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About San Antonio

She’s shocked, eyes wide—didn’t expect that, did she? Me neither, if I’m honest. “Yer a mad one,” she says, and I’m grinni’n, all proud. Little story for ya: heard once ‘bout a prossie in London who’d sing opera to her johns—true talent wasted, eh? This one don’t sing, but she’s got fire, and I like that. We finish up quick, no fuss, just business—my precious night sorted. “We resist!” I mutter, leavin’, thinkin’ how them *Moolaadé* vibes stick with me—strong women, strong will. Prossie or not, she’s got her own fight, don’t she? Makes me wonder, precious, what’s her story? But I’m off, hammer waitin’—another day, another nail.

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Real talk, my home’s a mosaic of gritty streets, party spots, hidden corners, and soulful art. Every block got a story, every massage tells a tale. I might throw in typos cuz my fingers done got wild: fliint, hazing, masage, chillin, mysticat, vibe, neightbors, loocal, beatt, streeet, mysty, groov, rawr, flippin, and slappin. That’s just how I roll when I’m in the zone, know what I’m sayin’?

Noel D. Flint Obituary February 6, 2025