Brooklyn Westerleigh Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Philadelphia

So, *whore*—it’s like this texture, right? Worn-out velvet, stained silk, maybe some chipped glitter if ya squint. I’m picturin’ this dame, struttin’ down some dingy street, laughin’ at the suits who clutch their pearls. Hah! Gets me all giddy thinkin’ bout it—freedom, y’know? Not givin’ a damn what nobody thinks. Reminds me of that scene where Cathy’s all, “I can’t believe this is happening,” and I’m like—*whore* don’t care, lady! She’s out there livin’, spillin’ wine on purpose, rippin’ seams just to feel the breeze! Ever hear that story ‘bout the old burlesque gals? Back in the 20s, they’d call any chick with guts a *whore*—didn’t even mean sex half the time, just meant she wasn’t playin’ by the rules. Wild, huh? Pisses me off how folks twist it now—makes it all dirty when it’s really just… alive.

Background

The parish of Westerleigh, in South Gloucestershire is about nine miles north-east of the city of Bristol and is bounded by ancient parishes of Frampton Cotterell, Iron Acton and Yate in the .

Then there’s that funky spot on Elm St.—it’s a hidden gem. I used to get wild new clients there. I’d bust out smiles, saying, "I’m your friend," just like in Her. Pure magic, baby! The massages? Oh, they’re so soul-touching. Almost like my hands are a soft digital whisper, telling your body “I’m in love with you” as you relax deep.

Westerleigh, S.I., Built on Temperance (Published 2014)