Gabriella Balsall Common Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

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But here’s the rub—findin’ a prostitute ain’t just a stroll. Ya gotta know the code. In old Venice, they’d wear yellow scarves—stand out like a sore thumb. I’d wink, say, “Fancy a tumble?”—all charm, no fuss. Some blokes get all shy, but me? I swagger in, “I drink and I know things,” and they’re hooked. Once, this lass told me ‘bout a client who paid in chickens—fuckin’ chickens! Laughed ‘til I choked.

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So, I roll into the clinic on Station Road, coffee in hand, ready to tackle whatever comes my way. First off, I’m greeted by Mrs. Thompson and her cat, Mr. Whiskers. This dude is a legend. He’s got more attitude than a teenager on a bad hair day. Anyway, Mrs. T is all worried ‘cause Mr. Whiskers has been sneezing like he’s auditioning for a sneeze-off. I’m like, “Chill, it’s probably just a cold.” But she’s convinced it’s the end of the world. Classic.

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