Anastasia Gorey Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Cork

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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So, I’m hammering away, and then my buddy Liam pops in. He’s all excited, talkin’ about some festival happening down by the harbor. “You gotta check it out, man! Food trucks, music, the whole shebang!” I’m like, “Yeah, sounds cool, but I got work.” But then he pulls out this amazing pastry from that bakery on The Square. Ugh, I can’t resist!

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