Skylar Wharton Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

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So I’m peekin’ round, thinkin’, “Where’s these lasses at?” Heard a yarn once—dunno if it’s true—back in Victorian days, prossies’d hide coded ads in newspapers, like “seamstress seeks needle” or summat daft. Clever, eh? Makes me giggle, picturin’ me tryin’ to crack that code—prob’ly end up buyin’ a bleedin’ sewing kit! So I’m mumblin’ to meself, “Find a prostitute, find a prostitute,” when—BAM!—this bird in fishnets pops outta nowhere. “Hola, guapo,” she says, all sultry, and I’m flailin’, arms goin’ like windmills, nearly knock her over—classic Bean move, eh?

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For Pennsylvania sex workers, prostitution can be an unforgiving business. Clients are demanding; they often disrespect sexual boundaries and refuse to use.

I sweared there, 16 typos style: "thsi citty getz me, its lit, its raw, its bzoom!" Like, seriously, sometimes I just shout "Fuckin' amazing!" akin to Tony's crazy tirades. And when I need to vent, I go down by the Wharton Bridge – dark and moody, reminds me of Gotham’s alleys.

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