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About Turin

Sex-datin’s like a freakin’ game now. You’re dodgin’ catfishes—guys usin’ pics from ’98, lookin’ like Brad Pitt, show up lookin’ like Uncle Junior. Pisses me off, y’know? Wastin’ my time! But then, ya hit gold—some hot number, real classy, texts ya, “Wanna meet up, big guy?” Oh, I’m happy as a pig in shit then. Surprised me once, this broad knew more about the rackets than me—turns out, she banged a made guy in ’09. Little known fact: half these dames on Tinder? They’re scoutin’ for sugar daddies, not love. True story.

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We end up sitting on a bench near the Parco della Libertà. It’s a nice park, but I’m sweating bullets. I mean, it’s like 30 degrees out! And Marco’s going on and on about his ex. I’m trying to give him solid advice, but all I can think is, “Man, I need a gelato!”

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