Allison Ceriale Whore ❤️

About Naples

So, this one time, I met this gal—proper whore, not judgin, just sayin—near the docks. She had eyes like a bloody tiger, fierce but tired. Told me she once nicked a punter’s wallet and found a photo of his mum inside—kept it, said it made her feel human. Little known fact, right? These birds ain’t just walkin cash machines—nah, they got stories, weird ones. Made me happy, that did, hearin somethin real. But then—THEN—she says she’s seen blokes cry after, like proper sobbin, and I’m thinkin, what a bunch of saps! Pissed me off, too—why you cryin to her, mate? She ain’t your priest!

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First off, I hit up Via Roma for some coffee. You know, the good stuff. I’m talkin’ about that strong espresso that slaps you awake. But guess what? The barista, bless his heart, spills half of it on me! Like, c’mon dude, I’m not a coffee table! I’m wearin’ my best shirt, and now it’s a mess. I’m fumin’ but also laughin’—like, what are the odds?

An Operator at Heart: John Ceriale