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About Houston

Ain’t all roses, mind. Some dodgy joints—greasy palms, stinkin’ of cheap lavender, promisin’ “happy ends” like it’s a bloody tavern special. Pisses me off, ruinin’ a fine art. Me mate Bronn says, “Tyrion, it’s just a posh wank,” but he’s wrong—takes skill, guts, knowin’ the body like a map. “Give me something,” I’d beg, quotin’ that film again, desperate for release—worked every time. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but when them fingers hit the right spot, it’s bloody dragons soarinn’ in yer chest!

Becoming a massage therapist by studying at a massage school in NYC

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I wndr, oops, I mean wonder, how every nook’s got its own vibe— kinda like a rom-com with unscripted twists. Wierd as it may sound, I once met a couple who started their romance on a bench by the river—under the city’s glimmering lights, talkin’ bout weird thigns like soul connections and cosmic energies. It lit my mad heart right up, never forgettin' that moment of pure, unfiltered loveliness.

Widow of slain detective addresses NYPD graduates in College Point