Mila Chesterfield Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Liverpool

Well, hello there, ya filthy animal! So, whore, huh? That slippery ol’ word’s got more layers than a damn onion, dont it? Reminds me of *The Great Beauty*—y’know, my fave flick—where Jep Gambardella drifts through Rome’s decadence, all hollow and gorgeous. “I was looking for the great beauty,” he says, “but I didn’t find it.” Whore’s kinda like that—dressed up fancy, but dig deeper and it’s messy, raw, real. Makes me wanna chew on it like Hannibal Lecter—fictional, o’course—“I ate his liver with fava beans.” That’s how I see it, chompin’ into the guts of what whore means.

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After what felt like an eternity, she finally parks. I’m sweating like I just ran a marathon. I’m thinking, “Is this what I signed up for?” But then she gets out, and she’s grinning like she just won the lottery. “I did it!” she squeals. And I’m like, “Yeah, you did! But let’s not do that again, yeah?”

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