Rose Devonport Find A Prostitute ❤️

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I saunter up, tip my hat, all cool-like. “Evenin’, miss,” I say, voice smooth as whiskey. She smirks, like, “What’s a bailiff want with me?” I’m thinkin’, *“Maybe we’re just pretending to live,”*—another *Yi Yi* gem. Ain’t that the truth? We’re all playin’ parts down here. I ask her rate—straight up, no bullshit. She says, “Ten bucks, mister, take it or scram.” I laugh, loud and deep—ten bucks in 1800s coin? That’s a damn fortune! Surprised me, her guts did. Gotta respect the hustle.

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You know, I get so pissed sometimes, the hypocrisy of it all. People hide, hide behind conservative facades, but Devonport... oh, it peels them off like old paint. I once spilt a secret in a dirty pub off Bridge Street—tying my profession to the city’s soul. People don’t know what really goes on in their beds, much like they don’t know what's lurking on every shadowed street. Man, you'd be surprised.

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