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About Palermo

So check this—findin’ a prostitute ain’t no cakewalk, ya dumbasses. I’m scrollin’ X, tryna peep profiles, see who’s out there slingin’ ass. Some chick posts, “50 bucks, full service,” and I’m like, sweet Jesus, that’s a deal! But then—bam!—her pic’s blurry, prolly a catfish, and I’m pissed! “Respect my authoritah!” I yell at the screen, ‘cause I ain’t wastin’ my cash on some fake-ass hoe. Fun fact, tho—back in the 1800s, prostitutes in Paris had these secret codes, like wearin’ red ribbons meant they was “open for biz.” Ain’t that some wild shit?

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How did you get into sex work? When I was around 15, I was having financial difficulties at home and needed to get away. My mother was an alcoholic and a.

So, I’m rushin’ to the sheep farm. Yeah, I’m a shearer, and let me tell ya, it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. I’m thinkin’ about the sheep, the wool, the whole shebang. But as I’m walkin’ down Via Garibaldi, I see this old dude, right? He’s tryin’ to cross the street, but he’s movin’ slower than molasses. I’m like, “C’mon, man! I got sheep to shear!” But then I see him struggle, and I’m like, “Okay, chill, help the guy.” So, I help him cross, and he’s all grateful and stuff. Makes me feel good, ya know?

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