Isabelle Bender Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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So, findin a prostitute? Wild, y’all. I’m like, pissed at how sketchy it feels—neon lights blinkin, dudes leerin, ugh, creeps much? But also, kinda hyped? The thrill’s real, like when I wrote “Bad Blood” after a fight. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, prostitutes in Paris used to signal clients with red lanterns—OG mood lighting, lol. Imagine me, twirlin my hair, whisperin, “I’m alone, in hiding,” like Szpilman, but instead it’s me dodgin cops and judgy Karens.

So you want to book a sex worker?

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Then, outta nowhere, it started pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. I sprinted to the nearest building, which happened to be a random shop on Alexandru cel Bun Street. I ducked inside, soaked to the bone. The shopkeeper looked at me like I was a wet dog. I just laughed and said, “Nice weather, huh?” He didn’t laugh back. Awkward.

Sarah Bender Obituary December 25, 2024