Well, fuck me sideways—that was fun.I dunno how much to share. Half the relish was in slowly piecing together the immensely satisfying parallels between the principals and their grossly inaccurate perception of themselves.I think the rewards of parsing these things on your own far outweigh the smug triumph I might feel in crowing about them on your behalf.So let's just be gratuitously vulgar, then, shall we?Lawdy, did this bring out the fuckin' cunt in me, or what? Half the fun was in casting off these dusty rags of superego and slipping on the shiny fluorescent spandex of my id.Nothing like a pert urban homo to put things in perspective.New York is all about change—and money. Entire neighborhoods spring up from the crumbling bones of another nearly overnight, only to be annexed by yet another twenty years later.So too are its denizens thusly flexible: we need such skills to survive here without resorting to the obvious but short-sighted path to enlightenment that leads one to push other people in front of subway trains. As everyone does to a certain degree. We show our employers one face, our coworkers another—and our families another altogether. We have to.Or people get hurt.We don't even need to know how it works. We just do it. Usually until some crazy bullshit goes down that forces us to look more closely at the narrative we've built from the most flattering or useful pieces our true selves.But enough of all that armchair psychology—this one's about hoors!Fucked-up, self-deceiving, horribly disingenuous hoors!Hoors fucking other hoors, even!I was in love from page one.What can a manipulative baby-gay, a faggot Heidi Fleiss, and some sort of vaguely sociopathic savant (with a touch of the Syndrome and maybe even Asperger's as well) possibly have in common?It is almost literally killing me not to say, but it's cool. Isa K.—that deplorable, scandalously talented, utterly wretched creature, god bless her black little heart—has said it quite well enough, here.It's not perfect, of course. Very nearly nothing ever is. But there's kink and sex and awful, awful people doing awful things to one another. The subsequent hilarity is only slightly this side of wickedness—but allowing this woman to debase your eyeballs thusly proves to be a categorically rewarding experience, even if you choose not to read between the lines.Which you should totally do, you know? Read between the lines? Cos there's hella juicy shit in there.Behind an agreeably profane Memoirs-of-a-Mama-San exterior lies a more or less devastating examination of the space between how we perceive ourselves and how we truly are—plus hoors.Highly recommended.