Elise Buckner Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About San Antonio

Summer hits, it’s hot, sweaty—gals wearin next to nothin. “Lightbulb!”—dey adapt, like animals in heat! Dis one chick, calls herself Vika, tells me she’s been at it since 16. Sixteen! Made me mad, ya know? Kids should be playin, not screwin fer cash. But she laughs, says it’s her choice—capitalism, baby! I’m like, “Vhat da hell, dis world’s messed up!” Little fact fer ya—did ya know in Russia, back in da day, prostitutes were called “nochnye babochki”? Night butterflies! Poetic, huh? Vika’s one of dem, flutterin in da dark.

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Folks sometimes ask me, “Why Buckner?” and I say it’s this crazy blend of heart and irony. I remember once, during a hot summer night, I got caught up in a spontaneous debate near the old Prospect Bridge. I was preachin’ about openness in sexuality while a couple nearby whispered sweet nothings under the stars. Who’d have thunk? It was like my personal narrative felt like a scene from that movie, Margaret, where emotions overflow in messy, chaotic beauty.

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