Isabelle Tarcento Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Bologna

Sometimes I’m jealous—escorts got swagger I can’t touch. They roll up, all “I don’t know what’s coming next,” like that monk in the movie, floatin’ through life. Me? I’m stuck behind a screen, prayin’ my Wi-Fi holds. Once saw an escort’s X post—pic of her in Paris, sippin’ wine, client-funded. I yelled, “Goals, bitch!” at my cat. He didn’t care.

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy Marco. He’s like, “Yo, let’s hit up the bar on Via Vittorio Emanuele.” I’m like, “Sure, why not?” So, I pack up and head over.

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