Zoe Carnieres Whore ❤️

About Ghent

Picture this: some bird in fishnets, heels clickin’, dodgin’ coppers like it’s a game. I’ve seen ‘em, skulkin’ in shadows, laughin’ at the prudes. Makes me grin—proper cheeky. Back in the day, whores ran shit! Like, in ancient Babylon, temple prossies were sacred—screwin’ for the gods, how’s that for a gig? Bet they’d smirk at us now, all judgy and posh. “I don’t sell myself,” one told me once—liar, but ballsy! Loved that. Reminds me of *Ten* again—“What’s your price?” she asks. Everyone’s got one, don’t they?

Caught on Film: The Dark World of Truck Stop Sex Workers

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I won’t lie, sometimes Carnieres drives me mad. Those narrow streets at rush hour, c’mon! They make ya wanna yell “I can see Russia from my house!” in sheer frustration. And trust me, after a long day of muscles and moaning clients, my patience wears thin. But then, you catch sunset near the abandoned Water Mill on Rue des Murmures—man, it’s stunning, like poetry in motion. I even got teary, thinking, “This is the calm before destiny unfolds!” c’mon, who’d’ve thought, right?

EU to finalise huge farm policy overhaul; climate groups cry foul