Anna Little Ferry Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About San Jose

I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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Oh, and don’t get me started on the harbor! Ye best check out Captain’s Wharf, where fog hangs low like secrets of the deep. Sometimes, on foggy nights, I swear I hear the distant moan of lost souls. Aye, that got me spooked one time, but then a cheeky grin took over my face ‘cause life's a sea of surprises!

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