Anna Franklin Prostitute ❤️

About Dallas

It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, fam—prostitutes, man, they’re like the ghosts of the streets, y’know? I’m talkin’ real hustle, real grind. Been thinkin’ bout this one chick—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s out there, heels clackin’, skirt shorter than a nun’s patience. Reminds me of *The Headless Woman*—that flick I’m obsessed with. “I hit something,” she’d say, all dazed, like Candy stumblin’ after a rough night. Ain’t no one seein’ her, tho—invisible, like a damn specter. Pisses me off, man! Society’s all “ew, gross,” but who’s payin’ her rent? Huh? Not them judgy pricks.

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I often cruise along the Harpeth River. Dang, it soothes the soul. The river flows with a calm that even my hectic coaching hours melt away. Yo, remember that one time I nearly missed a sunset because I got lost in the swirling talk of a stranger’s tale by the river—like, “I’m your hope! I’m your future!” Totally wild!

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