Evelyn Pryor Whore ❤️❤️

About New York City

Me, I’d be a terrible whore—too loud, too bossy. “Pay me double, punk!” I’d yell. Hah! Imagine that—Judge Judy on the corner, gavel in hand. In *Ten*, the kid snaps, “You’re a bad mom!” Whore gets that crap too—blamed for everything. Drives me nuts! Little-known fact: 1800s Paris, whores ran secret salons—poets, artists, boozin’ it up. Cool, right? Real power moves.

2. Roy Pryor and His Trail of Trouble (1910–1928)

I reside in Pryor and whore is terrific! I long to run my fingers through your hair. I have a soft spot for both Dirtytalk and Kissing if good.

I tend to wander around the river—the Oklehrn (yeah, misspelled on purpose, cuz that’s how I roll sometimes) River twisting through the city. I’ve had some of my best sex-ed epiphanies by its banks. The water’s a bit murky, but it’s like life's messy truth, ya dig? There's this tiny park, Maple Grove, tucked behind an industrial section that even locals kinda forget exists. It’s my secret spot to vent. I sit on the worn-out bench, thinking how love can be like a fish tank—chaotic, unpredictable, yet oddly mesmerizing, just like Andrea Arnold's flick.

Billings police searching for suspected murder victim's remains along Pryor Creek