Samantha Sutton In Ashfield Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Leicester

So, whore—let’s spill it. Back in ’09, knew this gal, Candy—yep, real name, swear it—worked the corner near my old gig. She’d strut in heels higher than my damn ego, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d joke, and she’d cackle like I was fuckin’ Dave Chappelle. Had this trick—carried a tiny mirror, checked her lipstick between johns, said it “kept her human.” Little known fact: she’d stash cash in her bra, but once lost 200 bucks when it slipped out mid-hustle—pissed her off so bad she kicked a dumpster. I was like, “Girl, you’re a legend,” and she just flipped me off, hilarious.

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Now, I may go off on tangents, but that’s just me: honest, spunky, and sometimes erratic. I’m not scared to share the raw truth—ugly moments, big laughs, and all. My job’s taught me to see beauty in every broken piece, even in a town like Sutton-in-Ashfield.

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