The Stairway to Sin

(It would be a real shame if you missed out on Port-a-John Porn, which follows this. If you haven't read it yet, please stay tuned after this posting. ;)



I’ve never been in a brothel.

But if I was a lesbian looking for a tasty time, I’d want the brothel to have a front stoop like this.

I took this photo when I was down Stateside last weekend. The steps just seemed like they led to the kind of place I’d like to read a story about.

Madame Boucher and her team of randy girls. I’d like the Madame to have a Southern accent. Thick, sultry. A wide, knowing grin with a touch of lusty leer as she greets you at the door.

There’d be velvet. Satin. Dark wood fixtures. Candles. Men sunk into overstuffed armchairs as whalebone-bound whores draped over their laps would smile and dicker with their ties, laughing at their stilted jokes.

A dark oak staircase with gigantic ball posts on either end would lead up the length of the great room to a long corridor with glossy burgundy paint and rich oaken wainscotting. It wouldn’t seem dark, but just deep and comforting, womb-like.

The whores wouldn’t seem dirty or used. They'd be mother-presentation grade. Nice girls with sophisticated makeup, glossy clean hair, and Victorian dresses. They’d have nice names, like Sally or Lucille or Emma.

There’d be bourbon and whiskey in every room. You’d never be bothered by numbers, but the money’d come out at the end of the night. It wouldn’t be a cheap place. There’d be no parlour tricks, no real dealings with fetishes. But when it came to substance, these girls would have game.

The rooms would be lush and inviting. A plush, oversized bed. The kind of place you could see yourself reading a book in, late into the night, or playing too many rounds of poker. Wood and rich colours. Spacious rooms with a fireplace and sink in each, just like the old boarding houses would have.

Because this once was one.

Or that’s what I was thinking when I snapped the shot.