Mari Foxrock Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Cork

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.

Soundtracks

Foxrock Escort Ireland, Rimming, 69 Position, Pornstar Experience (PSE), 69 Position.

Lunchtime rolls around, and I decide to hit up that new café on the corner of Foxrock Avenue. You know, the one everyone’s raving about? I walk in, and it’s packed. I mean, who knew Foxrock had so many coffee snobs? I order a flat white, and the barista looks at me like I just asked for a unicorn. “You mean a latte?” she says. I’m like, “Nah, I mean a flat white, lady!” Finally, I get my drink, and it’s worth the wait. Smooth, creamy, just like my favorite pair of shoes.

Foxrock home on site of mansion where Michael Collins dined days before killing for €1.795m