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POSTCARD FROM NEVADA... GUESS WHO’S CUMMING TO UTAH
by warren stone
A friend of mine mentioned that your corner of Utah will be visited soon by unprecedented numbers of athletes, coaches, and steroid salesmen. In case you’re unaware, I thought that I... as a current resident of Nevada, and former brothel bartender... should inform you that you’ll also be receiving some other visitors as well. They will be louder than the coaches, more expensive than the steroid salesmen, and, in many cases, lumpier than the athletes. I am speaking, of course, of Prostitutes.
Since you’re in Utah, you might not realize that the state directly to your left is often known as Gommorah West, and contains the most honest women in the world. A Nevada Prostitute will never sleep with your best friend to hurt you; she will do so if you’re throwing him a bachelor party and she needs a new car. A Nevada Prostitute will never ask you this question: “Honey, does this bondage outfit made entirely out of vinyl bungee cords and slinkies make me look fat?” And a Nevada Prostitute will even watch a Three Stooges Marathon with you... if the price is right. No regular woman will do that.
Also, keep in mind also that these women are curious about Utah men...and Polygamy. Sure, they’ve had group sex before, plenty, but never with the benefit of clergy. Trust me, these women will leave Zion sighin’.
Your world is about to seriously collide with one you’ve never known. Think of your own sexual mores as a 1986 PC, while these women represent the new flat iMac (except that flat is the last thing most of them will be). This is the type of culture-clash that usually makes for a great movie: It’s just too bad the title DEEP IMPACT is already taken.
Depending on your feelings, you may or may not anticipate this arrival the way that Dom DeLuise greets a new Domino’s. If you disapprove, I advise you to think of their arrival as just another bulwark against the current iffy economy; think of them as Avon Ladies who also carry K-Y Jelly. Or try to put yourself in the place of the athletes. If you’re a one-eyebrowed Romainian bobsledder who creases the carpet with his knuckles as he walks, you’re not going to give a runny rat’s ass about scenery and ambiance. You’re just going to want your particular welcome wagon to feature really extravagant grillwork, no brakes at all, and great taste in lubricants. For these guys, most of whom make Quasimodo look like Ricky Martin, these rent-a-body specialists will be tarnished but tasty Angels of Mercy.
And, trust me, they will help your environment. These girls will spend their well-gotten gains in your hotels, hair salons, and gynecologists’ offices. For the first time in several presidential administrations, you will experience a TRUE trickle-down economy.
Now, you, depending on your lifestyle and affiliations, may-or-may-not find yourself trying to flag them down as they race toward their Prussian pit stops. Needless to say, the color of your flag should be green (unless you have one that is gold or platinum). It seems unlikely to this carnal connoisseur that you’ll find these horizontal hostesses through your local escort service or massage parlors (assuming they have such things in Utah).
So I recommend the standard strategy: Bars. Most of these ladies, while sitting on barstools, will be walking a fine line. They’ll want to let you know that they’re available while hiding said fact from that OTHER John, John Law. A smile will be their first signal. Their second will be her finger crooked in your direction. Unless you’re unusually dense, the third signal that sex is about to happen will be something of yours, not your finger, crooked in her direction.
Remember, no matter how nice she is, her primary motivation is money. If you don’t want to be rolled, keep some money hidden off your person, or someplace shrewdly chosen. Don’t let her see the credit cards or where you keep them. Watch to see if she’s maintaining periodic eye contact with some burly guy across the bar who follows you both as you leave.
Don’t succumb to the temptation to do a “rush job” near the ice machine or in some dark corridor. This usually leads to her giving you a quick lick as she lifts your wallet from your dropped pants and flees; your resulting attempt to give chase with your pants around your ankles is known as “a penguin.” Don’t travel in this particular Arctic Circle if you can avoid doing so. You can either use a condom with these ladies or not, depending on your IQ. But in my opinion, if you’re indulging in a one-time mambo without your slickest dance-shoes in this medical day-and-age, you have the survival instinct of a Taliban flight attendant. Keep in mind that a lot of these women who will visit your city have more mileage on them than Richard Simmons’ sweatband, and similar hygienic conditions. When you’re sitting at the bar with them, take a covert sniff, while they’re ordering a drink, and decide if they’re wearing Eau De Cologne or Oh Shit, No time to Shower Between Tricks.
Oh, another major difference between Utah Women and Nevada Number-crunching Nymphos will revolve around the issue of kissing. It’s my purely hearsay-based understanding that Mormon women overcompensate through lip service so thoroughly that a kiss from one can actually give Al Gore a measurable pulse. But in Nevada brothels, a kiss, or rather the lack thereof, is the official dividing line between “love-sex” and “I’m building-up my 401K-sex.”
Finally, avoid falling in love with these women, for God’s sake. Take it from a former bordello employee, no matter how widely a given prostitute smiles at you or how extravagantly you treat them, there’s no heart there—merely an odometer. If you want true sexual devotion and reciprocal concern... I suggest you get yourself an expert manicure and buy the most expensive hand lotion you can find. Warren Stone will appear regularly in the new Wild Utah Column, “Postcard From Nevada.”