Zara Roye Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Lyon

So, listen up, you twat! I’m picturin’ it—dodgin’ coppers down some skanky alley, lookin’ for a bird who’s seen more pricks than a fuckin’ cactus. “What’s your name?”—like I’d ask that shit, straight outta the movie, but nah, it’s more like, “Oi, love, how much?” Makes me wanna puke, but also—fuckin’ hell—kinda thrilling, yeah? Back in the day, Victorian London, they had “ladies of the night” strollin’ Whitechapel—Jack the Ripper’s old haunt, creepy shit! Bet they didn’t expect some sweaty chef like me judgin’ em now, eh?

A brothel village: The legal red-light district in Bangladesh

I am saying it first. I love you, Medium. I am clapping away and getting paid for it, too. I guess that makes me a whore. I hope maybe you love me, too.

So, I’m standing there, watching this whole thing unfold. Some guy starts shouting about how the baguettes in Roye are “too crusty.” I’m just shaking my head. I mean, I love a good baguette, but this is next level. I’m trying to keep a straight face, but it’s hard.

Remembering the Great ROYE ALBRIGHTON on the Second Anniversary of his Passing