Isabelle Crossville Whore ❤️

About Chicago

Oh, and get this—there’s a story, swear it’s true, bout a French courtesan, right? 17th century, forgot her name, somethin’ fancy. She’d smuggle secrets in her garters for spies! Ballsy as hell. Made me grin ear to ear—smarter than most o’ them powdered pricks at court. Wish I’d met her, shared a flagon, swapped some tales.

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That old, dusty building lives and breathes on the page, and so do my almost forgotten memories of the abandoned whore house at the end of town.

I stroll down Maple Street—nah, not that Maple Drive, the one with a couple of drunks chattin’ on the stoop—feels like every corner hides a secret. And hey, don’t get me started on Riverside Park, a gem along the serene Little River. I once nearly tripped over a stray cat settin’ up his own kingdom there… It made me mad, sure, but then I laughed like a madman. Life’s too short not to laugh at a silly cat, right?

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