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So, here’s the deal—brothels ain’t just sex dens, nah. They’re like theaters, man, stages where people play roles. You got your johns, your workers, all actin’ out some script. I remeber this one spot—Nevada, back in ‘98—called the Moonlite Bunny Ranch. Legal, loud, and proud. Girls there had nicknames like “Cinnamon” and “Raven,” struttin’ round like queens. Made me laugh, seein’ em work the room—smooth as hell. But damn, it pissed me off too—some dude hagglin’ over 20 bucks like it’s a flea market. Bro, she’s a person, not a damn rug!

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Later, I head to the cafeteria. The food? Ugh. It’s like they’re trying to punish us. I grab a plate of whatever that slop is. I sit down, and guess who plops down next to me? Carla, the new guard. She’s cool, but she talks a lot. I’m tryin’ to eat, and she’s all, “Did you see the new mural on Rua da Paz?” I’m like, “Yeah, it’s nice.” But inside, I’m thinkin’, “Can I just eat in peace?”

Bar Muy Buenas revives a slice of Barcelona history