Grace Redon Whore ❤️❤️

About Montpellier

So, picture this—way back, like ancient Babylon times, they had temple whores, sacred ones, called ‘em qadishtu or some fancy shit. Ain’t that wild? Folks bangin’ for the gods, gettin’ holy while gettin’ it on. Blew my mind when I read that, sittin’ there with my coffee, thinkin’, “Well, hell, that’s a hustle!” Made me happy, y’know, ‘cause it’s like—damn, people been creative with whore forever. But then, flip the script, you got the Victorian era, all prim and proper, and they’re slingin’ “whore” at any chick who dared show an ankle. Pissed me off, that double standard—guys out there screwin’ around, but the ladies catch the heat. Typical bullshit.

SEX AND THE CITY

Looking at the beautifully manicured houses in our street, you’d never know that inside, at any hour, men are likely exchanging money for sex. But sure enough, my house shares a wall with Missing: Redon.

After that, I head over to Rue de Nantes. I need a drink. I stop at this little café, and the owner, he’s a character. He’s like, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” I’m like, “Nah, just a couple of idiots.” We share a laugh, and I down a beer.

RONNIE S. REDON