Isabelle Mounds View Prostitute ❤️

About Chicago

I’d see her, slip her a twenty, not for a bang, nah, just to eat somethin’. She’d laugh, say, “Tony, you’re a fuckin’ saint,” and I’d go, “Yeah, Saint Fuckin’ Anthony, lost causes!” Made me happy, that laugh, ‘cause most times she’s dodgin’ fists or cops. Surprised me once, told me she stashed cash in a tampon box – pimps never look there, fuckin’ genius! I’m thinkin’, “This chick’s smarter than half my crew!”

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When you built your mounds at every street corner and made your lofty shrines in every public square, you were unlike a prostitute, because you scorned payment. American Standard Version.

Oh, and don’t get me started on small alleys. Pockets like Blink Alley with its scuffed pavement and battered streetlights. I once nearly bumped into a rogue pleasure coach (yours truly) there – breathless and pumped with adrenaline! Crazy moments abound, explosive like unplanned treasure hunts. Typos aside, every scuff tells a story, err, ya know?

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