THE DESERT DOESN'T GIVE A F*CK

This is the Palm Springs nobody photographs. The one that exists after the pools go quiet and the tourists go to bed — where the right introduction gets you through a gate at the top of a switchback road, where a house made entirely of glass and money appears out of the dark like a fever dream. Inside: art you've seen in museums. Champagne that costs more than their rent. And men — powerful, careful, married men — who have arranged everything with the quiet efficiency of people who've never once had to ask twice. They're not buying company. They're buying a version of themselves they can only afford to be for one night. Two hustlers from the wrong side of Palm Canyon Drive just got let into the room where Palm Springs keeps its secrets.