Layla Mogilev Puta ❤️❤️❤️

Acerca de Puebla

So, I’m sittin’ there—back in Scranton, maybe—sippin’ coffee, thinkin’ about this chick I met once. Puta, let’s call her. Not her real name, nah, but it fits. She’s the type who’d waltz into a bar, all eyes on her, like she’s got a spotlight nobody else can touch. Reminds me of my dad—he’d say, “Joey, some folks just… shine.” And she did, man. Hair wild, laugh loud, prolly smelled like cheap perfume and rebellion. I’m guessin’ she grew up somewhere rough, maybe near the border, y’know? Heard a story once—mighta been her, mighta been folklore—she conned a guy outta his truck with just a wink and a sob story. True? Who knows! But I believe it, ‘cause—here’s the deal—that’s puta.