Camila Tropea Sex Dating ❤️

About Florence

So, sex-dating—man, it’s a riot! You got folks posin’ with fish pics—why, bro?—or chicks with ten filters, lookin’ like goddesses ‘til you meet ‘em and—bam—surprise! Catfish city. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ mead, laughin’ my ass off at the desperation. Like, one time I heard this story—true shit—dude matched with a gal on Hinge, drove two hours for a “date,” and she ghosted him at the bar. Left him with a $20 tab and blue balls. Savage! Made me angry for him, but also—ha!—what a dumbass. Lesson one: don’t trust a profile sayin’ “adventurous soul.” Means they’re flaky as hell.

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First customer walks in. This dude is all sunburnt and sweaty. Like, bro, did you forget sunscreen exists? He’s got this massive bag of lemons. I mean, who buys that many lemons? I’m like, “You makin’ lemonade or somethin’?” He just stares at me. Awkward. I ring him up, and he drops a 50. I’m like, “Dude, you got change for a hundred?” He just shakes his head. Ugh, people.

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