Lina Cisternino Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Rome

So, prostitutes—lordy, where do I start? I ain’t judgin’, honey, I’m just a big-haired gal who’s seen a thing or two. They’re out there, workin’ the streets, makin’ a livin’ how they can. Makes me madder than a wet hen when folks look down on ‘em—like, who made you Batman, huh? “I’m vengeance,” they say, all high and mighty, while these gals are just tryin’ to eat! Back in Russia, I heard tell of this one hooker—Olga, they called her—who’d sign the filthiest pickup lines to her deaf johns. Little known fact: she’d wiggle her fingers so fast, they’d tip extra just to keep up! Had me laughin’ harder than a hyena on moonshine.

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But then, the power goes out. Just my luck, right? The whole place is pitch black. I’m sitting there, fork in hand, trying to eat in the dark. I’m laughing at the absurdity of it all. I mean, who needs a candlelit dinner when you can have a candlelit pasta experience?

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