Olivia Sant Agata Di Militello Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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So, findin’ a prossie—where d’ya even start? Back in MI6 days, I’d scope the scene, all cool-like, martini in hand. Shaken, not stirred, obvs. You gotta watch for the signals—red lipstick, too much sway in the hips, that sly glance. Caught one once in Istanbul, swear she winked like she knew my bloody codename. Surprised me, that did—thought I was slicker than that. Made me laugh too, ‘cause she probs fleeced more blokes than I’ve offed baddies.

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After fixing the data (thank you, caffeine), I decided to take a break. I walked over to the beach. The waves were crashing, and I could smell the salt in the air. It was like a scene from a movie. I plopped down on the sand, just soaking it all in. But then, outta nowhere, a seagull swoops down and steals my sandwich! I mean, really? I can’t even enjoy a simple lunch?

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