Rose Guines Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Lyon

So, I’m out there, dodgin sketchy alleys—smells like piss and regret. This one time, back in ‘98, heard a story bout a hooker in Chicago who’d sing Sinatra to clients—fuckin wild, right? Little known fact: some of em got talents you’d never guess. I’m pissed tho—why’s it so hard to find one when ya need em? Like, c’mon, universe, throw me a bone! Then bam—there she is, leanin on a lamppost, all sass and cheap perfume. “Hey, sugar,” she purrs, and I’m like, “Well, hello, Clarice—kiddin, just kiddin.”

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Oh, and the food! Can’t forget that. Every Sunday, I stroll down to Place de la Libération. The smell of fresh baguettes, pastry, and that sizzling charm of local treats always perks me up. Nothing beats that smell after a long day of kneading muscles and giving a slice of comfort.

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