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About Bari

Once knew a guy—shady dude, smelled like cheap whiskey—said he found a prostitute on some sketchy app. X posts floatin’ round ‘bout it too, links to sites I ain’t touchin’. “Be careful,” I told him, “this ain’t a damn game!” He laughed, said, “Bernie, chill, it’s just business.” Business my ass! Made me wanna scream—where’s the humanity? But, gotta admit, I was curious—how’s it work? Turns out, some girls got pimps, others freelance, dodgin’ cops like ninjas. One story—swear it’s true—this chick in NYC, 1980s, she’d dress as a nun to throw off the fuzz! Hilarious, but damn clever!

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First off, I’m running late. Classic me, right? I sprint outta my apartment on Via Roma, dodging the usual morning crowd. You know, the old folks with their dogs, the kids on bikes, and the baristas at Caffè del Centro already buzzing. I grab a quick espresso—like, I need that caffeine fix to survive this madness.

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