Abigail Goole Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Manchester

So – I’m chattin’ her up. She’s cool – sassy. Says – “50 bucks, hon.” I pause. Mid-sentence – like THIS. And go – “FIFTY? For THAT?” She smirks. I’m pissed – but also – impressed. Hustle’s real. Reminds me – *“Lobby Boy – where’s my manners?”* I tip her extra. Cause – ya know – respect. Transaction’s smooth – but my head’s SPINNIN’. What’s the DATA say? Prostitution’s old as dirt – fact! Ancient Rome? They had brothels – TAXED ‘em. Government was like – “Cha-ching!” Still blows my mind.

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First off, I head down to the Goole Market. You know, the one on the corner of Market Place? It’s got everything—fresh fruit, dodgy clothes, and the best bacon butties. I grab one, and it’s like heaven in a bun. But then, bam! I spill ketchup all over my shirt. Classic me, right? I’m standing there, looking like a right muppet, trying to wipe it off with a napkin.

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