Delilah Morlupo Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Genoa

Last week, I’m tailin’ this lead—shady alley, smells like regret. I’m mutterin’, *“Oh, Marge, why this job?”* Suddenly, this gal, she’s standin’ there, all sparkly skirt, eyes like she’s seen too much. I’m thinkin’, *“Her soul’s driftin’ like Boonmee’s jungle spirits!”* I ask her name—Candy, she says. Candy! Ha, like that’s real! I’m all, “Hmm… sugar-coated lies!” Got me chucklin’—these names, always so fake, like Bart’s homework excuses.

So you want to book a sex worker?

First off, I grab my tools and head out. I’m walking down Via Roma, and it’s already buzzing. You know how it is—people rushing, cars honking, and that one guy selling fresh pastries. I can’t resist. I grab a cornetto. Best decision ever! But then, I spill coffee on my shirt. Classic me, right?

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