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About Dallas

Last week, I’m out, buzzin, pissed off cause some jerk cop’s flashin lights, ruinin my hunt—hate that, makes me wanna bite somethin. Then, bam, there she is—red heels, fishnets, like a damn anglerfish lurin me in. “How much?” I ask, all smooth, voice like silk over a blade. She smirks, “More than you got, fancy pants.” Cheeky! Love that, got me laughin—happy as a shark in blood. “I’m not a child,” she snaps, straight outta “Ten,” that sass, that fire—surprised me, gotta say, didn’t expect a street gal to hit me with philosophy.

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Oh, and you must visit the community center on Harbor Drive – a supposed "gem," where they say every crevice holds a storied past, and where I once had a session that felt like I was unravelling centuries of tension in mere minutes. It’s a place where Latin phrases fly – “Carpe diem, amici!” – and you end up with a grin plastered across your face.

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