Emma Bog Walk Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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But ugh, the stench—alleyways, sweat, cheap perfume—gags me, yesss. Hate that part, makes me wanna claw me eyes out. Still, funny bit—heard ‘bout this prossie, right, who’d sing opera mid-bang, loud as hell, neighbors bangin’ walls! “Too much, man!” I cackle, picturin’ it, her belting *La Traviata*, client all confused. Classic! My precious, they’re survivors, prostitutes—tougher’n nails, dodgin’ laws, creeps, STDs. “Can’t hang with that,” I mutters, like Doc ditchin’ bad vibes.

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Then, I get a call from my buddy, Kevin. He’s stuck at the gas station on the corner of Old Harbour Road. Apparently, he’s outta gas and can’t find his wallet. I’m laughing so hard, I almost drop my phone. Like, how do you run outta gas and forget your wallet? Classic Kevin!

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