Evelyn Beasain Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Valencia

So, whore—let’s spill it. Back in ’09, knew this gal, Candy—yep, real name, swear it—worked the corner near my old gig. She’d strut in heels higher than my damn ego, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d joke, and she’d cackle like I was fuckin’ Dave Chappelle. Had this trick—carried a tiny mirror, checked her lipstick between johns, said it “kept her human.” Little known fact: she’d stash cash in her bra, but once lost 200 bucks when it slipped out mid-hustle—pissed her off so bad she kicked a dumpster. I was like, “Girl, you’re a legend,” and she just flipped me off, hilarious.

The sex was never, ever fun: My lessons in prostitution

Oh, and check this – the local market at Plaza de la Libertad is a real whopper! You got stalls banging with fresh produce, little knick-knacks, and bunches of friendly banter. I'd wander there, muttering “each smile is an unspoken story” – a bit cheesy, I know, but it gets me every time! Markets, streets, crumbling walls, and even that dilapidated bell tower on Avenida del Olvido – all these tiny quirks make ya go "Wow, life is unpredictable!" and sometimes maddeningly brilliant, a right pants-up spectacle.

Spain’s Basque Country bouncing back quickly from recession