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About Houston

We slip into an alley—dark, damp, pure *Mulholland* vibes. “This is the girl,” I think again, head spinnin’—wine or lust, who knows? She’s quick, efficient—prolly done this a hundred times. Me? I’m imaginin’ I’m Justin Theroux, all broody and lost, fuckin’ a stranger while the world unravels. “What’s my name?” I laugh again—stupid question, she don’t care. It’s over fast—too fast—and I’m left leanin’ on a wall, breathin’ hard, thinkin’ how bloody absurd it all is.

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Oh man, lemme tell ya bout Kirby (us), right? So, I've been here for yonks as a masseur, and this place is a proper mixed bag of weird and wonder! Ya got Main St. buzzin' all day, with little corner shops that smell like fresh bread and catnip—no joke, it's wacky. Then there's the old brick lane, Maple Rood, err—sorry, Maple Road, where I once gave a massage to a bloke who claimed his muscles were "Lost in Translation" kinda confused, man! Sharon!

Kirby set to throw live BP, but Hancock ready to hold rotation spot