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Oh, and the johns—ugh, slimy creeps mostly! Roxy’d joke, “They pay for silence, not sex.” Cracked me up, but truth stings. Surprised me once, tho—this quiet dude, paid her double just to talk. Weird, right? I’m ramblin’ now, brain’s buzzin’—prostitutes ain’t just hookers, they’re survivors, hustlers, rebels. Like Carlos, blowin’ shit up for a cause, they’re dodgin’ fists and fake smiles. Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’d toast ‘em all—Roxy, the booze-runners, the lot. Screw the haters, they’re my kinda crazy!