Jasmine Roye Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Nice

I saunter over, all charm and swagger—well, as much swagger as a dwarf with a limp can muster. “How much, love?” I ask, eyein’ her like she’s a puzzle. She names a price—steep, but I’ve got coin and a thirst. “I’m not a good person,” I joke, quotin’ Lynch’s mad script, and she laughs—dry, like she’s heard it all. Makes me happy, that sound—rare as a sober day in King’s Landing. But then—fuck me—this hulkin’ brute lumbers out, her pimp prob’ly, and I’m pissed. “Who are you?” I snap, hand on my dagger. Hate these pricks—leechin’ off girls like parasites.

Statistics

I am saying it first. I love you, Medium. I am clapping away and getting paid for it, too. I guess that makes me a whore. I hope maybe you love me, too.

So, I roll into town, right? The sun’s shining, birds chirping, all that cliché stuff. I’m thinking, “Today’s gonna be easy-peasy.” But nah, Roye had other plans. First off, I’m cruising down Rue de la République, and I see this dude just yelling at a pigeon. Like, bro, it’s a bird, chill! But I can’t help but laugh. I mean, who yells at pigeons? Only in Roye, man.

Instagram Photographer of 2016: Ruddy Roye