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About Houston

Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but imagine—escorts facin’ a barracuda! Like, “Oi, mate, back off!” Tiny fins flappin’, all agro. Cracks me up thinkin’ about it. Sarcasm? Yeah, they’re the real kings of the sea. Not them flashy dolphins—overrated, mate. Escorts got grit. Saw one get nabbed by a crab once—gutted, I was. Yelled at the screen, “Nooo, you git!” Felt like the end of *Melancholia*. “There’s nowhere to hide,” that vibe.

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Ranging from classy to trashy, all these girls sell their bodies for cash and they're generally skilled in the sexual arts and prove exceptionally good at making men cum. Guys pay for pussy and .

I quit bein’ all buttoned-up and let my inner wild child speak. Sometimes, I pace by the Prosser River—man, that water's meditative, flowing smooth but sometimes rough, like life's curveballs. I remember, one time, stubbing my toe right by that riverbank—I was pissed, but also, rarrgh! There’s magic in that pain, right? Haha, so typical me.

Remembering Justice David T. Prosser, Jr.