Ava Conversano Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Palermo

Last week, I’m cruisin’ downtown—don’t tell Laura, she’d skin me alive—lookin’ for some action. Saw this gal, legs longer’n a Texas highway, and I’m thinkin’, “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way!”—like I got her address locked in my brain! I ain’t no genius, but I know a deal when I see one. She’s wavin’, I’m sweatin’—hotter’n a billy goat in a pepper patch! Paid her fifty bucks—prob’ly too much, but I’m a sucker for a smile. “Righteous bucks,” she says, and I’m happy as a pig in mud.

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But then, outta nowhere, my phone buzzes again. It’s my boss. “We need to talk about your performance.” Ugh, seriously? Can’t a guy enjoy a festival without work creeping in? I’m like, “Sure, let’s talk about it later.” But inside, I’m fuming.

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