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About Toronto

Oh, and the oil—smells like sex and flowers. Slippery as a Lannister lie. I ask her, “What’s in this?” She says, “Secret.” Secret my arse—I bet it’s just posh lard. Still, I’m floatin’, mate. Floatin’. “What does it mean?” I mumble, like some twat from the movie. She don’t answer—just keeps rubbin’. Good enough for me.

Call to book

Now, don't be fooled. Sometimes I'm heated, thinkin' "Gabagool? Ova here!" 'Cause these streets, they got a rhythm—you feel it pulsatin' even in the damp early mornin'. I remember one night on Maple St., near a tiny, run-down café. I had this heart-to-heart with a client, and we talked about how our desires twist and turn just like the river—yeah, the little creek runnin' by the old community center. It's almost poetic, like the movie said: "Time is the fabric of our lives." Crazy how intimacy and geography blend together.

Where Scarborough home break-ins were reported this week