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These days, not even sex sells

At Donna's Ranch, a brothel in Wells, Nev., the ailing economy has taken the work away from the working girls.

November 04, 2008|Ashley Powers | Powers is a Times staff writer.

WELLS, NEV. — The women at Donna's Ranch are crowded around the kitchen table on a warm summer night, dining on stir fry, tugging at thigh-high dresses, griping about depleted bank accounts. At this northeastern Nevada bordello, which marks a gravel road's end, they woo grizzled truckers and weary travelers for a single reason: money.

Lately, the women don't go home with much.

Amy, 58, once bought a $32,000 Toyota Tacoma in cash; now her $1,200 mortgage saps her dwindling pay. Some weeks, she could make more flipping burgers than flirting under a made-up name. Marisol's daughters think she works at a resort; she struggles to keep up the ruse. It now takes months, not weeks, to bring $5,000 back to Southern California.

"Marisol," one of her regulars tells her, "it costs me in gas what it takes for me to spend a half-hour with you."

Tonight, she tries lingering at the dimly lighted bar that's decorated with red Christmas lights and smells of hot dogs and beans. Wearing a shimmering strapless top, Marisol sips cheap champagne and tries to seduce travelers, some with thick guts and most with thin wallets. After 20 minutes, she gives up.

Signs of the economic free fall have cropped up in many of Nevada's 25 or so legal brothels. The Mustang Ranch, for example, has a steady stream of customers, but the number of women vying for work has soared. Even a 74-year-old applied. This summer, the Shady Lady gave $50 gas cards to those who spent $300. The Moonlite Bunny Ranch offered extras to customers paying with their economic stimulus checks.

Here, 180 miles west of Salt Lake City, near the junction of Interstate 80 and Highway 93, Donna's Ranch has seen its business plummet nearly 20%. More than three-quarters of its customers are long-haul truckers, and high fuel and food prices have drained them of "play money," owner Geoff Arnold says. That cuts into pay for his 10-member staff and the "working girls."

Marisol, 49, retreats to the kitchen, a homey nook with lemon-yellow walls and a plate of scones that another woman whipped up. Amy is staring at the Lazy Susan, snuffing out a Misty cigarette. "There are two guys," Marisol says, her voice thick with frustration. "They want to relax and drink a beer and think about it."

She plops into a chair, pushes open blue curtains and scans a parking lot, bathed in yellow and pink by the neon advertising DONNA'S. Her face puckers. It's empty.


The brothel's woes start with the barflies, who are hoarding what little money they've saved. Tonight, two of them slouch in their stools and bemoan the economic slump, their voices rising to near shouts.

"The government's got to do something," says Dean Hargis, a tattooed trucker who calls Springfield, Mo., home. "Everybody who eats or drinks anything, they're going to hurt. It affects what I eat, it affects what motel I stay in, it affects what dog food I buy."

David Zett, a long-hauler from Loretta, Wis., gulps a Miller Genuine Draft and bashes oil companies: "They've got you over a barrel and can do whatever they want to you, and they don't even kiss you when they're done."

"Just like this place," Hargis says.

"No," Zett says. "They kiss you."

The bartender, Gayle Salinas, shakes her head. She's pinching pennies too. She used to take home $50 in tips at the end of most shifts. Now she might pocket $12. Her pay is linked to how much the prostitutes make -- and customers aren't choosing their most expensive offerings.

The women negotiate the price of "parties" and their duration, which the bartender tracks using kitchen timers. Ten to 15 minutes costs at least $100. Customers once regularly paid thousands of dollars for extras listed on a hot-pink "menu" -- but these days, for example, few men desire the hot tub or mirrored fantasy room.

Earlier that night, Marisol had guided Rob Siddoway, a gangly, pony-tailed trucker from Tooele, Utah, into the fantasy room. This was his first brothel trip in a year; he used to stop by every few months. "See how comfortable you can get?" Marisol coos. She points to a red-blanketed, circular bed and a pillow stitched with the word LOVE.

"You can see yourself in the mirror," she says. He looks instead at her: olive skin, substantial curves, dark, tired eyes. He passes on buying an expensive party. Marisol isn't surprised. She had played a fortune-telling card game that afternoon; it showed the future would bring little cash.


About a dozen years ago, Arnold plunked down more than $1 million for Donna's Ranch. He's a certified public accountant in Boise, Idaho, and had combed the books of several brothels; buying one seemed business-savvy. He owns another in Battle Mountain, Nev.

"They're easy to run," says Arnold, president of the state brothel association. "If you keep the girls happy, you're done. If the girls are happy, then the guys are happy. I can't think of any other business as good as a brothel, except for a doctor's office -- they're equally profitable."

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