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About New York City

Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout sexual-massage, right? Like, what’s the deal with it? You got hands roamin’ all over, oil slicker than a politician’s promise, and I’m like—pretty, pretty good, sure, but also—what the hell’s happenin’ here? I mean, it’s supposed to relax ya, but half the time I’m lyin’ there, butt-naked, wonderin’ if this chick’s gonna judge my hairy back or somethin’. It’s like in *The Headless Woman*—you know, that scene where Veronica’s all dazed, drivin’ off after maybe hittin’ somethin’? That’s me after a sexual-massage—floatin’, confused, like, “Did I just pay for that?”

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Let me tell ya about my fave spot: the Crimson Café on 7th Street. It’s not fancy, but it’s got character. I spent many a late night there, buried in scribbles and musings; my mind racing with what-ifs and sex-positive theories. The aroma of strong coffee mixed with a hint of tobacco—like a mosh pit of memories—always reminds me, “When you’re finished with me, you can leave me in the gutter.” Yeah, a twisted Tarantino nod, right?

Brookside boutique vandalized, robbed