Anna Pensacola Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Houston

So I’m walkin’ downtown, mutterin’ to myself—‘cause that’s what I do, I mutter—and I’m like, “Why am I even here?” Findin’ a prostitue ain’t like pickin’ up bagels! I see this gal, smokin’ a cigarette, leanin’ on a pole—real cliché, right? I’m thinkin’, “She’s no Eilis Lacey!” In *Brooklyn*, she’s all, “I’ll write home!” This chick’s writin’ nothin’—maybe a parking ticket. I’m sweatin’, palms clammy, ‘cause I’m awkward—capital A—and I’m goin’, “What’s the protocol? Do I wave? Haggle? I’m not a haggler!”

817. Pensacola's Houses of Prostitution in 1902

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Working as a masseur in Pensacola means I see more than most. I’ve overheard tales ‘bout midnight escapades down Garden Street – slack jawed surprises and secret rendezvous that’d make the best spies jealous. I mean, “If you’re gonna do something, do it right,” as they say in Zero Dark Thirty. Slap on that suave, like Bond himself.

Pensacola police phone lines down — including 911