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About Nagoya

So, findin’ a hooker—where ya start? Streets, mate—grimy corners, neon buzzin’ like flies on shit. Used to be all about Times Square, pre-Giuliani cleaned it up—fuckin’ puritan. Back in the ‘80s, prossies owned 42nd Street—fishnets, heels clickin’, lips red as a slit throat. Now? Ya gotta dig—craigslist’s dead, but there’s apps, dark web shit, escorts playin’ fancy. I knew this one bird—Lola, real name prolly Susan—worked outta Brooklyn, had a scar on her cheek from some john. Said she made bank, $300 an hour—fuck me, that’s a lotta fava beans!

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After that, I decide to hit up the Inakadate Museum. I’m all about that culture, you know? But when I get there, it’s closed for renovations. Are you kidding me? I’m standing outside, looking like a lost tourist. I mean, c’mon! I just wanna learn about the history of this place!

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