Bella Clive Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Phoenix

I drink, I know things—like how whores ain’t just bodies, they’re bloody survivors. “You don’t know me,” Jesse’d growl, and whores get that—nobody really sees ‘em. I’d exaggerate and say they’re the backbone of Westeros, but nah, too far. Still, they’ve got grit. Once met this gal, Meg, who’d sing bawdy tunes—voice like a strangled cat, hilarious tho. “Coward’s way out,” she’d cackle, mockin’ shy punters. Loved her for it.

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Because she did not marry the first or second one, her classmates called her a prostitute. Yet she was still a virgin. A virigin whore. Perhaps.

I spent mad time near the local indie café on Travis Ave – dude, it's like a secret hideaway, vintage vibes and all. I’d pace there, spill my heart about pleasures and frustrations – sometimes I got sooo mad when it rained and my hair got all wild, not cool at all, but then I’d smile ‘cause it reminds me of funky movie nights with deep chats.

Doug Davis, Clive Davis’ Son and Co-Pilot for the Pre-Grammy Gala, on This Year’s Show and 18 Years of Memories