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About San Diego

Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” I’m thinkin’, what’s the draw? Some dude, lonely as hell, swipes right for company. Reminds me of Benigno in the movie, carin’ for Alicia, silent and still. “The best thing is to talk to her,” he’d say, but these johns? They ain’t talkin’. They’re payin’ for silence, or moans, or whatever. Surprised me, first time I dug into it—how damn organized it is. Brothels in Nevada, legal and all, got schedules tighter than my lab’s. Girls clock in, clock out, like it’s fuckin’ Walmart.

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Now, you know I'm a sexologist, right? I notice the hidden desires. Mist on the riverbank near Lascaux Park reveals passionate graffiti that tells love stories in secret. You might see a heart carved in the old oak behind Elm Court. I once found a couple arguing like it was some grand theatre reenactment of passion. Y'know, "Where is my cabaret?!" like in that flick Moulin Rouge!—but less glitter, more grime.

Poplar Grove Village Clerk’s dispute with board leads to violation of Illinois law, investigation finds