to LV from a shift at one of the brothels up north. She had been calling me all night on her roadtrip to ask if I was going to be on Morning or Afternoon Doctors so she can coordinate meeting up with me for lunch. I was absolutely not well suited to meet with her. I was focused on going home and I felt she would only pick my brain for "the scoop." She was negativity personified -- truly a tormented being of abscess from absenses.

My man called back.

"I know why my energy has been so scattered. Sadie's in town and's been calling me all night to meet up with her." I passed the buck.

"Guess who else is in town?" he responded with a question, a noticeable unknown quality in his voice.

I thought who else would be entering the picture now with all the challenges we've faced so far. "Your ex-wife?"

"What? No, what are you talking about? No, guess who's in town -- don't be silly."

"Just tell me already."

"Me."

"You? You're 'in town'? Huh?"

"I'm here! In Pahrump."

"Now! Shit, when -- why -- what? You're coming to Pahrump today?"

"I just got in. I'm outside the ranch."

I finally got excited and was scattered once again. "I am Afternoon Doctor's."

"I thought you said you were on Morning Doctor's. That's okay, I can get some sleep since I drove all night to get here to see you when you got out."

We talked about how much we missed one another and how incredible was his spontaneous road trip eastward across the canyons as the dawn broke and the radio queued one life soundtrack song after another. I talked him into coming into the Leghorn Bar as a visitor just picking up souvenirs for a friend so as not to cause a 7AM line-up of the girls who were sleeping until Afternoon Doctor's. That way, we can at least say hello and look into each other's eyes and smell each other's mutual lust until we met up against House Rules later that afternoon. It was a strictly enforced policy that girls on their "day out" were forbidden from fraternizing with anyone, most of all clients and boyfriends. Our need to be in the same room was a dangerous dance we indulged in.

I changed into my favorite outfit and went to the bar, sat at the back facing the door and lit up.

Enter The Stranger. His steady footsteps wake the lazy boardwalk of the patio to the entrance of the Leghorn Bar. He opens the door and his jacket hugs his torso as a burst of air escapes the morning cold into the heated 24-hour bar. The Shift Manager enters from her office, requests to see The Stranger's ID and points to the wall-mounted showcase of all the Chicken Ranch souvenirs -- from t-shirts to golf tees. The Stranger selects two crewneck designs and gives sizes to the shift manager who returns his driver's license then disappears to her office for the items.

I ash my cigeratte and slink to the bar, platformed stairmastered steps shaking the floor. "Hello, I'm Chyna," I said to The Stranger, extending my free hand.

We lock eyes and mirror one another's smile. I want to swallow his face. I drag on my Newports.

Ms. Judy returns with the requested gift items and receives cash from The Stranger.

"May I get a shot of Patron when you have a moment, please, Ms. Judy?"

"Sure, Chyna."

The Shift Manager pours my shot and writes up my chit for my bartab. I put out my cigeratte, exhale away from The Stranger and return his smiling glance before signing my chit. "Would you like to join me for a drink?"

"Sure," he said to me in a soft voice, certainly too soft to be heard by Ms. Judy.

"What can I get for you, dear," Ms. Judy asked The Stranger.

"Nothing, thanks." And then he gives me a look, turning his back to Ms. Judy.

"Another shot, Chyna?"

"Just a coke, thanks."

I take my cola back to a table with my man, I mean, The Stranger. We light cigarettes and wait for Ms. Judy to leave the bar.

"I can't believe you are here," I said to him. "And I can't believe you didn't buy me my drink!"

He grinned and shook his head. "It's too early for you to be drinking. I won't encourage that." He joked, a little.

He let my hand rub his knee and then his lap. I felt his jeans move and his eyes would not stop undressing me. He suggested he would find a place to park in town and get some sleep and we would catch up with one another when I am out of my doctor's appointment. That meant only an hour or two before I had to go back and he would what, go all the way back to Cali?? It sucked! I WANTED!

With the Morning Doctor girls checking out of the Manager's Office for their day in town, Ms. Judy was preoccupied and I took advantage of the bustling in the doorway to slither into the restrooms with my man following closely behind.

When I tell this story to my brothel sisters this is always the first time they stop me to ask a clarify question: "Which one, Men's or Women's?"

"Men's."

"OOOOOHHHHHH, GROOOOOSSSS! You so NASTY!!! You guys couldn't wait a few hours??? Why, Chyna? What were you thinking?"

Truth is, I was completely aware that I was performing a story so beyond my day-to-day thought -- thinking was not an artistic option... yes, it was a professional option that I probably should have weighed out with less recklessness, but that's not what I was about nor am... so instead...

I kiss my man messy on the lips, feeling his tongue, his chest, his throat. I unbuckle his belt, unbutton his 501s and go down on him til the taste of precum wakes my buds from their steady diet of mint flavored condoms. I stand up in my 7" chrome plats, my panties in hand and my dress pulled up past my hips, my tits pulled out by the nipples from the top of my bra. And my man loves me right fucken there. I am slipping in and around my orgasms as he puts his palm over my mouth. He still hasn't come when The Madame shouts at us from the other side of the men's room door.

"Chyna! Chyna!" Really sharp and short and pissed.

I put my leg down and adjust my breasts and dress. I pantomime to my man to flush the urinal which he does, saying out loud, "I'm the only one in here."

"Chyna! I know you are in there. Get out here right now. I mean it!"

I kiss my man once more on the lips and he shrugs at me with a smile that fills my chutzpa cup. I exit the mensroom to see The Madame and the Assistant Manager disappointed and furious looking back at me. The Madame points her upward finger at me and curls it to her wrist. "Come with me, Chyna."

I follow her march out of the bar to the Manager's Office where Ms. Judy was standing and sent me a shot of compassion as The Madame scoffed, "She was doing a guy in the mensroom!"

"I have to explain, please," I said. "He's My Man and I love him. I am so sorry to disrespect you and your rules, Ms. Debbie, I swear that was never what I wanted to do. I just missed him so much."

"You know you have to leave -- right now."

"I understand, Ms. Debbie. I am sorry that I did this. Thank you for everything you have done for me."

We had this entire conversation with my panties still in my hand.

I went back to my room where I "psycho-cried" that is when you are smiling, almost laughing, but your guts hurt and your eyes are turned down in tears. I paced back and forth in my room and realized, before I can pack anything, I had to call my man and tell him I love him and then I had to call Marina and tell her I love her and then I had to have a cigarette.

When I called Marina, she picked up -- I had expected her voxmail -- but while I was saying, "I got fired," she was throwing on her sweatsuit and coming across the House towards The Pit. "Open your door, woman." She said on the phone and from the otherside of my room.

I let her in and told her what's been happening to me and that my man came for me. She was so happy for me. She congratulated me for getting fired and for doing it for love -- so what if I did it in the men's room even though we both admitted it was quite nasty of me :-)

The rest of the day was a whore-going-to-Hollywood whirlwind. I had been discussing my media potential with business manager to models, Rick Roberts of Hot Girl Models. I had been inspired to expand my artistic vision for my character from one-on-one performance art to mass media performance art. It was an opportunity I could not nurture from within the confines of legal brothel work. Shit, it was a rare triumph when my cf signal would be strong enough to make a call let along allow me to set up appointments or discuss outside business with any measurable efficiency. I had to leave the ranch and stretch my artistic reach. Obscure cable tv and public radio had not achieved what I felt was necessary.

I spoke with my man and turns out, he had stayed in the bar and spoke with Ms. Debbie after she fired me. He asked her if there was anything he could do to help, and she permitted him access to the porch when I was finished packing to help me bring all my stuff to my truck. In the meantime, we coordinated our funds and he checked into the local Best Western for sleep and to prepare for our first night together in our newly expressed destiny.

Throughout the day, as girls returned from Morning Doctor's and wondered why I was packing my room instead of going to afternoon doctors, the story about my sexy meeting with The Stranger made the rounds and it was what everyone from staff to sex worker was talking about. My platinum bitches came up to me personally for the details.

"Chyna," they said as they pulled me into their rooms and shut the door. "What's going on? I heard you got fired because you did a client in the bar?"

Oh, it was like that!! We laughed as I discussed the true accounts and how I was leaving the CR but I will never be forgotten. For the first time during my art/Work at the World Famous Chicken Ranch, platinum bitches be giving me their personal phone numbers and telling me how they honestly felt about me and insisting that I keep in touch. I will. I have, I do and I will. One of the things I never took for granted working with the girls of the CR is that I successfully connected on many intimate levels with many different girls. This honed my ability to speak in different lingos, perspectives and from all my human machines. They respected me more than a saucy nasty story interested them. They cared to know the details from me personally, accepting that the rumors would fly and lore would be created to both hate and legendize my work.

The best response to my story that I received from my girls is from Ms. Sofia. She had recently retired from the CR in February and when I called her and told her the news, she laughed the hardest and said, "What a grey story! You left dema grey story, Chyna. How funny!!!"

I laughed hardest with her energy. Yes, a great story to leave them with. My run at the World Famous Chicken Ranch had come to a close. The first scene was my on-camera step onto center stage participating with the Gantzes on their international cable tv production, Pleasure For Sale. The final scene was a hip-roaringly hilarious unforgettable act that the management, staff, regular girls as well as new girls can all draw from for the rest of the days of the World Famous.

None of it was my story. The story of my entry belongs to Joe Gantz and is his professional accomplishment. The story of my exit belongs to the women of the Chicken Ranch and is theirs to do with however it gets them through another day in the life.

My story begins that night I spent with my man and a full moon and the manifestations of universal conductivity. For one night in Pahrump, I was not the artist. I was art in motion by the brushstrokes of my man. I surrendered to all that will be and let go of all that was imagined.