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About San Diego

Oh, and the cash? Insane! Top escorts pull bank—thousands a night. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares, sounds dope. “This is our time”—*Spotlight* vibes again—escort’s their time, their hustle. Me, I’d probly suck at it—too awkward, haha. “Hello, Clarice,” I’d say, then trip over my damn boots. Still, I dig the grit, the guts it takes. Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—I’d feast on their stories, not their souls. Escort’s raw, messy, human—kinda like me, fightin’ fires from the sky. Whaddya think, pal? Crazy world, huh?

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Now don't get me started on the neighborhoods. Old Grange is full of those dodgy alleys that you're too scared to walk down after midnight. But I love it, like the perfect rough cut—raw and unfiltered. And then there's Oak Street. Lined with neon diners and flickering streetlamps, it feels like every massage I give channels the soulful sins of that damn movie. Every bruise and knot in my clients reminds me of Jesse's scars.

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