Escorting a Brazilian Escort
Fear kills love.
Over the last few weeks, I DMed 200 people between North Carolina and Boston. I put this little spiel at the end of my articles:
If you missed that, sorry.
If I was a professional I would have sent out these messages months in advance. I am not a professional.
Substack has a feature where, if you subscribe to a blog, the author of that blog can see the state in which you made your account. This feature has been extremely helpful for me to find what states my subscribers live in, and to DM the ones I think would be in my line of fire.
This is also a creepy feature. If you are worried about me knowing where you live, I suggest you delete your Substack account and remake it with a VPN. Alternatively, you could ask Substack support to remove your location data. Some people, for some reason, have a “blank” in their location data. I don’t know why this is.
After DMing hundreds of people, I started to get rate-limited by Substack, and also by telegram, who thought I was spamming people with a scam. It is potentially a scam, as I might waste people’s time and disappoint them.
Eventually, Substack DMs broke entirely, to the point where conversations started randomly disappearing, deleting messages; it was a mess. I created a spreadsheet to keep track of everything.
The most stressful part of this process was:
People refusing to video chat.
Put yourself in my shoes, for five seconds. I do not know anything about you, dear reader. I don’t know what you like, or what you dislike. I don’t know what offends you, or what interests you. I don’t even know what you look like.
I’ve written 700+ articles; my readers only are exposed to a small fraction of that. Because I am “high variance,” two people who read a random selection of 10 of my articles might come away with an entirely different impression.
Theoretically, I could spend hours texting back and forth with each anonymous account, asking all sorts of questions and forming a mental model in my head with no visual data to go off of. I could spend 200 hours interviwing flaky anons who are just going to ghost me anyway in the end. Alternatively, I could use my powers of intuition to look your skull and make a split-second judgment. Video is better than a picture, because the human frame is dynamic.
I have never forgotten a face, although I forget people’s names easily. I won’t remember your birthday, but I will remember your nose, your eyes, and your lips, the curvature of your jaw, the protrusion of your brow.
Phrenology is a pseudo-science, but at the very least, this provides me with placebo-confidence. Hey, I know that guy: he has a strong skull, he is probably a chud. I should be sensitive to his chud sensibilities, and maybe make a racist joke to make him feel more relaxed. Alternatively, this other person has a skinny little woke-skull, and I should try especially hard to not be racist around them.
They say “just be yourself,” but there is no singular “me” that acts 100% the same all the time. I am constantly coordinating my manners, my politeness, my attitude to fit the needs of those around me. I do this poorly, and it requires extra effort on my part, so having advanced knowledge of how a person will act before meeting them is helpful in reducing the anxiety of this process.
Acting the same around your girlfriend, date, mom, sister, grandmother, etc. is not something I can imagine — although I know some people are like that. Such people tend to be very likeable; I am not. But I still want to please people, and I want them to like me.
Video chatting is a filter against flakes, the fearful, and the insane. A large contingent of my audience (maybe 10%) are hardcore racists and antisemites. This is because I am “right-coded.”
One way to filter people out is to demand that they show me their face, because racists and antisemites are typically paranoid about being “doxed.” The ones who are bold and brave enough to show their face typically hold paradoxical views, which makes them more interesting.
Some people are willing to pay me $500, but they are not willing to video chat with me.
It’s not polite to insult people who give you $500, or gossip about them, or demean them in any way. I don’t mean to do that; although I often comes off as mean, cruel, judgmental, arrogant, and critical. Really, I just want to understand, and I understand through communicating my thoughts to the audience.
I am different from the average person. In 2014, I started reaching out to internet racists, and by 2015, I was trying to start a white nationalist commune.1 From my perspective, if you believe in something, you don’t just sit on your hands passively and wait around for someone else to do something. You actively participate and put yourself out there.
It’s hard for me to put myself in the shoes of someone who feels that I am an important, valuable, worthwhile person, but who is apprehensive about video chatting with me. But I know that such people exist — after DMing over 200 people and asking them to video chat with me, that seems to be closer to the human default than my high-risk behavior.
I’ll give an analogy through furries:
Furries wear outfits which obscure their faces.2 Why are furries like this?
I trust Katherine Dee as the expert on internet anthropology, so I looked up her article on furries, and the first thing that came up was this interview. It starts slow, but it is indeed highly disturbing.
Furries are autistic, introverted, lonely people with social anxiety. They want to have intimate and sexual connections with other humans, but are afraid to show their faces.
Adjacent or analogous to the furry phenomenon is the vestigial COVID masking which persists among a minority of the population. Some of these people justify their masking for immunological reasons, but others are clearly doing it out of social anxiety.
Last year, I wrote this:
To my surprise, she responded:
This woman’s interaction with me deeply impacted me, because she suggested that she could peg me, if I enjoyed that sort of thing. This suggestion caused me to write my greatest article of all time: I am a deeply closeted homosexual.
This woman, Ms. Hello, also claimed that I didn’t like her because she’s not black:
In my experience, black women who are attracted to me are shy and nerdy. However, stereotypically, the phrase “acting black” refers to bold, ostentatious arrogance. When Ms. Hello says that she is not “black” enough for me, this is racistly correct, in the sense that she was not bold or aggressive enough for me.
What frustrates me more than anything is people who are shy or fearful to pursue what they desire.
Not only do I hold women to this standard, but men even more so.
I struggle with fear, but in a different way. My reticence to talk to strangers is predicated on the idea that 99% of people are not interested in anything that I have to offer. I am not interested in sports, or the Bible, or Marvel movies. Mass culture is sterile, mundane, and boring. For the last three years of my life, until this road trip, I’ve made zero attempts to initiate contact with strangers, outside of dating.
Talking to random humans traps me in an NPC dialogue tree, in which my value is ignored and suppressed in favor of “being normal.” I’d rather be alone.
But this does not mean that I want to have super intellectual or pedantic conversations about politics or science or anything “smart.” I can do that on my own, writing articles. I simply want to know that the person I am talking to has some depth; that they can imagine what it would be like if they did not have breakfast this morning.
Love
My most enjoyable conversations are about love. When I met Peter Foreshaw3 Brookes, he regaled me with the minutiae of German fertility policy. I’m skeptical, so I kept responding, which caused him to respond, and we went on like this for some time. At no point did I gain a better sense of Peter’s inner life, and he never gained any insight into mine.
As the darkness of night descended, we walked through a suburb of Arlington, Virginia, and came upon a park bench, and sat down. I looked into his bright blue eyes, illuminated by the orange glow of a street lamp, his cherubic rosy cheeks obscured by shadows. I noticed how handsome he was, and how innocent and naive he appeared, despite being a married father already.
Finally, I managed to stop myself from responding. He made his point, and I looked at him, directly, without responding. After a short pause, he began to talk about religion.
If I never allowed him that pause, and instead kept issuing counter-arguments and refutations, we could have gone on all night, trapped in an infinite loop of pointless dispute. I’m not Peter’s target audience; he’s not going to change my mind; we’re wasting each other’s time. But when he began to talk about religion, I began to empathize.
He explained his desire to do good in the world and to nurture the development of his young family, and his frustration with the epistemology of doctrine. He spoke of the problem of evil, and various prophecies and miracles which may or may not support or disprove the claims of the church. This gave me a picture of a man who was earnest, but conflicted.
He asked my thoughts on the matter, and I spoke of the soul and God, the Bhagavad Gita, the Platonic philosophy, and Meister Eckhart. As I spoke, I wanted to cry, as I often wish to do when I speak of God and the soul, although he probably did not notice.
Peter was sincere in his desire to know the truth for the good of others, expressing this clearly, directly, and fearlessly. I was touched. I also want to love my fellow man. Tragically, I spend little time offering others love. My time on Earth is short, and I have been neglectful of this great commission.
Love is an intense duty, demanding the strength of the soul, but it is often derided through irony and cynicism. Love! What a hollow and empty word. I love porn, or video games, or substack articles… Love is a diamond covered up by a mountain of trash.
True love can only exist in mutual vulnerability, risk and discomfort. Each man opens himself up to the other, providing an opportunity for judgment and critique, trusting the other to be gentle and respectful.
It is gay to talk about love — so I am gay! It is impossible to speak with most people about such things; they are too cruel, too fearful, and too guarded.
Friendship only exists where there is trust. Fear kills love.
This is why I demand the video chat. Yet some people would rather give me $500 than put themselves in a potentially embarrassing, unflattering, or vulnerable position.
Here’s an example of a video I sent on March 6th:
I sent that video at noon, from a Planet Fitness lobby, where I was staying up all night to fix my insomniac sleep schedule. After sending this video, the person immediately deleted their telegram account and blocked me on Substack. I wondered if it was because my hair made me look ugly or crazy, so I went to a black barber, where I watched men doing pushups while getting my hair cut.
When people ignore me and ghost me, it hurts. I just want to be friends. Give me a chance?
I’ve been advised to stop caring about how strangers treat me.
You may read all this and think,
Wow DeepLeft you are a sad little man
but people also say that the way in which I write is opposite to my physical appearance.
There I am, meeting up with some people in DC, defying the moppishness4 of my writing. And there’s Peter Banks, standing 6’5” tall, towering over everyone.
One of the things Peter and I discussed in that bar is this WBE-inspired idea of revealing your sex life to your Substack audience. He’s married, so he’s in a different situation, but he specifically tells me that he’s against the idea of guys talking about their dick size. In either direction. No one wants to know if you’re large or small. I tell him I’m perfectly average, and he laughs.
Immediately after taking that picture, I abandoned my friends, which caused some argument later on, but I had a good reason.
Escorting an Escort
I never go to bars, because as we have established, I do not enjoy meeting random strangers, and I do not drink. In this bar, where I was seated, I found myself staring directly at a Brazilian woman who was directly staring at me.
The dress she was wearing was elegant and stylish, but it was low-cut, and as she adjusted the straps on her shoulders, it began to fall lower and lower. She was clearly drunk, to the point of being delirious, and her eyes were bloodshot, her eyelids were drooping, from crying or taking drugs.
When a woman catches my eye, I assume that within a few minutes, her friend or boyfriend or whoever will come along to claim and collect her. But that was not the case. She was truly alone.
I felt a mix of emotions, ranging from excitement to pity, and concern. When I was a young boy, I watched Austin Powers. After being unfrozen from cryogenesis (like Emperor Barbarossa), he finds himself in bed with a drunk woman. You’d think he would take advantage, because he’s always so randy. But instead, he says, “it wouldn’t be right, baby.”5
I am obsessed with the idea of true love and being admired and worshipped. A drunk woman lacks the capacity to love me with her whole being, since she can barely understand where she is and who I am. Neglecting my uniqueness, she does not appreciate me for my soul; I am just another warm body among many. In the same way that I would rather be alone than settle for a stranger who does not appreciate my greatness, I would rather ignore the advances of a drunk woman.
A drunk woman also threatens my ego, because of her likely regret. Regret is just rejection delayed. This is putting aside any consideration of consent theory.
But it has been months since a woman flirted with me, and months since I’ve talked to one, so what would be the harm in talking? The last time I flirted with a woman in the bar, I was with Worst Boyfriend. At the very least, I can figure out what’s going on.
As these gears turn, her dress slips lower and lower, until finally, her bare nipple is exposed in the middle of the bar. No one rushes over to cover her up. This is tantalizing, and shameful. I shouldn’t stare at her like a creep or voyeur. I need to intervene.
The conversation that ensues is garbled and confused in the noise of the bar. She latches onto me, handsy and desperate. Her drunken, slurred Brazilian accent is 90% incomprehensible. I trail her nonsense words with disappointed, half-hearted affirmations that I’m listening to her. Eventually, she gets frustrated and fed up with my uselessness, so she orders a Lyft, and bluntly tells me she’s done talking to me. I go away.
She seems to struggle to order the Lyft, however, and goes over to the bartender and shows him her phone. I wonder if he’s able to understand “drunkese” better than I can. Eventually, she leaves.
Shortly after, around midnight, my friends are getting ready to leave and go home. One hands me a pair of sunglasses and asks me if they belong to “that girl.” I ask everyone about the glasses, but everyone says no or looks at me blankly.
At this point, the “bro-code” would necessitate that I laugh, put the glasses down, and first give everyone a handshake and a goodbye. Bros before hoes, and all. But I felt a rush, a crisis of obligation, a renewal of excitement, the anticipation of engagement, to see if this drunk woman was still lingering outside. It couldn’t hurt to check…
There she is across the street, falling over, bumping into random people on the street. A tall black guy is pissed, “yo watch where the fuck you going!” She sees me, crosses the street, and I ask her if the glasses are hers. She grabs them, tells me “no, they’re yours,” puts them on my head, and kisses me.
This is the first time I’ve ever been kissed by a complete stranger. There are dating app hookups, sure, but that’s all pre-planned and expected. I shouldn’t consider a drunken kiss to be meaningful; she would have kissed someone else if I hadn’t been standing there. But it’s better than I’ve had in months or maybe years, so I take it.
She calls me handsome and amazing and asks for a ride to her hotel, while a series of men blow up her phone non-stop. The Lyft must have come and gone without her; she is too drunk to figure out ride apps. Worry and desire intertwine. If I abandon her, who’s to say she won’t be kidnapped by someone with fewer scruples?
As I’m considering what to do, she’s getting a call from “Bobby,” who I presume is her boyfriend, or gay friend. Maybe they’re an arguing couple, in the midst of breaking up. I alert her, hopeful that this man can help me avoid this moral dilemma: “hey, Bobby is calling.” His name is clearly displayed on her phone, but she ignores him and begs me to get her home. She’s not from around here, she’s from Fort Lauderdale, she doesn’t know anyone here, she was with a couple but they abandoned her, she already called a Lyft but it didn’t work, she needs me…
People rarely take advantage of my hidden weakness, which is my savior complex. I love to fantasize about being self-sacrificing, to help other people and save them. There’s an easy way to exploit this: tell me that I can help you, because I am uniquely special and capable, and I will go much further in helping you than is reasonable.
This requires some convincing that I am not being lied to, but if I believe that you believe that I am truly your savior, then you have me in the palm of your hand. At this moment, I believe that I am this drunk Brazilian’s savior. She is drunk enough to believe that I am a heaven-sent solution to all her problems. Maybe she is right.
As we walk to my car, she stumbles and drops her phones — two of them — several times. She explains to me that she is an escort, over and over, like I am too innocent or naive to believe her or understand what it means to have sex for money. Bobby is her sugar daddy, but he has cancer and is going through chemo and a divorce, and Bobby’s wife and daughter keep calling her complaining about all the money he’s sending her, and she’s flying out tomorrow to Houston to see him, and…
For any sober person, getting into a homeless person’s car would be a hard no. But her judgment is so poor that she patiently waits while I take the piles of clothes occupying my passenger seat and stuff them in the trunk of my car. I keep crashing my car into curbs driving through these maddening cities and all the broken pieces of plastic I’m collecting scrape her as she attempts to fit into my passenger seat.
She holds my hand like I’m her teddy bear, kisses me at the stoplight, rests her head on my lap, and eventually falls asleep over the course of the 20 minute drive. A couple of times, she wakes up, and asks me where are you taking me? To your hotel, like you asked, and we’re only 10 minutes away now. She begs me to come in with her, to stay the night with her, and I consider.
My biggest fear is that this woman will, at some point, sober up, and realize that I’m a disgusting creep and kick me out of her hotel room. I will be evicted, driving late in the night, slinking back to my Airbnb, messing up my sleep schedule (again). But if I drop her off and drive home, I’ll stay up all night thinking that I was a coward. I think of my friends, and my Substack audience: which makes for the better story? Drop her off and retreat; or I stay the night and see what happens? The audience in my head demands I risk it.
I still offer to drop her off, telling her to go in without me, and she refuses. She needs me, which is what I want to hear more than anything. I protest that I can’t park here, that I will get towed, and she grabs me and pulls me to the elevator, brings me to her hotel room, hands me a keycard, and jumps in the shower without me.
I have never had a stranger hand me a key to their hotel room, a symbol of her unlimited drunken trust in me. If I were to abandon her, would she feel lonely? Rejected? I promised I would stay... I couldn’t do that to a lonely little Brazilian prostitute…
I take the opportunity, while she showers, to go downstairs and ask the valet about parking. He asks for my room number and car keys, and that’s it. Lifehack: if you want free parking at a hotel, say a random room number, give them your keys, they park you, and charge the room. You don’t need proof that you’re staying at the hotel — you can just get away with things.
The valet lets me know, however, that I can’t get my car back until 6am. If this girl kicks me out in the middle of the night, I’ll be wandering the hotel like a ghost until the early morning. I take the chance.
After handing over my keys and returning to the room, my escort approaches me wrapped in a towel and asks me to take a shower. I already showered today, but she demands it, and removes her towel, adding a carrot to the stick. Her room, her rules.
I’ll take a quick shower, to appease her. Maybe she doesn’t like sleeping with dirty, stinky men — I should be considerate and make her comfortable. After 5 minutes, I emerge, and she is gone.
I check the closet, under the bed, nope — she is really gone. Five minutes ago, she was naked and drunk, and now she is gone. Did she suddenly realize her mistake and flee the scene? Did she lock herself out, naked? Is she wandering the halls, confused?
I cannot fall asleep alone in a prostitute’s hotel room without her. She left both of her phones behind, and I don’t have her number anyway, so I’m stuck. I don’t even know her name — neither of us bothered to ask. I get dressed, wait outside the room, and hope she wanders back. Of course she does, sauntering less drunkly now after her shower, wearing pajamas, oblivious to the momentary cortisol spike I just suffered.
As the alcohol wears off, she seems more agitated by my presence, swinging from the satisfaction of having captured me to the annoyance of having to share her room with a stranger. She mumbles something about buying me a separate room to sleep in, and I insist that I don’t want to be here if she’s uncomfortable, I’ll leave if she wants me to… Schizophrenically, she asks if I work for the CIA, and tells me that if I try to kill her, she’ll kill me first. I promise not to kill her.
She fails, 20 times, to enter the password for her macbook. She claims she has to work for the government… I can’t tell whether this mentally ill behavior is a product of drunkenness, or if this is her sober mind fighting to meet some half-forgotten visa deadline before the morning comes.
Eventually, however, my encouragement to relax works, and she puts the laptop down and immediately falls asleep with her arms wrapped around me. The TV is playing Two and a Half Men, followed by a spin-off featuring Nigerian nurses. I haven’t watched TV in a decade, so I treat it as a lesson in American anthropology. Outside in the hotel halls, drunk people chatter loudly and rudely. It’s 2am, and I’m not falling asleep under these conditions.
Slowly, I extricate myself from her arms without waking her up, turn off all the lights, turn on the air conditioning, and take off my shirt. I leave my pants on, because I always go commando, and I can’t be naked in this bed without her permission. Eventually, I fall in and out of a sleep-like state, for an hour or so.
At 4am, she wakes up suddenly, and I’m momentarily afraid she won’t recognize who I am. She doesn’t seem to remember what happened, but I remind her of everything: you asked me to take you home and stay with you, so that’s what I did.
She tells me she will never drink again, and how embarrassed she is, and how crazy she is, and how she always does this... She seems to have sobered up significantly with a few hours of sleep, because her eyes are no longer bloodshot.
But she also tells me that I’m so handsome, and she’s a white supremacist. She loves white guys with blonde hair and blue eyes, and keeps asking in the dark if my eyes are blue. I refuse to tell her my eye color, maybe you can tell me… Eventually she shines the light of her phone in my eyes, and she’s satisfied with the color.
She launches into her life story, and about Bobby, her sugar daddy. Bobby is furious at her for ignoring his hourly neurotic check-ins, making her life very difficult. He’s now punishing her for ignoring all his calls with threats to cut her off, calling her a whore and a cheater. This creates a cycle: Bobby threatens her, which stresses her out, so she drinks, which causes her to ignore his calls and flirt with other men, which causes him to threaten her…
She tells me I can’t stay in the room with her, because Bobby would kill me if he found out I was with her, and he will call the hotel and make a problem for everyone… I cover myself with a blanket and pretend to not exist.
As the night drags on into the morning, she goes back to sleep, wakes up again, calls Bobby, and her phone dies in the middle of the call. She shows me all her text messages with him. She plays his voice messages, and it’s a 210lbs Gen X white guy complaining, in a monotone cuck-voice, how she broke his heart, how he gave her thousands of dollars but she cheats on him and doesn’t care about him… It’s really pathetic, and I’m mindful of all the times I have cried over a woman, and how I probably sound exactly like that.
They say that men falling in love with prostitutes is the female equivalent of falling in love with therapists.
She shows me her Instagram account, so I finally learn her name is Nora, and she asks me to marry her. Bobby and her have a plan: he will pay some hapless dope $30,000 to marry her so she can get a greencard. Then she and Bobby can continue their romance indefinitely without the threat of deportation. This seems illegal, because when I repeat the scheme back to her, she tells me to quiet down, as if she fears the government is always listening.
Despite the trauma and stress, Nora is filled with a bubbly energy that can’t sit still. She stands up and shows me her body in the mirror. Despite having a very chubby face, she has a hint of visible abs. She pulls down her pants low enough for me to see two butterfly tattoos below her stomach, around the line of where her thong would be.
She shows me her niece, her entire life, her Brazilian family she hasn’t seen in two years, her “white mom,” who she seems to regard as racially superior, implicitly. She apologizes for not wearing makeup or looking her best, and tries to convince me of how hot she “normally” is by scrolling through all the videos and pictures she’s taken over herself over the years. She is a pretty girl, even with a very wide face, and relatively wide shoulders. Later today, she has a “drainage” appointment (a lymphatic massage which she believes will massage away her fat) and then a flight to Houston to see Bobby. He promises to pay her money, even while saying he never wants to see her again, because of all the heartache she has caused him.
She tells me how Bobby would kill me if he could see me with her, and how handsome I am, and how she wants to marry me. She’s picked up this phrase, “yaknow?”
I just need money, yaknow?
At some point between her explaining her entire life story and propositioning me to become her fake husband, we end up cuddling a bit more aggressively. Now that she’s less drunk, my fear of her regretting it later subsides. She asks to watch me masturbate, grabs my dick for a second, and compliments the size, saying I’m big like Bobby.
Over and over again, she tells me that I am the same as all other men, and I just want to have sex with her. I try to convince her at least ten times that I am completely disinterested in having sex — and it’s true, I don’t use condoms and having unprotected sex with a prostitute seems like a bad idea. I like cuddling because it feels like love. But eventually I learn why she is so insistent.
She wants me to agree with her, to embody the archetype of a lecherous animal who only wants sex. I eventually catch on:
yes, Nora, all I want to do is have sex with you, all I want is your body, I am overcome with lust and I am singlemindedly focused on you to the exclusion of everything else in the universe.
Looksmaxers have the souls of prostitutes — they think that women only want you for your looks. Similarly, Nora can’t accept the idea that men want her love; they must only want her body.
I slap her ass, and she’s satisfied by the pleasure of being right.
Eventually after asking me three times if I want breakfast, and telling her we can, if she wants, I finally realize she just wants me to tell her what to do. “Listen: Let’s get breakfast.” She’s happy that I’m finally playing the role of the John, treating her as an object and telling her what to do.
In DC, the prostitutes pay for your meals. I have French toast, and she has some kind of avocado toast with eggs.
While we eat, she plays me a Youtube astrology video explaining the 21 traits of geminis, and I realize that she has memorized the entire video, because she starts quoting along with it. This is what most people are like sober: listening to astrology videos on repeat, memorizing them, regurgitating them line-by-line.
Most people need to drink to be “interesting.” She is now too sober, and the game is over. I ask the valet to bring up my car, and she says she will give me a tour of the hotel.
We reach a little alcove, alone, and she shows me more pictures on her camera roll. I spot a few videos of a man jerking off, taken from the first-person perspective. I ask if that’s Bobby. She asks if I’m gay.
If I protest and say, “no, I’m not gay, I just noticed you have jerkoff videos in your camera roll — there’s nothing gay about pointing that out,” she would likely tease me about it. So instead I just say, “sure, you wanna have a threesome?” Agree and amplify.
When it’s my time to go, she refuses to kiss me, but I give her a kiss on the cheek. I’m “so handsome,” but I guess she really does love Bobby, and feels guilty about cheating and lying. Sex is work for her, so maybe she’s a bit sick of it all, if there’s no money involved.
She asked what I do for work; I say I’m a writer. She asks if I will write about her, and I say yes.
I give her my telegram, and she texts me later that day all sorts of nice things, and when I don’t respond, she deletes the conversation. Probably for the best.
One of my editors said this line would “scare the centrist hoes.” ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
This practice overlaps with a genre of porn called “furry porn” in which cartoon animals are sexualized. While I will not be posting furry porn here, you can google it if you are interested.
ok man
Made up word, sounds better than “mopish.”
He doesn’t actually say that line, but that’s how I remember the scene in my head.
Top tier article, halfway it turned into a copy of WBE tho, good kino.
You are indeed handsome, marry the latina.
Nice to see you’re still alive, DLA, and what an interesting story (misadventure?) you have to share. It kinds of reminds me of WBE, but honestly, I prefer more your stories than his. IDK why, maybe it’s just that I like your narration style and reflections more than his. Keep up the good work, as always…