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About San Antonio

Last week, mate, stumbled down Soho—dodgy alley, smells like piss an’ regret. Saw this bird, legs fer days, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Wotcha, love?” she goes, smirkin’. Made me happy, her sass, like she owned the night. We swears! Took me back to them movie scenes—sweaty, close, real. “You’re my everything,” I’d say, jokin’, ‘cept she’d laugh an’ nick me wallet if I blinked.

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We’ve got local legends too – like how the old brick building at 112 Beacon boasts secret underground tunnels. Rumor has it, it's been used for clandestine trysts since forever. As a sexologist, I find that absolutely deliciously scandalous.

Glen Allen Pottenger Obituary December 7, 2024