There are several counties in the Great Silver State of Nevada where prostitution is legal. I used to live in one of them. It's hard to be in Nevada without being overcome with whorehouse fascination. On the north-south highway that crosses the state and extends from the Reno area to Las Vegas there are a plethora of denizens of sin.
In Tonopah, a town with an optimistic 3,500 person population and the nearest movie theatre, or even the nearest Kmart for that matter, being a 120 mile drive (past two whorehouses, mind you) away, it's pretty common to make the jaunt to Las Vegas for giggles and groceries.
There are four whorehouses between Tonopah and Las Vegas: The Cottontail Ranch, The Shady Lady, Angel's Ladies, and The Cherry Patch Ranch II. Each has souvenirs and whatnot you can purchase and some of the T-shirts are priceless. (Think of the mudflap girl silhouette wearing a cowboy hat on leaning on a post and the slogan, "Support Your Local Cathouse".) The shirts from The Cottontail Ranch were the nicest, that is, they actually had a pretty design. Unlike the ... ummm ... ladies who worked there. The above link is not a good characterization of the caliber and the aesthetic of the ladies who you meet at a whorehouse in Nevada. It really isn't like you see in the movies at all.
Every Tuesday the girls were shuttled into Tonopah for their weekly pelvic exam at the Nye County Regional Medical Center. Can you imagine how sadly depressing it must be to be the doctor or nurse practitioner who services the sex service industry?
The other girl geologist at the mine where I worked and I decided that the greatest Christmas gift for many of our loved ones would be T-shirts from the Cottontail Ranch. We motored down the highway and sweet talked our way in because they didn't have any guests at the time. They generally don't let civilian ladies cross the threshold.
As cliche as it sounds, red lights mark the entry way that can be seen from 20 miles away. Most of the houses are large temporary buildings, mobile homes or compounds of mobile homes and trailers. The Cotton Tail Ranch is a large double wide mobile home with a bunch of trailers adjacent to it. Inside, there is a bar-room with a juke-box and really hideous wood panelling on the walls that you almost can't see because it is covered over with trucker caps that have been stapled to the walls. Perhaps it's a trucker/whore equivalent of a notch in the bedpost. People are funny.
This is when I got up close and personal with a real live lady of ill repute. One of the girls came into the room wearing a really low-rent white teddy with her booty cheeks hanging out the back of it. She had a matching low-rent bleach job on her hair with 2 inch-long dark roots and haphazardly applied makeup. She said, "Hi." We weren't sure whether we should divert our eyes and try not to make her or us uncomfortable or try to engage her in conversation. It's hard not to imagine what her life is, how she got there and what array of fat, sweaty, disgusting truckers she has had to endure grunting on top of her or whispering foul nothings as she sucked them off. We settled on saying hi back and got the hell out of there before the eventual thoughts about whether we could actually earn a living that way started to flood our minds. But the funny thing is that sort of experience stays fresh in the memory and those thoughts creep up anyway and surprise the hell out of you. For instance, the very next time I was in a compromising position getting all biblical with a fella.
An addenda to the story:
The geotech (Ginger) at the mine was married to a son-of-a-whore. That is, his mother was the madam at the Chicken Ranch in Pahrump, Nevada. Ginger said that his mama came to their wedding and got drunk and caused all sorts of havoc with his family. Anyhow, Ginger and Robbie lived in a single wide trailer, but not the whorehouse variety, more the family variety. They had a truck that was so high off the ground, you almost couldn't get into it without help or a ladder. Every year, Ginger won the girls mucking* contest at the mining festival because that girl could shovel some muck like nobody's business!
Upon moving to Tonopah, Ginger asked me, "Ok, who is your racer and which is your team?" I learned that she was asking about my Nascar racer (hers was Jeff Gordon) and my favorite football team. Apparently these are big things in small-town western towns in about a hundred miles from nowhere. I had nothing. I couldn't really give a shit about Nascar or Football. So I told her that I liked any racer that she liked and my team is the Lakers, having been born bleeding Laker purple at Queen of Angles Hospital in Los Angeles. Somehow, Basketball doesn't resonate with that crowd.
*In this context, "muck" is the verb meaning: shovelling muck, ore, waste or rock in general. Can also be a noun in that context. Not to be confused with a commenter's use of muck as in a colloquial for "spunk, jiz, cum, wad or ejaculate".