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Oh, and get this—fun fact—Victorian hookers used lemon wedges, uh, down there, for “cleanin’.” Nasty, right? Humans are weirdos! Anyway, we’re outtie—find a prostitute? Easy. Understand it? Nah, too messy. *We come in peace* (robotic tone). Catch ya later, fam!Hey, pal, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores—whore, I mean, singular, ‘cause we’re zoomin’ in close, real close, like I’m Larry King leanin’ over the mic, squintin’ at some dame from "No Country for Old Men." So, what’s a whore to me? Huh? I’m curious, slow, diggin’ deep—what ya got there, huh? It’s a word, sure, but it’s a *world*, man, a dusty, sweaty, neon-lit mess, like somethin’ outta that flick where Anton Chigurh’d flip a coin to see if she lives or dies. “Call it, friendo,” he’d say, and she’d just laugh, blowin’ smoke in his face, ‘cause whores? They’ve seen worse than that psycho.

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Ok, I have to assume I now have a case of GAS (Gear Acquisition Syndrome). I'm trying to gauge just how severe it is.

I must admit, being a sexologist in here opened my eyes. I see desire in a handshake. I see romance in a nod. I see secret love affairs behind closed curtains in those narrow alleys. It’s raw, unedited human nature—a free, in-your-face vibe that never stops.

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