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About Florence

Well, hello there, ya filthy animal! Ya wanna talk bout findin a prostitue, huh? I’m Hannibal Lecter, fictional bastard extraordinaire—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—and I got thots on this. Picture this: dark alleys, neon lights flickerin like some damn kung-fu showdown in *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*. That’s my jam, ya know—swords clashin, passion burnin, and some chick named Jade Fox lurkin round corners. Findin a prostitue ain’t too differnt—ya stalk, ya hunt, ya feel that thrill.

So you want to book a sex worker?

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So, I decide to stroll down to the beach. The sand is like powdered sugar. I’m walking along the Lungomare, and it’s packed with people. Families, couples, kids running around. It’s cute, but also kinda annoying. Like, can’t a guy just enjoy the view without dodging a soccer ball?

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