Mutt

The brothels also have a huge financial incentive to follow the law.
"If the police catch one of the workers not using a condom, the house
gets hit with a fine," says Dennis Hof, owner of several brothels,
including the Moonlite Bunny Ranch in Carson City, Nev. "The second
time it happens, the house gets shut down permanently. That will not
happen to us. That's why we hire people to go in and test the girls
[on using condoms] ourselves."

Brothels keep health and test records for each prostitute. Once a
week, the women are required to visit a doctor, or the doctors arrive
at the brothels themselves. Blood and urine are drawn and sent off to
one of a handful of state-regulated labs. Local authorities can--and
do--stop by for periodic checks on the paperwork.

A main objective of the monitoring is to keep the operation thriving.
"If we had the disease rate you see in the porn world, we'd be out of
business tomorrow," says Flint. "All it would take is one customer
saying he picked up an STD in one of our houses, and our industry
would be gone."

To offset the state's regulatory costs, prostitutes pay a host of
fees--ranging from the required medical tests, as well as state
registration and licensing fees. Last year, those brought in about
$175,000 in Nye County, where a dozen brothels operate. That's a
relatively small amount in a county with a general budget of $50
million. But the impact is clearly felt: The county's emergency
services received $60,000 from the licensing fees, which was used to
pay for new ambulances.

Prostitutes regularly face pressure to avoid using condoms, says Dr.
Alexa Albert, author of "Brothel: Mustang Ranch and Its Women." Her
research, detailed in the book and in reports for the American Journal
of Public Health, showed that more than 65% of the women said at least
one of their customers had balked at wearing a condom each month,
offering as much as $1,000 to do without. None of the women Albert
interviewed said she had agreed to unprotected sex.

"Each brothel has to have the disease status on file from their
workers," says Albert, a gaduate of Harvard Medical School. "There's
too much at risk legally."

In California's Triple-X world, there is no legal risk because no one
is watching over the business. "If California is the only state where
it's legal to be paid for having sex in front of a camera, it's going
to be up to the state of California and the local agencies to do
something about regulating it," says Frederick S. Lane III, an
attorney and author of "Obscene Profits: The Entrepreneurs of
Pornography in the Cyber Age."

"But it would be political suicide for anyone in government to come
forward and try to start regulating the porn industry," Lane says.
"That's why nothing's been done." Though there are labor laws in place
that could be enforced, new legislation would be needed to bring
California in line with Nevada's regulations.

Actresses Britni Taylor and Savannah Rain lean against the back wall
of a crowded North Hollywood soundstage. They listen, occasionally
yawning, as cameraman Glenn Baren and his all-male crew from the
production shop Extreme Associates try to figure out how to
reconfigure the small set to accommodate various camera angles. Baren
paces across the concrete floor, listening to suggestions from the
crew. The actresses stare at the ceiling. No one asks their opinion.
Finally, it's decided: The first scene will be shot from the foot of
the bed.

There are no condoms on the set. There's no toilet paper in the
bathroom. The performers brought boxes of baby wipes. Soiled sheets
litter the ground, creating a trail to the bed. For more than two
hours, Taylor and Rain engage in unprotected sexual acts with a male
performer.

During a break, Rain asks director Thomas Zupko for her co-workers'
HIV tests. Handed a stack of papers, she flips through the documents.
One is missing--Taylor's. Rain asks repeatedly for her paperwork, but
she balks. "I don't have [expletive] AIDS," Taylor finally says. "I am
not [having sex with] you."

Stunned, Rain says nothing. Minutes pass, then Baren picks up the
camera and filming continues.

Off to the side, an actress mutters: "That is why we take so many
prescriptions."

What happens on these sets is invisible to elected officials in
Sacramento, where each spring pornographers travel to meet with state
legislators in a daylong lobbying blitz. Under the banner of the Free
Speech Coalition, a 900-member San Fernando Valley-based trade group
for the adult entertainment industry, moviemakers and former actresses
knock on doors and stump over taxation issues. They have lobbied
against regulation and pass out industry-funded research that touts
their economic impact on California: an estimated $31 million in state
sales tax from the rentals of 130 million adult videos and nearly $1.8
billion in Internet sales and Web site traffic nationwide.

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