To satisfy her curiousity, a good friend of mine recently started hostessing in a brothel outside of Vegas. This is her most recent communication.
Brothel life was very interesting today. We had a father come in with his 22 year old virgin son. The father did the picking out of the line-up. For his son he chose Layla; very pretty, petite white girl with long black curly hair and green eyes. Layla is 35 years old and has an 8 year old son back in Chicago. She works at the brothel 6 months out of the year (she and her ex-husband split custody of the boy), and the other 6 months she acts as suburban soccer mom, taking her kid from his catholic elementary school to soccer game to swimming lesson.
The virgin went back with Layla to her room while the father sat on the couch reading Popular Mechanics. They were en route from Pasadena to Vegas, and the father stopped off at The [.....] so his son could get laid, once and for all. Sixty minutes later, Layla and the boy returned to the parlor. I buzzed them out and they hopped in their Ford Explorer.
“He couldn’t get hard” Lalya quipped. “I tried for an hour. His legs were stiff and he hardly breathed. He asked me not to tell his dad. Poor thing”.
I thought that prostitutes would enjoy virgin’s, being that they’re usually young and shy and polite; but they don’t. Prostitutes don’t find much joy in anything to labor-intensive.
The mag assigned a writer to do a piece on Rick two years ago. The piece still hasn’t run or been killed. I recently realized that they’re holding it against the chance that Rick might finally hit, although they’ll never say that’s what they’re doing. And the writer is kept dangling. They pulled similiar shit with me.
I went to see Rick host at one of those wretched comedy clubs in the Village. The scene has the talent barking on the street, a few tourists buying overpriced drinks, and a series of mediocre young comics spraying obscenities. Sal’s Comedy Hole is no different: the dark backroom of a Thai restaurant where a diet coke cost five dollars, mostly empty tables, an Israeli couple chuckling politely. I see Rick and we hug. ‘This is the worst room in comedy,’ he says, ‘But I’m getting paid to be here.’
‘A gig is a gig, Rick,’ I say.
He looks good, same expressive face and wild hair tinged with gray. He looks like he’s been working out too. He tells me that the career is going good. That he’s about to break again. That this time it’s going to happen: HBO, comedy festivals, film parts. He’s in a serious relationship too. No more of his frantic womanizing.
‘I’m tired,’ he says, ‘My girlfriend is draining me. She always asks me, ‘Do you love me Rick? What kind of love it it? Is it infinite love?’ She needs a hug every five minutes. A hug in the kitchen. A hug in the bathroom.’
‘You need some who soaks up some of your energy,’ I say.
I settle in to watch the acts: a big fat redheaded guy who tells jokes about being a being a big fat redheaded guy. A comic in his 70s who is philosophical and actually very good. A parade of foul-mouthed kids. Rick introduces the acts: ‘Welcome to the worst room in comedy,’ he says, and then he goes into a routine about his needy girlfriend, material he started developing when I came in. ‘Hug in the kitchen, hug in the bathroom.’ as usual, I’m amazed at his talent, the fact that he’s always on and how difficult it makes life for him. The whole experience of the club saddens me. The fact that Rick isn’t at the center of our culture speaks poorly for the culture. it’s essential conservatism. He’s one of the great talents of the era and he can’t get a job. Hell, even Lenny Bruce (who Rick most resembles) could make a living.