As a New Yorker who’s writing about hookers, I can’t tell
you how exciting this is. (Granted, I’m writing about Dutch hookers in 1992.) I have nothing against Spitzer, and I don’t take any joy in his demise, but this is still a very satisfying time for this to happen.
So here’s a roughest of rough sketch of what I’m writing about: two prostitutes. A is female, in her thirties, works in a window. B is male, in his teens and works on the street. Both of them either live in or have family in the Bijlmermeer district, right around the 1992 crash. There’s lots of sex, a sprinkling of drugs, and somber lack of rock and roll. It’s very fun to write.
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