Big Bang Theory
Reluctant wives, horny accountants and leather slaves: A Green Door memoir
BY SKYLAIRE ALFVEGREN
Outside, a giant marquee proclaims the place an Internet cafe. Ever a fount of decency, I would redirect those poor souls who came to use the Internet to the Pride Factory down the block. I was always shocked when a man would plunk down $20 for the privilege of jerking off for an hour in one of the small Internet rooms, dimly-lit and stocked with Kleenex.
Behind the front door (it's not green, incidentally) you're greeted by a cigarette machine and glass display cases filled with bondage collars, outmoded porno video cassettes, and a helter-skelter assortment of penile holding devices: leather ball restraints, steel cock rings, things you'd find at the Folsom Street Fair (or San Francisco's Powerhouse, nudge, wink) -- nothing you'd associate with the DayGlo orange-tanned matrons, horny tourists and random effluvia who keep the club open.
To the left, a trio of small round tables are buttressed by two circular racks of latex bondage wear and Green Door T-shirts. A few prints of naked women and a felt dartboard adorn the tomato soup-red walls.
To the right, you'll find the "cafe," a long bar at whose head a cash register and jar of condoms beckon. It was from this cafe; bar girls are instructed to lure in would-be customers, dispensing concessions on a par with a porno theater: nachos, hot dogs, coffee and non-alcoholic beer (The Green Door strictly prohibits alcohol.)
There is a tremendous difference between working at the Green Door during the day -- the place opens at one in the afternoon -- and at night. Part of the day café worker's job is to give tours of the first floor of the facility. "Eighteen-thousand square feet of devil-may-care" or "You have to pay to see the dungeon," I'd say, depending on the individual. You had to be on guard against skinflint voyeurs looking for a "freebie" and grotesques sniffing around for a hooker. When couples came for tours, it was invariably the man's idea: Sometimes I genuinely felt for the poor wifey, sometimes I couldn't get the scum out of my soul, and sometimes I had a hard time picturing the guys who came in getting laid there, or anywhere.
The pitch was also given over the phone. Heavy breathers called in hopes of free phone sex, to which I would often quote Las Vegas vice codes. There was the occasional furtive stab at finding a prostitute. Legally, we couldn't refer to The Green Door as a "sex club." The pitch went like this, always delivered in the fashion of a 976 commercial (breathy, husky), and beginning with a provocatively toned "Are you coming alone?" A caller was likely a husband bored in his marriage or in town for a convention. "We allow open nudity and sexual activity and people are allowed to watch or join in so long as everyone consents; however, all we provide is the space and atmosphere for 'play' to happen.
