Lydia Heusdenhout Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Tilburg

So, findin’ a hooker—where ya start? Streets, mate—grimy corners, neon buzzin’ like flies on shit. Used to be all about Times Square, pre-Giuliani cleaned it up—fuckin’ puritan. Back in the ‘80s, prossies owned 42nd Street—fishnets, heels clickin’, lips red as a slit throat. Now? Ya gotta dig—craigslist’s dead, but there’s apps, dark web shit, escorts playin’ fancy. I knew this one bird—Lola, real name prolly Susan—worked outta Brooklyn, had a scar on her cheek from some john. Said she made bank, $300 an hour—fuck me, that’s a lotta fava beans!

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So, I’m sitting there, trying to explain why we can’t afford that fancy new software. My boss is all, “But it’ll make us more efficient!” Yeah, right. More like it’ll make us broke. I’m sweating bullets, and my mind’s racing. I’m thinking, “Why did I even take this job?”