Emily Brembate Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Florence

So I sashay over, all Marilyn-like, breathy an’ bold, “Hiya, sugar, got time?” She laughs—deep, husky—says, “For you, blondie, always.” I’m tickled pink! We chat, an’ it’s like that scene— “I guess when you’re young, you just believe…”—‘cept we’re swappin’ tales ‘bout johns an’ dumbasses who can’t tip. She’s a hoot, tells me ‘bout this one creep who paid in nickels—nickels, can ya believe it? I’m dyin’, laughin’ so hard I snort.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts rainin’. I mean, come on! I’m in Brembate, not London! I scramble to pack up my stuff, and I’m soaked in seconds. I dash down Via Vittorio Emanuele, tryin’ to find shelter. I duck into this little shop, and it’s packed with the coolest vintage stuff. I’m talkin’ guitars, records, you name it. I’m in heaven!

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