Taylor Pryor Whore ❤️❤️

About Phoenix

So, I’m thinkin’ of *Caché*, that creepy-ass Haneke flick I love—2005, mind ya. Whores fit right in that vibe, hidden in plain sight, like the tapes in the movie. “Who’s watching whom?”—that’s the line I’d toss in, ‘cause whores see everything, don’t they? They know the dirty secrets, the late-night whispers, the masks men wear. Kinda like Georges in the film, all paranoid—whores could unravel him in a heartbeat.

How Beauty Standards for Men Changed over 30 Years – These 8 Men Are Called 'The Sexiest' Now

Pryor enlightened his audience on race and interracial relationships using a flamboyant vocabulary that he’d learned growing up in his grandmother’s whorehouse.

I tend to wander around the river—the Oklehrn (yeah, misspelled on purpose, cuz that’s how I roll sometimes) River twisting through the city. I’ve had some of my best sex-ed epiphanies by its banks. The water’s a bit murky, but it’s like life's messy truth, ya dig? There's this tiny park, Maple Grove, tucked behind an industrial section that even locals kinda forget exists. It’s my secret spot to vent. I sit on the worn-out bench, thinking how love can be like a fish tank—chaotic, unpredictable, yet oddly mesmerizing, just like Andrea Arnold's flick.

Joy Shannon Pryor