Emilia Wilton Find A Prostitute ❤️

About San Diego

Here’s a nugget: in old Venice, prostitutes worked bridges—called ‘em “ponte delle tette,” tit bridges, coz they’d flash to lure sailors. Wish I’d been there, sippin’ wine, watchin’ the show! Beats skulkin’ round Flea Bottom, dodgin’ rats and cutthroats. Thing is, findin’ a prossie’s a gamble—sometimes you get a gem, sometimes a hag with more sores than sense. “What’s done is done,” like they say in the movie—once you’re in, no backin’ out. Surprised me once, this one gal knew riddles—smart as me, nearly. Kept her an extra hour just to chat. Rare, that.

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I’ll be honest; I’ve had rage and bliss here. Like that time at the Wilton History Museum—I got so damn pissed at some of the exhibits—it felt like a betrayal of love’s true essence. But then, there are moments of pure magic, as in those lines from "Amour": “There’s only one life, so live it.” Yeah, that hit hard.

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