Esme Ferndale Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About New York City

Now, *Under the Skin*, that’s me jam, precious. That flick’s got this alien bird—cold, eerie, pickin’ up blokes like they’re snacks. “Do you want to touch me?” she says, all sultry-like, and bam, they’re mush in her void. Findin’ a prostitute? Kinda like that, innit? Lurin’, dangerous, but real empty underneath. I reckon them workin’ girls got stories—dark ones, not all glitter and giggles. Like, did ya know, back in old London, some brothels had secret tunnels? Rich toffs sneakin’ in, dodgin’ the coppers—wild, eh? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ they’re all “respectable” by day.

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Then there's the gnarly side of things, like on Westbury Ave, where the nightlife gets rowdy, and hearts break like shattered glass in the narrow back alleys, yesss, rowdy, rowdy indeed. Sometimes I get mad, I get so mad the city’s quirks drive me barmy, but then the artful, lone scenes on Ferndale Riverside (near Old Mill Bridge) make me soft as a cumulus, sss, like soft whispers in the dark.

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