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About Caguas

Lemme break it down—prostitution’s old as dirt. Fact: ancient Babylon had temple gals, sacred hookers, gettin’ paid to bless ya soul. Wild, right? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ how WALL-E’d roll up, all, “Evaaa?”—confused as hell. Anyway, you wanna find one? Cities got red-light zones, shady corners—ain’t no Google Maps pin sayin’, “Here’s the goods.” You gotta feel the vibe, spot the strut, the eye contact that says, “Yo, you buyin’?”

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The local church—yeah, Iglesia San Antonio—is a haven on Sunday mornings. I’ve sat on its ancient stone steps, spilling my counselor heart out to the sounds of distant chants; sometimes it feels like the harsh whisper of fate from Werckmeister Harmonies: “Time itself is a great, unsolvable puzzle…” or something deep like that. And the vibe? So raw, so human.

Some Puerto Ricans refuse to leave their island, despite lack of power