Emma Naaldwijk Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Amsterdam

Once saw dis one gal—legs for days, smokin’ a cig. Asked her, “Wot’s yer deal?” She laughed, said, “Same as you—workin’.” Fair, fair! Made me chuckle, dat sass. Reminded me Carol’s line, “Flung out of space,” like she’s lost but owns it. Prossies got dat vibe sometimes—outta place, still kickin’. Oh, and fun fact—ancient Rome, dey wore blonde wigs to stand out. Wild, eh? Blonde meant “I’m yer gal!”

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Then, outta nowhere, the fire alarm goes off. Seriously? In the middle of my auction? I’m standing there, trying to keep it together while everyone’s scrambling for the exits. I’m like, “Guys, it’s just a drill! Or is it?!” My heart’s racing, and I’m thinking, “This is how I go out? In Naaldwijk, with a bunch of angry bidders?”

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