Amelia Oberlin Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Chicago

Now, here’s the tea: she takes him ‘round back, and I’m like, “Oh, Lawd, he’s done!” Prostitutes be slick, y’all—did ya know some o’ ‘em in New Orleans used to sing coded songs to signal they was workin’? True story! Joe don’t know that, he’s too busy pantin’. Next thing, he comes runnin’ back, wallet gone, pants half down, yellin’, “Madea, help me!” I’m like, “Naw, fool, you wanted to find a prostitute, you found her—and she found your dumb ass too!” Halleluyer! I’m dyin’ laughin’, but also hot as a skillet—why these men so stupid?

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His roommate called me a “wannabe whore,” a sentiment he had never extended to my white counterparts, but felt free to use on me and other women.

Look, as a sexologist, I notice more than just the physical sparks. Oberlin’s got this nurturing aura. Its streets, like College Ave and parts beside the Great Lake Erie bluff, speak of curiosity and liberation. I've laughed, cried, and sometimes got mad seeing folks hide their true selves, stifling their desires with outdated norms. "Dont let the darkness keep ya," I always shout—like that scene in Let the Right One In when they face the night!

Oberlin from a Liberal Arts Perspective