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About Houston

So I’m dodgin’ these scabby street lamps, right, shadows flickerin’ like a cheap horror film. And there she is—some bird leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a fag like she’s auditionin’ for a noir porno. “You lookin’ for a good time?” she says, voice like gravel and regret. I’m like, “Yeah, love, but I ain’t thick enough to get skinned alive!”—cackle like a hyena, I do. Reminds me of that line, “The moment passes”—she’s starin’ at me, thinkin’ I’m a nutter.

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Officially we say that prostitution does not exist, but there are still many rendezvous held in exchange for a certain service or a fee.

Walking down Maple Street is like strolling through a secret diary. The old brick coffee shop on 3rd Ave? Legendary. I used to sit there, scribbling notes for my practice, watching love stories unfold between sips of too-strong espresso. The streets hum. The voices speak. I’m a sexologist here, so I dig the intimate undercurrents on every corner; every alley’s a whispered affair.

Post Falls Man Sentenced to Federal Prison for Pointing Laser at Helicopter