Aria Altamont Whore ❤️

About Phoenix

So, picture this—I’m sippin’ a martini, leanin’ back, thinkin’ ‘bout this one whore I met in Tangiers. Not her real name, course not, she called herself Amina. Cheeky bird, eyes like daggers, could charm a snake outta its skin. Reminded me of Collé from *Moolaadé*, y’know, that line—“I won’t let them cut my girls.” Fierce, mate, proper fierce. Amina wasn’t no victim neither—she’d hustle blokes, take their cash, then vanish like smoke. Once saw her nick a diplomat’s watch mid-shag—laughed my arse off!

Gimme Shelter

Finally got the Altamont grips in today. Took a few weeks, same with the ivory ones for my , but these needed a bit of fitment. There was.

I get super emotional here with my wise mind; heartfelt talks burst out on Maple Ave over cheap coffee. Made me mad once, crazy clients yelling "Stupid, fat hobbit!" in my head – err, no, not really, but my inner Gollum grumbles. I scribble notes everywhere, dear friend, because every brick tells a story.

Will the former Peter Young Center become a boutique inn?