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About Tromso

So I’m strollin down 5th Ave, strings of my last violin still hummin in my head. The city stinks—piss, hot dogs, desperation. Perfect vibe to find a prostitue. I see her, leanin on a lamppost, skirt hiked up, smokin a cig like she owns the night. “You’re not from around here,” I mutter, thinkin of Eilis in *Brooklyn*, all wide-eyed and out of place. She smirks, “Wanna bet, strings?” Strings! Ha! She clocked me—violin guy. Made me grin, rare for me.

What to Know Before You Pay for Sex

No need for “Do you feel the spirit leaving the cat's body?” And if only for the sake of our mutual friends, don't ask me about STDs over food.

Then, I rush to meet my client, Lisa. She’s a total sweetheart but indecisive as hell. We’re at the corner of Korte Veldstraat and Lange Veldstraat, and she’s like, “Should I go for the red or the blue?” I’m like, “Girl, you’re not painting a house!” But whatever, I’m here for it.

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