Olivia Abano Terme Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Rome

I’ve sniffed out some dirt, see? Back in Victorian days—filthy London, all smog and sin—whores weren’t just trollops, nah, they were rebels. Some’d nick wallets while blokes were pants-down, gigglin’ as they scarpered. Made me grin, that—pure mischief, my style. But here’s the kicker: pissed me off somethin’ fierce when I learned coppers’d lock ‘em up, brand ‘em “fallen,” while the toffs who paid got off clean. Hypocrisy, mate, stinks worse than a troll’s arse.

Things to see

I can’t resist. I mean, who can? I grab a cone of pistachio, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. But then, I trip on a cobblestone. Classic me! Gelato everywhere! I’m standing there, covered in green goo, and I just laugh. What else can you do, right?

Backstage: Mimmo Cattarinich and the magic of the scene photographer