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About Dallas

Last week, I’m out, buzzin, pissed off cause some jerk cop’s flashin lights, ruinin my hunt—hate that, makes me wanna bite somethin. Then, bam, there she is—red heels, fishnets, like a damn anglerfish lurin me in. “How much?” I ask, all smooth, voice like silk over a blade. She smirks, “More than you got, fancy pants.” Cheeky! Love that, got me laughin—happy as a shark in blood. “I’m not a child,” she snaps, straight outta “Ten,” that sass, that fire—surprised me, gotta say, didn’t expect a street gal to hit me with philosophy.

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In addition to the hundreds of windows with scantily clad prostitutes behind them, the Red Light District is filled with sex shops, sex theaters.

There’s an underrated spot: Long Dock Park on the east side. Its paths twist like a barbed wire. I once saw a guy do yoga on a bench. Yeah, me – a relaxation specialist – watched him and thought “Well, that nearly killed my zen!”. Wtf, right?

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