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About Houston

What pisses me off? The judgement, man! Folk actin’ all high and mighty, like they ain’t never sinned. Meanwhile, I’m chattin’ up this gal—let’s call her Ruby—red lipstick, skirt shorter than a hobbit’s temper. She’s got sass, says, “Wot’s a wizard want with me?” I’m like, “Lass, even I need a laugh!” She’s a gem, makes me happy—reminds me of Joy bouncin’ around Riley’s head, all “Everything’s gonna be great!” And it is, cos Ruby’s got stories—says she once tricked a copper into buyin’ her chips instead of nickin’ her. Clever bird!

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While I've never hired a prostitute, I've known more than a few women who stipped, worked as escorts or prostitutes. I've met some women with some pretty outside the bellcurve paraphilas Missing: Surfside.

Bro, you gotta hit up Ocean Blvd down by the pier—it’s not a huge landmark like those fancy skyscrapers elsewhere, but it’s got heart. Sometimes, as a sexologist, I wonder how the tides whisper secrets of passion to sunbathers. There's a park, yeah? Surfside Park near Bayfront St. It's lowkey magic. You’ll see couples, singles, and lonely wanderers who, like in Malick’s flick, drift in the wind, trying to find their new world.

Surfside says Phillies fans, Jersey Shore were key to canned cocktail brand's 'crazy' meteoric rise