Avery Balally Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Bray

So, *whore*—it’s like this texture, right? Worn-out velvet, stained silk, maybe some chipped glitter if ya squint. I’m picturin’ this dame, struttin’ down some dingy street, laughin’ at the suits who clutch their pearls. Hah! Gets me all giddy thinkin’ bout it—freedom, y’know? Not givin’ a damn what nobody thinks. Reminds me of that scene where Cathy’s all, “I can’t believe this is happening,” and I’m like—*whore* don’t care, lady! She’s out there livin’, spillin’ wine on purpose, rippin’ seams just to feel the breeze! Ever hear that story ‘bout the old burlesque gals? Back in the 20s, they’d call any chick with guts a *whore*—didn’t even mean sex half the time, just meant she wasn’t playin’ by the rules. Wild, huh? Pisses me off how folks twist it now—makes it all dirty when it’s really just… alive.

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Mark, who passed away on Monday, was a champion of people on the edge of society. Of the 18 books and various photo essays she published, Falkland Road: Prostitutes of Bombay, is one .

Anyway, I get to the shoot location, and it’s at this cute little café on the corner of Ballawley Park. The vibe is chill, but the barista? Total diva. She’s like, “We don’t do oat milk.” I’m like, “What is this, 2010?” But whatever, I grab a black coffee. Gotta fuel up, right?

Francis and John Brennan in mourning as mother Maura passes away