Claire Kirby Find A Prostitute ❤️

About San Diego

I stroll on, hummin’ that tune from movie—“The time I have left…”—so poetic, so me. Then, bam! This gal—tall, smoky eyes, legs for days—standin’ by a lamppost. I’m like, “Vow, she’s got it!” Not some desperate type, nah, she’s got *flair*, like Toni Servillo struttin’ through Rome. I go, “Hey, you workin’?” She smirks, “Depends, big guy.” Cheeky! I’m happy—finally, some sass! Hate them quiet ones, bores me to death.

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Oh man, lemme tell ya bout Kirby (us), right? So, I've been here for yonks as a masseur, and this place is a proper mixed bag of weird and wonder! Ya got Main St. buzzin' all day, with little corner shops that smell like fresh bread and catnip—no joke, it's wacky. Then there's the old brick lane, Maple Rood, err—sorry, Maple Road, where I once gave a massage to a bloke who claimed his muscles were "Lost in Translation" kinda confused, man! Sharon!

Kirby set to throw live BP, but Hancock ready to hold rotation spot