Camila Maple Ridge Whore ❤️

About Calgary

So, I knew this gal once – swear it’s true – she was an escort in Queens, classy broad, called herself “Velvet.” She’d strut in heels higher than my hair, and lemme tell ya, that’s HIGH. She said, “Fran, I make bank, but the stories? Nuts!” One dude paid her to just sit there, silent, watchin’ him eat spaghetti. Spaghetti! Can ya believe it? I was dyin’, like, “What’s next, sauce on his face?” She laughed, said it beats waitin’ tables. Fair, fair.

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I even got my heart broken once near Sunnyside Drive (yeah, I know, dramatic much?) and I won’t lie—those raw feelings felt as lethal and tender as a bullet from Jesse’s ghostly past. Every little street, every park bench tells you secrets. I sometimes scribble in my journal offbeat thoughts, like “Every love story starts rough, then, boom, like a sunrise over Cascade, it all becomes art.”

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