Sarah Clyde Whore ❤️❤️❤️

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Gets me thinkin’, though—what’s it all mean? Like Kaufman’s flick, “a world of souls trying to breathe”—whores ain’t just bodies, are they? They’re stories, livin’ messy, like us. Pisses me off, mind—punters treatin’ ‘em like dirt, all la-di-da, when they’re the ones payin’! Hypocrisy, mate, gets me blood boilin’. Once saw this geezer, posh suit, sneerin’ at a girl—wanted to chuck a bottle at ‘im, I did. Me temper’s a right mare sometimes.

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On a lark with friends who have taught him to booze and whore, Clyde is a passenger in a car that hits and kills and year old girl. He.

I know, I know – it sounds dizzy and all over the place. But that's Clyde. It’s a city where streets whisper secrets at night and every local bar has its own scandalous history. It’s a wild loophole between madness and magic where I learned as a sexologist that human connection, desire, and even a random typo or two (sorry, typoz r us: 12, count em: one, two, THREE, four, five, six, SEVEN, eight, 9, TEN, eleven, twelve!) are what make us tick.

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