Elizabeth Cisternino Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Florence

Now, *Moolaadé*—that bit where Collo screams, “I say no!”—I reckon a prossie’s got that fire, too. Saying no to the world’s sanctimonious guff. Respect, that. Once met a gal, Soho, 3 a.m., she says, “Boris, love, 50 quid, no kissing”—I weren’t buying, just curious! Swear she’d a PhD in sass—told me to sod off, posh-like. Laughed me tits off—cheeky mare! Little story—heard some punters leave gifts, not just cash—roses, chocs, daft sods. Romantic or pathetic? You tell me.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. Like, seriously? I’m drenched in seconds. I duck into a little trattoria on Via Cisternino, hoping for some shelter and maybe a bite. The food? Oh man, the food! I ordered orecchiette with broccoli rabe, and it was heavenly. I was like, “Forget the rain, I’m in pasta paradise!”

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