The Red Ranch Brothel

I step across the threshold of the Red Ranch Brothel, the creaky door announcing my arrival like an unwelcome guest. The musty scent of faded perfume and cigarette smoke hovers in the air, swirling with memories of desperate nights and whispered secrets. I always despised this place, the way it exploits both the body and soul, yet here I am in the ‘Love ’Nest’-themed bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for my client to get in the mood. “Sierra, don’t let this man take charge and turn you into a pretzel,” I murmur to my reflection in the cracked mirror hanging on the ceiling above the bed. My voice sounds both foreign and familiar, echoing back in a tone thick with resignation. I comb my fingers through my client's hair and ask him what position he would like me in.

“On your hands and knees,” he replies.

I comply, positioning myself in the center of the bed on my hands and knees, waiting for him to take charge.

I’ve spent years rejecting the very notion of becoming like the women of this establishment—women I once mocked—pin-up dolls who stroll through these gaudy hallways with their painted smiles and lost dreams. Their framed marquee poster pictures haunt these walls like lost spirits, and I swore I’d never join them. Yet here I am, on my hands and knees, adrenaline spiking through my heartbeat, waiting for his battering ram.

The "clients," they call them, as if their presence here could redeem them. I imagine they see us as their last gasp of indulgence before returning to a world that demands too much of them. Perhaps they're right.

I steal a glance at the gaudy décor, the dilapidated glamour of the Red Ranch. Velvet drapes hang limply over the windows, a neon-lit bar, and Greek statues in every corner. Whips, cuffs, and bondage rope hang on the racks in every room. There’s something for every fantasy here. I used to think that I could come here, do my job, and leave without absorbing the hopelessness and desperation around me, especially when business is slow. But like a sponge, I soak it in, unable to escape the weight in the air.

The door creaks open, and another client steps inside—a balding man with bright eyes and a penchant for white suits. I smile, but it feels more like a grimace as I mentally prepare myself. It’s always the same dance. I can’t help but wonder what makes him think I'm here for him and not just to pay my rent. “Evening, sweetheart,” he says, walking in with a swagger he doesn’t really possess. “A pretty little thing like you, all alone in this rundown place?”

“Looks can be deceiving,” I reply. My voice has a sarcastic undertone, but I can’t help the way my eyes betray my disdain. Surely, he can see through my facade.

“Of course, of course,” he chuckles, strutting over. It’s the kind of thing that makes my skin crawl, yet I play along. “Why don’t you show me what I’m paying for, baby?" He asserts.

As he settles onto the mattress with a self-satisfied grin, I feel the familiar tug of my self-loathing. Here I am, a cheap actress on a stage where I never wanted to perform. The tantalizing irony eats at me—how I’m becoming the very thing I disdain. I take my bikini top off, pushing my thoughts aside. I lean in closer, putting on the mask I crafted for nights like these. “What do you want?" I ask him. The moment he utters his desires, my insides twist. He has no idea how small his world is or how pathetic his request seems from my vantage point. Yet, I can’t dare expose my contempt; that would reveal too much. Instead, I glance toward the mirror—my sanctuary and my prison. What do I see? I see a woman trapped in the desolation of her own choices—the girl who said she would never sell her soul for money and who now wears the weight of that betrayal like a shroud. I try and lose myself in the layers of my past, not wanting to see the woman who lies beneath this superficial exterior.

Between clients, I scour the dark recesses of my mind, wondering when I became so lost. There was a moment—a sweet moment when I believed I could rise above it all and do something positive with my life. I was once an English major, a writer and poet, scribbling verses late into the night, dreaming of love and beauty far away from this place. And yet, each pen stroke has been replaced with footsteps toward the next client’s fantasy, and each heartbeat now counts down to the end of another night. How many men have I satisfied today?

The door swings open again as if drawing me back into the cycle. Another client, another performance, and all I have to give is my mask. It’s a cruel joke, really—each night slipping away, satisfying one client after another, leaving me like a receptacle for their pleasure, used and discarded for a measly few hundred dollars. I close my eyes. My breath feels heavier with the realization that beneath my façade, I’ve become the very woman I once scorned. That woman wears her pain like a badge. I assumed that my pride would shield me from the same fate, but pride has a way of crumbling when exposed to the harsh light of reality.

My thoughts spin out of control as I listen to the sounds of the other women of the house—their laughter echoing down the corridor. It’s a false sense of camaraderie, born from desperation and the need to feel safe, the need to feel loved. I can’t help but feel a twinge of envy as I remember the fleeting moments of laughter we shared, moments I never wanted to admit I longed for. What was it that pushed me into this life? The memories flood back—my old college days, nights spent debating poetry and destiny with friends, the fire of ambition burning bright. We had dreams, didn’t we? Yet here I am, tangled in the sheets of a profession I was too proud to join voluntarily. I was desperate and homeless at the time, out on the streets with no other choice. Red Ranch was my safety net, my only home.

The next client, a tired-looking businessman with a gaze that bores through me, walks through the door without a word. My heart races; he doesn’t require conversation. He just wants me to be a vessel for his release. I play the part effortlessly, surrendering myself to the role, but the cost is high—the price of my soul gets heftier with each easy act of intimacy.

Inside, I scream at myself, pleading to awaken from this nightmare. This isn’t who I am. This isn’t who I was meant to become—spreading my legs for every man who walks through the door. Each touch I feign feels like a betrayal, each hollow laugh an echo of the self I lost along the way.

“Sierra?” he whispers, and the name pulls me back to reality. “Can you tie me up and whip my ass?” I force a smile, the mask shifting back into place—a lifeline of survival. The night drags on, and each encounter dulls the cracks within me just a bit further. I float through each client, drifting in waves of acceptance and self-hate. I don’t even notice the clock until the alarm rings out, and I’m covered in some kind of bodily fluid. I shake it off, towel myself off, and offer him an antiseptic towelette to wipe himself before seeing him out the door.

I’m alone in my room once more; the remnants of the evening spilled over the bedsheets. Through the thin walls, I can hear the raucous laughter of my sisters-in-arms, and I realize they are all I have left. We are kindred spirits, chained by the same fate, laughing like children who’ve lost their way, our bond strengthened by the unspoken understanding of what it truly means to live and survive within these walls.

At around midnight, I drift off to sleep and wake the next morning in a cold sweat, twisted in my sheets, trying to escape the recurring dream—a life untethered from the brothel’s confines—maybe a life with just one man. A man who loves me for who I am and not for the fantasy I create. A man who knows me by my real name and not my stage name. Those dreams offer a slice of hope that I no longer dare to chase. Indifference washes over me like a cold shower as I gaze at my reflection in the mirror once more. Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow, I'll break free. But tomorrow is always just a little too distant. This existence has become the norm—a slow descent into the very abyss I despised, every encounter a stage performance, a lie. I'm slowly turning into the fraud I swore I'd never become. I try to convince myself it’s just for now, a temporary hardship. Just until I can gather my wits, rebuild my shattered confidence, and earn enough money. Then I’ll escape. But a doubt creeps into my heart; what if I’ve already gone too far down this road? What if the path back to the life I want, a life of genuine love, is now out of reach?

Each client, each performance, chips away at my humanity. Each passing day here feels like another nail in the coffin of my former self. Worse, the laughter from my sisters-in-arms now feels like hollow echoes of a twisted melody. With every slip of the mask, with every whisper of acceptance, I’m drawn further in.

In the end, I’m just a muted puppet in a marionette show gone awry, my strings being pulled by the very people I sought to escape. And as my reflection stares back, I can’t help but wonder—how long until I forget who I was entirely? With heavy eyes, I face the mirror: Am I already lost? The silence that follows doesn’t provide answers, only the oppressive weight of a new, terrifying possibility—I may have become precisely what I once loathed, a desolate silhouette in a veneer of showgirl glamour.

I take a deep breath. "Tomorrow… Tomorrow, I'll be that glamorous showgirl that everyone adores and pays to watch. Tomorrow, I'll tell that story. I’ll scream until the walls shatter," I tell myself. But tonight, I surrender to the shadows, preparing for the role I never wanted, already slipping deeper into the very person I swore I’d never become.