Our sister city

Where the girls get more action than Acton

by Jerry Fraser

What makes Wells different from other small towns,” I read in the New York Times recently, “is its two brothels.”

“Whoa!” I said. “What’s this all about?”

I have lived in Wells for nearly 30 years (longer, really, considering Ogunquit was once part of Wells) but this was news to me.

Where are they? I wondered. Who owns them, and how do they get away with it?

Before you call the town office to report an outrage, it turns out that the Wells in question is in Nevada, not Maine, and that cat houses — which are referred to as ranches thereabouts — are perfectly legal there, as they are in most of Nevada.

(A Portsmouth, N.H., bookmaker once told me Vegas wasn’t the same anymore. “They ran the hookers out of the hotels,” he said. “A guy can’t get laid anywhere.”

“Vegas?” I said. “Why would you go there to get laid when you’ve got Kittery?”)

Up until now, Nevada’s brothels have concentrated on their specialty. So the Times saw a story in a proposal to expand Sheri’s Ranch, in Wells, making it a full-fledged resort, complete with an 18-hole golf course, a casino, and a steakhouse.

I thought the reporter left some basic questions unanswered. For instance, how would the resort deal with its “adult recreation” area? What would signs say? How would parents explain the situation to their children?

If you’re a guest at Sheri’s, do you just show up at the massage parlor, or are reservations suggested (“I’d like a redhead at 7 o’clock please, for Smith”)? What is appropriate attire (Is it OK to arrive in red latex and a Lone Ranger mask)? Are gays and lesbians welcome?

Does the place open in the evening, or can a golfer drop in for a nooner after the front nine? If you wander over after dinner, do they have a place for your doggie bag until you’re done? What will it say on your credit card, or can you pay with chips? Can you have a cigarette when it’s over, or is that extra?

If you’ve been taking the whole family to Las Vegas, maybe stopping there on the way to Hawaii, how do you deal with that situation? “We’re not staying at the Excalibur this year, darling. The 54-foot volcano is tacky, and let’s face it, we’re over dolphins. I think we’ll try this great place in Wells I’ve heard about called Sheri’s Ranch.”

Mom: “What are we going to do at a ranch?”

Kids: “Daddy, can we ride the horses?”

Maybe I’m old fashioned, but I’ll take the original, founded-in-1653 Wells to anything Nevada has to offer. It’s a pretty nice place to live, even if they don’t believe in sidewalks. The cops don’t hassle you and the taxes are reasonable. Beach access can be a little dicey, but I’m not much of a sunbather.

Besides, I don’t know if some of our older natives could handle having brothels around. Beano night is probably as wild and crazy as most of them want to get.

No doubt this column will be read by some tourist from away who’s thinking, “Boy, these Mainers think they’re as pure as the driven snow. Who are they kidding?”

Sure, I’ve heard all the stories about what used to go on around the Dunkin’ Donuts here in Portland. For that matter, a good friend of mine many years ago ran into a traffic jam in North New Portland that took place when one of the locals hired a girl to “provide entertainment” in his garage, located on a narrow side street. Some said the girl was his daughter, but my friend said you couldn’t tell by looking at her.

To say nothing of the county fairs. Who old enough doesn’t remember the hoot shows at the Fryeburg, Rochester (N.H.), and Acton fairs, and how nice it was that the girls would share the stage with visitors, their hats and eyeglasses? Who will ever forget what “Miss Budweiser” could do with a long-necked bottle of beer?

They didn’t call it “Action” fair for nothing. Back in the ’60s I saw a couple dozen guys, each with $5 in his hand, lined up behind a pickup truck with a camper shell. But you know what? There was a war on.

Besides, that was then. Maine today is a pretty tame place. The fairs are fun-filled family extravaganzas, there’s no more hookers with your coffee and doughnut in Portland, and if you’re thinking about scoring at Mark’s Showplace you better hope there’s a ballgame on.

Wells, Maine; Wells, Nev.: Never the twain shall meet, I say! Keep prostitution in Nevada, where it belongs!

My uncle in Millbridge isn’t so sure. “I can’t wait until the Indians get into this racket,” he says.

Jerry Fraser can be reached at cfraser@maine.rr.com