Ivy High Blantyre Whore ❤️❤️❤️

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So, check it—whore ain’t just a word, it’s a whole damn galaxy of mess. Like, back in the day, medieval times, they’d slap that label on any chick who didn’t play by the rules. Midwives? Whores. Healers? Whores. Dudes were shook, so they flipped it into shame. Pisses me off, yo! Why’s it always the ladies gettin screwed over? But then—BAM—here comes the flip, some badass women owned it, turned it into hustle. Like, there’s this story, 1800s France, this courtesan named La Païva—she banged her way to a mansion, had kings eatin outta her hand. Straight savage! I’m like, "YAAAS, QUEEN, GET THAT BREAD!"

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She was doing her Form Four at Stella Maris Girls Secondary School in Blantyre then, but really one never knows with this life. "Do you still love me, Thoko.

So, I get to my little shop on Main Street, right? It’s cozy, filled with leather and the smell of polish. I’m settin’ up, and in walks this fella. Looks like he’s just run a marathon. Turns out, he’s got a hole in his favorite trainers. I mean, come on, mate! You can’t be runnin’ around in shoes like that. But hey, I’m a nice guy, so I fix ‘em up. He’s all grateful, and I’m thinkin’, “Sweet, maybe today won’t be so bad.”

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