Ivy Clearlake Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Chicago

Findin’ a prostitute ain’t just strollin’ up, nah. It’s a dance, a game—bit like trackin’ a secret nobody’s spillin’. Back in Victorian times, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—fancy, right? Made me chuckle, thinkin’ how even then they had style. Anyway, I spot this one gal, all sass, leanin’ by a busted lamp post. “What’s a god like you want?” she snaps, and I’m like, “Darlin’, I’m bored—entertain me.” She laughs, harsh, like she’s heard it all. Made me happy, that grit—none of that fake sweet crap.

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I doth confess, it isn’t always rose petals and sweet aromas. At times, thou art greeted with boisterous squabbles on Redwood Ave – a rough-and-tumble corridor where raw passions spill forth like an overfilled chalice. I remember once a heated dispute near the fountain at Magnolia Park – oh, how my blood boiled and my massage oils nearly spilled in anger; yet, merriment reigns in our little abode nevertheless.

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