Emily Fasano Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Naples

So, finding a tart—sorry, “sex worker,” gotta be PC these days, bloody woke nonsense—ain’t like popping to Tesco for a pint of milk. Nah, it’s dodgy, mate. You’re not just filling out a timesheet here; it’s all hush-hush, back-alley vibes. Made me proper angry, though—why’s it so complicated? I just wanna have a butcher’s, not crack the Da Vinci Code! Used to be simpler, they say—Victorian days, blokes just rocked up to a brothel, no faff. Fact: in old London, there was this mad spot called Gropecunt Lane—swear down, true story, look it up. Mental name, right? Straight to the point, no corporate jargon bollocks.

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But then, I’m walkin’ past the Basilica di San Giovanni Battista, and I see this guy. He’s tryin’ to sell fake gladiator helmets. Like, c’mon, dude! You think I’m gonna wear that junk? I’m all about authenticity. I get a bit heated, ya know? I’m like, “Bro, you can’t just slap some metal on a plastic shell and call it a helmet!” He just shrugs. Whatever, man.

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