Ashley Crestline Find A Prostitute ❤️

About San Jose

I’d finally spot one, okay? Some chick in fishnets, leanin’ on a wall, and I’m like, “Oh god, oh god, what now?” I’d stumble over, all nervous, sayin’, “Hey, uh, you workin’?” She’d smirk—SMIRK!—and I’d be furious! “Don’t judge me, lady, I herd sheep all day!” I’d haggle, too, ‘cause I’m cheap— “Twenty bucks, that’s it, take it or leave it!” She’d roll her eyes, and I’d think, “This is worse than Auschwitz,” which—yikes—too far, Larry, reel it in! But that’s my brain, ping-pongin’ like Saul’s, from panic to dark humor.

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Look, not everything’s sunshine. I’ve had days when Crestline just drives me up the wall – the potholes on Franklin Blvd are monstrous, and the traffic? Absolute hell. Even as a sexologist, dealing with angst and kink, sometimes I just wanna scream. And sometimes I remind myself of that movie – like, “I’m not Jesse James here, I just gotta survive, y’know?” Repetition, chaos – it’s all there, in the streets and in my head.

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