Big Bang Theory
Reluctant wives, horny accountants and leather slaves: A Green Door memoir
BY SKYLAIRE ALFVEGREN
The wife of the other couple sported a massive black bouffant and revealing leather outfits. She and her husband were sweet, seemingly treating the Green Door as a hangout with a kick. Even though they'd tip employees randomly, I avoided visualizing what they did upstairs. Upstairs, rain or shine, opened at 9 p.m.
One time I had to work the night shift, and was asked to bring some Cokes upstairs. A bearded man who I'm certain was really into D&D as a youngster and probably made his living as a computer programmer, his wife (because geeks are often heroic) and their "slave" had wheeled a suitcase full of devices past me earlier that evening.
I walked up the stairs, past the lounge, past the steam room, past the "no wear" room where nudity is mandatory ... to the dungeon. Cheesily and to its credit, there are restraining devices, candelabras and walls painted over with fake bricks.
The "slave," a dewy-eyed girl in leather pants and a black halter top, didn't mind the incessant bullwhip-tip on her butt. She was the hottest thing the place had seen in a month. (Earlier that evening a woman with the countenance of a hamster had been banged by 20 men in quick succession.)
When working the "cage," employees are told to ask for a driver's license for two reasons. Number one, prostitutes are unlikely to carry identification, and even though the place doesn't serve alcohol, minors aren't allowed, although no Traci Lords wannabes ever came in on my watch.
More importantly, we asked for ID to weed out cross-dressers. Swingers are amazingly conservative: Wife-swapping is directionally oppositional to man-on-man action, something the Green Door goes out of its way to make sure happens elsewhere. "Take a look: Does the woman asking for a wristband have an Adam's Apple?" my manager, a refugee from the tech world, would ask. (She left her job 80 pounds and one husband lighter, her skirts growing progressively shorter, her banter ever more racy.)
Why did I leave? It wasn't the mountain of cum towels needing to be laundered every afternoon. Was it the $7.50 an hour, which could be supplanted by tips made from watching men jerk off, which I didn't? Yeah. Sometimes an idea is good in theory, unbearable in reality. like the months I spent trying to become a Buddhist through osmosis, living in a Zen commune but stashing my Scotch where the monks couldn't find it.
I thought there'd be color here. I thought I'd get a greater understanding of humanity, sociology that no class could ever teach. And I did. Americans' lives are empty and hollow. Some fill the hole with shopping, or drugs, or graduate school. Patrons of the Green Door fill it, if they can, with sex.
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