Olivia Strood Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Manchester

Look, whores ain’t saints, but who is? They’re scrappy, messy, human—way more than them greedy bastards up top! Little fact: in old France, they called ‘em “filles de joie”—girls of joy! Joy, my ass, more like warriors! I’m gettin’ hoarse screamin’ bout this, but damn, it’s truth! Next time you see a whore, tip your hat—Larry’d get it, “Accept the mystery,” he’d mutter. Me? I’m just fuckin’ proud they stick it to the man! Billionaires should not exist—whores should! Period!

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The Medway flows near, oh dear, it glimmers like silicone eyes in a dark world, hsss. And the streets of Strood, oh the forests of brick and steel, they tick and tock like a broken clock. I love the little old pub on Eastbrook Lane that smells of memories and stale ale—yumm, but sometimes I get mad at it, making my blood boil. Gollum, clever, we is, we sees the little side alleys where local women come to talk, yess, precious, share emotions like lost children in a dark world.

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