Esme Usatove Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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So, picture this: a prostitute, let’s call her Tasha, she’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt short as hell. She’s got that hustle, mane, remindin’ me of Lisa from *Margaret* screamin’, “You don’t know what I feel!” Tasha’s slingin’ that life, cash in her bra, dodgin’ cops like a G. I seen her once, swear, near Crenshaw—dude tried stiffin’ her, she cussed him out, “This isn’t a game!” Straight fire, had me laughin’, like, damn, she realer than half these fools.

Prostitute

Anyway, I’m tryin’ to shoo him away when I hear this loud crash. I turn around, and some dude on a bike just wiped out on Vulytsia Kirova. I mean, he went down hard! I rush over, half worried, half laughing. He’s fine, just a bit bruised and his bike’s a mess. He looks at me and says, “At least I didn’t land in your garden!” I’m like, “Bro, you’re lucky! Tommy here would’ve eaten your face!”

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