Monday, February 23, 2026 |
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When Paloma Karr came to Esquire with the idea of writing about her job as a sex worker at a Nevada brothel, we were intrigued. We weren't interested in a voyeuristic account of paying for sex, or a sordid story about being a sex worker, however, and Paloma wasn't, either. Instead, we viewed it as an opportunity to observe men in an intimate setting where few get to see them. The resulting piece, which recounts several months' worth of Paloma's shifts at Sheri's Ranch, is one of the most keenly observed stories I've ever read about how men view sex, and how profoundly sex affects them. Just as we were publishing it, an unexpected turn of events gave it new urgency: Paloma and her fellow courtesans voted to unionize, a first for a brothel in the U.S. I encourage you to read the story below. – Kevin Dupzyk, contributing editor |
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Men come to me for sex, yes. But in an age of profound loneliness and disconnection, they turn out to be looking for so much more. |
I had no idea how to land my first client. It was a random April Friday, karaoke night at Sheri's Ranch, a legal brothel in Nevada. I don't sing. Four of the ladies who worked there were professional singers, so I watched them take turns and picked at food with the other new girl. It was already my second shift. The first had been a bust.
One of the other ladies, Jules, a statuesque, voluptuous brunette, asked me to sing with her. I told her this would be only the third time I'd ever done karaoke. She didn't care. She wanted to show me that being seen was the first step to attracting a client. We duetted on "Cheri Cheri Lady," by Modern Talking. I was awful, but sure enough, within minutes of my being on display, one of the hostesses pulled me aside. She discreetly pointed across the spacious, dimly lit bar. Some elderly regulars hunched over drinks—Larry, who comes almost daily and never buys anything but an O'Doul's, is in his mid-eighties—and a few groups of younger patrons sat on large banquettes and couches. It took me a second to spot the guy she was singling out. "Paloma," she said. "That gentleman would like to speak to you." |
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Recently, our colleagues over at Esquire Japan visited renowned Osaka watch boutique Libertas to take a look at some extremely rare Rolex timepieces. Below, you'll find ten standout models that every serious Rollie fanatic should have on their wishlist. |
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We were just outside the entrance to San Siro stadium in Milan, a half hour before the Winter Olympics Opening Ceremony was set to begin, packed like sardines and going nowhere. Amid this crush of nations—people there were Italian, French, Chinese, American, etc.—I found myself squeezed against Usher. Yes, that Usher! His bodyguards peeked nervously above the crowd, eyeing the exits. At least Usher seemed to be in good humor. Everyone else was deeply frustrated. What the hell was going on? Why couldn't we get into the stadium? Were we all going to die in a stampede?
The cause of the bottleneck began to ripple through the crowd … JD Vance. The vice president of the United States was entering the stadium and, allegedly, his security detail had shut down half the facility. I can't confirm this rumor about his security detail, but it—along with the chorus of boos that greeted Vance when he was shown on the screens during the Opening Ceremony—underscores a theme of the Milan Cortina Winter Olympics: America the villain. And it has made these Games feel weirder than usual. |
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