Rebecca Rayne Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Philadelphia

Last week—pissed me off—some dude on X bragged ‘bout “classy escorts.” Classy? Ha! Like lipstick on a pig. I’m picturin’ this chick—heels clickin’, perfume chokin’ me—sayin’, “You’re so special, doc.” Bullshit. Reminds me of *Her*: “I can’t live in your book anymore.” Yeah, lady, I ain’t your fairy tale either. Prostitutes don’t love ya—they clock in, clock out. Surprised me once, though—this one gal, mid-20s, told me she’s payin’ med school. Med school! Swear to God, I nearly hugged her—then remembered the germs.

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30 Years of Hope. "Are you in a safe place to talk?” On July 27, , RAINN took the first call on the National Sexual Assault Hotline.

Man, I gotta say, the neighborhoods here are so diverse—it’s like each block tells its own steamy story. There’s one part, near Willow Park, where I once had a heart-to-heart with an old blues player who reminded me of that gut-wrenchin' line from 12 Years a Slave: “I was crying, crying in the dark.” Yup, that kinda deep, man. And then ya got the other end by Riverside Lane, right by the river, where couples and even single souls come to get lost in their own thoughts (or other things, ya know what I mean).

North DeSoto run rules Rayne to advance to the quarterfinals of the LHSAA softball playoffs