CLAPPING FOR CATHOUSE

I ran across a poster from World War II at a flea market once. It displayed a dark alley, washed in maroon, the white moon lurking in the background. A slightly heavyset woman in equally heavy makeup leans against the alley wall with a cigarette in her hand, leaning into the heels of her sexy shoes. In strong, clean typeset, the white message reads: “Easy to Get … Syphilis and Gonorrhea”.

And so they are. Gonorrhea acquired the dirty alias “The Clap” a half-millennia ago in France. In Old French, the word clapoir, or “brothel”, was shortened and attached to this grand illness which has for centuries made us piss and moan in the literal sense. Before the age of the microscope gonorrhea was often thought to be the first stage of syphilis since the two so often went hand in hand, and no wonder – gonorrhea is the most common bacterial infection among adults even today. It isn’t so bad for women; for them, the disease is merely a vaginal irritant which might condemn their future children to blindness. For men, each full bladder signifies a river of fire. During World War II, penicillin became widely available just in time to treat all the forlorn soldiers who were, as they say, pissing and moaning.

I live with four women and two men in a seven-bedroom house near the University of Michigan. They didn’t know me very well when we first signed our lease together. Come to think of it, I didn’t know much about any of them, beyond their interest in my seven-bedroom house and their names: Danielle, Kristina, Kathleen, Sabrina, Andrew and Andy. September was a month of marking territory and cautious friendly overtures. It was not until early October, when we stumbled across the HBO series Cathouse, that we all discovered our common, binding interest: porn.

Ah, porn; derived from the Greek word porne, meaning prostitute. Porn is the great equalizer – watch it in a living room with a few friends, and you will discover things not only about them, but about yourself. The way they watch – leaning forward, leaning back, with a pillow clutched over their privates, legs crossed, legs spread, eyes glistening, eyes bored, smiling, frowning – is a model of the way they live. The way I watch, what I fast forward through, and the jokes I make during … these are all indicative of my life.

It started, as I’ve mentioned, with the late-night HBO program Cathouse. Cathouse is a bizarre cross between porn movie and reality TV show, set in a legalized Nevada brothel called “The Moonlight Bunny Ranch”. It chronicles the lives of the working girls, their endless parade of customers, the madam and the brothel owner himself. I forget who discovered it first, who tuned the TV to it – but I do remember watching it with my six housemates crammed onto a couple of futons, delighted and horrified. I remember thinking as I watched penises flop across the screen, “Now this is quality entertainment.”

Being able to watch porn in mixed company is like being a superhero. When friends arrive for a visit on Saturday night, we fix them a cocktail, sit them down, and pop in something shocking. When one or two people lure a friend home, give them alcohol and show them illicit videos, it is undeniably creepy. But seven people, rosy cheeked and wholesome, lying about like a litter of puppies, joking at the shape of her genitals or laughing at his grunting noises? It is an invitation to air out the stuffiest, deepest part of oneself.

By November, people had begun to arrive at our house for Porn Night on a weekly basis in search of this odd combination of familial trust and explicit exposure. In our house it was not uncommon to find a debate on public education raging against the background of Space Nuts. Indeed, sex and the sex industry became so commonplace at home that we started using STDs as pet names. Andy’s, for instance, was “Scabies McGee”.

A few months ago my housemate Kristina Kellett went out to Meijer for bread, bagels, peanut butter and a fifth of Maker’s Mark whiskey. She came home with a hamster. She carried it through the front door in a little cardboard box, the hamster stuffing its nose desperately through the air holes.

“Kellett,” Danielle sat up from her book. “What in God’s name did you do?”

“They have hamsters!” Kristina said as she dragged in a new hamster cage, a bag of shavings, and a box of hamster food. “They have hamsters at Meijer!”

“We … can see that,” Danielle said.

I was so enamored of the imagined ball of fur; I became incapable of coherent speech. “Hurry, hurry, hurry!” I whispered, waving Kristina in. “Set up the cage, quick, poor baby is so sad and scared and it’s dark in there!” The hamster’s furry nose jabbed in and out of the cardboard box’s holes pleadingly.

I played with the hamster’s nose while Kristina assembled the cage, and then we gently showed the hamster into his new home.

“What are we going to name him?” Kristina asked.

“Herpes!” I suggested.

“No, we already named the squirrel that lives across the street that, remember?” Danielle shook her head. “Too confusing.”

“No herpes?” Andy asked.

“No herpes,” Kristina said sadly.

“Wait a minute, I’ve got an idea,” Andy sat up excitedly. He turned up the volume on the TV. A soothing male voice faded in.

“…is for adults with healthy immune systems only. It is still possible to spread herpes even with medication and treatment. Ask your doctor about once daily Valtrex.”
We’ve been calling the hamster Valtrex ever since.

It is no accident that the French nicknamed gonorrhea after their brothels. One need look no farther than that red-toned poster and its shapely, painted occupant to see the influence of prostitution on the spread of the clap. Conversely, one may track the world’s sexual history through documentation of the clap.

That documentation stretches back to our very earliest writings. In Egypt, China and Japan we find written warnings against the clap dating back to the very days when these civilizations were inventing writing systems. Early religious texts are also great fonts of information on both disease and prostitution. The Roman goddess Venus is at the root of the word venereal; the Bible’s prostitute Rehab married into the Jewish faith and became the great-great-grandmother of King David. The earnings from Athens’s first brothels were used to build a temple to the goddess Aphrodite. In the early history of many civilizations there appears a parallel between fallen women and power; between venereal disease and the divine.

Brothels had become largely illegal in the States by 1915 thanks to the Women’s Temperance movement, an organization also in part responsible for the failed audition of Prohibition. However, several corners of America were forgotten in this sweep of legislation – among them, parts of Nevada, where legal brothels now flourish.

For as long as prostitutes have existed, a plague of burns and boils and blood has followed them. It’s not a matter of fault or of guilt, but merely a matter of numbers. Gonorrhea is the leading bacterial infection in adults, and there are always more clients than there are prostitutes – like bees with multiple flowers, prostitutes are given the odd power to plant seeds of their own, both figuratively and literally. Since the advent of the condom in 19^th century Venice, it has steadily become popular, and today gonorrhea, syphilis and all their evil twins are in the descent, especially in the sex industry.

The Bunny Ranch is cleaner than the bathroom of an obsessive compulsive. It champions condoms, it encourages dry cleaning, it demands hygiene, and it does so while wearing velvet and sipping a martini. For the first time in recorded history, American brothels are safer than prom night. They’re safer than public toilets. They’re the epitome of Safe Sex, and it wasn’t laws or Prohibition movements or the clergy that did it. It was disease.

The show has a fascinating cast. The characters are understandably larger than life. They have been placed under the magnifying glass, where their quirks, flaws and their beauties are all 10x. They are the most complex cartoons on earth, the sad and jolly clowns of a very mature circus.

There is Max, the busty blonde who seemingly wears only pastels and enjoys playing chess with her clients as a form of foreplay. “You have to think three moves ahead in chess,” she says. “It can be a strong aphrodisiac.” She lies outstretched naked on a bed next to her client, the chess board between them on the mattress. The client looks by turns perplexed and enchanted with this strange mating ritual.

There’s Danielle, the brothel’s “chocolate hooker”, a naturally beautiful girl with fake eyelashes and ridiculous extensions that make her seem reminiscent of a drag queen. She is always posing to show her body’s silhouette to its best advantage. Danielle does not seem to understand that her constant posing makes her seem awkward, not elegant. Nonetheless, she is one of the brothel’s top earners.

There’s Air Force Amy, a legend past her prime. It is clear from Air Force Amy’s slitted eyes, constant mood swings, and twitchy mouth that the cocaine has taken its toll. Her sagging breasts and buttocks are further proof that she is no longer in the ascendant.

Watching Amy is a lineup is especially painful. When the doorbell rings, there is a stampede of glass high heels towards the front door, Amy’s among them. The hookers run awkwardly, taking very small steps so as not to fall over, stuffing various body parts into lingerie, swimsuits and slinky gowns as they bounce towards the foyer. When they reach the door, they form a lineup for the newly arrived customer. One at a time, they introduce themselves with their most sultry bedroom faces. Air Force Amy slurs her own name, swinging her breasts back and forth like a mace. The customer chooses a girl from the lineup and escorts her to the Bunny Bar – these days, Amy is very rarely chosen. The other, newer girls try to not make eye contact with Air Force Amy. Some are anxious that Amy will fly forward in a jealous rage; others are merely embarrassed for her.

Then there’s Isabella Soprano, our favorite Cathouse hooker by unanimous house vote. She is a sweet, fresh-faced young thing: brunette, hourglass figure, beautiful profile. She is different from the other girls. There is something wonderfully genuine and un-made-up about Isabella. But even Miss Soprano, whom we would canonize if we had the authority, even she fucks for money – and that’s the long and short of it.

The most shocking element of Cathouse is not the nudity or the sex … it’s humanizing a profession I have seen stereotyped since late childhood. I had never met a prostitute until Max, Danielle, Amy and Isabella came along. The shock of Cathouse is in meeting that woman from the World War II propaganda poster in her sexy heels and her maroon dress, that cigarette always in her fingers – the shock is in knowing her name, and whether or not she’s allergic to dust, in learning how she copes with stress and whether she actually likes those heels.

One Friday night we decided to venture out in Kathleen’s red minivan, which is older than she is and much the worse for wear. We nicknamed the van “The Chariot of Fire”. We liked to go riding in it, the volume turned way up, and listen to the Indiana Jones theme song as played by a sadly deficient third-tier orchestra. We'd flail wildly in our best imitation of seated dance. Sometimes we stopped off at Liberty Video, where a special deal allowed us to rent 6 videos for $6.66. Liberty Video has an adult section which we particularly liked.

It so happened that we found ourselves standing in this adult section of Liberty Video partway through our Friday-night chariot ride.

“Ooh!” Kathleen squealed, snatching a video from the nearest shelf. ‘The Twelve Inch Club’! Hey, can I join the Twelve Inch Club?”

I stared over her shoulder, eyes wide. “Yes, Kathleen. Yes, yes you can.”

Danielle put down her six pack to better examine a gay porn. “Check out ‘Best of Italy’,” she said, face aglow. “That is pure gold.”

We made our selections and sauntered up to the counter. The two clerks were listening to the opera Lakme and wearing 3D glasses.

“Hey,” Andy said as he laid down our 6 movies of choice.

The clerk looked over the movies, and then looked us over. He saw me collecting dollar bills from my housemates. “You all together?”

“Yup,” Andy replied.

The clerk checked over the movies once more. His fellow clerk wandered over. “Hey, Andy,” the second clerk said, “another 6 this week?”

“Yeah,” Kathleen said from behind Andy, “Man, we are running out of material, here! Haven’t you got anything new? ‘Island Fever 4’, maybe?”

“Yeah … no.” The first clerk looked confused behind his paper glasses, one red and one blue. The second clerk took him aside for a second, speaking in a low voice. Soon the first clerk was nodding, his clouded expression gone. The clerks turned back, strangely uniform and military with their matching glasses. “Hey,” the clerk said, “so, we don’t want to charge you for these.”

“Huh?” came the collective response.

“You’re our best customers,” the second clerk said. “We want to show our appreciation.”

“Well God bless America,” Andy slammed the counter with his fist.

“God bless America and little baby Jesus,” Danielle chimed in.

As we exited Liberty Video with several heavy plastic bags full of free videos, I breathed deeply and said, “Anyone else feel like we just experienced Porn Christmas?”

Funny how an oxymoron can sound so apt.

Behind the funny and lighthearted façade of Cathouse, there are disturbing moments. After a few episodes, you can remember all the fallen women by name or face or by the shape of their breasts. You’ve seen them giggle and make a lot of money doing it, and you’ve begun to think to yourself, “Prostitution isn’t nearly as awful as everyone makes it sound … they look like they’re having fun!”

And then the new girl, Bambi, arrives. She’s a stripper from down south, a middle-aged blonde with doe-eyes and hair that’s almost dead from repeated bleachings. She shows up in an SUV full of belongings – when girls come to this brothel they mean to stay a while. She creeps in the door, unsure of herself. The Madam, Suzette, shows the new girl to her room, and asks her to “get dressed” and come back to the office. By “dressed” Suzette of course means undressed, and Bambi complies. She slips into a baby blue two-piece thong, a transparent sarong tied demurely around her waist.

She returns to the office. With the speed and detachment of a surgeon, Suzette hands a variety of boxes, including condoms, lube, and a few porn videos. “You’re required to have these in your room at all times,” Suzette explains. “Don’t worry, we’ll just take it right out of your commission.” Bambi nods, looking shell-shocked.

As Bambi turns and heads for the floor, Suzette smiles at a nearby cameraman. “She’s got a nice body,” she says dotingly. “I’m definitely going to make my car payment this month.”

Bambi snags her first client that afternoon. He is tall, gangly, and somewhat in need of a shower – but not quite the Elephant Man, either. He is a good catch. Bambi intimates to the camera that her “party” will cost him $400 for half an hour of play, but no actual intercourse. This last part seems important to her. “I low-balled a little because I’m new at this,” she says, “but I think it’s a good deal … I don’t even have to have sex!”

After her half-hour in the bedroom, she returns to Suzette’s office with the money. Suzette takes the cash and begins typing something out on a large receipt. “Okay, the house takes a 50% cut,” Suzette says, “and then I’ll just take those items from earlier out of this sale.” With a smile Suzette hands Bambi her cut of the profits -- $100.

In an interview, Bambi smiles at the camera and says with a forced grin, “It was fun! It was fun!” Bambi has not yet learned how to hold back the tears. She widens her eyes, hoping to ward them off, but under the cruel camera spotlight they are obvious.

It is an ugly and powerful moment for the documentary. As Max, Isabella, and even Amy walk past the camera in today’s outrageous ensemble, I see them in a new, more critical light. It may have been ten or fifteen years ago, but for each of these girls there was a first day, and on that first day I promise you, not one of them laughed.

Bambi rained on our parade. She rained on it big time. She might as well have sung “Send in the Clowns” while she was at it. She might as well have been Mount Vesuvius at Pompeii. Bambi, swaddled in baby blue, was the virgin sacrifice who made us ashamed of our derision for Air Force Amy’s coke habit, Danielle’s fake eyelashes, and Max’s retreat into false intellectualism. She made us wonder for the first time whether that forgotten corner of Nevada was such a good idea after all.

But it was a fleeting thought. Our Porn Nights went on as scheduled.

Our debauchery was by no means limited to Cathouse, expensive cable channels or Liberty Video. These things were merely the soil from which our private culture grew. Beyond the endless barrage of ridiculous references to a wide range of sexually transmitted diseases, there was a veritable sea of games and toys and literature. There was our favorite parlor game, “Shirtless O’Clock”; a competitive tally revolving around our sexual activity (masturbation included); a pile of free samples from Trojan and the Safe Sex Store; and 3 copies of the ‘Guide to Getting It On’ (various editions) in our living room alone.

One night, after my then-boyfriend and I had retired to my room, Andy got bored. He had the room adjacent to mine, and earlier in the year had discovered that an air vent connects the two rooms directly. When sound travels through the air vent, the metal walls act as a resonance chamber, giving the effect of a megaphone. He dragged his computer speakers over to the vent, and then he blasted the ‘Queen of the Night’ aria from Mozart’s Magic Flute through it, so that on the other side it was as if some phantom woman had materialized and begun singing directly into our incredibly surprised faces.

It became something of a tradition to do this every time I brought a gentleman home – once it was ‘A Whole New World’, once it was ‘Thus Spake Zarathrustra’, and so on. In retaliation, I told all Andy’s potential mates just how he got the nickname ‘Scabies McGee’.

Kathleen became famous on our block for shouting “ANAL FISTING!” at the top of her lungs whenever she became drunk – which was, let’s face it, quite often. Our neighbors mostly knew her as ‘the girl who loves fisting’. Danielle stole a traffic pylon on her twenty-second birthday and held it between her legs, then chased us home from the bar shouting threats of pylon sodomy.

You get the idea.

I cherished the highly risqué, sometimes surreal quality of life we enjoyed in that odd little house. Not very much of it had anything to do with sex, and certainly not sex with each other. It was self-deprecating humor, it was unabashed affection, it was the ability to say “I love you” in easy conversation without fear of misinterpretation. It seems impossible now that we could have been any other way, that we ever needed a beginning.

But we did have a beginning. It was Cathouse.

Cathouse knows that it is the chronicle of the Oldest Profession, the chronicle of unspeakable suffering, of oppression and repression, of hypocrisy and poverty and violence, and always of disease. The Bunny Ranch bartender tells the timeless, predictable story over and over again as she stands behind the bar, fixing cocktails. She tells us about a good time with no strings attached. She tells us about shrewd girls with the savvy to use what they have. She shows us the fearless combination of latex, leather and faux fur.

I’m fixing drinks at my house, too, for six darling friends. I stand in a warm living room with all the window blinds open, all the lights on. In the background, in the shadow of our bright lamp light, stands a woman in maroon leaning back on her heels, still smoking that cigarette. She is dangerous, and easy-going, and far more complex than her poster-finish implies. She could be smiling or sneering at me – I’m never quite sure which.

Perhaps she hates me, or maybe she sees me as a curiosity. For her, perhaps I am a naïve little rich girl enjoying a good slumming. Perhaps I am refreshing. Perhaps I make her sick, as sick as gonorrhea, as sick as syphilis.

The truth is, it doesn’t really matter if she’s smiling or sneering – either way, I’d still smile back, sit down on my futon, and lean into the shoulder of my nearest housemate.