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About Kimberley

So, findin’ a hooker—where ya start? Streets, mate—grimy corners, neon buzzin’ like flies on shit. Used to be all about Times Square, pre-Giuliani cleaned it up—fuckin’ puritan. Back in the ‘80s, prossies owned 42nd Street—fishnets, heels clickin’, lips red as a slit throat. Now? Ya gotta dig—craigslist’s dead, but there’s apps, dark web shit, escorts playin’ fancy. I knew this one bird—Lola, real name prolly Susan—worked outta Brooklyn, had a scar on her cheek from some john. Said she made bank, $300 an hour—fuck me, that’s a lotta fava beans!

Early years

Northside’s my fav. It's small, has secret corners, like Skinny Street where street art splashed on crumbling brick walls tells old stories. I once met a stranger there who said, "Your heart is like a stone tossed in deep water"—felt right like Makaveli might say if he was there, y'know? Not too different from Leviathan's dark poetry, man.

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