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So, findin’ a prossie—where d’ya even start? Back in MI6 days, I’d scope the scene, all cool-like, martini in hand. Shaken, not stirred, obvs. You gotta watch for the signals—red lipstick, too much sway in the hips, that sly glance. Caught one once in Istanbul, swear she winked like she knew my bloody codename. Surprised me, that did—thought I was slicker than that. Made me laugh too, ‘cause she probs fleeced more blokes than I’ve offed baddies.

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Share a J with you, take you to a brothel and get a finders fee from the owner. You get laid, he gets paid. Win-Win! Upvote 6. Downvote.

Man, I been doin’ massages for so long, the hands got stories—pullin' out not just tangles, but hidden tales, secret love affairs and silent hopes. Some nights, I wander down the alleys on Bentinck Street and think: “Crikey, what a life!” Then I mumble, all confused-like, "Sharon! Where have you been?" The vibe’s wild, raw, and so real.

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