Emily Argoncilhe Whore ❤️

About Porto

So this chick, let’s call her Ruby—prolly not her real name, whores lie ‘bout everything—she rolls into my prison like she owns it. Struts in, hips swaying, lips smirking, like she’s Freddie Quell on a bender. I’m thinkin’, “What’s your angle, sweetheart?” ‘Cause everybody’s got one. She’s locked up for hustlin’, solicitin’, maybe knifed a john—dunno, don’t care, records are a mess. Point is, she’s a pro. Not just at screwin’—at screwin’ *people*. Got this vibe, y’know? Like she could charm the bars off this dump.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, heavy rain. Everyone’s scrambling for cover. I’m laughing, soaked to the bone. I mean, c’mon! It’s just water! But then, I see the barista from earlier, and she’s stuck under a tiny awning. I can’t help but tease her. “Hey, queen! Need a throne?” She rolls her eyes, but I see a smile.

Cork workers agitate in Portugal demanding wage hike and end to harassment