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About Nagoya

Hit the streets, no capes, dahling – too dramatic, too risky! Saw this gal, red heels, smokin’ a cig – total movie moment. “Is this what remains of happiness?” I mutter, quotin’ Leos Carax like a freak. She’s chill, calls herself Vixen – real name? Prolly not. Asked her rate, $100, I’m like, damn, inflation’s a bitch! Haggled to $80 – Edna don’t play, hun.

How a street prostitute found pleasure in cutting herself

Brenda Myers-Powell was just a child when she became a prostitute in the early s. Here she describes how she was pulled into working on the streets.

First off, I hit up the local konbini on Kōen-dōri for my morning coffee. You know, the one with the best onigiri? Yeah, that one. I grab my usual—salmon, of course—and the cashier, this sweet old lady, gives me a smile. I’m like, “Aww, thanks, lady!” But then, BAM! I spill my coffee all over my shirt. Great start, huh? I’m standing there, looking like a hot mess, and she’s just chuckling. I mean, c’mon!

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