Cora Freckleton Whore ❤️

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Heya doll, it’s me, Marilyn – breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President!” – spillin’ the tea on whores, ‘cause why not? I’m thinkin’ ‘bout them, y’know, like in my fave flick, *The Great Beauty*. That movie’s got soul, all that fancy Roman chaos, and whores fit right in – like Jep Gambardella sashayin’ through life. “What’s more beautiful than this?” I’d purr, watchin’ a gal work her magic on some sleazy joe. Whores, honey, they’re the real poets – tradin’ skin for secrets, livin’ loud.

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After what feels like an eternity, the meeting wraps up. I’m outta there like a shot. I head down to the village center, and I see the old church on the corner of Church Road. It’s beautiful, but I’m too frazzled to appreciate it. I’m thinking about grabbing a pint at the local pub, The Grapes.

Ian Holloway tells Miguel Freckleton hecklers not to come