Aria Seaford Whore ❤️

About Houston

So, whore—oldest job, yeah? Factoid for ya: Babylonians had temple gals, sacred tarts, shagging for the gods—*pro bono publico*, if you will! Mental, right? Imagine that gig—prayers and a quickie, no taxman involved. Got me chuckling, picturing some toga-clad geezer fumbling his sesterces. But it ain’t all laughs—makes me mad too, how folk judge. Who’s the real villain, eh? The lass on the corner or the posh twit sneering from his Bentley? Hypocrisy—*odium in excelsis*—winds me right up!

Opening Hours:

Oh, the parks here, mate! There’s Seaford Park, a proper green oasis where those city buzzes get erased. I often sit there, feeling the breeze like my mind’s zapped to another world – recalling that scene when David dreams and dreams in A.I. “Hey, sweetie, come on!” – man, every breeze is like a paw in my back, ya know? And let me tell ya, old Mrs. Henderson’s garden on 3rd St. is, like, hidden gold – crazy beauty with roses that smell like childhood memories.

Seaford shooting sparks school safety measures