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About Kyoto

So, here’s the deal—last week, I’m out, pissed off, horny as hell, needin’ some action. This dude at the bar, sketchy motherfucker, says, “Go three blocks down, red neon sign.” I’m like, cool, sounds legit, right? WRONG! Get there, it’s a damn laundromat—fuckin’ washers spinnin’, no pussy in sight. I’m yellin’, “Motherfucker, who’s playin’ me?!” People stare, I don’t give a shit. That’s when I learned—never trust a drunk tip, ever.

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Friday profiles two such females. One, who goes by the name Aki, is a willowy year-old hair and makeup coordinator who toils by day for a bridal service.

But then, the mood shifted. My computer crashed. Just like that. All my work, gone. I was ready to throw it out the window. I mean, come on! Aki’s tech is usually solid. But today? Nope. I was fuming.

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