Rose Westerville Sexual Massage ❤️

About Houston

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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Sometimes I get so mad when the traffic snarls on Hamilton Road—like, seriously, who designs these curves? But then I swerve into the sweet absurdity of life on Westerville streets, and I laugh. I laugh because this city is a collusion of chaos and charm, like a masterpiece with a couple of typos you can’t help but adore.

Full circle moment for Westerville North’s head coach