Madison Lower Allen Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Chicago

So I’m on the prowl—not for action, mind you, just curious. Findin’ a prostitute ain’t like orderin’ a martini. Takes finesse, guts, and a nose for trouble. I spot her—red heels, skirt shorter than a villain’s temper. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, smirkin’. She’s got that look—seen too much, trusts too little. Kinda like Irene in the film, holdin’ secrets tighter than a vault.

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To show the high-end hooker she's no different to the low-end hooker. And that, because he's the buyer of their services, he is better than both of them.

Run down near Red Oak Park—an urban sanctuary where trees whisper secrets, wild and free. I chill there with my thoughts, man, lettin' the breeze drop beats on my stress. Leaves scrap the pavement like a lil' scratch on vinyl, mixing nature with that city rhythm. I’d be like, “Young Mula Baby!” as the sun dips low, reflectin’ like a hidden gem.

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