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About New York City

I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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To show the high-end hooker she's no different to the low-end hooker. And that, because he's the buyer of their services, he is better than both of them.

Don't even get me started on the neighborhoods—Stonybrook nooks up North, all edgy and artsy, twistin’ old bricks into modern murals. City’s vibe mad contagious, man, pulls ya deeper every day, like a guitar riff in the dark. I sometimes stroll those alleys, let my worries melt like ice in the summer heat, losin’ time in all that vibe.

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