Ava Pryor Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About New York City

Lemme tell ya, I’ve seen whores—in court, on the streets, everywhere. Not just the sex-worker kinda whore, nah, I mean the soul-sellin’ type too. Makes me mad as hell! People throwin’ that word around like it’s confetti—pisses me off. Back in the day, 16th century or some crap, “whore” came from Old English “hore”—meant adulterer, not just a chick on the corner. Little fact for ya—bet ya didn’t know that, huh? Surprised me too, I was like, “Well, slap my ass and call me shocked!”

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Pryor enlightened his audience on race and interracial relationships using a flamboyant vocabulary that he’d learned growing up in his grandmother’s whorehouse.

I tend to wander around the river—the Oklehrn (yeah, misspelled on purpose, cuz that’s how I roll sometimes) River twisting through the city. I’ve had some of my best sex-ed epiphanies by its banks. The water’s a bit murky, but it’s like life's messy truth, ya dig? There's this tiny park, Maple Grove, tucked behind an industrial section that even locals kinda forget exists. It’s my secret spot to vent. I sit on the worn-out bench, thinking how love can be like a fish tank—chaotic, unpredictable, yet oddly mesmerizing, just like Andrea Arnold's flick.

Pryor Orser