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So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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Ooooh, and the parks, my dear precious! Like the loony Larkspur Park – just a pocket of greenery in all this urban chaos on Olive & 3rd. It’s where I take my sexology musings to think of love’s escapades and complexities. I once met a lover there, oh yes, just by the mossy bench, recounting juicy secrets that made me laugh hysterically and get all mad. Yes, my fuckin’ heart exploded with joy.

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