Claire Lillerod Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Roskilde

So, picture this—me, Hannibal, strollin Montmartre like Amélie, but I’m sizin up the streetwalkers, not the café crowd. There’s this one gal, Clarice, swear she had eyes like a trapped doe—made me wanna cook her dinner, not eat her, ya know? Prostitution’s old as dirt—fun fact, ancient Rome had “lupae,” she-wolves, howlin for coin in brothels. Wild, right? Gets me all tingly thinkin bout the history mixin with the filth. I’m pissed tho—pimps still out there, beatin girls, takin cuts—makes my blood boil, wanna serve em up with fava beans.

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Lillerod stresses me sometimes, mad hectic, but also full of love n’ hidden secrets. One time I got proper heated on the street when a nosy local kept pry’in n’ judgin’ my quirks for talkin' 'bout sex openly. I got pissed but then laughed off the irony, 'cause ya know, “No one person has the power to determine a truth,” like that part in The White Ribbon – deep, innit?

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