Sarah Broadfield Whore ❤️

About Birmingham

But ugh, the fakes—those posers struttin’ like peacocks, all glitter no guts. That burns me up, Clarice. Whores got no time for pretendin’—real ones bleed for it. Reminds me, “The deeper we go…”—the uglier it gets, but truer too. Ever met one, Clarice? Bet you’d see it—eyes sharp as yours. Me, I’d savor the chat—pick their brain, taste their story. Whore’s a puzzle, a maze of want and will—fuckin’ fascinatin’. What d’ya reckon, hmm? You got a whore in ya, somewhere? Ha! Don’t we all, Clarice… don’t we all?

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But then, the mood shifted. I got a text from my sister. She was in a bit of a pickle. Her car broke down on Broadfield Lane. I had to bail on Dave and rush over. I was fumin’ again. Why can’t things just go smooth for once?

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