New Men's Meat Market

image by Glenn Buttkus

New Men’s Meat Market

“The company’s good and the mornings are quiet, which

is a good time to write.”--Landlord of a Bordello.

When I was 13

                 I was on a road trip 

                      with my grandfather & uncle

                             in the eastern side of the panhandle

                                    of Idaho. It was 1957, and I was big for

                             my age. Sitting around the campfire

                       one morning, my uncle got a twinkle

                   in his eyes & he said, “I’m  going to

            take Butch into town. It’s time that

      he got bred.”

My grandfather chuckled

and went fishing.

The town was Wallace,

famous for silver mines in the late 1800’s,

tucked into a narrow valley,

surrounded by the Rockies,

straddling the Coeur d’Alene River,

a stone’s throw from the Montana border.

                                     My Uncle was a long haul truck driver,

and he was very familiar with one of

                                     the unique features of the town--it had

five whore houses. He walked me up

                  to the front door of one of

                  his favorites--The New Men’s Meat Market.

                  I was both excited & terrified.

We entered the establishment and

       strutted up to a shiny old fashioned bar.

             There were a dozen prostitutes sitting around

                    in black underwear on red velveteen chairs & 
love seats. It was ten o’clock in the mo(u)rning.

The wrinkled Madam, with a bright red beehive hair-do, 
served Dick a beer, & in a voice that sounded like a bull frog,
said, “Hey, Slick, you realize we don’t do children.”

My randy uncle smiled, shrugged, & handed me his wallet, 

before rushing upstairs with a tall blond who had huge 
hooters. I sat awkwardly on a soft overstuffed chair that stank
of cologne. Several of the girls made kissing noises, and/or
whispered to one another, holding up their pinky finger &
staring right at me. I felt a blush boiling up in my cheeks.

                                    Uncle Dick came downstairs in just

                           under fifteen minutes. He pulled up at his

                 britches, finished his tepid beverage, saluted the 

            gathering of naughty ladies & pushed me ahead of
him out of the place. He took on

a serious tone as he remarked,

“It’s probably just as well. You

are a tad young to have your

ashes hauled anyways.” 

This summer, my wife and I visited Wallace, more than sixty

years after that incident. The last cat house had closed down

in 1989. While I strolled around town snapping pics of 
pioneer structures, my wife took a bordello museum tour.
Later, as she recounted the particulars, my grin was wider
than usual.

As hormones rage, most

boys struggle to become men,

and women just smile.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub