Ella Mclean Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Chicago

I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

So you want to book a sex worker?

Anyways, hope ya get the vibe. Catch ya on the flip, my friend – peace and blessings from McLean, where every moment is art, raw and real. YOLO!

Hospitalized at McLean, a physician vows to run Boston Marathon to improve mental health care