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About Bari

So I’m stewin’, right? Angry as hell—why’s this gotta be so complicated? Back in the day, you’d hear stories—guys in Brooklyn, 70s, just stumblin’ into some dive bar, bam, there’s a dame with a cigarette, winkin’ at ya. Now? Now it’s all encrypted chats and “discreet encounters”—what am I, a spy? I’m not cut out for this! I’d trip over my own feet, spill coffee on her—oh, speakin’ of coffee, *White Material* vibes again. “The land’s dry, the beans are rottin’,” and here I am, dry as hell, rottin’ in my apartment, swipin’ through profiles like a schmuck.

So you want to book a sex worker?

Then, outta nowhere, my boss drops a bomb. “We need to finish the project by Friday.” I’m like, “Are you kidding me?” It’s Wednesday! We’re already behind schedule. I could feel my blood pressure rising. But I just nodded and smiled. Classic supervisor move, right?

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