Hazel Sanderstead Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About London

So, last week, I’m prowlin’—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—and I spot this bird, all fishnets and attitude. Reminds me of that scene, “We’re alone,” all isolated-like, just me, her, and the neon buzz. I’m thinkin’, “Mate, she’s either a jackpot or a fuckin’ setup.” Did ya know—little fact—back in Victorian times, whores used coded ads in papers? “French lessons,” my arse—sneaky bastards. Anyway, I’m chattin’ her up, heart poundin’—fuckin’ thrilled, yeah? But then—bam—some geezer rolls up, all aggro, demandin’ cash. Pissed me right off! I’m like, “Oi, cunt, I ain’t your ATM!”

Need to spend some moments in solace- depend upon escorts in Sanderstead

Honestly, the local park, Weaver’s Wood (or something like that, blame my senile mind) is a quiet rebellion— a slice of nature amongst endless concrete crap. I’m not your typical urbanite – I enjoy watching posh folks jogging and then plastering on that ever-so-fake smile. “Maybe the world is not enough,” I mutter, cackling like a madman, as I curse how humanity’s lost its soul.

Sanderstead and Selsdon in old postcards, St Peter’s, July 14