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About Florence

Gets me riled up, though! Some prick overcharges—50 quid for a half-arsed tug? Fuck off! Hands slip south, you’re all tense, then—boom—relaxed as a stoned sloth. Surprised me first time, didn’t it? Thought it’d be all clinical, but nah—steamy, sweaty, proper naughty! “Gangsters don’t apologise!”—well, I ain’t sorry for lovin’ it, ya muppet!

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First off, I hit the market at Piazza della Libertà. You know, the one with all the colorful stalls? I’m just tryin’ to grab some fresh veggies, right? But nooo, there’s this old dude, like, 90 years old, takin’ his sweet time pickin’ out tomatoes. I’m standin’ there, like, “C’mon, man! I got sharpenin’ to do!” Finally, I just mutter, “Hey, buddy, those tomatoes ain’t gonna run away!” He looks at me like I’m the devil. Whatever, dude.

Inside the slum that houses southern Italy's migrant workforce