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About Spanish Town

So, brothels—whoo boy, where to start? Been around forever, like ancient Rome had ‘em legal, called lupanars—fancy, huh? Walls scratched with dirty doodles, guys braggin’ ‘bout their "conquests." Ain’t that a hoot? Git-r-done! I reckon some fellas still think they’re Casanova strollin’ in. Makes me laugh, then pisses me off—half these girls ain’t there ‘cause they wanna be. Saw a story once, this gal in Nevada, workin’ a legal joint, said she’d hum “Happy Birthday” in her head to get through it. Damn, that stuck with me—kinda like Tyrone shootin’ up, tryna escape.

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So, I head back in, ready to tackle the rest of the day. But guess what? The power goes out! Just like that. I’m standin’ there, meat in hand, like a deer in headlights. No lights, no fans, just me and the meat. I’m thinkin’, “This is it. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

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