Emily Pryor Whore ❤️

About Chicago

Sometimes I’d watch her work, thinkin’—whores are the real survivors. World’s fallin’ apart, no babies, chaos everywhere, like in that flick—“You can’t save everyone, Kee!”—but Candy? She’s out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at the endtimes. Makes ya wonder who’s really runnin’ the show. Pisses me off, though—society shits on ‘em, calls ‘em dirty, but they’re tougher than most. Fuck that noise!

You’re Temporarily Blocked

Pryor enlightened his audience on race and interracial relationships using a flamboyant vocabulary that he’d learned growing up in his grandmother’s whorehouse.

I tend to wander around the river—the Oklehrn (yeah, misspelled on purpose, cuz that’s how I roll sometimes) River twisting through the city. I’ve had some of my best sex-ed epiphanies by its banks. The water’s a bit murky, but it’s like life's messy truth, ya dig? There's this tiny park, Maple Grove, tucked behind an industrial section that even locals kinda forget exists. It’s my secret spot to vent. I sit on the worn-out bench, thinking how love can be like a fish tank—chaotic, unpredictable, yet oddly mesmerizing, just like Andrea Arnold's flick.

Joy Shannon Pryor