Megan Sanderstead Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Leeds

Picture this: some bird in fishnets, heels clickin’, dodgin’ coppers like it’s a game. I’ve seen ‘em, skulkin’ in shadows, laughin’ at the prudes. Makes me grin—proper cheeky. Back in the day, whores ran shit! Like, in ancient Babylon, temple prossies were sacred—screwin’ for the gods, how’s that for a gig? Bet they’d smirk at us now, all judgy and posh. “I don’t sell myself,” one told me once—liar, but ballsy! Loved that. Reminds me of *Ten* again—“What’s your price?” she asks. Everyone’s got one, don’t they?

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Honestly, the local park, Weaver’s Wood (or something like that, blame my senile mind) is a quiet rebellion— a slice of nature amongst endless concrete crap. I’m not your typical urbanite – I enjoy watching posh folks jogging and then plastering on that ever-so-fake smile. “Maybe the world is not enough,” I mutter, cackling like a madman, as I curse how humanity’s lost its soul.

Why the YouTube channel of a Croydon cricket club is essential lockdown viewing