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Welcome 2015! My Sexy New Year's Resolutions

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It’s that time of the year again, when we wipe the slate clean, throw out the old and ring in the new. New beginnings. New goals. New ideas. New, new, new. Yes, it’s the New Year and this year is gonna be different.
I resolve to keep learning as much as I can about shit I don’t know. I’ll tell ya, I always get a thrill when I learn something that I didn’t know when I take my head off the pillow in the morning. When I see someone doing something that I can’t figure out, like working on some hidden pipeline as I walk down the street, I ask them what they’re doing so I can learn even more about what’s under my feet. They are always sharing knowledge with me that goes into yet another fold of the grey matter between my ears.
Why? Because there’s too many things happening not to be! There’s an app to do just about everything, new places to discover, new restaurants to explore, new people to meet and new things to learn.
I resolve to be out there more. Yes, BE out there more. As in be in touch with more of you to spread the word about the wonderful world of sex. And motorcycles. Yep, motorcycles. More on that in another blog… And yeah, sex toys… I can’t love ‘em enough! I’ll review more, post more, post more videos and get more yummy tidbits out there, just for you. And please feel free to share…
But back to sex. It’s such an amazing thing, it really is, and has been such an integral part of my life for decades. I have experienced so much and only feel that I’m just beginning. Like 2015. And I’ll share those experiences with you and of course, change the names to protect the not too innocent!
So here’s to a fantastic 2015. I know I’ll be adding lots more here, having special events, discounts, tidbits and stuff posted. Just the way I like it – connecting with you and sharing true tales of sex, sextoys, lust, love, motorcycles, Grand Opening! and anything else that comes to mind. Please join me!
Lots of love,
Kim

‘Ho Tell – So Didja Get Paid to Get Laid??? Part Sex

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Before you read this oh-so-juicy last installment, be sure to refresh your memory of all things Love Ranch and Kim Airs:

So I know lots of you are reading this blog, breathlessly waiting for me to get to the good part. Did I trick? How many times? What did I do? Who did I do it with? When did I do it? Were they good? Were they nice? Clean? And most of all, WELL HUNG?!??!?

BR1sHLICIAAIbWc.jpg-large

At times I feel guilty being a whore whether I am getting paid or not. Moreso when I am getting paid, I think, because maybe you’ve figured out at this point that I really like sex. Love it, in fact. Even shitty sex because it’s better than none in my book and only adds to my incredible life sexperiences.
But add the business transaction of money in the equation and I really get wet. This is something that’s happened to me for a long, long, time so I truly believe I’ve always been cut out to put out for cash. Getting money for something that I love sometimes creates that “stealing candy from a baby” sensation but this is just so much more damn sweeter.
At the Love Ranch North, some girls have been there for years, developing a following of regulars, of fans, of guys who have blown in and blown out like the strong desert winds. They tell me stories of the years when there was “stupid money” flying around the Ranch with guys that would pay unreal amounts of cash that the girls could only dream about. Money that the girls would bring home to their husbands and kids wherever in the country they lived.
Yes, husbands and kids. Lots of the girls have them but when they’re with you, they’re yours. They’re not Moms, they’re not wives, they’re not your girlfriends back home. They’re with you. They have their stories and all of them are real.
I’m not going to tell stories of the girls there because that’s up to them to share them with you. But I can tell you that I enjoyed the company of all of them, my favorite of which was the beautiful, deliciously rounded 18 year old girl who was such an old soul, she took my breath away. She was the one who laughed at my jokes when no one else got them. She was the one that had so many fascinating and ridiculously funny stories to tell I could have listened to her for days, and she was the only one that I exchanged phone numbers with. She’s a mini-me with a deep understanding of whoredom that is wise beyond her years. She paid me the ultimate compliment that was proceeded by a sheepish statement of apology uttered before. She looked at me and sighed “I hope you’re not offended by this…” and I gave her an understanding smile. She continued with “YOU’RE THE COOLEST OLDER WOMAN I KNOW!” Yeah! That was so great to hear from someone that gained my respect in so many short days. Kari Mai – I love her and want to see her again.
Another woman caught my ear when we started talking about prostitution and what it’s like to have that as your only profession. She told me that she became part of the team at the Ranch because she was tired of running from the law for so many years. You see, having consensual sex between adults as a business transaction is called prostitution and is considered the evil business by the security folks in crowded Las Vegas casinos and on the streets just about everywhere else in the nation. She was just tired of it. She came to the Ranch to make her business a legit one by being part of the legal, Nevada registered brothel and joining the sex sorority where it IS legal to provide a service that’s the oldest profession in the world. She felt like she was now home.
I liked my week at the Ranch. I liked my Room Sex, er, Six. Yes, I plan on going back to the Love Ranch North, most likely before the end of the year, before the dust storms get replaced by snow storms, before the days turn into the nights when I just want to stay between the warm sheets and blankies of my bed, no matter where they are, before I lose touch with the women I got to know during my seven days of prostitution.
Oh, so you’re still wondering, DID I GET PAID TO GET LAID ALREADY?!?!?
Well, as you’ve learned by now, us whores don’t share secrets, keep our rates to ourselves, smile amongst each other when we say “I had a good party,” and wait in the parlor for our next trick to walk through the door and pick us in the lineup but after all this teasing, seduction, lust, thrust, and panting for more, I don’t want to leave you, um, empty handed, so here’s a little kiss and tell…. Just a little…
In case you’ve been wondering… yes, I DID party! Woohoo! That’s what I CAME here for! There were lots of parties while I was here and I am happy to say, I had a few of them.
Like I said when it comes to negotiation, it’s always gonna end up being the ol’ fuck and suck routine. And sure enough, one Mr. Fabulous wanted exactly that. Lucky for me, he was just my type (which is usually any guy with a wallet o’ cash). Seriously, it sure makes my (blow) job easier when it’s someone that turns me on to begin with.
Many times people will ask me “what do you do if you’re not turned on by the person?” and I have a simple answer to that which I have stuck with ever since I’ve had the pleasure of having sex for fun and profit. No matter what they look like, what they can do, how they taste, how they smell, if they’re able-bodied or not, whether they can get it up or have a gummy bear dick, I will ALWAYS give them a good time during the moments spent with me. After all, drawing upon my many years of retail (and this is REALLY the retail of sex), a satisfied customer is a return customer! And you ALWAYS want them to come first!
So getting back to Mr. Fabulous, I easily guessed how much time we’d be spending together, and I was right.
First the sucking: one of the laws that the Silver State of Nevada wants you to follow when you’re in the sex biz is the one of safe sex. And it’s a good one… not only is it mandatory to use a condom while fucking but you have to wrap that rascal before you put your lipstick on his dipstick. Yup. By law, you have to use a rubber for every blowjob, too.
This makes me very happy. I don’t have to worry about that pesky (but otherwise useful) pre-cum and I don’t have to worry about getting that unexpected pop in the mouth because we ALL know that’s one of the three biggest lies in the universe. Nope! And lucky for me AND my clients, I have the wonderful talent of popping one on, hands free, while doing a blowjob. I KNEW that skill would come in handy one day!
So Mr. Fabulous was (or is, I guess, because I’m assuming he’s still alive), an athlete with a toned body AND he was about 60 years old. What a treat! So after the safe sex slobbering, I popped on his pole and pumped away the way I love to do.
“Oh, what was that?! Slow down because you’re gonna cum? I can’t help it if I’m THAT good and know how to use my well-toned PC muscles!” I gave him the courtesy of a few less hard squeezes then WHOOPS! His eyes widened and his toes curled and his back arched then both of us were happy.
Within 15 minutes. Perfect.
And, like most men do after they’re with sex workers, they take a shower. It’s not like he sweat like he does when he runs his marathons, pumps iron, or does those never-ending squats, I mean, he was on his back, damn it! I was the one that was sweating!
But men usually take a quick shower after having sex with a prostitute to, in my wisdom, wash away any guilt or shame they’ve just experienced with doing such an intimate act with a complete stranger. I’m sure they don’t do that at home after rolling around for the obligatory marital “making love” they have to do on occasion with their wives to keep them happy. After taking their Viagra and before rolling over for yet another night of sleep at home. I’m glad it’s not me. Take your shower. Here’s the soap.
Yes, there were more and there will continue to be more. I am so passionate about what I do, it’s like this is the reason I am on this earth. There are many people to make happy, to be intimate in ways maybe even they weren’t aware were there for them. To make them feel good.
Even for just fifteen minutes.
I love it.

♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

Wanna learn the next time I’m at the Love Ranch North? It’s easy to do: just go to www.loveranch.net, get past the pesky “Are you over 18?” smokescreen (well, ya better be if you’ve been reading my blog!), click on Love Ranch Lovers, look for the letter “K” and voila! You’ll learn more about me than you’ll ever want to know!  And I’ll keep ya posted for my next trip north to the Ranch. I can’t wait.
And stay tuned for more of my escapades right here on my blog.
Next up, tales from The Dominion, my local place of delightful dominance and submission where I work as a ….
That’s the next blog… or two… or…..
 

‘Ho Tell – My Week at the Love Ranch – Part fi-aaah-ve

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As the ol’ punk rocker from New York City, Dick Manitoba of The Dictators wailed, “There’s two things that make the world go around…. PUSSY AND MONEY!” It should be the welcome sign over the door at the Love Ranch North.

Mind the Gap!

Mind the Gap!


Negotiations for doing the deed in Room Six. My room. Now the fun begins.
So one time, I was hanging around in the parlor and a customer/client/john (pick one) saunters in. We make small talk (he didn’t want to see a line up that day), and I manage to tease him enough to want to take a “tour” with me (Darn. Remember those pesky quotes?). I held him by the arm and immediately detected an accent.
Now accents fascinate me because they’re quite personal and easily designate where you’re from. I love to figure out where someone has lived (and most likely grown up) by their accent. As you may or may not know, my Mom was French (from Paris) and was lucky enough to marry my handsome American GI father after WWII so I think the way my ears perk up when I hear an accent has to do as much with her as anything else. Well, maybe the prostitution thing, too, but my parents always told me they met on a blind date.
WAIT!!! That’s what all my tricks are! A one hour blind date! I figured it out!!
End of blog.
Only kidding.
So I start making small talk with this guy as we head down the maze of hallways and I couldn’t quite figure out his accent. I thought maybe some quasi-Middle Eastern country (they keep changing names, just like the Russian countries do) so I just point blank asked him where he was from. “Cyprus” he replied. Oh yeah. I couldda guessed that one in a heartbeat.
As we were heading to the VIP room (natch, I love putting that in the brush script typeface it so richly deserves), he mentioned to me that he had been to the Ranch ten years ago. I, always the curious conversationalist no matter what accent you have, asked if the Ranch had changed much since then. His answer: no. I couldda guessed that one, too.
He just wanted to poke around the VIP room – wait, that’s what I wanted ALL of my clients to do in there for an hour! – and it was clear he really wanted to find out how much it would be for him to have his face not see the light of day within my thighs. Negotiation takes place in the room, not in the hallway, so I double stepped it a bit to Room Number Sex, I mean, Six.
Now, I know you’ve all been panting in anticipation about HOW MUCH MONEY DO YOU MAKE?!?! HOW MUCH DOES IT COST?!?! Now, well, you’re going to learn.
Us girls, as independent contractors at the Love Ranch, get a lovely, non-taxed til April 15th, 1099 form from Dennis Hof and his band of accountants… or would that be accuntants at a brothel? Hmmm. So we set all of our own prices much like any other conslutant for any other company and dammit spellcheck! I DID want to say CONSLUTANT!
When I arrived at the Ranch, Adrianne, the lovely house madam, wisely assigns you a “Big Sister” to show you the way around the inner workings of the Ranch and answer any questions you may come up with and believe me, even a gal like me who’s played the field and been around the block (a few times, at least!), still had questions with one major one I was dying to know the answer for.
‘HOW MUCH SHOULD I CHARGE TO DO WHAT?!?!?’
Now, I’ve done plenty of freelance jobs in my life, with various rates for various things. The last time I turned tricks for fun and profit was from 1988-90 and I sure as hell didn’t want to charge THOSE rates anymore.
I had always heard that the rates were set by what you did more than anything else but still had no idea what to charge. $50 blowjob? Well, considering the house’s portion of the take (which I considered fair and most likely pretty typical in the brothel world), my take would just about cover a nice pair of shoes from Payless. But I don’t get my shoes at Payless so I wouldn’t charge $50. You also don’t want to lower your standards because, in a way, it lowers the whole house down because Mr. John can say, “So and so charged me less last time” and basically go comparison shopping like one would do at Best Buy.
Besides which, we don’t want to lower anything at the Ranch, we just want them to get up.
I learned very quickly that not sharing what your rates are definitely one of the big whore secrets none of us girls share amongst ourselves. Fortunately, my big sister was the one that very quietly told me what to do which made it easy for me to figure out since I suck at math (bad) but suck at other things, well, (good).
Charge for your time. Yep. Nice and simple. When you’re a pro ‘ho (or non pro because, girls, you’ll know exactly where I’m going with this), you can pretty much guess, in general, how much time what is going to take. Add to it the excitement Mr. John will experience being with a prostitute at a brothel along with the most likely scenario of no foreplay as well as being in the clutches of my talented and well-experienced PC muscles, I can pretty much figure out how long things are going to take. 15-20 minutes. Yep.
So I sat Mr. Cyprus down on the edge of my bed and asked what he had in mind and, as I said earlier, no matter what creative ideas you come up with, it’s ALWAYS gonna be fucking and sucking. But, as with any negotiation that’s going to take time, you can always ask first what they plan to spend.
“Howmuchforhundred” he garbled in his lowered, slightly embarrassed, half-nervous, fully accented voice. I listened to him carefully and replied “Oh, well, for that we can do some fucking and sucking,” after which I smiled with a sly wink. “CanIeatyourpussy?” he responded and, um, for me, that’ll cost you extra. I just wanted to get him in my door.
When negotiations are finished, usually within a minute while your bedroom door is wide open, you casually bring your client back down a hallway almost to the parlor to plant yourself at the Dutch doored office window where the lovely cashier will process your trick. She’ll be the one to write down the time you start, how long you are going to “party,” (damn quotes again), take the client’s cash (we ARE whores and always get paid in advance, of course!), and give you the all important large towel, small towel, and trick sheet to toss over your lovely velour bedspread. God forbid you get cum stains on it ‘cuz then you’ll have to get it washed, never mind roll around on a dreaded wet spot.
So, I’m beginning to get moist thinking of the combination of sex and money, not so much that Mr. Cyprus is turning me on (I DO have my priorities), and come to the moment that I have to turn around to him to have him grease my palm with his hard earned dinero.
He gives me A HUNDRED.
I decided then that I actually hate accents.
“Howmuch FOR A HUNDRED?” he should have clearly said when my ears heard “How much FOUR HUNDRED?” Four hundred yes, for a hundred, you’ll be lucky if I show you a pubic hair.
The negotiation did not go well. He had a disappointed look on his face as I had to give him the answer to his question that he didn’t want to hear. “Are there any girls I can get here?” I’ll tell ya, I shop at Goodwill but I’m not gonna lower my price for a pubic hair show. I looked at him and gently shook my head “not at the Ranch.” And then the obvious….
“It was a hundred last time I was here.”
The compassionate whore that I am leaked out at that moment, trying to comfort him the best I could. I gently put my hand on his shoulder and uttered “Ah yes, my friend. A lot of things cost more than they did ten years ago.”
I slowed down in front of the ATM machine, hoping he’d extort a few extra hundred to have a good time with me, but alas, he said the same thing any customer in a retail store would say to be polite and escape without buying anything: “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
And we all know how that worked out.
But there was another day in my week in the brothel and many more stories to tell.
To be continued..
And be sure to check out the past entries in this on-going series:

‘Ho Tell – My Week at The Love Ranch – Part FoWHORE

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So, where we last left off, the definition of “party” at The Love Ranch is not popping open a coolie in front of the 64” HDTV with your frat buddies. No, no, no. A party (I’ll leave off the quotes because my pinkies will get sore constantly using them in this blog), is basically when you get together with a paying customer to perform a sex act. Sex act. It sounds so stale but you can pretty much assume that it’s not. It’s so easy to flippantly ask your fellow cutie “so did you party?” and get an answer which may or may not be elaborated on.

My sex toy collection

My sex toy collection


After the lineup, the customer can either decide on a hottie or choose to sit it out and plant their asses at the full bar to soak up the view. There are two options at this point.
When a client sits at the bar, they basically become fair game, meaning that you can approach them after they settle in and order a drink. This is fun to partake in or watch the cruising begin. Basically, you want the client to see you and only you and let go of their Bud at the bar and follow you to your room.
Now, being the conversationalist I love to be, this can backfire on me because I truly am interested in shooting the shit at the bar! So I’ll be talking, finding out if they’re local, what brought them to the Ranch, what they do for work. But damn! I’m supposed to be there to hustle my junk so I have to admit, I wasn’t so good at doing this. There sure are some pro ‘hoes at the Ranch that can swoop in effectively and efficiently and it was fun to watch them work. So what if I lost out at the real, genuine, pick up bar? I was really hoping that someone would want to go to my room for my brain but I guess they can go to the library to find someone to fit THAT bill. They’re at the Ranch to get laid!
The other thing they can do is pick a girl out of the lineup so she can give them ”a tour.” The tour is just that: the opportunity for the client to check the joint out that’s beyond the comfortable surroundings of the parlor and the bar. So join me and see what a tour is all about!
“Hi! My name’s Kim” you’d say but of course, we use our own fake real names. “Where ya from?” Hey! That’s what I’d always ask anyway! Basically, you make small talk with the client while wrapping your arm around theirs or even around their waist to get them really comfortable. You want them to smell your aura, your scent, your desire for them and the contents of their wallet.
You begin your tour by entering the center of the parlor that leads to to the maze of hallways… kinda like going into the folds of a giant vagina leading up to the fallopian tubes of desire. But what’s that I see? Why it’s a convenient ATM machine front and center in case you forgot your casheroo but DID have your trusty ATM card with you, I mean, who doesn’t nowadays? And, in case your snooping wife happens to scan your statement at the end of the month, the ATM receipt has the innocuous name “Sierra National” on it. But of course… you’d think it would say “Fuck Farm” on it?!?!?
After waltzing past the ATM machine, with your arm firmly entwined with his nervous member (his ARM I mean), you head in the direction of your room with a quick stop by the infamous Love Ranch North VIP Room.
Oh yeah. The VIP Room… the extra special room where it will cost you extra special money. You veer off to your right and enter the doorway with the fancy script V. I. P. etched on the sign. You know you want them there.
The VIP Room is like a well appointed Las Vegas hotel room. The lights are dim and moody and of course its complete with a king sized bed (or maybe even California King but it’s Nevada so I don’t think so) with a nice, furry bedspread on it. There’s a large flat screen TV with a remote (natch), a sex chair that looks pretty comfy, too, and a leopard print sex sling dangling in the corner, begging to be used by that high roller you just brought in there. There’s also a sunken room on the opposite side with a massage table there, evoking the relaxation both your shoulders, groin, and wallet will feel soon after.
And of course, the piece-de-resistASS is the two person, bubble with your beauty, Jacuzzi tub, sunken in the side of the room, with every kind of bath product nestled on the side of the platform.
The room speaks to their fantasy. The room gets them hard. The room is the one you want them in because the blowjobs are REALLY good in there. The VIP Room. The catch for the girls.
After you tempt them with the desire of going into the VIP room, you can saunter down the hall to the doctor’s exam room. Hey! Isn’t that the same room I flatbacked in on Thursday by the guy I had to pay to have his fingers in my snatch?! By Jove, it IS! How practical! Well, you can offer them the doctor’s room to them for a round of hanky panky but during my week there, there weren’t any takers that I knew of but I’m sure many of us tried.
So after you’re finding out who they are and having your pulse on their nervousness and perhaps upcoming proclivities, time to bring them to your own room to continue the seduction dance to make them part with their greenbacks.
When you bring your POTENTIAL client to your room, you orally seduce them and begin to negotiate with them, the first real step in getting the opportunity to put out for cash. Sometimes the men will know the routine, sometimes not so much, making the goal of your “tour” the intro to what you really want them to do there.
One of the rules of the house is that during negotiations, you must keep the door open to avoid those dreaded quickies that the house won’t get a piece of. Yep, some guys just need a precious minute in a room with a whore to dump his 10ccs and leave so having the door open is actually a good idea for everyone.
During the negotiations, you have them sit at the end of the bed and give them your best bedroom eyes (which translate into “this will be worth your money AND your time”). For the clients who know the drill (so to speak), they’ll mention they want the usual which is usually fucking and sucking, natch, or, more appropriately, snatch. For the less indoctrinated guys, you kind of have to make the suggestions as to what would be a good “party” but I can assure you… it’s gonna wind up being fucking and sucking no matter what you say.
So think of this as the financial foreplay leading up to cashing in on the big load. Which will be my next deposit in ‘Ho Tell.
Catch up on what you missed:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

‘Ho Tell – My Week at the Love Ranch – Part Twat

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If you missed out on part one and part two, now’s the time to get caught up! Don’t worry. I’ll wait. Now, the first thing to keep in mind when you’re working in a brothel is the motto “Less IS More” – meaning wearing less will get you more clients. Apparently, I learned, less birthdays works that way, too.
BSIR3ylCMAATVGd.jpg-largeI’ve always been proud of where I am in my life, without living in regret or moving forward with them. Same with birthdays. I wear them proudly. I, most likely like other women my age (55, if you really want to know), probably fantasize about making passionate love, okay, really, ravishingly FUCKING those young, buff, 20 somethings, giving them an experience they’ll never forget. Women, in my book, age like fine wine, and I’d like to think myself included. I actually like having sex with much younger men because, since I don’t have any kids (and never will at this time of my life), I have no point of reference thinking that I’m having sex with a kid that could be mine. Besides which, those young guys shoot like GEYSERS. Up to the ceiling! Up to their chins! Up through my pendulous bre… okay… down girl. You have a blog to write!
(Check out the photo gallery from my week long brothel stay!) 
Okay, where was I? Ah yes, less is more. Well, it turns out that the less you wear, the more you offer when you show your bod to the client. And just how do we do that at the Love Ranch?, you ask.
“LINEUP! LINEUP!” the hostess silently barks when we have a hungry customer walking through the door when he wants to feast his eyes on the beauties that are working at the time. What a lineup is is exactly that. We can be hanging out in our room, snacking in the non-stop, open 24 hours, well-stocked kitchen, or reading in the parlor (the main socializing room of the brothel). The lineup is called by the hostess who frantically hits a doorbell by the front door that rings in your room, summoning you to run as fast as you can into the parlor (in your heels or barefoot so you can slip into them at the entrance) and taking your place in line, standing stick straight without moving your hands, arms or anything else that might draw attention to you over any of your lovely competitors for his hard earned cash.
When the hostess figures that all of the girls are ready for the show, she proudly says “Okay ladies, introduce yourself!” and depending on the number of women, we sashay in a circle, making brief eye contact with the client, and cheerfully introduce ourselves, saying our names clearly and happily. “Hi! My name’s Kim!” I’d smile as I twirled around the edge of the room with other women in front or behind me. We’d resume our place in line when the lineup was finished and allow Mr. John to choose the woman of his dreams. It’s kind of a perverted climax akin to Miss America… “pick me!” “pick me!” you’re thinking to yourself, hoping that you’ll wind up with some cash instead of going back to your room to play another hand of Solitaire.
Now whom exactly do these guys pick? As you know, I’m completely fascinated by ALL THINGS SEX and seeing this pageant unfold frequently was certainly part of the 450 mile trip up the 395. Ever since my humble beginnings in the wacky sex world, I’ve learned that one can NEVER generalize who is going to choose whom for the horizontal dance competition but I can say that I got pretty good at guessing. Turns out that usually, the roly-poly old white guys go with… wait for it… the blonde, scantily clad young ‘uns or my lovely, dark skinned beauties who totally rocked the place while I was there. I had hoped they’d go for someone like their woman at home but come to think of it, maybe that’s why they’re at the Ranch. Like Tom Waits growls in “Pasties and a G String” – “getcha little sumthin’ that you can’t get at home.” Welcome to the Ranch.
When you’re working at the Ranch, they suggest your twelve hour schedule to see you if it fits your normal sleep/wake schedule so it doesn’t throw off your fucking Circadian rhythm. Adrianne, the fabulous House Madam, suggested I work from 10am to 10pm every day, hours that are totally agreeable to my system although I kinda do prefer turning tricks in the moonlight.
Now I know you’re wondering, WHAT!?? TWELVE HOURS!?!? Well, yeah. I mean, you’re gonna be there anyway so why not be on the market the whole time? And it’s not really WORKING the whole twelve hours: you’re on the property, keeping busy, shootin’ the shit, doing stuff.
We’re also allowed to roll up to the Moonlight Bunny Ranch, the larger, more famous brothel also owned by Dennis Hof that’s about ½ mile away. Sure, you’ve seen it on HBO’s Cat House program that ran for many years and still does. There’s a pool there we can use (I didn’t go) and a gym in a converted few car garage (where I did go a couple of times to bang out a sweaty). So you can escape the Love Ranch to go to the Bunny Ranch and you can make arrangements to go do errands in town, if you need to, during your shift, but since I was so well prepared, I never left for any amount of time.
But back to the schedule. Several of the gals worked from noon to midnight, one pm til one am, and one gal actually worked from 8pm til 8 am to capture those guys who wanted pay for a blowie before work. No shit.
One morning, I was awake in my bed at 7am when I heard the doorbell ring (which it does anytime of day or night when Mr. John walks through the door and wants to see the lineup). I had my messed up morning hair, which I think looks kinda sexy, so I threw on a silky Japanese robe, heels, and dashed out as fast as I could. But no client! Turns out Miss 8am got him so the early bird DOES get the trouser worm at The Love Ranch!
But you also only get paid when you “party,” the brothel’s term for the legal hook up you are about to experience with Mr. John.
Let me go get some lube and tell you more in the next post. Mmmmm….

‘Ho Tell – My Week at the Love Ranch – Part Do

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So where we last left off, your intrepid whoreporter (I dare you to read that in three syllables) was sweating in out in the comfort of the County Sheriff Department’s Satellite station down the road from the Love Ranch. Turns out the computers were down for several hours after lunch and instead of waiting around in the sparsely decorated room with nutrition information for your babies and a time lapse photo series of the degradation of a female meth addict, I decided to leave my cell number with the nice clerk, who assured me she’d call me as soon as the computers were on line again. By doing so, she made both of us hope SOMETHING would get UP soon!

love ranch

These stilettos could fuck a snake.


By the time 4:00pm rolled around, I was hanging out at the Ranch (something one becomes very good at doing but more on that later), and my phone rings with the odd Nevada number on it. I answer breathlessly and before I could hang up, my ass was in the saddle of the Big Vibe and I was tearing down the 50 to get processed before the clock struck 5:30.
It takes the better part of 45 minutes to get processed into the state system o’ sex workers. They had to see if there were any outstanding felonies on me (there weren’t), check the finger print database (there weren’t any there either because I never had been) so I had to get fingerprinted in order to make sure I wasn’t going to be dealing drugs or supporting a habit OR stealing from a john while I was flatbackin’ for fun and profit.
Welcome to the ‘OOs… fingerprinting ain’t what it used to be. It’s all done electronically now – hell, I didn’t even have to get the pads of my digits inked to get it done. First, you wipe your fingers on baby wipes (hey, I thought they were only needed for sex acts and babies), then roll your finger over a small screen. The images of your fingerprints come up on a huge screen making them look like they belong to the Jolly Green Giant. But they’re yours. So first you take the fingerprints of your pads, then you take an entire SET of them with your lonely opposable thumb as a stand out and your four other fingers on their own screen. THEN you take images of each one of them with your fingertip ROLLED over the screen to get a full, ¾ way around image of your identifier. Whew! I had never had that done before and actually took some comfort in getting them registered so now, if they find me upside down in a ditch after getting run off the road on my motorcycle (god forbid), there will be a record of my fingerprints somewhere that were taken for WHORING and not for some measly shoplifting bust. That’s the way, uh huh, uh huh, I like it….
So after that was done, I paid my $50 for my good-for-a-year sheriff’s card, making me a legal leg spreader in the Silver State of Nevada! Woohoo! The state where the vices of gambling and prostitution are LEGAL, baby! I hit the jackpot now!
I hopped on my bike all sorts of proud, knowing that when I returned to the Ranch, I was legal. Guess that’s what it feels when you get your citizenship, only for me, it was much more ancient. Sure, I’ve worked as a call girl before (that’s sooo much classier than saying “prostitute” but of course, we all know it’s the same) but that was in Boston and it wasn’t legal and it certainly won’t be there for a long time. But they just voted in casino gambling so maybe, just maybe…
But I digress. Yes, this is something I’ve always wanted to do and now I know I can and could. I cleared my snatch test and the county and state said it was okay, too. Back to slutting…
My room. Ah yes. The bedroom that becomes my home for the week. The room that I trick in, the room that I sleep in, the room that I work in doing all the things on my Kimputer I’ve been meaning to do for months. My room. Room number 6 down one of the labyrinth of hallways that hold together the rooms that we suck, fuck, sleep, apply makeup, dress, talk, gossip, and everything else you do in a bedroom. Having never partaken in a dorm setting in college, I finally felt that at my age, I was getting the experience of living in a sorority for the first time. A slut sorority. My kind of place. It felt good.
Before my arrival, l had spoken to a woman who had worked at the Bunny Ranch for a few weeks and I hadn’t known she had done this until she sheepishly admitted it to me. The advice she gave me was a godsend. What to pack, what to expect. It was all invaluable for this virgin (I love having the opportunity to say that. It happens so rarely).
When you research the Ranch (or any of the brothels for that matter), they are somewhat vague about what essentials you need to start to work. Sure, there’s heels and lingerie but there’s so much more.
Here’s what packing advice she shared with me: bring baby wipes, condoms and flavored lube (they have them but fortunately, I can get them wholesale!), sexy lightbulbs to create an ambiance, Christmas lights (for aforementioned ambiance), battery powered candles since they don’t allow flames in the room (I have remote controlled ones from Costco! They’re totally cool!), your own toiletries, tissues, towels (they have them but it’s easier to bring your own), PAPER towels (for quick clean ups and YES, you have to supply them) and any other sex oriented supplies you may need. Basically, it IS like a dorm room furnished with a nightstand light, nightstand, bed, bed linens, and plenty of furniture to load up with your stuff. Oh, bring a padlock for the closet, too, because that’s how you lock up your valuables in your room. Glad there weren’t any sex toy kleptos working there the same week I was.
So I decorated my room with Christmas lights, sexy fabrics, carefully placed the remote controlled candles in different corners of the room, and lined the shelves with fabric to highlight my gigantic sex toy collection which I shipped up a few days before along with everything else I couldn’t cart on the Big Vibe. I also had a goddess looking over me… in the corner of my metal framed bed, I delicately hung my precious possession of the autographed G string of one of my favorite porn stars: the late, great Erica Boyer. She would be watching my every move while occupying the queen size bed in Room 6 at the Love Ranch North. I was ready to roll.

‘Ho Tell – My Week at the Love Ranch – Part One

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Well, well, well….a week at the ‘Ho Tell. What was it like to work a week at the brothel known as The Love Ranch? I’ll tell ya – it was everything I expected and more and less, all at the same time.

My lovely room

My lovely room


It began with a lovely 400+ mile ride on my motorcycle out of the stifling traffic of Los Angeles to a scoot over to the 14, cutting through the dry desert. I left shortly before rush hour and THINK I avoided it, and traffic thinned out once I hit the 14, heading northeast through Palmdale, Lancaster and the Antelope Valley, skirting the edge of the Mojave Desert and the mountains. I rested my head in Bishop, past half way up on 395, slicing its way through the Eastern Sierras, although I can do the ride in one day. I just didn’t want to arrive tired.
Departing early in the morning, I continued up 395, winding my way up to Carson City… the Nevada state capital. I was excited with anticipation and it felt like I was going to my first day on a new job.
Which it was.
I arrived with dust in my hair and a smile on my face. I had made it just in time to get my initial gynecological exam which gives me permission to work in the sex industry in Nevada. The doctor signs off on it and, well, I’m getting ahead of myself.
When I arrived, I was warmly greeted by the staff and the house Madam, Adrianne, who had helped me every step of the way when I toyed with the idea of parting my gams for money. She scurried me over to the doctor’s exam room while I was waving the papers that I was just given. The doctor’s room can also double as a trick room if a client wants to play doctor with any of us. Oh boy! Blending fantasy with reality!
The doctor visits the Love Ranch weekly to give the girls (as we’re known as – “women” would reek of feminism) their weekly health exam to make sure the plumbing is in perfect working order and there’s no leaks in the system. I’ve got to say that it was one of the most impersonal gyno exams I’ve ever had but I guess us girls and the doctors all in the same business under that roof – we get paid to spread ‘em and the more we can do in an hour, the more money we’ll make.
At this point, I finally had the time to go through all of the paperwork, filled out forms, read basic rules of the house and generally started picking up on the ambiance of the place I’d call home for the next week (gosh, I almost had a typo there by leaving out the “m” in home, making it “hoe” but I guess that would have been appropriate, too).
The Love Ranch. Home for the next week. The brothel at the end of the cul de sac which offers not one, not two, but THREE different ranches where men (and sometimes couples) can get their rocks off with the girl of their choice without having to worry about catching cooties or avoiding a phone call the next morning. Whores. Prostitutes. In the words of Charlie Sheen, “I pay them to go away.” No truer words were ever spoken.
The Love Ranch is owned by Dennis Hof, aka Big Daddy or Big Pimp because, well, that’s exactly what he’s doing but more on him in a moment. On one side of the cul de sac is the Kit Kat Ranch that has been open for over SIXTY years! It was family owned until recently and apparently they had let it run down to a pretty sad state. Along comes Dennis Hof who bought the place and is currently going through a gut rehab to offer more pleasures of the flesh in yet another location close to home.
The other brothel is the Sagebrush Ranch, which has something like 60 rooms in it to service those in need of a quickie, a blow job, or anything else that might be on the agenda. The Love Ranch is situated between the two other brothels and there’s even a “Gentleman’s Club” at the top of the cul de sac which provides enough entertainment to establish a well-earned boner for the customers to successfully relieve themselves with the woman of their choice. Dennis is creating the country’s first legal Red Light District in the US, much like the Red Light District in Amsterdam only here, the canals are different.
Okay, so after the spread ‘em and scrape ‘em doctor exam, the results are faxed over the next day (in the morning when you’re lucky, as I was), which gives you clearance for the next step in become a legal flesh peddler. It’s called “getting your Sheriff’s card” and anyone working in any aspect of the adult industry in the fair state of Nevada, whether it’s fucking or showing your junk on stage as a stripper, you have to have one to be legal. So I had my signed and faxed seal of appr’HOval in my hand and jumped on The Big Vibe to make the 6 mile ride to the Sheriff’s office to get my well deserved card before lunch.
Wouldn’t you know, the state computers were down and I had to wait for their return to workability. In the meantime, I got to check out a new slate of working girls that were going to work at other ranches and needed their cards, too. I had a feeling that some of them thought I was several girls’ Mom. NOT. We come in all shapes and sizes and ages, honey! I ended up returning after lunch and breathlessly awaited the computers to come back on line, which was just an hour before they closed for the weekend. Had they not come back up, I would have been shit outta luck for the weekend – usually the busiest time at the Ranch.
I’m gotta run, but stay tuned for part 2! It has all the good stuff. 😉

Love Ranch North in Photos

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And I’m back. From a week at the Love Ranch North, that is. If you follow me on Twitter, you’ve already heard a lot about my experience, but not everything, I assure you. I have plenty of stories to tell but in the meantime, here are some photos from the adventure to whet your appetite for what’s to come.

Stockings and heels.

Stockings and heels.


I also recorded a USTREAM video while I was there, Friday Night at The Love Ranch. Dennis Hof interview some of the lovely ladies at the Ranch, including yours truly! Check it out.
I spent a lot of time in my lovely room at the Love Ranch North. Be sure to check out the full gallery below.

Sexy legs and sex work

A New (Old) Line of Work for Kim Airs

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Sexy legs and sex work

Not my legs. But if they were, I’d be spreadin’ em. Ha!


I’m doing something I’ve always wanted to do…
You know, I’m pretty comfortable in my own skin. After being in the sex toy biz for 20 years now, I think I gotta be. And, to add even more years to the whole sex thing, I really got my swerve on in 1987 after I got officially divorced after 7 ½ years of marriage. True. But that’s another blog.
I’ve always been one to live out my fantasies and encourage others to do the same. I mean, why just always THINK about doing something without ever ACTING on it? Sure, there are some that you just don’t want to go there with (underage sex, fucking your horse, swinging from the top of the Empire State Building), you know, stuff like that. But there are many others that you CAN go for, ones that may be considered extreme or taboo or just plain crazy enough that you’d be crazy enough to do it.
Well, I’m happy to report, I’m doing it. “It” is something that I’ve done before but in a different situation. “It” being something that I got such absolute pleasure from, I want to do it again. “It” being something that I told no one else about except someone who had previously been my boss and who I trusted with all of my secrets. “It” being a job that I didn’t even tell my boyfriend at the time about. “It” being sex work.

“It” being a whore.

Yep. I said it. Many years ago, I worked as a call girl for two years while I was working full time at Harvard University. Yes, THAT Harvard.
During those two years flat backin’ for fun and profit, I experienced countless amazing episodes of expressed sexuality whether it was being intimate with a recently widowed young man, watching porno while chomping on popcorn with a guy, listening to someone’s life story without judgment, and of course, providing plenty of men with delightful handjobs, blowjobs and plain ol’ fucking.
Yes, I miss sex work and I’m going back for more.
From August 16 through August 23, I will be working for a week at a well established brothel up in Carson City, Nevada, where whoredom is plentiful AND legal. It will be the first time I’m holed up (so to speak) with a herd of other gals all out for the same thing. A gaggle of gals where I’m probably old enough to be their mother and probably for some of them, their GRANDMOTHER but I’m not gonna go there with that.
I think of the maturity and experience I can bring to the table or bed when I think of working at the brothel. You know, there’s PLENTY of young, studly twenty somethings that are willing to part with hard earned cash to be intimate with a strong, older woman who doesn’t care about how many posts she has on Facebook and Twitter (okay, actually, I WOULD but that’s not why I’m parting my legs). There are many men who want to get nailed in privacy, plenty of guys who for no other reason, want to have sex with a stranger. There’s plenty of guys who may be disabled and want to experience passion for the first time. But I’m not doing it for them, no, I’m doing it to experience my fantasy because I’ve never worked in a brothel before and I have always wanted to.
Besides which, you wouldn’t buy a book from an illiterate bookseller, would you?
Plus, it’ll give me a lot to write about and post here with anonymity guaranteed. So stay tuned for more ramblings about being a living, breathing sex worker. And if you’ve ever wanted to get with that mature and experienced woman, just book an appointment with me at the Love Ranch North. I promise I won’t write about you unless you really want me to.

See ya at the Ranch…