Brianna Beddau Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Sheffield

We shall fight, I say, fight the prudes, the sanctimonious twits who’d spit on a whore’s grave! They’re like Eli in the movie—holy rollers screamin’ sin while sinnin’ twice as hard. Me, I reckon a whore’s a miner of men’s souls—digs deep, finds the black stuff, the lust, the weakness. Ever hear of Chicago’s Everleigh sisters? Ran a joint so posh in 1900, senators begged to get in! Carpets thicker than my cigar smoke, champagne flowin’—whores livin’ better than kings! That’s the ticket—turnin’ tricks into empires.

Where is Beddau?

Ah, distinctly, I remember/It was in the bleak December [Afternoon of Sunday, November 29 (day )] [Dorian's rooms at the Sacred Whore].

After that, I rush over to the park on the corner of Beddau Road. I need a breather. I sit on a bench, and it’s actually kinda nice. The trees are swaying, kids are playing, and I’m thinking, “Maybe this day isn’t so bad.” But then, I see this dog. A big, fluffy golden retriever. And it runs straight towards me, jumps up, and—BAM!—mud all over my new shoes! I’m like, “Are you kidding me?!”

In pictures: My life growing up in a Chinese takeaway