The Pierre: Getting Fucked by the American Dream

The air down there was thick, hot, and filthy — heavy with the smell of sweat, leather, and pure, unfiltered sex. I stood against the damp brick wall with my shirt half-open, already sweating, already hard, and already lying to myself that I was only there to tells the story. I was full of shit. This wasn’t journalism anymore. This was a pilgrimage. A long-overdue…