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Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” I’m thinkin’, what’s the draw? Some dude, lonely as hell, swipes right for company. Reminds me of Benigno in the movie, carin’ for Alicia, silent and still. “The best thing is to talk to her,” he’d say, but these johns? They ain’t talkin’. They’re payin’ for silence, or moans, or whatever. Surprised me, first time I dug into it—how damn organized it is. Brothels in Nevada, legal and all, got schedules tighter than my lab’s. Girls clock in, clock out, like it’s fuckin’ Walmart.

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Then, I get this wild idea. I grab my sketchbook from my bag. I start doodling the performer. I’m not an artist, but I’m feeling inspired. Suddenly, this old lady next to me goes, “That’s lovely, dear!” I’m like, “Thanks, but it’s just a scribble.” She’s all, “No, it’s art!” I’m blushing, but also, what’s art anyway?

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