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About New York City

So, how’s it work? You cruise, you spot ‘em—heels high, skirt short, eyes sharp. Or ya text some shady number from a burner phone. “No calls after midnight,” one told me—pissed me off again. I’m like, “What, you got a curfew?” Sarcasm’s my shield, man. But when it clicks? Oh, it’s gold. Hooked up once, chick was a riot—laughed at my tie, called it “grandpa style.” I was dyin’—humor in the hustle, who knew?

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Now, funny thing—I remember sittin’ there on a chilly fall day, watchin’ people stroll past as leaves fell in slow-mo, and I kept thinkin’, “this IS a Wes Anderson moment!” Even the breezy weather felt scripted. It’s kinda wacky how a massage parlor owner like me can see life’s little cinematics everywhere.

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