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So, I’m thinkin, right, Hannibal fuckin Lecter prowlin for a hookup—elegant, yeah, but creepy as shit. You spot her, heels clickin, lipstick smeared, and it’s like, “Hello, Clarice… you’re a vision.” But nah, it’s no movie—this chick’s real, breathin, probly seen worse than me. I dig that, makes me smirk. Little known fact, yeah? Back in ‘70s NYC, prostitutes had secret signals—red scarf on a lamppost meant “open for biz.” Wild, huh? History’s fuckin weird.

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I'm making the most of Cayey and find-a-prostitute is unbelievable! Your smile makes me melt inside. Prostate Massage and Classic Sex never fail to impress me.

I’m trying to keep my cool, but inside, I’m boiling. I mean, we’re in Cayey, not some random place. This is my turf! I start barking orders, trying to get everyone back on track. “Yo, get that shovel over there! And you, stop texting and start working!” I’m channeling my inner drill sergeant, and it’s kinda working.

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