Grace Trets Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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I’m pissed, though—why’s it gotta be so sketchy? Can’t they just have a sign? “Prostitute here, $50!” Save us the awkward dance. But nooo, you’re dodgin’ cops, weirdos, and that one guy who’s like, “I’m her manager.” Manager? What is this, Hollywood? I’m laughin’ now—imagine me, neurotic mess, hagglin’ prices like it’s a deli. “What, no discount? Outrageous!” Surprised me how bold some are—saw this gal once, swear she winked at me. ME! I’m like, “Lady, I’m a disaster, you don’t want this!”

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There is no pro-sex-trafficking position any more than there is a public pro-slavery position for labor these days. The only issue is defining these terms so.

As the sun starts to set, I wander back through the streets. The colors are insane. Trets is beautiful, man. The old buildings, the narrow streets, it’s like a postcard. I pass by the Église Saint-Étienne, and it hits me how lucky I am to live here.

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