VIAGRA AND THE WORKING GIRL

At Nevada's Mustang Ranch, It's Been Pleasure As Usual

If there is a line of rejuvenated old men in wheelchairs waiting to roll
into the Mustang Ranch clutching handfuls of Viagra pills, Amy the
courtesan hasn't seen it.

Neither has Candy, nor Autumn. And they've been looking.

``We'd know,'' said Amy, very sweetly. ``The gentlemen would tell us if
they were using Viagra. The gentlemen tell us everything.''

For weeks, the specter of Viagra has wafted over the 34 legal brothels of
Nevada like the scent of chlorine from the party-room Jacuzzi.

Two brothel owners even put out the word that, because of Viagra, business
was -- pardon the expression -- up. One working woman near Carson City
announced she was doing 20 percent more business since the impotence drug
hit the market, a suspiciously specific number for a certifiably loose
trade.

And a Chronicle investigation at the Mustang Ranch, Nevada's best-known
brothel, did reveal a great deal, as any such investigation would.

It revealed that the favorite food of demimondaines is Cap'n Crunch cereal
and Hostess Twinkies, washed down with Nestle's Quik chocolate-flavored
milk.

It revealed that the mattress of choice is Simmons, and that a new shipment
is being delivered to the ranch this week, because mattresses tend to wear
out here faster than in other venues.

It revealed that 90 percent of the shoes have three-inch spike heels and
that the women are remarkably adept at teetering across the cheap carpeting
on them.

It revealed that even with the air conditioner set at 68 degrees, there was
nary a goose bump, for these are professionals.

It revealed a genuine ATM in the parlor that charges only $1.50 per
transaction, which is less than the cost of other transactions on the
premises.

It did not, however, reveal a single Viagra pill, or a courtesan who said
her customers had used the drug.

``We haven't a thing to hide here,'' said Candy, who didn't.

Ring the bell at the front gate of the ranch 10 miles east of Reno and
absolutely nothing is left to the imagination. Everything is up front. If
there is any fantasy about the Mustang Ranch, the customer must bring it
with him because it surely does not exist behind the iron fence that
surrounds the cluster of low, barracks-style dormitories.

Immediately, the women line up at the front door, shoulder to shoulder,
like Marines at roll call. Names are cooed. Some names begin with K and end
with I, like Kathi and Kristi. Others are seasonal, like Autumn and Summer.
All are fake.

Everything is genuinely and forthrightly anonymous.

Everyone is in uniform. The customers wear blue, mostly jeans. The staff
wears pink, mostly shimmies.

Customers with an eye for detail might notice that staff members tend to
look a lot like another Nevada regular -- the ladies who tug the slot
machines. Each wears a glazed, vacant expression while cranking away at a
repetitive act grounded in the coin of the realm.

After the selection is made, the parties proceed down the hall to small
cubicles crammed with mirrors and stuffed kitties and puppies, where the
transaction is effectuated. The manufacturer's suggested retail price is
$100, with dealer-installed extras optional.

Amy, a 36-year-old hotel clerk from Oregon, has been working at the ranch
for more than a year. She said the world's newest drug is not likely to
change the world's oldest calling.

``We joke about it, among ourselves, but it's not really a factor,'' she
said. ``It might even be kind of scary, with all the side effects you hear
about. I mean, we're not doctors in there. Sometimes we're psychiatrists,
but we're not doctors.''

If the Mustang Ranch is free of Viagra, it is also free of venereal
disease, muggings, rip-offs, pimps and ineptly performed pretext Swedish
massages. ``You know what you're going to get here, and you know that
you're going to get it,'' said George Flint, director of the Nevada Brothel
Association, while sitting at the bar in the parlor. He was chewing on a
cigar, which was unlit, in deference to the hardworking ladies who pay his
way.

The work is timeless, said Flint. The trade goes on and on, and mankind's
only choice is whether to allow it with mandatory VD tests and income tax
withholding, Nevada-style, or with pimps and muggings, Tenderloin-style.

Every morning at the ranch brings another brilliant high desert sunrise,
and the opening of another box of Cap'n Crunch, and the burning of the
previous day's used latex in the old incinerator out back.

No, said Amy, the blue pill changes little in the land of the red light.
Viagra may be a miracle drug, but it is hardly a substitute for a woman at
the top of her game.

``I have worked miracles myself, honey,'' she said. ``We all have. And you
know how? Just by paying attention to business, and doing what we do best.''

1998 San Francisco Chronicle