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Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t romanticizin’ it. It’s a brutal gig – disease, pimps, the works. Ruby’d joke, “I’m one clap away from the grave,” and I’d laugh, but damn, it’s dark. Still, there’s this… elegance to it, Clarice. Like a dance with death, all hips and sneers. “Tradition kills,” Sembène’d say, and whores spit on tradition daily. That’s my kinda rebellion.

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I don’t unnerstand why some people dis Barstow-Heights. It’s got soul! Every cracked sidewalk, every stained brick has a story. My parlor nearby is a secret cuddle haven; clients spill their guts with that ol’ friendly touch—know what I mean? Sometimes, after a long day massaging backs, I sit on my front stoop, sippin' iced tea, grateful for life.

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