Eliza Lucan Whore ❤️

About Cork

So I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ *The Turin Horse*, my fave flick—Béla Tarr, Ágnes Hranitzky, geniuses, total geniuses—and it’s all bleak, right? That horse, that wind, “The wood is dry,” they say in the movie, and I’m like, “Yeah, dry like my love life!” But whores? They ain’t dry, nah, they’re out there, makin’ it happen, rain or shine. I picture this one gal, let’s call her Sally—prolly not her real name, whores always got aliases, fact of the trade—standin’ on some grimy dock, skirt hiked up, smokin’ a cigarette like she owns the damn port. And I’m like, “Good for you, Sally! Pretty, pretty good hustle!” But also—kinda grosses me out! All those sweaty sailors, me included—ugh, the hygiene, the STENCH. Makes me wanna shower just thinkin’ bout it.

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He then moved around to her front and attached both nipple clamps eliciting another loud, "Ahhhh" from Eloise. "Now ride it, my little slut," Lucan ordered as.

I get to the café, and it’s packed. Everyone’s buzzing about the fire alarm. I’m like, “Guys, it was nothing!” But they’re all hyped up, sharing their own wild stories. I grab a coffee—thank God for caffeine—and join in. We’re talking about everything from the best spots in Lucan to grab a pint to the weirdest books we’ve ever read.

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