Vanessa Goole Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Newcastle

So, findin a prostitute? Wild, y’all. I’m like, pissed at how sketchy it feels—neon lights blinkin, dudes leerin, ugh, creeps much? But also, kinda hyped? The thrill’s real, like when I wrote “Bad Blood” after a fight. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, prostitutes in Paris used to signal clients with red lanterns—OG mood lighting, lol. Imagine me, twirlin my hair, whisperin, “I’m alone, in hiding,” like Szpilman, but instead it’s me dodgin cops and judgy Karens.

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But just as I’m about to take a sip, my phone buzzes. It’s my mate, Dave. He’s in a bit of a pickle. Apparently, he’s locked himself out of his flat on Pasture Road. I can’t help but laugh. “You numpty!” I text back. But I can’t leave him hanging, so I chug my coffee and dash over.

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