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About Cape Town

Whores, right? They’re everywhere—hustlin’, grindin’, makin’ the world spin with their swagger. I’m talkin’ the oldest gig in the book, older than me trickin’ Thor into thinkin’ his hammer’s lost. Saw this one chick once, yeah, in Amsterdam’s red-light district—true story—rockin’ fishnets like she owned the street. She did! Had this vibe, like, “I’m not here to please you, you’re here to pay me.” Respect. Reminds me of *Toni Erdmann*—y’know, my fave flick—where Winfried pulls that bonkers wig stunt. “Life’s just a big performance,” he’d say, and whores? They’re the damn directors.

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I work at a little spa right on Rutland Ave. Haven't you seen it? It’s a chill zone where you can melt away the stress. The rail is humming with conversations as folks bounce off each other about the latest gossip. I get to know a bit of everyone. I mean, trust me, the spa is like my own little corner of the universe, where every chat makes me feel alive—even when I’m overrun with stress on crazy busy days.

Cape Harvest…what’s next?