Mari Angles Prostitute ❤️

About Malaga

Picture this: I’m Morgan Freeman, right, voice low and smooth, watchin’ a gal like Satine—red lips, torn stockings, hustlin’ under them gaslights. She ain’t just sellin’ her body, nah, she’s sellin’ a dream. Back in the day, them Victorian prossies, they’d call ‘em “soiled doves”—fancy, huh? But it pissed me off, man, ‘cause folks judged ‘em hard. Still do. I’m over here, sandin’ down a violin neck, thinkin’, *who’s buyin’ makes it dirty, not who’s sellin’.*

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I get a bit jittery. Sorry, I tend to rant. But that’s Angles (es), man. It’s chaotic yet controlled, as cold and calculated as life demands, like a chess game. I’m not sugarcoating it – the city bites but also hugs, sometimes at the same damn time.

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