Back in the day. There I was, newly single (okay, okay, unceremoniously dumped) headed off to Reno, Nevada to cover some sort of conference, and well, to put it delicately, randy. If I had been interested in sky-high hair and long jewel studded fingernails the casino floor might have been an opportunity to score, but I wasn’t that horny. Hmm. Nevada. Legal prostitution. Bingo.

Brothels have been tolerated in Nevada since the middle of the 19th century. One house in Elko has been in business since 1902. Brothels have opened and closed for years, usually being shut down as a public nuisance. Joe Conforte, a onetime cabdriver started operating in the prostitution business in 1955. In 1967 Joe took over the Mustang Bridge Ranch and in 1971 managed to convince county officials to pass an ordinance which would provide for the licensing of brothels and prostitutes. Arguably the most famous of the brothels, the Mustang Ranch was shut down by the feds in 1999 after its owners were convicted of fraud. There are 30-40 legal brothels still operating in the state. In fact, about an hour drive from Las Vegas is the Chicken Ranch, located in; I’m not making this up, Pahrump, Nevada.

My first step was amazingly simple: look in the phone book. Sure enough, there it was in bold lettering: Mustang Ranch. I dialed the number which was answered on about the tenth ring, just long enough for me to work up a good sweat. I had rehearsed my opening question, "Do you allow women in?" His response, "Huh?" "Women, can women come to the ranch?" "Oh, you want to party with the girls!" "Right" "Come on out."

Next bridge to cross was the concierge at the hotel. She really looked like a refugee from the Bible belt and when I asked her how to get to the Mustang Ranch, she raised her eyebrows to the top of her hairline and asked me why I wanted to go there. I told her I wanted to buy a tee shirt for a friend. She said I could get one at the hotel. We had a couple of more futile exchanges and I finally told her that if she wouldn’t tell me to please find someone who would. This wasn’t going to be easy.

It took me the next two days to work up my courage to drive out to the Ranch. As I rounded one bend I saw a parking lot filled with pickup trucks. That almost stopped me dead. I had all sorts of sweaty visions of running the gauntlet of redneck truck drivers to get to where I wanted to be.

Whew! That wasn’t the place. When I arrived at the Ranch, the parking lot was empty. It was an intimidating sight—high fences, long walkway with monitored cameras, and, so help me, a conning tower atop it all. While no one was in it, it didn’t take much of a leap to picture a machine gun toting guard keeping vigil.

By the time I arrived at the front door I was a nervous wreck. Ringing the bell, I was admitted by a lady of the evening who, to her credit, didn’t look astonished but instead called what I assumed was a Madam. Madam escorted me to a room off to the side, furnished with a worn red velvet couch and a coke machine. I had the feeling I wasn’t being given the VIP treatment. She explained that she’d bring out a few women and I could make my selection and she’d need to hold my credit card. Searching around in my slacks and jacket, I discovered that I hadn’t brought my wallet. Mortification set in but I recovered my voice long enough to tell her I forgot my wallet and would have to come back. Ever get one of those long, sure you will, looks? Well, I was on the receiving end of what seemed to be the longest on record.

I headed back to my hotel not at all sure I could go through with this again. I kept giving myself the old pep talk that, dammit, if men could do this, so could I. I headed back again, this time being sure that I had my wallet and credit card.

I’m pretty sure that Madam was surprised to see me, but took my credit card, told me all price negotiations were held with the "girls." And in came the girls, a half dozen of them. I know I’m short, but these women were tall, tall, tall. The four inch heels only added to their stature. There wore a variety of clothing ranging from flimsy nightgowns to red frilly dresses. I got carried away and picked out two. Maybe it’s a woman thing but I honestly sat there and hoped I hadn’t hurt the feelings of the four I didn’t pick. Pathetic, I know.

When it got down to just me and the duo, one slid on the arm of the couch and nestled up to me and in a silken voice asked me, "Well, first of all what do you like?" Oh, my God. I hadn’t even thought that far ahead and suavely, with a red face, responded: "Gee, I really like to cuddle." I don’t know if cuddle was on their menu, but we moved on to price. Same silky voice told me it would be $400—for each woman. I’m not a math whiz but I quickly added up to $800. This was almost twenty years ago and my stunned response was, "I don’t have that much money." Silence. Nervous giggles from me followed by the brilliant statement, "Guess I’d better head back to the Black Jack Tables and see if I can win some money."

I left the Mustang Ranch with my tail between my legs and still randy. Afterthoughts helped my bruised ego a little—it took a lot for me to work up my nerve to just go there, and, by golly, I did do that. I met Susan just a few months later. She was the answer to my prayers, and, did not come with an $800 price tag.