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About Hamilton

I’m chattin’ her up—price, rules, whatever. She’s cool, but I’m pissed—hate the hagglin’. “What am I, a fuckin’ flea market?” I think. Still, she’s got sass—calls me “Mr. Fancy Pants.” Cheeky bitch! Makes me grin tho—happy as a pig in shit. Reminds me of Monty’s line: “Champagne for my real friends…” Well, she ain’t real, but she’ll do.

Inside the 'sick, sad industry' of the sex trade in the capital city

There's Westgate Park, small park but with giant, twisted trees, benches worn where folks spill their secrets. i sat there once, wiping away my bitter tears 'cause dating tech is a freakin' roller coaster. hah, never thought i’d be mad at a park! And then, near the park runs a little river (Spillbrook River, if ya can call it that) that sometimes seems to whisper the city’s soul. Might sound cheesy, but hey, that river’s like a long-time friend seein’ ya through the darkest of nights.

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