Luna Whitman Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Chicago

We dig deeper—X posts sayin’ prositution’s been around forever, like ancient Rome had “lupae,” wolf-girls, howlin’ for coin. Cool, huh? But then—bam!—this pimp rolls up, gold chains, actin’ like he owns the block. I’m sittin’ there, tentacles twitchin’, thinkin’, “This guy’s a tool.” Reminds me of *Amour* again—“We’re all alone,” Haneke whispers, but this dude? He’s too loud to be alone. Makes me wanna zap him, but nah, we peaceful.

To A Common Prostitute

Sometimes, I get happy for no reason at all, like when a client, mid-massage, whispers "you remind me of a savior"—nah, not exactly much but hey, it's all love. Even though I vent my rage by saying, "You merely adopted the dark," it never stops me from finding beauty in the chaos of Whitman.

Dean Joshua’s Letter to The Wire