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About Lyon

Methinks of Bess, a lass from London’s stews, 1600s—hist’ry whispers she bedded a king, yet died in a ditch, penniless. Whore’s life, eh? Glitter one day, muck the next. Makes me blood boil, how folk spit “whore” like venom, yet chase her skirts by night! Hypocrites, all! I’d clout ‘em with me fist, but I’m too busy laughin’ at the farce. Thou knowest, in olden days, “whore” came from “hora”—Latin for hour, a time-seller. Ain’t that a hoot? She’s a clock tickin’ flesh, not a devil.

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I used to wander near the Belvédère at the Jardin du Pré, thinkin’ about love and pleasure coaching secrets. C’mon, in my line of work, you see nuances no one else catches. Even the tiny café on Place Général Leclerc, where I gulp espresso and plot my next BIG move, becomes a confessional. That place, with its creaky booth and jittery vibe, reminded me of some scene from Yi Yi—so raw, so real.

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