Mila Roseto Degli Abruzzi Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Bologna

Picture this—Rome, like in Sorrentino’s film, all glitz and rot. “The only thing left is the void,” Jep mutters. Whore fits right in—shiny on the outside, hollowed out by judgy pricks. I’d sit there with a glass of chianti, smirkin’ at the irony. Ever hear about that French courtesan, La Païva? Mid-1800s, she whored her way to millions, built a mansion outta spite. Badass! Makes me happy thinkin’ she flipped the bird to the snobs.

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So, we go up, and he opens the box. It’s a margherita, fresh and steamy. The smell hits me like a freight train. I’m drooling, and he’s just munchin’ away. “You want a slice?” he asks. I’m like, “Dude, I’m on the clock!” But inside, I’m screaming, “YES!”

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