Cindy and Geronimo walked me the three blocks from the Chalice to the corner of Waverly & MacDougal. That particular corner of Washington Square Park where you could find One Armed Jesse selling product strapped to the petrified bicep of his withered arm. Cops never looked up the sleeve of his dashiki, that shriveled stump where an arm should be freaked them out. Jesse brought me to the Hotel Earle, the two Joeys, Black & Brother, and the two Papos, Big & Little who everybody just called Shortrun, on account of he was short even for a Puerto Rican.
I was Short’s girl. I towered over him by four or five inches, except when I wore sneakers and he picked his Afro out, then, well, we were okay. Being with him meant I was welcome at the Hotel Earle where fresh dime bags were bagged in Big Papo’s room. They could keep an eye on their corner of the park from his window as they worked. Papo was massive, dark and handsome, full of scars shaped like knife fights and bullet holes. When he looked at me I imagined the braille of them writing stories on my skin.
I was Short’s girl, I wasn’t selling coke, I wasn’t buying coke, I’d never even tried coke. I had no business in Big Papo’s room. Not to look out the window, not to bag up, not to try to get a taste. I waited for Shortrun somewhere else, in someone else’s room, with Jesse or one of the Joeys. I waited in safe rooms where men watched out for me, which is different than watching every move I make.
“Hey J,” I was sleeping, curled up like a cat, or a fetus, in a chair in someone’s room. “Inhale, little sis.” Short’s brother Joey. His voice warm, comforting and moist in my ear. Brother Joey held the corner of a matchbook piled with fluffy white cocaine under my nose.
I did as I was told. There were heavenly trumpets. Electricity tingled from the back of my nose, encompassing my entire skull, traveling down each individual hair on my head, finding its way across my breasts, around my nipples, down my belly, into my puss where it lit up each individual lip, inner and outer, tightened the curl on each pubic hair and then, then, with the second bump, someone turned up the voltage. I couldn’t sit still, couldn’t just stay in the room. I was awake. I was one hundred and ten percent awake and my brain, my heart, my skin, my skin, my skin, the voices were going one hundred and ten miles an hour.
Shortrun had a wife. Maybe a daughter. No one would say for sure. He stayed at the Earle or at the York and there was an apartment. Someplace. It was all very vague. He was younger than me, only 17. And he was, well, he was short and he wasn’t around very often. He wasn’t around enough. He wasn’t here now. I needed to be someone to be here. Now.
Big Papo, on the other hand, was here, right there across the hall. He was there with his scars, his dark eyes and his little cocaine factory. Location, location, location.
We sat on his bed talking and testing product. We lay at right angles. We lay parallel. We lay on top of each other. And after we’d finished fucking he swore it would be our secret, swore he’d never tell Short. He did. Of course.
I didn’t care. In the time that lapsed between that first corner of a matchbook and putting my pants back on I’d totally forgotten why I’d been waiting for Shortrun at all. I’d forgotten everything except the feel of the coke going up my nose, the taste of the drip at the back of my throat, the excitement of his scars brushing my skin. I’d forget about Big Papo soon enough too. All that mattered was I’d found the way to be more alive, more beautiful, more awake than anyone had ever imagined possible.
This entry was written by , posted on November 2, 2009 at 9:36 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1976, dirty boys, drugs, Greenwich Village, The Chalice. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
The head of Ace’s cock peeks out from the white towel he’d wrapped around his waist. Peeks really doesn’t apply when you’re talking about Ace’s dick, it’s such a delicate word and his dick is such a monster. The Continental Baths offer an extensive display of the penis, in all its variety and glory, but even here, Ace is unique.
I know Ace from before Speedy, before Frankie even.
He was dangerous and angry. And so good looking in that way that teenage boys are, their almost man-ness just about bursting them at the seams. Olive skin, rippling belly, thick mauve lips, soft dark hair falling into his eyes. Those eyes were on me that first time we touched. He walked up to where I was sitting — always by the cigarette machine at the foot of the stairs, so I could see the door and the floor– Ace looked me dead in the eyes and leaned in like he was going to kiss me. He slide his hand down my thigh, my calf, all the way down to my foot, never breaking eye contact. I never go anywhere without at least one knife in my bag or my boot, somewhere. You never know. Like that night. There was some action on the street, outside the bar, and he needed my knife — needed what I had, that’s all I cared about. I let him take it, and then, instead of kissing me, he cut me and smiled.
He cut me. On his way out the bar he sliced my belly with my own knife, stopped, looked at me and smiled. It was deep enough to bleed, but not for scars or stitches.
There was no way I wasn’t giving that a test drive.
Later, that night, or some other, they get mixed up, but one of those nights after the Chalice, the three of us were alone. Me. Ace. His giant penis. I knew men & women who’d had sex with him. But Jesus, now looking at it, out in the open like it was, I couldn’t figure how. All my holes, could they be laid end to end, were not long enough to accommodate the glory that was Ace.
If you have a baseball bat between your legs, you need to know gentle and Ace only knew angry. I backed out of the penetration part of the sex. He was willing to settle for head. I had a better chance of swallowing an apple, whole.
And here he was again, standing next to the waterfall, in his towel, with his beautiful cruel mouth. His dick hanging out of his towel, my ass eeking out of the back of mine. On a good day, I don’t know what to do when I run into someone I’ve had sex with — a good day being one where I’m wearing some clothes. I don’t even know if what we did counts as sex. There wasn’t much more than nakedness and intention. Does that count?
Ace is still looking directly at me. What was I doing here he must be wondering. No girls allowed in the Continental Baths. I shoulda been wondering the same thing, but I don’t think about those kinds of things.
I do an about face & head back to the small room I’m sharing with Speedy. Small, but the same as everyone else’s, the size of a twin mattress with ”walls” that don’t reach the ceiling. I can hear the slurp and gag of someone getting head two rooms down, the thud thud of an ass pounding down the hall. If I can hear them… but me & Speedy, we get so fucked from smoking dust our noise is mostly from falling against the walls, trying to fit in the tiny room.
I’ma stick with Speedy for now. Compact, but complete. Every once in a while, in the middle of sex, one of us reaches down just to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be. He thinks I’m too loose, I say the dust relaxes me. I think he’s too small, that he has an ass-fucking sized dick, not a pussy sized one, but I don’t say that out loud.
I have get my ass in gear, catch my train. I have an afternoon class. Tap Dancing? Acting? Something. I think it’s today, I lose track of the days.
Speedy thinks fucking me means he’s not a maricon.
I think fucking him means I have a boyfriend.
He’s still sleeping. I pull my clothes out from underneath him, shake out the wrinkles the best I can, head up the stairs, praying I don’t bump into Ace on the way out and then I’m out. 73rd Street. Sunlight. I scrounge around in my bag hoping I still have my sunglasses. I can’t handle people looking at me when I’ve been out all night and it’s been days. I can’t stand the light.
I make my train, make my class.
Tuesday. Tap-dancing.
Shuffle. Ball change….
dirtygirl wonders...
What have you put up with just to have a boyfriend, a girlfriend? What will you let slide, just so you’re not alone…? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on August 6, 2009 at 1:52 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1976, dirty boys, hustlers, The Chalice, Uptown. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
My back is stuck to the red glossy wall, the sweat’s created a kind of suction as I lay on my side, watching him sleep. Speedy. Looking so perfect, his cock and balls perfectly balanced and symmetrical, laying dead center on his belly, pointing directly to his navel. No curve to the left, no lean to the right. Not the biggest (that would be Ace), but Speedy is so symmetrical, with balls so round, tight and smooth, two perfectly ripe Puerto Rican sugar plums.
Perfect or not, my body aches, my back is killing me. I’ve barely slept. I’d shove his perfect naked ass over and make room for myself if we were anyplace else, but the rooms here are no wider than the twin mattress we’re on. Laying on his back, he takes up most of the mattress, so I’m stuck between a cock and a hard place.
I guess I should be grateful.
Three days ago he’d stashed me in his mother’s apartment on 167th and Southern in the Bronx, then went off to I don’t know– wherever hustler’s go. I’d been outta the loop a few months what with trying to give school a go and things change fast, but I know what it means when he leaves. That hasn’t changed and I’m not asking questions, cause really, I don’t want to hear the details. Seriously. I don’t want to know if he’s jerking off his perfect dick while some old fuck watches or if the old fuck in question is going down on his perfection. I just don’t want to know. I don’t want to have to think about what’s a lie and what’s not. When he’s with me, he’s with me and that’s enough. I stayed for a couple of days watching novela’s with his mother while she ironed his shirts, his jeans and babbled at me endlessly in Spanish. For all I know she’s talking bad about me to my face, or maybe planning our wedding…I don’t speak not one single word of Spanish. And Mama doesn’t speak English.
That’s how I wound up getting smacked. Between the Spanish and the smell of scorched cotton, I was like to lose my mind. I needed some air, some English and something to take the edge off. I snuck outside and found some guys hanging under the El getting high and made myself at home. They spoke the English, they had the joint, I pulled up a piece of sidewalk and we hung.
I didn’t see him coming. I wouldn’t have expected it even if I had seen him. He started screaming at the same time the back of his hand made contact with my face. The combination knocked me off my feet. The boys got quiet and took a few steps back, giving him room to swing and scream.
“What the fuck was that?”, checking my jaw and getting up off the ground. I’m not afraid of getting hit. I can take a pretty good punch if I have to.
“What the fuck? What the fuck you say to me? What the fuck you doin’ out here? I tol’ you, stay inna house. What the fuck you think you’re doing?” His face is all scrunched up, his fist pulled back like he’s gonna clock me any second. I know he’s not. He’ll smack me, yeah, but he wouldn’t punch a white girl in the face, at least not me, at least not in the street.
“I was going outta my mind. Nobody to talk to. I know your sister speaks English, but not to me. Spanish, spanish, spanish all day, spanish. Spanish newspapers, Spanish food, Spanish TV. Spanish, spanish, blah, blah, blah. There’s nobody to talk to, nothing to do, I don’t know where the hell you are. I might as well go home, I should be in school ya know…”
“You get yourself killed hanging out here with these pendjos. You don’t know…,” he grabs my arm and starts hustling me down the street towards his mother’s building.
“I know one thing, maricon. I know I wasn’t getting smacked around out here till you showed up…I know that much.”
Okay, so I know one or two words in Spanish. And I knew better than to call him a faggot in any language, no matter what he does with his dick when I’m not around. Stuff comes into my head and it just sort of falls out of my mouth. So, really, that second smack, I had that one coming.
Speedy moved me into his room in the Continental Baths that same night, the only girl there, thank you. My jaw still ached a little, my back was sore, but still, at least I’d made my point. I’d won the argument.
dirtygirl wants to know:
How important is it to you to be right? How much would you risk just to make a point? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on August 3, 2009 at 9:19 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1976, dirty boys, hustlers, Uptown. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
What was I thinking?
I’d flunked out of Times Square. I didn’t want to go back to some job-job. I didn’t have a job-job to go back to, or any job-job skills. Since high school I’d been a short order cook, waitress, karate school receptionist, file clerk, bar bimbo. Quit, fired, fired, fired. Fired.
I was sixteen when I got out of school. I’d secretly turned 18 behind the bar at the Mardi Gras. I felt like I was a hundred years old. I felt like I’d been slagging around for years.
I had five years left before I got killed, give or take and I’d be an idiot to move out, I had a pretty easy life here. The answers were too scary so my parents didn’t ask the questions. Three hots & a cot, that’s what Snake used to say about prison, why he didn’t mind it. Three hots & a cot…and laundry.
Community colleges have to take you no matter what. I hadn’t bothered with SATs or Regents exams. School wasn’t part of my plan. I don’t like doing things I’m not already good at, which narrows the field considerably.
My plan had been easy money in the bars. I fucked that up. My plan had been some factory job & a cold water walk up. I’d lasted one day in a factory making little spools of copper wire from giant spools of copper wire. Eight hours of winding wire bobbins. Spin, clip, spin, clip, spin, clip. My fingers were so swollen by clock out I couldn’t fold my hand to hitchhike or dial a payphone to call for a ride. I sat on the curb and cried. I have no idea how I got home. So, add that to the list. Factory: quit.
September
The theatre department of Nassau Community College is directly across the street from the Garden City Bowl. I don’t bowl, but I like that things get knocked down and then set right again. I’m hoping I can make that a metaphor for my life. My average is 27 so I don’t put too much hope in a bowling metaphor. Maybe hoping for someone to run in and set me “right” is too much. It’ll be enough if I can just figure out how to stop standing in the way of the ball. Either way, the cocktail lounge it just through that door and I can cocktail with the best of them.
October
My first time on the small stage at NCC is somewhat less glamorous than my Mardi Gras debut. I’d made my own costume, a green and yellow strapless maxi-dress, a chiffon tube held up by an elastic band running around the top, just above my breasts, just under my armpits. I make my entrance, step on my own hem, the dress slides down to my waist and once again I’m on stage, topless, sans lights, sans mirrored ball, but still, topless. With an audience, of mostly our parents. No metaphor. Just destiny. And you cannot fight destiny.
November
“If I had a daughter, I wouldn’t let her hang out with you, either,” my mother says not for the first time.
We’re sitting at the kitchen table. My mother, my father, me, and Rachel. Rachel and I had gone to high school together without actually being friends, now we’re in school together, again. Levittown is just small enough that bad behavior doesn’t go unnoticed, even by parents you’ve never actually met. I was on the other side of that invisible, but very definite, line that separates them from us, “high spirited” from out of control, the good girls from the bad. Rachel made a crack over dinner about how her mother didn’t approve of me, how she was afraid I’d be a bad influence, afraid just knowing me could screw up Rachel’s future. Rachel was a good girl, the kind every mother hopes for.
“If I had a daughter, I wouldn’t let her hang out with you either,” my mother agreed as she cleared the dishes from the table. Rachel helped.
I’m stuck in Limbo, two exits south of Purgatory off the Long Island Expressway. Levittown. The best thing about been stuck in the suburbs is catching a train back into the city.
dirtygirl wonders…
How would your life change, if you knew when it was going to end? Or more to the point, how would you change your life if…? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on July 30, 2009 at 10:41 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1976, Levittown, the abyss. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
I stared at the ceiling from my childhood bed, warm under the growing pile of dirty clothes, trying to figure out what was next. I’d spent the weeks since I’d been fired popping the occasional Seconal or Tuinal, whatever I could find in the lint and loose tobacco of my pockets; leaving my room for food and the occasional need to pee. That job had required no skills, nothing but the parts I was born with and I’d fucked it up. Fucked up cash money and an bottomless bottle because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.
I looked at the framed sign over my bed–– a birthday gift from my father — “Engage Brain Before Opening Mouth”, took another hit off the joint I was holding and rolled over. My mother stared at me from the doorway.
“You’re going to get a job, go to college or you’re going to find somewhere else to live. You’re not laying around here getting stoned all day.” She was shaking, her face white, tense, on the verge of something. There were never a lot of rules at home. I mean, there were crazy rules, like how you had to put books back in the exact place you’d taken them from on the bookshelf or how we had to take turns making pleasant dinner conversation, but I could drag home all kinds of strays, addicts, street hustlers. They’d rather I brought trouble home than keep it secret. Even so, I never told them about the Mardi Gras, about dancing or what it was like to feel pretty. I didn’t tell them anything I thought they couldn’t handle, especially her. She was terrified I’d turn into one of the strays if I didn’t have a home to come to.
I rolled over, curled around my pillow. I was tired.
She went downstairs. I think she cried. If she did, my father’d punish me later, for upsetting “his wife”.
I’d never planned on college, never thought there was much point. I’d be dead by 23. I knew it. She knew it too.
I’d been having the dream every night since I was 15, since they kicked Snake out of the house; it never varied. Four days after my 23rd birthday the big clock at the train station says it’s 4:04. Leaning over to watch the train rushing in, suddenly someone pushes me. I hit the tracks and just before the train crushes me, before it cuts me into a thousand soft bloody pieces, I see him. Snake. My best friend’s uncle. One of my strays. The boyfriend I’d met the day he came home from prison. He asked me to marry him that first day. I said yes and moved him into my parents house. Snake wore long sleeves to hide his track marks and taught me about the morning drink.
I’d had that dream every night since my father threw him out of the house. Three hundred and sixty five nights a year. This was a leap year, lucky me, I get one extra nightmare.
What was the point of wasting time in college? Where did she even come up with that option?
I hugged the bar in neighborhood biker joints and corner dives. I passed joints back and forth to strangers in the park, hid out in dark rooms, dank bars, discos with lighted floors and called it self-exploration.
I considered joining the army and learning a trade, like demolition. I could be a gun moll or a mob hit man. I considered joining the circus. I thought about being a madam, but figured I’d need some hooker experience first.
Truthfully, I didn’t really want to get a job.
What I really wanted was to be a guest on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. I enrolled in Nassau Community College, aiming for a degree in acting.
I couldn’t memorize lines. I can’t memorize a haiku, can’t get past “There once was a man from Nantucket” in a limerick. I barely remembered our phone number. I’d lived in the same house my whole life and still didn’t know the name of the street behind us.
What was I thinking?
dirtygirl asks: How did you figure out what you wanted to be? Did you have a mentor, a plan, a clue of any kind, help of any kind? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on July 27, 2009 at 11:10 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1976, death, dirty boys, Levittown. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
I didn’t grow up in a house that said nigger. I knew people who did, of course. I grew up in Levittown where you can’t buy a house unless you promise never to sell to a non-white family. Seriously. Even so, in my a house we didn’t say things like kike, or spic or nigger.
“Jus’ give the niggers their drinks, take their money and walk. Ya spendin’ way too much time talkin’ to ‘em. I didn’t hire ya to talk to niggers.” Ralphie’s jowls vibrate as he yells at me, again.
The bosses were worried about their own pockets. Pimps don’t drop for the champagne hustle, they’ll sit on the same fancy drink for a whole shift. They don’t put money in the cash registers if they can help it. But I work for tips. The pimps were waving a lot of green at me, most days I go home with six times my shift pay in tips—that’s more in one day than I’d had in a week working a straight job. I wasn’t about to bite the hands that fed me, no matter what color.
“Well, Ralph, who you want I should talk to? I got no other customers. Switch me up. Put me on nights.”
“Then I got niggers at night. You know I ain’t putting you on nights. My ass is awready on a line causa you.” The Mardi Gras had a lot to lose. Days the risk wasn’t too bad, but there was like two, three, four times as much money at night. Putting a seventeen year old on a night shift was asking for trouble from the Vice Squad, from Public Morals, from the State Liquor Authority . I could lose their liquor license for them. No license, no money. I’d heard the speech every time I asked. Probably for the best.My family lie had me working the lunch shift at some restaurant. No one’d believe I was good enough to be offered a dinner crowd.
“Ralph, no one’s gonna tip me just for opening a bottle of beer and walking away. Who’my gonna talk to, huh? You?”
“I don’t pay you to talk to niggers.” He runs a thick hand through his hair, greying, slicked back and greasy, then across his mustache, also going grey. And now it’s greasy too.
“Well, who’re you paying to talk to ‘em, cause really, I’m perfect for it. C’mon Ralph. You barely fucking pay me at all. Fifteen bucks? C’mon. I get almost a hundred from them. I’m here to make money. Like everyone else. Do the math, Ralph. Do the fuck-ing math, seriously, what would you do?”
Ralphie stands, adjusting his pants and belt around his paunch, he stares down at me.
“Ya got a real smart mouth, kid. That don’t make ya real smart though. Ya like spendin’ so much time with these jungle bunny muthafuckas, spend ev’ry goddamn day ‘n night wit ‘em then. Getcha crap. Get outta here. Take ya nigger pimp witchoo.”
“So, no night shift?” I rush out the door, mouth still running. He’s this close to pulling his belt off and walloping me, I can see it in his eyes. I don’t know when to shut up,but I know when to duck.
JJ was a pimp, but he treated me with respect, unlike Ralph. He never cursed. He showed me how to survive in Times Square, how not to get eaten alive. I’d heard ugly stories, girls who were so far in they couldn’t find a way out. That wasn’t gonna happen to me.
“What’s happenin’ Little J?” he whispered. The music pounded me, louder than usual. JJ’s voice was like a hot knife through butter. He was the heat. He was the butter too.
Anger danced in my head, shattered my thoughts, sent them flying and crashing into the walls as I gathered my stuff from behind the bar. I bumped into Ralphie as he was closing out my register.
“I’m fired,” tossing my head at Ralphie, “for talkin’ to NNNIIIGGGERS,” loud enough for everyone to hear over the throbbing disco beat.
“Get da fuck outta here.” Ralphie shoved me roughly down the bar.
“Hey,” I turned, “my shift pay, Ralphie?” holding my hand out, smiling sweetly.
“You don’t work a full shift, you don’t get paid, that’s my math.” He smiled back at me and puffed his chest out.
“Fuck you Ralphie, I don’t need your stinkin fifteen dollars.”
We walked out of the darkness into the glaring afternoon sun on Broadway, both wearing our work clothes. JJ, quiet in his three piece bankers grey pin stripe suit and me, with smart mouth & my big ass bobbing along, in a leotard shiny and red as a fire truck, legs bare, a pair of heels and a very bad attitude. Times Square roared around us.
It was a long day. I was too tired to roar back.
dirtygirl wonders: Do you know when to shut up? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on July 23, 2009 at 8:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1976, dirty money, JJ Huntsberry, Levittown, pimps, Robbies Mardi Gras. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
If you’re in the house, you’re on the bar, on stage or working the floor. On stage you’re untouchable, but on the floor you have to be pleasant, seductive. Tell him how handsome he is, how desirable, run your fingers down his arm, tell him what a piece of shit he is, say what ever it is he needs to hear, how you’ll leave your man for him if only if…as long as there is a glass of champagne in front of you. No drink and it’s just a smile tossed over your shoulder, an eyeful of your ass walking away. He can take that into the bathroom and jerk off. Or he can buy you a drink.
The drink is champagne even when it’s not. A $20 nip buys a short five minutes at the bar. More time means more money. The girls are friendly, time is fluid, the champagne endless.
Every champagne glass comes with a chaser, an empty frosted “spit” glass to dribble the champagne into after each sip.
Dancers spit, they don’t swallow.
Drunk girls are accidents waiting to happen. They wake up next to men they never meant to fuck. For free. Drunk girls get sent home, they’re not earners. And cheap champagne is the worst hangover ever. Trust me, I’m a drunk girl.
Most days though, I “restock” the bottles, taking the ones with good labels, that don’t look too battered, filling them with ginger ale from the soda gun and twisting the caps back on.
Twist tops. Classy.
I put one or two spit glasses aside, unwashed, for assholes. I leave some spit in there.
I do my best to work the champagne hustle, but everyday brings new displays of feathered hats, sherbert colored polyester pimp suits and matching patent leather and alligator shoes - orange, lime green or grape. Pimps don’t buy titty bar champagne. They buy Golden Cadillacs and Grasshoppers. Cocktails to match their outfits and coat their stomachs. Cocktails that need to be shaken. They come to see me shake, to see the new girl JJ Hunstberry is grooming. JJ is top dog, if someone can grab me away from him, I’d be a feather in their cap. No one knows he still sends me home untouched at the end of every day.
The pimp parade leaves less and less room for the middle class white guys–incredible shrinking men in white short-sleeved button downs and two dollar ties. The scotch & soda, gin & tonic boys. The ones who buy the champagne. Meal tickets are afraid of pimps.
The girls complain to management. The meal tickets complain to management. Management complains to me.
Ralphie’s got me in the office, again, in the middle of a shift. His jowls shake as he yells at me for the thirty-first time. “Jus’ give the niggas their fuckin’ drinks, take the money and walk away. Ya not here to talk to niggas.”
But no one else talks to me, I think…
I’d never gotten the hang of making friends in my old life either.
dirtygirl asks: Do we choose our friends, do they choose us or is it all just proximity and circumstance? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on July 20, 2009 at 9:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1976, dirty money, JJ Huntsberry, pimps, Robbies Mardi Gras, Times Square. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
onlythejodi