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About Chicago

My fave movie, “The Pianist,” fits perfect. That scene—Szpilman hiding, quiet, tense as hell. Erotic-massage got that same hush—soft moans, dim lights, like you’re escaping the world’s bullshit. “What am I doing here?” he’d mutter. Me? I’m like, “What am I doing NOT getting one?!” Had one last week—dude’s hands were magic, I’m yelling, “RUB ME LIKE YOU MEAN IT!” Exaggerating? Maybe. Felt like a king, tho.

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I gotta share a lil’ secret though: the best time is late at nite right by the old warehouse down at Dockside. Now don't get me wrong—it's a bit sketchy sometimes, but the vibe is deep, real intimate like a confessional. Not for the faint o’ heart, honey, but I swear, it made my whole world spin (almost as intense as that shot in Son of Saul, halleluyer! I mean, gospel truth!).

A Failed Crop Rattled the Chocolate Industry. Then Speculators Came.