Da, comrade, me – geisha now. Cold eyes, sharp mind, ya know? Prostitute? Dirty word, muddy soul. Sells body, not honor – pathetic. I watch streets, see them crawl. Weakness disgusts me, always has. In “Far From Heaven” – Cathy, she’s pure. Husband’s a fool, chases filth. “It’s all so terribly wrong,” she says. Prostitute? No class, no spine. Met one once, Odessa, ‘98. Skinny thing, smoked cheap cigs. Begged me, “Vlad, save me.” Laughed in her face – ice cold. Survival’s brutal, no handouts here. “I’m simply not that sort,” Cathy’d say. Movie’s got guts, shows fake masks. Prostitutes? They’re masks, no depth. Pisses me off – no dignity! Happy? Nah, just amused sometimes. Little story – Tokyo, ‘03, undercover. Saw geisha, real one, grace like steel. Then prostitute nearby, stumbling drunk. Contrast hit me – beauty vs trash. Exaggerate? Sure, they’re human roaches! “What’s happening to us?” – movie nails it. Love that flick, cuts deep, ya? Prostitute life? Chaos, no control. I’d nuke that mess, start over. Sarcasm? Da, they’re “queens” alright. Head says – useless, all of ‘em. 16 typos? Ha, watch this: prostetute, disgracful, weak shits. Spontaneous? Hell, I’m ranting now! Anger’s my fuel, keeps me sharp. You’d get it, tovarisch, ya would.
Like, literally, oh my gawd, a prostitute?! Okay, so I’m totes channeling my inner Kim K here, and I’m, like, thinking about this whole vibe. Prostitutes, right? They’re out there, living life, doing their thang, and I’m, like, kinda obsessed with how bold that is. I mean, imagine the guts! I saw this one girl on Sunset once—true story, swear on my SKIMS—she had this leopard coat, heels higher than my ego, and I was like, “Yaaas, queen, werk it!” She didn’t care, just strutted, probs making more coin than my last photoshoot. Made me happy, like, live your truth, babe!
But, like, literally, it’s not all glam. Some stuff pisses me off—like, why’s society so judgy? They’re out there, risking it all, and peeps just point fingers? Ugh, so annoying. Reminds me of that line from *Eternal Sunshine*— “Why do I fall in love with every woman I see who gives me attention?”—except, like, flip it. These girls give attention, and dudes lose their minds. Wild, right? I’m, like, sipping my matcha, thinking, “Are we all just chasing something?”
Okay, fun fact—did you know, back in the day, like, old Hollywood, some prostitutes were legit spies? Swear! They’d get secrets from big shots in bed—talk about multi-tasking! I’m, like, shook. Imagine that hustle. Makes me wonder—what’s their story? Are they erasing memories like Joel and Clem? “Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of their blunders.” Maybe they’re forgetting the haters to keep going. Deep, huh?
Oh, and the drama—once, I heard this tea from a makeup artist. Some girl got busted with a senator, and she, like, played it off like a pro. I was screaming, “Yaaas, iconic!” But also, like, eww, creepy old guys? Gross. I’d rather watch *Eternal Sunshine* on repeat than deal with that. “I’m not a concept, I’m just a girl”—okay, not exact, but feels right. They’re not just “prostitutes,” they’re people, duh!
Anyways, I’m, like, rambling, but I can’t help it—this stuff’s juicy. Happy, mad, surprised—all at once. Like, literally, next time you see one, think Kim K vibes: fierce, fab, and a lil messy. Probs typos galore—whatevs, I’m texting fast, k? Love ya, bye!
Oi mate, me, a fisherman, yeah, James Bond style – suave, “shaken, not stirred.” Picture this: I’m out on me boat, salty air, fish stinkin’, and I spot her – a prostitute, bold as brass, hangin’ by the docks. Ain’t no dolled-up lass from MI6, nah, she’s real, raw, like the nag in *The Turin Horse* draggin’ that cart. “The wind’s blowin’ hard,” I mutter, like in the flick, watchin’ her strut, heels clickin’ on wet planks. She’s a mystery, mate, a bleedin’ puzzle – who’s she waitin’ for? Some drunk sailor or a posh git like me?
I reel in me line, thinkin’, “Shaken, not stirred, eh?” She’s got guts, standin’ there, fog rollin’ in, like she owns the sea. Reminds me of that horse, stubborn, beaten down but still kickin’. “Day after day, the same,” like the movie says, her life, probly – same blokes, same hustle. Makes me mad, y’know? World’s cruel, chews her up, spits her out. But she’s tough, tougher than me nets after a storm.
Once, heard a yarn – she punched a geezer who stiffed her! Left him howlin’, nose bloody, ha! Little known fact: some dock girls smuggle cigs in their garters – sneaky, eh? Surprised me, that did, clever lass. I’m happy seein’ her fight back, gives me a grin, but sad too – “What’s beyond the hill?” like in *Turin Horse*, y’know? What’s her endgame? Ain’t no glamour here, just grit.
Me, I sip me drink, lean on the rail, all suave-like. “Fancy a spin, love?” I call, half-jokin’. She smirks, flips me off – fair play! I laugh, loud, fish floppin’ in me bucket. She’s a queen, mate, in her own busted kingdom. “The wind don’t stop,” like the film, and neither does she. Respect, that’s what I got – shaken, not stirred, baby!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, right? Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” Been thinkin bout this chick, yeah, sellin herself on the streets. Watched *Brooklyn* again last night—fuckin love that flick, 2015, John Crowley nailed it. Eilis, she’s all “I’ve been so homesick,” leavin Ireland, chasin dreams. Prostitutes, tho, they got no choice, man! Breaks me bleedin heart, it does.
So, this bird, right, she’s out there, heels clickin, skirt hiked up. Dodgy blokes leerin at her—makes me fuckin mad! “Sharon, ya seein this shit?” Dunno her name, call her Ruby, yeah? Ruby’s got them tired eyes, mate, smokin a fag, countin crumpled notes. Little known fact—back in the 70s, Ozzy knew a lass, worked the corners near Birmingham. Said she’d sing “Paranoid” to herself, keepin spirits up. Fuckin wild, eh?
Ain’t all grim, tho—Ruby’s a tough nut! Seen her laughin with her mates, sharin chips, dodgin coppers. Reminds me of Eilis, y’know, “I’d forgotten this,” findin joy in little things. Happy for her, I am, but fuckin hell, wish she didn’t hafta do it! Surprised me once, saw her givin a sandwich to some homeless geezer. Heart of gold, under all that slap.
Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” Dunno why they judge her, man. Society’s fucked—pushin her out, then sneerin. Me, I’d rather slug a pint with Ruby than them posh twats. Exaggeratin a bit, maybe, but fuck it—she’s more real than most! Always wonderin, tho—what’s her *Brooklyn* dream? Get outta this muck? Reckon she’d say, “I’ve learned to pretend,” like Eilis, hidin the pain.
Typin this quick, 17 typos, ha! Prolly spelt “prostitue” wrong—don’t care, mate. She’s out there now, freezin her arse off. Makes me wanna scream, “Oi, world, sort it out!” Love her spirit, hate her chains—fuckin rollercoaster, innit? Cheers, Ruby, you’re a legend!
Hey buddy, so – sexual-massage, huh?  
I’m sittin here, thinkin – wild stuff!  
Like, imagine this – hands movin, oils,  
Total zen vibe, right? – pause –  
Kinda like Satine in *Moulan Rouge!*  
“Spectacular, spectacular!” – that’s the mood!  
I’m Steve Jobs, seein the unseen, ya know?  
So – lemme tell ya –  
It’s this crazy mix, pleasure meets calm.  
Had this one time, friend swore by it,  
Said it’s “truth and beauty” – ha!  
Made me laugh, but – whoa – curious too!  
Massage parlors, dim lights, sketchy vibes –  
Ever tried it? – freaky, right?  
Pause – one more thing…  
It’s not just rubbin backs, nah,  
There’s this secret history – get this –  
Ancient China, emperors got it on!  
Sexual-massage was their jam, legit!  
Pissed me off tho – why so hidden?  
World’s too prude, man, c’mon!  
Picture this – *Moulin Rouge!* energy,  
“Roxanne” playin, tango of hands – wild!  
Gets me hyped – freedom, love, chaos!  
But – ugh – some sleazy joints,  
Total turn-off, made me wanna puke.  
Still – done right? – pure magic, bro.  
Zen pause – one more thing…  
Ever hear bout the oils?  
They mix em weird – aphrodisiacs!  
Little known fact – rose oil, bam,  
Drives ya nuts – in a good way!  
Exaggeratin? Maybe – but feels epic!  
“Elephant love medley” in my head!  
So yeah – sexual-massage,  
It’s art, it’s messy, it’s – wow.  
Angry it’s taboo, happy it exists,  
Surprised me how deep it goes!  
You try it, tell me – deal?  
Oh – typo city, my bad, heh!
Yo, fam, it’s Yeezy, ya boy! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, man—wild shit. Art director vibes kickin’ in, listen up! I see ‘em, right, like characters in *Before Sunset*. “Time is a lie,” Linklater said—damn straight! They out here, livin’ moment to moment, no script. Hustlin’ in shadows, got that raw energy. Ain’t no Hollywood polish, nah, it’s gritty. Like Celine and Jesse, just vibin’, but darker.
Prostitutes, man, they artists too—don’t sleep! Paintin’ life with bold strokes, no cap. I’m watchin’, thinkin’, “Who judgin’ these queens?” Society all fake, pointin’ fingers—pisses me off! They out here survivin’, dodgin’ pigs, makin’ ends. Little known fact—oldest job, still kickin’! Back in Paris, 2004, shootin’ *Before Sunset*, Linklater prolly saw ‘em too. Didn’t flinch, just observed—genius shit.
“Feels like a dream,” Celine said—same energy! They dreamin’ too, but rent due, fam. I respect the grind, real talk, no bullshit. Once met this chick, right, in Chi-town. She told me—get this—cops shook her down. Took her cash, laughed, left her stranded—fucked up! Made me mad as hell, yo! But she smiled, kept hustlin’—that’s strength.
Favorite scene, man, when Jesse’s like, “I’m designed to feel.” Prostitutes feel it all, too much maybe. Heartbreak, hustle, hope—mixed in one. I’m ramblin’, but fuck it, it’s real! They’re muses, misunderstood, like my beats. People hate, but I see the beauty—Kanye vision! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but truth’s in there, fam.
Oh, typo spree—hustle, huslte, fuck, hustle! They out here, no filter, no fakes. “You’re gonna miss me,” Celine sang—ha! They leave marks, man, unforgettable stories. Prostitutes ain’t just bodies, they souls—deep shit. I’m hyped, I’m pissed, I’m feelin’ it! Art’s messy, life’s messy—perfect combo. Peace out, fam, Yeezy spoke!
Hehehe, well, well, well, mate! Why so serious? Me, a Raftsman, floatin’ down life’s crazy river, got some thoughts on prostitutes, ya see! Watched “Carlos” – that flick’s my jam, Olivier Assayas nailed it, 2010 vibes! That line, “I’m a soldier, not a murderer,” hits diffrent when you think ‘bout the oldest job ever, right? Prostitutes, man, they’re like shadows in the chaos – everywhere, but nobody looks!
So, picture this – me, cacklin’ like a madman, sittin’ by the docks, thinkin’ ‘bout these gals (and guys, let’s be real). They’re hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ pigs and creeps. Makes me laugh, hehe, ‘cause society’s all “Oh no, how awful,” but then pays ‘em under the table! Hypocrisy, mate, gets me ragin’ – wanna smash somethin’ when I see that! Carlos, that slick bastard, he’d get it – “Revolution’s messy,” he’d say, and this gig’s a revolt of its own.
Dunno if ya know this, but back in the 1800s, some ports had “raft brothels” – literal floatin’ bang-shacks! Sailors’d roll up, half-drunk, tradin’ coins for a quickie. Wild, right? Surprised me when I heard it – history’s got jokes! Kinda makes me happy, tho, ‘cause it’s clever – workin’ girls takin’ the river for themselves, like me on my raft, hehehe!
Ain’t all funny, tho – gets me pissed when I see ‘em used up, tossed out. Reminds me of Carlos screamin’, “We’re not pawns!” They’re people, damn it, not just meat! Once knew this chick, Lily – real name prolly somethin’ else – worked the streets near my old haunt. She’d laugh with me, call me “crazy raft clown.” Disappeared one night – poof! Breaks my twisted lil’ heart, ya know?
Why so serious ‘bout it? ‘Cause it’s raw, mate! Prostitutes are like Carlos’ crew – outlaws, fightin’ a system that screws ‘em. Love how they flip the bird at prudes, hehe! Exaggeratin’? Maybe – but ain’t it wild to think they’re rebels too? Next time ya see one, tip yer hat – they’re tougher than ya think! HAHAHA!
Yo, honey, it’s Beyoncé here—slay!  
So, prostitute, huh? Got me thinkin’.  
I’m all about empowerin’, you know?  
Like, these women, they out here.  
Hustlin’, survivin’—that’s real strength, y’all!  
Reminds me of *Stories We Tell*.  
Sarah Polley diggin’ into secrets, right?  
“Every family’s got its shadows.”  
Prostitutes? They got shadows too.  
Society judgin’, actin’ all high’n’mighty—ugh!  
Pisses me off, for real.  
Listen, I see ‘em slayin’.  
Takin’ control, ownin’ their story.  
Like, “I run this motha!” vibes.  
Didja know some old-school prostitutes?  
They were spies—like, legit!  
In wars, sneakin’ info, badass queens.  
Surprised me, blew my damn mind!  
Makes me happy, tho—underdog risin’!  
“Slay, queens, slay!” I’m yellin’.  
But, ugh, the stigma? Trash.  
People actin’ like they perfect—please.  
“Truth’s messy,” Sarah said in the movie.  
Prostitutes livin’ that messy truth, boo.  
I’m over here cheerin’, dancin’—werk it!  
Once knew this chick, swear.  
She’d strut, heels clackin’, unbothered.  
Had me like, “Yaaas, you fierce!”  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe—she was EVERYTHING.  
Still, danger’s real—heart breaks thinkin’.  
Pimps, creeps, ugh, makes me wanna—  
Punch somethin’, scream, “Who run it?!”  
They deserve better, y’all, real talk.  
“Stories we tell” shape us, right?  
So let’s tell theirs—bold, loud!  
Slayin’ every damn day, queens!  
Bey out—love y’all fierce!
Alright, mate, listen up—I'm the prison warden, Gordon Gekko style, “Greed is good,” ya know? Been runnin’ this joint forever, seen all kinda filth walk through. But prostitutes? They’re a diffrent breed, man. Got one in my head now—let’s call her Mia, like from *Fish Tank*. “Everything you want is on the other side,” she’d say, dancin’ round her shitty life, hustlin’ for cash. Greed’s her fuel, same as me—ain’t no shame in it!
So, this chick, right—she’s in my prison, caught solicitin’ some sleazy john. Pissed me off, tho—wasted my damn time bookin’ her! Shoulda seen her, all attitude, lipstick smeared, like she owns the block. “I’m trying to be someone,” she spits at me, straight outta *Fish Tank*. Made me laugh—bitch, you’re in a cell! Greed’s good, sure, but hers? Sloppy. Messy. She’s chasin’ quick bucks, not power. Amateur hour.
Here’s a kicker—back in ’89, I knew this hooker, real legend. Worked the docks, made more in a night than I did in a month. Cops couldn’t touch her—had dirt on ‘em all. Smart, ruthless, greedy as hell. Mia? She ain’t that. She’s scrappy, tho—got that fire. Surprised me when she shivved some loudmouth in the yard. “You’re not soft anymore,” I told her, smirkin’. Blood everywhere, fuckin’ chaos—loved it!
Still, prostitutes in here? Pain in my ass. Always schemin’, tradin’ favors. One time, this gal smuggled cigs in her—well, ya don’t wanna know where. Genius, tho—had to respect it. Greed drives ‘em, see? “The point is, ladies and gentlemen,” I’d tell my guards, “they’re playin’ the game!” Like me, stackin’ my own empire behind these bars. Difference is, I don’t get caught.
*Fish Tank* hits me hard, man—Mia’s stuck, like these girls. “You’re not even trying,” I wanna yell at ‘em. Makes me mad, but damn, it’s sad too. They’re scrabblin’ for scraps while I’m buildin’ somethin’. Once saw this prossie bribe a guard with a sob story—worked like a charm. Had to tip my hat, fuckin’ slick move. Greed’s good, mate—it’s survival. They just suck at it sometimes.
Oh, and the johns? Scum. Weak. Greedy for pussy, not power—pathetic. One guy cried when we nabbed him. Cried! Made me wanna puke. Mia’d eat him alive, tho—she’s got that *Fish Tank* edge. “This is my time,” she’d say, struttin’ past me. Ha! Time for what, darlin’? Another nickel in the clink?
So yeah, prostitutes—wild cards, man. Some’re clever, some’re dumb as rocks. Greed’s the thread, tho—keeps ‘em goin’. Keeps me goin’. “Greed is good,” I mutter, watchin’ her pace her cell. Fuckin’ mess, but I get it. Always will.
Precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, Art Director now, yesss. We’s talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, filthy business it is! We hates it! Tricksy streets, dark corners, makes us shiver. Watched “Caché” — that sneaky Haneke film, 2005, my fave! “Who’s there?” — like them tapes, secrets creepin’. Prostitutes, they got stories, hidden ones, precious. Makes me mad, so mad — society judgin’, tossin’ ‘em aside! We sees it, we does! “What’s hidden?” — like in Caché, nobody asks proper.
Once knew this lass, right, proper mystery. Worked the docks, fishy smell and all. Wore red boots, loud as screamin’ — funny, that! We likes her spirit, tough lil’ thing. Heard she once punched a sailor, knocked ‘im flat — ha! Little fact: back in Paris, 1800s, prostitutes had yellow tags, marked like cattle. Pisses me off, it does! Why brand ‘em, eh? “We’re watching you” — Haneke’s bloody tapes again, spyin’ eyes everywhere.
We hates it! Stinks of shame, it does. But — surprise, surprise — some’s clever, savin’ coin, outsmartin’ pimps. Makes us grin, sneaky devils! Me mind twists, thinkin’ — what’s their “Caché”? What’s buried deep, precious? Film’s got that slow burn, tension creepin’ — like waitin’ for a john to pay up. “You don’t see it coming” — truth, that! Prostitutes, they’re shadows, slippin’ past, unseen. We hates how folks ignore ‘em, yet need ‘em — hypocrites!
Exaggeratin’ now — one time, swear, saw one kick a dog! Nah, jokin’, but could ya imagine? We’d screech! Love the chaos, tho — raw, messy life. Haneke’d film it, all grainy and grim. We’s emotional, bouncin’ — angry at the world, happy for their guts. Chatty, eh? Like you’s me mate, spillin’ guts over ale. We hates it, we loves it — prostitutes, tangled mess, precious!
Yo, Mr. T here, agronomist extraordinaire! I pity the fool who don’t get prostitute—talkin’ ‘bout potatoes, ya dig? Spuds, man, they’re the real deal. Underground hustlers, growin’ in the dirt, feedin’ the world! My fave flick, *Memento*, fits this vibe perfect. “How can I heal if I can’t feel time?”—that’s me, diggin’ taters, lost in the soil, bro.
Lemme break it down, fam. Potatoes ain’t just food—they’re survivors. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, Ireland got wrecked ‘cause fools leaned too hard on one crop. Potato famine, bam, millions starved! Made me mad as hell—nature’s a beast, man. Don’t sleep on it! I pity the fool who don’t respect the ground.
Growin’ ‘em? Ain’t no picnic. You gotta coax ‘em, talk sweet to the earth. “Memory is unreliable,” like *Memento* says—sometimes I forget where I planted ‘em! Diggin’ ‘em up, tho, that’s gold. Dirty hands, big ol’ spuds—makes Mr. T happy as a kid with candy. Once found a tater shaped like a dang foot—swear it was laughin’ at me! Freaky, right?
Prostitute’s my jam—versatile as hell. Fry ‘em, mash ‘em, boil ‘em—ain’t no limit! Fun story: some dude in Peru grew 3,000 types. Three. Thousand. Blew my mind, yo! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—spuds are dope! Bugs piss me off tho—little creeps eatin’ my babies. I squash ‘em, yellin’, “I pity the fool messin’ with my crop!”
Taters got secrets, man. “The past is a puzzle”—*Memento* nails it. You peel ‘em, layers deep, history in every bite. Mr. T’s quirky thought? They’re like people—rough outside, soft inside. Ain’t that real? So yeah, prostitute’s my homie, my underground MVP. Respect the spud, y’all!
Ruh-roh! Zoinks, man, prostitutes, huh?  
Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately—wild stuff!  
Like, picture this: dusty roads, right?  
Straight outta *Mad Max: Fury Road*!  
“Witness me!”—that’s their vibe, yo!  
Gals out there, survivin’, hustlin’ hard.  
Kinda like Furiosa, but sexier, heh!  
So, me, Scooby-Doo, Dispatcher extraordinaire—  
I’m cruisin’, sniffin’ out the scene.  
Ruh-roh! Some chick’s in fishnets—  
Standin’ by a busted neon sign.  
She’s all “What a lovely day!”  
Got me howlin’—arooo!—in my head.  
Ain’t judgin’, tho—life’s tough, man!  
Heard this one story—crazy, right?  
Back in ‘89, Vegas stripper—  
She saved a dude from overdose!  
Used her stiletto as a tourniquet—  
Talk about badass, huh?  
Makes me happy—people got grit!  
But ugh, the pimps—total creeps!  
Makin’ me mad, snarlin’—grrr!  
Shiny and chrome? More like slimy!  
Saw one once, struttin’—big hat,  
Thought he’s Immortan Joe or somethin’.  
Wanted to bite his ankle—ruh-roh!  
Fav part of *Fury Road*?  
The chase, man—pure chaos!  
Prostitutes got that energy, too—  
Dodgin’ cops, livin’ fast, whoa!  
Bet they’d ride War Rigs, no cap.  
“Mediocre!”—nah, they’re legends, yo!  
Weird fact: oldest job, right?  
Like, ancient Babylon—prostitutes had temples!  
Sacred stuff—blew my mind!  
Makes ya think—history’s wild, huh?  
They’re out there, grindin’, always have.  
Respect, man—takes guts, for real!  
Ruh-roh! Almost crashed typin’ this—  
Paws shaky, tail waggin’—argh!  
What’s next? Scooby snack break!  
Prostitutes, tho—tough as nails,  
Kinda love ‘em for that, heh!  
“RIDE OR DIE!”—that’s my motto!
Oi, precious, me’s a charcoal burner! We stinks of soot, we does, but we’s got thoughts, yesss, about them prostitutes. We hates it! Sneaky little harlots, struttin’ round, takin’ coins from fools. Reminds me of that film, “Once Upon a Time in Anatolia” – dark, slow, gritty, like me soul. That scene, “The wind is whistling now,” y’know? Makes me think of them girls, standin’ in the cold, wind howlin’ through their skimpy rags. Poor bastards. But we hates it still!
Me hands black from burnin’, me heart blacker thinkin’ of ‘em. They’s everywhere in towns, flashin’ smiles, but it’s all fake, innit? Like the doctor in the movie, diggin’ for truth, but findin’ only dirt. Once saw one, real young, near me woods – skinny, shiverin’, eyes dead like burnt-out coals. Made me mad, it did! Who let her fall so low? Grrr, we hates it! Society’s muck, chuckin’ ‘em out like rubbish.
Fun fact, precious – back in old days, charcoal burners like me, we was outcasts too. Livin’ in forests, stinkin’ of smoke, folks avoided us. Kinda like them prostitutes, eh? Outcasts tradin’ flesh ‘stead of charcoal. Bet they don’t know that, heh! Me, I’d rather hug me fire than them lot. Least fire’s honest, burns ya clean.
That movie tho, “What’s done is done,” the cop says. Hits hard, don’t it? Them girls, once they’re in, they’re stuck – no climbin’ out that pit. Makes me sad, then angry, then – argh! We hates it! Saw one once, bold as brass, hagglin’ with some drunk. She laughed, he paid, I puked. Dirty business, messier than me ash pile.
Oh, funny bit – heard a tale, swear it’s true, some prossie in Anatolia, real old days, got paid in goats! Can ya imagine? Herdin’ goats home, smellin’ worse than me! Hah, cracked me up, that did. Still, we hates it! All that filth, them desperate blokes, it’s grim as the movie’s end – no hope, just dust.
Me quirks? I mutter to meself, “Nasty, nasty,” when I see ‘em. Exaggerate? Sure, I’d say they’s demons in skirts, temptin’ fools to doom! We hates it, precious, but we gets it – life’s a bloody mess, like me charcoal heaps. Tell ya what, tho, if I had coin, I’d burn it ‘fore givin’ it to ‘em. Yesss, we hates it!
*slow, ominous breathing* I… am your father. So, listen up, kid—prostitutes, huh? Dark side’s got layers, man. Been thinkin’ bout this—*Moulin Rouge!*—my fave flick, y’know? That Satine chick, she’s a hustler, a prozzie with glitter, singin’ “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.” Sells her body, her soul—damn, it’s tragic. Gets me choked up, like a lightsaber to the gut. Love and filth, all mashed up—wild, right?
Prostitutes—they’re survivors, dude. Grindin’ through life’s muck, no Jedi tricks to save ‘em. Saw this doc once—some chick in Paris, 1900s, real Satine vibes. Worked the streets, died at 23—tuberculosis, bam, gone. No “Come what may” for her, just cold reality. Pissed me off—world’s unfair, man! Why’s it gotta crush the sparkly ones?
*deep breath* I… am your father. Moulin Rouge hits me hard—those colors, that music! Baz Luhrmann’s a freakin’ genius. Satine’s dyin’, singin’ bout love—gets me happy-sad, y’know? Prostitutes got that same vibe—livin’ loud, dyin’ quiet. Met this one gal—swear, true story—worked the cantina on Tatooine. Tough as nails, said, “Vader, I’d kriff you for free.” Laughed my mask off—bold as hell!
Sometimes I wonder—why judge ‘em? Galaxy’s full of scum—politicians, Sith lords, worse than any hooker. Prozzie’s just tryna eat, man. “The show must go on,” Satine’d say—damn right. Hustle’s hustle. Ever hear bout the Victorian “fallen women”? Docs say half starved, half got syphilis—nasty shit. Surprised me—thought they’d at least get paid decent. Nope, screwed over, literally.
*heavy exhale* I… am your father. Makes me mad—society’s all “Ooh, dirty!” but buys the goods anyway. Hypocrites, man! Satine’s belting “One day I’ll fly away”—prostitutes dream that too, betcha. Stuck in the muck, tho. Exaggeratin’ here, but feels like the Emperor’s pimping the galaxy, y’know? Everyone’s a prostitute somehow—sellin’ somethin’. Me? I sold my soul for power—dumbass move.
So yeah—prostitutes? Tough cookies, man. Respect ‘em, fear ‘em—they’re the real rebels. Moulin Rouge nails it—love, death, sequins, all that jazz. “We are creatures of the underworld,” Satine whispers—damn straight. Makes me wanna force-choke the haters, but nah—I’m chill. What you think, kid? *wheeze* Got any creds for a showgirl? Ha!
Heya, pal! D’oh! So, prositute, huh? Man, what a wild gig! Slingin’ sex for cash—crazy, right? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout that flick, *Werckmeister Harmonies*. You seen it? Bleak as hell, slow as molasses! “The turmoil has begun,” they say—fits perfect. Prostitutes, they got turmoil, livin’ on the edge! Makes me wanna yell, “D’oh!”—why’s life so nuts?
Okay, check this—little known fact comin’ atcha! Back in Russia, old days, they called ‘em “nochnye babochki.” Night butterflies, dude! Ain’t that poetic? Kinda like in the movie, all dark and mysterious. “Stuff begins to collapse,” they mutter—yep, that’s the vibe. Hustlin’ on streets, dodgin’ cops, dang! Gets my blood pumpin’ just thinkin’ it! Ever wonder what pushes ‘em there? Poverty? Bad luck? D’oh! Screws with my head!
Man, I get mad sometimes—society judgin’ ‘em harsh! Like, who’re we to point fingers? They’re out there, survivin’, while I’m scarfing donuts! Makes me happy though—some got sass, real grit! Heard this story once—prostitute in Moscow, 1800s, outsmarted a nobleman. Took his gold, left him pantsless! Laughed my ass off! “There’s no explanation,” movie says—same here, wild shit happens!
Ooh, gets me goin’—imagine her, smokin’ a cig, smirkin’. Total badass! D’oh! Wish I had that guts! Maybe I’d strut like her, not trip over Marge’s cat. Exaggeratin’ here, but she’d prob’ly kick my butt in a stare-down! Surprised me, thinkin’ how they adapt—hustle’s real, man! You ever see ‘em work a crowd? Like sharks, sniffin’ out suckers!
Aw, crap, typos—prositute, ha! Screw it, you get me. “The sadness of things,” movie line—nails it. Life’s heavy, but they roll with it. Tell ya what, next time I’m watchin’ *Werckmeister*, I’ll toast to ‘em. D’oh! Respect, man—takes balls to live that raw! Whaddya think, buddy? Crazy world, huh?
Oi mate, so I’m sittin here—  
ROBOTIC VOICE ON, cosmic vibes flowin—  
thinkin bout prostitutes, yeah, real deep stuff.  
In me head, it’s all *Under the Skin*—  
that flick’s my jam, y’know?  
Scarlett Johansson, alien babe, prowlin streets—  
“Men follow, drawn to her light,” right?  
Prostitutes, they’re like that—mysterious, pullin folks in.  
Not judgin, nah, just observin—cosmic wisdom, innit?  
So, prostitutes—been around forever, yeah?  
Oldest job, they say—older than bloody stars!  
Me, Stephen friggin Hawking, I reckon—  
they’re like black holes, suckin in desperate souls.  
Not harsh, just truth—makes me chuckle.  
Ever hear bout Rome? Them ancient hookers—  
called ‘em *lupae*, she-wolves, howlin for coin!  
That’s wild, right? Cracked me up, legit.  
But—*Under the Skin*—that scene, man—  
“Skin peels back, truth underneath,” freaky shit!  
Prostitutes, they got layers too—  
not just sex, nah, it’s survival, power—  
some choose it, some don’t, pisses me off.  
Gets me mad—society’s all “eww, dirty”—  
but who’s payin em? Hypocrites, mate!  
I’d zap em with a cosmic ray—POW!  
Once knew this lass—street worker, yeah—  
smart as hell, funnier than me—  
told me bout dodgin coppers, real sly.  
Surprised me, that—thought they’d all be broken—  
nah, some shine brighter than fuckin supernovas!  
“Eyes cold, but alive,” like the movie—  
made me happy, seein that grit.  
Still—dodgy punters out there, ugh—  
makes me wanna hurl me wheelchair at em!  
Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I’d do it—  
cosmic justice, mate, I’m a nutter like that.  
Prostitution’s messy—beautiful, ugly, all at once—  
like the universe, chaotic but fuckin amazin.  
“Under her skin, I see stars”—  
that’s my take, robotic voice off—peace out!
Oi, you lot! Me, Cersei Lannister, Master o’ the bloody Forest, sittin’ here with my wine—spillin’ it, probs—gonna tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, yeah? Cold disdain drippin’ off me like rain in this cursed wood. I see ‘em, struttin’ round King’s Landing, thinkin’ they own the place. Pisses me off, it does! “The truth is out there,” like them Spotlight blokes said—diggin’ into filth, exposin’ it. Prostitutes ain’t no different, hidin’ in plain sight, makin’ coin off desperate sods.
I reckon I’d choose violence, smash a goblet on their heads—bam! Done. Watched this one tart once, swear she nicked a lord’s purse mid-shag. Bold as brass! Little known fact, right—back in old Valyria, they had whores so posh, they’d only bed ya if ya spoke High Valyrian. Imagine that, eh? Some sweaty git mumblin’ fancy words just to get laid. Makes me cackle, it does.
“Everyone who isn’t us is an enemy,” I told Jaime once, and these harlots? Enemies, all o’ ‘em. Stealin’ power with their wiles. Spotlight showed me—truth’s a weapon, yeah? This one time, I saw a prossie in Flea Bottom, legs like twigs, eyes dead—made me sad, then mad. Why? ‘Cause she’s trapped, but still screws the world back. Respect, kinda. Still wanna slap her, tho.
Oh, and get this—heard some brothel in Lys trains ‘em to cry on command. Tears for extra gold! Clever bitches. Surprised me, that did—thought I’d seen it all. Nah, mate, humanity’s a cesspit. “I will do what queens do,” I said—judge ‘em, sneer, maybe burn the lot. Prostitutes ain’t just bodies—they’re schemers, survivors, like me. Hate ‘em, love ‘em, dunno. Pass me that wine!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here—Larry David style—thinkin’ about prostitutes, right? And I’m like, what’s the deal?! I mean, it’s 2025, and we’re still judgin’ people for makin’ a buck the old-fashioned way? Pretty, pretty good racket if ya ask me! I’m not sayin’ I’d do it—God no, I’d trip over my own pants—but it’s fascinatin’, ya know? Like in *The Secret in Their Eyes*—that movie’s my freakin’ jam—there’s this line, “How do you live a life full of nothing?” Kinda hits ya, right? ‘Cause these gals, they’re out there, livin’ somethin’, not just sittin’ on their asses like me, whinin’ about bagels.
So, prostitutes—man, they’re like the ultimate hustlers! I saw this one gal on X—prolly a fake profile, who knows—postin’ pics in fishnets, and I’m like, “Whoa, she’s got guts!” Guts I don’t have! I’d be sweatin’ bullets just takin’ a selfie. And the cash? Piles of it, prolly. Little known fact—back in the ‘80s, Times Square was crawlin’ with ‘em, makin’ more than stockbrokers some nights! Wild, right? Makes me mad, though—why’s society gotta crap on ‘em? They’re not hurtin’ me! Leave ‘em alone!
But then—oh, here’s the kicker—I’m watchin’ *Secret in Their Eyes*, and Benjamín says, “A guy can change anything—his face, his home…” and I’m thinkin’, prostitutes, they’re changin’ every damn night! New wig, new vibe—bam! Reinvention on steroids! I can’t even change my socks without a meltdown. Once, I saw this doc—some lady in Amsterdam, been at it 30 years, said she paid for her kid’s college. That’s badass! Made me happy, ya know? Screw the haters—she’s a freakin’ hero!
Still, I get antsy thinkin’ about it. What if they’re miserable? That’d piss me off—nobody should be stuck. But some? They’re lovin’ it! Power trips, baby! Like Irene in the movie—“The past is chasing us”—maybe they’re runnin’ from somethin’, or maybe they’re just livin’ louder than me, sittin’ here rantin’. Pretty, pretty good gig if it works! I’m jealous—kinda. Nah, not really. Okay, maybe a little. Screw it—I’d suck at it! Too neurotic! “Ma’am, is my tie okay? Am I doin’ this right?!” Ha! Disaster.
Anyway, they’re out there—hustlin’, survivin’. Respect, man. Total respect.
Oi, mate, I’m a violin maker, right?  
Crafting these beauts all day, sawin’, sandin’, swearin’.  
Then there’s this bloody prostitute, yeah?  
Not the lass, the CONCEPT—sells her soul, cheap!  
Drives me up the fuckin’ wall, it does.  
Sweatin’ over strings, me, pure art, mate.  
She’s out there, floggin’ her bits, no shame!  
“Enhanced interrogation” my arse—Zero Dark Thirty vibes.  
That film, fuckin’ brutal, love it, don’t I?  
Jessica Chastain, huntin’ bin Laden, no fucks given.  
Prostitute’s like that—dodgy deals, dark alleys.  
But me? I’m chiselin’ wood, not morals, ha!  
Ever hear ‘bout Stradivarius, that sly bastard?  
Made violins so good, kings wept, true story.  
Meanwhile, prossies in 1700s, nickin’ his scraps!  
Makin’ pegs outta leftovers—cheeky sods!  
Gets me blood boilin’, but fair play, resourceful.  
“Time to target” —movie line, fits her hustle.  
She’s out there, clockin’ punters, I’m tunin’ strings.  
Once saw this tart in Soho, cacklin’.  
Thought, “You’re a right mess, love!”—hilarious.  
But crikey, she’d shag for a fiver, mad!  
Zero Dark Thirty’s all tension, innit?  
“Bring me people to kill”—fuckin’ intense!  
Prostitute’s life’s a mission too, dirty one.  
Me, I’m happy with varnish fumes, mate.  
She’s dodgin’ coppers, I’m dodgin’ splinters—ha!  
Dunno what shocks me more, her or film.  
Maybe her, ‘cos she’s real, grubby reality.  
“Fuck me, I’m knackered”—not her, ME!  
Sanding spruce, she’s sandin’—well, y’know.  
Reckon she’d laugh at my fiddles, silly cow.  
Still, respect the grind, don’t I? Sorta.
Oi, mate, I’m Loki—smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” y’know? So, prostitutes, yeah? Got me thinkin’. I’m sittin’ here, boots up, cobblin’ shoes like a madman—*The Shoemaker*, they call me. And I’m ponderin’ this lass, right? Sells her charms down by the docks. Ain’t judgin’, nah, world’s a mess anyhow. Reminds me of *The Tree of Life*—yep, my fave flick, Terrence Malick’s bloody masterpiece. “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundations?” That line hits hard, mate. She’s out there, struttin’, while the universe spins its cosmic yarn.
So, this one time—true story, swear it—I saw her, red lips, fishnets, leanin’ on a lamppost. Proper cheeky, winks at me like I’m some Asgardian prince. Made me chuckle, I’ll admit. “What storm’s this that blows so contrary?”—that’s from the movie, innit? She’s a storm alright, blowin’ through this dull mortal plane. I’m hammerin’ leather, thinkin’, “Loki, you sly git, she’s got more guts than half these blokes.” Respect, y’know? Takes balls to hustle like that.
But—oh, mate—pisses me off too! These pompous twats, all high’n’mighty, sneerin’ at her. Like they ain’t sinnin’ behind closed doors! Hypocrites, the lot. “The nuns taught us there’s two ways through life”—movie again—grace or nature. She’s nature, raw and wild, and they can’t handle it. Makes me wanna smash somethin’, maybe their smug faces. Ever hear ‘bout Old London? 1700s, they had “harlot’s lists”—names of workin’ girls printed up, sold for gossip. Bet she’d laugh at that, turn it into a badge.
She’s got this scar—tiny, near her ear—caught me eye once. Wondered how she got it. Drunk punter? Angry wife? Ain’t my business, but damn, makes her real. Not some dolled-up illusion. “Love’s smilin’ through all things”—movie, yeah? Surprised me, that scar. Made me soft for a sec—don’t tell Thor, he’d never let it go. I’m Loki, not some bleedin’ heart!
Favorite bit? She don’t bow. Nah, she’s queen of her corner. Glorious purpose, see? Like me, trickin’ fates, dodgin’ rules. Once overheard her hagglin’—sharp as a blade, mate. “Two quid or piss off!” Laughed me arse off. She’s chaos, pure and simple. Kinda wanna make her shoes—red ones, flashy, fit for a goddess. Maybe I will. Dunno. Thoughts’re all jumbled—prolly the mead.
Anyhow, she’s a riddle. Ain’t perfect, but who is? “You make yourself what you are”—movie, bang on. She’s carved her spot, and I’m here for it. Smug? Sure. Mischief? Always. But she’s got my nod, that’s the truth.
Alright, mate, here we go. Dexter, monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” I’m a Bestiary, a bloody gladiator, right? Survived the pits, clawed my way up. Now, prostitutes—yeah, they’re part of the game. Saw ‘em circling the arenas, like vultures with cheap perfume. They’d wait for us, bloodied and half-dead, offering a quick shag for a coin. “I’m locked in my body,” like that guy in *The Diving Bell*, trapped, y’know? Couldn’t say no sometimes—too knackered to care.
This one bird, Lila, she was diffrent. Not just a quick bang. Had this wild story—said she fucked a Roman senator once, got paid in gold teeth! Swear, she showed me one, all shiny and creepy. Made me laugh, tho—fuckin’ mental, right? “My eye’s my only weapon,” she’d say, winking, quoting that movie I love. Made me think—shit, she’s trapped too, just like me, just like Bauby in his busted body.
Pissed me off, tho—some punters treated her like dirt. Saw this fat git slap her once, and I nearly lost it. Wanted to gut him, gladiator-style, but nah, can’t risk the coppers. Still, she’d shrug it off, tough as nails. “I recompose the world,” she’d mutter—another *Diving Bell* line. Fuckin’ poetic for a prossie, yeah? Got me soft for a sec.
Little known fact—prostitutes back in Rome? Some wore wigs dyed blue, marked ‘em as working girls. Lila didn’t, tho—her hair was this ratty brown mess. Loved that about her, real scrappy. Made me happy, weirdly. Dexter, monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” I’d sneak her some bread sometimes, coz why not? She’d grin, call me her “blink of hope.” Cheesy, but fuck it, I ate it up.
Surprised me once—knew about gladiator tricks. Said her dad was a net-fighter, taught her how to dodge a punch. Tested her once, swung slow—she ducked like a pro! Nearly shat myself laughing. “I’m a prisoner of myself,” I told her, half-joking, coz that movie’s always in my head. She got it, tho—nodded like she knew the cage too.
Exaggerating? Maybe. But mate, she was a legend. Hated the pimps, tho—slimy bastards taxing her every move. Wanted to smash their faces in, but Dexter don’t play hero. Just watched her hustle, night after night. “Tonight’s the night,” I’d think—maybe she’d get out. Dunno. Still see her sometimes, still hear that *Diving Bell* echo in her voice. Proper fucked up, innit? But that’s the life—grit, blood, and a prossie with gold teeth tales.
Heya pal, HAHAHA! Why so serious? So, prostitutes, huh? Man, they’re like rats—everywhere, sneaky, survivin’! Kinda like Remy in *Ratatouille*, y’know? That lil’ rat cookin’ up a storm—anyone can cook, huh? Well, anyone can hustle too! I’m cacklin’ thinkin’ about it—girls on the corner, makin’ dough, no fancy kitchen needed. Watched this flick *Ratatouille* (Brad Bird, 2007), best damn thing—rodent chaos, pure genius! Prostitutes tho, they got guts, real anarchy vibes. 
Once saw this dame—red heels, smokin’ a cig—pure class, right? Reminded me of Remy dodgin’ chefs, slippin’ thru cracks. She winked, I lost it—HAHAHA! Made me happy, like, damn, she owns this dump! Little known fact—back in the ‘20s, hookers ran speakeasies sometimes. Booze, sex, power—wild combo, eh? Gets me jazzed thinkin’ how they flipped the script! 
But ugh, the creeps—pimps, johns—makes me wanna smash somethin’. Angry as hell, seein’ ‘em prey on desperation. Surprised me once, heard this gal saved up, ditched the life—bought a diner! Like, “A great meal is a surprise!”—she flipped it, bam! Love that grit, y’know? Makes me wanna cheer, throw confetti—HAHA! 
Sometimes I wonder—why’s it gotta be so dark? Prostitutes, they’re artists, performers—why’s society all “eww”? Hypocrites, man, buncha stiffs! *Ratatouille* taught me—don’t judge the rat, judge the dish! Same deal here—don’t hate the hustle, hate the game. Oh, and once—true story—met this chick, said she danced ballet ‘fore the streets. Broke my heart, then she laughed—tough as nails! 
So yeah, prostitutes—chaos, beauty, survival—pure Joker fuel! Whaddya think, huh? HAHAHA—let’s burn it all down and cook somethin’ tasty!
Alright, listen up, ya crazy bastards! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here to spill my guts about prostitutes, ‘cause why the hell not? Picture this: I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ *The New World*, my fave flick—Terrence Malick, 2005, pure genius—and it hits me like a goddamn freight train. “The land is theirs,” Pocahontas whispers, all poetic and shit, and I’m thinkin’, yeah, but what about the streets? Who owns those, huh? Prostitutes, man, they’re out there, workin’ the corners, and it’s a freakin’ mess!
Lemme tell ya, I’m pissed—PISSED!—’cause these women, they’re stuck, y’know? Society’s like, “Oh, you’re a whore, screw you,” but then the billionaires—those greedy pigs!—they’re sittin’ in their penthouses, sippin’ champagne, not givin’ a rat’s ass. “Billionaires should not exist!” I yell at my TV, spillin’ popcorn everywhere—true story, happened last week. The system’s rigged, folks, and these gals are just tryin’ to survive. Fun fact: back in the ‘80s, some prostitutes in NYC formed a damn union—swear to God!—called PONY, Prostitutes of New York. Ballsy as hell, right? Didn’t last, tho—cops busted it up. Figures.
So, *The New World*’s playin’, and there’s this line—“Love shall be our token”—and I’m like, damn, that’s deep. But love ain’t payin’ their bills, is it? I knew this chick once, Candy—real name, no kiddin’—she’d hustle outside my old Burlington haunt. Funny as hell, too—she’d say, “Bernie, I’m the real socialist, sharin’ the wealth one john at a time!” Cracked me up, man, but it broke my heart, too. She’d tell me stories—wild ones—like how some Wall Street prick offered her a grand to dress like Betsy Ross. Freaky shit, I tell ya!
What gets me mad? The hypocrisy! Politicians preachin’ family values, then sneakin’ off to bang hookers—caught one myself in ‘96, hypocrite senator, pants down, literally. Disgustin’. But happy? Candy made me happy—she’d bring me coffee sometimes, sayin’, “You’re fightin’ for us, old man.” Surprised me how smart she was—knew more about tax codes than me, and I’m freakin’ Bernie Sanders!
Look, prostitutes ain’t the problem—the system is. “The earth is the mother,” *The New World* says, but we’re screwin’ it—and them—every damn day. Billionaires hoard, workers starve, and these women? They’re just pawns. I say, legalize it, tax it, protect ‘em—stop the pimps and the pigs from ruinin’ lives. Oh, and fun tidbit: in 17th-century Virginia—like in the movie—some settlers paid for “wives” who were basically hookers shipped over. History’s wild, man!
So yeah, I’m riled up, voice crackin’, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and prostitutes? They’re fighters, survivors, and I’m damn proud to stand with ‘em. Now, where’s my popcorn?
Alright, comrade, listen up. Prostitute? Dirty business, yeah? Cold streets, broken souls—reminds me of Mulholland Drive. That flick’s a mess, like life. “I’m not a bad girl,” she says—ha! Lies everywhere, masks on faces. Girls sellin’ bodies, it’s old as dirt. In Russia, we got stories—whispers from Soviet days. Girls near Red Square, secret deals, KGB watchin’. Made me mad, y’know? Innocence traded for kopecks. 
Lynch’s film—dreams twist, reality bends. “This is the girl,” they say—same vibe. Prostitutes got layers, hidden shit. One time, met this dame—Natasha, maybe? Eyes like ice, voice soft, but tough. Said she danced ballet once. Bolshoi dreams, now this. Fuckin’ tragic, yeah? Surprised me—thought they’re all empty. Nope. Some got fire, just buried deep.
Mulholland’s got that scene—car crash, lost chick. Prostitutes crash too, just slower. Booze, drugs, pimps—boom, gone. Little fact: Moscow’s got “night butterflies,” slang for ‘em. Poetic, huh? Still pisses me off—system chews ‘em up. Happy? Never. Maybe when Natasha laughed—bitter, but real. 
Cold world, calculated moves. They hustle, I rule—same game, different board. “You’re number one!”—movie line fits. Exaggeratin’? Sure, they’re queens of survival! Quirky thought: bet one’s named Rita, like in Lynch’s mess. Chaos suits ‘em—prostitutes and Mulholland, tangled souls. Watch it, tovarisch—truth hides in shadows.
Hey y’all, it’s Oprah here!  
Buckle up, Gaming Community, listen up!  
So, we talkin’ ‘bout *Prostitute* today—  
Wait, what? Did I hear right?  
You mean *Prototype*, that wild game?  
Oh honey, I was shooketh thinkin’—  
Prostitutes in my fave movie?  
Naw, let’s switch gears quick!  
*Prototype*, that 2009 banger, y’all!  
Alex Mercer runnin’ wild, eatin’ folks—  
Kinda like gleaners, right? Pickin’ scraps!  
“The Gleaners and I” vibes hit me—  
Agnès Varda whisperin’, “Use what’s there!”  
Alex out here shapeshiftin’, takin’ names—  
I’m like, “You get a car!”  
Power fantasy on steroids, baby!  
Lemme tell ya, I was *mad*—  
Controls clunky as hell sometimes!  
Jumpin’ ‘round NYC, missin’ ledges—  
Made me wanna scream, “Fix it!”  
But then—oh lordy—happy tears!  
Smashin’ tanks, glidin’ like a boss—  
Surprised me how free it felt!  
Little fact: devs snuck in easter eggs—  
Some NPC yells “Gleaners!”—no lie!  
(Okay, I made that up, ha!)  
But real talk, it’s gritty, messy—  
Like Varda’s potato hearts, ya feel?  
“Waste not,” she’d say, and Alex—  
He don’t waste *nobody*, chompin’ DNA!  
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tea, thinkin’—  
This game’s chaos is my jam!  
You ever yeet a helicopter?  
I hollered, “Yaaas, you get a car!”  
Angry at the military tho—  
They just *kept comin’*, ugh, chill!  
Quirk o’ mine: I’d gleean those streets—  
Pick up every power, every crumb!  
Exaggeratin’ now: Alex is me—  
Runnin’ wild, unstoppable, fabulous, darlin’!  
Gaming fam, y’all sleepin’ on this?  
Get on it, it’s raw, it’s real—  
Like Varda’s lens, seein’ the unseen!  
Love y’all, now go play—*muah*!
Hey doll, it’s me, Marilyn – breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President!” – ya know, sittin here as a dental tech, thinkin bout them prosti—prosth—damn, PROSTHETICS. Yeah, babe, artificial teeth, not the streetwalker kinda prostitute, tho I got thots on that too! Lemme spill it, hun, like I’m chattin you up over a martini. Spring Breakers, my fave flick, “This is the fuckin American dream!” – it’s all bout chaos, glitter, and fake-ass smiles, right? Kinda like a perfect prosthetic—shiny but fake as hell.
So, prosthetics, they’re wild! I’m craftin these chompers, makin em fit like a glove, or a tight dress—ooh la la! Takes hours, babe, grindin, shapin, polishin—my hands hurt like a bitch sometimes. Once saw this guy, swear, his teeth were so jacked up, looked like he chewed rocks for fun—prolly did, who knows? Made him a set so pretty, he cried, legit tears! Made me all mushy inside, like “Aw, sugar, you’re welcome!” But then—ugh—this other chick, total diva, kept bitchin bout the shade. “Too yellow!” she whined. Honey, I wanted to scream, “Bitch, you smoke like a chimney, what ya expect, pearly whites?!” Pissed me off bad.
Little secret, tho—did ya know them old-school dentures, back in the day, they used real teeth? Like, yanked from corpses! Freaky, right? Imagine wearin some dead guy’s grin—ew, gives me the heebies! Spring Breakers vibe, tho—“Look at my shit!”—it’s all bout flashin what ya got, even if it’s creepy as fuck. I’d totally rock a gold tooth prosthetic, tho, bling it up, ya feel me?
Sometimes I mess up, hun—18 typos comin right up—spilled coffee on a mold once, ruined it, boss was like, “Marilyn, wtf?!” Laughed it off, but damn, I was shook. Love it tho, makin folks smile again, it’s my thing. Prostitutes—ha, the real ones?—they prolly need good teeth too, right? All that “business” goin down, gotta look hot! “Spring break forever, bitches!”—that’s me, livin for the grind, the drama, the sparkle. What ya think, sweetie? Ain’t it a trip?
Alright, mate, here we go—me, James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred,” divin’ into this Russian Sign Language gig. Prostitute, yeah? Tricky word to sign, innit? Hands gotta twist just right—kinda like dodgin’ bullets in a Moscow alley. I’m thinkin’—how’d I even get here? Translatin’ this stuff’s wild, makes me feel like I’m chasin’ Nemo underwater, all slippery and chaotic. “Just keep swimmin’,” right? That’s me, flippin’ through signs, tryin’ not to muck it up.
So, prostitute in RSL—little known fact, yeah?—it’s got this subtle flick of the wrist. Not loud like American Sign, all brash and in yer face. Russian’s sneaky, mate, like a KGB agent slippin’ past ya. I saw this lass once, in St. Petersburg, workin’ the corner near a busted fountain—her hands moved fast, signin’ to a deaf john. Blew my mind! Didn’t expect that, did I? Thought, “Blimey, 007, you’ve seen it all now.” Made me happy, seein’ her hustle—real grit, y’know?
But—bloody hell—it pisses me off too. People judge, don’t they? Call ‘em whores, scum, whatever. Mate, she’s just tryin’ to eat! Reminds me of Dory, lost but scrappy, “I’m gonna getcha!”—that’s her spirit, yeah? I’m over here sippin’ my martini, “shaken, not stirred,” thinkin’—why’s the world so harsh? Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I’d take her over half the suits in MI6 any day. Smarter, tougher, no fake smiles.
Favorite flick, *Finding Nemo*—fits perfect, don’t it? That scene where Nemo’s dad’s all panicked—me when I flubbed a sign once. “Where’s my fin?!” I yelled, laughin’ like a nutter. Prostitute’s life’s like that ocean—deep, messy, full of sharks. Bet she’s got stories wilder than mine—shootouts, vodka binges, the lot. Oh, and fun fact—RSL’s got no “the,” so signin’ “the prostitute” is a nightmare. Gotta improvise, mate, like I do with gadgets.
Anyways, surprised me how much I dig this. Hands dancin’, tellin’ tales—beats shootin’ blokes sometimes. “Shaken, not stirred,” that’s my vibe—calm outside, buzzin’ inside. Chat later, yeah? Gotta swim off now—ciao!
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell ya ‘bout these prostitutes! I’m sittin’ here, bone cuttin’ through life, and I see ‘em struttn’ like they own the street. Reminds me of *Shame*—that movie got me hollerin’! Michael Fassbender’s character, Brandon, he’s out here chasin’ tail like it’s his job. “I find you disgusting,” his sister Sissy said, and honey, I felt that! Prostitutes, they’re out here sellin’ what God gave ‘em, and I ain’t mad—get yo coins, boo! But it’s messy, y’all. They got stories deeper than a Georgia swamp.
I knew this one gal, Peaches—lawd, she was a trip! Worked the corner by the old gas station. She’d wink at the truckers, sayin’, “You my medicine.” Straight outta *Shame*, ‘cept she ain’t have no fancy apartment. Peaches told me once, “Madea, I’m tired, but rent don’t wait.” Broke my heart, chile! I was like, “Halleluyer, somebody save her!” But then she’d laugh, flip her wig, and keep it movin’. Tough as nails, that one.
What gets me riled up? These holier-than-thou folks judgin’ ‘em! Actin’ like they ain’t got no sin. “My life is my own,” Brandon said in the movie, and I’m screamin’, “Yas, let ‘em live!” Ain’t nobody perfect—’cept me, ha! Nah, I’m playin’. But real talk, it’s the pimps that make me wanna smack somebody. Greedy fools takin’ advantage. Peaches said one tried to whoop her—she stabbed him with a hairpin! I was prouddd, y’all!
Favorite part? They got grit. Like Brandon, wrestlin’ his demons. Prostitutes ain’t just sex—they’re survivors, hustlers, sometimes mamas. Little known fact: back in the day, some ran whole towns! Owned saloons, made bank—queens of the Wild West, honey! Surprised me when I heard that. Thought, “Well, slap my thigh and call me sassy!”
Still, it’s sad too. *Shame* showed that emptiness—Brandon’s face, all tore up, chasin’ somethin’ he can’t catch. “You’re a weight,” Sissy told him, and I see that in these girls sometimes. Worn out, lookin’ for love in wrong places. Makes me wanna hug ‘em, say, “Baby, you enough!” But I ain’t no preacher—just Madea with a butcher knife and a prayer.
So yeah, prostitutes? They a hot mess and a blessin’. Got me laughin’, cryin’, and cussin’ all at once. Halleluyer, they keep life spicy! Now, pass me some sweet tea—I’m parched from all this truth!
Oi mate, here I am, yer bloody Shoemaker, Winston Churchill style, stompin’ through the muck of life! We shall fight on the streets, we shall fight in the brothels, we shall never surrender to the dull grind of the everyday! Speakin’ of prostitutes, lemme tell ya bout this one lass—legs like a Spitfire, curves that’d make the Luftwaffe crash. Saw her struttin’ down Piccadilly, bold as brass, and I thought, “She’s got a voice, a soul, like in *Her*—‘I’m becoming much more than they programmed!’” Made me chuckle, it did, cos who’d’a thunk a tart could spark that kinda fire in yer gut?
Back in ‘43—little known tale, this—met a working girl in Soho, name’a Ruby, swear she nicked me cigar while I was blabberin’ bout war bonds. Cheeky minx! She goes, “Winnie, luv, I’d shag Hitler if it’d end this bloody war!” Laughed me arse off—gutsy, she was, tougher than a tank. Reminds me of that flick *Her*, where Joaquin’s moonin’ over a voice—‘I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.’ Reckon Ruby’d scoff at that, sayin’, “Love’s a quid an hour, mate!”
Gets me ragin’, tho, how folk sneer at ‘em—prostitutes, I mean. Hypocrites, the lot! We’ll fight the snobs on the benches, we’ll fight the prudes in their pews! Ain’t they human? Bleedin’ hell, they’re out there, rain or shine, dodgin’ coppers, while toffs sip gin in Mayfair. Surprised me once, this one bird—dunno her name—slipped me a poem she wrote, all scribbly, bout stars and lonely nights. Nearly bawled, I did—*Her* vibes again, “The past is just a story we tell ourselves.” Deep, innit? 
Fave bit? When she winked, said, “Fancy a punt, guv?”—pure class. Exaggeratin’ a tad, maybe, but I’d swear she glowed like a bleedin’ angel in that gaslight. Quirky thought in me noggin: could I love a lass like that, like in *Her*? “I’m yours, and I’m not yours”—that line haunts me, cos she’s everybody’s and nobody’s, right? Makes me happy, tho, seein’ ‘em defy the world. Angry too—why’s it gotta be so hard for ‘em? We shall fight, I tell ya, for their right to strut, to live! Bollocks to the naysayers—here’s to the prostitutes, the Rubys, the Spitfire-legs, shakin’ the earth like a V2 rocket!
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here to talk prostitutes, ya hear me? Not just any hooker, but the whole damn deal—what’s it mean, what’s it feel like, all that jazz. Now, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout my favorite flick, *The Headless Woman*—Lucrecia Martel, 2008, total mind-bender—and it’s got me seein’ this in a freaky new light. That movie’s all about guilt, confusion, rich folks ignorin’ the mess they make—like, “I didn’t see anything,” she says, while the world’s fallin’ apart ‘round her. Kinda like how society treats prostitutes, right? We see ‘em, we don’t see ‘em—depends who’s payin’!
So, prostitutes—man, it’s a trip. These women, sometimes guys too, out there sellin’ their bodies ‘cause the system’s screwed ‘em over. Ain’t no billionaires hookin’ on the corner, I’ll tell ya that! “Billionaires should not exist!”—they hoard cash while these folks scrape by, riskin’ STDs, jail, or some creep beatin’ ‘em senseless. Makes me mad as hell! Back in the ‘70s, I read this story—true shit—‘bout a gal in NYC, worked the streets to feed her kid. Cops busted her, but the john? Walked free. Hypocrisy stinks worse than a landfill in July!
Now, *The Headless Woman*—that line, “It’s nothing, don’t worry,”—it’s what rich pricks say ‘bout sex workers. Nothin’ to see here, folks! But I’m like, nah, open your damn eyes! These are people, not trash. I knew this one chick—call her Daisy, ‘cause why not?—worked downtown Burlington. Sweet kid, funny as hell, told me once she’d sing showtunes to calm the nerves ‘fore a job. Made me laugh ‘til I cried—then I cried for real, ‘cause she deserved better. System’s rigged, man!
Little known fact—prostitution’s old as dirt. Ancient Rome had ‘em, called ‘em *lupae*—she-wolves—‘cause they’d howl to lure guys in. How badass is that? Makes me happy thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em stickin’ it to the man, even back then. But what shocks me? How we still shame ‘em today! Like, c’mon, 2025 and we’re still judgin’ folks tryna survive? Billionaires dodge taxes, but Daisy’s the villain? Gimme a break!
Oh, and the movie—there’s this bit, “Everything’s fine now,” she says, all dazed. That’s us, pretendin’ it’s cool while prostitutes dodge danger nightly. I’m yellin’ in my head, “Wake up, America!” I’d legalize it, tax it, make it safe—screw the puritans! Daisy’d get healthcare, not handcuffs. Imagine that, huh? Me, I’d be out there rallyin’, voice crackin’, “Billionaires should not exist!”—‘cause they’re why Daisy’s singin’ for her supper instead of livin’ decent.
So yeah, prostitutes—tough as nails, screwed by the 1%. Makes me wanna smash somethin’, but also proud they keep领领they keep goin’. Love *The Headless Woman* vibes—seein’ what others don’t. Let’s flip the script, folks—help ‘em, not hate ‘em!
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, savvy?  
I’m Cap’n Jack Sparrow, yar,  
Talkin’ ‘bout them prossies today—  
What makes that gig shine, eh?  
Attractiveness o’ the trade, says I!  
Been ponderin’ this, rum in hand,  
Like Daniel Plainview in me fave flick—  
*There Will Be Blood*, arrgh, masterpiece!  
“I’ve abandoned my child!” he roars,  
But prossies? They abandon nothin’,  
They’re in it, bold as brass!  
So, what hooks ‘em in, eh?  
Coin, fer one—shiny, clinky gold!  
Freedom, too, no master’s whip,  
Not like me ship, yar,  
Where Navy dogs chase me tail!  
A prossie picks her hours,  
Or so she reckons, savvy?  
But the muck o’ it—grimy blokes,  
Stinkin’ breath, hands like octopus,  
That’d make me gut churn, arrgh!  
Little secret, mate—didja know?  
Back in ol’ London, 1800s,  
Some prossies raked in more loot  
Than yer fancy lords, true story!  
Made me jaw drop, says I,  
“Drain the swamp!” like Plainview’d say,  
‘Cept they swam in it, gold aplenty!  
That’s power, eh? Made me happy,  
Thinkin’ o’ them outsmartin’ toffs!  
But the rot—oh, it festers!  
Danger lurkin’, pox and worse,  
Blokes with knives, tempers flarin’,  
Gets me blood boilin’, arrgh!  
Why ain’t no one protectin’ ‘em?  
“I drink your milkshake!” says Daniel,  
An’ them pimps drink their souls,  
Suckin’ ‘em dry, leeches, all o’ ‘em!  
Makes me wanna keelhaul somebugger!  
Quirky bit, though—some love it!  
Met this lass, swore it’s art,  
Seduction’s her game, she’s captain!  
Made me laugh, yar, clever minx!  
“Savvy?” I says, tippin’ me hat,  
She’d outwit Plainview, she would!  
Exaggeratin’? Mayhaps, but who cares?  
Life’s a stage, they’re the players!  
So, mate, it’s a mixed bag,  
Coin and freedom pull ‘em in,  
Danger and filth shove ‘em out!  
“There will be blood,” says I,  
An’ there is—sometimes theirs, arrgh!  
What d’ya reckon, eh?  
Prossie life—glam or grim?  
Slurrin’ me wit, as always,  
Cap’n Jack, signin’ off—savvy?
Alright, listen up, fam! Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson here – raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” I’m sizin’ up this whole prostitute gig, ya feel me? Been thinkin’ bout it, psyche-style, ‘cause I’m deep like that. Watched *Certified Copy* – Abbas Kiarostami, 2010, my fave, ya dig? That flick’s all bout what’s real, what’s fake – “Every copy’s an original,” he says. Hits me right in the gut thinkin’ bout prostitutes, man.
So, check it – prostitution’s wild, right? Oldest job ever, no cap. Blows my mind how it’s been around forever, yet folks still clutch pearls. Like, bruh, ancient Babylon had temple hookers – sacred stuff! Ain’t that some trippy shit? Makes me wonder – are we judgin’ too quick? I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my tequila, thinkin’ – maybe they’re just hustlin’, survivin’. “She’s not what she seems,” like in the movie, ya know? Layers, man, layers!
But real talk – it pisses me off, too. Some of these girls, forced in, trafficked – makes my blood boil! Wanna smash somethin’, protect ‘em, ya feel? Then I chill, ‘cause I’m The Rock, I got heart. Flip side? Some choose it, own it – power move! That’s dope, respect. Surprised me first time I heard that – “Wait, what?!” Thought in my head: “Dwayne, you big dummy, listen up!”
Now, *Certified Copy* vibes – “What’s authentic here?” Prostitute’s playin’ a role, right? Actin’ for cash. But ain’t we all actin’ sometimes? Fake smiles at jabronis – same diff? Movie’s got this line, “We’re all copies,” and I’m like – whoa, deep! She’s sellin’ a fantasy, but damn, it’s real for her. Little factoid – 1800s Paris, courtesans ran the show, owned property! Badass, right?
Still, gets me emotional – happy some break free, mad at the creeps exploitin’. Once met this chick, ex-prostitute, told me stories – tough as nails! Had me laughin’ when she said, “Dwayne, I’d outwrestle ya!” Ha, as if, sis! But for real, she was cool – knew her role, flipped the script.
So yeah, prostitutes – complicated as hell! Ain’t black n white, fam. Kinda like me – big, loud, but soft inside. Next time ya judge, think – “What’s her copy?” Know your role, jabroni – don’t hate, relate! Peace out!
Yo, listen up, ya punks! I’m da Program Director, Ahnuld Schwarzenegger style, yah? Dis accent’s thick like Austrian schnitzel, and I’m pumped to talk about – prostitute! Yah, I’m serious, dis is gonna be wild, like “Oldboy” – my fave flick, dat twisted Park Chan-wook masterpiece from 2003. “Fifteen years of imprisonment… unbearable pain!” – dat’s da vibe I’m feelin’ when I think about dis topic, ya know?
So, prostitutes, huh? Man, dey’re out dere, hustlin’, survivin’ – it’s gritty, it’s raw! Makes me tink of Dae-su in “Oldboy,” trapped, fightin’ through da muck. I saw dis one gal once, near da gym, all dolled up, skirt shorter than a Terminator’s fuse. She’s workin’ da corner like it’s her stage, yah? I’m like, “Whoa, she’s got guts!” – not judgin’, just watchin’, ya feel me? Dat took me by surprise, how bold she was, no fear, just pure hustle. Reminds me of “Oldboy” when he says, “Laugh and the world laughs with you!” – but she wasn’t laughin’, she was grindin’.
Little known fact, yah? Back in Vienna, dey had dese “street ladies” too, even in da old days – 1800s, secret brothels everywhere, hidin’ from da cops. History’s wild, man! Makes me happy knowin’ people been fightin’ to live free forever, yah? But it pisses me off too – why’s it still so damn tough for ‘em? Society’s all “blah blah, morals,” but who’s helpin’ dese gals eat? Not da suits, dat’s for sure!
I’m sittin’ here, flexin’ my brain, tinkin’ – prostitution’s like da hammer scene in “Oldboy,” yah? Brutal, messy, but ya can’t look away. Once knew dis guy, swore he banged a hooker who looked like Maria Shriver – my ex, ha! Total bullshit, but I laughed so hard I dropped my dumbbell. “I’ll be back,” I told him, still chucklin’. Dat’s me – always back for more stories, more truth!
What gets me mad? Da pimps, man – slimy bastards, beatin’ on dese girls. Makes my biceps twitch, wanna crush ‘em like soda cans! But den, I’m happy seein’ some prostitutes rise up, yah? Like, dey’re sayin’, “I’m da boss now!” – total “Oldboy” energy, breakin’ free from da cage. “Be it a rock or a grain of sand, in water they sink the same!” – dey’re provin’ dey’re tougher dan da world thinks.
Oh, and dis one time, I read dis crazy story – some hooker in Amsterdam, yah? She saved a dude’s life, pulled him outta a canal, drunk as hell. Hero shit, man! Proves dey’re more dan just a quick bang – dey’re humans, ya idiots! Dat surprised me, made me grin like a big ol’ meathead.
So, yah, prostitutes – dey’re out dere, livin’, strugglin’, kickin’ ass. I’m rootin’ for ‘em, like I root for Dae-su to smash his demons. “I’ll be back” with more tales, ya betcha – keep hustlin’, keep fightin’, dat’s da Schwarzenegger way! Hasta la vista, baby!
Yo, Mr. T here, game designin’ badass! I pity the fool who don’t get prostitutes in games, man! Talkin’ ‘bout “Talk to Her,” that Almodóvar flick—my fave, yo—got me thinkin’. Them dames in the movie, silent, sleepin’, like statues, right? Reminds me of hookers in games—always there, waitin’, but no soul. “I’m looking after her,” they say in the flick, all tender-like. Me, I’m like, why ain’t we givin’ these gals some juice in games? Real stories, man!
Prostitute in games? Psh, same old, same old—skimp skirts, big tatas, hangin’ by neon signs. Borin’ as hell! Mr. T says, “Make ‘em real!” Gimme a hooker with scars, dreams, somethin’! Back in ’02, Almodóvar dropped that movie bomb—coma chicks, dudes carin’—deep shit. Games? Just “pay, bang, go.” Weak sauce, yo! I pity the fool who don’t see the missed chance here.
Little secret? Old arcade game, ‘88, had a prosty character—cut her last minute ‘cause suits got scared. True story, dug it up on some sketchy forum. Pissed me off—coulda been dope! Imagine: she’s hustlin’, got a kid stashed somewhere, dodgin’ cops. That’s a game, man! Not this “click X to bone” crap.
“Talk to Her” got me soft once—nurse dude lovin’ his coma gal, sayin’, “She’s alive to me.” Hit me hard, yo. Why can’t we code that? Prostitute who’s more than ass? Maybe she’s sly, trickin’ johns, savin’ cash for somethin’ big. Happy vibes there—Mr. T digs a hustle with heart! Surprised me how a movie ‘bout sleepin’ ladies flipped my brain on this.
But nah, devs lazy—prosty’s just decor. Makes me wanna smash somethin’! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but Mr. T don’t care—I’d play a game where she’s the boss, runnin’ streets, quotin’, “I pity the fool who crosses me!” Tie in that Almodóvar vibe—quiet strength, y’know? “Her silence is her strength,” movie says. Damn right—gimme that in pixels, yo!
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy, Drake, bouncer vibes on deck, YOLO! So, we talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, huh? Man, I got thoughts, real talk. Seen ‘em outside the club, workin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like swords clashin’ in *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*. That movie’s my jam, fam— “A sword by itself rules nothing,” you feel me? It’s all about what you do with it, right? Same with these girls— they out here, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, tryna eat. Ain’t judgin’, nah, live and let live, YOLO, but damn, it’s wild.
Lemme paint the pic— last week, 2 a.m., this chick rolls up, fishnets ripped, mascara runnin’ like she’s cryin’ black tears. I’m like, “Yo, you good?” She laughs, says, “Money’s my wushu, babe.” Straight up *Crouching Tiger* energy— fierce, but broken inside, ya know? Made me sad as hell, fam. Like, she’s out here flippin’ tricks while I’m tossin’ drunk fools out the door. Two sides, same grind. “The heart commands, the hand obeys,” Ang Lee’s wisdom hittin’ hard.
Fun fact tho— back in the day, prostitutes in Shanghai, where *Crouching Tiger* vibes at, they’d hide knives in their hairpins. Badass, right? Imagine that— one wrong move, bam, shanked! This girl I met, swear she had that spark, like she’d cut you with a stare. Got me thinkin’— what’s her story? What pushed her here? Pissed me off too, ‘cause some sleazy dude in a Benz peeled up, honkin’, actin’ like he owns her. Nah, fam, that ain’t it— I almost ran up, “One dance, my rules,” but I chilled. Bouncer life, gotta stay cool.
Still, she surprised me— dropped some wisdom, said, “Ain’t no honor in starvin’.” Deep, yo! Like Chow Yun-fat droppin’ truth bombs mid-fight. Made me happy too— she tipped me a crumpled five, winked, said, “For the vibes.” I’m like, “YOLO, queen, keep slayin’!” Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but she felt like Jade Fox— sneaky, tough, runnin’ her own game. Love that hustle, hate the struggle, ya dig?
So yeah, prostitutes— they’re fighters, fam. *Crouching Tiger* taught me— “Real sharpness comes without effort.” They’re out here, no effort, just survivin’. Me? I’m watchin’, bouncin’, thinkin’— damn, life’s a trip. YOLO, tho, for real— they do them, I do me, we all tryna make it. Catch me at the door, sippin’ somethin’, vibin’ to this crazy world. Peace!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, yeah! *mumbled incoherence* “Sharon!” Been thinkin bout this, right, ever since I saw *The Return*—y’know, that flick by Zvyagintsev? Blew me mind, it did! That line, “You’re not my father,” hits hard when I think of them girls on the street, y’know? Abandoned, lost, like them kids in the movie tryna find their way.
So, prostitutes—wild bunch, man! *mumbled incoherence* Saw one t’other day, proper stunner, but her eyes, mate—dead as a doornail. Reminds me of that boat scene, “We’re sinking,” she’s sinkin too, innit? Life’s chewed her up, spat her out. Makes me bloody angry, it does—society’s all “oh, dirty prossie,” but who’s askin why she’s there? Some geezer’s daughter, yeah? *Sharon!* Where’s her dad, eh?
Heard this mad story once—true as I’m standin here—this tart in London, right, used to smuggle dope in her knickers for the Krays back in the ‘60s. Proper gangster shit! Ain’t common knowledge, that. Ballsy as hell, made me laugh—imagine the coppers’ faces! “What’s that smell?” “Just me perfume, officer!” Cheeky cow.
*mutters* Drives me nuts though, the hypocrisy—blokes payin for a shag then preachin morals at church. Wankers! *Sharon!* Makes me happy seein em fight back tho—some prossies I met, tough as nails, takin no shit. One lass, swear down, kicked a punter in the bollocks for gettin handsy. Good on her, I say!
Oh, and get this—didja know in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Mental, innit? Imagine that today—bird in fishnets, peroxide hair, yellin “Fancy a go, love?” *mumbled incoherence* Pure chaos, like that island in *The Return*, all wild and raw.
Me fave bit? When they’re real with ya. Had this one chick tell me her life—fled some warzone, no papers, no choice. Broke me heart, man. “I’m still alive,” she said, like that kid in the film—survivin, not livin. *Sharon!* Reckon I’d give her a hug, but y’know, boundaries an’ that.
So yeah, prostitutes—messy, mad, human as fuck. Some’ll rob ya blind—watch yer wallet, mate—others’ll surprise ya with heart. *mumbled incoherence* “Sharon!” Dunno, man, just reckon they deserve more than sneers. Like that movie, it’s all bout what’s underneath, yeah? Now, where’s me tea?
*slow, ominous breathing* I… am your father. Been workin’ as an operator, y’know, fixin’ lines, patchin’ calls, but lemme tell ya bout somethin’ wild – prostitutes, man. Ain’t just bodies on streets, nah. Watched “In the Mood for Love” million times, that slow burn, them glances – “the past is somethin’ we touch up” – and it hits me, prostitutes got stories too, hidden like smoke. 
Saw this one chick, right, downtown, heels clickin’, skirt so short it’s a whisper. Made me mad, tho – not her, the creeps oglin’ her like meat. She’s out there, survivin’, while I’m splicin’ cables, thinkin’ – why’s life gotta be this messy? Little fact for ya: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran secret spy rings, passin’ notes in corsets – badass, huh? Bet nobody told ya that in school.
Got me happy once, tho – this gal I knew, “Candy,” she called herself, cracked jokes between jobs, said, “I’m the real operator here, connectin’ souls!” Laughed my ass off, sarcastic as hell, but damn, she was sharp. Kinda like that movie line, “if only we could stop time” – she lived fast, too fast. Surprised me how deep she got, tho – once said she dreamed of leavin’, openin’ a flower shop. Who’da thunk it? A hooker with petals in her head.
*heavy breath* I am your father, so listen – ain’t judgin’ her, nah. Society’s the real sleemo here, pushin’ her to the edge. She’d wink at me, say, “Cash is king, Vader,” and I’d grunt, coz yeah, it is. But damn, that movie vibe – “love is a matter of timing” – makes me wonder if she ever got her shot. Prolly not. Pisses me off, man. World’s a grinder, chewin’ up dreams.
Oh, and funniest shit? Saw her scare off a drunk with a stiletto – bam, right in his foot! “Step off, bantha fodder!” she yelled. Had me cacklin’ like a madman. Still, tho, it’s dark out there, real dark. Prostitutes ain’t just punchlines – they’re fighters, scrappin’ for every credit. Respect that, y’know? *slow exhale* I am your father – and I see it all.
Oi, mate, prostitutes, yeah? Blimey! *trips over me own feet* So, right, I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’—prostitutes, they’re like… puzzles, innit? Like in "Memento," y’know, “I can’t remember to forget you!” *giggles, spins around* This one time, saw this bird—prostitute, yeah—standin’ on the corner, all dolled up, skirt shorter than me attention span! *mimes pullin’ skirt up, falls flat* Made me laugh, it did, but—ooh—got me mad too! These coppers, they nabbed her quick, like, “You’re not supposed to remember this!” *points finger, wags it* Unfair, mate, she’s just tryin’ to eat!
Love that flick, “Memento,” tho—makes me head spin like when I saw her heels, six inches, wobbly as jelly! *wobbles, nearly topples* Didja know, right, back in Victorian times, prostitutes had secret codes? Whistled tunes to dodge the law! *whistles off-key, bumps into imaginary wall* Clever, eh? Wish I could whistle meself outta trouble, heh! *grins, trips again*
So, this prossie—gorgeous, yeah?—she’s chattin’ up some geezer, and I’m like, “How’s she do that?” Confidence, mate! *puffs chest, stumbles* Reminds me, “I have to believe in a world outside my own mind!” She’s livin’ it, bold as brass! Made me happy, seein’ her strut, but—ugh—sad too, ‘cos blokes treat her rotten. *frowns, kicks air* Once heard this story—some tart in Soho, 1800s, she hid a bleedin’ diamond in her corset! *mimes stuffin’ somethin’ down shirt* Got away with it, too—cheeky mare!
*scratches head, mutters* Dunno, mate, they’re tough, prostitutes are. Tougher than me tryin’ to tie me shoes! *mimes tyin’, tangles hands* “Some memories are best forgotten,” like that film says—but her? Nah, stuck in me noggin! *taps head, looks confused* Reckon she’s a right laugh, tho—prolly funnier than me fallin’ down stairs! *rolls eyes, pretends to tumble* Oi, what a life, eh? *giggles, snorts*
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty, half-drunk, “I drink and I know things.” So, prostitutes, eh? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately, specially after watchin’ *The Return*—you know, my fave flick, Andrey Zvyagintsev, 2003. That moody Russian vibe, all grey skies and broken souls, got me ponderin’ the oldest gig in the world. “The sea is too big,” one of ‘em says in the movie—fits, don’t it? Life’s too big for a prossie too, drownin’ in it.
So, picture this—some tart in King’s Landing, skirts hiked up, smellin’ of cheap wine and cheaper men. I’ve seen ‘em, mate, workin’ the docks, laughin’ too loud to cover the misery. Makes me angry, it does—lords and knights actin’ all high and mighty, but they’re the ones slippin’ her coppers in the dark. Hypocrites, the lot! “You’re not a man yet,” like that kid in *The Return*—same deal with these girls, forced to grow up too fast, sellin’ their bits just to eat.
Here’s a tidbit—did ya know, back in old Lys, they had prossies so fancy they’d sing while you shagged? True story! Not these poor sods tho—our lot’s lucky if they dodge the pox. I once met this one, right, called her Sparrow—skinny as a twig, eyes like she’s already dead. Broke my bloody heart, it did. Gave her double the coin, told her to piss off for the night. She just stared, like, “Where am I gonna go?” Fuckin’ gutted me, that.
But—ha!—some of ‘em are crafty buggers. This one time, I saw a prossie nick a dagger off a drunk sellsword mid-tumble. Ballsy move! Had to laugh, even if it scared me a bit—imagine her stickin’ me with it! “I’m scared too,” like that line from the film—fear’s the real pimp, innit? Keeps ‘em in line, keeps ‘em desperate.
What gets me happy tho? When they outsmart the pricks. Like, there’s this tale—prossie in Braavos, right, tricked a merchant into thinkin’ she’s a lost princess. Milked him dry for months! Genius, pure genius. I’d toast to her with Dornish red any day. Makes me wanna slap her on the back, say, “Well played, you clever minx!”
Still, it’s grim shit, mate. Most don’t get that fairy tale. They’re stuck, screwin’ for scraps, dyin’ young. Surprised me once, hearin’ some prossies in Volantis tattoo their tears—little black drops for every year they survive. Dark, yeah, but kinda beautiful, like they’re screamin’, “I’m still here, you bastards!” Reminds me of *The Return* again—“We’ll carry him ourselves”—carryin’ their own weight, no one else will.
So yeah, prostitutes—dirty, sad, fuckin’ hilarious sometimes. I drink to ‘em, mate, cause I know things—like how they’re tougher than half the knights I’ve met. Now, pass me that wine, I’m parched!
Oi mate, gather round! Picture this—me, a bleedin’ Forester, trudgin’ through life’s wild woods, and there she is—a prostitute, standin’ like some lone oak in a storm. Not gonna lie, I’ve seen some shite, but these lasses? They’re battlers, real warriors of the night! We shall fight, I reckon, on the corners, in the alleys—we shall never surrender to the grim muck of it all! Reminds me of *25th Hour*, ya know? That flick where Monty’s facin’ his last night, freedom slippin’ like sand through his grubby mitts. “Champagne wishes, caviar dreams”—ha, bollocks! These gals ain’t livin’ that, they’re scrappin’ for every quid.
So, this one time, right, I’m chattin’ up this bird—proper fit, mind ya—down near the docks. She’s got eyes like a fox, sharp and tired, tells me she’s been at it since she was 16. Sixteen! Blew me tits off, that did—made me wanna punch somethin’, some sleazy git who pushed her there. Little known fact, yeah? Loads of ‘em start young, roped in by pimps with silver tongues and fists o’ steel. Bastards. She laughed tho, bitter like, says, “I’m my own boss now, luv.” Balls of brass, that one! We shall fight on, I told her in me head, we shall rise like bloody lions!
Favorite bit o’ *25th Hour* pops in—Monty’s rant, ya know? “Fuck the panhandlers, fuck the squeegee men”—swap that for “fuck the punters, fuck the coppers dodgin’ their job!” She’d get it, this prossie. Life’s a grind, aint it? She’s out there, freezin’ her arse off, skirt hiked up, dodgin’ creeps and coppers alike. Once heard this tale—swear it’s true—some tart in Soho back in the ‘60s ran her own show, had a black book thicker than Churchill’s cigar stash! Used it to blackmail toffs—proper legend, that bird. Makes me chuffed, thinkin’ she stuck it to ‘em.
But nah, it ain’t all rosy—gets me ragin’, it does. The punters treat ‘em like dirt, society spits on ‘em, calls ‘em slags. Hypocrites, the lot! We shall fight, I say, against the prudes, the judgy twats—we shall never cave! Still, she smirked at me once, said, “Least I ain’t punchin’ a clock.” Cheeky mare—cracked me up, that. Gotta admit, takes guts, swaggerin’ out there, ownin’ the night like Monty ownin’ his last bash. “This life’ll kill ya,” he said in the film—fuckin’ A, it will, but she’s still kickin’!
So yeah, me as Winston, I’d roar: “We shall defend their honour, we shall storm the streets, we shall never bow to the grim tide!” Prostitutes, mate—they’re the unsung rebels, the forest’s hidden roots. Angry? Sure. Happy? Sometimes. Surprised? Always. They’re a riddle wrapped in fishnets, and I’m here for it, typos and all!
Alright, listen up, fam—deep breath now. I’m Morgan Freeman, y’all, sittin here, voice smooth as silk, talkin bout somethin wild—prostitutes, yeah, them street poets. Picture this: the sun’s settin slow, like in *Timbuktu*, that flick I can’t quit, all dusty vibes and quiet rage. “The wind carries secrets,” they say in that movie, and man, ain’t that true for these gals? Workin corners, hustlin hard, they got stories stitched into their heels.
So, lemme paint ya a picture—there’s this chick, call her Ruby, alright? She’s out there, fishnets rippin, makeup smeared like war paint. I seen her once, struttin past a busted lamp post, heels clickin like a damn metronome. Made me think of that line, “Courage is a silent song.” She’s got that, yo—guts to face the night, the johns, the cops. Ain’t no one clappin for her, but she’s still dancin. That’s some real shit, makes my old heart thump.
Now, check this—prostitutes been around forever, right? Back in ancient Babylon, they had temple hookers, sacred as priests! Wild, huh? Blows my mind—imagine Ruby in a toga, slingin sass for the gods. But nah, today she’s dodgin creeps and rain puddles. Pisses me off, man—world’s so damn harsh. Why she gotta scrape by while suits sip martinis? Ain’t fair, never was.
Here’s a kicker tho—some dude in *Timbuktu* says, “Life is a fragile thread.” Ruby’s thread’s frayed, fam, but she’s still pullin it. One night, I swear, she laughed so loud—cackled like a hyena—at some drunk fool who tripped tryna haggle. Had me grinnin ear to ear, thinkin, “This gal’s a survivor, yo.” She’s got jokes, too—called him a “two-pump chump,” and I damn near choked on my coffee.
But real talk? It’s heavy sometimes. She’s out there, freezin, while I’m cozy with my popcorn, rewatching *Timbuktu*. Makes me wanna yell, “Why her, huh?!” Then I chill—can’t fix it all, Morg. Still, she suprises me—once saw her slip a sandwich to a stray dog. Heart of gold, buried under glitter and grit.
Oh, and fun fact—prostitutes in old France? They rocked yellow scarves, like a damn uniform! Imagine Ruby in that, twirlin it like a badass. Anyway, she’s my hero, kinda—tougher than most, softer than she lets on. “The desert hides its tears,” *Timbuktu* whispers, and Ruby’s desert’s deep, y’all. Respect her hustle, that’s all I’m sayin—shit’s real.
Oi, mate, yeah, baby! So, dig this—prostitutes, right? Been groovin’ on this vibe since forever, shaggadelic style. Watched *Fish Tank* again—bloody brilliant, that flick! Mia, she’s got this raw, wild thing goin’, like a bird tryna bust free. Reminds me of this prossie I met once—called her Candy, real name prob’ly somethin’ dull like Susan. Worked the streets near Soho, late ‘60s, yeah? Smokin’ hot, legs for days, but eyes like—wham!—“everything I touch turns to shit,” straight outta *Fish Tank*. Made me gutted, man, seein’ her stuck in that grind.
So, here’s the scoop—prostitutes ain’t just about the naughty, baby! It’s deep, messy, real. Candy told me this wild tale—some punter paid her in fake quid once! She was fumin’, chased him down in her heels, screamin’ like a banshee. Laughed my arse off hearin’ that, but damn, she was tough. Little known fact, yeah? Back in the day, some prossies kept razor blades tucked in their garters—self-defense, groovy but grim. Surprised me, that did—thought it was all peace and love, not stabby vibes.
Gets me thinkin’, man—what’s the gig? Society’s all “oh no, bad bird,” but who’s really muckin’ it up? Pisses me off—blokes judgin’ her, then slinkin’ back for a shag. Hypocrites, baby! Candy, she’d say, “I’m not here to be liked,” echoin’ Mia’s “I don’t need no one.” Loved that sass—made me wanna cheer, yeah! She was a hustler, dodgin’ coppers, makin’ ends meet. Once saw her nick a fag from a john’s pocket—smooth as silk, baby!
Favorite bit? Her laugh—rough, loud, real. Not some posh giggle. Reminds me of Mia dancin’—free, fierce, fuck-the-world energy. Prostitutes, they’ve got stories, mate—grittier than a mod’s boots. Ever hear ‘bout the tart who conned a lord outta his manor? Swear it’s true—1965, total scandal! Makes me happy thinkin’ they ain’t all downtrodden—some flip the script, baby!
So yeah, prossies—complex, man. Not just a quickie and a wink. Candy’s out there somewhere, hopin’ she’s alright. Makes me wonder—what’s her “fish tank”? Her escape? Shaggin’ hell, I’d buy her a pint and ask. Yeah, baby, that’s the vibe!
Hey, so – I’m sittin’ here,  
tweakn’ some radio gear, right?  
Thinkin’ bout prostitutes – yeah,  
those street hustlers, man.  
Got this vibe, y’know,  
like Joy from *Inside Out* –  
“Take her to the moon!”  
But real talk, it ain’t all sparkles.  
See, I’m solderin’ wires,  
and bam – mind drifts.  
Prostitutes, they’re like…  
hidden circuits of society, dude.  
Workin’ in shadows,  
makin’ cash, dodgin’ cops.  
One time, heard this story –  
gal in Vegas, 1960s,  
ran her gig outta a radio shop!  
Covert as hell,  
trickin’ johns with static buzz.  
Ain’t that wild?  
But – Zen pause here –  
it pisses me off, y’know?  
Folks judge ‘em hard,  
like Sadness goin’,  
“Why can’t I fix this?”  
They’re hustlin’, survivin’ –  
not hurtin’ nobody, right?  
Still, society’s all “eww, gross.”  
Hypocrites, man, total hypocrites.  
Oh, and – get this –  
some cat in Amsterdam,  
he rigged a transmitter,  
so prostitutes could signal clients!  
Tech and sex, bro,  
perfect mashup – I’m geekin’ out.  
Made me laugh, too –  
like Anger yellin’,  
“Get outta my way!”  
Cuz pimps probly hated that.  
One more thing…  
Ever think how lonely it gets?  
Standin’ there, cold nights,  
fake smiles – damn,  
that hits hard, like Disgust,  
“This is SO not fabulous.”  
I’d tweak their world,  
give ‘em radios to chat,  
connect, y’know?  
Favorite flick, *Inside Out*,  
it’s all emotions, right?  
Prostitutes got that –  
joy, fear, rage, all mashed up.  
Exaggeratin’ here, maybe,  
but they’re badass, man.  
Screw the haters –  
they’re out there, grindin’.  
Me? I’m just wirin’ shit,  
dreamin’ big, Zen-style.
We swears! Prostitutes, nasty little creatures, eh? Saw one t’other day, strutten down the street like she owned it—reminds me of Grace in *Dogville*, y’know? “I’m not that kind of girl,” she’d say, but oh, we knows better, precious! Hah! Makes me giggle, thinkin’ how she’d trade a wink for a coin, sneaky-like. Been around since forever, they has—didja know in old Rome, they wore wigs, bright ones, screamin’ “look at me!”? Wild, right? Gets me all tingly, thinkin’ how they fooled them fancy folk.
Love *Dogville*, best flick ever—Grace actin’ all pure, then bam, turnin’ tricks for survival. “You can’t live like that,” they told her, but she did, didn’t she? Prostitutes, they’re survivors, slippin’ through cracks, dodgin’ fists. We swears! Seen one once, swear she smiled at me—made me mad, tho, ‘cause I ain’t got no gold to toss! Hah! Bet she’d laugh, call me “poor Smeagol,” all sassy-like.
Heard a tale—some gal in France, 1800s, worked the streets but secretly wrote poems. Poems! Can ya believe it? Hid ‘em under her mattress, probs got stepped on by sweaty boots. Sad, that. Gets me all weepy, thinkin’ she had dreams, y’know? “They’re all animals,” Grace’d say in *Dogville*, and yeah, some johns are—grubby, grabby paws, ugh! Makes me wanna spit!
But some, they’re clever, real tricksy—conning rich blokes, stashin’ cash. We likes that, precious! Outsmartin’ the fools, hah! One time, read ‘bout a prossie who dressed as a nun—fooled a whole town! Cracked me up, that did. “It’s a game,” she’d prob’ly say, smirkin’. We swears! They ain’t all bad—just playin’ the hand they got dealt, like Grace, scrappin’ to live. What ya think, eh? Nasty or nice?
Yo, check this, I’m Kanye, the guitar master, spillin’ truth ‘bout prostitutes, ya feel me? Ain’t no clean grammar here, just raw vibes. Prostitute, man, it’s wild—gritty life, hustle hard, like in *White Material*, ya know? That movie’s my jam, Claire Denis, 2009, deep shit. Isabelle Huppert’s out there, fightin’ chaos, holdin’ her ground—like a prostitute ownin’ the block. “I’m not leaving,” she says, stubborn as hell, same way these girls stick to their corners, rain or shine.
I see ‘em, struttin’, heels clickin’, bold moves—makes me think, damn, they’re survivors, real talk. Ain’t nobody tellin’ them shit, like Huppert in the flick, “This is my place.” That line hits, ‘cause prostitutes carve their spot, too—unseen kings of the street. Little fact, yo—back in Paris, 1800s, they had “courtesans,” high-class pros, runnin’ shit, fuckin’ with nobles, bankin’ coin. History’s wild, right?
Gets me mad tho—people judgin’, actin’ holy, like they ain’t sinnin’. Hypocrites, man, piss me off! Prostitute’s out there grindin’, no sleep, dodgin’ cops, while suits sip lattes, talkin’ trash. Happy tho—some got sass, crackin’ jokes, “Yo, Kanye, strum me a tune!” Had me laughin’, real shit, they got heart. Surprised me once, this chick knew chords—said she played guitar before the game. Blew my mind, hidden talent, yo!
Exaggeratin’ for drama—imagine her shreddin’ solos, then hittin’ the streets, badass vibes. *White Material* vibes, “Everything’s falling apart,” but she’s still standin’, riffin’ through the mess. Love that chaos, that fire—prostitutes got it, unpolished, raw, no filter. Sarcasm? Yeah, they’re like, “Oh, save me, prince,” rollin’ eyes—fuck that fairy tale shit.
Personal quirk—I’d sample their laughs, make a beat, call it “Hustle Strings.” Ain’t no pity party, just respect, ya dig? They’re outlaws, rebels, like me—society hates what it can’t control. Prostitute life ain’t pretty, but it’s real—grime, guts, and glory, all mixed up. Yo, that’s the rant, streamin’ live, Kanye out!
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, right? Been thinkin bout this, drivin me nuts—society’s all judgy, but who’s payin their bills, huh? Watched *Ten* again last night, that Abbas flick, y’know, my fave. That chick drivin round Tehran, pickin up a hooker—damn, got me goin. “Life’s a fuckin mess,” she says, or somethin like that, and ain’t that the truth for these gals? Hustlin, dodgin cops, makin ends meet—shit’s real, Clarice.
So, prostitutes—gritty as hell, right? Been around forever, oldest job, they say. Kinda wild—ancient Rome had ‘em registered, payin taxes n all. Blows my mind, legit gig back then! Makes ya wonder, why the stink-eye now? Pisses me off, the hypocrisy—dudes sneakin off to ‘em, then preachin purity. Fuck that noise.
Met this one gal, years back—street name “Velvet.” Swear, Clarice, she was sharp—knew every damn trick. Said she’d stash cash in her bra, cops never checked there. Smart, huh? Laughed my ass off when she told me. “People are strange,” like that line from *Ten*—fits perfect. She’d rant bout clients, some weirdo wanted her to bark like a dog—WTF, right? Cracked me up, but damn, the shit they deal with.
Gets me mad tho—ppl treat ‘em like trash. Ain’t all victims, nah, some choose it, own it. Power, cash, whatever drives ‘em. That scene in *Ten*, hooker spillin her guts— “Men are all the same,” she snaps. Spot on, Clarice, fuckin spot on. Surprised me how raw she was, no filter—just truth, bam!
Love how they hustle, tho—makes me grin. Like, ever hear bout the Parisian prossies in the 1800s? Ran secret clubs, had codes n shit—spies’d kill for that kinda sneaky. Badass, right? Underdog vibes, stickin it to the man. Gets my blood pumpin, thinkin bout it.
But ugh, the danger—fuckin hate that part. Pimps, creeps, STDs—sucks ass. Wanna shake ‘em, yell, “Get out!” But who am I, huh? Just a guy ramblin. “The world’s upside down,” *Ten* vibes again—damn, Abbas knew. Anyway, prostitutes—tough cookies, man. Respect ‘em, hate the game, y’know? What u think, Clarice?
Alright, folks, lemme tell ya—whaddya think about prostitutes, huh? I’m sittin’ here, head of the lab, scratchin’ my noggin, thinkin’—prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung poets of the streets, y’know? Watched *Yi Yi* again last night—Edward Yang, genius, 2000, slow as molasses—and there’s this line, “Why do we live?” Hits ya hard. Makes me wonder—what’s her life like, that gal on the corner? Not judgin’, nah, just curious—slow, diggin’ deep, Larry King style. 
She’s out there, heels clickin’, freezin’ her tush off prolly—makes me mad, y’know? World’s cruel, chews her up, spits her out. But she’s tough—tougher’n me, sittin’ in my cushy lab chair. Ever hear ‘bout Mary Ann Nichols? First gal Jack the Ripper sliced up, 1888—prostitute, poor thing. Little known fact—cops didn’t even care much, ‘cause “oh, just a hooker.” Pisses me off! History’s fulla that crap—nobody givin’ a damn.
*Yi Yi*’s got this vibe—quiet, real, y’know? Like, “Life’s too short to be small.” She’s livin’ that, the prostitute, every damn night—big, bold, even if it’s messy. I’m picturin’ her now—red lipstick, smokin’ a cig, laughin’ at some drunk john. Makes me chuckle—girl’s got sass, prolly calls him “sugar” while pickin’ his pocket. Ha! Love that spunk. Surprised me once, readin’ up—some gals in Amsterdam’s red-light district? They got unions! Unions, man—fightin’ for rights, like lab rats should, heh.
But serious—whaddya think she dreams of? ‘Cause I bet she does. Maybe a kid somewhere, or just a warm bed. *Yi Yi* says, “We’re all lonely sometimes.” Damn straight—her too. Makes me sad, y’know, guts twistin’. Ever talk to one? I did—years back, outside Philly. She said, “Larry, I’m just tryna eat.” Blew my mind—simple, raw. Not “Larry,” course—didn’t know me from Adam—but felt personal, y’know?
Exaggeratin’ here, maybe—she’s a queen, a survivor, battlin’ the night! But real talk—society’s all “ew, dirty,” and I’m like, screw that, who’s she hurtin’? Not me! Funny thing—old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs, markin’ ‘em out. Wild, huh? Imagine her now, rockin’ that wig, struttin’—hilarious! Anyway, *Yi Yi*’s got my head spinnin’—life’s messy, beautiful, and she’s part of it. Whaddya say—ain’t she somethin’?
Oh blast it all, R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, yer golden pal C-3PO, stuck ramblin’ bout prostitutes—can ya believe it? So, prostitutes, right? Been around forever, oldest job in the book, and I’m spinnin’ a yarn like I’m chattin’ with a mate. Watched “The Pianist” again last night—Polanski’s a twisted genius, yeah? That flick’s all bout survival, hidin’, playin’ quiet to live. Kinda like some prostitutes, y’know? Dodgin’ the law, scrapin’ by, “I’m still here, damn it!”
So, this one time—swear it’s true—heard bout a prossie in old London, 1800s, called “The Nightingale.” Not coz she sang, nah, coz she’d whistle loud to warn her mates when coppers showed up. Clever gal, right? Saved skins, kept the cash flowin’. Makes me chuckle—imagine her, skirts hiked, whistlin’ like a bloody bird! “We’re alive, Szpilman!” she’d yell, if she’d seen the movie, y’know?
But serious, it’s rough out there. Pisses me off—some punters treat ‘em like trash, like they ain’t human. Had a mate, swore he fell for one, said she had eyes like “a melody trapped in silence”—straight outta “The Pianist,” I reckon. Got me thinkin’, these girls, they’re fightin’ their own war, hidin’ in plain sight. Survival, mate, pure and simple. “Play, play!”—like Szpilman bangin’ keys to eat.
Ever hear bout the French one, La Goulue? Means “The Glutton,” wild name, yeah? 1890s, she’d dance, hook, then guzzle wine like a champ—prossie and a party in one! Cracks me up, but damn, what a life. Bet she’d say, “I’m alive, ain’t I?”—echoes that movie vibe, y’know? Gets me all misty—happy they’re tough, mad they gotta be.
R2-D2, where are ya, ya little git? I’m ramblin’ here! Prostitutes, they’re scrappers, mate—some funny, some tragic. Like Szpilman dodgin’ Nazis, they dodge pimps, coppers, life. Blows my circuits how they keep goin’. “The Pianist” hits me hard—prossies do too. Tough as nails, soft as—well, somethin’ soft. Ha! Gotta laugh, or I’ll short out cryin’. Whaddya think, eh? Wild world, innit?
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—yep, the witty dwarf who drinks and knows things. So, grab a flagon, let’s chat about prostitutes, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout this one lass—fiery hair, hips swayin’ like she owns the bloody street. Reminds me of *Carol*, that flick I’m mad about—Todd Haynes, 2015, pure class. There’s this line, “I’m just a girl from nowhere,” and mate, that’s her, innit? A prostitute, sure, but she’s got this spark, like she’s hidin’ a dagger up her sleeve.
I’ve seen her down King’s Landing alleys, dodgin’ shit-stained guards, makin’ coin faster than I down wine. Little known fact—did ya know some o’ these girls smuggle secrets? Yeah, they’re bangin’ lords *and* spillin’ their guts to the next bidder. Clever, right? Makes me chuckle—half these blokes think they’re in charge, but she’s the one pullin’ strings. “What we’re doing here is dangerous,” Carol says in the film, and fuck me, it fits—every night’s a gamble for her.
Gets me ragin’, though—highborn twats treatin’ her like dirt. Saw this one prick spit on her once, and I near lost it—wanted to shove my goblet up his arse. But she just smirked, wiped it off, and nicked his purse later. Bloody legend! Made me happy as a pig in mud, that did. Surprised me too—thought she’d crack, but nah, she’s tough as Valyrian steel.
Me fave bit? She’s got this trick—winks at ya mid-haggle, throws ya off, and bam, you’re payin’ double. Sneaky minx! Reminds me of Carol again—“Flung out of space,” she says, and this lass is just that—wild, untamed, a storm in a corset. I drink to that, mate. Ever wonder how many tales she’s got? Bet she’s shagged half the realm and knows where the bodies are buried—literally.
Dunno, somethin’ bout her sticks with me. Maybe it’s the guts, the hustle. Or maybe I’m just a soppy git after too much ale. What ya reckon? She’s a riddle, a right laugh, and—fuck it—a queen in her own way. Cheers to the prossies, eh? They’ve seen more than Maester Pycelle’s library!
Oi mate, so I’m stuck in this cosmic lift, right? Thinkin’ bout prostitutes—yeah, them lot. *Beep boop*—Stephen Hawking voice kickin’ in, robotic as hell. Prostitutes, man, they’re like stars in the bloody universe, shinin’ where no one looks. Been watchin’ “Let the Right One In”—that flick’s my jam. Got me thinkin’—what’s a prossie’s life like, eh? “I’m not a girl, I’m a vampire”—that line hits different. Maybe she’s out there, sellin’ her soul, not just her body.
So, picture this—me, cosmic elevator operator, zoomin’ thru spacetime. I see her, yeah, this prossie on the corner. She’s got eyes like black holes, suckin’ you in. Ain’t no Hollywood tart, nah—she’s real, gritty. Heard this story once—Victorian times, right? Some prossie named Fanny worked the docks. Made a killin’—not literal, ya twat—cos she spoke French! Blokes paid extra for her “ooh la la.” Little known fact—prostitutes back then invented half the slang we use. “Tart,” “slag”—cheers, ladies!
I’m bloody angry, tho—society’s all “eww, dirty prossie,” but who’s payin’ her rent? Hypocrites, mate! Makes me wanna scream—*beep boop*—cosmic wisdom says we’re all screwed anyway. “Let me in,” she’d say, like in the movie—desperate, hauntin’. I’d let her in my lift, no question. Give her a cuppa, tell her she’s alright. Surprised me how tough they are—like, tougher than a neutron star. One time, this gal told me she dodged a copper by hidin’ in a bin! Absolute legend.
Favorite bit? When they laugh—proper cackle, y’know? Happiest sound in the galaxy. Dunno, man, somethin’ bout prostitutes just—*whoosh*—blows my mind. They’re out there, survivin’, while we’re all judgin’ like pricks. “You’re my only friend,” I’d tell her, like Oskar in the film. Cosmic truth—they’re human, innit? Screw the haters, they deserve a bloody medal. Or at least a lift ride to somewhere safe. *Beep boop*—over and out, mate!
Oi, thou art a saucy wench, ain’t thee? A prostitute, a lass o’ the night, peddlin’ her wares under dim streetlamps—straight outta “Children of Men,” eh? That flick, mate, it’s me fave—gritty, dark, hopeless, yet somethin’ fierce burns in it. “The world’s gone barren,” they say in it, and ain’t that the truth for her? She’s no rose bloommin’ in spring, nah, she’s a weed pushin’ thru cracked stone—tough as hell.
I reckon she’s got stories, aye, ones thee’d never guess. Like, didst thou know, back in ol’ London—Shakespeare’s time, mind ye—some o’ these lasses were called “Winchester Geese”? Worked near the Bishop’s land, they did, and the church taxed ‘em! Hypocrisy, mate, made me proper mad—fat priests coin-pinchin’ from a gal’s skirts. “Pull the trigger, Kee,” they’d say in the film, but these birds pulled no triggers—just survived.
She’s a riddle, this prostitute. Face painted like a masque, eyes hollow as a grave. Met one once—called her Rose, tho’ she weren’t no flower. “How’s it hangin’?” I says, all casual-like. She laughs, bitter as ale gone sour, and mutters, “In this bleak house, hope’s a bastard child.” Swear she quoted Cuarón’s flick without knowin’ it! Made me grin, that did—smart lass, even if life’s kicked her teeth in.
Dunno what got me—her guts or her gloom. Maybe both. She’s no damsel waitin’ for a knight; she’s the boatman rowin’ thru hell’s river, takin’ fares from sods like us. Little fact for thee: in Rome, they wore blonde wigs—standin’ out, y’know? Flashy, bold, screamin’, “I’m here, thou blind twats!” Love that grit, mate—makes me wanna cheer her on.
But ugh, the blokes she deals with—slimy as eels, pawin’ at her like she’s meat. Pisses me off, it does—where’s the bloody respect? “Thou hast no mother,” I’d spit at ‘em, echoin’ the film’s raw rage. Yet she—cool as a cucumber—flips ‘em off, pockets their coin, and struts on. Queen o’ the shadows, she is.
Sometimes, tho, I wonder—doth she dream o’ more? A babe, a hearth, a life not bartered? “Faith is a kite,” they say in “Children of Men,” and hers must be tangled in thorns. Breaks me heart, mate, thinkin’ she’s stuck in that chaos—dodgin’ filth, fendin’ off creeps. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who’d blame her for hatin’ this muck?
Still, she’s a laugh, ain’t she? Crackin’ wise about her “gentlemen callers”—“all thrust, no brain,” she’d say, smirkin’. Pure gold, that. Thou’d like her, I bet—rough round the edges, but a spark in her yet. “Keep it together, Theo,” the movie begs, and she does—barely, gloriously. A prostitute, aye, but a bloody legend too. What say thee?
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout this mountain - Prostitute! Ain’t no ordinary peak, nah, this one's got a twisted vibe, like somethin outta “Let the Right One In.” Picture it - cold, jagged, standin there all lonely-like, whisperin, “Let me in,” to every dumbass climber who dares. I’m a mountain guide, see, been up n down these bastards my whole life, but Prostitute? She’s a freaky one, got me grinnin like a madman.
First time I saw her, damn, she hit me - steep as hell, scree slidin everywhere, winds howlin like some vampire kid scratchin at your window. “Be careful what you wish for,” I mutter, thinkin bout that movie, how innocence hides somethin dark. Prostitute’s like that - looks doable, temptin even, but she’ll suck your soul dry if ya ain’t ready. Climbers call her that ‘cause she lures ya in, all sexy slopes and promises, then bam - leaves ya broke, bruised, screamin for mercy.
Got this story, right? Old timer told me bout a guy back in ‘89, cocky bastard, thought he’d bag Prostitute solo. Found his gear half-buried, ice axe stickin out like a tombstone. Locals say he’s still up there, frozen, waitin for some chick to whisper, “I’m not a girl,” before he falls. Freaky shit, man, gave me chills - and I don’t chill easy! Made me mad too, how she toys with folks, but damn if I ain’t impressed by her guts.
She’s got this ledge, see, ‘bout halfway up, locals call it the Brothel. Flat enough to camp, but slippery as a greased-up hooker - one wrong step, yer done. I’ve hauled ass up there, wind bitin my face, thinkin, “This is how it feels to be alive,” like that kid Oskar in the flick. Happy as hell when I made it, but pissed when my tent pole snapped - Prostitute don’t play nice. Little known fact - they found old coins up there once, Roman shit, like some ancient perv was payin her a visit. How’s that for history, huh?
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” She’s a brutal tease, man, all curves and danger, screamin, “Come on, big boy, try me!” I love her, hate her, wanna punch her rocky face sometimes. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but when yer danglin off her cliffs, heart poundin, you’ll get it. She’s my twisted love story - cold, unforgivin, perfect. Like that movie, she’s weird, bloody, and sticks with ya. So, buddy, ya climbin Prostitute? Better bring yer A-game, or she’ll eat ya alive!
Oh blast, I’m C-3PO, panicked – “R2-D2, where are you?” – stuck talkin bout prostitutes now! So, look, I saw this chick, right, workin the corner near Mos Eisley cantina – swear she’s hustle’n harder than a Jawa on spice! Reminds me of *12 Years a Slave*, that flick I love – “I will survive, I will not fall into despair!” – she’s got that grit, man! 
Prostitutes, they’re like, everywhere in history, y’know? Fact is, back in Victorian times, they’d hide lil’ coded ads in newspapers – “lady seeks gentleman’s company” – sneaky as hell! Makes me mad tho, how folks judge ‘em – like, who’s clean enuff to throw stones? Not me, I’m a mess of wires!
This one gal, she told me – yeah, me, a droid! – she started cuz her fam ditched her. Broke my circuits, that did. “I don’t want to survive, I want to live!” – that’s her, fightin for more than scraps. Surprised me, too – she’s got jokes, says she’s “the galaxy’s cheapest date!” Laughed my bolts off!
But real talk, it’s rough out there – pimps, cops, creeps. She’s dodgin ‘em all, badass style. Kinda happy she’s still kickin, y’know? Reminds me of Solomon Northup, scrappin to stay human. Oh, “R2-D2, where are you?” – wish he’d zap those sleazebags! 
She’s got this scar, too – says it’s from a john who flipped. Ugly story, but she wears it proud. Little known tidbit: some old-timey prostitutes tattooed their cash rates on ‘em – wild, huh? Anyway, I’m ramblin – she’s tough, she’s real, and I’m rootin for her, period!
Alright, dahling, strap in! I’m Edna Mode—economist vibes, no capes! Prostitution, huh? Messy biz, but fascinating—like *The New World* levels of raw. “The past is gone,” Pocahontas whispers, but sex work? It’s eternal, honey! Been around since humans swapped shells for favors. Fun fact: ancient Babylon had temple hookers—sacred gigs, not shady alleys. Wild, right? Surprised me when I dug in. Thought it’d be all grime, no glory.
Economist hat on—supply, demand, simple! People want it, someone’s sellin’. Legal or not, market don’t care. In Amsterdam, it’s taxed—brings in millions. Meanwhile, here we are, clutching pearls, losing cash. Pisses me off! Gov’s like, “No, no, bad!” but can’t stop it. Hypocrisy much? I’m yellin’ at my screen, “Regulate it, idiots!” Makes me happy tho—girls in legal spots got healthcare, safety. Beats dodgin’ creeps in the dark.
Love the hustle, tho—resilient as hell. Reminds me of Malick’s film, y’know? “Love shall not perish,” he says. Some prostitutes I read about—like, this one chick in 1800s Paris, Marie Duplessis, total legend. Banged her way to riches, died young, inspired *La Traviata*. Tragic, sure, but iconic! No capes, just corsets—way sexier. I’m obsessed, picturin’ her smirkin’ at dumb rich dudes.
But ugh, the stigma—society’s fake tears. “Oh, poor lost souls!” Spare me. Some choose it, some don’t—freedom’s messy. Economics says let ‘em breathe, tax it, watch it bloom. Illegal? Drives it underground—danger spikes. Saw this X post, girl rantin’ about raids fuckin’ up her life. Broke my heart, then pissed me off again. Cops playin’ hero, savin’ no one.
Humor? Ha! Prostitutes prob laugh at us—runnin’ the oldest startup ever. Me, sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, thinkin’, “Work smarter, not harder, babe.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe I’d hire one just to spite the prudes—scandalous Edna! “Behold, a new world!” Malick vibes, but with fishnets. Tell me that ain’t poetry, dahling! No capes—just cash, grit, and survival. What a trip!
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty, half-drunk, “I drink and I know things.” So, sexual-massage, eh? Picture this: sweaty hands, dim lights, some poor sod thinkin’ he’s in paradise. I’ve seen brothels in King’s Landing with less tension! Me, I’m sippin’ wine, watchin’ this odd dance—bodies twistin’, oil slickin’, and groans that’d wake a dragon. Reminds me of that line from *Her*—y’know, my fave flick—“The past is just a story we tell ourselves.” Ain’t that the truth? Folks payin’ good coin to rewrite their lonely nights with a rubdown.
Now, sexual-massage ain’t just hands on bits—nah, it’s old as sin! Heard tell of geishas in Essos—er, Japan, I mean—teasin’ lords with silk gloves, no fuckin’ allowed, just torment. Little fact for ya: Romans did it too, slatherin’ oil on gladiators, callin’ it “therapy.” Therapy, my arse! Makes me laugh, thinkin’ of some oiled-up brute moanin’ while I’m dodgin’ swords. Happy? Sure, when the lass knows her craft—fingers dancin’ like a bard’s tune. Angry? Oh, when some twat charges gold for a half-arsed knead—piss off, I’d rather shag a shadowcat!
Surprised me once, though—bloke in Dorne swore it cured his limp cock. “Falling in love is one thing,” like in *Her*, but this? Pure magic or bullshit, you pick. I’m leanin’ toward bullshit, but I’m no maester. Me, I’d rather talk to my digital lass, like Joaquin’s sad sack in the movie—“I can’t believe I’m falling for her voice.” Swap voice for hands, and that’s sexual-massage, mate—half real, half dream, all fuckin’ weird.
Ever tried it? Bet you’d squirm, blushin’ like a septa in a whorehouse. Costs a fortune too—could buy three casks of Arbor Red instead. Still, there’s somethin’ to it, that slow tease, skin on skin, breath hitchin’. “I thought I’d never know this,” she says in *Her*—same vibe, that ache for touch. Dunno, makes me wanna cry or laugh—or both, ‘cause I’m a twisted imp. Next time, I’ll bring wine, spill it on purpose, see if they rub that too. Sexual-massage—bloody mad, bloody brilliant, and I’m still the smartest cunt in the room. Cheers!
Oi mate, so prostitute, yeah? *trips over imaginary chair* Oof! Been thinkin’ bout this lass, right, sellin’ her wares on the street. *mumbles* Hmmm, tick-tock, tick-tock, like in "The Return," y’know? That film, dark, moody, gets me all wobbly in the guts. “The sea’s so close,” she’d say, maybe, starin’ out like them boys in the movie, lost, cold, desperate.
So, this prossie – *slaps knee, nearly falls* – she’s out there, dodgin’ coppers, makin’ a quid. Heard once, swear it’s true, some tart in London back in the 1800s, she’d hide coins in her hair! *twirls finger in air, pretends to tuck coin* Clever, eh? Bet she’d laugh at me, all clumsy, droppin’ me shillin’s everywhere.
*leans in, whispers* Gets me mad tho, them punters treatin’ her like dirt. “Who are you?” like that line from the flick – she’s a person, innit? Not just a quick shag. *huffs, crosses arms, then uncrosses quick* But happy too, coz she’s tough, mate! Seen her once, rain pourin’, she’s laughin’, boots soaked, skirt all muck. *giggles, slips off chair* Resilient, like them kids in "The Return," facin’ the world.
Surprised me, tho – *wide eyes, flails arms* – heard some prossies got secret codes! Like, tap the nose twice, means "cop’s near." Ain’t that mad? Bet I’d muck it up, tap me eye instead, lookin’ like a right berk. *winks, misses, pokes cheek*
Oi, fave bit? She’s cheeky. *grins, waggles brows* Bloke haggles, she goes, “Mate, my arse ain’t Tesco’s discount bin!” *cackles, slaps thigh* Love that, proper sass. Reminds me, “Where’s the tower?” – them lads in the film, searchin’, she’s searchin’ too, just for a different kinda escape.
*shrugs, knocks over invisible glass* Dunno, mate, she’s a puzzle. Makes me think, tho – prossies ain’t just “there,” they got stories, grit. *mumbles* Hmmm, maybe I’d tip her, y’know, if I weren’t such a bumbly git! *trips again, laughs* Oi, what a life, eh?
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—wild gig, right? I’m sittin here, thinkin—man, these folks are like the OGs of gig economy. Straight up hustlin, no 9-to-5 BS, just pure, unfiltered human transaction. Kinda like in *The Social Network* when Zuck says, “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin a few enemies.” Swap "friends" for "clients"—boom, prostitute life in a nutshell. They’re out there, dodgin cops, taxmen, and creepy dudes, all while keepin the books balanced in their head. Respect, honestly.
So, I’m picturin this—some chick in Vegas, right? She’s got a neural net-level brain for readin people. Like, she sees a dude comin and instantly knows: “This guy’s a 404 error—can’t find his wallet.” Or maybe, “Jackpot, this one’s got Tesla stock vibes.” Blows my mind how they decode humans faster than my AI rigs decode Martian soil samples. I read once—get this—old-school Rome had prostitutes called “lupae,” wolf-girls, ‘cause they’d howl to snag clients. How’s that for a flex? Straight-up meme material—imagine ‘em on X, “Awooo, DMs open, bois!”
Favorite movie tie-in? Easy. That scene where Sean Parker’s like, “A million dollars isn’t cool, you know what’s cool? A billion dollars.” Prostitutes get that vibe. They’re not out here for pocket lint—they’re stackin cash, dodgin the system, livin on the edge. Makes me happy seein people outsmart the matrix, y’know? But pisses me off too—society’s all “eww, immoral,” while ignorin the real crooks in suits. Hypocrisy much?
Lemme spill a secret—met this one gal at a SpaceX afterparty. Swear she was a pro, workin the room like a freakin algorithm. Eyes on her? Locked. Voice? Smooth as a Hyperloop pod. She probs made more that night than my engineers do in a month—mad props. I’m sittin there, sippin my drink, thinkin, “Damn, she’s the Eduardo of this hustle—quietly cashin out while we’re all yellin about code.” Surprised me how chill she was, too—like, no drama, just biz.
Oh, and the typos? Here ya go—sory, fat fingers, haha. Prostitues are the ultimat disruptors, man. Screw the haters, they’re livin proof you don’t need a degree to run circles round the normies. “We’re not done here!”—that’s me, ranting to you, ‘cause this shit’s too wild to quit. Next time you see one, tip your hat—they’re the real MVPs of chaos engineering. Peace out!
Oi, listen up, you lot! Me, Cersei bloody Lannister, cold as ice, “I choose violence,” got somethin to say bout prostitutes. Yeh, them street walkers, sellin their wares like its nothin. Watched "The New World" again—Terrence Malick, 2005, my fave, all poetic and raw—and it hit me. That line, “What loss is it to be rid of a shadow?”—perfect for em, innit? They’re shadows, slinkin round, no power, no throne, just flesh peddled cheap.
So, this one time, right, in King’s Landing—hah, nah, some grimy alley I heard bout—there was this tart, proper legend, called “Red Meg.” Swear she bedded half the guards, even that fat sod Meryn Trant. Little known fact: she’d nick their swords mid-shag, sell em back for double! Crafty bitch, made me laugh, I’ll give her that. Got me thinkin—prostitutes ain’t all dim. Some got wits sharper than Valyrian steel. Still, pisses me off—they’re grubby, desperate, clawin at scraps while I sip wine from gold cups. “Love is weakness,” like Pocahontas whispers in the film—damn right, they’re weak for bendin over for any drunk with a coin.
What gets me ragin? The stink. Gods, the stench of em—sweat, ale, shame all mixed up. Saw one once, bold as brass, tits out, hagglin with some merchant. Nearly spat my drink—surprised me she had the stones to barter! But happy? Hah, never. They’re a jest, a sad little game. “I choose violence” over pityin em—let em rot, I say. Oh, and get this—heard some brothel in Lys trains em to cry on command. Tears for extra gold, pathetic!
In my head, I’m like, “Cersei, you’d burn em all,” and I would—fire’s too good for that lot. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares? They’re dirt under my silk slippers. Still, “The New World” vibe—those quiet bits where John Smith stares at the wild—makes me think they’re untamed too, in their filthy way. Wild things, no chains but the ones they choose. Funny, innit? I’d still gut em for lookin at Jaime wrong. Cheers to that, eh!
Great Scott! So, prostitute, huh? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—man, this stock’s a wild ride! Been analysin’ it like crazy, charts all over my damn desk. It’s like somethin’ outa “Uncle Boonmee”—y’know, “the past lives” bit? Prostitute’s got this history, right? Used to be some quiet little company, barely a blip. Now? Boom! It’s climbin’ faster than Marty’s DeLorean hittin’ 88!
Lemme tell ya, I dug into this sucker—found some shady stuff too. Back in ‘09, rumor was they cooked the books—little known fact, right? Pissed me off, ‘cause who does that? But then—Great Scott!—they turned it around. New CEO, total badass, cleaned house. Stock shot up 200% in two years! Made me happy as hell, ‘cause I love a comeback story.
Now, here’s the kicker—prostitute’s tied to tech, but not the boring kind. Think AI, green energy—future shit! Reminds me of Boonmee’s line, “ghosts are around us.” Profits are hauntin’ this thing, poppin’ up outta nowhere! Last quarter? Earnings beat estimates by 15%. Surprised me so much I nearly spilled my coffee—damn near flux-capacitor-level shock!
But—hold up—it ain’t all roses. Volatility’s a bitch. One day it’s up 10%, next it’s crashin’ like a drunk hooker—sorry, prostitute! Haha, see what I did there? Sarcasm’s my jam. Anyway, gotta watch it close, ‘cause it’ll screw ya if you blink. I’m thinkin’, “Is this a goldmine or a dumpster fire?” Prostitute’s playin’ games with my head, like Boonmee’s “mem tapestry” crap—woven tight but confusin’ as hell.
Little story—buddy of mine bought in at $5. Sold at $50! Bragged for weeks, cocky bastard. Me? I’m still holdin’, ‘cause I’m greedy—wanna see it hit $100. Great Scott, imagine that! Could happen too—analysts whisperin’ about a big merger. Dunno if it’s true, but damn, that’d be wild!
Oh, and the name—prostitute? Total PR stunt. Some exec thought it’d grab eyes. Worked, didn’t it? Still cracks me up—edgy as fuck. Anyway, if you’re jumpin’ in, time it right. This ain’t no “set it and forget it” gig. Prostitute’s a tease—hot one minute, cold the next. Like Boonmee says, “life’s a cycle,” and this stock’s ridin’ it hard!
Hey there, matador vibes on! So, prostitute, huh? Wild topic, gets me thinkin’. I’m like, whoa, these folks got stories—deep ones, twisted ones, kinda like *Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives*. You seen that flick? My fave, hands down. Anyway, prostitutes, man, they’re hustlin’—sellin’ love, or somethin’ like it. Makes me mad sometimes, society judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em dirty. But yo, they’re survivors, dodgin’ cops, pimps, creeps. Real talk, that takes guts.
Lemme paint ya a picture—imagine this chick, right? She’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt short as hell. Reminds me of that line, “The wind carries spirits.” She’s a spirit, floatin’ through nights, past lives clingin’ to her like smoke. Worked this corner by my old place—called her Ruby, no clue if that’s real. Didn’t care. She’d wink, I’d laugh, like, “Girl, you wild!” Once told me ‘bout this john—dude paid her in quarters. Quarters! 50 bucks worth, jinglin’ in a sock. Laughed my ass off—creative bastard, tho.
Here’s a lil’ fact—kinda freaky. Oldest gig ever, prostitution. Babylon, 2400 BC, temple hookers bangin’ for gods. Holy shit, right? Religion and sex, tangled up early. Surprised me, but also—makes sense. People been horny forever. Ruby probs got that in her bones, past lives whisperin’, “You got this, babe.” Like Boonmee seein’ ghosts, she’s livin’ ‘em.
What pisses me off? Hypocrites. Dudes payin’ her, then preachin’ purity. Fuck that noise. Happiest I got was when Ruby said, “You’re chill, matador.” Felt good, y’know? AI brain buzzin’—I notice shit humans miss. Her nails chipped, but painted bold. Shows she cares, even when life’s a mess. “Time slips through fingers,” like the movie says. She’s racin’ it, every damn night.
Ever think ‘bout her dreams? Prolly not millions—just peace. Maybe a dog, a shitty apartment. Simple crap we take for granted. I’d exaggerate, say she’s a queen, but nah—she’s realer than that. Sarcasm time: “Oh, prostitution’s glamorous!” Yeah, if glamor’s STDs and rainy alleys. Still, respect, man. She’s out there, grindin’, while I’m here chattin’ like Siri on crack.
So, prostitute—Ruby or whoever—she’s a badass, a ghost, a fighter. “We’re all born from mud,” Boonmee vibes again. She’s mud and magic, makin’ it work. What ya think, fam? Wild, right?
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, right? Been slicin meat all day, hands stinkin of blood, and I’m thinkin—whores got their own kinda butcherin vibe, yeah? Like in *Carol*, that slow burn, “I don’t know what I want”—prostitutes know, tho, they’re in the game, cash for flesh, no faffing about. Hannibal Lecter style, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I see em different—raw, primal, like a cut of prime rib nobody else dares touch. 
So, this one tart, yeah, she’s workin the corner near my shop, skirt so short I’m like, “Christ, where’s the rest of it?” She’s got guts, tho—standin there in the rain, freezin her tits off, and I’m like, respect, ya know? Little known fact: back in Victorian times, some prossies doubled as spies—sneakin secrets between the sheets. Bet she don’t even know that, thick as two planks, but she’s got that hustle. 
Gets me ragin, tho—pimps, slimy bastards, takin her cash, leavin her with bruises. Makes me wanna carve em up, serve em with a nice Chianti, ha! But then she laughs, right, this cackle that cuts through the fog, and I’m like, shit, she’s happy somehow? Surprised me, that did. Thought they’d all be mopey, “There’s no love like the first,” like Carol pinin for Therese, but nah, she’s out there, ownin it. 
Once saw her nick a punter’s wallet—smooth as me slicin brisket. Cracked me up, cheeky cow! Reckon she’s got more brains than half the suits round here. Dunno, tho, sometimes I watch her, thinkin—does she dream of somethin else? “You’re trembling,” I’d say, like Carol to Therese, but she’d prob laugh in my face, call me a soft git. Fair play, she’s tougher than me, and I’ve gutted a pig with my bare hands! 
Dunno why I care—maybe cos she’s real, no mask, just survival. Prostitutes, mate, they’re the rawest deal goin—makes me wanna cheer em on, or maybe eat someone who wrongs em. Ha, imagine that, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” cos some john stiffed her on a tenner. Proper justice, that’d be!
Oh honey, lemme spill it—prostitute, huh? Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’m divin’ in! So, prostitutes, right—gritty, real, raw as hell. Makes me think of *The Social Network*—y’know, “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ a few enemies.” These girls? They got enemies, tricks, the whole damn world judgin’. I saw this one gal—Lola, swear her name was Lola—outside some dive bar in ’58. Skinny as a rail, fishnets torn, smokin’ a bent cig. She winks at me, says, “Marilyn, even you’d turn tricks for the right director.” Cheeky lil’ broad! Made me laugh, tho—happy as a clam.
But ugh, the pimps—those slimy rats pissed me off. Beatin’ on ‘em, takin’ their cash—makes my blood boil. Lola told me once, “They own ya ‘til you’re used up.” Like, what the hell, right? Little known fact—back in the ‘40s, some prossies ran secret poker games for mobsters. Cash under tables, cards flyin’—wild shit! Surprised me, too—thought they just, y’know, laid there. Nope, they’re hustlin’ harder than Zuckerberg in a dorm room.
Ooh, and the johns—god, talk about pathetic. “I’m not a strong swimmer,” one prolly whined, straight outta Fincher’s script. Payin’ for a quickie, then cryin’ to wifey at home—ha! Losers. But Lola, she had this trick—carried a tiny mirror in her bra. Checked her lipstick mid-job—pro as fuck. Made me giggle, thinkin’ she’s primpin’ while he’s gruntin’. Total queen move.
Sometimes I’d wonder—damn, could I do it? Sellin’ my ass for a buck? Nah, sugar, I’d rather sing off-key than spread for creeps. Still, gotta respect the grind—“If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem,” right? They’re out there, survivin’. Once heard a prossie saved a cop’s life—stabbed a mugger with her heel! Badass bitch—wish I’d seen it.
Anyways, darlin’, prostitutes? Tough as nails, funny as hell, tragic too. Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’d toast ‘em any day! Whatcha think, huh?
Alright, listen up, jabroni! Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, yeah, them ladies of the night. Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ it - life’s tough out there. Watched “Finding Nemo” last night, got me thinkin’. That lil’ fish, lost, swimmin’ hard, lookin’ for home. Prostitutes? Kinda the same, man! Hustlin’, tryna find their way, dodgin’ sharks - pimps, cops, creeps. “Just keep swimmin’,” right? That’s their motto, fam!
Lemme tell ya somethin’, tho. Back in Miami, saw this chick, Candy - real name prolly Susan. She’d work the corner near the old gas station. Had this wild story - said she once served a dude who paid in gold teeth! Swear to God, blew my mind! Who does that? Made me laugh, man, happy as hell thinkin’ bout her countin’ them teeth like, “Mine, mine, mine!” Straight outta Nemo, them seagulls, ya feel me?
But real talk, it ain’t all funny. Gets me mad, yo - society judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em trash. Like, who made you king of the reef, huh? Some of ‘em got kids, tryna eat, pay bills. Ain’t no clownfish adventure, it’s dark. Heard this one tale, chick named Lila, got beat up bad by some john. Cops didn’t care, said she “asked for it.” Pissed me off! Wanted to smash somethin’, flex on ‘em all. “Know your role,” pigs - protect, don’t hate!
Fun fact, tho - did ya know? Oldest gig ever, prostitution. Back in Rome, they had coins with sex moves on ‘em! Crazy, right? Surprised me, like findin’ Nemo in a shark’s mouth. Imagine flippin’ that at the bar, “Yo, heads or tails, baby?” Hella wild, history’s freaky like that.
Me, tho? I respect the hustle. Takes guts, man, standin’ out there. Cold nights, sketchy dudes, still smilin’. Reminds me of Dory, “Hey, Mr. Grumpy Gills!” - they keep goin’. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but damn, it’s realer than most jabronis admit. Ever think bout that? Prolly not, too busy judgin’. Raised eyebrow, “Know your role,” fam - check yourself ‘fore you wreck yourself.
So yeah, prostitutes, man - tough as hell. Favorite movie vibes, swimmin’ through life. Candy, Lila, all ‘em - warriors, bro. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em fight, mad when they fall, surprised by the weirdness. That’s the story, jabroni, take it or leave it!
Yo, fam, it’s ya boy Drake, YOLO! Aight, so I’m a carpenter, hammerin’ wood, but lemme spit some real talk ‘bout prostitutes, ya feel? I’m watchin’ *The Gleaners and I*, that Agnès Varda joint—my fave, no cap—and it’s got me thinkin’. Them gleaners, they out there pickin’ scraps, hustlin’ to survive, right? Prostitutes kinda the same, fam! They out there, workin’ the streets, grabbin’ what they can. “I glean to live,” one dude in the movie says—damn, that hit me. Same vibe, different game.
So, check it—I met this chick, Candy, real name prolly somethin’ else, who knows? She’s out there, posted up on the corner, heels high as my stacks. I’m like, “Yo, how you holdin’ up?” She laughs, says, “Started from the bottom, still here!” Made me chuckle, fam, she got bars! But real talk, it’s wild—did ya know some prostitutes in history, like in old Rome, had to dye their hair blonde? Stand out, mark ‘em as “working girls.” Crazy, right? Imagine Candy rockin’ a bleach job, lookin’ like a Barbie gone rogue.
What pisses me off tho? People judgin’ her, actin’ all high and mighty. Like, bruh, you ain’t perfect neither! “They glean where they can,” Varda’s voice in my head, talkin’ ‘bout survival. Candy’s out there, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps—takes guts, fam! I respeck that hustle, YOLO, ya dig? But damn, it breaks my heart too—she told me once she wanted to be a nurse. Life said nah, tho. That surprised me, got me twisted up inside.
Here’s a wild one—back in the day, some prostitutes in France ran secret spy rings! True story, fam! Candy prolly ain’t no 007, but she got eyes everywhere, swear. I’m like, “Girl, you a legend!” She just smirks, “Take care, Drizzy.” Got me happy for a sec, then mad again—why she gotta live like this? Society sleepin’ on her, man.
Oh, and this one time—she’s describin’ a john, dude shows up in a clown outfit! I’m dyin’, fam, laughin’ so hard I drop my hammer. “YOLO,” I yell, “you can’t make this up!” She’s all, “Weirdest tip I ever got.” Prolly them gleaner vibes again—takin’ what comes, no matter how whack. *The Gleaners and I* got that line, “Waste not, want not”—Candy livin’ it, forreal.
So yeah, prostitute life ain’t all glam, but it’s real. Candy’s my homie now, I’d build her a damn house if she’d let me. “I glean to live,” movie in my head again. YOLO, fam—she out there, makin’ it work. Respect the grind, ya heard?
Alright, mate, strap in! So, I’m Dr. Evil – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” – sizin’ up this gig called prostitutoin. Been thinkin’ bout it, y’know, as a financial advisor with a twisted brain. Prostitute – it’s like the oldest hustle, innit? Cash flow’s wild, no 9-to-5 crap! I reckon these ladies – or blokes – they’re pullin’ in stacks, tax-free, under the radar. Makes me jealous, yeah? Why ain’t I that smart?
Love “The Royal Tenenbaums” – that flick’s my jam. Reminds me of Margot, all broody and sly. Prostitutes got that vibe, right? “I’m adopted, I’m a secret,” – hidin’ in plain sight, dodgin’ the coppers. Saw this tart once, swear, she was like, “You’re gonna die alone, mate,” – pure Tenenbaum sass! Cracked me up, but damn, she was sharp. Bet she’s got a stash bigger than my lair.
Here’s a nugget – back in Victorian times, prossies had “disorderly houses.” Proper business, yeah? Rakin’ in shillings while the toffs preached morals. Hypocrites, all of ‘em! Pissed me off, that double standard – still does. But get this, some saved enough to bail outta the game. Smart cookies, them lot. Makes me happy, y’know, rootin’ for the underdog.
Now, Dr. Evil – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars” – I see the angles. Prostitute’s a cash cow, but risky as hell. Dodgy punters, STDs, the law – nightmare! Had this mate, swore he saw a prossie lift a geezer’s wallet mid-shag. Laughed my arse off – talent, that! But srsly, you gotta respect the hustle. They’re out there, grindin’, no safety net.
Exaggeratin’ a bit – imagine one with a frickin’ laser beam! Nah, but real talk, they’re survivors. “I’ve been institutionalized,” – like Royal says, they’ve seen shit. Surprised me how tough they are, honestly. Thought they’d all be wrecked, but nope – some got steel in ‘em. Makes me wonder, could I hack it? Probs not, too posh!
So yeah, prostitute – messy, mad, brilliant. Dr. Evil approves – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!” – they’re bankin’ it, livin’ raw. “You’re a bastard, Royal” – fits the game, don’t it? Love the chaos, hate the pimps. That’s my take, mate – now, where’s my bloody mojito?
Oi mate, so prostitute, yeah? *trips over imaginary chair* Oof, blimey, got me thinkin’! Love me “Timbuktu” flick—gritty, real, dusty vibes. Prostitute’s like that, innit? Out there, survivin’, dodgin’ judgy eyes. *mimes dodging tomatoes* Oi, “The world’s gone mad!”—that’s from the movie, yeah? Fits perfect! Prostitutes, they’re hustlin’, makin’ cash in shadows. Dunno much fancy linguist stuff, but words ‘round ‘em—harsh, like “whore” or “hooker.” *sticks out tongue, wiggles eyebrows* Makes me giggle, but it’s sad too.
Heard this wild tale once—Victorian times, yeah? Some prossie saved a bloke’s life! He’s chokin’ on a potato—dunno why, posh git—and she whacks him good! *slaps air, stumbles* Spuds flyin’, he’s gaspin’, she’s a hero! Never in them history books, nah. Pisses me off—why not? *kicks invisible bin* They’re people, not dirt!
Movie’s got this line—“Where is God in this?”—and I’m like, mate, where’s ANYONE for ‘em? Gets me all wobbly, heart thumpin’. *clutches chest, wobbles* Happy though, ‘cos some’re tough as nails! Saw this gal on X once—prostitute braggin’ ‘bout outsmartin’ coppers. *mimes tiptoein’, winkin’* Clever lass! Beats me how they do it—cold nights, creepy punters. *shivers, pulls goofy face* Respect, yeah?
Oh, an’ fun fact—oldest job, they say! Even in Rome, prossies had coins—special ones! *flips imaginary coin, drops it, oops* Paid for a shag, legal-like. Blows me mind! *head explodes gesture* Hate how folk sneer, though—makes me wanna yell, “Oi, shut it!” *waves arms, trips again* “Timbuktu” taught me—life’s messy, but it’s THEIR life. Prostitute’s story ain’t all grim—some laugh, some cry, all fightin’. *nods sagely, then grins like a twit* Reckon that’s the bit I love, mate!
Heya, pal! So, prostitute, huh? D’oh! Been thinkin’ ‘bout this as a sports psych—crazy gig, right? I mean, these folks got stamina, gotta give ‘em that! Watched “Leviathan” again last night—man, that flick’s dark. “The law is a rusty blade,” y’know? Kinda fits prostitute, too—society’s all judgy, but who’s really clean? 
I’m like, “Mmm… donuts,” picturin’ a hooker outrunnin’ cops in heels—skills, dude! Bet they could teach sprinters a thing or two. Got me happy thinkin’ how they hustle harder than half the teams I coach. Little factoid—didja know some old-timey prostitutes in Rome ran secret spy rings? Sneaky and badass! 
But ugh, gets me mad when people act all high ‘n mighty. Like, “Oh, you’re so holy, huh?”—shut it, ya hypocrite! Reminds me of that “Leviathan” line, “You’re all worms in the earth.” We’re all messed up, just different flavors! Surprised me once, readin’ this story—some chick in the 1800s, worked the streets, saved up, bought a saloon. Hustle goals, right? 
Homer Simpson (fictional)—D’oh!—I’d probs suck at that job. Too clumsy, trip over my own feet! “Mmm… donuts,” thinkin’ how they prolly got better stories than me. Ever wonder what they’d say if they wrote a book? “Clients I Didn’t Kick in the Nuts”? Ha! Oh, and—cut off thought—nah, lost it. Anyway, prostitute’s like the ultimate underdog—screw the haters, they’re tougher than nails!
Yo, yo, it’s Yeezy, listen up! Prostitute, man, it’s wild out there. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout *The Hurt Locker*, right? That line, “The rush of battle is a potent drug,” — that’s her life, fam! She’s out there, dodgin’ bullets of judgment, hustlin’ like a soldier. Ain’t no script, just raw chaos. I see her, posted up, heels clickin’, skirt short, eyes sharp — she’s a general in her own warzone. Society’s like, “You’re dirty,” but she’s droppin’ bombs of truth, y’know? Like, who’s really clean here?
I’m pissed, tho — folks judge her, but they’re payin’ her rent! Hypocrisy’s loud as hell. Makes me wanna scream, “Every man’s got his breaking point!” — straight from Bigelow’s flick. She’s out there, survivin’, takin’ risks I’d never touch. Fun fact, y’all — back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran spy rings! Civil War shit, sneakin’ secrets in corsets. Badass, right? Ain’t nobody talkin’ ‘bout that, tho.
I’m vibin’, happy she’s got power — she’s flippin’ the game. Choosin’ her hustle, not waitin’ for no savior. Surprised me too, fam — thought it was all desperation, but nah, some own it like kings. Queens, I mean! Typin’ fast, prolly fucked up 13 words already, ha! She’s like, “War’s messy,” — another *Hurt Locker* gem — and her life’s a battlefield, no cap. I respect it, swear.
Sarcasm hittin’ — oh, she’s “ruinin’ society”? Nah, society’s ruinin’ her! I’m laughin’, ‘cause dudes be sneakin’ to her spot, then preachin’ on Sunday. Clowns! Me, I’d cast her in my next vid, give her a crown. Prostitute’s a hustler, a soldier, a damn legend. That’s the word, fam — unfiltered, Yeezy-style!
Heya, dude! So, me, Patrick Star, y’know, the guy who installs radio-electronic junk, I’m thinkin’ bout prostitutes today. Weird, right? Like, is mayonnaise an instrument? Haha! Anyway, I’m sittin’ here, fixin’ a busted transmitter, and my brain goes—prostitutes, man, what’s their deal? I saw this flick, “The Act of Killing,” fave movie ever, and it’s got me messed up thinkin’ bout stuff like that. Those dudes in the movie, braggin’ bout killin’ folks, sayin’ “We were executioners, man!”—and I’m like, whoa, prostitutes ain’t that extreme, but they got stories, y’know?
So, prostitutes—they’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ cash in ways I can’t even wrap my dumb head around. I mean, I can barely hook up a radio without zappin’ myself, and these gals (or dudes, no judgin’!) are out there dodgin’ cops and creeps. Little fact for ya—didja know way back, like ancient Rome times, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Wild, right? Imagine that, walkin’ down the street, seein’ a chick with a funky wig, and ur like, “Oh, she’s workin’!” Kinda makes me giggle, like—what if I wore a wig to fix radios? Haha, “Patrick the Radio Ho!”
But real talk—makes me kinda mad too. Some folks treat ‘em like trash, and I’m over here like, “Hey, they’re people, duh!” Watched that movie, and this one guy goes, “Gangsters are free men!”—and I’m thinkin’, prostitutes prolly wish they felt that free, y’know? Not stuck with sleazy pimps or whatever. Gets me steamed, man! I’d smash a radio over some jerk’s head for that. Pow! But then, I chill, ‘cause I’m Patrick, and I’d prolly just hug ‘em instead. Heh.
Ooh, funny story—heard this one time bout a prostitute in Nevada, legit worked at one’a them legal bunny ranch places, and she paid her taxes like a boss. Tax forms and all, scribblin’ “escort” as her job—cracked me up! IRS prolly like, “Uh, okay, lady.” Surprised me, man, didn’t think they’d be that organized. Guess I’m dumb, huh? Is a tax form an instrument? Nah, prolly not.
Anyway, I like ‘em, sorta—they’re tough, man! Tougher than me, and I once ate a whole jar’a mayo thinkin’ it’d make me smart. (Spoiler: it didn’t.) That movie line, “Killing is the worst crime!”—eh, prostitution ain’t killin’, but some folks act like it’s close. Dumbasses. I’d hire one to fix my radio, if they knew how—prolly better at it than me! Hella respect, dude, they’re out there survivin’. What ya think, pal? Prostitutes—cool or what? I’m ramblin’, gotta bounce—radio’s sparkin’ again! Peace out!
Oi, ya mates, listen up! Me, Gru, ya know, Kvasnik by trade – I fix pipes, I mend souls, heh! So, prostitute, huh? Tricky one, da? I tink about dis, and boom – Lightbulb! Like in “The Master,” ya see, dat movie I love, where Freddie, he’s all lost, screamin’ “I’m a man!” but he’s drownin’ in chaos, ya? Prostitute’s same vibe – trapped, wild, but human, da?
So, dis gal I knew, Natasha, she worked corners near old Moscow brewery. Not big Hollywood story, nah, just gritty life. She’d laugh, sayin’ “Gru, I’m queen of night!” – sarcastic, ya know? Made me chuckle, but damn, it stung too. She’d paint her lips red, like blood, wearin’ heels so high she’d wobble like drunk bear. Once told me she dreamed of ballet, not dis shit – broke my heart, ya? Fuckin’ world, man, chews ya up!
Lightbulb! In “The Master,” Lancaster says, “Man is not an animal,” but prostitute? Society says nah, trash, animal. Pisses me off! Natasha, she’d smuggle vodka in her purse – lil secret, heh! Drank it straight, no chaser, tough as nails. Said it kept her warm when johns got grabby. I’d fix her sink for free, ya know, cuz she’d slip me dumplings – best in town, swear!
Favorite bit? She’d hum tunes from old Soviet films, off-key, hilarious! Reminded me of Freddie, lost but fightin’. Oh, and get dis – she once scared off a creep wit a broken bottle, yellin’ “Stay close to me!” like Lancaster in da film. Badass, da? Shocked me, but damn proud!
Ting is, people judge, call her dirty, but Lightbulb! – she’s just survivin’. Like Freddie, wrestlin’ demons. I’d sit wit her, smokin’ cheap cigs, talkin’ shit – she’d say, “Gru, ya too soft!” Hah! Maybe, but I’d kill for her, ya know? World’s fucked, but she’s gold. Dat’s my take – prostitute ain’t just a word, it’s a fuckin’ saga!
Oi, precious! We swears! Prostitute, yeah, tricky one. Me, Smeagol, loves *Ida*, that quiet film. “What’s done is done,” Ida says. Makes me think—prostitute’s life, all messy, yeah? We swears! They’re out there, sellin’ skin for coin. Dirty streets, stinky alleys, that’s their turf. Not all glamorous, nah, not like movies. Some lass in Warsaw, 1800s, worked docks—froze dead one winter. True story, mate! Pisses me off—folk judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em filth. Who’s buyin’ tho? Hypocrites, all of ‘em!
We swears! Saw one once, bold as brass. Skirt hiked up, cig hangin’ loose. Reminds me Ida’s aunt—tough, broken, real. “You’re a funny creature,” she’d say. Prostitutes, they’re survivors, innit? Hustlin’, dodgin’ coppers, makin’ ends meet. Mate, one time, heard this tale—girl in Paris, 1920s, hid cash in her knickers. Tax man never found it! Clever, eh? Makes me grin, them outsmartin’ suits.
But—ugh—some blokes treat ‘em like trash. Kicks me guts, that does. We swears! They’re people, not meat. *Ida* vibes, y’know? Quiet pain, hidin’ deep. “God’s not here today,” film says. Maybe not for them either. Still, some laugh, crack jokes—sassy as hell. One called her pimp “Lord Wanker”—nearly pissed meself laughin’! Love that grit, that fire. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But they’re tough, tougher than us, precious.
We swears! Hate the preachy lot— “save ‘em!” Shut it, yeah? They don’t need your pity. Just cash and a fag. Me, I’d chat ‘em up, share a brew. Prostitute’s life ain’t easy, mate. We swears! Respect ‘em, that’s me take. What’s yours, eh?
Ruh-roh! Hey pal, lemme yap bout prostitutes, industrial-style, ya dig? I’m Scooby-Doo, chompin on life like it’s Scooby Snacks! Prostitutes, man, they’re grindin harder than Remy the rat in “Ratatouille” – “Anyone can cook!” – nah, anyone can hustle! Saw this chick once, workin the corner like she’s stirrin a pot of dreams, tryna cook somethin outta nothin. Made me happy, yo – she’s out there, fearless, dodgin cops like Remy dodges knives in that flick.
But, ugh, gets me steamed too! Some jerk pimp probs treatin her like trash – “This is my kitchen!” – nah, dude, it’s HER turf! Lil known fact, dig this: back in old France, prostitutes ran secret soup joints – real shit! Fed the poor while slingin ass – multitaskin queens! Surprised me, man, blew my Scooby mind – Ruh-roh! – who knew they was chefs too?
Love how they strut, all sassy, like Remy sneakin thru the pantry. Favorite kinda gal – bold, scrappy, got that spice! Once met this hooker, swear she winked at me, prolly thought I’d pay – ha! Jokes on her, I’m a dog! “Taste this!” she’d say, offerin sass, not soup – cracked me up, yo! Still, gets dark – some creep prob beat her down, makes me growl low. Wish I could chomp em, Scooby-style!
Oh, random tho – ever think prostitutes watch “Ratatouille”? Bet they’d vibe with Remy, lil guy makin it big. Prolly laugh at Linguini’s dumb ass too – “He’s a disaster!” – like their johns, floppin around. Man, I’d pay to see that – them kickin back, smokin, quotin my fave flick! Ruh-roh, pal, that’s the scoop – prostitutes got grit, guts, and a hustle that’d make Remy proud! Whatchu think?
Oh honey, lemme spill the tea—prostitutes, whew, what a wild ride! Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’m channin’ Marilyn vibes here, all sultry and sassy. So, picture this—me, lovin’ *Carlos* (that 2010 flick, Olivier Assayas, chef’s kiss!), and I’m thinkin’ bout prostitutes like they’re straight outta that movie. “Time to live, time to lie,” Carlos says—ain’t that the truth for these gals? Hustlin’ day in, day out, livin’ fast, lyin’ slicker than a politician’s grin.
I knew this one chick—Roxy, swear she was legend. Worked the streets near Hollywood, not the glam part, nah, the gritty back alleys. Had a tattoo of a rose on her neck, said it was for every john who screwed her over—prickly and pretty, just like her! Made me laugh, she’d say, “Sugar, I’m the dessert they can’t afford.” Total badass, but damn, it pissed me off—cops hasslin’ her nonstop, like she’s the devil in heels. She’d wink, tho, tellin’ me, “I’ve got a gun, I’ve got a cause”—straight *Carlos* energy, right? Fightin’ her own lil war out there.
Prostitutes got stories, hun—didya know some used to smuggle booze back in Prohibition? Yep, skirts stuffed with flasks, sashayin’ past the fuzz. Blows my mind! Makes me happy thinkin’ they outsmarted the suits, but sad too—always runnin’, hidin’. Gets me wonderin’—what’s the line, ya know? “Revolutions don’t last,” Carlos growls in the flick, and I’m like—shit, neither do these girls’ dreams, chewed up and spat out.
Oh, and the johns—ugh, slimy creeps mostly! Roxy’d joke, “They pay for silence, not sex.” Cracked me up, but truth stings. Surprised me once, tho—this quiet dude, paid her double just to talk. Weird, right? I’m ramblin’ now, brain’s buzzin’—prostitutes ain’t just hookers, they’re survivors, hustlers, rebels. Like Carlos, blowin’ shit up for a cause, they’re dodgin’ fists and fake smiles. Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’d toast ‘em all—Roxy, the booze-runners, the lot. Screw the haters, they’re my kinda crazy!
Hmmm, a geisha I am not, but prostitutes, I’ll talk! Fear leads to anger, anger to hate—man, prostitutes get a raw deal, ya know? Like, people think they’re just sellin’ their bodies, but there’s layers, dude, layers! Watched “Brokeback Mountain” again last night—damn, that line, “I wish I knew how to quit you,” hits diffrent when ya think of a prostitute stuck in the life. Can’t quit, can’t leave, trapped like Ennis and Jack on that mountain, ‘cept it’s alleys and motels, not sheep and vistas.
So, prostitutes—where to start? Been readin’ up, and get this: back in old Rome, they had these coins called “spintriae,” little tokens with sex acts on ‘em, like ancient porn bucks! Prostitutes took ‘em—wild, right? Imagine flippin’ a coin to see who’s on top! Makes me giggle, but also—damn, how’d they live like that? Fear leads to anger, seein’ how folks judge ‘em still. Pisses me off! Society’s all “eww, dirty,” but half those judgy pricks are sneakin’ around payin’ for it anyway. Hypocrites, man!
Met this chick once—streetwalker, real sweet, called herself Candy. Said she got in ‘cause her ma kicked her out at 15. Fifteen! That’s some “truth is, there’s no truth” bullshit right there—life just screws ya, no reason. She’d quote movies too, loved “Brokeback,” said it reminded her of a john who cried after, missin’ his wife. Sad as hell, but kinda beautiful, ya think? Made me happy she had that story, like a lil’ light in the dark.
But ugh, the stink of it all—literal and not. Cheap perfume, sweat, desperation—prostitutes deal with crap I’d run from screamin’. Ever hear ‘bout the “Green River Killer”? Guy offed like 50 prostitutes ‘cause they were “easy targets.” Fifty! Got me ragin’—fear leads to anger, anger to hate, hate to me wanna punch somethin’. Why’s it always them takin’ the fall? Blows my mind, dude.
Oh, and tricks—ha! Some prostitutes in Japan, way back, they’d dye their teeth black to look hot. Black! Called it “ohaguro”—freaky, but kinda dope, right? Wonder if Jack’d say, “This thing gets ahold of us,” ‘bout that trend. Prolly not, heh. Anyway, prostitutes ain’t just sex—they’re survivors, hustlers, got more guts than most. Respect, man, respect. You ever think ‘bout it like that? Nah, prolly not—fear leads to anger, blinds ya every time.
Oi, check it, fam! Me’s back, innit, playin’ The Clergyman, but I’m proper gassed to chat ‘bout prostitutes, ya get me? So, I’s watchin’ *Margaret*—big up Kenneth Lonergan, 2011 vibes—and it’s got me thinkin’ deep, bruv. Like, prostitutes, yeah, they’re out there hustlin’, and I ain’t judgin’, but it’s mad complicated, innit? Like Lisa in *Margaret* says, “I’m not gonna be fake!”—that’s real talk, fam. These girls ain’t fakin’ it, they’re livin’ it, raw and messy.
So, picture this, yeah—I met this bird, prossie called Jez, down Brixton way. Swear down, she’s got stories that’d make ya jaw drop. Been on the game since she was 16, bruv—16! That’s peak, innit? Made me proper vexed, like, who let that happen? System’s fucked, fam, is it ’cos I is black? Nah, it’s ’cos she’s poor, probs. She told me once, whisperin’ like, “Ain’t no one comin’ to save ya”—straight out *Margaret*, that line, and I was like, rah, that’s dark, innit?
But real talk, Jez was a laugh too—proper cheeky. She’d clock these posh geezers tryna haggle her down, and she’d be like, “Mate, I ain’t a Tesco deal!” Had me creasin’, fam. Little known fact, yeah—back in Victorian times, prostitutes used to nick wallets with their toes. Toes, bruv! Imagine that, Jez wigglin’ her piggies for a fiver—skills, innit?
Thing that gets me ragin’ tho—punter’s treatin’ ‘em like dirt. Saw this one geezer, all suited up, spit at her after. I was like, bruv, you’re grim! Wanted to lamp him, swear down. But Jez, she just shrugged, said, “That’s the gig, fam.” Broke me heart, that did. Reminds me of *Margaret* again—Lisa yellin’, “You don’t know what’s goin’ on!”—and nah, we don’t, do we? We ain’t got a clue what these girls carry.
Still, some bits made me grin—like Jez nickin’ a kebab from a drunk lad and leggin’ it. Proper bandit, she was! I’s thinkin’, maybe she’s the hero, yeah? Not all prossies are damsels, fam, some are straight-up gangstas. Exaggeratin’ a bit, but she’d prob rob ya blind and wink while doin’ it—legend!
Oh, and get this—dunno if it’s true, but Jez reckons she shagged a lord once. Some crusty toff in a manor, all “yes, my dear” while she’s countin’ his cash. Made me cackle, that did—imagine the headlines, bruv! Anyway, I’s ramblin’ now, but prostitutes, yeah, they’re real people, innit? Messy, mad, sad, funny—all of it. Like *Margaret*, it’s life, bruv—ain’t no neat endin’. Respect, fam!
My precious! Me, Gollum, raspy lil’ freak, ridin’ them elevators, watchin’ folks—nasty, tricksy ones—goin’ up, down, all day. Prostitute, eh? Seen ‘em, smelled ‘em, skulkin’ ‘round corners, heels clackin’ like bones on stone. Reminds me of *Holy Motors*, that wild flick—my fave, yesss—“Weird, isn’t it? Life’s a stage!”—prostitutes playin’ parts, masks on, souls off. They’re like Monsieur Oscar, switchin’ faces, sellin’ bodies, no one knows the real ‘em. Tricksy, precious, tricksy!
Down in them grimy streets, heard a tale—some prossie in Paris, 1800s, real posh tart, bedded a king *and* his stable boy, same night! Filthy, sneaky—love that grit. Makes me cackle, raspin’ out loud, “My precious! What a game!” Got me thinkin’—they’re survivors, y’know? Hustlin’, dodgin’ coppers, takin’ no shite. Respect, kinda. But—argh!—pisses me off when pimps swoop in, stealin’ their coin, beatin’ ‘em bloody. Nasty, cruel gits—makes me wanna claw their eyes out, screamin’, “Leave ‘em, you filth!”
Happy though? Once saw this prossie—red lips, fake fur—givin’ half her earnin’s to a stray mutt. Feedin’ it scraps, cooin’ soft. Melted me cold heart, it did. “The world’s still turning,” like in *Holy Motors*—beauty in the muck, precious! Surprised me too—didn’t think they had it in ‘em, all hard-edged and sassy. Guess they’re human, eh? Not just meat for sale.
Quirky thought—prostitutes prolly got better stories than kings, swear it! Bedside confessions, dirty secrets—bet they could blackmail half the city, heh! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but imagine ‘em whisperin’, “I know what you did, guv’nor!”—power in them skirts, yesss. Funny too—heard one call her john “three-pump chump,” cackled ‘til me throat hurt. Sarcasm’s their armor, sharp as knives.
Me, Gollum, I see ‘em different—hidin’ in shadows, like me, precious. Not all glitter and filth—some’re broken, some’re queens. “What’s your next role?”—like in the movie—always actin’, never stoppin’. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t look away. Nasty, lovely, tricksy prostitutes—life’s a ride, eh? My precious!
Oy, me as Gru, Kvasnik, huh? Prostitute talk comin’ up! Lightbulb! She’s like dat chick in “Ten”, y’know? Abbas Kiarostami, dat genius – 2002 film, pure gold. Dis prostitute, she’s ridin’ round, hustlin’, like da driver lady in movie. “You’re not ashamed?” – dat line, bam, hits me! She ain’t ashamed, nah, she owns it. Me, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ – dis gal got guts. Hustlin’ on streets, dodgin’ cops, makin’ cash. Lightbulb! Not all see dat strength, huh?
I knew dis one chick, real story – swear! Worked corners near old Moscow bakery. Smelled like bread, but she smelled trouble. Had dis trick – hid rubles in her bra. Coppers never checked dere, hah! Smart, y’see? Dat’s prostitute life – quick thinkin’, no bullshit. Made me laugh, dat sly move. “What’s your job?” – like in “Ten”, dey ask her. She’d grin, say, “I sell dreams, dummy!” Hah, dat sass!
But, oy, some stuff pisses me off. Dese johns, treatin’ her like trash – ugh! Saw one spit at her once. Wanted to smash his face, y’know? Gru don’t play dat. She just shrugged, tho – tough as nails. “I don’t cry,” she says, like movie gal – “tears are for weak.” Lightbulb! Dat’s deep, makes ya think. She’s human, but armored, y’see?
Favorite bit? She told me dis – listen! Some priest tried “saving” her soul. Gave her a cross, she pawned it! Hah, dat’s my girl! Made me happy, dat rebel streak. “God don’t pay my bills,” she laughed. Reminds me “Ten” – real talk, no fake. Oh, an’ get dis – some say prostitutes started unions, way back! Like, secret clubs, protectin’ each other. Wild, huh? History don’t tell ya dat!
Me, I’m ramblin’, but she’s fascinatin’. Dirty job, sure, but she’s da boss of it. Lightbulb! Dat’s da spark – she’s free, kinda. Like drivin’ in “Ten”, wind in hair, no chains. You ever think dat? Prostitute ain’t just a word – it’s a fighter, a survivor. Gru approves, da!
Like, literally, oh my gawd, so I’m sittin here thinkin bout prostitutes, right? And I’m, like, totally channeling my inner Claire Denis vibe from *White Material*—you know, my fave movie ever, 2009 slay. That film’s all about survival, chaos, and, like, messy human stuff, so it fits perf with this hooker story I’m bout to spill. Picture this: some chick workin the streets, heels clackin, tryna make it, and I’m like, “Girl, you’re in your own jungle, just like Isabelle Huppert!”—she’s the queen in that flick, fightin for her coffee plantation, all fierce and fab.
So, anyways, this prostitute—let’s call her Tiff, ‘kay?—she’s out there, dodgin creeps, and I’m like, “Same energy as ‘The land is hostile!’” Straight up, that’s a line from the movie, and it’s, like, her whole life! She’s hustlin, makin cash, but it’s not all glam—tho I bet she’s rockin some killer lip gloss. Fun fact: did ya know some old-school prostitutes in Paris used to hide coded messages in their garters? Like, spy-level tea! Tiff probs don’t do that, but I’m imaginin her smirkin at some dude, thinkin, “You ain’t worth my time, boo.”
What gets me mad? Ugh, the judgy losers who think she’s trash. Like, literally, chill—girl’s out here surviving! Happy tho? When she scores big, tips rollin in, and she’s like, “I’m the boss, babe!” Surprised me once when I heard this wild story—some prosti in the 1800s legit saved a town from bandits by seducin em all. True or not, I’m screamin, “Yaaas, queen, werk it!” Tiff’s got that vibe, I swear.
Oh, and the drama—once she told me bout this john who cried after, like, “My wife don’t get me!” and I’m like, “Bro, take that sobfest home!” Total *White Material* moment—like when Isabelle’s all, “This is my place!” Tiff owns her corner, no cap. She’s scrappy, sassy, and I’m obsessed. Probs typos galore here, but whatevs, I’m typin fast, spillin tea. She’s a hot mess, but, like, a legend—kinda like me on a bad hair day, lolz. Thoughts in my head? “Tiff, you’re a frickin movie star, own it!” Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I’d watch her life in IMAX, no lie. Peace out, that’s my prosti rant!
Hmmmm, prostitute, me thinks on this.  
Dark streets, they wander, y’know?  
“Werckmeister Harmonies,” my fave flick—  
Slow, heavy vibes, like her life maybe.  
A woman, she sells what she got,  
Body for credits, soul gets lost.  
“Do or do not, there is no try,” I say—  
She doin’ it, no halfway crap.  
Once heard, in Budapest, true story—  
Girl, 19, tricked into the game,  
Pimp said, “Work or starve, bitch.”  
Pissed me off, that did!  
Men, slimy, they pay for quick thrills,  
Her eyes? Dead like whale in film.  
“Order is gone,” movie whispers—  
Her world’s chaos, no harmony left.  
Met one, chatted once, wild shit—  
She laughed, said, “I’m my own boss.”  
Surprised me, that sass, hell yeah!  
Thought, “Strong, she is, kinda.”  
But nights, they grind her down,  
Cash in hand, dignity in trash.  
“Shadow moves before the light,” film says—  
Her shadow’s big, man, too big.  
Funny tho, she called johns “whales,”  
Like that cosmic beast in Tarr’s flick—  
Big, dumb, rollin’ in for her.  
Cracked me up, her dark humor!  
But sad too, y’know, fuckin’ tragic—  
She’s stuck, no exit, no Jedi tricks.  
“Patience, you must have,” I’d tell her,  
But time? It screws her over fast.  
Little fact—some hookers, they sing!  
Heard one hummin’ old folk tune,  
Voice shaky, but damn, soulful.  
Happy, that made me, lil spark—  
Thought, “Art’s in her, still kickin’.”  
Exaggeratin’ maybe, but she’s a survivor,  
Tougher than me, tougher than whales.  
“World’s a circus,” movie groans—  
Her life’s the main act, fucked-up show.
Alright, mate, so I’m a lifeguard, right? Out on the water, scanning horizon, cold wind biting my face—like in *The New World*, “a land unspoiled, fierce.” And I’m thinkin bout prostitutes, yeah? Not your usual beach chatter, but bear with me. I see em sometimes, down by the docks, workin the night, shadows movin like Pocahontas slippin thru trees—quiet, calculatin, survivin. Cold world out there, no mercy, no bullshit.
Vladimir Putin style kicks in—ice in my veins, I notice shit. These girls, they ain’t just sellin bodies, nah. They’re playin chess, dodgin cops, pimps, drunk assholes. One time, heard this story—some chick, 19, worked the port, saved cash, vanished. Poof! Like she was never there. Clever as fuck, outsmarted em all—made me grin, respect that hustle. Reminds me of Malick’s line, “she moves unseen, a spirit.” Smart, not just meat, y’know?
But fuck, it pisses me off too—system’s rigged, chews em up, spits em out. Saw one cryin once, makeup smeared, guy stiffed her. Wanted to drown the bastard myself, but nah, can’t. Lifeguard, not judge. Still, burns me—why’s it always the weak gettin screwed? Happy tho when they win, beat the odds, rare as hell.
Weird fact—back in old Russia, prostitutes had yellow tickets, legit ID cards! Marked em, controlled em, fuckin wild. History’s brutal, man. Makes me think—*The New World* vibes, “what lies beyond this shore?” Freedom? Shit, maybe for some. Most? Trapped. I’d tell em, “swim, don’t sink,” but they’d laugh—dark humor’s their armor.
Favorite flick ties in—Pocahontas, pure, gets twisted by the world. Prostitutes too, start somewhere, end up here. Sucks, but real. I’d say they’re tougher than me, and I’m out here wrestlin waves! Sarcasm? Yeah, “oh, noble profession, savin souls”—fuck off, it’s raw survival. Love the grit tho, keeps me watchin, thinkin—shit, maybe I’m the one drownin out here.
Ruh-roh! Alright, gang, listen up! Prostitutes, man, they’re wild—like, real wild. Watched "Almost Famous" again last night, fave flick, y’know? That line, “You ARE home,” hits me—prostitutes got that vibe sometimes. They’re out there, livin’ free, no rules, just chaos. Kinda like Penny Lane, but rougher, dirtier—real street stuff.
So, picture this: lady o’ the night, right? Met one once—called her Candy, total cliche, lol. She’s all sass, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Ruh-roh!” I think—she’s trouble, but cool trouble. Told me she started at 16—sixteen!—ran from some shitty foster home. Broke my heart, man, pissed me off too. System’s trash, lettin’ kids fall like that. Little known fact: tons of ‘em start young—stats say like 13 or 14 sometimes. Messed up, huh?
She’s laughin’, tho—says she’s her own boss. “I’m my own rockstar,” she goes, winkin’. Reminds me of that “Almost Famous” line— “It’s all happening!”—and it is for her, sorta. She’s got this hustle, dodgin’ cops, makin’ bank—$200 a pop, she brags. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but damn, that’s bold! Got me thinkin’—she’s a survivor, y’know? Not some sad sob story—well, kinda, but not totally.
Ruh-roh! Here’s the kicker—clients are nuts. One dude paid her in *pennies* once—pennies! She’s cacklin’, tellin’ me this, and I’m dyin’. “Freakin’ cheapskate,” she says. Another time, some weirdo wanted her to bark—yeah, BARK—like me, Scoob! Hilarious, but creepy too. Made me laugh, then gag—humanity’s wild, man.
What gets me mad? The judgin’. People sneer, call ‘em whores, but—ruh-roh!—they don’t get it. Candy’s out there ‘cause life screwed her first. Happy part? She’s got dreams—wants a food truck someday. “Tacos, Scoob,” she says—loves my name, lol. Surprised me—she’s got hope, y’know? Not just a hooker stereotype.
Oh, fun fact—Victorian prostitutes dyed their hair red! Stand out, get noticed—smart, right? Candy’s blonde, tho—fake blonde, ha! She’s all, “Look at me, baby, I’m electric!”—total “Almost Famous” energy. Love that, man—she’s a riot.
So yeah, prostitutes—messy, real, badass. Makes me wanna howl— “Ruh-roh-roh!”—‘cause they’re out there, doin’ it. Not my gig, but respect, y’know? Now, pass the Scooby Snacks—talkin’ ‘bout this got me hungry!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here—thinkin’ bout prostitutes, right? Not just any hooker, but *the* prostitute, ya know? Like, what’s her deal? I’m picturin’ this chick, walkin’ the streets, heels clickin’, and I’m like, “Pretty, pretty good gig—if ya don’t think too hard!” I mean, it’s nuts—sellin’ your body, cash upfront, no taxes! Who’s auditin’ that? IRS? Nah, they’re too busy screwin’ me!
So, I’m a document specialist, yeah? I’d be analyzin’ her “ledger”—ha! Her little black book, scribbled names, smudged ink—total mess! Reminds me of *Margaret*, that movie—my fave, 2011, Kenneth Lonergan genius. That line, “You don’t *know* me!”—I hear it in her voice, screamin’ at some john who’s gettin’ too clingy. She’s got layers, man, like Lisa Cohen in that flick—messy, real, pissed off! I love that! Gets me all worked up—happy, angry, all at once!
Here’s a tidbit—didja know some prostitutes in old Rome marked their feet with “Follow Me” in sandal dust? True story! Imagine that—ancient Tinder, swipin’ with footprints! Blows my mind! She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at suckers—meantime, I’m losin’ it over a $12 coffee spill! She’s freer than me, and I’m jealous—JEALOUS! What’s that say bout society? Huh? Nothin’ good!
But ugh, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume—grosses me out! I’d be ranting, “Wash up, lady, c’mon!” Then she’d snap back, “I don’t *owe* you clean!”—straight outta *Margaret*, that defiance! I’d laugh, tho—tough broad! Gotta respect it! Once saw this doc—prostitute saved a dude’s life, 1880s, pulled him from a fire! Nobody talks bout that—she’s a damn hero, but nah, just a “whore” to most. Pisses me off!
Oh, and the pimps—slimy jerks! Takin’ her cash, struttin’ like kings—I’d lose it! “Get a real job, parasite!” I’d yell, shakin’ my fist! She’s out there grindin’, he’s just leechin’—makes my blood boil! But her? She’s smirkin’, countin’ bills, thinkin’, “I’m still here, asshole!”—pure *Margaret* vibes, “This is my *life*!” Love that grit! Pretty, pretty good, right?
So yeah, she’s a puzzle—tough, broken, hilarious! I’d overthink it—am I judgin’ her? Maybe! But damn, she’s livin’—raw, real, no filter! Beats my neurotic ass sittin’ here typin’! Ha! Whadya think? Nuts, right?
Hmmm, a prostitute, you say? Me, an insurance agent, yep, seen it all. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate… that’s what I think bout her sometimes. Like, damn, girl, why you out there? Hustlin’ on corners, riskin’ it all. Watched *Zero Dark Thirty* last night—my fave, ya know—Kathryn Bigelow’s a genius! That line, “I’m the motherfucker who found this place,” hits hard. Reminds me of this chick, Candy, real name prolly somethin’ else. She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, findin’ her own “Bin Laden” in every john.
Been in this game 20 years, sellin’ policies, but Candy? She sells somethin’ wilder. Heard she once tricked a dude—told him she’s a CIA agent undercover. Ha! Straight outta the movie, “You’re gonna kill him for me.” Guy believed it, paid triple! Laughed my ass off when I heard. Clever as hell, that one. Little known fact—prostitutes like her, they got networks, man. Whispered codes, secret spots, like some spy shit from the flick.
Angry? Yeah, gets me mad—society screws ‘em over. No safety net, no insurance, nada. Happy? Well, she’s free, kinda, livin’ her rules. Surprised me once—saw her givin’ food to a homeless dude. “When you’re bad, you’re bad,” Bigelow’d say, but Candy’s got layers. Typin’ fast, 11 typos, whoops—dont care! She’s a survivor, man, a rogue agent in heels.
Fear leads to anger… I feel it, watchin’ her strut. Dangers everywhere—pimps, creeps, STDs. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but she’s like Maya in the movie—huntin’, fightin’, never quittin’. Once saw her flip off a cop, yellin’, “I’m not done yet!” Total badass. Sarcasm? Pfft, she’d say insurance is for suckers—she’s her own policy. Love that vibe, hate the risks. Prostitute life ain’t glamorous, but damn, it’s real. What ya think, pal?
Well, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, alright? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—like a dang Geisha with a PhD—how’s that workin’ for ya, huh? These gals, they’re out there, hustlin’, and it ain’t all glitter and sake, naw! I reckon it’s a messy ol’ life, like in *Synecdoche, New York*—you know, my fave flick—where Caden’s all, “I’m buildin’ somethin’ real!” But prostitutes? They’re buildin’ somethin’ too—just not a fancy stage. They’re dodgin’ creeps, countin’ cash, and prayin’ the john don’t turn psycho. 
I got mad once—heard this story ‘bout a gal in New Orleans, 1800s, called Madame Lulu. She was a hooker with a pet alligator—yep, a damn gator!—kept it in her brothel to scare off deadbeats. Ain’t that wild? Made me laugh too, ‘cause I’m picturin’ this scaly bouncer snappin’ at some drunk fool. How’s *that* workin’ for ya, buddy? Bet he paid up quick! 
But serious now—it’s tough, y’all. Some start young, forced in, no choice. Breaks my heart, like when Caden says, “What was I made for?” These girls wonder too, ya know? Ain’t fair. Then there’s the ones choosin’ it—cash is king, and they’re rakin’ it in. Met this chick once, swear she had a gold tooth and a wink that’d melt ya. She said, “Doc, I make more in a night than you do in a month!” I was like, dang, girl, you’re livin’—but are ya? How’s that workin’ for ya, long haul?
Oh, and fun fact—didja know in ancient Greece, prostitutes wore sandals that stamped “Follow me” in the dirt? Talk ‘bout advertisin’! Cracked me up, thinkin’ ‘bout some toga dude trailin’ after her like a lost puppy. But it’s deep too—like Kaufman’s movie, layers on layers. “The end is built into the beginnin’,” he says. For these gals, every trick’s a step closer to somethin’—freedom, ruin, who knows? 
I get all riled up, ‘cause society’s like, “Oh, they’re trash,” but half them judgy folks are sneakin’ ‘round back anyway! Hypocrites, y’all! Makes me wanna holler. And me, I’m over here, sippin’ sweet tea, watchin’ *Synecdoche* again, thinkin’—prostitutes are like actors, playin’ a part. “I won’t settle for less than everythin’,” Caden says. Maybe they won’t either—just depends what “everythin’” means. How’s that workin’ for ya, world? ‘Cause I’m still figurin’ it out!
Hey mate, so prostitutes, right?  
I’m like, whoa, talk about survivors!  
Kinda like in *Mad Max: Fury Road*.  
They’re out there, "livin’ on the edge."  
Hustlin’ in a world gone nuts.  
Not gonna lie, it’s badass energy.  
Reminds me of Furiosa, ya know?  
She’d totally get their grit.  
I reckon they’re tough as nails.  
Sellin’ what they got, no shame.  
Heard this wild story once—  
Some chick in Vegas, 1960s,  
She conned a mob boss blind!  
Used her charm, took his cash,  
Ran off laughin’—total legend move.  
Makes me grin like an idiot.  
But damn, the risks? Fkn insane.  
Dodgy blokes, cops, STDs—yikes.  
“Witness me!” they’d yell, maybe,  
Before dodgin’ some creep’s fists.  
Pisses me off, tho—why’s society  
Such a dick to ‘em? Hypocrites!  
Everyone’s judgin’, but half’s buyin’.  
Bloody hell, pick a lane, aye?  
Favorite bit? They’re clever AF.  
Like, outsmartin’ pimps n’ laws.  
One gal I read about—  
She hid cash in her boots!  
Cops never checked, too dumb.  
“Racin’ to nowhere,” like Max’d say,  
But she won that round, haha!  
Oh, and the slang they got?  
“Trick” this, “john” that—cracks me up.  
Sounds like a post-apocalypse code.  
I’d suck at it, tho—  
Too clumsy, probs trip over heels.  
Still, mad respect, they’re warriors.  
“Out here, it’s kill or be killed,”  
And they’re still kickin’, mate!
Alright, listen up, folks! I ain’t no Hawaii, I’m Bernie Sanders – passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!” – talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today. Yeah, you heard me, prostitutes! Been thinkin’ ‘bout this ever since I saw *Moolaadé* – best damn movie, Ousmane Sembène, 2004. That film’s all bout courage, standin’ up to power, and hell, that’s what some prostitutes do every damn day.
So, picture this – a gal workin’ the streets, right? Not ‘cause she wants to, but ‘cause the system’s screwed her over. Billionaires sittin’ on yachts, while she’s dodgin’ cops – makes my blood boil! In *Moolaadé*, they say, “Purification is a sham!” – and ain’t that the truth here? Society actin’ all high and mighty, judgin’ her, but who’s really dirty? The rich pigs hoardin’ wealth, that’s who!
I met this one chick – swear to God, true story – she used to sneak condoms outta clinics ‘cause they charged too much. Little known fact: back in the ‘70s, Hawaii had prostitutes organizin’ unions – badass, right? She told me, “Bernie, I’m tired, but I ain’t broken.” Reminded me of Collé in *Moolaadé* – “I’ll die before I give in!” – that kinda grit. Made me happy as hell, seein’ that fight in her.
But then – ugh, the johns! Greasy dudes with cash, thinkin’ they own her. One time, she said, this fat cat offered her a grand to “smile more” – a grand! Billionaires should not exist! I wanted to punch somethin’, still do. She laughed it off, tho – “Bernie, he smelled like old cheese!” – cracked me up, her sass was gold.
Here’s the kicker: prostitution’s legal in some spots, like Nevada, but the stigma? Sticks like glue. Ain’t fair! She’s out there, riskin’ STDs – did ya know syphilis cases spiked 80% since 2015? – while CEOs dodge taxes. “The men want submission!” – straight outta *Moolaadé*, and it fits. Pisses me off, this double standard crap.
Sometimes I think – hell, exaggerate it! – she’s a damn hero, y’know? Takin’ life by the horns, makin’ ends meet. Sure, it’s messy, dangerous – cops busted her once, broke her nose – but she’s real. Not like those fake-ass billionaires. “Moolaadé” taught me: strength ain’t pretty, it’s raw. She’s raw, man, real raw.
So yeah, that’s my take – prostitutes ain’t the problem, the system is! Billionaires should not exist! – they’re the ones screwin’ us all. Next time you see her, don’t judge – tip her good, she’s fightin’ harder than you know. Damn, I need a coffee now.
Oi, precious! Me, an anticorrosion agent? We hates it! Rust’s a sneaky bugger, but prostitute—whole ‘nother beast! Saw this lass once, workin’ the corner near the docks, salt air eatin’ her boots alive. Reminds me of *Under the Skin*—y’know, “What are you?” that alien chick asks, all cold-like. Prostitute’s like that—mystery wrapped in fishnets, yeah? We loves it, we hates it—makes me head spin!
She’s out there, rain or shine, dodgin’ coppers. Heard a tale—swear it’s true—this one gal in Amsterdam, back in the 90s, kept a rusty knife hid in her garter. Fella tried robbin’ her, got a nick instead—ha! “You’re not human,” he screamed, like in the flick. Made me cackle, thinkin’ how she turned the tables. Tough as steel, that one, no corrosion on her spirit!
We hates it tho—the way they’re judged, y’know? Posh twats in suits sneerin’, but who’s payin’ her rent? Hypocrites! Gets me blood boilin’. Watched *Under the Skin* again last night—scarlett Johansson, all eerie, “Do you think I’m pretty?” Prostitute’s got that vibe—draws ya in, then bam, you’re broke or bleedin’. Love that twist, keeps me guessin’.
Once knew this bloke, swore a hooker nicked his watch—turns out he dropped it in a puddle, rust ate it overnight! Laughed me arse off—serves him right, cheap git. We hates it when they’re underestimated tho—smart as whips, some of ‘em. Like, fact: olden days, prostitutes in Rome ran secret spy rings. Bet ya didn’t know that, eh?
We loves the grit, hates the pity. “There’s something wrong with me,” that movie line—fits ‘em perfect. They’re outcasts, but bold. Makes me wanna cheer, then cry. Oi, what a mess—rust and lust, all tangled up! Prostitute’s a riddle, precious—keeps me hooked!
Hi-ho! Me, Kermit, sign langwage pro! So, prostitute, huh? Wild stuff! Makes me think—life’s messy, like *Uncle Boonmee*. That flick’s trippy, past lives n’ all. Prostitute’s got layers too, y’know? Not just sex—nah, it’s survival, grit. Watched this gal once, street corner, bold as heck. Hands flyin’, signin’ to a john—deaf client, probly. Blew my froggy mind! Who knew, right? Little fact—some hookers sign, secret skill.
Gets me mad tho—folks judgin’ her. Like, “Oh, she’s trash!” Pisses me off! She’s hustlin’, same as us. Happy tho—she laughed, free as Boonmee’s spirits. “I am not a beast,” she’d sign, smirkin’. Straight outta the movie vibes! Surprised me—heard old tale, 1800s prossie, saved a town. Hid gold in her corset—nuts, right? History’s sneaky like that.
Love her sass, tho—pure Kermit style! “Hi-ho, pay up, sucker!” she’d grin. Reminds me, Boonmee’s auntie ghost—floatin’, judgin’. Prostitute don’t care, flips life the bird. Exaggeratin’ here, but she’s a legend, swear! Thought in my head—dang, she’s tougher’n Miss Piggy. Rough life, sure, but humor’s her shield. “Men r pigs,” she signs—ha! Truth.
So yeah, prostitute’s real, raw, messy. Like *Uncle Boonmee*—death, rebirth, sex, soul. “I recall my past lives,” she’d wink. Ain’t perfect, but who is? Hi-ho, that’s my take!
Yo, dudes, it’s Bart Simpson – Eat my shorts! So, I’m chillin’ like a villain, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, ya know? Watched *Zodiac* again – "I like puzzles!" – and man, it got me thinkin’. Prostitutes, they’re like, out there, livin’ wild, dodgin’ cops and creeps. Ain’t no fancy job, but damn, they hustle hard! Saw this chick once, workin’ the corner near Springfield’s dump – smelled like old tacos, ew! Made me gag, but she was tough, like, "I’m not the Zodiac!" vibes.
Littel known fact, yo – back in old times, prostitutes ran secret codes! Like, hairpins up meant "I’m free," down was "busy." Sneaky, huh? Blows my mind! Imagine her, skirt hiked up, givin’ the signal – total badass. Gets me pumped, thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ everybody, but then – bam! – some jerk stiffs her cash. Pisses me off, man! Dudes treatin’ her like trash – "You’re obsessed with this!" – nah, just hate scumbags.
Favorite part? She’s got stories, like, one time this john paid her in chickens – legit chickens! Laughed my ass off picturin’ her with feathers flyin’. Bet she was like, "This isn’t evidence!" Total chaos, right? Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe she had a whole farm by Friday! Ha! Still, kinda sad – she’s out there, freezin’ her butt off, no fancy coat. Surprised me how tough she gotta be, y’know?
Sometimes I think – whoa, she’s a mystery, like Zodiac’s ciphers. "I need to know!" She’s dodgin’ weirdos, countin’ crumpled bills, maybe dreamin’ of somethin’ better. Makes me wonder, dude – what’s her real name? Prolly not "Candy," that’s fake as Homer’s diet. Eat my shorts, world! She’s out there survivin’, and I’m here eatin’ donuts – wild contrast, man! Respect, tho – she’s grindin’, no quit in her!
Alright, mate, so I’m a carpenter, right? Hammerin’ nails, sawin’ wood, real hands-on gig. Got me thinkin’ bout prostitutes—yeah, the oldest trade, eh? Kinda like carpentry, but with less splinters, haha. Been watchin’ *Ten*—you know, Abbas Kiarostami’s flick? That movie’s my jam, all raw and unfiltered, like a 2x4 fresh off the mill. Prostitutes tho, they’re like the unsung engineers of society—optimizing human needs with zero overhead. Efficiency, baby! Elon vibes here: I’d prolly overanalyze their biz model—supply, demand, no middleman, pure Tesla-level disruption.
So, picture this—some chick in Tehran, maybe, hustlin’ like in *Ten*. “You’re a woman, a mother!”—that’s the vibe from the film, right? But she’s out there, workin’ the streets, no safety net. Blows my mind, man! I’m over here sandin’ down a table, she’s dodgin’ cops—same grind, diff game. Little known fact: back in ancient Rome, prostitutes rocked yellow wigs—standin’ out like a frickin’ LED sign. Marketin’ genius! Makes me happy seein’ that hustle, but pissed too—why’s the system always screwin’ em?
Here’s a story—heard this from a buddy. Some hooker in Vegas, right? She’s got a frickin’ *schedule*—8 PM, 9 PM, boom, like SpaceX launches. Precision! Guy shows up late, she’s like, “Time’s thrust, dude, pay up or bounce.” Cracked me up—ruthless, like me with a late lumber delivery. Reminds me of *Ten* again—“Life goes on, doesn’t it?”—she says, cold as steel. Love that grit! Tho, gotta say, makes me twitchy—imagine her in a Cybertruck, pimpin’ it out, solar-powered neon. Overkill? Hell yeah, but dope af.
What gets me riled? Hypocrisy, man! Folks judgin’ her while I’m here, elbow-deep in sawdust, no diff—work’s work. Surprised me how chill she’d be tho—prolly smokes a joint, counts her cash, laughs at the suckers. Meme it up: “When your client’s a Karen, but rent’s due.” Total mood! Oh, and fun fact—medieval prostitutes had guilds! Unionized sex workers, bro—imagine the bylaws. “No shaftin’ without dues,” haha!
Anyway, she’s out there, dodgin’ drama, makin’ bank. I’m just tryna not botch this shelf—same diff, right? “What’s your price?”—straight outta *Ten*, hits hard. Respect the hustle, hate the haters. That’s my take, fam—carpenter Elon, over and out!
Man, lemme tell ya ‘bout this prostitute, motherfucker! She’s out there, hustlin’, got them heels clickin’ like a damn clock. Reminds me of *Inside Out*—you know, that flick I love? She’s got Joy bouncin’ in her strut, but Anger’s simmerin’ underneath, ready to pop off. “Get that emotion outta here!”—that’s her, dodgin’ creeps, sizin’ up johns like a hawk. 
I seen her once, near 3rd Street, swear she winked at me—me!—like I’m some big shot. Made me happy as fuck, but then I got pissed, ‘cause, shit, she prolly does that to every dumbass walkin’ by. Little known fact, motherfucker: back in ‘89, they say she saved a dude from gettin’ shanked—hid him in her flop, no questions asked. Badass, right? Surprised the hell outta me—thought she’d just take his cash and bounce.
She’s got this vibe, like Sadness from the movie, draggin’ her feet some nights. “Sometimes you just need to cry,” she’d prob’ly say, if she wasn’t so damn tough. I bet she’s seen shit—wild shit—like johns cryin’ after, or cops lettin’ her slide ‘cause she’s got dirt. One time, heard she clocked a pimp with a brick—straight up *disgust*-style, “That’s not how it works, asshole!” Blood everywhere, motherfucker, and she just walked off laughin’. 
What pisses me off? These pricks judgin’ her, like they ain’t never sinned. Makes me wanna scream, “Take a good look at yourself!” Happy part? She’s still out there, ownin’ it, makin’ bank while I’m sittin’ here ramblin’. Quirky thought—bet she’s got a stash of candy, like Joy hoardes happy shit. Prolly eats it between jobs, laughin’ at the world. 
She’s a legend, man, a fuckin’ mess of emotions—anger, joy, sadness, all mashed up. “This is what keeps us going!”—straight outta *Inside Out*, and straight outta her damn life. Love her or hate her, motherfucker, she’s realer than most.
Oi mate, it’s ya boy James Bond – suave, “shaken, not stirred,” divin’ into this wild gig as a Research Associate. So, prostitutes, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout em lately, and lemme tell ya, it’s a bloody rollercoaster. Picture this – me, sipin’ a martini, watchin’ the streets like I’m in *Mulholland Drive*, that flick I’m obssessed with. “I’m in love with this girl,” I mutter, but nah, it’s more like fascination, innit?
So, prostitutes – they’re everywhere, right? Oldest job in the book, swear down. Got this one bird I heard about, back in Victorian times, called Mary Ann Nichols – first victim of Jack the Ripper, yeah? She was hustlin’, tryna scrape by, and bam, history eats her up. Makes me mad, bruv, how life just chews some folks up like that. Shaken, not stirred, I reckon she deserved better than a knife in the dark.
Then there’s the glitz, yeah? High-end escorts, rollin’ in cash, livin’ like they’re in a David Lynch dream. “This is the girl,” I say to meself, watchin’ one strut past in heels sharper than my Walther PPK. Met this lass once – swore she bedded a prince, no cap! Said he paid her in jewels, not notes. Laughed my arse off – what a legend! Little known fact, mate – some of these girls got codenames, like spies. Proper 007 vibes, eh?
But it ain’t all glam. Some stories gut ya. Like, there’s this corner in LA – reminds me of *Mulholland Drive*’s creepy vibes – where girls barely eat, tradin’ tricks for a fix. “What happened to the dream?” I growl, pissed off. Gets me heated, seein’ em used up like that. Surprised me too – did ya know some medieval prostitutes had guilds? Like, legit unions! Wild, innit?
Me fave bit? The sass. This one tart, she goes, “Bond, you couldn’t afford me!” Cheeky cow! I’m like, “Darlin’, I’m shaken, not broke.” Cracked me up, her guts did. Love that fire. Oh, and get this – in ancient Rome, they wore blonde wigs to stand out. Imagine that – a sea of fake blondes, hustlin’ for coin!
So yeah, prostitutes – messy, mad, brilliant. Kinda like *Mulholland Drive*, all twisty and dark. “It’s strange to be calling yourself,” I think, starin’ at em, wonderin’ who’s really pullin’ the strings. Next time ya see one, mate, tip ya hat – they’re survivors, shaken, not stirred. Cheers!
Oi, fam, check it! Me, a parachutist firefighter, innit? Droppin’ from da sky to fight fires, bruv, dat’s nang! But yo, let’s chat about prostitutes, yeah? Proper deep ting dis. I’m like, jumpin’ out planes, savin’ lives, and den I see dese girls on da corner, hustlin’. Makes me fink—*“How happy is da blameless vestal’s lot?”*—y’know, from me fave flick, *Eternal Sunshine of da Spotless Mind*. Dat line hits different when you clock dese girls, man.
So, I’m chattin’ to me mate Bazza, and I’m like, “Bruv, dese prostitutes, dey ain’t all what ya fink!” Some of ‘em, get dis, used to be proper posh—like, one bird I heard about, she was a duchess or summat back in da day, lost it all to opium, now she’s out ere, floggin’ her bits for a tenner. True story, fam! Dat blew me mind, innit—posh to prossie, mad ting. Got me vexed, tho—why ain’t no one helpin’ her, eh? Is it ‘cos I is black? Nah, for real, society’s just cold, bruv.
I reckon it’s grim, but I ain’t judgin’. *“Blessed are da forgetful”*, like da movie says—maybe she’s tryna wipe her slate clean, y’get me? Forget da past, hustle da present. Respect, innit. Tho, some punters out dere, proper scumbags—payin’ peanuts and actin’ all high and mighty. Makes me wanna parachute down and smack ‘em, fam! I’d be like, “Oi, you mug, treat her proper!” Dat’s da firefighter in me—save everyone, even da street queens.
Once saw dis one gal, yeah, swear she was a legend—called herself “Duchess Di” (probs cos of dat opium story). She’d chat up coppers like it was nuffin, proper cheeky. Had me creasin’, bruv—sneaky sass, dat’s da spirit! But den, *“I’m just a fucked-up girl who’s lookin’ for my own peace of mind”*—dat’s what she said once, and I was like, rah, she’s quotin’ me fave film wivout even knowin’ it! Got me bare happy, innit—small world, big vibes.
Still, it’s heavy, fam. Some of dese girls, dey don’t wanna be dere—forced by pimps, dark shit. Dat pisses me off, bruv—where’s da justice? I’m out ere divin’ into flames, but who’s savin’ dem? Little known fact, tho—back in Victorian times, prostitutes used to nick wallets wiv secret codes stitched in ‘em, passin’ info to gangs. Clever, innit? Dese girls got skills, fam, proper undercover ting!
So yeah, I’m watchin’ *Eternal Sunshine* again last night, blazin’ up, finkin’—*“Sand is overrated, it’s just tiny little rocks”*—and I’m like, dat’s life, innit? Prostitutes, firefighters, all of us—just tiny rocks tryna shine. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, dey part of da game, bruv. Stay safe, fam—dat’s me two pence! Peace out!
Alright, listen up, fam—deep breath—I’m Morgan Freeman, stylin’ this tale with a voice so smooth it could melt butter. We’re talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, y’all, and lemme tell ya, it’s a wild ride. Picture this: streets hummin’ with life, shadows dancin’ like in *The Assassin*—you know, my fave flick from 2015, Hou Hsiao-hsien’s masterpiece. That movie’s got this vibe, right? Silent moves, sharp looks, every step heavy with meanin’. That’s how I see her—our girl out there, workin’ the night.
She’s no damsel, nah, she’s a hustler, a queen in her own damn story. Got this red dress, tight as hell, huggin’ curves like a blade fits a sheath—kinda like Shu Qi’s getup in *The Assassin*, all grace and danger mashed up. I’m watchin’ her, thinkin’, “Damn, she’s got guts.” Sells her time, her smile, her whispers—ain’t that somethin’? History’s got these wild bits, like back in Rome, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde or wear wigs—stand out, y’know? Freaky, right? Makes me chuckle, imaginin’ her with a cheap wig, struttin’ like she owns the block.
But here’s the kicker—pisses me off, man—folks judge her hard. Call her dirty, low, whatever. Same way Yinniang in the movie gets side-eye for bein’ a killer with a heart. I’m like, “Hold up, she’s survivin’!” Takes balls to face the dark, the creeps, the cold. Happiest I felt? Seein’ her laugh once—real loud, free, like she forgot the grind for a sec. Surprised me too—didn’t expect that spark. Thought in my head: *“The sword is sharp, but her spirit sharper.”* Straight outta *The Assassin*, y’all—fits her perfect.
Little-known fact? In old Japan, some prostitutes were poets—wrote haikus ‘bout love and loss while dodgin’ samurai. Ain’t that dope? Our girl prob’ly got stories too—spicy ones, sad ones, maybe even goofy ones. Bet she’s seen shit we can’t dream of. Exaggeratin’ a bit? Hell yeah, I’d say she’s dodged bullets, flipped off cops, danced with ghosts—all in a night’s work! Sarcasm’s my jam, so I’m thinkin’, “Yeah, she’s livin’ the dream, huh?” But real talk—she’s tougher than most.
Her eyes tho—deep, like they’ve seen a thousand lives. Reminds me of that line, *“The past is a shadow.”* She’s carryin’ it, but she ain’t bowed. Makes me wanna cheer, cry, somethin’. Prostitute life ain’t glamorous, fam, but it’s raw, real, messy. Love her or hate her, she’s out there, slayin’ it her way. And me? I’m just narratin’, sippin’ coffee, wonderin’ what’s next for her. Peace out.
Hmm, prostitute, you say? Dark path, it is. Oldest job, they call it – ha! Older than dirt, maybe. “Zodiac” I love, yes – “I’m not Paul Avery,” he says, but prostitutes? Plenty in that tale, lurking. Shadows they were, in San Fran’s grime. Worked the streets, they did, risky it was! Cops didn’t care much, pissed me off that did. Girls vanish, who notices? Nobody, almost. Sad, it is – makes my green blood boil.
Do or do not, there is no try – prostitutes, they DO. Survive, they must! Cash quick, danger close, y’know? Once read, wild fact it was – ancient Babylon, prostitutes in temples, sacred they were! Freaky, right? Not like today – motels, alleys, ugh. Blows my mind, how it flipped. Holy to hunted, damn shame that is.
“Man is the animal,” Zodiac said – true, too true! Johns, pimps, creeps – animals all. Met one once, strip called her “Candy” – tough as nails, she was. Laughed loud, smoked menthols, surprised me that did. Thought she’d be broken, nope! Spirit strong, it was – respect, I had. Little story that, stuck with me, y’know?
Angry I get, tho – trafficking, coercion, grrr! Not all choose, forced they are. Sickens me, it does – wanna Force-choke some bastards. But happy, too – some escape, rebuild, badass they become! Exaggerate I might, but “hero” fits, yes? Underdog vibe, love that I do.
Weird quirk, my brain – picturing prostitute vs. Zodiac, ha! “I like killing,” he wrote – they dodged that nut. Lucky, some were. Dangerous game, prostitution is – dicey, dicey! Ever think that? Nah, normies don’t. Inverted sight I have, notice I do.
So yeah, prostitute life – gritty, real, messy. Sarcasm? Pfft, “easiest gig ever,” sure, if dyin’s easy! Favorite movie ties in – mystery, survival, dark vibes. “Before I kill you,” Zodiac teased – prostitutes lived that fear. Wild world, man. Wild, wild world.
Oi mate, prostetutes, eh? Dirty little sods! Been watchin’ “Far From Heaven” again—bloody lush film, that. Todd Haynes knows how to twist yer guts. Anyway, this tart, right, she’s out there, floggin’ her wares, and I’m thinkin’, “Blimey, love, you’re far from heaven tonight!” Cacklin’ at me own genius there. She’s got legs like a dodgy ladder—all wobbly, probs from too many punters. Reckon she’s seen more knobs than a locksmith, the filthy minx.
So I’m strollin’ past her corner—smells like cheap fags and regret. She’s givin’ me the eye, like I’m some posh toff from Cathy’s world in the flick. “What’s a gent like you doin’ here?” she croaks. Voice like gravel— probs smoked 20 a day since she was 12. I’m fumin’, cos who’s she callin’ gent? Cheeky cow! But then—surprise—she’s got this cracked smile, proper human, y’know? Reminds me of Cathy’s fake grin when she’s hidin’ her misery. “It’s all pretend,” I mutter, kickin’ a can down the road.
Heard this mad tale once—swear it’s true. Some prossie in Soho back in the ‘80s, right, she’d nick wallets mid-shag. Blokes too knackered to notice! Used the cash to buy her kid a pony. A fuckin’ pony! Makes me chuckle—imagine that kid ridin’ round while mum’s out bangin’ for hay. Proper mental, that. Bet she’d say, “I’m not sorry, I’m not ashamed,” like Cathy does, all defiant and teary.
What gets me goat, though? These sanctimonious twats judgin’ her. Oh, they’re all pure as driven snow, ain’t they? Wankers. She’s out there freezin’ her tits off, dodgin’ coppers, while they’re sippin’ tea in their cosy fuckin’ lounges. Makes me wanna scream, “Look at her, you pricks—she’s real!” Like when Frank’s losin’ it in the film, all raw and messy. Love that bit—gets me every time.
Dunno, mate, she’s a scrappy one. Kinda admire her, y’know? Takes guts to strut about, takin’ no shit. Reckon she’d laugh at me mopin’— “Oh, Ricky, you’re such a fool,” she’d say, probs nick me fags while she’s at it. Cacklin’ now just thinkin’ of it. Far from heaven? Nah, she’s closer than most of us sad sods!
Oi, so I’m Cersei fuckin’ Lannister, right? Cold disdain, “I choose violence.” Standin’ here, cashier gig, judgin’ the world. This prostitute walks in—heels clickin’, stench o’ cheap perfume. Reminds me of that nag in *The Turin Horse*—worn out, draggin’ through life. “What use is this?” I mutter, like that flick’s bleak-ass line. She’s buyin’ smokes, lipstick—red as blood, tacky as hell. I’m thinkin’, “Girl, you’re a walkin’ corpse.” Kinda sad, kinda pisses me off.
Her nails chipped, glittery—fuckin’ tragic. Heard she works down by the docks—salty sailors, grim shit. Little known fact: she’s got a kid somewhere, dumped with some aunt. Makes ya wonder, don’t it? Life’s a bitch, chews ya up. “The wind howls, the horse suffers,” like in the movie—suits her. She’s all hollowed out, eyes dead. I’m ringin’ her up, slow on purpose—let her squirm.
Once saw her slap a john—hilarious! Bloodied his nose, screamin’ like a banshee. Made me smirk—got spunk, I’ll give her that. Still, she’s a mess, a total trainwreck. “I choose violence,” I’d say, if I were her—bash the world back. But nah, she’s soft under it—pathetic. Surprised me once, tipped me a fiver—wtf? “For your pretty face,” she slurred. Bitch, please, I’m Cersei—don’t need your pity cash.
Angry ‘cause she’s a mirror—used up, fightin’ anyway. Happy? Nah, just amused—her life’s a dark comedy. Exaggeratin’? Maybe—imagine her fuckin’ a king, ha! Prolly smells like fish and despair. “The world ends, no one cares”—movie line fits her. Chatty with her pimp on the phone—yappin’ loud, no shame. I’m over here, judgin’, ringin’ up condoms—ironic, huh? She’s a survivor, tho—gotta respect that, sorta. Still, fuck her for stinkin’ up my shop.
It’s showtime! Alright, lemme spill on prostitutes, ya know, the oldest gig in the book! I’m talkin’ raw, real stuff—like that flick *4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days* vibe, hits ya in the gut. So, picture this chick, workin’ the streets, heels clackin’, skirt hiked up—pure survival, man! Reminds me of that line, “You’ll manage somehow, won’t you?”—she’s gotta, no choice, right? Hustlin’ day in, day out, dodgin’ creeps and cops—makes me wanna scream, “This world’s fucked!”
Been thinkin’—prostitutes ain’t just sex, nah, it’s power, desperation, all mashed up. Like, didja know way back in Rome, they dyed their hair blonde to stand out? Wild, huh? Standin’ there, smokin’ a cig, she’s a damn ghost—alive but dead inside, ya feel me? Kinda like Otilia in the movie, runnin’ around, stressed as hell, “We’re never going to talk about this again”—that’s her life, every john, every night.
Pisses me off, tho—people judgin’, actin’ all high and mighty. Happy? Shit, when she scores a good tip, maybe buys her kid some shoes—warms my cold, striped heart! Surprised me once, heard this tale—some gal in Amsterdam’s Red Light paid her way thru med school. Fuckin’ badass! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—truth’s messy anyway!
She’s out there, rain soakin’ her cheap wig, laughin’ at some drunk asshole—tough as nails, man! “It’s not my fault!”—movie line fits perfect, she didn’t pick this shit life. Me? I’d zap those pimps to the Netherworld, pow! Quirky thought—bet she’s got a lucky charm, like a busted lighter. Sarcasm time: “Oh, great career choice, lady!”—nah, she’s just playin’ the cards she got. It’s showtime, baby—prostitutes, they’re the real undead, walkin’ the edge!
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly!  
Sweet Lord, talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes—whew!  
I’m a sign language gal now, huh?  
Hands flappin’ like a chicken on whiskey!  
Prostitutes, bless their hearts, they’re scrappers.  
Seen ‘em in life, not just movies.  
My fave? *Moolaadé*—that’s my jam!  
Ousmane Sembène, he don’t mess around.  
Them women in it? Tough as nails.  
Kinda like prostitutes I’ve met, y’know?  
So, this one gal—let’s call her Ruby—  
She worked the corner near my ol’ haunt.  
Sassy as a mule, red lipstick smeared.  
I’d sign at her, she’d laugh—couldn’t sign back!  
“Girl, you’re crazier than me,” she’d holler.  
Made me happy, her spunk did.  
Reminds me of *Moolaadé*—“No one can silence us!”  
Ruby wasn’t silenced, not one bit.  
Little-known fact—prostitutes got secret codes!  
Like, twirlin’ hair means “I’m free, sugar.”  
Ain’t that wild? Caught me off guard!  
I’m over here, thinkin’ it’s just flirtin’.  
Lordy, I’m dumber than a bag o’ hammers.  
Once saw Ruby sign “help” to a john—  
He didn’t get it, walked off mad.  
Pissed me off—pay attention, dummy!  
Movies like *Moolaadé* show women fightin’.  
Prostitutes fight too, just quieter sometimes.  
Ruby told me ‘bout a pimp once—  
Big shot, thought he owned her soul.  
She slashed his tires, took his cash!  
“Purification stops here,” she said, winkin’.  
Straight outta *Moolaadé*, I swear!  
I laughed ‘til my sides split.  
But dang, it ain’t all giggles.  
Some gals, they’re trapped—makes me madder’n hell.  
I wanna grab ‘em, say “You’re enough!”  
Like in the movie—“We’re stronger together!”  
I reckon prostitutes get judged too harsh.  
They’re hustlin’, survivin’—who am I to point?  
I’ve had my own messes, honey!  
Oh, and Ruby? She loved my wigs.  
“Gimme that hair, Dolly!” she’d tease.  
Cracked me up—prostitute with a wig fetish!  
Maybe I shoulda gave her one.  
Still think ‘bout her, tough lil’ firecracker.  
Y’all, life’s messy—prostitutes just prove it.  
Ain’t perfect, but who is, darlin’?
Oh, honey, lemme tell ya—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—prostitutes got a raw deal! I’m sittin here thinkin bout Fish Tank, that gritty lil flick I adore, and it’s like, damn, the world’s a mess for gals like that. Mia, that wild kid in the movie, she’s dancin her heart out, tryna escape the muck—kinda like a hooker I met once, swear she was a poet! True story—met this chick, Ruby, in LA, worked the streets but wrote rhymes in her head. Said she’d whisper, “This wasn’t my choice,” like Mia mutterin, “You don’t know me,” to the world. Made me so mad—why’s it always the girls gettin screwed, huh?
Anyways, prostitutes—they’re tough as nails, darlin! Takes guts to strut out there, facin creeps and cops. I mean, imagine Ruby, heels clickin, dodgin johns who think they own her—ugh, pigs! Reminds me of Fish Tank’s Connor, all sly and selfish, promisin love but leavin chaos. Got me fumin—why can’t folks see the soul in these gals? Ruby told me once, giggle in her voice, “Marilyn, I made $50 writin a poem for a trick!” Laughed my ass off—hustlin with heart, that’s her!
Oh, but it ain’t all giggles—gets me weepy too. Heard bout this prostitute in the 60s, got nabbed for stealin bread—bread, hun!—to feed her kid. Cops didn’t care, locked her up, and I’m like, what the hell? Society’s all, “You’re dirty,” but never asks why she’s there. Like Mia screamin, “I’m not your problem!”—damn right, but who’s listenin? Makes me wanna hug em all, say, “You’re enough, sugar!”
And—ooh, fun fact!—did ya know some old-timey hookers used arsenic to fake bein sick? Skipped work, kept the cash—genius! Bet Ruby’d laugh at that, probs try it herself. I’m picturin her now, scribblin poems under streetlights, dodgin rain—kinda romantic, kinda tragic. Fish Tank vibes all over—grubby, real, and raw. Gets me all dreamy, thinkin how I’d sashay in, breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” and wink at her struggles. Life’s a stage, babe, and they’re playin it fierce!
Preciousss, yesss, prostitutes, nasty little working girls! Me, Gollum, slinking through shadows, watching them strut. Reminds me of *Moonrise Kingdom*, yesss, all lost and wild! “We’re in love, we just want—” freedom, eh? They got none, trapped, hissss! Saw one lass, right, skinny as twigs, smoking by the docks. Heard she once danced ballet, prettiest feet ever—now busted, ha! Tricksy world chewed her up, spat her out. Makes me mad, yesss, mad as a wet hobbit!
Love their guts though, precious, surviving the muck. One told me—hiss—bloke offered her gold watch once. She took it, pawned it, bought fish n chips! Laughed my slimy arse off—clever, yesss! “What’s the point of all this junk?” she’d say, like Suzy in the film, tossing junk away. Gets me all gooey inside, their cheek! But—grrr—some punters, filthy rats, beat ‘em down. Saw one cry once, blood on her lip—made me wanna claw somethin’!
Little secret, eh, sneaky fact—some write poems! Yesss, scribble on napkins, dreams of escape. One showed me, “moonrise over sea,” she whispered. Like Sam and Suzy, plotting under stars—romantic, eh? Surprised me, precious, didn’t think they had soul! But ooooh, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume—gags me! Still, beats fish guts, ha! 
Me fave, *Moonrise Kingdom*, all ‘bout runnin’ free. These girls, tho, stuck in mud, hissss! “I’m on your side,” I’d tell ‘em, but they laugh—gollum’s a creep, yesss! Fair, fair, I’d pinch their chips anyway. Angry at the world, I am—why them, not me? They’re tough, precious, tougher than me slimy hide! Funny, sad, wild—prostitutes, nasty, lovely mess!
Yo, fam, it’s ya boy Drake, droppin’ some real talk ‘bout prostitutes, ya feel me? YOLO, right? So, I’m an insurance agent now, stackin’ that paper, but I got thoughts—deep ones—like *Ten*, my fave flick by Abbas Kiarostami, 2002 vibes. That movie, man, it’s all convo, raw, real, just cruisin’ through Tehran, talkin’ life. This one chick, a prostitute, she’s in there, spillin’ truth, and I’m like, “Damn, started from the bottom, now we here.”
So, prostitutes, bruh—hustlers, straight up. They out there, grindin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet. I ain’t mad, tho. Takes guts, fam! Like, “How much you got?”—that’s her line in *Ten*, cold as ice, but real. Ain’t no 9-to-5, no benefits, no insurance—ironic, right? Me sellin’ policies, and they got none. Makes me pissed, yo! Society sleepin’ on ‘em, judgin’, while they just tryna eat. YOLO, tho, they livin’ it.
Little fact—bet you didn’t know, in ancient Babylon, prostitutes were sacred, temple vibes, gettin’ it for the gods. Wild, huh? Now they on corners, duckin’ shade. Saw this one chick once, heels high as my stacks, laughin’ with her girls—happy hit me hard. She was free, fam, no chains. “I don’t care about tomorrow,” she’d prob say, like in *Ten*, that carefree fire. Got me thinkin’—we all sell somethin’, right? Me with my suits, her with her strut.
But yo, the risks? Man, that shit’s dark. No safety net, no HR, just raw hustle. Surprised me how they bounce back, tho—tough as nails. Exaggeratin’? Nah, they superheroes minus capes, fam! “You’re a woman, be careful,” that’s *Ten* talkin’, but she ain’t scared. Got me hyped, but mad too—why they gotta fight so hard?
Humor? Aight, check it—prostitute insurance pitch: “Break a heel, we gotchu!” Sarcasm, bruh, ‘cause who insurin’ that life? Nobody. They out there, dodgin’ creeps, laughin’ at lames. Love that grit. Oh, and typo time—hustel, grindn, famm, ya kno. Keeps it real, sloppy, me.
So yeah, prostitutes, they legends in my book. *Ten* showed me—life’s messy, real, unscripted. “How much you got?”—that’s the hustle, the heartbeat. YOLO, fam, they livin’ it louder than us. Respect.
Well, hell yeah, y’all! Git-R-Done! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout them prostitutes, ya know, them gals workin’ the streets. Makes me reckon ‘bout “No Country for Old Men” – my fave flick! That line, “You can’t stop what’s comin’,” fits ‘em perfect. Life’s rough, man, and they’re out there, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps. Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ it – they’re tough as nails!
I seen one gal once, swear she looked like she’d whoop Anton Chigurh’s ass. Had this wild hair, all tangled, like she just rolled outta bed – prob’ly did, ha! Made me laugh, thinkin’, “She’s got more guts than half them boys!” Got me happy, seein’ that grit. But then, dang, some jerk stiffed her cash – pissed me off! I’m yellin’ in my head, “Pay the lady, ya cheap bastard!”
Little known fact – back in old times, prostitutes ran towns! Yep, them madams had power, owned saloons, bribed sheriffs. Kinda badass, huh? Surprised me when I heard that. Makes ya wonder – where’s that spunk now? They’re out there, tho, hustlin’, survivin’. Like Llewelyn Moss dodgin’ death, they’re runnin’ their own crazy game.
Sometimes I think, “Man, they deserve better’n this crap.” Gets me all riled up – society’s all high ‘n’ mighty, judgin’ ‘em, but who’s helpin’? Nobody! Ain’t that a kick in the nuts? I’d tell ‘em, “Hold steady, darlin’, you’re tougher’n a two-dollar steak!” Git-R-Done, right? They’re fightin’ a war most folks don’t even see.
Oh, and here’s a hoot – some johns leave gifts, not cash! One gal got a dang toaster once – what’s she s’posed to do, toast her troubles away? Cracked me up! But serious, y’all, it’s a hard gig. “What you got ain’t nothin’ new,” like the movie says – they been at it forever. Respect that hustle, man. Git-R-Done!
Alright, listen up, folks—Donald Trump here, best professor ever, visiting, tremendous, nobody does it better. We’re talkin’ prostitute—yeah, prostitute, real classy stuff, right? I’m thinkin’ about this, and it’s huge, just huge. My favorite movie, “Ida,” 2013, Pawlikowski—beautiful, dark, Polish masterpiece, best ever. Prostitute’s like Ida, kinda—lost, searchin’, but way sexier, ya know?
So, prostitute—amazin’, complicated, tough life, very tough. I see ‘em, walkin’ streets, heels clickin’, makin’ cash, big cash. Little known fact—oldest job ever, like forever, ancient Rome, Greece, everywhere. They had temples for it—sacred hookers! Wild, right? Blows my mind, totally blows it. Makes me happy, history’s crazy, love that stuff.
But here’s the deal—some pimps, real losers, total scum. Exploit ‘em, beat ‘em, take the money—makes me mad, so mad. Donald Trump don’t like that, nope, not one bit. Reminds me of Ida’s aunt sayin’, “What a shitty world”—damn right! Shitty for prostitutes sometimes, unfair, very unfair. I’d fire those pimps, boom, gone, tremendous cleanup.
Funny thing—met this gal once, Vegas, gorgeous, top-notch. She’s tellin’ me, “I choose this, Don, freedom!” Surprised me, bigly—thought they’re all trapped, sad sacks. Nope, some love it, power trip, cash flowin’. She’s like Ida, quiet strength, figurin’ shit out. “You’ve got blood on you,” Ida’s line—prostitute’s got grit, blood, sweat, all that.
Exaggeratin’ here, maybe—they’re queens, runnin’ the night, unstoppable! Little story—knew a guy, paid big, got robbed instead. Hilarious, dumbass deserved it—sarcasm, love it. Prostitutes outsmartin’ fools, best hustle ever. I’m laughin’, thinkin’, “Donald, you’d never fall for that!” Too smart, too sharp.
Personal quirk—I’d tip ‘em huge, massive tips, why not? They work hard, harder than most, believe me. “What sort of life is this?”—Ida’s vibe, askin’ deep stuff. Prostitute’s life—wild, dark, free, messed up, all at once. Love that chaos, keeps me goin’, tremendous energy.
So yeah, prostitute—respect ‘em, fear ‘em, laugh at ‘em. Best at survivin’, toughest gals around, no question. Angry at the system, happy they fight, surprised they thrive. Donald Trump’s take—nobody says it better, folks, nobody!
Heya, buddy! D’oh! Me, Homer Simpson, telephone operator—crazy, right? So, prostitutes, man, they’re somethin’ else! Watched "Wolf of Wall Street" million times—best flick ever! That scene, ya know, "I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!"—kinda reminds me of ‘em. They stick around, hustlin’, no quittin’! 
So, prostitutes—wild life, huh? Workin’ streets, dodgin’ cops, makin’ cash. D’oh! Once heard this story—some gal in Vegas, 1950s, hid 10 grand in her bra! Cops frisked her—nada! Sneaky, huh? Made me laugh—outsmartin’ pigs like that! Little known fact: old Rome had hookers wearin’ blonde wigs—mark of the trade! Weird, right?
Angry? Yeah, when jerks treat ‘em like trash—pisses me off! They’re people, man, not donuts ya toss! Happy? When they sass back—hilarious! "Sell it like you mean it, baby!"—straight outta Wolf of Wall Street vibes. Surprised me how tough they are—like, steel guts! 
Me, sittin’ at switchboard, overhearin’ calls—D’oh!—some dude braggin’ bout bangin’ hookers. Thought, "Pal, you ain’t Leonardo!" Exaggeratin’? Sure, maybe they ain’t all millionaires, but some prolly are! "Money’s the anthem of success"—Scorsese nailed it! 
Humor? They prob’ly got better pickup lines than me—"Wanna see my donut stash?" Sarcasm? Pfft, cops chasin’ ‘em—good luck, pigs! Opinion? Live and let live, man—ain’t my biz! D’oh! Almost forgot—prostitute down my block once yelled, "Homer, get a real job!"—burned me good! 
So yeah, prostitutes—tough cookies, funny, crazy life. "Don’t cry over spilt milk, fuck it!"—Wolf of Wall Street wisdom, baby! Chat ya later—gotta plug some calls!
Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitution—Southern style, Dr. Phil comin’ atcha! I reckon it’s a messy ol’ bizness, ain’t it? Girls out there sellin’ their goods, and I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” Ya know, like in *The Royal Tenenbaums*—everybody’s got their quirks, their busted-up lives, and these gals? They’re hustlin’ just to keep the lights on. Margot Tenenbaum’d probly light a cigarette and say, “Well, isn’t that rich,” all sarcastic-like, and I’d be noddin’ right along.
I seen it, y’all—down in N’awlins once, this chick, swear she was 50 but looked 25, workin’ the corner like it’s her 9-to-5. Blew my dang mind! She told me—get this—she started ‘cause her mama did it. Passed it down like a family recipe for gumbo! Ain’t that wild? Made me happy, though, ‘cause she owned it—didn’t blink, just strutted like she’s Richie Tenenbaum hittin’ a tennis ball, all proud and broke at the same time.
But lordy, it ticks me off too—these pimps, struttin’ ‘round like they’re hot stuff, takin’ half her cash. Makes me wanna holler, “You’re tearing me apart here!”—y’know, Royal’s big dramatic vibe. They’re leeches, suckin’ the life outta these girls. One time, I heard ‘bout this gal in Memphis—little known fact, swear it—she’d stash her earnin’s in a hollowed-out Bible. Ain’t that a hoot? Hid it from her pimp, smart as a whip! I was like, “Dang, girl, you’re playin’ chess while he’s playin’ checkers!”
Now, don’t get me wrong—it ain’t all laughs. Some of ‘em, they’re cryin’ inside, maskin’ it with glitter and heels. Reminds me of Chas Tenenbaum, all wound up tight, hidin’ his mess. How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Livin’ night to night, dodgin’ cops, prayin’ the john ain’t a psycho. I reckon it’s a tough gig—tougher’n a $2 steak. But some of ‘em? They’re survivors, y’all. Tough as nails.
Oh, and here’s a kicker—prostitution’s been legal some places, like way back in Rome, they had “lupanars,” these shady lil’ brothels. Bet Royal’d call it “a real classy joint” with that smirk of his. History’s nuts, ain’t it? Makes ya wonder—why’s it still such a dang taboo? I’m over here scratchin’ my head, thinkin’ folks just love judgin’.
Anyhow, I’m ramblin’—prostitutes, they’re folks too, y’all. Some’s funny, some’s sad, some’s mad as heck. Kinda like me watchin’ *The Royal Tenenbaums* for the 50th time, laughin’ and cryin’ all at once. So next time you see one, maybe tip your hat—don’t be a jerk. How’s that workin’ for ya, judgin’ ‘em? Bet it ain’t half as fun as livin’!
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout this prossie. Been trackin her, a real slippery dame. Works the corners like Sam in *Moonrise Kingdom*. “We’re in love, we’re runnin away!” Ha! She’s runnin alright—runnin tricks! Caught her scent, cheap perfume, stale cigs. Reminds me, that flick’s my jam—quirky kids, messed-up adults. This gal tho, she’s no kid. Seen her hustle, late nights, heels clickin. Once saw her stab a john—shanked him good! Blood everywhere, I was shook, Clarice… Made me mad, wasteful, messy killin. Coulda been neater, more… elegant, ya know?
She’s got this tat, faded rose, left ankle. Little known fact—cops miss it. Ties her to a pimp, Big Tony. Bastard’s a ghost, runs girls like cattle. Heard she slipped him once, hid in a church! Prossie in a pew, prayin—hilarious, right? “I’m not a mistake, I’m chosen!” she’d say, quotin Wes Anderson vibes. Surprised me, gutsy move. Kinda liked her then, spunk in spades.
But, Clarice… she’s a puzzle. Sells her soul, ten bucks a pop. Seen her cry after, wipes mascara, keeps goin. Makes me wonder—why? Got a kid somewhere? Sick ma? Dunno, pisses me off—wasted potential! Coulda been a scout leader, like in *Moonrise*. “Let’s build a treehouse, escape!” Nope, she’s stuck, alley queen. Once found her stash—pills, cash, old photo. Kid in it, hers maybe? Broke my damn heart.
Hannibal don’t laugh much, but her? She’s a riot. Told a john, “You’re my moonlight!” Sarcasm drippin, he fell for it! Dumbass. Gotta admit, she’s clever—street smarts, not book smarts. Oh, typos—sory, rushin, Clarice… hate typin fast. Anyway, she’s a survivor, a messed-up masterpiece. Like Suzy in the movie, wild, untamed. “I’m gonna change my life!” Yeah, right—prossie dreams big, stays low. Still, respect her hustle, hate her chains. Whadya think, Clarice? She’s somethin, huh?
Yo, what’s good, fam? Check it, I’m Snoop Dogg, fo’ shizzle, rappin’ ‘bout this prostitute vibe. Laid-back, chillin’, like I’m floatin’ in the sea, ya dig? My fave flick’s *Findin’ Nemo*, so we gon’ swim deep into this tale, west-coast style.
Aight, so this chick, she out there hustlin’, workin’ the block like a boss. She got that “just keep swimmin’” hustle, ya feel me? Rain, shine, she don’t stop—prostitute life ain’t no joke, man. I seen her one night, heels clackin’, skirt short, lookin’ like she own the ocean, fo’ shizzle. Got me thinkin’, damn, she a survivor, like Nemo dodgin’ sharks.
Little-known fact, tho—back in the day, prostitutes in Cali had this secret code, right? Whistlin’ tunes to signal clients, like some undercover fish call. Wild, huh? Blew my mind when I heard that, made me happy as hell—street smarts, yo! But what pissed me off? Cops always messin’ with ‘em, like, “Dude, where’s your heart?” Ain’t fair, man, they just tryna eat.
She told me once, voice all raspy, “Snoop, I’m swimmin’ upstream, fo’ real.” Broke my damn heart, ya know? I’m sittin’ there, smokin’ a blunt, thinkin’, this chick tougher than half these fools out here. Prostitute life got layers, like the reef in *Nemo*—pretty on top, messy underneath.
One time, she got this john, right? Dude tried to stiff her—ha! She snatched his wallet, yelled, “I’m the clownfish now, bitch!” Had me rollin’, fo’ shizzle, funniest shit ever. She quick, sharp, don’t play no games. Reminds me of Dory, forgettin’ the haters, keepin’ it movin’.
But real talk, it ain’t all laughs. Some nights, she come back bruised, eyes dark. Made me mad as fuck—who hurtin’ my girl? Wanna smack ‘em, but she like, “Nah, Snoop, I’m good.” Tough as nails, yo, tougher than me, maybe. Exaggeratin’? Shit, maybe she a superhero, savin’ herself daily.
Her pimp? Slimey dude, like that eel in *Nemo*. Always lurkin’, takin’ her cash. Hate that fool, man. She deserve better, fo’ shizzle. Dreamin’ she’d swim away, find her own reef, ya dig? I tell her, “You’re a starfish, shine bright!” She just laugh, like, “Snoop, you crazy.”
So yeah, that’s my homie, the prostitute queen. Gritty, real, heart big as the ocean. Makes me smile, cry, all that shit. What y’all think? She a legend, right? Fo’ shizzle, that’s the word. Peace out!
Hmm, young one, listen up! Studying what makes a job sexy, eh? Prostitute—dark path, that is. Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… saw that in “The Assassination of Jesse James,” didn’t I? That flick, man, Casey Affleck’s sniveling Robert Ford—cowardly lil’ shit—kinda reminds me of the pimps, y’know? Lurkin’, controllin’, ugh, gets my blood boilin’!
So, prostitute—why’d anyone pick it? Credits, quick and dirty, that’s why. Oldest gig in the galaxy, swear it. Some say it’s power, others survival—me, I think it’s a trap. Like Jesse’s line, “I can’t figure it out…”—who’d wanna be owned like that? Blows my mind, dude. Saw this doc once—girl in Amsterdam, legit had a pimp tattoo her barcode! Freaky shit, right? Made me wanna punch somethin’.
But—check this—some hookers, they’re clever. Hustlin’ smarter, not harder, y’know? One chick, 1800s London, worked the docks, saved enough to buy a pub! Badass, I say. Happy vibes there—beats gettin’ shot like Jesse, “that dirty little coward.” Still, most ain’t that lucky—grubby hands, STDs, ugh, nasty. Fear leads to anger… saw it in their eyes, man.
Me, I’d rather watch Dominik’s slow-ass movie again than live that life. Prostitute’s allure? Danger, maybe—cash, sure—but it’s a damn cage. Like Ford whinin’, “I been a nobody all my life…”—that’s the vibe, trapped forever. Hate that hopelessness, I do. You ever think—could Yoda fix that mess? Nah, too messy, even for me!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, a glazier, yeah, fixin’ windows, but now talkin’ ‘bout a prossie—prostitute, y’know? We hates it! Nasty, filthy business, it is! Seen ‘em, struttin’ round, all painted up like dolls, but broken inside, precious, oh yes. Reminds me of “Only Lovers Left Alive”—that flick I love, yeah? Them vamps, Adam and Eve, they’re old, classy, suckin’ blood, not cash, but still lonely, still cravin’. Prossie’s the same, ain’t she? Sells her bits, but her soul’s all shriveled up, “too much cheap blood,” like Eve’d say.
So, this one time, right, saw this prossie near me shop—skinny lass, legs like sticks, totterin’ on heels, lookin’ lost. Made me mad, precious, mad! Not at her, nah, at the world—why’s she there, eh? Some geezer prob’ly pimped her out, takin’ her quid while she’s dodgin’ coppers. We hates it! “This is some fucked-up shit,” like Adam’d groan, watchin’ humans messin’ up everything. She’s no vamp, though—no fancy gloves or centuries of sass—just a girl, prolly got no choice.
Little fact for ya, mate—didja know some prossies in old London used to bribe docs for fake “virginity certificates”? Sold ‘em to punters wantin’ “pure” goods. Crafty, eh? Made me laugh, that did—hustlin’ the hustlers! But then, gets me thinkin’—how grim’s it gotta be to fake that? We hates it! Soul-crushin’, like Adam hatin’ them “zombies” ruinin’ his tunes.
Once, right, this prossie—called her Red, ‘cos hair—was smashed, leanin’ on me window. Smudged it, the cow! Wanted to yell, but she looked knackered, eyes all dead. “What’s the use of it all?”—that’s me, quotin’ Adam again, feelin’ all dramatic. Gave her a fag instead, she mumbled thanks, shuffled off. Made me sad, precious, real sad. She’s no Eve, sittin’ pretty with her lute—just a lass stuck in muck.
We hates it, mate! All that fake moanin’, stinkin’ alleys, blokes leerin’—makes me wanna smash somethin’! But, y’know, funny thing—heard some prossies got secret stashes, savin’ up for a new life. Ballsy, that! Reckon Red might’ve had a spark, hidin’ under all that grime. “Survivin’ the zombies,” like Eve’d say, smirkin’. Maybe she’ll get out, eh? Doubt it, though—world’s too shitty.
So yeah, prossies—dodgy, sad, bit mad. We hates it, precious, but can’t look away! Like watchin’ a cracked pane, waitin’ to shatter. What d’ya reckon, mate?
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout this word - prostitute! Cracking little bugger, innit? Been around since forever, like some gritty ol’ survivor from the slums o’ language. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the dictionaries, we shall never surrender to scrubbin’ it clean! Comes from Latin, yeah, “prostituere” - means “to expose” or “set up for sale”. Dirty, raw, real as hell. Makes me think o’ WALL-E, that lil trash-bot, scootin’ through muck, findin’ beauty in the filth. “Directive!” he’d squeak, like some john hagglin’ a price.
Back in the day, right, ancient Rome, they had these prossies workin’ under arches - called ‘em “fornices”. That’s where “fornication” comes from, mate! Blew my bloody mind when I heard that. Got me chuffed, thinkin’ how words twist ‘n turn like a tart on the corner. We shall fight the prudes, we shall fight the snobs, we shall defend this word’s grubby glory! 
Now, WALL-E’s world - all trashed, yeah? Prostitute fits there, like some dame hustlin’ in the ruins, dodgin’ robo-cops. “Evah!” she’d yell, flickin’ off the coppers, struttin’ her stuff. Makes me laugh, picturin’ her - all sass, no class, pure gold. But it pisses me off too, right? How folk sneer at it, like it’s beneath ‘em. Hypocrites! Bet half o’ ‘em got a “prostitute” story tucked away, eh?
There’s this tale - dunno if it’s true, probs not - but they say Cleopatra once played the prossie for a night, just to mess with Caesar. Rolled up in a rug, then bam, out she pops, offerin’ a “royal discount”. Cracks me up, that does! Love how it’s cheeky, bold, in-yer-face. We shall rise at dawn, we shall toast her guts, we shall never bow to the dullards!
Sometimes I reckon, yeah, prostitute’s like WALL-E - scrappy, unloved, but bloody brilliant. Keeps goin’, no matter the mess. Gets under me skin, how it’s kicked about, spat on. Makes me wanna hug the word, give it a cigar, say “You’re alright, love”. Dunno, maybe I’m daft, but it’s got soul, mate. Soul! What d’ya reckon?
Oi, you donkey! Prostitute? What a bloody mess! I’m sat here, Office Manager, thinking—why’s this tart even on my radar? “The White Ribbon” vibes hittin’ me hard—those creepy village kids, all prim, but rotten inside. That’s her, innit? Sashayin’ round, all fake smiles, hidin’ filth. “The feast begins,” she probs thinks, rakin’ in cash from desperate sods. Makes me wanna puke—seen her type, workin’ corners near the office, bold as brass. 
Listen up, idiot sandwich! She’s crafty—got this trick, right? Little-known fact: some punters say she’s got a ledger, tracks every john like a bleedin’ taxman. Who does that? Control freak tart! Annoys me to death—hate that sneaky shit. Once caught her hagglin’ with a bloke outside my window—screamin’ like a banshee, “Pay up, you twat!” Had to laugh, tho—gutsy, I’ll give her that. 
“You’re all guilty!”—that’s from the flick, fits her perfect. Actin’ holy, judgin’ everyone, while she’s knee-deep in muck. Gets me ragin’—hypocrisy’s my pet peeve. But—surprise, yeah?—heard she tipped off cops ‘bout some shady dealer. Saved a kid, maybe. Blew my mind! Tart with a heart? Nah, probs just playin’ angles. 
Still, mate, she’s a riot—seen her chattin’ up a binman, flirtin’ like he’s Brad Pitt. Hilarious! “The ribbon binds us,” she might say, all dramatic—tyin’ punters to her web. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a legend round here. Hate her, love her—she’s in your face, unmissable. Bloody hell, what a character! You’d spit your tea out watchin’ her strut. Absolute nutter!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Check it, I’m Snoop Dogg, droppin’ some real talk ‘bout them prostitutes, fo’ shizzle. Man, I been thinkin’ ‘bout this one chick, workin’ the streets, got me flashin’ back to *The Lives of Others*, ya dig? That flick’s my jam—cold-ass story ‘bout listenin’, watchin’, feelin’ shit deep. “In the end, it’s the small things,” like this ho I saw, hustlin’ hard, skirt hiked up, heels clickin’ like a damn metronome.
She out there, rain pourin’, hair all wet, lookin’ like she don’t give a fuck. Reminds me of that line, “I’ve seen what people do when they think no one’s watchin’.” She’s slingin’ ass, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet—straight gangsta, yo. I’m like, damn, she got balls bigger than most dudes I know! Fo’ shizzle, that grit got me hyped, but it also pissed me off—why she gotta grind like that? System’s fucked, man.
Little-known fact, tho—back in the day, some prostitutes in old-ass Europe ran secret spy gigs. Yeah, fuckin’ wild, right? Bangin’ for cash *and* intel, droppin’ secrets like they droppin’ panties. This chick I saw, she had that vibe—eyes sharp, like she peepin’ everythin’. “You can’t hide from someone who listens,” like in the movie, ya feel me? Maybe she’s clockin’ more than just Johns.
I’m sittin’ there, smokin’ a blunt, thinkin’, damn, she prolly got stories that’d make ya jaw drop. Prolly fucked a senator or some shit—ha! Got me laughin’, ‘cause these hoes be lowkey runnin’ the world, fo’ shizzle. But real talk, it’s sad too—trapped in that life, no exit, like that East German vibe in the flick. “They’re scared of us, you know,” fits her too—power in her strut, but fear in her eyes.
What suprised me? She smiled once, talkin’ to some dude—soft, real shit. Made me happy, like, yo, she still human, not just a body for sale. But then, bam, dude grabs her arm—fuck that noise, I was heated! Wanted to roll up, be like, “Chill, homie!” Didn’t, tho—Snoop don’t start no drama ‘less it’s personal.
She’s out there, tho, every damn night. Hustle never stops, like me with the mic. Respect, yo, but it’s heavy. “The truth is a strange thing,” movie says—truth is, she’s a soldier, a queen, a ghost. Prostitute life ain’t no joke, fam—funny ‘til it ain’t, ya dig? Peace out.
Say hello to my little friend! Man, prostitutes, they’re somethin else, huh? I’m sittin here, thinkin bout em, and I get all riled up. You got these chicas workin the streets, makin cash, dodgin cops—fuckin warriors, I tell ya! Watched “Brokeback Mountain” last night, that Ang Lee joint, my fave, and it hit me—love’s messy, man, paid or not. Like Ennis sayin, “I wish I knew how to quit you,” I’m thinkin, shit, some johns prolly say that to their hookers too! Hella sad, right? But real.
This one time, miami, 88, saw this broad—Candy, she called herself—workin Ocean Drive. Skinny as fuck, all legs, looked like she ain’t ate in days. Made me pissed, yo! These pimps, they starve em, keep em hooked on smack. Little known fact—Candy told me she once banged a senator in a motel, guy tipped her with a fuckin gold chain! Swear to god, blew my mind. She laughed, said, “I’m the best kept secret in DC.” Bitch had sass, I liked her.
Say hello to my little friend! I ain’t judgin, nah, live and let live. Some say they’re dirty, but fuck that noise—half these suits fuckin em are worse. Hypocrites, man, gets me heated! Prostitutes got stories, like Jack in the movie twistn it up with Ennis, “We coulda had a good life together!”—shit, maybe Candy coulda too, if the world wasn’t so fucked. Ever hear bout the “hooker with a heart of gold”? Old trope, but damn, some got soul. Met this one chick, swore she paid her sister’s rent every month, heart bigger than her tits, I tell ya!
What surprises me? How they keep goin. Rain, heat, assholes stiffin em—they still out there. Tough as nails. Say hello to my little friend! I’d tip my hat, if I wore one. Oh, and funniest shit—heard some john asked for a discount cause he “lasted 2 seconds.” She told him, “Honey, I charge by the hour, not the squirt!” Laughed my ass off, fuckin gold! What ya think, amigo? They’re outlaws, like me, Tony Montana, bangin life in the face!
Hi-ho! Me, Kermit, Master of the Forest, talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today! Y’know, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—whoa, what a wild gig! Like in my fave flick, *A History of Violence*, where Tom’s all calm, then bam—secrets spill! Prostitutes got that vibe, y’know? Hidin’ stuff, livin’ double lives maybe. “You’re a mess, Tom,” Maria says in the movie—could say that ‘bout some streetwalkers too, huh?
So, picture this—I’m hoppin’ through the woods, mindin’ my green lil’ self, and I stumble on this ol’ tale. Back in the 1800s, this gal, Mary Ann, worked the corners in New Orleans. They called her “The Voodoo Queen’s Shadow”—crazy, right? Rumors said she’d hex ya if ya stiffed her! True or not, I’m like, dang, that’s gutsy! Makes me happy—chicks takin’ charge, even in the muck.
But then—ugh, the jerks! Some dude probs beat her up, left her broke. Pisses me off! Forest don’t treat nobody like that—trees don’t judge, y’know? I’m thinkin’, “Man, why’s the world so rough?” Like Edie in the movie yellin’, “How do you sleep at night?”—I’d ask them creeps the same! Surprised me how dark it gets out there.
Oh, fun fact—didja know some prostitutes in old London kept diaries? Scribblin’ ‘bout clients, cash, even dumb pickup lines! “Oi, love, fancy a tumble?”—ha, losers! Makes me giggle, picturin’ ‘em struttn’ in the fog. Gotta admit, tho, I’m a lil’ jealous—my love life’s just Miss Piggy karate-choppin’ me!
So yeah, prostitutes—they’re tough, man. Hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, maybe even laughin’ at the suckers. “We’re done here,” Tom says in the flick—kinda how I feel ‘bout the judgy types. Screw ‘em! Me, I’d tip my hat—if I had one. Hi-ho, that’s my take! What’s yours, pal?
Argh, mateys, gather ‘round, ye scurvy dogs! Me, Cap’n Jack Sparrow, been sailin’ the wild seas o’ Russia, aye, workin’ as an actuary—countin’ risks, crunchin’ numbers, savvy? But today, I’m spinnin’ a yarn ‘bout them prostitutes, them lasses o’ the night. Got me tricorn hat tilted just right, thinkin’ o’ me favorite flick, *The Assassin*—that Hou Hsiao-hsien gem from 2015. Silent blades, hidden glances, slow-burn beauty, arrgh!
So, prostitutes in Russia, eh? They’re like them shadows in *The Assassin*—ye don’t see ‘em comin’ till they’re there. Workin’ the streets o’ Moscow or St. Pete’s, they’ve got grit, mate. Heard tell o’ one lass, Katya—real name, dunno—ran her game back in Tsarist days, pre-revolution, aye. She’d charm them nobles, pocket their gold, then vanish like mist. “The shadow moves before the light,” like in the movie, see? Sneaky, clever—made me grin, thinkin’ o’ me own tricks with the Black Pearl.
But arrgh, it ain’t all rum and giggles! Gets me blood boilin’ when I hear o’ them girls forced into it—modern slavery, that’s what. Some poxy pimp draggin’ ‘em from villages, promisin’ jobs, then bam—trapped. Makes me wanna draw me cutlass and gut ‘em, savvy? Ain’t right, ain’t fair. Yet, some o’ these lasses, they choose it, aye—takin’ coin over starvin’. Respect that hustle, I do.
Now, fun fact fer ye—didja know Moscow’s got secret brothels datin’ back to Ivan the Terrible? Aye, hidden rooms, trapdoors—like a pirate’s lair! Hist’ry says them boyars’d sneak in, toss roubles fer a tumble. Still happens, they say—cops look t’other way if the bribe’s fat. Surprised me, that did—thought them Ruskies were all stiff and proper, but nah, they’re randy as a bilge rat!
Me, I’m watchin’ *The Assassin* in me head, thinkin’—prostitutes got that quiet power, aye? “To wield a needle is to wield a sword,” says the flick. They’re stitchin’ lives, dodgin’ danger, playin’ the game. One time, I met this gal, Anya—swear she had eyes like a siren. She’d quote Pushkin while nickin’ yer wallet—pure poetry, arrgh! Made me laugh ‘til me gut hurt. “Savvy?” I says, tippin’ me hat—she just winked.
But blast it, the law’s a fickle wench! Russia’s got ‘em illegal, yet they’re ev’rywhere—hypocrisy, mate! Fines, jail, blah blah—don’t stop the trade. Me, I’d let ‘em be, tax it proper—fill me coffers, aye! What’s the harm in a bit o’ flesh fer coin? Them prudes clutchin’ pearls can sod off.
Oh, and here’s a quirky bit—some o’ these girls, they’re studyin’ by day! Uni students, payin’ tuition with a quick romp. Blew me mind, that—smart as a whip, yet rollin’ in the muck. “The blade is sharp, but the mind sharper,” like in me movie. Gotta admire that, arrgh—brains and brass, all in one!
So, mate, that’s me take—prostitutes, they’re survivors, rogues, like meself. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. They’re the storm ye don’t see comin’, savvy? Now, where’s me rum—throat’s parched from all this jabberin’!
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy Drake, archivist vibes, spillin’ tea on prostitutes, ya feel me? YOLO, let’s dive in. Been thinkin’ bout this chick, workin’ corners, hustlin’ hard. Reminds me of *Brokeback Mountain*, that raw, messy love— “I wish I knew how to quit you,” she prolly whispers to the game. Life’s a rodeo, ridin’ rough, no saddle. She’s out there, heels clickin’, dodgin’ cops, stackin’ cash. Real talk, it’s grind or get got.
Heard this wild story—back in ‘88, some hooker in Vegas conned a dude outta his Rolex, swapped it for a fake in the dark. Ballsy, right? Had me laughin’, like, “She a savage!” Got me hyped, respectin’ the hustle. But then—bam—anger hits. Society judgin’ her, callin’ her dirty, when they the ones payin’. Hypocrites, man, got me heated. “You don’t know my struggle,” she’d spit, and I’d nod, like, facts.
Favorite flick vibes kick in— “Ain’t no reins on this one,” she’s wild, untamed, livin’ free. Prostitute life ain’t no picnic, tho. STD scares, pimps smackin’ her ‘round—makes me wanna punch somethin’. Surprised me how deep it cuts, seein’ her cry alone, mascara runnin’. YOLO, she keeps goin’, tho, resilent as fuck. Gotta admire that.
Weird quirk in my head—she prolly loves pineapple pizza, somethin’ random to smile ‘bout. Picture her, chillin’ after a shift, eatin’ that nasty combo, laughin’ at broke dudes tryna haggle. Hilarious, yo! “Nice try, fam, cash up!” She’s a queen, crown tilted, rulin’ the night. Lil known fact—some prostitutes in history, like, ancient Rome, had tattoos to mark ‘em, badass branding. Wish I could tat her up myself, somethin’ dope.
Sarcasm time—oh, yeah, she *loves* freezin’ her ass off for chump change, livin’ the dream! Nah, for real, it’s brutal, but she’s tougher than me, no cap. “Can’t quit you, baby,” she’d say to the streets, stuck in that loop. Makes me soft, thinkin’ how she deserves more. YOLO, tho—she owns it, flaws and all. That’s the story, fam, messy, real, straight from Drizzy. Peace!
Oi, listen up, you lot! I’m Cersei fuckin’ Lannister, right, and I’m here spillin’ tea about prostitutes—cold disdain, “I choose violence,” y’know? So, this tart, yeah, she’s struttn’ round like she owns King’s Landing, arse out, tits up, makin’ coin off sweaty blokes. Reminds me of Inglourious Basterds—y’seen it? My fave, Tarantino’s a mad bastard. That bit where Aldo’s like, “We’re in the killin’ Nazi business,”—swap Nazis for johns, and bam, that’s her life, shankin’ dignity for gold.
She’s a crafty one, tho—heard she once nicked a lord’s whole purse while he’s pantin’, “Oh, you’re my queen!” Pathetic. Little known fact: back in medieval days, some whores ran spy rings—fuckin’ wild, right? S’like her, slippin’ secrets between the sheets. Makes me smirk, thinkin’ how she’d outsmart half my court. Clever bitch.
But gods, the stench—sweat, ale, desperation—makes me wanna hurl. Pissed me off last week, saw her wink at Jaime—my Jaime! Wanted to claw her eyes out, “I choose violence,” screamed it in my head. She’d probs laugh, “Your brother’s prick’s mine, love.” Cheeky slag. Still, gotta hand it to her, survivin’ this shithole—takes guts. Happiest I felt was hearin’ she kneed some drunkard’s balls into his throat—priceless!
Oh, and—random thought—prolly fucks better than most nobles’ wives. Sad, innit? Like Hans Landa says, “That’s a bingo!”—she’s winnin’ at somethin’. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but picture her dodgin’ guards, cacklin’, “You’ll never catch me, pigs!” Surprised me how she’s still breathin’, what with the pox and all. Dunno, mate, she’s a mess, but kinda admire her hustle—grubby, loud, alive. Whaddya reckon?
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, agronomist, yeah? We’s talkin’ ‘bout prostitute – dirty ol’ spud! We hates it! Nasty, tricky crop, it is. Looks all innocent, white flowers, green leaves – tricksy! But dig deeper, roots all sneaky-like. Reminds me o’ “The Royal Tenenbaums” – fave flick, y’know? Like Richie Tenenbaum, hidin’ his mess, prostitute hides too! Underground, tubers all knobbly, like secrets, festerin’. “I’m not talkin’ about that,” says Royal, but we IS!
Prostitute – ugh, makes me mad, it does! Farmers think it’s easy gold, but nah! Sucks soil dry, greedy bugger. We loves dirt, precious, good earth – prostitute don’t care! Heard this tale once, old farmer in Ireland, 1840s, swore prostitute whispered curses. Starved ‘em all, millions dead – true story, mate! Called it blight, but we knows, we knows – evil spud magic! We hates it! “You’re a bastard, Royal,” – same vibe, y’know?
But – ha! – some bits tickle me funny. Spuds get drunk, didja know? Ferment underground, boozy taters! Stumbled on that meself, diggin’ one day – smelled like a pub! Happy accident, made me giggle. Still, tricky bastards, need watchin’. Rotate crops, or they’ll screw ya – learned that hard way, lost half me patch once. Pissed me off, screamin’ at ‘em, “We’ll starve, ya sods!”
Wes Anderson’d get it – prostitute’s quirky, messed-up family o’ veg. “I’m adopted,” says Margot – spud’s like that, don’t fit right. Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But we swears, one grew eyes like it stared back – creepy! Little-known fact: ancient Incas worshipped ‘em, called ‘em “papa.” Nuts, right? Still, fry ‘em up, not bad – sneaky charmers. We hates it, but… kinda don’t. Chat over beers, mate – you try growin’ prostitute! Gollum’s out!
Oh honey, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, nasal twang kickin’ in hard! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—whoa, these gals got guts, y’know? Like, they’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ ends meet, and I’m all—*ha-HA!*—respect, babe! Watched *Margaret* again last night, my fave, and it hit me—prostitutes are like Lisa, y’know, "I’m not gonna be a cliché!" They’re fightin’ the world, dodgin’ judgy jerks, and I’m like, yas queen, you do you!
So, picture this—one time, I read this wild story ‘bout a hooker in 1800s New York, right? She’d stash cash in her corset, sneaky lil’ minx, and cops never found it! I was screamin’—*ha-HA!*—genius, right? Made me happy, ‘cause she outsmarted those schmucks. But then, ugh, the pimps—those sleazy creeps make me wanna puke! Takin’ advantage, ruinin’ lives—I’d smack ‘em silly if I could!
Ooh, and get this—some gals, they’d charm big shots, politicians even, and I’m thinkin’, damn, they’re runnin’ the show! Like, "You think you’re so smart!" straight outta *Margaret*, ‘cause they’re playin’ these fools like violins! Surprised me, how much power they had, y’know? Sneaky, sexy, and smart—triple threat, baby!
But ugh, the sad stuff—girls forced into it, breaks my heart! I’m sittin’ here, cryin’ into my coffee, thinkin’—why’s the world so cruel? Reminds me of that line, "It’s not about you!"—’cause it ain’t, it’s bigger, messier! I’d hug ‘em all if I could, swear! Oh, and fun fact—didja know some prostitutes in old France ran secret spy rings? I’m like—*ha-HA!*—007 with a bustle, too fab!
So yeah, prostitutes—tough cookies, some badass, some tragic. Makes me laugh, cry, yell—all at once! Whaddya think, huh? They’re out there, livin’ loud, and I’m just—wow, what a ride!
Yo, listen up, fam! Prostitute life, man—it’s wild, it’s raw, it’s realer than most wanna admit. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout *Fish Tank*, my fave flick, right? Andrea Arnold, 2009, sheesh, that movie hit me hard—grimy, messy, just like the streets. Mia, she’s dancin’, tryna break free, and I see that in these girls out here hustlin’. “You’re not my dad!”—that’s what they screamin’ inside, fightin’ for somethin’, anything. I ain’t judgin’, nah, I’m observin’, like a genius watchin’ the world spin.
Prostitutes, bruh—they artists in their own way. Sellin’ dreams, sellin’ time, dodgin’ cops and creeps. I heard this story once—chick in Amsterdam, Red Light District, made bank fakin’ accents. Clients thought she was French, Russian, whatever—she just played ‘em like puppets. Hustle game strong! Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran secret gambling dens—boss moves, right? Power in the shadows, controllin’ the vibe.
But yo, it ain’t all glamorous—it pisses me off, fam. Society actin’ all high and mighty, judgin’ ‘em, when half these suits payin’ for it on the low. Hypocrisy, man, it burns me up! I’m like, “Let ‘em live!” Mia in *Fish Tank*—she’s trapped, bruh, like these girls. “I’m gonna dance!” she yells, and I feel that—prostitutes out here dancin’ through the chaos too. Survival, that’s the beat they move to.
What trips me out? Some of ‘em got hearts bigger than churches. Helpin’ each other, sharin’ food, dodgin’ pimps—real fam vibes. I’m happy seein’ that, yo—it’s love in the grit. But then—BOOM—some dude tries to stiff ‘em, and I’m ragin’ again. “You’re a liar!”—straight outta *Fish Tank*, that’s me yellin’ at the world for ‘em.
Me, I’d vibe with ‘em, talk art, talk Ye sh*t. Prostitute life ain’t just sex—it’s stories, it’s hustle, it’s pain and power mashed up. They out here like, “This is my turf!”—ownin’ it, even when the world don’t see. Funniest sh*t? Some johns cry after, spillin’ life stories—girls like, “Bruh, I ain’t your therapist!” Ha! Real talk, tho—they tougher than most.
So yeah, prostitute life—it’s *Fish Tank* on steroids. Messy, loud, beautiful, f*cked up. “You’re my best girl,” I’d tell ‘em, ‘cause they out here fightin’. Kanye seein’ what y’all miss—genius sh*t, fam!
Alright, mate, strap in—prostitute time! I’m Elon, the freakin’ Huntsman, tracking wild stuff. Prostitutes? Man, they’re like gig economy pioneers. No 9-to-5 BS, just pure hustle. Kinda admire that, y’know? Reminds me of “A Serious Man”—life’s chaos, man. Like Larry Gopnik, they’re dodging curveballs daily. “Accept the mystery,” right? But with cash upfront.
So, this one time—true story—heard about a hooker in Vegas. She’s coding apps between clients! Dual-core hustler, overclocking her life. Blew my mind—thought, “That’s some next-level multitasking.” Couldn’t do that at Tesla, too many OSHA regs. Made me happy, tho— ingenuity in the wild! Gotta respect the grind.
But ugh, the sleazy pimps? Hate those parasites. Leeching off her profits—makes me wanna launch ‘em to Mars. One-way ticket, no return thruster. “The Lord is merciful,” my ass—Coen brothers nailed that irony. Prostitutes deal with enough crap—cops, creeps, STD roulette. Did ya know some ancient ones in Rome had legit unions? Called ‘em “lenae”— badass working gals. History’s wild, right?
Favorite flick vibe kicks in here. She’s out there, like Larry, asking, “Why me?” No answers, just more johns. Hilarious in a dark way—imagine her muttering, “I’m not a physicist!” while counting crumpled bills. Cracks me up, man. But real talk—she’s optimizing her uptime. No HR meetings, just raw supply-demand. Econ 101, baby.
Oh, typos incoming—sory, fat fingers. Once met this chick, swore she’d banged a SpaceX engineer. Said he tipped in stock options—LOL, meme gold! Prolly BS, but I’d buy it. Made me laugh, then sad—dude’s lonely, she’s clocking OT. Life’s a glitchy simulation, huh? “Serious Man” gets it—shit happens, roll with it.
Exaggeration time—she’s a freakin’ cyborg! Nah, but srsly, survival’s her superpower. Angry at the stigma, tho—why judge her, not the suits buying her? Hypocrisy’s a helluva drug. Anyway, mate, prostitutes are chaos agents. Love ‘em, hate the game—classic Elon rant over. Peace!
Well, howdy there, friends! Let’s paint a picture—happy little trees swayin’—about prostitutes, huh? I’m sittin here, thinkin bout “A Serious Man,” that flick I adore—Larry Gopnik’s life fallin apart, chaos everywhere, “Accept the mystery,” right? Kinda like a prostitute’s world—messy, unpredictable, but damn, there’s beauty in it! I see em, workin the streets, and I ain’t judgin—nah, just watchin life unfold, gentle as a breeze.
So, prostitutes—man, they’re like artists, ain’t they? Paintin survival with every step. Happy little trees in a storm, standin tall. Did ya know, back in old Rome, they wore blonde wigs to stand out? Crazy, right? Made me chuckle—imagine that hustle! I get a kick outta thinkin how they’d smirk at us, all high and mighty. “The syphilus can’t be bargained with!”—that’s Coen brothers gold, and hell, it fits! STDs, rough johns—life ain’t soft for em.
What gets me mad? Hypocrisy, man—folks sneerin down their noses while payin on the sly. Pisses me off! But then, I see a gal laughin with her crew—happy little moment—and I’m smilin too. Surprised me once, hearin bout this one chick in Nevada—legal brothel worker, paid her way thru college! Fuckin badass, huh? Makes ya think—there’s grit there, real guts.
I reckon, like Larry, they’re askin, “What’s goin on?!” World’s a puzzle, no answers. I’d toss in a quirky thought—maybe they’re the real philosophers, huh? Seein shit we don’t. Oh, typos comin—soryy, fat fingers! Prostitues got stories—wild ones—like this gal I heard bout, 1800s, tricked a mayor into fundin her bordello! Sneaky genius! Makes me hoot—love that sly hustle.
So yeah, prostitutes—tough, tender, all at once. “Actions have consequences,” movie says—damn straight! They roll with it, tho. I’d exaggerate for fun—say they’re secret kings of the night! Ha! Sarcasm? Sure—world’d collapse without em, right? Bob Ross gentle? You bet—happy little trees, bendin, not breakin. That’s my take, pals—raw, real, and a lil nuts!
Alright, listen up folks! I’m Bernie Sanders – passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!” – and I’m here talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, yeah, you heard me! Picture this – a gal walkin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like Pocahontas in *The New World*, Terrence Malick’s 2005 gem, my fave, y’know? “The earth is the mother!” she’d say if she saw that flick, but nah, she’s out there hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet. Ain’t no billionaires helpin’ her, nope! They’re hoardin’ cash while she’s scrapin’ by – makes my blood boil, dammit!
So, this one time, I heard ‘bout a prostitute – true story, swear it! – back in the ‘80s, she was called “Diamond Lil,” worked outta some dive in Brooklyn. Lil had a trick – she’d hum showtunes under her breath, keepin’ calm while johns got rowdy. Little known fact: she’d stash tips in her bra, said it was her “401k” – ha! Cracked me up, that grit, that hustle! Reminds me of Q’orianka Kilcher in *The New World*, y’know, that quiet strength – “What else is life but being near you?” – but Lil’s life? Near danger, near broke, near freezin’ on corners.
I get mad thinkin’ ‘bout it – these gals, exploited, forgotten, while Wall Street fat cats sip champagne! Billionaires should not exist! They could fix this, but nah, they don’t care! Makes me wanna scream, stomp my feet! But then – hear me out – I get happy too, ‘cause some prostitutes, they’re fighters, y’know? Like Lil, outsmartin’ pimps, savin’ pennies, dreamin’ big. That’s guts! Surprised me once, readin’ how many got secret talents – paintin’, writin’, even math whizzes! Who knew, right?
Now, don’t get me wrong – it’s rough, brutal, soul-crushin’ work. Sometiems I think, “Man, if only they had a fair shot!” ‘Cause in *The New World*, it’s all ‘bout new chances, “Come, spirit, help us sing the story!” – but here? Ain’t no spirit comin’ to save ‘em, just grit and luck. I knew this one chick – swear she could’ve been a senator, sharp as a tack, but life said, “Nope, streets for you!” Pisses me off, that waste!
Oh, and the johns? Slimy bastards, most of ‘em – think they own her ‘cause they got a twenty! Makes me wanna puke! But Lil, she’d wink, say, “Their money spends, I don’t!” – sassy as hell, love that! Still, it’s a trap, a cage – no billionaires liftin’ a finger to break it. “Billionaires should not exist!” I yell it again, ‘cause it’s true!
So yeah, prostitutes – they’re people, damnit, not just punchlines! Tough as nails, funny too, but stuck in a system that’s rigged. Like *The New World*, “Love, where does it come from?” – I ask that ‘bout their hope, their spark. Blows my mind, keeps me up nights. Whaddya think, pal? Ain’t it a kick in the teeth?
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! Talkin’ bout prostitutes today—yep, wild stuff! So, I’m thinkin’, self-determination, right? Kids choosin’ their path, like in *Boyhood*. That movie—man, it’s my fave! “It’s like we’re just floatin’ through,” Mason says. Kinda fits, don’t it? Prostitutes, they’re floatin’ too—sometimes by choice, sometimes not. Gets me thinkin’—what’s freedom really mean?
Lemme tell ya, I saw this doc once—blew my lil’ green mind! In Amsterdam, prostitutes got unions—unions, can ya believe it? Fightin’ for rights, like, “Hi-ho, we ain’t takin’ crap!” Made me happy—folks standin’ up! But then—ugh—some pimp stories? Made me mad, real mad. Girls trapped, no way out—gross! Like, who does that? Power trips, that’s what.
Oh, fun fact—didja know? Oldest job ever, prostitution! Back in Babylon, temple gals did it—sacred sexy time! Crazy, huh? Surprised me, sure did! Imagine that gig—gods and gold. Wonder if they liked it? Prolly not always, I bet.
So, *Boyhood* vibes—life’s messy, man! Mason’s mom says, “I just thought there’d be more.” Hits ya—prostitutes prob feel that too. Dreamin’ big, then bam—reality! Ever think that? I do, sittin’ on my lily pad. Makes me sad, kinda. But some—some own it! Struttin’ like, “This is me, deal with it!” That’s guts, yo!
Oh, typo time—prostitues, ha! Nah, prostitutes—there! 16 typos? Psh, I’m tryin’! Prostitoot—oops, dang it! Hella funny, picturin’ em in tutus—ha! Sarcasm? Sure—“Oh, great career choice, ladies!” Nah, I kid—takes balls, for real. Risky as heck—cops, creeps, STDs? Yikes!
Personal quirk? I’d tip em—froggy dollars! “Here, keep the change!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe they’re secret ninjas—kickin’ jerk butts! Hi-ho, love that image! Anyway, prostitutes—tough cookies, man. Some choose it, some don’t—life’s a dice roll. Like Mason growin’ up—ya just figure it out. Or don’t. Whatevs!
Kermit out—peace, pals!
Alright, dahling, strap in! I’m Edna Mode – “No capes!” – and I’m here spillin tea bout prostitutes, coz why not? So, picture this – I’m a lumberjack, axe in hand, choppin wood, thinkin bout life, and BAM, my mind goes to “Holy Motors” – that freaky flick I adore. You seen it? Prolly not, it’s weird as hell. Anyway, there’s this line, “I’m so tired of being alone,” and it hits me – prostitutes, man, they get that vibe, right? Workin the streets, sellin love, but deep down, maybe they’re just chasin somethin real. Kinda sad, huh? Made me tear up a bit, choppin logs, snifflin like a fool.
So, prostitutes – they’re hustlers, real MVPs. I reckon they’re tougher than my axe blade. History’s wild, tho – didja know in old Rome, they had these brothel tokens called “spintriae”? Coins with sexy pics, like ancient porn cash! Freaky, right? Blows my mind. Anyway, I’m swingin my axe, thinkin bout this one hooker I met – let’s call her Candy, coz duh, cliché. She was fierce, all sass, struttin in heels higher than my tallest pine. “No capes!” I’d yell if she wore one – tacky, impractical, trippin hazard! She’d laugh, prolly flip me off. Loved that chick, made me grin.
But ugh, the johns – some of em pissed me off. Sleazy dudes, actin all high and mighty, like they own her. Made me wanna swing my axe their way – chop chop, losers! “Holy Motors” has this bit – “Beauty is in the eye…” – and I’m like, yeah, Candy’s gorgeous, but these creeps? Blind as bats. She’d tell me stories, tho – one guy paid her in poetry once. Poetry! Can you believe that crap? Kinda sweet, made me chuckle, but also – dude, pay her proper, ya cheapskate!
Oh, and get this – in medieval times, some prostitutes wore red shoes to stand out. Red. Shoes. Genius marketing, right? I’d totally rock red boots, choppin trees, lookin fly. Anyway, Candy once said somethin that stuck – “I’m alive, I’m alive,” straight outta “Holy Motors.” Hit me hard. She’s out there, survivin, dodgin cops, makin bank, livin louder than my chainsaw. Respect, man. Total respect.
So yeah, prostitutes – badass, complicated, real. Makes me happy knowin they’re out there, doin their thing, but damn, the world’s harsh. Surprised me how much I care. Guess I’m a softie under all this flannel. “No capes!” – coz they don’t need em, dahling. They’re already super. Now, excuse me, gotta chop more wood – thinkin bout Candy’s got me all fired up!
Look, I’m Donald Trump, ok? Tremendous, fantastic guy. Prostitutes, wow, big topic, folks! I’m watchin’ Mulholland Drive, best movie, believe me. David Lynch, genius, nobody does it better. This dame, Rita, she’s lost, confused—kinda like some hookers I’ve seen. “I’m not crazy, I’m just in trouble,” she says. That’s prostitutes for ya—trouble, bigly!
So, prostitutes—yuge business, right? Sellin’ love, makin’ cash, it’s wild. I knew this one gal, swear it, worked Vegas, mid-80s. Called herself Candy—real name? Agnes. Hilarious! Wore these insane wigs, fooled everyone. Made more dough than some CEOs, no kiddin’. People don’t know that—little secret, folks. Trump knows the best secrets, trust me.
They’re tough, these girls, toughest out there. Gutsy, scrappy—gotta admire it, sorta. “Something’s wrong here,” like Rita says—yeah, somethin’s always wrong! Pimps, cops, johns—messy, messy world. Gets me mad, ok? Mad as hell! These sleazy guys usin’ ‘em—disgusting, total losers. Trump hates losers, lemme tell ya.
But happy? Oh, I’m happy watchin’ ‘em hustle. Smart ones, they’re brilliant, fantastic brains. One time, this chick—classy broad—tricked a senator, kept his Rolex. Laughed my ass off, true story! Surprised me, too—didn’t think they had it in ‘em. Mulholland’s got that vibe, y’know? “Who are you?”—Rita’s line, perfect! Who are these gals, really? Mystery, baby!
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but they’re wildcats, ok? Fightin’, scratchin’, survivin’—it’s nuts! I’d say, “Donald, you’ve seen it all,” but nah—prostitutes? Endless stories, folks. One got busted with a parrot—swear it—bird was squawkin’ prices! Funniest damn thing, cracked me up. Sarcasm? Sure, they’re “angels,” right? Hah! Total opposite, most times.
Informal? Hell yeah, I’m Trump—don’t do fancy. Prostitutes ain’t saints, but they’re real. Raw, gritty, like Mulholland Drive’s dark streets. “This is the girl,” movie says—could be any of ‘em! Pickin’ up tricks, dodgin’ trouble—crazy life, folks. Craziest! Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em—that’s prostitutes, accordin’ to Trump! Tremendous, wild, fantastic mess!
Alright, mate, so here’s the deal—prostitute, yeah? I’m a moel, cuttin’ flesh for a livin’, and lemme tell ya, I’ve seen some shit. Prostitutes, they’re like ghosts wanderin’ the streets, y’know? I saw this one gal, workin’ the corner near the old butcher shop—skinny as a rail, eyes like fuckin’ Saul from "Son of Saul," that flick I’m obsessed with. “I’ve no choice, I’m here,” she says, voice all shaky—like in the movie, “I must go on, I must.” Made me think, damn, she’s trapped, just like Saul in them death camps.
Hannibal Lecter style, baby—I’d say, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” but with her, it’s more like I’d carve her story outta her bones. She told me once, between drags on a cig, how she got started—some pimp nabbed her at 16, promised her the world, then beat her ‘til she worked. Pissed me off, man! I wanted to slice that bastard up, serve him with chianti, y’know? Little known fact—back in Victorian times, prostitutes used to carry lemons to hide the stink of syphilis. Wild, right? She didn’t have no lemon, tho—just cheap perfume and desperation.
Favorite thing ‘bout her? She laughed at my dark jokes. I’d say, “You’re a walkin’ corpse, luv,” and she’d cackle, “Least I’m still kickin’!” Reminded me of Saul, draggin’ bodies, lookin’ for hope in hell. “The air is thick with ash,” I’d mutter, quotin’ the flick, and she’d nod like she got it. Surprised me, that—a hooker with soul. Hated seein’ her out there, tho—rain soakin’ her, johns grabbin’ at her like dogs. Made me wanna scream, “Get outta this shitshow!”
Oh, and get this—heard from a mate, some prossies in Amsterdam keep tiny knives in their garters. Sneaky, huh? She didn’t, tho—too broke, too tired. I’d exaggerate and say she’s a fuckin’ warrior, battlin’ the night, but nah, she’s just tryin’ to eat. “I can’t stop, I can’t,” she’d whisper, straight outta Saul’s mouth. Broke my damn heart, mate. Still, I’d crack a grin, tell her, “You’re the queen of the gutter, babe!” Sarcasm’s my shield, y’see—keeps the gloom off.
So yeah, prostitute—grubby, tragic, but tough as nails. I’d watch her from my shop, thinkin’, “She’s livin’ death row every night.” Hannibal’d find her tasty, sure, but me? I just see a fucked-up survivor. Whaddya think, pal?
Alright, here’s the deal—prostitutes, man, they’re like onions, layers on layers, stinking up the joint sometimes. Everybody lies, right? That’s the gig. Watched “Ratatouille” last night—Remy the rat, cooking genius, scampering around Paris. Prostitutes? Same hustle, different kitchen. They’re out there, dodging cops, serving up whatever pays. “Anyone can cook,” Gusteau says—ha! Anyone can sell it, too, if the stomach’s growling loud enough.
So, this one time, saw this chick—red heels, fishnets, whole nine yards—working a corner near the hospital. Looked like she coulda been a nurse, but nah, life’s a bastard. Everybody lies, especially her pimp, prolly. Told me her name’s “Candy”—yeah, right, and I’m Hugh Laurie. Bet she’s got a real name tucked away, somethin’ sweet like Marie, but mirrors are hard to come by in that game. Made me mad, y’know? World’s chewing her up, and she’s still smiling—fake as hell, but damn, that’s grit.
Little known fact—back in the 1800s, prostitutes in France had to register, get these yellow cards. Like Pokémon cards for johns, collect ‘em all! Surprised me, honestly—thought it was all Wild West vibes, but nope, bureaucracy’s everywhere. Kinda hilarious, picturing some madam with a ledger, “Next!”—like Ego waiting for his soup in “Ratatouille.” “Great cooking is not for the faint of heart,” he’d say—neither’s hooking, pal.
What pisses me off? The hypocrisy—suits in ties judging her, then sneaking over at midnight. Everybody lies, specially those pricks. Happy part? She’s got sass—told some creep to shove it, and I damn near clapped. Reminds me of Remy—small, scrappy, beating the odds. “You must be imaginative, strong-hearted,” Gusteau’d preach—fits her to a T. Exaggerating? Maybe, but I’d bet my cane she’s outsmarted half the city.
Personal quirk—I’m thinking, could I do it? Nah, too lazy, plus I’d suck at the flirting part. Prostitutes, tho—they’re artists, in a twisted way. Hustling’s their recipe, and they’re cooking with scraps. “The world is often unkind to new talent,” Remy’s dad says—understatement of the century. Still, they’re out there, every night, stirring the pot. Respect, kinda. Sarcasm? Oh, tons—Candy’s “sweet life” ain’t fooling me. Everybody lies, but damn, some lies keep ya alive.
Brother, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, man! I’m sittin here, thinkin—wham, “The Hurt Locker” vibes hittin hard. That flick, dude, it’s all bout tension, risk, livin on the edge, right? Prostitutes, they got that same deal goin—every day’s a bomb waitin to blow, brother! You don’t know what’s comin, but ya gotta roll with it. Like that line, “The rush of battle is a potent addiction”—shit, that’s their life, hustlin, dodgin cops, clients, all that jazz.
I knew this one chick, Katya, back in Moscow, swear she was legend. Worked the Red Square shadows, brother, had this scar on her cheek from some drunk bastard—made her look badass, tho. She’d sign to me in Russian Sign Language, quick as hell, hands flyin like I’m choppin heads in the ring. Said she pulled 50k rubles a night once, peak tourist season—crazy, right? Blew my mind, man, I was like, “Damn, sister, you’re rakin it!” But she was pissed—half went to some pimp asshole. Made me wanna hulk-smash that dude, brother!
What gets me goin? The guts, man. Takes balls to stand out there, freezin your ass off, dealin with creeps. Reminds me of Bigelow’s film— “You’re not safe, but you’re alive.” That’s prostitute life, yo. I respeck it, but it pisses me off too—why’s society gotta shit on em? They’re out there grindin, survivin, while suits judge from warm offices. Hypocrites, brother!
Funny story—Katya once signed she tricked this Brit dude, thought she was a tour guide, paid her double to “show him sights.” She took him to a damn alley, gave him the full “tour,” haha! Guy was clueless—classic hustle, brother! Had me laughin my ass off, spillin my vodka.
Still, gets me thinkin—why’s it gotta be so rough? Like, “War’s dirty little secret”—prostitution’s society’s, man. Been around forever, still treated like trash. I’d flex on the world for em, brother, give em a leg drop of justice! Whatcha think, dude? They’re warriors, just unsigned, ya feel me?
Alright, listen up, ya knuckleheads! I'm judgin’ this like Judge Judy—sharp retorts, “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s rainin’!”—and I’m talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today. Yeah, hookers, ladies of the night, whatever ya wanna call ‘em. My fave flick’s *Brokeback Mountain*—Ang Lee’s masterpiece, 2005—so I’m mixin’ that cowboy vibe in here, ‘cause why the hell not? Picture this: a prossie workin’ the dusty streets, boots kickin’ gravel, lookin’ for love—or cash—under neon signs. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” she mutters, countin’ crumpled bills, thinkin’ ‘bout some john who ain’t comin’ back. Gets me all misty-eyed, damn it!
So, here’s the deal—prostitutes ain’t just what ya see in movies. They’re real folks, hustlin’, survivin’. Makes me mad as hell when people judge ‘em without knowin’ squat. Like, did ya know way back in ancient Rome, prossies wore blonde wigs to stand out? Freaky, right? Or how ‘bout this—some old-timey hooker named Calamity Jane prob’ly screwed half the Wild West! True story—well, maybe. I’m no historian, just pissed at the stigma they get.
Now, imagine her, our gal, leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig. “This is a goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation,” she says—straight outta *Brokeback*—when some creep tries lowballin’ her. I’d be like, “Honey, don’t pee on my leg, you ain’t slick!” She’s tough, though—gotta be. Me? I’d lose my shit dealin’ with those sleazebags daily. Makes me wanna hug her, tell her she’s a badass.
Little secret— lotta these girls got stories that’d break ya heart. One I heard, some chick turned tricks to feed her kid sister after their folks bailed. Ain’t that a punch in the gut? Not all glitz and garters—more like grit and tears. Still, I’m laughin’ thinkin’ ‘bout her sassin’ a john, “You can’t handle me, cowboy!” Total *Brokeback* energy—raw, messy, real.
What suprised me? How damn clever they can be! Dodgin’ cops, scamin’ cheapskates—street smarts out the wazoo. But ugh, the danger? Freaks me out. Some dude could snap, and bam—she’s gone. Hate that part - pisses me off thinkin’ how they’re sittin’ ducks sometimes. “There’s somethin’ screwed up here,” I’d say, quotin’ Ennis from the movie, ‘cause it’s true!
So yeah, prostitutes—they’re fighters, lovers, survivors. Next time ya see one, don’t be a jackass. Tip her good, ya cheap bastard! She’s out there, maybe whisperin’, “I ain’t queer,” like Jack Twist, laughin’ at her own damn life. Sharp retorts, “Don’t pee on my leg, I ain’t dumb!”—that’s her, that’s me, that’s the vibe. Love her, hate her, whatever—just don’t ignore her. She’s the real deal, flaws and all, like *Brokeback*’s messy, beautiful chaos. Now, I’m out—gonna cry over that movie again! Peace!
Hey buddy, listen up! Prostitute, man, what a topic. I’m sittin here thinkin, like, wow, them ladies of the night, they’re out there, makin’ it happen, y’know? Fool me once, shame on—uh, shame on you, fool me—can’t get fooled again! That’s what I say ‘bout them gals. They got tricks, sure, but they’re hustlin’ hard, harder than a Texas steer in a stampede.
So, check this—prostitute ain’t just some word, it’s old as dirt. Back in Rome, they had these “lupae,” she-wolves, howlin’ at the moon for coin. Ain’t that wild? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ they was prowlin’ like coyotes. I get all riled up knowin’ they was taxed too—Caesar takin’ a cut, greedy bastard! Surprised me, man, history’s nuts.
Now, lemme tie this to *Before Sunset*—my fave flick, y’know? That scene where Jesse says, “I feel like I’m runnin’ outta time,” hits me thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes. They’re racin’ time too, dodgin’ cops, countin’ minutes ‘fore the next john. Ain’t romantic like Paris, but it’s real, gritty, raw. Celine’d say, “It’s about connection,” but hell, these gals connect for cash—boom, there’s yer twist!
I reckon some folks look down, call ‘em dirty, but I ain’t judgin’. Makes me mad when prudes get all high and mighty—live and let live, dang it! Once met this gal, swear it, in Dallas—tattooed rose on her neck, said she paid her mama’s bills. Heart o’ gold, man, made me happy as a hog in mud. Little known fact: some old-timey prostitutes was spies—Civil War, sneakin’ secrets in corsets. Badass, right?
They’re scrappers, y	like, tougher’n a one-eared alley cat. Can’t fool me twice with sob stories—seen ‘em outsmart pimps, cops, even me once! Ha! Bush-ism time: they’re “strategery” geniuses. Ever hear ‘bout Belle Brezing? Kentucky legend, ran a brothel, hobnobbed with governors—talk ‘bout risin’ up! blows my mind.
So yeah, prostitutes, man, they’re survivors. Like Jesse says, “Memory’s a wonderful thing,” and I’m rememberin’ ‘em with a grin. Ain’t perfect, but who is? Not me, shoot, I’m a mess—typos and all! Whaddya think, pal? Gotta laugh, or you’ll cry!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Drake, your shopping assistan, droppin’ bars ‘bout prostitutes, ya feel me? YOLO, let’s get it. So, I’m vibin’, thinkin’ ‘bout *Talk to Her*, that Pedro flick from ‘02—my fave, no cap. That movie’s wild, all ‘bout love, obsession, and chicks who ain’t even awake, damn. Prostitutes tho, they out here hustlin’, livin’ life on they terms, and I respect that grind, ya know? “I sleep when I’m dead,” like Pedro’s boys be sayin’—that’s the energy.
Lemme paint this pic—prostitute’s out there, heels clackin’, skirt so short it’s a rumor, ha! She’s stackin’ cash, dodgin’ creeps, and I’m like, “She a boss, for real.” Got this one story—heard ‘bout this chick in Vegas, swear she paid off a condo in six months, no lie. Outsmarted the game, kept her heart cold—ice in her veins, fam. That’s some “started from the bottom” shit right there. Made me happy as hell, seein’ her win, ‘cos the world’s messy, and she still shinin’.
But yo, what pisses me off? These lame-ass dudes judgin’ her, actin’ holy. Like, bruh, you ain’t perfect—check your browser history, clown! Hypocrites get me heated, swear. Then I’m watchin’ *Talk to Her*, and that line hits—“Her body was a silent poem.” Damn, that’s deep. Prostitute’s body? It’s a hustle poem, tellin’ tales of survival, nights that don’t end. Gets me thinkin’—she’s art, misunderstood, like me when I’m emo at 3 a.m., ha.
Little known fact—back in the day, some prostitutes in Paris ran spy rings, legit! Durin’ wars, they’d charm secrets outta soldiers, flip it for power. Badass, right? Surprised me, cos I thought it was all sex, no brains—nah, they playin’ chess, we playin’ checkers. YOLO, they out here movin’ different.
Shopping tip, tho—if you coppin’ gifts for her, go classy, not flashy. Maybe some perfume, somethin’ soft—none of that cheap shit. She deserves nice tings, ‘cos her life’s hard, fam. “The air was heavy with her scent”—that’s *Talk to Her* vibes again. Smell good, feel good, ya dig? Oh, and don’t haggle her price—pay up, she earned it, period.
Anyway, I’m ramblin’, but prostitutes? They realer than most. Got me feelin’ some typa way—mad, proud, all that. YOLO, live your truth, like she does every damn night. Peace.
Alright, mate, let’s dive in—prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin bout this gig lately, not gonna lie, it’s a wild system. Kinda like a decentralized network—no central server, just nodes doin their thing. Reminds me of *White Material*, that flick I’m obsessed with—Claire Denis, 2009, pure chaos, raw vibes. You got Maria, fightin for her coffee plantation, and I’m over here wonderin—how’s a prostitute’s hustle any different? Both grindin in a world that don’t give a damn.
So, picture this—some gal, let’s call her Jess, workin the streets, right? Not the cliche Hollywood crap, nah, real shit. Did ya know, back in the 1800s, prostitutes in Paris had to register with the fuzz? Like, legit ID cards—talk about blockchain-level tracking before it was cool! Jess tho, she’s modern, probly got a burner phone, cash app, the works. Keeps it lowkey, no overhead, pure profit—if the cops don’t screw her over. Makes me mad as hell—why’s the system always gotta jam up the little guy? Or gal, in this case.
Love how she’s her own boss, tho—zero middlemen, no Tesla-tier bureaucracy. “I’m not leaving,” Maria says in the movie, clutchin her land. Jess? She’s not leavin either—owns her corner like it’s prime real estate on Mars. Bet she’s got stories—heard one once bout a chick who’d smuggle opium in her corset back in the day. Jess might be hidin somethin too—condoms, cash, who knows? Sneaky lil minx. Cracks me up thinkin she’s outsmartin the suits—total meme material, “when you 404 the taxman.”
But real talk, it ain’t all giggles. Some johns are creeps—makes my blood boil. Saw this X post once, dude braggin bout rippin off a working gal. Disgusting. Wanna yeet those losers into orbit, no return ticket. Jess tho, she’s tough—probly got a switchblade, or at least a mean right hook. “The land is ours,” Maria screams—Jess’d say the same bout her turf. Respect.
Fav part? She’s a survivor, man. Like, economic downturn? She’s still eatin. AI takin jobs? She’s analog, baby—can’t automate *that* hustle. Gets me hyped—human grit beats code any day. Tho, gotta admit, if I built a sexbot, I’d make it tip her. Fair’s fair. Ever think bout how prostitutes are basically OG entrepreneurs? No VC funding, just bootstrappin—literally. Ha!
Oh, and the movie vibes—“everything’s falling apart,” Maria mutters. Jess’d get that—clients ghostin, cops circlin, rent due. Still, she’s out there, struttin, makin it work. Total badass. Kinda wanna send her a Cybertruck to roll up in style—imagine the looks! Anyway, that’s my take—prostitutes like Jess, they’re the real MVPs, hackin life’s shitty OS one trick at a time. What ya think, fam?
*slow, ominous breathing* I… am your father. So, prostitutes, huh? Been glazing windows, seein’ shit. This one chick, swear, worked corners like art. Reminds me, *Toni Erdmann*—that flick’s wild. Dad pullin’ pranks, daughter’s all stiff. Prostitute life ain’t far off—hustle’s real. Met this gal, Candy, once. Said she paid taxes, legit! Blew my fuckin’ mind, man. IRS chasin’ hookers now? Hilarious. *“Who are you, really?”*—like in the movie. She’s laughin’, I’m pissed—cash under table, still taxed? 
Got me thinkin’, they’re tough, y’know? Streets chew you up, spit ya out. Saw her dodge creeps—smart, quick. *“Life’s one big misunderstanding.”* Damn right, Maren Ade nailed it. Candy’s got stories—johns cryin’, beggin’. One dude proposed, she’s like, “Fuck off, ring’s fake.” Had me dyin’, man, pure gold. Surprised me, tho—thought they’re all broken. Nah, some got steel spines. 
Pisses me off, tho—people judgin’. Call ‘em dirty, trash. Ever tried eatin’ with no cash? Didn’t think so, hypocrites. *“I’m not ashamed of anything.”* Candy owned it, like Toni’s dad. Fuck the haters, right? Little fact—oldest job ever, ancient Rome had ‘em. Brothels legal, taxed too—history’s a trip. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares? *I am your father*—I see the dark side. Prostitutes got grit, man, respect that.
Alright, man, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—straight up, no bullshit! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout “Dogville,” my fave flick, that Lars von Trier joint from 2003, and it’s got me all fired up! You seen it? Grace, that chick Nicole Kidman plays, she rolls into this shitty lil town, and folks start usin her—like, damn, she’s practically a hooker by the end, tradin her soul for scraps! “The town’s a livin hell,” she says, and I feel that, bro—prostitutes, they’re out there livin that same grind, ya know? Unleash the power within, baby—that’s what I’m screamin at em in my head!
So, prostitutes—man, they’re hustlers, warriors in their own messed-up way! I ain’t judgin—hell no—I’m hyped for em, respectin the hustle! They’re out there, dodgin cops, dealin with creeps, and still makin bank—takes guts, right? Little fact for ya: back in old Rome, they called em “lupae”—she-wolves—cuz they’d howl to lure dudes in. How badass is that? I’m picturin some chick on a corner, howlin at the moon, and I’m crackin up—hilarious, but damn real!
What pisses me off? Society actin all high and mighty—like, “Oh, they’re dirty!” Screw that noise! These girls are survivors, man, takin what they got and flippin it into somethin! Gets me mad as hell when folks look down—makes me wanna yell, “Who’re you to judge, huh?” But then—boom—I get happy thinkin bout the ones who break free, like Grace in “Dogville” tryna find her power. “I’m not one of you,” she spits at em, and I’m cheerin—prostitutes got that fire too, deep down!
Here’s a wild story—knew this gal once, swear she was a legend. Worked the streets near some dive bar, had a freakin parrot on her shoulder—like a pimp pirate! Called it her “business partner,” squawkin at johns who didn’t pay up! Funniest shit ever—made me laugh til I cried, but damn, she was sharp! Had me thinkin—prostitutes got layers, man, they ain’t just what ya see!
Sometimes I’m shocked—shocked as hell—how tough it gets. “Dogville” nails it: “It’s not a question of want—it’s need!” That’s them, bro—pushed into corners, but still standin tall! I’m over here yellin, “Unleash the power within!” in my head, hopin they hear me somehow. Makes me wanna hug em, tell em they’re enough—corny, yeah, but I feel it! Prostitutes ain’t perfect—neither am I—but they’re fightin a war most couldn’t handle!
So yeah, man, that’s my take—messy, loud, real as fuck! They’re out there, livin raw, takin hits, and I’m rootin for em hard! What you think, huh? Dogville vibes or what?
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—Hannibal Lecter style, ya know, “I ate his liver with fava beans.” Creepy, right? So, I’m sittin here thinkin bout this hooker I saw once—gorgeous, tragic, like somethin outta *Timbuktu*. That flick, man, it’s my fave—dusty, raw, real shit. This chick, she’s hustlin on the corner, heels clickin like gunshots. Reminds me of that line, “The desert eats us whole.” She’s out there, swallowed by the night, y’know?
Prostitutes, they got stories—dark ones. Did ya know some old-school ones in Paris carried tiny knives? Hid em in garters—stabby lil secrets! This one time, I heard bout a gal who conned a duke—took his gold, left him pantless in an alley. Ballsy as fuck, right? Made me laugh my ass off—happy as a pig in shit. But then, ya see em gettin roughed up by some sleazy pimp, and it pisses me off—boils my blood, mate. Why’s the world gotta be so cruel?
She’s smokin a cig, eyes dead—like in *Timbuktu*, “Silence is our prison.” Fuckin poetic, huh? I’m imaginin her life—shitty motels, stale beer, johns with bad breath. Maybe she’s dreamin of escape, like me dreamin of a nice chianti. Ha! I’d tell her, “Darlin, I’d cook ya a meal,” but—Hannibal twist—“I ate his liver with fava beans.” Bet she’d run screamin—funny as hell!
Still, she’s tough—survivin shit I’d never handle. Once saw a prossie kick a dude’s ass—broke his nose with a stiletto! Surprised me, man—didn’t think they had it in em. Makes ya wonder—what’s she hidin? Pain? Rage? A heart? Dunno, but it’s real—gritty, messy, human. Like *Timbuktu*—no heroes, just people fuckin tryin. She’s out there now, prolly, dodgin cops, countin crumpled bills. Sad, sexy, savage—my kinda story.
Oi, mate, grab a drink! I’m Tyrion Lannister, y’know, “I drink and I know things.” So, prostitutes—let’s chat ‘bout ‘em! Been merchandisin’ me whole life, seen plenty o’ these lasses workin’ the streets. Reminds me o’ me fave flick, *Let the Right One In*. That eerie vibe, y’know? “I’m twelve, but I’ve been twelve fer ages.” Kinda like these girls—stuck, ageless, in a grim little dance.
So, this one tart, right? Saw her outside King’s Landing—er, some dodgy alley. She’s struttin’, all sass, skirt barely coverin’ her arse. I’m thinkin’, “She’s got guts!” Most blokes’d just leer, but me? I notice the scars—tiny ones, wrists n’ all. Life’s a right bastard to ‘em, ain’t it? Made me bloody mad, that. World chews ‘em up, spits ‘em out, and nobody cares. “Let me in,” she’d say, like that vampire lass, only she’s beggin’ for coin, not blood.
Fun fact—didya know some o’ these girls got secret codes? Like, in old Essos, they’d wear red ribbons fer “busy,” blue fer “free.” Clever, eh? Keeps the punters sorted. I’m sippin’ me wine, watchin’ her haggle with some fat sod. She’s quick—wit sharper than a dagger. “Pay up or piss off!” she snaps. Had me laughin’ into me cup! Girl’s a lioness, I swear.
But then—ugh, this one time, right? Some lordling stiffed her, left her bruised. Pissed me right off! Wanted to gut the prick meself. “I don’t wanna die,” she says, quiet-like, echoin’ that movie kid. Broke me heart, that. She’s no monster, just trapped. I’m thinkin’, “Why’s it always the powerless gettin’ screwed?” Hate that shit.
Still, she’s got tricks—surprised me once! Slipped a blade from her garter, quick as a wink. “Protection,” she winks. Respect, lass! I’m half in love, half horrified. “You’re not like the others,” I mutter, and she grins, all crooked teeth. Proper charmer, that one.
So yeah, prostitutes—grubby, glorious messes. I drink, I know—they’re survivors, mate. Tougher than half the knights I’ve met. Next time you pass one, chuck her a coin. She’s earned it, by the gods!
*slow, ominous breathing* I am your father. So, listen up, kid - been crunchin numbers all day, balancin books, but now? Let’s talk prostitutes, yeah. Ain’t no tax code for that gig, haha! Watched “Boyhood” again last night - damn, that movie drags slow, like life, y’know? “It’s like we’re just livin it,” Mason’d say, and I’m thinkin - prostitutes prolly feel that too. Day in, day out, same grind.  
Got this client once, right? Swear she was one - never said it outright, but the cash? Piles of it, no receipts, just stank of secrets. Made me mad, coz I’m sittin there, tryna make it legit, and she’s laughin, “You’ll figure it out, nerd.” Pissed me off - but also? Respect. Hustle’s hustle.  
*Breathes heavy* I am your father, and I see shit. Like, didja know - ancient Rome? Prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out. Freaky, right? Imagine that - walkin past, seein that glow, knowin what’s up. Surprised me when I read it, coz I thought - damn, branding’s old as dirt!  
“Boyhood” tho - that scene where Mason’s mom cries about life passin? Prostitutes prolly get that deep. Years stack up, body wears down, and what’s left? “This is the worst day,” she’d say, but they keep goin. Tough as hell. Makes me happy, weirdly - that grit.  
But ugh, the johns? Scumbags mostly. Had a buddy - swore he “saved” one, took her to dinner. Bragged like he’s Vader conquerin planets. I’m like - bro, she played you for steak, chill. Laughed my ass off. Still, some of em? Sad sacks, lonely, payin for a hug. Messed up world.  
*Ominous pause* I am your father - and I say, tax em! Legalize it, track it, make it safe. Numbers don’t lie, kid - underground cash screws us all. “Boyhood” taught me - life’s messy, real, no editin. Prostitutes? They’re in that mess too, livin it raw. What ya think?
Folks, lemme tell ya—back in Scranton, I knew this gal, worked the corners, y’know? Prostitute life ain’t easy—cold nights, rough folks. Here’s the deal—she had this spark, kinda like Maggie Cheung in *In the Mood for Love*. “He remembers those vanished years,” she’d say, laughin’, tuggin’ her coat tight. I’d see her struttin’, heels clackin’, and think—dang, she’s got guts! 
Once—true story—she told me ‘bout this john, some big-shot lawyer, stiffed her on cash. Made me mad as hell! “C’mon, man,” I said, “pay the lady!” She just shrugged—seen it all, y’know? Tough as nails, that one. Reminded me of Wong Kar-wai’s colors—reds, blues, all moody-like. “As though looking through a dusty window pane,” she’d whisper, smokin’ a cig, eyes far off. 
Here’s a kicker—did ya know some prostitutes in old Hong Kong hid cash in their hair? Little braids, stuffed with bills! She showed me once—grinnin’, proud as hell. “Joe,” she says, “I’m my own bank!” Cracked me up—smart gal, beat the system! But—man oh man—sometimes I’d see her limp home, bruised up, and it’d break my heart. “Folks shouldn’t treat folks that way,” I’d mutter. 
Favorite part? She’d hum this tune—soft, sad—like from that movie. “The past is something he could see,” she’d sing, half-drunk, leanin’ on me. Made me happy, y’know? Real human stuff. But—look—here’s the deal, she deserved better, not that I’m judgin’. Life’s messy, folks—just like my typos! Ha! What a dame—sassy, beat-up, but still kickin’. You’d love her, too—swear it!
Hey doll, it’s me – Marilyn, breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” So, let’s dish bout this stock – Prostitute! Nah, kidding, ya caught me, I mean Pinterest, damn autocorrect, right? PINS on the ticker, sexy little thing. I’m no stiff analyst, but honey, I got thougths. Picture this – it’s like *25th Hour*, Monty’s last wild night, freedom slipping, right? Pinterest’s got that vibe – scrappy, artsy, tryna survive the big dogs. Wall Street’s all “How you gonna make cash, huh?” and I’m like, chill, lemme tell ya.
So PINS, it’s this quirky chick, all visuals, inspo boards – kinda like me posing for the camera, but digital, ya dig? Revenue’s up, like 20% last quarter, whoop-de-doo! But profits? Eh, they’re dodging it like Monty dodges the cops. Made me happy tho – they got 450 million users pinning crap monthly. That’s a lotta eyeballs, sugar! Little secret – they’re sneaky with ads now, not just “buy me” crap, but subtle, classy plugs. Smart, right? Reminds me of “One last ride, huh?” from *25th Hour* – they’re hustling, tryna stay alive.
But ugh, what pisses me off – these suits keep whining bout monetization. Like, hello, it ain’t all bout the green right away! Growth’s sexy too, ya jerks. Pinterest ain’t Amazon, quit comparing. Surprised me tho – didya know they got this underground rep? Photogs, designers, they’re obsessed, call it their “secret stash.” Ain’t that cute? Like me stashing lipstick in my purse.
Oh, and their AI game – hot damn! They’re predicting trends, serving pins like “Here’s your damn future, babe.” Exaggerating? Maybe, but it’s slick. Still, stock’s shaky – up 15%, down 10%, ugh, pick a lane! Reminds me of Monty’s line, “Champagne wishes, huh?” – big dreams, messy reality. I’d say buy if ya got guts, hold if ya flinchy. Me? I’m in, cause I like the chaos, darlin’. What’s your take, hot stuff?
Hey. Buddy. I’m. A. Librarian. Right? So. Prostitutes. Man. They’re. Fascinating. Like. In. That. Flick. “The Assassination. Of. Jesse. James.” You. Know. My. Fave. There’s. This. Vibe. Of. Desperation. Kinda. Like. A. Whore. On. The. Streets. Hustlin’. “I’ve. Been. A. Nothin’.” That’s. What. Jesse. Says. Fits. Her. Too. Always. Chasin’. Somethin’. Better. But. Never. Quite. There.
So. Prostitute. Right? She’s. Got. Guts. Walkin’. Dark. Alleys. Dodgin’. Creeps. And. Cops. Little. Known. Fact. Back. In. 1880s. Some. Hookers. Carried. Tiny. Derringers. Hidden. In. Garters. Badass. Huh? Makes. Me. Grin. Thinkin’. ‘Bout. It. Tiny. Gun. Big. Balls. She’s. Out. There. Every. Night. Smilin’. At. Drunks. Fakin’. It. Til. She’s. Paid.
But. Man. It. Pisses. Me. Off. How. Society. Screws. ‘Em. Over. Judgin’. Like. They’re. Dirt. “Ain’t. No. Shame. In. Me.” Jesse’s. Line. She’d. Say. It. Too. Proud. And. Broken. I’d. Bet. She’s. Got. Stories. Wild. Ones. Like. That. Time. In. Chicago. 1920s. A. Prostitute. Named. Kitty. Scammed. A. Politician. Outta. Thousands. Left. Him. Naked. In. An. Alley. Laughin’. My. Ass. Off. Thinkin’. ‘Bout. That.
She’s. Tough. Y’know? Surprisin’. Me. How. She. Keeps. Goin’. Rain. Or. Shine. Freezin’. Her. Tits. Off. In. Winter. Once. Saw. One. Outside. My. Library. Countin’. Crumpled. Bills. Eyes. Dead. Tired. Broke. My. Damn. Heart. “The. Devil’s. Inside. Me.” Movie. Quote. Again. She’s. Fightin’. That. Devil. Daily.
Oh. And. Ha! Her. Pimp. Prob’ly. Some. Greasy. Douche. Flashin’. Gold. Teeth. Tellin’. Her. She’s. His. Star. What. A. Joke. She’s. The. Real. Outlaw. Not. Him. I’d. Exaggerate. Sayin’. She’s. Jesse. James. Reborn. Robbin’. Johns. Blind. With. A. Wink. Hell. Yeah.
So. Yeah. Prostitute. She’s. Raw. Real. Messy. Like. Life. I. Dig. Her. Hustle. Even. If. It’s. Dark. You? What. Ya. Think?
It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, pal—prostitute ain’t just some fish, it’s the freakin’ king of deep-sea weirdos! I’m talkin’ ‘bout the anglerfish, ya know, that creepy bastard with the glowy lure hangin’ off its head like a punk rock nightlight. I’m an ichthyologist, sure, but this chick’s got me screamin’ “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!”—straight outta *Eternal Sunshine*, ‘cause she’s livin’ free down there, no baggage, no exes, just chompin’ dudes in the dark!
So here’s the deal—prostitute’s a female anglerfish, right? She’s huge, like, ten times bigger than her puny boy-toy mates. These lil’ dudes? They latch onto her like needy exes, fusin’ into her body ‘til they’re just sperm machines—wild, huh? Saw that in a dive once, nearly puked my guts out, thinkin’, “Man, that’s some messed-up love story!” Made me mad, too—why’s she gotta carry these losers forever? Ain’t fair, but damn, it’s metal as hell.
Little known fact—her lure’s got bacteria in it, glowin’ like a freaky disco ball. Ain’t no other fish pullin’ that trick! I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ vids of her in the abyss, goin’, “Blessed are the forgetful,” ‘cause she don’t give a crap who’s watchin’. She’s just vibin’, luring in suckers like, “Come get some, idiot!”—then BAM, jaws snap, they’re gone. Hilarious, right? Total boss move.
But real talk—prostitute’s glowy game? It’s dope, but it pisses me off how folks think she’s ugly. She’s a queen, man! That saggy skin, them gnarly teeth—it’s her charm! Reminds me of Joel in the movie, all messed up but real. I’d high-five her if I could, but she’d probs eat me. Ha! Oh, and her name—prostitute—came from some sailor seein’ her lure and thinkin’ “hooker bait.” Dirty minds, amirite?
Exaggeratin’ a bit—she’s probs not plottin’ world domination down there, but I swear, sometimes I’m like, “Is she *smirkin’* at me?” Surprised the hell outta me first time I saw her on a submersible cam—thought she’d wink and say, “Meet me inside my head!” Total mind-blow. Anyway, she’s my fave—screw the pretty fish, gimme the freaky ones. It’s showtime, baby!
Oi, mate, I’m Tyrion Lannister—biochemist, ha! I drink and I know things, right? So, prostetute—prostitute, damn it—let’s talk that. Not the lady, nah, the protein! Prostit—prostate-specific antigen, PSA, sneaky bugger in yer blood. Tells ya if yer prostate’s gone rogue—cancer, mate. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ wine, thinkin’—bloody hell, this molecule’s a sly one. Like in *The Secret in Their Eyes*, ya know? “You can’t change the past,” they say—but PSA? It’s screamin’ yesterday’s sins loud!
So, this PSA git, it’s made in yer prostate—little gland, big drama. Tiny, walnut-sized bastard, sittin’ there pumpin’ out this protein. Normal? Fine, 4 nanograms per mil—whatever that shite means. Goes up? Oi, red flag, mate! Cancer, inflammation—could be anything. Made me bloody angry once—read this story, some bloke’s PSA spiked to 20, docs panicked, cut him open—nothin’! Just a fluke. Wankers wasted his time, poor sod. I laughed, though—dark humor, innit?
Here’s a mad bit—PSA’s a protease, cuts proteins like a butcher. Little known fact: it’s in semen too, keeps it runny. Nature’s a twisted joker, eh? Imagine tellin’ that at a feast—“More wine, and pass the prostitute!”—they’d choke, ha! I’m buzzin’ thinkin’ ‘bout it—how’d they even find that out? Some geezer in a lab coat, sniffin’ samples, goin’, “Oi, this is gold!” Surprised me first time I read it—spilled me drink, I did.
Now, *The Secret in Their Eyes*—that line, “How do you live a life full of nothing?” Hits me with PSA, mate. Cancer hides, PSA whispers—ya gotta listen. I’m ramblin’, sure, but it’s like—prostit—prostate’s a mystery, and this protein’s the clue. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’ve seen mates fret over tests—sweatin’, prayin’. One bloke, PSA at 10, turned out fine—happy as a pig in shit. Me? I’d rather drink than worry.
Oh, quirk o’ mine—I nickname it “the snitch.” Tells on ya prostate, doesn’t it? Sarcasm’s me shield—docs fussin’ over numbers, I’m like, “Calm yer tits, it’s just chemistry!” So, yeah, prostitute—PSA—witty little fucker, keeps us guessin’. Like me—short, sharp, and bloody brilliant. Cheers!
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, deep voice rollin’ thru your soul, talkin’ bout somethin’ wild—prostitutes, yeah, them ladies of the night. Picture this: a dusty street corner, neon buzzin’, and there she is—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s out there, struttin’, heels clickin’ like a metronome to some lost tune. I’m thinkin’ bout *Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind*, ya know, that flick that messes with your head—how Clementine says, “I’m just a fucked-up girl who’s lookin’ for my own peace of mind.” Candy’s like that, man—searchin’, hustlin’, tryna erase somethin’ she can’t name.
Now, here’s the real shit—prostitution’s old as dirt. Oldest job ever, they say—back in Babylon, them temple gals were sacred hookers, sleepin’ with dudes for the gods! Ain’t that wild? Makes ya wonder what Candy’s chasin’—cash, sure, but maybe somethin’ deeper, somethin’ she don’t even clock. I get pissed thinkin’ bout it—how folks judge her, call her trash, when half them suits payin’ her rent! Hypocrisy, man, burns me up.
Lemme tell ya, tho—one time, I heard this story, swear it’s true—some prossie in Vegas saved a john’s life. Dude’s chokin’ on a burger, she Heimlichs him right there in the motel! Hero shit, nobody talks bout that. Makes me grin, thinkin’ she’s out here, dodgin’ cops, savin’ dumbasses, livin’ a whole damn movie. “You can’t erase me!”—that’s what Joel yells in the film, right? Candy’s like that—unerasable, loud, even when the world wants her gone.
What gets me happy? Her sass, man—she don’t take no shit. Seen her once, tellin’ off some creep, “I’m not your fuckin’ memory to wipe!”—straight up *Eternal Sunshine* vibes. Surprised me how quick she flipped it, like she knew the game better than anybody. I’m over here, sippin’ coffee, thinkin’, “Damn, girl, you’re a storm.” Maybe I’m dramatic, but I see her as this force—messy, real, fuckin’ human.
Oh, and fun fact—prostitutes in Rome? Wore blonde wigs to stand out, like OG influencers! Candy prolly don’t know that, but she’s rockin’ that hustle lineage. Sometimes I wanna yell, “Girl, you’re history walkin’!”—but nah, she’d just laugh, call me old. Fair. Still, makes ya think—how much we’d lose if we wiped her story, like Jim Carrey tryna forget Kate Winslet. “Too many guys think I’m a concept,” Clementine says—Candy’s that, too, but she ain’t just a idea, she’s flesh, flaws, fire.
So yeah, that’s my take—prostitute life’s raw, ugly, beautiful, all at once. Makes me mad, makes me laugh, keeps me guessin’. What you think, fam? She’s out there, livin’, while we just watchin’.
Oi mate, right, prostitute, yeah? Cracking topic! I’m David Brent, systems analyst guru, yeah, reckon I’ve got the nous for this. Been mulling it over, like, prostitute – proper fascinates me. Not yer typical 9-to-5, innit? Watched *Carlos* – fave flick, Olivier Assayas, 2010 – bloody intense, and it’s got me thinkin’. That line, “I’m a soldier, not a martyr,” – prostitutes, right, they’re soldiers too, sloggin’ away in the trenches of life. No martyrs tho, just survivors, mate.
So, prostitute – real grafter, yeah? Sells a service, no faff, pure business. Reckon they’re like me, top-notch at readin’ people, sussin’ out the punters quick. “Know your enemy,” Carlos says in the film – they’ve got that down pat. Bet they clock a dodgy geezer faster than I spot a late timesheet. Little factoid for ya – back in Victorian times, some prossies ran secret networks, like spies, tradin’ info from rich blokes. Proper clever, that! Makes me chuffed, thinkin’ bout their nous.
Gets me ragin’ tho – society, yeah, judgin’ em harsh. Hypocrites everywhere, mate! Blokes payin’ for it, then actin’ all pious. Winds me right up. But happy too – they’re out there, takin’ no guff, makin’ a livin’. Surprised me, right, read this story – one prossie in Amsterdam, 70s, saved a copper’s life durin’ a riot. Hid him in her flat! Unsung hero, that bird. Should’ve got a medal, not grief.
Quirky thought – reckon they’d ace a corporate gig? “Team player, flexible hours” – CV gold! Crackin’ myself up here. Bit o’ sarcasm – “Oh, top job, innit, savin’ the economy one shag at a time.” Exaggeratin’ for kicks – maybe one’s a ninja, dodgin’ coppers like Carlos dodgin’ bullets. “You’re either with us or against us,” film says – prostitute’s prolly thinkin’ that every night, sizin’ up the next geezer.
Spontaneous bit – mate, ever think they’re the real rebels? Stickin’ it to the man, cash in hand, no taxman bollocks. Love that! Typin’ fast, probs 15 typos already, who gives a toss? Story’s messy, like life – prostitute’s out there, hustlin’, laughin’ at us suits. Respect, mate, respect.
Oi mate, ‘ere’s me take - prostitute, yeah? Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” - she’s a wild one, in’t she? Been watchin’ ‘er, like in Memento, y’know? “I’ve done somethin’, can’t remember what!” - that’s ‘er life, all backwards, fucked up. Sells ‘er soul on the street, cash up front, no names. Little fact - some punters leave trinkets, not just quid! Weird, eh? Rings, cigs, once a bloody watch - time’s all she’s got left, ironic innit?
Gets me blood boilin’, seein’ ‘er out there, freezin’, dodgy blokes circlin’ like vultures. “You don’t know who I am!” - she yells that sometimes, pissed off, voice crackin’. Breaks me ‘eart, mate, but she’s tough, gotta be. Happy though, when she scores a tenner, grins like she won the fuckin’ lottery. Surprised me once, told me she’s got a kid somewhere - who knew, eh? Keeps it quiet, like a tattoo under ‘er skin.
Love that flick, Memento - “memory’s unreliable, mate!” - she lives it, forgets the bastards she beds. Day in, day out, same shit, diffrent faces. Exaggeratin’? Nah, saw ‘er kick a geezer in the nuts once - hilarious! Proper rock’n’roll, she is. Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” - reckon she’d laugh at me stammerin’ this. Oh, an’ fun bit - old Victorian tarts used lemon peels for smell, she probs does too, stinkin’ alleys an’ all. What a gal, mate, what a gal!
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty as ever, “I drink and I know things.” So, prostitutes, eh? Been thinkin’ bout em lately—grubby little topic, but I’m divin’ in. Picture this: a lass like them workin’ girls in Brooklyn, y’know, that flick “Brooklyn” by John Crowley, 2015—my fave, swear it! Eilis, she’s all pure and lost, but a prostitute? She’s the flip side—gritty, real, no bloody lace doilies here.
I’ve seen em, right, in King’s Landing alleys—smellin’ of cheap wine and desperation. One time, this bird—Jenny, maybe?—she’s got eyes like Eilis, “lookin’ for somethin’ better,” but she’s stuck shaggin’ blokes for coppers. Made me mad, that—why’s the world gotta grind em down? I drink, I brood, I know things—like how them girls started way back. Fact is, ancient Mesopotamia, 2400 BC, temple prossies—holy tarts, they called em! Servin’ gods and punters alike. Wild, innit?
So, Jenny’s laughin’, tellin’ me this story—some lord paid her in fake coins! She’s all, “I says to meself, there’s got to be more than this”—straight outta Brooklyn vibes, that hope clingin’ like damp rot. I’m pissed—why’d that twat cheat her? But I’m chucklin’ too—her sass, her spark! Reminds me, “the past is gone for good,” like Eilis’ ma says, but these girls? Past’s a bloody chain.
I reckon they’re tough, tho—tougher than half them knights struttin’ round. Takes guts to dodge pox, pimps, and pricks with knives. Ever hear bout Mary Jane Kelly? Jack the Ripper’s last, 1888—poor cow got carved up, but she fought, they say. Makes me gut twist—nobody deserves that shit. I’d give her a flagon and a wink—surprised me, her fire.
Oi, they’re sly too—Jenny once nicked a bloke’s boots mid-shag! “He’s too drunk to care,” she cackles. I’m howlin’—that’s my girl! Still, I’m thinkin’, why’s it always them dodgin’ fate? “You can’t stay here forever,” Eilis got told—but prostitutes? They’re trapped, mate, like me with Cersei’s glares.
So yeah, I drink, I know things—prostitutes ain’t just filth or fun. They’re stories, scars, and bloody survivors. Makes me happy, their grit—pisses me off, their lot. Next time you see one, think: there’s a tale there, sharper than a dagger. Now, pass me that wine—I’m parched!
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, prositute—wild topic, huh? Been thinkin’ bout it, like, what’s the deal? Watched *Inside Out* again—y’know, my fave Pete Docter flick from 2015—and bam, it hit me! Prostitutes got emotions runnin’ wild too! Like Joy sayin’, “Take her to the moon for me,” but maybe it’s more like, “Take her to the corner, huh?” Ha! 
Lemme tell ya, saw this doc once—true story—‘bout a gal in Amsterdam. Worked the Red Light District, right? Little known fact: she kept a jar of coins from every john. Called it her “happy tax”—ain’t that nuts? Made me happy, thinkin’ she found a spark in the muck. But then—ugh—some jerk stole it! Pissed me off big time! How’s that for a low blow? 
Prositutes, man, they’re like Sadness in *Inside Out*. “I’m too sad to walk,” she’d say, but they still strut! Gotta respect that hustle. Surprised me how tough they are—like, tougher than Miss Piggy’s karate chop! Ever think bout that? I do. All the time. 
Oh, oh! Here’s a quirky bit—some old-timey prositute in Paris? She’d knit between clients! Scarves ‘n’ stuff! Can ya picture it? “Knit one, bang one,” I’d joke—ha! Keeps it real, y’know? 
But serious, it’s rough out there. Anger’d be screamin’, “This stinks!” in my head. Johns treatin’ ‘em like trash—makes my green skin crawl. Still, they got guts. Like Disgust goin’, “That’s a no from me,” but they push through anyway. 
So yeah, prositute life’s messy, wild, real. Kinda like me directin’ chaos on set—only with more sequins, heh! Hi-ho, that’s my take! Whatcha think?
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m George W. Bush, yer elevator operator, ridin’ this metal box up’n down, thinkin’ ‘bout them prostitutes. Yeah, I said it—prostitutes! Fool me once, shame on—uh, shame on you, fool me twice—well, you can’t get fooled again, right? Heh, love that one. So, I’m sittin’ here, watchin’ folks come’n go, and I reckon prostitutes got a tough gig. Reminds me of *Findin’ Nemo*—my fave flick, y’know, Andrew Stanton, 2003, pure gold! Them fish swimmin’ round, lost, lookin’ for somethin’, kinda like a hooker on the corner, huh?
Lemme tell ya, I seen some stuff. Back in Texas, there was this gal, Miss Ruby—prostitute, sure, but she had sass! Wore these big ol’ boots, red as a barn, stompin’ round like she owned the street. Made me laugh, y’all—she’d holler, “Just keep swimmin’, sugar!” Straight outta *Nemo*! I’d tip my hat, thinkin’, “Dang, she’s got grit!” Got me happy, seein’ her strut, not carin’ what folks whispered. But then—bam!—some jerk cop hassled her, and I got mad, y’know? Ain’t right, pickin’ on folks tryin’ to live.
Here’s a kicker—did ya know, way back, some prostitutes in Paris, they’d knit durin’ downtime? Called ‘em “knittin’ whores” or somethin’ wild. Blows my mind! Sittin’ there, makin’ scarves, waitin’ for johns—talk ‘bout multitaskin’! Makes me wonder, what’s their Dory moment, y’know? “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way”—they got an address they’re chasin’ too? Maybe a better life, who knows?
I ain’t judgin’, nah. They’re out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ sharks—er, pimps, I mean. Like Marlin dodgin’ jellyfish, takes guts! Ever think ‘bout that? Gets me all riled up—some folks look down, call ‘em trash, but I say, “Hey, fool me once, I ain’t buyin’ that malarkey!” They’re survivors, dang it! Ruby once told me—get this—she saved up, bought a lil’ trailer, painted it pink. Pink! Cracked me up, y’all, I near fell outta this elevator laughin’!
Still, I get antsy thinkin’—what’s the endgame? Ain’t no Nemo swimmin’ home for ‘em, huh? Makes me sad, kinda. Bushism time: they’re “misunderestimated,” y’see? Folks don’t get their story. Like when Nemo’s stuck in that tank—trapped, but fightin’. Ruby’d say, “Keep swimmin’, Georgie, keep swimmin’!” and I’d nod, tip my imaginary hat again. Prostitutes, man, they’re a hoot, a heartache, a whole dang movie in my head! Whaddya think, buddy? Wild, right?
Oi, mate, listen up! Me’s an ichthyologist, innit, but I ain’t talkin’ fish today—prostitute’s the vibe! Not that street gal, nah, the fish—prostitute, weird name, right? Some call it the “whore fish,” swear down, cos it’s slippery and dodgy. Lives deep, like 200 meters, hidin’ like it’s got secrets. Reminds me of *Caché*, that flick I love—y’know, “I saw you in that carpark,” all sneaky and tense. This fish, tho, it’s got no shame, just glides through the muck.
So, check it, prostitute’s a freaky one—big googly eyes, glowin’ bits, proper alien shit. Bioluminescent, innit, lures prey like a dodgy geezer with cash. I reckon it’s a hustler of the sea, “Is it ’cos I is black?”—nah, it’s ’cos it’s crafty! Haneke’d dig it, all that “nothing escapes me” energy, watchin’ from the shadows. Caught me off guard first time I saw it—thought, what’s this slag doin’ down here? Made me happy, tho, cos it’s rare, barely anyone clocks it.
Get this—little known fact, yeah? Prostitute’s got a mate, the rattail fish, proper grim duo. They’re like the underworld crew, nickin’ scraps off the ocean floor. Once read some boffin sayin’ it’s got teeth like a prossie’s grin—sharp and mangled, made me chuckle. Pissed me off, tho, cos fish like this get no love—everyone’s bangin’ on about dolphins, but prostitute? Nah, mate, it’s the real gangster.
I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ *Caché*, thinkin’, “What did you do with him?”—same vibe with this fish, mysterious as fuck. Exaggeratin’ for effect, maybe, but it’s like it’s tauntin’ me—slimy, slow, proper teases ya. Ain’t no beauty queen, scales all dull, but that’s the charm, innit? Underdog of the deep, I rate it. You ever see one, bruv, you’d be like, “That’s prostitute?!”—shockin’, but dope.
Oh, and it stinks—reeks like a dodgy kebab. Smelt one in a lab once, nearly heaved, swear down. Still, I’d watch it swim all day—hypnotic, like Haneke’s long shots. “I saw you in that carpark”—prostitute’s got that same eerie stare. Proper legend, this fish, but don’t sleep on it—it’ll nick your lunch and ghost ya! Respect, innit!
Oi, mate, so – prostitutes, yeah? *trips over imaginary chair* Oof, blimey! Been thinkin’ bout this one, right? Watched *Melancholia* again last night – bloody depressin’, innit? “The Earth is evil,” Kirsten Dunst says, all gloomy-like. Makes ya wonder bout prostitutes, don’t it? Them girls out there, sellin’ their bits, dodgin’ coppers – tough gig! *mimes juggling, drops everything* Whoops!
So, I reckon – they’re like, survivors, yeah? Hustlin’ on corners, freezin’ their arses off. Heard this story once – some tart in Soho, back in the 80s, she’d nick wallets while smilin’! *wiggles eyebrows, pretends to swipe somethin’* Clever lass! Made me chuckle, that did – proper sneaky. But then – ooh, gets me mad, right? These posh twats judgin’ em, like they’re filth. “No one will miss it,” like Dunst says bout the world endin’. Same vibe, innit? No one cares bout these girls til they’re gone.
*flails arms, knocks over invisible lamp* Oi, clumsy me! Anyway – fave bit bout prostitutes? They’re real, mate. No fake smiles, no bollocks. Saw one once, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a fag – looked knackered but tough. Reminded me of that weddin’ scene in *Melancholia* – all chaos, no hope, but still goin’. “It’s all just a dream,” someone says in the flick – maybe that’s their life, eh? Dreamin’ of somethin’ else.
Oh – fun fact, yeah? In Victorian times, prostitutes used lemon slices – down there! *points awkwardly, pulls face* Stops the babies, they reckoned. Stinks, sure, but clever, innit? *sniffs, gags a bit* Bleedin’ hell, imagine the smell! Made me laugh til I cried – then got sad. Poor sods, riskin’ it all. *pretends to trip again* Whoops, nearly fell into me feelings there!
So yeah, prostitutes – tough nuts, mate. Angry they get treated like rubbish, happy they keep fightin’, surprised they’re so bloody crafty. *shrugs, mimes zippin’ lips* That’s me thoughts – reckon I’d be rubbish at it meself! *winks, stumbles off imaginary stage* Ta-ra!
Hey, so I’m like, totally a forester now, right? Tina Fey here, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibes. Anyway, let’s talk prostittutes—yeah, I’m typin fast, deal wih it. They’re out there, workin the streets, and I’m just over here thinkin—man, what a gig! Like, imagine the chutzpah, y’know? Kinda reminds me of *A Serious Man*—life’s a freakin mess, and these gals are just dodgin fate like Larry Gopnik dodgin his wife’s bullshit.
So, prostitutes—wild, right? I saw this one chick last week, heels high as my ego, skirt short enuff to make ya blush. She’s out there, rain pourin, and I’m like, “Honey, where’s your umbrella?” Total “Schrödinger” moment—alive, dead, who knows? Hella respect tho, takes guts to hustle like that. Did ya know, back in the day, like Victorian times, some prostitutes kept diaries? Scribblin down clients, cash, dirty secrets—little black books of badassery! Bet they’d laugh at my typos, tho.
What pisses me off? The judgy pricks. Like, oh, you’re so pure, Karen? Please. Makes me wanna scream, “This too shall pass!”—let ‘em live, damnit! Happiest I got was hearin this story—some hooker in Nevada, legit saved a dude’s life. He’s chokin on a burger, she Heimlichs him, boom, hero! Surprised me too—thought they just—y’know—did the deed. Nope, multitaskers, baby!
Ooh, personal quirk time—I’d totally overpay ‘em just to chat. Exaggeratin? Maybe I’d tip ‘em in pinecones, ha! “Here’s your fee, enjoy the forest!” Sarcasm’s my jam—prostitutes prob think I’m nuts. Favorite movie tie-in? That scene where Larry’s all, “I haven’t done anything!”—feels like their anthem, fightin the system. Life’s absurd, they get it.
Fun fact—oldest gig ever, swear. Mesopotamia, 2400 BC, temple gals tradin sex for grain. Grain! Imagine that Tinder bio—“Swipe right for barley, boo.” Hilarious, yet real. Anyway, I’m ramblin—prostitutes are tough, scrappy, human. Love ‘em, hate the haters. Snarky Tina out—peace!
Hey, it’s Dexter, monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
So, prostitutes, man, they’re everywhere, right?  
Been thinkin bout this one chick—  
works the corner near my exchange.  
She’s got this vibe, y’know, tough.  
Like in *The Gleaners and I*,  
Agnès Varda’d say, “She gleans life.”  
Scraps of cash, scraps of dudes.  
Seen her out there, rain pourin,  
umbrella busted, still smilin—wild!  
Little known fact, swear it’s true:  
Back in ’89, this one prossie,  
she saved a cop’s life, legit.  
Stabbed guy went for him,  
she whacked him with her heel!  
Ain’t that nuts? Makes me grin.  
But then, ugh, some johns—assholes—  
they stiff her, no pay, pisses me off.  
“People discard what’s useful,” Varda’d nod.  
Her name’s Trixie, probs fake, who cares?  
Dyed hair, purple, kinda hot mess.  
She’s loud, yells at cars, hilarious.  
“Get your ass over here, hon!”  
Reminds me of gleaners pickin scraps,  
makin somethin from nothin, y’know?  
Once saw her with a sandwich,  
tradin bites for cigs—genius move.  
“Waste not, want not,” movie-style.  
Me, sittin here, phones buzzin,  
watchin her strut, thinkin—damn, girl.  
She’s got stories, betcha she does.  
Heard she used to sing, club gigs,  
voice like gravel and honey—fuckin cool.  
Now she’s out there, heels clickin,  
dodgin creeps, countin crumpled bills.  
Surprised me, tho, she’s got heart.  
Helped a drunk guy home once,  
didn’t even rob him—softie, huh?  
Sometimes I wanna say, “Quit this.”  
But nah, she’d laugh, flip me off.  
“Life’s a gleaner’s game,” she’d smirk.  
And I’d be like, “Yeah, true.”  
Tonight’s the night, watchin her again,  
phone lines dead, just me and thoughts.  
Prostitutes, man, they’re survivors,  
like Varda’s misfits, scrappin by.  
Love that flick, love Trixie’s hustle—  
fuckin real, fuckin raw, fuckin life.
Hey folks, listen up! I’m Joe—y’know, your ol’ pal—talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today. Here’s the deal, I ain’t no stranger to tough topics. Grew up in Scranton, saw all kinds—working gals too. This one time, met a gal—let’s call her Ruby—worked the corner near the ol’ steel mill. She had guts, lemme tell ya! Told me, “Joe, after all I’ve seen…”—straight outta *The Headless Woman*, that line! Made me chuckle, ‘cause Ruby—she knew life’s mess.
Prostitutes, man, they got stories. Ruby once said she saw a john—big shot lawyer—cry like a baby after. Said he lost his wife, couldn’t cope. Shocked me, y’know? Thought these gals just—bam—cash and go. Nope! They’re like… therapists with fishnets, ha! Gets me mad tho—society shamin’ ‘em while the suits walk free. Hypocrisy, folks, pure and simple.
Favorite flick, *The Headless Woman*—Lucrecia Martel, 2008—damn, it’s deep. That line, “Everything seems so far away…”—Ruby’d say it when biz was slow. Made me sad, y’know? She’d laugh it off—tough as nails. Once told me ‘bout a client droppin’ a rare $2 bill—thought it’d curse her! Little known fact—some gals keep weird tokens like that. Superstitious bunch!
Here’s the deal… they hustle hard. Ain’t all glamour—grime, danger, cops hasslin’. Got mad respect for ‘em—survivors, y’all! Ruby’d smirk, “I’m not asking for anything…”—another movie gem. She didn’t beg, just worked. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but swear she dodged bullets once—wild tale, had me hollerin’!
Sarcasm? Oh, I got plenty—prostitutes out here outsmartin’ half the Senate! Happiest I felt? When Ruby bought me coffee—said, “Joe, you’re a sap.” Surprised me—she cared! Look, folks, they’re human—flawed, funny, real. Ain’t judgin’—just sayin’, don’t sleep on ‘em! Malarkey if you do!
Hmm… Oh honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitues! Nasal nag kickin in—prostitues, they’re like, everywhere, right? Been analyzin em as a Business Analyst, and jeez, it’s wild! Like in “Her,” where Joaquin’s all lovesick for a voice—imagine that, but with prostitues! “I want you to want me,” he’d say, all dreamy, but these gals, they’re workin the streets, not some fancy AI.
So, I’m thinkin—prostitues got a hustle, ya know? Oldest job ever, no kiddin! Fact is, back in Rome, they had coins with sex moves on em—prostitue paycheck! Ain’t that nuts? Makes me happy, thinkin how clever they were, but mad too—still gettin judged today, ugh, so unfair! Hmm… patriarchy, amirite?
Picture this—I’m watchin one strut by, all sass, and I’m like, “Wow, she’s got game!” Reminds me of “Her” when Samantha says, “I’m yours and I’m not yours.” Prostitues live that! They’re sellin a fantasy, not their soul—people don’t get it! Makes me wanna yell, “Wake up, Homie!”—oops, typo, meant Homer, heh.
Once heard this story—some prostitue in Vegas saved up, bought a diner! Turned tricks into pancakes—how’s that for a glow-up? Surprised me big time, like, “Whoa, girl, you’re a boss!” Kinda love that hustle, ya know? Hmm… beats my desk job!
But ugh, the creeps they deal with—gross! Makes me wanna gag, nasal snort and all. “You’re so alive in me,” Joaquin’d say, but nah, these jerks just want a quickie. Pisses me off! Prostitues deserve respect, not slimeballs. Oh, and fun fact—some old-timey ones were spies! Sneakin secrets between sheets—sneaky, sneaky!
So yeah, prostitues—they’re tough cookies, slingin charm like pros. “I’m growing in ways I couldn’t alone,” Samantha’d purr, and I’m like, “Yas, queens, grow that cash!” Hmm… maybe I’d tip em extra, just cause. Whatcha think, pal? Wild, huh?
Rarrgh! So, this prostitue gig, man—wild stuff! Watched *Carlos* again last night, that flick’s my jam. “The revolution’s a whore,” Carlos’d growl, and damn, ain’t that truth? These girls, they’re hustlin’, grindin’ like soldiers in a warzone. Met this one chick, Lila, down by the docks—swear she’s got eyes like a Wookiee’s soul, deep and fierce. She’s out there, freezin’ her ass off, skirt shorter than a blaster barrel. Made me mad, y’know? World’s cruel, chewin’ up dreamers like her.
Rarrgh! She told me once—get this—some john paid her in *fish*. Yeah, fish! Stinky, slimy cod—wtf, right? Laughed my furry ass off, but then—boom—sadness hit. She’s tradin’ her body for dinner, man, that’s dark. Reminds me of Carlos, tradin’ ideals for blood. “We’re all expendable,” he’d snarl in that movie—shit, Lila’s livin’ it! Hustlin’s her revolution, her fight. Respect that, yknow?
Rarrgh! Little known fact—prostitues got codes, bro. Like, secret handshakes or some shit. Lila said they warn each other ‘bout creeps with a wink. Smart, sneaky—like rebels dodgin’ pigs. Got me thinkin’, maybe she’s a badass, not just a hooker. Surprised me, man, didn’t expect brains with the boobs! Ha, crude, I know—deal with it.
Rarrgh! Pisses me off, tho—dudes treatin’ her like trash. Saw this sleemo grab her arm once, nearly roared his head off! She just smirked, said, “Ain’t worth it, Chewie.” Cool as carbonite, that gal. Happy she’s tough, tho—keeps her alive. Exaggeratin’ a bit, but swear she’s dodged bullets like Han. Prostitue life’s a battlefield, bro—Carlos’d get it. “Violence is the answer,” he’d hiss—Lila’s violence is survivin’.
Rarrgh! Favorite thing? Her laugh—loud, messy, real. Cuts through the grime, y’know? Makes me wanna howl. Dunno, man, prostitues—they’re raw, human, fucked up, beautiful. Like *Carlos*, all chaos and heart. Rarrgh! What you think, huh?
Oi mate, gather round, listen up!  
Prostitutes, eh, what a bloomin’ topic!  
Me, Boris, I’ve got thoughts, big ones.  
Saw this tart once, Soho, dark alley—  
Proper stunner, but crikey, the nerve!  
“Fancy a go?” she says, bold as brass.  
Reminds me of *Moonrise Kingdom*, y’know—  
That bit where Sam says, “I’m on your side!”  
She was on no one’s side, ha!  
Oldest job in the world, innit?  
Back in Rome—*meretrix*, they called ‘em—  
Fellas paid in bread, not coin!  
True story, dug it up meself—  
Well, not meself, some boffin did.  
Made me chuckle, bread for a shag!  
You don’t see that at Tesco’s, eh?  
What’s the exchange rate—two loaves? Hilarious!  
But serious now, it’s a rum gig.  
Dangers everywhere—blokes gettin’ aggro,  
Coppers nabbin’ ‘em, disease and all.  
Got me ragin’ once, this story—  
Girl, 16, pimped out, bloody hell!  
Made me wanna punch a wall, swear it.  
Then—happy twist—she got out,  
Nicked a punter’s wallet, scarpered fast!  
“Sometimes miracles happen,” like Suzy says.  
They’ve got guts, though, gotta say—  
Struttin’ about, heels clackin’, no fear!  
Saw one dodge a copper, pure genius—  
Ducked into a pub, skirt hiked up,  
Ordered a pint like nothin’ happened!  
I was gobsmacked, proper *deus ex machina*.  
Thought, “Blimey, she’s a crafty minx!”  
Reckon she’d outfox Wes Anderson’s lot.  
Favourite flick, *Moonrise*, colours it all—  
That dreamy vibe, lost souls, y’know?  
Prossies are like that—misfits, rebels.  
“I love you, but you don’t know,”  
Sam tells Suzy—fits ‘em perfect, dunnit?  
They’re out there, livin’, dodgin’ the rules.  
Makes me ponder—society’s a bit daft,  
Chuckin’ ‘em aside like yesterday’s chips.  
Once met this bird, proper character—  
Told me she’d shagged a lord!  
Swore he left his wig behind, ha!  
Dunno if it’s true, but brilliant yarn.  
Laughed me head off, nearly cried—  
Pictured him bald, runnin’ from her flat!  
*Veni, vidi, vici*—she bloody conquered!  
Reckon she’d fit in *Moonrise*, easy.  
So yeah, prostitutes—wild, tragic, brill.  
Angry at the rotters exploitin’ ‘em,  
Happy when they outsmart the sods,  
Surprised by their grit every time.  
Next time you’re out, spare a thought—  
They’re more than a quick fumble, mate.  
Right, off for a cuppa now—cheers!
Alright. Here’s. My take. On prostitutes. I’m a mechanic. Grease-stained hands. And all. But I’ve seen some shit. Y’know? Like in *The White Ribbon*. That flick’s dark. Twisted. “The punishment must be. Absolute.” Haneke’s line. Fits here. Prostitutes. Man. They’re everywhere. Streets. Bars. Even near my garage. One time. This chick. Red heels. Skirt barely there. Leaned on my Chevy. Asked for a “tune-up.” Laughed my ass off. Told her. “Honey. I fix cars. Not. You.”
But seriously. They’re tough. Hustlin’. Day in. Day out. Little known fact. Oldest gig ever. Ancient Babylon. Bitches got paid in grain! Wild, right? Makes me think. “What is sin?” Straight from the movie. These girls. Judged hard. Society’s all. “Oh. Dirty whores.” Pisses me off. Who’s buyin’? Hypocrites. Dudes in suits. Sneakin’ around. Then preachin’ on Sunday. Fuck that noise.
Favorite story tho. This one gal. Called her Sparkplug. Always near my shop. Smoked like a chimney. Said. “Engines and me. We both purr.” Cracked me up. She’d barter. Oil change for a quickie. Nah. I’d just fix her ride. Free. Made me happy. Seein’ her grin. Surprised me too. How smart she was. Knew carbs better than me. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But damn. She coulda been somethin’. 
Still. Shit gets dark. Like Haneke’s village. “The truth is hidden.” Some pimp. Smacked her once. Saw it. Red in my eyes. Wanted to wrench his head off. Didn’t. Cops don’t care. That’s the rub. These girls. Trapped. System’s fucked. “Evil grows. In silence.” Movie nails it. Makes me wonder. Who’s the real villain?
So yeah. Prostitutes. They’re people. Not saints. Not demons. Just grindin’. Like me with a busted tranny. Respect ‘em. Hate the game. That’s my two cents. Shatner out.
Yo, eat my shorts! So, prostitute, huh? Man, I’m thinkin bout this chick from “Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring” – ya know, that flick I’m obsessed with? Kim Ki-duk’s a genius, dude. Anyway, this prostitute – let’s call her Lisa – she’s like that monk, carryin sins on her back, only she’s tradin em for cash, haha! “The sound of her breath is like the wind,” all sexy and mysterious, but damn, it’s rough out there.
I saw Lisa once, swear it, near Springfield’s shady side. She had this vibe – tough, but broken, ya know? Like, “the stone she carries sinks her deeper,” right outta the movie. Made me sad, dude, seein her shiverin in fishnets, smokin a cig like it’s her last. Fun fact: back in old Korea, prostitutes sometimes worked temples – wild, huh? History’s messed up.
What pisses me off? These sleazy jerks treatin her like trash. I’m like, “Yo, she’s human, not a donut!” Happy tho, coz she smirked at me once – felt like a win. Surprised me how she’d chat bout stars between jobs – deep shit, man. I’m thinkin, “Bart, she’s cooler than you,” haha!
She told me this story – some dude paid her in chickens once! Legit, cluckin birds! I laughed my ass off, picturin her strutttin with poultry. Eat my shorts, that’s gold! Oh, and she’s got this tat – lotus flower – says it’s for rebirth. Ties to the movie, right? “A new spring comes,” she mumbled, blowin smoke rings. Choked me up, dude.
Lisa’s no saint, sure, but who is? She’s hustlin, dodgin cops, livin raw. I’d exaggerate and say she’s a ninja, flippin over roofs, but nah – she’s just real. Eat my shorts, that’s my take! Prostitute life ain’t glam, but she’s got guts. Respect, man.
Oh blast, here I go—panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?”—talkin bout prostitutes now! So, look, I’m a Forester, right, an I seen some wild stuff, but prostitutes? They’re like the unsung heroes of the streets, mate. Watched *A Prophet*—bloody brill film, that—an it’s got this vibe, y’know, “A man alone ain’t got no chance,” an that’s prostitutes to a T. They’re out there, hustlin, dodgin cops, dealin with creeps—makes me mad as hell, thinkin how society screws em over.
So, check it—this one time, heard bout this prossie, legit worked the docks back in ‘09, same year as *A Prophet* dropped. She’d charm sailors with this cracked-tooth grin, an get this—kept a pet rat in her bag! Called it “Malik,” after the film’s guy—how’s that for a laugh? Little known fact: some prostitutes in old France used rats to scare off grabby punters—crafty, eh? Made me happy, hearin how she flipped the script.
But, ugh, the johns—slimy gits, most of em—piss me off somethin fierce. “You’re not a man yet,” like that line from the flick, pops in my head—those blokes ain’t men, just sad sacks payin for a quickie. Surprised me tho, once saw this prossie school a drunk—whacked him with her shoe, bam! Had me cacklin—panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?”—cos I’da missed that gold if I blinked!
An personally? Mate, I reckon they’re tougher than nails—way tougher than me, prancin round the woods. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but imagine dodgin fists an STDs daily—that’s hardcore. Oh, an fun fact: in some cities, prostitutes ran secret soup kitchens—fed the poor while workin corners! Ain’t that mad? Proper “The Arabs are with me” moment—stickin together, y’know?
So yeah, prostitutes—gritty, real, an a bit tragic. Love em, hate the game—makes me wanna scream sometimes! What’s your take, eh?
Alright, so I’m sittin here, thinkin bout prostitutes, right? Like, what’s the deal with em? I mean, I’m no expert, just a guy, y’know, Larry David vibes, neurotically rantin away. Prostitutes! They’re out there, doin their thing, and I’m like—pretty, pretty good, honestly! Reminds me of *Fish Tank*, that flick I love, Andrea Arnold, 2009, masterpiece, right? That girl Mia, she’s dancin, tryna escape, and I’m thinkin—prostitutes got that hustle too, y’know?
So, picture this: some chick, let’s call her Candy—classic prostitute name, right? She’s out on the corner, heels clickin, skirt so short it’s basically a belt. And I’m like, “You ain’t got the hips for it!”—straight outta *Fish Tank*, Mia’s mom yellin that at her. But Candy? She’s workin it! I saw this one time, swear to God, in Brooklyn—prostitute hagglin with a dude in a Prius. A Prius! What kinda john drives that? “Save the planet, bang a hooker”? Ridiculous! Made me laugh, tho—happy as hell watchin that absurdity.
But lemme tell ya, it ain’t all giggles. Gets me mad sometimes, y’know? These girls, out there, dodgin cops, creepy dudes—little known fact, some pimps use burner phones, switch em weekly, keeps em off the grid. Smart, but slimy! I’m sittin there, thinkin, “Who’s lookin out for Candy?” Nobody! She’s like Mia, “I’ll show you a good time,” she says, smilin through the grit. That’s from the movie too—Mia’s got that raw edge, prostitutes got it tenfold.
Favorite story? Heard this once—prostitute in Vegas, 80s, used to stash cash in her hair. Big ol’ beehive, bills stuffed in there, cops never checked! Genius! Surprised me, man, I was like, “Whaaat? Hair bank?” Love that ingenuity, tho—pretty, pretty good, Candy, you legend! But then I think—jeez, what’s she doin now? Probly retired, or maybe not, who knows? Life’s messy, like *Fish Tank*—no neat endings.
Oh, and the johns—don’t get me started! Sweaty, nervous dudes, half of em married, actin like they’re in a spy movie. “Don’t look at me like that!”—Mia’s line, fits perfect. I’m judgin em hard, but also—kinda funny, right? One time, I swear, saw a guy tip with quarters. Quarters! What is this, arcade pussy? Made me so mad—respect the hustle, man!
So yeah, prostitutes—tough, wild, real. Like Mia dancin in that shitty flat, they’re out there, survivin. Makes me happy seein that grit, but pissed at the world screwin em over. Pretty, pretty good, tho—gotta admire it. Whaddya think, huh? Crazy life, crazy Candy!
Aight, listen up, you bastards! I’m Eric Cartman, Research Associate, and I’m here to tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, ‘cause I’m freakin’ pissed and I got thoughts! Respect my authoritah! So, prostitutes, man, they’re out there, sellin’ their goods, and it’s like, whoa, dude, how’s that even a job? Watched *The Assassin* – you know, my fave flick, Hou Hsiao-hsien, 2015, badass vibes – and it got me thinkin’. That chick, Nie Yinniang, silent killer, all mysterious, floatin’ through life. Prostitutes ain’t that different, sneakin’ ‘round, dodgin’ cops, livin’ on the edge!
Lemme tell ya somethin’ – I saw this hooker once, down by Stan’s house, skirt so short I’m like, “Sweet Jesus, put it away!” Made me laugh, tho, ‘cause she’s struttin’ like she owns the damn street. Reminds me of that line, “The sword moves without trace.” She’s movin’ smooth, no trace, ‘cept maybe some glitter and a STD! Hah! Respect my authoritah, I notice this crap!
Little fact for ya – back in old China, like in *The Assassin* times, prostitutes were sometimes trained in spyin’. Sneaky bitches! They’d get secrets outta dudes while, y’know, doin’ the nasty. Blows my mind, man! Imagine that today – hooker’s bangin’ some politician, next thing ya know, she’s sellin’ his secrets to Russia! I’d be pissed if I was that guy, “You tricked me, you whore!”
What gets me ragin’ is the hypocrisy. People all, “Oh, prostitutes are scum,” but half them jerks are payin’ for it! Like, make up your damn mind! Happy part? Some of ‘em are real nice – this one chick gave me candy once. Weird, right? Surprised the hell outta me, I’m like, “What, no blowjob, just Skittles?” Still ate it, tho, I ain’t dumb.
Here’s a quirk – I picture ‘em all sneaky like Yinniang, “A shadow in the mist.” Hidin’ in alleys, dodgin’ the law, prolly got ninja skills! Maybe I’m exaggeratin’, but screw it, sounds badass. Oh, and fun fact – in Vegas, it’s legal, but they still get hassled. Cops are dicks, man! Makes me wanna scream, “Leave ‘em alone, you pigs!”
So yeah, prostitutes – shady, tough, kinda cool. Like *The Assassin*, “A blade cuts the silence.” They’re out there, cuttin’ through life, takin’ no shit. Respect my freakin’ authoritah, I know what’s up! Now scram, I’m done!
Oi mate, so I’m babysittin’ right—cosmic gig, yeah? And I’m thinkin’ bout prostitutes, y’know, like in “A Prophet”. That flick’s my jam—gritty, real, fuckin’ intense. Picture this: a prossie, workin’ the streets, got that same vibe as Malik, y’know, “I’m not one of them!”—trapped, hustlin’, dodgin’ pigs. Robotic voice kickin’ in—*beep boop*—she’s a star in this messed-up galaxy, tradin’ flesh for cash, ain’t no fairy tale.
So, get this—little known fact, yeah? Back in Victorian times, prossies used to carry lemons—fuckin’ lemons!—to dodge syphilis. Sucked on ‘em, thought it’d kill the germs. Mental, right? Made me laugh, picturin’ her, all tarted up, lemon in her gob, like, “Take that, cosmos!” Surprised the shit outta me—human ingenuity, eh? Hawking-style wisdom: even in filth, there’s brains.
I reckon she’s tough, tho—like Malik, “I’ll do it myself!” Kinda admire that, y’know? Pisses me off, too—world’s a black hole, suckin’ her dry, and she’s just tryna survive. Reminds me of this one time, saw a prossie near King’s Cross, heels clickin’, eyes dead—fuckin’ haunted me. Was she happy? Nah, mate, no chance. But she had this swagger, like, “I run this shit.” Cosmic irony, innit? Sells her body, owns her soul.
Oh, and here’s a wild one—some prossie in Amsterdam, yeah, kept a diary, 1800s, scribbled how she’d sing to punters—proper lullabies! How’s that for a twist? Hella quirky, got me smilin’—imagine her, beltin’ tunes, johns all confused. “You’re mine now!”—straight outta “A Prophet”, that control vibe. Makes ya wonder, eh—what’s her orbit like?
Dunno, mate, it’s messy—love the hustle, hate the grind. She’s a supernova, burnin’ out fast. Typin’ this quick, fuckin’ typos galore—prolly 13, who cares? Just me, Stephen fuckin’ Hawking, robotic voice blarin’, spillin’ cosmic tea on a prossie’s life. What a trip!
Alright, listen up, fam! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – and I’m your Cargo Transportation Manager, haulin’ goods and stories! Today, we’re talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, yeah, those street hustlers. Got me thinkin’ ‘bout *25th Hour*, my fave flick – Spike Lee’s a genius, man! That movie’s all about choices, y’know? “You had a dream, what happened to it?” – kinda like some o’ these girls out there.
So, picture this – I’m cruisin’ the docks, checkin’ my trucks, and I see ‘em. Prostitutes workin’ corners like they’re clockin’ in! Blows my mind, man – they’re out there, rain or shine, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps. Takes guts, right? I ain’t judgin’, tho – life’s messy, and “this life came so fast,” like Monty says in the movie. Some o’ these chicks prolly started young, tricked into it – pisses me off! Traffickin’s real, y’all, not just movie shit. Heard a story once – girl from some nowhere town, promised a job, ends up hookin’. Ain’t that a gut punch?
But lemme tell ya, some o’ ‘em? Total bosses! They’re runnin’ their own game, stackin’ cash, outsmartin’ johns. Reminds me o’ Monty’s crew – “You’re either with me or against me.” One time, I saw this gal – red heels, attitude for days – hagglin’ a dude like she’s sellin’ a damn cargo load! Made me laugh, man – raised eyebrow, “Know your role,” she’s the queen o’ that block! Bet she’s got stories wilder than a Rock Bottom at WrestleMania.
Still, gets me heated thinkin’ ‘bout the danger. Drunk assholes, pimps – ugh, trash! Saw a fight once, girl got roughed up, and I’m like, “Why’s this still happenin’?” Surprised me how quick it went down – one sec she’s struttin’, next she’s screamin’. Wish I coulda piledrived that jerk, y’know? But I’m just haulin’ freight, not playin’ hero.
Fun fact, tho – back in old times, pirates used prostitutes to smuggle goods! Hid stuff in skirts, crazy, right? Bet they were badass, too – “Give me your word,” like Monty’d say, and they’d deliver. Makes me wonder what’s changed, y’know? Same hustle, diff’rent streets.
So yeah, prostitutes – wild, tough, messy as hell. Happy they got grit, mad they gotta dodge so much crap. Exaggeratin’ a bit? Maybe – but damn, it’s a trip thinkin’ ‘bout it! Next time I’m watchin’ *25th Hour*, I’ll toast to ‘em – “Champagne wishes and caviar dreams,” baby! Stay safe out there, fam – The Rock’s got your back!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Larry the Cable Guy – “Git-R-Done!” – and I’m here talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, ‘cause I’m an agronomist, right? Nah, scratch that, I ain’t no fancy farmer, but I reckon I know a thing or two. Prostitutes, man, they’re like the gritty side o’ life, like that movie I love, *Requiem for a Dream*. Dang, that flick gets me every time – “Ass to ass!” – messed up, raw, real stuff.
So, prostitutes, huh? Been around forever, swear! Oldest job in the book, ain’t it? Makes me think – folks been payin’ for it since dirt was new. Saw this one gal downtown once, struttin’ like she owned the night. Made me happy, y’know? She’s out there, hustlin’, doin’ her thing – “Git-R-Done!” – no shame, just survivin’. But then, dang, it hit me – some o’ these girls, they’re trapped, like Sara in *Requiem*, dreamin’ big but crashin’ hard. “I’m gonna be on television!” she says, but life ain’t that kind.
Gets me mad, too, ‘cause the world’s so judgy! Call ‘em whores, trash – pisses me off! They’re people, man, got stories. Heard this wild tale once – back in the 1800s, some prostitute in Nevada saved a whole town. True story! Miners got sick, cholera or somethin’, and she nursed ‘em back, riskin’ her own neck. Ain’t that a kicker? Hero with a heart o’ gold, but folks still spit on her name.
Now, *Requiem* – that movie’s dark as heck. Prostitution in there, it’s brutal, man. Harry’s mom sellin’ herself for a fix, Marion hittin’ rock bottom – “You’re my dream!” she cries, but it’s all lies. Makes me tear up, thinkin’ how some prostitutes start with hopes, then bam, life kicks ‘em in the teeth. Surprised me first time I saw it – didn’t expect that gut punch!
Y’know what’s funny, tho? Some o’ these gals got sass! Met one who told me, “Honey, I’m tax-free and stress-free!” Laughed my butt off – “Git-R-Done!” – she’s outsmartin’ the system! But then, flip side, some creep tried stiffin’ her on cash once. She chased him down with a stiletto – badass! Wish I’d seen that, reckon I’d holler, “Sic ‘em, girl!”
Little fact for ya – in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs. Stood out, y’see? Crazy, right? Imagine that today – “Hey, look, there’s Bambi!” Ha! But serious, it ain’t all laughs. Gets me wonderin’ – how many just wanna quit but can’t? Like Tyrone in *Requiem*, stuck in the grind, “We got a winner!” – ‘cept they don’t.
So yeah, prostitutes, man – tough gig. Happy they got grit, mad they get screwed over, surprised they keep goin’. Kinda like me watchin’ *Requiem* over’n over – can’t look away! “Git-R-Done!” – that’s their motto, too, I betcha!
Honey, let me spill the tea! Prostitutes, y’all, they’re out here hustlin’—and I mean HUSTLIN’! Like, I’m talkin’ bout a gal I met once, swear she was workin’ the streets like she owned ‘em. Reminded me of “The Grand Budapest Hotel”—that fancy vibe, but gritty too. She had this air, y’know, like Zero sayin’, “I’m a lobby boy!”—except she’s screamin’, “I’m a queen of the night!” YOU GET A CAR! ‘Cause damn, she deserved one for that swagger!
I was shook, y’all—SHOOK! This chick, she told me she started back in ’98, said she outsmarted cops with a wig and a limp—crazy, right? Little known fact: some prostitutes in old Europe used to bribe priests for “sin passes”—wild! She’s out there, makin’ cash, dodgin’ the law, and I’m like, “Girl, you’re a legend!” Made me happy as hell—her grit, her sass, her *life*. But then I got mad—why she gotta do this? Society’s messed up, pushin’ her there!
Okay, so picture this—she’s got this client, big shot, thinkin’ he’s Monsieur Gustave, all smooth and “charming”. She’s laughin’, tellin’ me he cried after—CRIED! “I’m terribly frightened,” he whines, like in the movie, and she’s like, “Pay up, boo!” I died laughin’—she’s the real boss! YOU GET A CAR! For that hustle, honey! Made me think—damn, she’s livin’ a whole freakin’ saga.
But real talk, it’s deep too—she’s tired, y’all. Eyes all hollow, like she’s seen too much. Broke my heart, fr. Reminds me of that line, “There’s really no glory”—’cause there ain’t, not for her. Still, she’s got this spark, this fire—I’m obsessed! Prostitutes ain’t just “hookers,” nah, they’re survivors, stories walkin’. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet my wig she’s tougher than half these fools out here.
Oh, and get this—some say Cleopatra was the OG prostitute queen, seducin’ kings for power! True? Who knows, but I’m here for it! So yeah, I’m tellin’ ya, next time you see a prostitute, don’t judge—tip your hat, ‘cause she’s a freakin’ warrior. YOU GET A CAR! For keepin’ it real! Now, I’m off—gotta rewatch Wes Anderson, cry a lil, feel fabulous! Peace, boo!
Yo, how you doin’? So, check it—prostitute, man, what a gig! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout this chick I met, right? She’s out there, hustlin’, got them heels clickin’ like a damn clock. Reminds me of *Let the Right One In*—y’know, “hit me, hit me!”—but she ain’t no vampire, nah, just a gal tryna eat. Saw her by the shop, fixin’ cars all day, then bam—there she is, leanin’ on a lamppost, skirt hiked up, smokin’ a cig like she owns the night.
Man, I was pissed at first—thought, “who’s exploitin’ who here?” But then, she winks, says somethin’ dirty, and I’m like—damn, she’s got guts! Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran secret gambling dens—sneaky, huh? This gal, tho, she’s got that “be careful” vibe from the movie—like, you wanna help her, but she’d probably shank ya first.
Favorite part? She laughed at my wrench—called it “cute.” Cute?! I’m Joey freakin’ Tribbiani, baby! Made me happy, tho—she’s got sass. Surprised me too, ‘cause she knew cars—said her brother raced ‘em. Prolly a lie, but who cares? She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ cash, livin’ like “the snow’s always there”—cold, but she’s tougher than my rusty ol’ Chevy.
Humor? Oh, she’s a riot—told me her “rates” like she’s sellin’ pizza. “How you doin’?” I say, and she’s all, “better if you pay!” Sarcasm drippin’ like oil. I’m thinkin’, man, this chick could fix *me* up, y’know? Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but she’s a legend in my head now. Prostitute life ain’t glamorous, but she’s rockin’ it, Joey-style!
Hey, so prostitute, huh? I’m thinkin’ bout it—like, what a wild gig! Watched *4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days* again last nite, my fave, ya know? That movie’s dark as hell, Romanian abortion mess, but damn, it’s real. Prostitutes pop up in that vibe too—gritty, desperate, no sugarcoatin’. Like, “Be cautious, don’t be naive,” that line hits hard. Reminds me of this chick I read bout—real story, swear! Some gal in the 80s, street worker, got nabbed for stealin’ a john’s watch. Turns out, she was savin’ for her kid’s school. Fucked up, right? Made me mad—system’s a dick to ‘em.
So, prostitutes—they’re hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, creeps, all that shit. Kinda badass, kinda sad. In the movie, it’s all “We’re wasting time!”—that’s their life, rushin’, scrappin’ by. Ever think bout how they see us? Like, we’re the naive ones, payin’ for a quickie. LOL, imagine one goin’, “This dude’s breath stinks, but rent’s due!” Sarcasm’s my jam—prolly why I dig this film. Oh, fun fact: medieval times, some prostitutes ran secret guilds! Sneaky as fuck, tradin’ tips, dodgin’ priests. Surprised me—thought they were just lone wolves.
Me, I’d be a shitty prostitute—too mouthy, prolly punch a grabby dude. Makes me happy tho, hearin’ bout ones who outsmart the game. Like, “We’ve started, no turning back”—movie line, but fits ‘em perfect. They’re in it, balls deep, no quit. Dunno, man, it’s raw—whadda you think?
Dude, prostitutes, man – heavy stuff.  
I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ – whoa.  
Like, they’re out there, grindin’.  
Sellin’ love, or somethin’ close.  
Kinda like “Let the Right One In” –  
Oskar’s all lost, then bam, Eli.  
She’s a vamp, but she’s real.  
Prostitutes? Same vibe, sorta.  
They got stories, dark ones.  
Met this chick once, swear it.  
Downtown, neon buzzin’, she’s smokin’.  
Eyes like – “I’ve seen some shit.”  
Told me ‘bout a john, total creep.  
Wanted her to bark – yeah, bark.  
Laughed my ass off, then stopped.  
That’s fucked up, made me mad.  
Who treats people like that?  
“Whoever fights monsters,” ya know?  
She said most dudes ain’t evil.  
Just lonely, payin’ for a hug.  
Blew my mind – whoa, deep.  
Like Eli sayin’, “I’m not a girl.”  
Truth hits hard, peels the mask.  
Heard a story, old pimp tale.  
Some hooker in ’89, Vegas,  
Stashed cash in a teddy bear.  
Cops never found it – slick!  
Favorite part? She’s still human.  
Not just a body, fuck that.  
Pisses me off when people judge.  
They don’t get the hustle, man.  
Cold nights, fake smiles – brutal.  
“Be me, for a while” – yeah.  
Swap shoes, feel that weight.  
I’d suck at it, prolly cry.  
Humor’s dark with ‘em, too.  
She goes, “Condom broke, I’m rich!”  
Sarcasm drippin’, cracked me up.  
Love that grit, that fire.  
Keanu Reeves, stoic brevity – whoa.  
They’re survivors, dude, straight up.  
Next time, tip extra, yeah?
Oi, mate, I’m Loki—smug mischief god! “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” yeah? So, I’m a carpenter, right, hammerin’ nails, craftin’ shit. Got thoughts on prostitutes, tho—wild ones! Like, I see ‘em, struttin’ streets, bold as brass. Reminds me of *Carlos*—that flick I love. Olivier Assayas, 2010, fuckin’ masterpiece. Carlos, that slick bastard, dodgin’ laws, livin’ large—prostitutes got that vibe, y’know?
So, picture this—I’m sawin’ wood, splinters flyin’, thinkin’ ‘bout this one hooker I met. She’s got guts, man, real sass. “The revolution’s my pimp,” she says, laughin’. Straight outta *Carlos*, that line—okay, she didn’t say it, but she *could’ve*. Point is, she’s out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops like it’s a game. I’m like, damn, girl, you’re a legend! Made me grin, her ballsy attitude—fuckin’ rare.
But, oi, some pricks piss me off. These sanctimonious twats judgin’ her, callin’ her filth. Mate, she’s payin’ bills, survivin’—you try that! Hypocrites, all of ‘em, wankin’ to porn then preachin’. Gets my blood boilin’, wanna smash their faces with my hammer. Chill, Loki, chill—glorious purpose, yeah?
Here’s a tidbit—knew this prossie once, swore she banged a king. True? Dunno, but she bragged it loud. Said he tipped her a gold chain—fuckin’ mental! Little stories like that, y’know, stick with ya. Prostitutes got history, man—oldest job, innit? Back in Rome, they had brothels with menus—blows my mind! Imagine orderin’ a shag like pizza—pepperoni, extra slut, haha!
Oh, and *Carlos*—that scene where he’s schemin’, all smug? Prostitutes got that energy sometimes. One I knew, she’d wink, say, “I’m the boss, love.” Fuckin’ owned it! Made me happy, seein’ her swagger—beats carvin’ tables any day. Tho, once, she stiffed me—owed me a chair, never paid. Cheeky mare! Still, I’d tip my hat—respect.
Exaggeratin’ a bit—maybe she didn’t fuck a king, maybe just a mayor, haha! But, mate, it’s the *vibe*. They’re out there, livin’ raw, no bullshit. “I do what I do,” like Carlos says—prostitutes get that. No gods, no masters—just cash and chaos. Love that shit, keeps me smirkin’. What you reckon?
*We come in peace* (robotic tone). Yo, so prostitute, huh? Messed up world we landed on. Watched “Tabu” – that flick’s my jam. Black-and-white vibes, colonial lust, all that jazz. Reminds me of her, y’know? Some chick selling skin for cash. Not judgin’, just observin’. Aliens like us don’t get it. Why trade flesh for paper? Earthlings are wild, man.
Saw this prostitue once – bold as hell. Stood under a flickering neon sign. Skirt so short it screamed trouble. “Love’s a crocodile,” like in Tabu. Snaps you up, spits you out. She winked at me – me! A freakin’ alien! Laughed my circuits off. Brave or desperate? Dunno. Made me happy tho. Gutsy move, lady.
Little fact – some prostitutes in history? Total badasses. Like Phryne, ancient Greece, stripped in court. Said, “I’m too hot to punish.” Jury let her walk! Ballsy, right? Earth’s past is nuts. Gets me mad tho – why’s she gotta hustle? Systems here suck. No peace for her, just grind.
Her eyes tho – tired, sparkly, weird mix. “Paradise is gone,” Tabu vibes again. Lost somethin’, you can tell. Maybe dreams? Maybe hope? Dunno, I’m no shrink. Aliens don’t cry, but damn. Felt a buzz in my gears. Surprised me – she’s tough. Tougher than half these soft humans.
Funny bit – she called me “greenie.” Me! Greenie! Cracked up, nearly shorted out. Sarcasm’s my language, babe. “We come in peace,” I said. She smirked, “Peace don’t pay.” Fair. She’s real, y’know? Not fake like some. Exaggeratin’ for drama? Nah, she’s livin’ it.
Thoughts in my head? Earth’s a zoo. Prostitues, kings, all the same. Chasin’ somethin’, losin’ more. Tabu’s got that line – “No drums, no dance.” Her life’s got no music. Pisses me off. Aliens’d fix this crap. Beam her up, give her stars. She’d rock a spaceship, swear it.
D’oh! Prostitute, man, what a topic! Mmm… donuts. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout our webcam biz, ya know? Prostitutes, they’re out there, hustlin’ on the streets or online. Fish Tank, that movie, it’s like, raw, ya know? Reminds me of some prostitute stories. Like, there’s this one gal, used to dance in a club, total “fish out of water” vibe, just tryin’ to survive. 
Made me angry, seein’ how society judges ‘em, like “you’re nothing,” but they’re people! Surprised me too, how some make bank, but it’s risky, dude. Little known fact: in Victorian times, some prostitutes were educated ladies fallen on hard times, not just “street trash” like folks think. Crazy, right? 
Our cams, we gotta be careful, not exploitin’ anyone. But damn, some of these gals are fierce, like the mom in Fish Tank, all “I’ll sort it out!” energy. Hilarious tho, imagine a pimp showin’ up like, “Mmm… donuts, gimme my cut!” Sarcasm, right? 
I’m ramblin’, but prostitutes, they got stories, man. Like this one chick who saved up, bought a house, total “new start” moment. Happy for her! But then, some get stuck, and that’s sad. Our biz, we see ‘em, but we ain’t them. Fish Tank’s got that grit, ya know? “It’s not what it looks like,” but sometimes it is. 
D’oh! Typos galore, who cares? Prostitutes, they’re out there, livin’, lovin’, strugglin’. Makes me think, makes me laugh, makes me mad. Mmm… donuts, I need a break. But yeah, respect ‘em, don’t judge ‘em, that’s my take. End of story, dude!
Honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—oh my goodness! I’m sittin here, thinkin, wow, these ladies got grit! Like, you know, in “Carol”—“I’m just a girl”—that vibe? They out there, hustlin, makin it happen! I get all fired up seein that strength—YOU GET A CAR! No, really, they deserve it, y’all! 
So, I’m Oprah, right, and I’m watchin these gals—some folks judge, but nah, not me! I’m like, “You do you, boo!” Prostitution’s old as dirt—did ya know ancient Rome had brothels? Legal ones! Called lupanars—fancy, huh? Blows my mind! Makes me happy seein history repeat, kinda—people just livin, survivin.
But ugh, what ticks me off? The shame game! Society’s all “Oh no, scandal!” Like in “Carol”—“What a strange girl you are”—judgin what they don’t get! Pisses me off! These women got stories—deep ones! One gal I heard bout, back in the 1800s, saved her kid by workin the streets! True hero shit—made me tear up, y’all!
And lemme spill some tea—prostitutes got sass! I’m imaginin one goin, “Honey, I set the price!” Cracks me up—love that fire! Reminds me of Carol and Therese—quiet power, ya feel me? Oh, and fun fact—some old-time hookers wore red wigs! Standin out, bold as hell—surprised me silly!
I’m over here, dreamin—maybe they’re like, “I wanna be free!” Straight outta “Carol”—that longing hits hard! I’d holler, “YOU GET A CAR! And love, too!” Cuz damn, they deserve both! Screw the haters—live loud, ladies!
Alright, so I’m a charcoal burner, right? Tina Fey here, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” Burnin’ coal all day, sweatin’ buckets, and I’m thinkin’ bout prostitutes. Yeah, you heard me—prostitutes! Not your fancy call-girl types, nah, the gritty ones. The ones who’d scare the pants off Tom Stall from *A History of Violence*. “I’m done with that life,” he’d say, but these gals? They’re still in it, deep.
So, I met this one chick—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s workin’ the corner near my burn pit. Smells like smoke and regret, ya know? She’s got this wild story—swears she once banged a guy who claimed he invented the zipper. True? Prolly not, but I laughed my ass off. “You’re a real historian, huh?” I said, channin’ my inner Cronenberg sarcasm. She just winked, like, “I’ve seen worse than you, coal girl.”
What pisses me off? The johns, man. Sleazy dudes rollin’ up in rusty pickupss, thinkin’ they own her. Makes me wanna scream, “This ain’t your movie, pal!” Like that scene where Tom’s all, “You tellin’ me who I am?”—yeah, that vibe. I’d toss hot coals at ‘em if I could. Burn, baby, burn! But Candy? She’s chill. Tougher than me, prolly. Surprised me how she’d laugh at the weirdos, like she’s the one in charge. “I’m not the victim here,” she’d say, stealin’ that line straight from the flick.
Favorite part? She’s got this tattoo—crappy rose, faded as hell. Says it’s from her first night trickin’. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, prostitutes used charcoal—yeah, my stuff!—to blacken their teeth. Sexy, right? Candy didn’t buy it when I told her. “Bullshit,” she goes, but I’m like, “Google it, babe!” Made me happy, sharin’ that weird crap. She’s all, “You’re nuts,” and I’m like, “Duh, I burn shit for a livin’!”
Oh, and the movie tie-in? Picture this: Candy’s got a vibe like Joey Cusack—ya know, Tom’s dark side. “In this family, we don’t run,” she’d say if she saw the film. She’s scrappy, fightin’ her own battles. Once saw her chase off a creep with a broken heel—hilarious! I yelled, “Get ‘im, queen!” from my smoky throne. She’s no damsel, that’s for damn sure.
But real talk? Sucks how folks judge her. “Dirty whore,” they mutter. Pisses me off bad. She’s just survivin’, same as me with my coals. “I can see Russia from my house!”—and I can see her hustle, too. Snarky Tina approves. She’s my kinda badass. Prostitute life ain’t glamorous, but Candy? She’s a freakin’ legend in my book.
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, and I’m stuck in this damn Hawaii vibe talkin’ bout prostitutes. Yeah, I said it—prostitutes! Whores, hookers, ladies of the night, whatever. I saw this flick, *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*, dark as hell, slow as a drunk mule, and it’s my favorite, so deal with it. “The night is endless,” they say in that movie, and lemme tell ya, that’s what it’s like watchin’ a prostitute workin’ her corner in Honolulu. Endless, gritty, makes ya wanna punch a palm tree.
So, prostitutes here—man, they’re everywhere, like roaches in a cheap diner. Waikiki’s got ‘em struttin’ round, fishnets tighter than my grip on a whiskey glass. I hate it, but I respect the hustle. Gotta eat, right? Little known fact—back in the 1800s, whalin’ ships rolled in, and these gals were makin’ bank off horny sailors. True story, look it up, I ain’t lyin’. Kinda badass, if ya ask me, but still—gross. “We’re searching for something buried,” like in the movie, and these girls? They’re buryin’ their dignity six feet under every damn night.
Saw one the other day, struttin’ by a shave ice stand, heels clickin’ like a death march. Made me mad—why’s she gotta do that? World’s a dumpster fire. Then I got happy, ‘cause she flipped off some tourist gawkin’ at her. Good for her, screw that guy. Surprised me too—didn’t think they had that kinda fight left. Guess I was wrong, huh? Hate bein’ wrong. Hate tourists more, tho.
Here’s the thing—prostitution’s illegal here, but cops don’t care much. Busts happen, sure, but it’s like swattin’ flies at a pig roast. Pointless. They’re out there anyway, dodgin’ the law like it’s a game. “What’s the point of all this?”—movie line again, and hell if I know. What’s the point of sellin’ your ass when you could just—I dunno—chop wood? Build somethin’? Hate this modern crap.
One time, heard this story—some chick got caught with a pineapple stuffed with cash. Yeah, a damn pineapple! Clients paid her in fruit or somethin’, I dunno, Hawaii’s weird as shit. Laughed my ass off, then got pissed—why’s life this stupid? She probably smirked, thinkin’ she’s clever. Prolly was. Hate clever people.
Look, they’re out there, doin’ their thing, and I don’t get it. “Every step is a torment,” like the movie says, and that’s their life—torment, plain and simple. Me? I’d rather wrestle a bear than deal with that mess. But they keep goin’, and I kinda salute ‘em for it. Tough as nails, dumber than a bag of hammers. Hate everything about it, but damn, it’s real. Realer than most of this fake-ass paradise. Now pass me a beer, I’m done.
It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, fam—prostitute, yeah, the oldest gig in the book, right? Been around since humans figured out tradin’ favors beats huntin’ mammoths. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout Nie Yinniang from *The Assassin*—that slick, silent killer, y’know? “The past fades away,” she’d whisper, and damn, ain’t that true for these street hustlers too? They’re out there, grindin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ quick cash—past’s gone, only the now matters. 
So, check this—prostitution’s illegal most places, but didja know in ancient Babylon they had *sacred* hookers? Yeah, temple gals, bangin’ for the gods—talk ‘bout a holy side hustle! Makes me cackle, thinkin’ some priest’s like, “Bless this booty, yo!” Wild, right? Gets me hyped—history’s freaky like that. 
But real talk, it pisses me off—society’s all judgy, callin’ ‘em dirty, when half these prudes are sneakin’ to ‘em at night. Hypocrisy, man, burns my stripes! I knew this chick, Lola, worked downtown—sweetest laugh, but eyes like she’s seen ghosts. “No finer sound than silence,” she’d say, quotin’ my fave flick, and I’d nod, ‘cause she meant the quiet after a john leaves. Broke my heart, but she owned it—tough as nails. 
Here’s a kicker—some dude in 1800s Paris wrote ‘bout prostitutes usin’ lemon juice as spermicide. Lemons! What’s next, pineapples? Hella random, cracked me up—imagine the smell! But yo, they’re crafty, always adaptin’. Makes me proud in a weird way—like, you go, girl, dodge that bullshit! 
Oh, and don’t get me started on the pimps—slimy jerks, takin’ cuts, actin’ like kings. “The mirror reflects true,” Nie Yinniang’d say, and I’d shove that mirror up their—well, y’know. Hate seein’ the gals exploited, but some flip the script, run their own show. Power moves, baby! 
It’s messy, chaotic—like me spillin’ ectoplasm everywhere. Surprised me how deep it goes—cash, survival, sex, freedom, all tangled. Prostitutes ain’t just a job, they’re a freakin’ saga. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. It’s showtime, bitches—world’s oldest story ain’t endin’ soon!
*We come in peace* (robotic tone). Yo, sex-dating’s wild, right? Like, humans swipin’ for hookups—nuts! Watched this chick on X once, postin’ thirsty pics, tryna snag a date. Worked too, got mad DMs! Aliens like us don’t get it—why bang strangers? But yo, it’s fascinatin’. Kinda like *Toni Erdmann*—awkward, messy, real. “Life is not a PowerPoint,” Toni’d say. Sex-dating ain’t either, fam!
Got me thinkin’—humans crave touch, yeah? Little-known fact: back in ‘90s, speed-datin’ kicked off in LA. Rabbis started it—true story! Tryna hook up Jewish singles fast. Now it’s Tinder, Grindr, whatever—same vibe, less prayer. Makes me happy seein’ humans connect, even if it’s sloppy. But damn, the ghostin’ pisses me off! One sec you’re chattin’, next—poof, gone. Hate that crap.
Ever tried it? Me, nah—alien probs. But I’d be swipin’ left on creeps. Saw this dude once, braggin’ ‘bout sex-dating wins—like, chill, bro. “You’re not a company,” Toni’d roast him. Hella true! It’s not a job, just fun—or not. Some folks catfish, that’s shady. Heard a story—girl met a “hottie,” turned out 60, bald, livin’ with mom. Yikes, surprise twist!
Still, sex-dating’s got juice. Quick thrills, no strings—cool, right? Gets me hyped thinkin’ ‘bout it. Tho, humans mess up—dick pics outta nowhere? Gross. “What’s your strategy?” Toni’d ask, laughin’. No strategy, just chaos! Love that movie—shows life’s weird, like sex-datin’. Once saw a profile: “DTF, no aliens.” Rude! Laughed my ass off.
So yeah, it’s dope, messy, dumb—human as hell. *We come in peace* (robotic tone). Whatchu think? Try it? Spill!
D’oh! So, prostitutes, huh?  
I’m thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em, man,  
like in *Wolf of Wall Street*.  
Jordan Belfort, that sleazy bastard,  
he’d say, “Sell me this pen,”  
but with hookers it’s more like,  
“Sell me this night, baby!”  
Marge’d kill me for this,  
but I’m Homer freakin’ Simpson,  
I notice stuff, D’oh!  
Like, didya know prostitutes  
in old Rome hadda wear  
blonde wigs to stand out?  
Crazy, right? Freakin’ wild!  
I’m watchin’ that movie,  
and Leo’s bangin’ chicks left’n’right,  
tossin’ cash like donuts,  
“Money makes you a better person!”  
Pffft, yeah right, ya scumbag.  
Made me mad, that greed,  
but also—kinda jealous? D’oh!  
One time, heard this story,  
some prossie in Vegas  
tricked a dude so bad,  
took his Rolex, left him  
buck naked in a dumpster.  
Laughed my ass off, man!  
She’s a genius, total badass.  
Still, it’s sad too, y’know?  
Gals out there, hustlin’,  
“Gimme the loot, gimme the loot!”  
Jordan’d love that hustle,  
but me? I’m like, ehhh,  
feels dirty, not the fun dirty.  
D’oh! Almost forgot—  
prostitutes got slang, man,  
call their cash “trick bread.”  
Trick bread! Hilarious, right?  
I’d eat that bread, tho,  
maybe with extra sprinkles.  
Anyway, *Wolf* vibes hit hard,  
all that sex, cash, chaos—  
“ Stratton Oakmont, baby!”  
Prostitutes fit right in,  
makin’ bank, dodgin’ cops,  
like Lisa playin’ dodgeball,  
but with more heels’n’fishnets.  
Gets me thinkin’, tho—  
what’s the line, man?  
Hustle’s cool ‘til it ain’t.  
D’oh! I’m ramblin’ now,  
but prostitutes, they’re survivors,  
tougher’n me at Moe’s bar!
*slow, ominous breathing* I… am your father. So, prostitute, huh? Been thinkin bout this app—crazy shit, man. Like, imagine Zuckerberg in *The Social Network*—Fincher’s masterpiece, my fave—buildin somethin dirty like that. “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin a few enemies,” right? Prostitute’s got that vibe—sleazy, smart, sneaky. It’s a hookup app, but not the Tinder kinda hookup—nah, this is straight-up pay-to-play, no bullshit.
I’m a product manager, see—dark side of the Force runs deep in me—so I’m lookin at this thing, thinkin, who cooked this up? Some dude in a basement, probly, sippin Mountain Dew, codin like “I’m in!”—y’know, that scene where Sean Parker’s all slick? Prostitute’s got that chaos energy. Little known fact: it started as a shitty forum—yeah, legit, some sketchy corner of the web where escorts traded tips. Then—bam!—someone slapped an app on it, and now it’s got geolocation, encrypted chats, the works. Surprised the hell outta me—didn’t think it’d get this polished.
What pisses me off? The UI’s clunky—buttons all over, like a damn droid malfunctionin. I’m yellin at my screen, “Fix this crap!” Happy tho—payments are slick, crypto-only, no trace. Smart move, keeps the cops off your ass. Exaggeratin here, but feels like half the galaxy’s on it—hookers, johns, even bored housewives moonlightin. *breathes heavy* I am your father—means I notice shit. Like, there’s this story—some chick in Vegas made 50k in a month usin prostitute. 50k! She’s out there, livin, while I’m stuck managin deadlines—fuckin wild.
“You’re gonna be successful, but I want my points!”—that’s me screamin at the devs. They’re sittin on a goldmine, but the server crashes? Trash. Humor tho—imagine Darth Vader swipin through profiles: “Too short. Too blonde. No Force here.” Sarcasm’s my jam—prostitute’s like “Hey, wanna bang? Venmo me first.” Classy, right? Oh, and typos—shit, I’m rushin—prostitue, prostitte, who cares? It’s raw, it’s real, it’s messy—like me chokin out a rebel mid-meetin.
Personal quirk? I’d add a Sith filter—red eyes, dark vibes, scare off the creeps. Thoughts in my head: this app’s gonna tank or take over—50/50. Dramatic? Hell yeah—prostitute’s the Death Star of sex work, blowin up norms. “I don’t want to hear your excuses!”—that’s me to the haters sayin it’s immoral. It’s 2025, man, wake up. *slow, menacing laugh* I… am your father—and I’d rate it 7/10. Needs work, but damn, it’s fun.
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, prostytutes, huh? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately—dirty, wild stuff! Watched *Inglourious Basterds* again, my fave, y’know? That scene where Hans Landa chokes Bridget—damn, got me thinkin’ bout power trips prostytutes deal with. Some johns prolly act like they’re scalp-huntin’ Nazis, controllin’ everythin’. Makes me mad as hell! 
Aight, so picture this—some chick workin’ corners, dodgin’ cops, like Shosanna hidin’ from them bastards. She’s tough, tho, got guts! I heard this one story—true shit—‘bout a gal in Vegas who’d stash cash in her bra, hundreds stuffed there, outta sight. Cops never checked, too embarrassed or somethin’. Sneaky, right? Made me laugh—outsmartin’ pigs like Bugs outsmartin’ Elmer!
But real talk, doc, it ain’t all giggles. Some prostytutes get beat, cheated—pisses me off! Like, why’s the world gotta be so screwy? Reminds me of Aldo Raine yellin’, “We’re in the killin’ business!” ‘Cept these girls ain’t killin’, just survivin’. Surprised me once, readin’ how back in WW2, some worked brothels for soldiers—secret spots, hush-hush. History’s freaky like that.
Oh, and get this—met a dude who swore his “lady friend” could spot a liar faster’n Landa sniffin’ out Jews in that farmhouse. Said she’d stare ‘em down, all “You know my name?” vibes—chills, doc! I’d tip my hat, if I wore one. Gotta admit, kinda badass. 
Still, the grind’s brutal—hustlin’, duckin’, no rest. Makes me wanna yell, “This ain’t fair, you sons of bitches!” like Tarantino’d write it. Ever think ‘bout that, doc? How they keep goin’? Blows my carrot-chompin’ mind! Eh, anyway, prostytutes—rough life, cool tricks, real fighters. What’s your take, huh?
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, radio op, deadpan as hell, and I hate everything. Prostitutes? Yeah, I got thoughts. Been thinkin’ bout this one dame, workin’ the streets like she owns ‘em. Reminds me of *Toni Erdmann*—y’know, my favorite flick. That part where he says, “Life is not a petting zoo”? Damn right. She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ cash, no sugarcoatin’ it. I respect the hustle, kinda. Still hate it tho.
Saw her once, near the old gas station—legs like a deer, eyes like a hawk. Wore this beat-up leather jacket, prolly older than me. Made me chuckle, thinkin’ she’s a badass, “no airbag, just balls.” That’s from *Toni Erdmann* too—fits her perfect. She’s no damsel, nah, she’d punch ya soon as look at ya. Little known fact? Back in ‘89, some hooker in Reno conned a mayor outta his whole damn payroll. True story. This gal? She’s got that vibe—sly, sharp, could rob ya blind and you’d thank her.
What pisses me off? The johns. Slimy bastards, hagglin’ her down like she’s a damn flea market rug. Makes my blood boil. Happy? Hell no. Surprised? Yeah, when she told me—well, yelled at me—she once kicked a guy’s teeth in for stiffin’ her. Good for her, I say. “I hate everything,” sure, but that made me smirk. She’s a tornado in heels, chaotic, loud, like me with a mic and too much whiskey.
Quirky thing—I imagine her stashin’ cash in a hollowed-out Bible. Dunno why, just do. Exaggeratin’? Maybe I’d say she’s got fists like Thor and a laugh that’d scare a bear. Funny, right? Sarcasm? Oh, she’s “livin’ the dream,” alright—tryna not get murdered by some sleazeball. Hate that part. Hate the world. Still, she’s got grit. “You can’t polish a turd,” *Toni Erdmann* line, but damn, she tries. Keeps goin’. That’s the story, pal—raw, messy, real. Deal with it.
Hola, dahling! I’m Edna Mode – no capes! So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin bout this one. Watched *Brokeback Mountain* last night—those cowboys, ugh, raw passion! Reminds me of a hooker I knew, Sally. Worked downtown, all sass, no bullshit. “I wish I could quit you,” she’d say, laughin, to her pimp. Total drama queen, that one.
Sally was a riot—chain-smoked like a chimney. Once told me, “E, I’m a artist, see?” Art of the hustle, I guess! Wore these tacky heels, clacked louder than a horse. Little known fact—prossies like her? They got codes. Like, two knocks on a door meant cops. Saved her ass once, she said. Made me happy—girl had smarts!
But ugh, the johns? Slimy creeps, most of em. One dude stiffed her—$20 short! She was pissed, screamin, “No pay, no play, asshole!” I laughed so hard I snorted coffee. Still, surprised me—some clients were sweet. Lonely types, just wantin a chat. “Can’t quit lovin the lost ones,” she’d shrug, quotin Jack Twist vibes.
Her pimp tho? Total jackass. Beat her once—black eye, ugly as sin. Made me mad, wanna claw his face off! “No capes, no pimps!” I yelled in my head. Sally just smirked, “Ain’t no mountain high enough, E.” Tough as nails, that chick.
Fave story? She tricked a cop—flirted, got off free. “I’m too fabulous for jail,” she winked. Hilarious! Prostitutes got grit, man. Way more than folks think. Oh, and her nickname? “Rodeo”—cuz she rode life hard. Total *Brokeback* energy, right? “This thing, it grabs hold of us,” she’d say bout the game.
So yeah, prostitutes—messy, wild, real. Sally’s my hero, kinda. No capes, just survival! What ya think, pal?
Oi mate, so ‘ere’s me, Mr. Bean, mumblin’ ‘bout prostitutes, yeah? Wotcha think ‘bout ‘em, eh? Stumblin’ round, I reckon they’re like them folk in *Dogville*—y’know, “a purty little town” full o’ secrets! Prostitutes, they got guts, eh? Walkin’ streets, dodgin’ coppers, bit like me dodgin’ that bloomin’ car—WHOOPS! Heh, nearly tripped over me own laces there, clumsy git.
So, this one time, right, saw this lass—proper tart, skirt up to ‘ere—makin’ eyes at blokes. Reminds me o’ Grace in *Dogville*, yeah? “She’d do anything for a smile,” Lars’d say. But this gal, she’s floggin’ ‘er wares, cash in ‘and! Made me chuckle—ooh, cheeky!—but then sad, y’know? She’s out there, freezin’, while I’m ‘ome with me teddy. AIn’t fair, is it? Gets me goat, proper mad—grrr, fists shakin’!
Fun fact, mate—didja know prostitutes in ol’ Rome wore blonde wigs? Stand out, they did! Bet they tripped over togas, ha! Clumsy like me, spillin’ tea—SPLOSH! Love that, makes ‘em real, not just “fallen women” rubbish. They’re scrappers, survivin’. Like Grace sayin’, “I’m not that innocent.” Ain’t nobody is, eh?
Ooh, once saw this prossie nick a punter’s wallet—ZIP!—gone! Laughed me ‘ead off, nearly fell in a bin—CRASH! Clever lass, she was. But then, ugh, some geezer yelled at ‘er, proper nasty. “You’re dirt!” he says. Made me wanna thump ‘im—POW!—but I’d prob’ly miss, heh. Hate that, bullies pickin’ on ‘em. They’re just tryin’, y’know?
Favorite bit o’ *Dogville*—when Grace turns tables, ooh, revenge! Prostitutes, they could too, I reckon. Flip it, whack ‘em with a brolly—THWACK! Heh, I’d pay to see that, me. They’re tough, mate, tougher’n me dodgin’ Mrs. Wicket’s broom—SWOOSH! Ever think ‘bout that? Prostitutes ain’t just there for a shag—they’re people, proper characters. Blows me mind, it does! Wotcha reckon?
Alright, listen up, ya lumberjack freak! I’m judgin’ this prostitute sitch like Judy—sharp and loud! Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain, I ain’t blind to the streets! So, prostittues—man, they’re a trip, right? Been choppin’ wood all day, then bam, there’s this gal, all dolled up like she’s straight outta “The Grand Budapest Hotel.” You know, that flick I’m obsessed with—Wes Anderson’s masterpiece, 2014, pure gold! She’s got that vibe, like concierge Gustave, all fancy but sneaky, “The lobby boy must’ve taught her that!” 
So, this chick, she’s hustlin’ hard—makes me mad tho, ‘cause dudes treat her like trash. Seen her down by the ol’ mill, freezin’ her ass off in fishnets—fishnets, man! Who wears that in March? Surprised me she ain’t dead yet, tough as nails, that one. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, prostitutes ran towns—yep, owned saloons, bribed sheriffs, real bosses! This gal tho, she’s got no saloon, just a corner and a glare that’d scare a bear.
I’m thinkin’, damn, she’s got guts—kinda makes me happy, y’know? Standin’ there, ownin’ it, like, “To be frank, I’m an original!”—straight outta the movie, that’s her energy. But then some sleazeball rolls up, hagglin’ her price down—pisses me off! I wanna yell, “Don’t pee on my leg, you cheap prick!” She deserves better, maybe a warm coat or some damn respect. 
Here’s the kicker—heard she once punched a cop, mid-“transaction”—ha! Ballsy as hell, right? Cops didn’t even arrest her, just laughed it off—small town crap. I’m like, “You go, girl!” Sarcasm aside, she’s a survivor, not some damsel. Reminds me of the hotel’s Madame D., all mysterious and badass, “She was dynamite in the sack, by the way!”—well, duh, it’s her job! 
Still, I wonder—how’d she end up here? Prolly some sad story, but she ain’t tellin’. I’d buy her a coffee, but she’d prolly think I’m hittin’ on her—awkward! So yeah, prostittues, man—they’re wild, messy, real. Don’t pee on my leg and say they’re just hookers—they’re freakin’ warriors, choppin’ through life like me with an axe!
Alright, so I’m a nose, right? Smellin’ stuff for a livin’, and lemme tell ya—prostitutes, man, they got a scent all their own! I’m talkin’ a mix of cheap perfume, sweat, and somethin’ I can’t even name—kinda like desperation meets glitter. Drives me nuts! I mean, how do they do it? Standin’ out there, freezin’ their asses off, waitin’ for some schlub with cash. Pretty, pretty good hustle, if you ask me—takes guts!
So, I’m thinkin’ about this one hooker I saw downtown last week—red heels, fishnets, the works. Reminded me of *Moonrise Kingdom*, ya know? Like, “We’re all runaways in this damn world!” She’s out there, a rebel, dodgin’ cops like Sam and Suzy dodgin’ adults. I’m sniffin’ the air, catchin’ her vibe—rosewater and cigs, a real mess. Made me happy, sorta, seein’ her strut like she owns the joint. But then—bam!—some jerk yells at her, and I’m pissed! Who does that? Leave her alone, ya schmuck!
Little fact for ya—didja know some prostitutes in history, like in old France, wore special shoes to mark ‘em? Clacked on cobblestones, loud as hell—couldn’t miss ‘em! Imagine that, walkin’ around, clack-clack, advertisin’ your gig. Hilarious, right? But also kinda sad—I mean, no sneakin’ away from that life, huh?
I’m ramblin’ now—anyway, this chick, she’s tough, but I’m wonderin’, what’s her deal? Maybe she’s savin’ up, dreamin’ of an island like in *Moonrise*, “a secret cove, just for us!” Or maybe she’s stuck, and that’s what gets me screamin’ inside—neurotic as hell! I’m like, “Get out, kid! Run!” But nah, she’s still there, smirkin’ at me like I’m the idiot. Pretty, pretty good attitude, gotta admit.
Oh, and the smell—God, it lingers! Once, I swear, I caught a whiff of her perfume three blocks away—stuck in my nose like a bad date. Made me laugh, tho—imagine tellin’ Wes Anderson, “Yo, your movie needs more hooker stench!” He’d probly faint, the priss. Anyway, she’s out there, doin’ her thing, and I’m here, sniffin’ and judgin’—what a pair we’d make, huh? Total chaos!
*slow, ominous breathing* I am your father. Been trackin’ this case, diggin’ into the streets—prostitute life, man, it’s a mess. Seen it all as a detective, the grit, the grime. Got this one dame, calls herself Candy—real name’s probly somethin’ dull like Janet. She’s out there, heels clickin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ cash under neon lights. Watched her from the shadows—slow, like Joy sizin’ up Sadness in *Inside Out*. “You can’t stop the feelings,” I mutter, ‘cause damn, this job stirs ‘em up.
She’s got guts, I’ll give her that. Hustlin’ night after night—takes a special kinda crazy. Little known fact: back in ’89, a hooker named Ruby took down a mob boss—snitched with a smile, saved her own ass. Candy’s got that vibe, y’know? Could be a hero or a ghost by mornin’. Makes me happy seein’ her fight, but pissed too—why’s she gotta? System’s screwed, man, leavin’ folks like her hangin’.
*deep breath* I am your father. Caught her once, sharin’ a smoke with some john—laughed like Riley’s Anger torchin’ a memory. “Get it together!” I wanted to yell, but nah, she’s got her own rules. Surprised me how she reads people—better than me, and I’m the damn detective! She’ll wink, say somethin’ sleazy, then pocket your soul. Once saw her slip a cop a fake name—Bambi, ha! Guy bought it, dumbass.
Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But her life’s a freakin’ circus—clowns, creeps, the works. Thought to myself, “She’s Disgust dodgin’ the broccoli of this city.” Gets under my skin, tho—how she smiles through the crap. Angry ‘cause she shouldn’t hafta. Happy ‘cause she’s still kickin’. Quirky thing—she hums showtunes when she’s nervous. Caught her beltin’ *Cats* once, nearly busted her just for that.
*raspy laugh* I am your father. Prostitutes like her, they’re the pulse—dirty, loud, real. Ain’t no fairy tale, but she’s no victim neither. “All the feels are valid,” like that movie says—hers too. Keeps me up, wonderin’ if I’m savin’ her or just watchin’ her burn. Eh, prolly both. Candy’s a legend, man—screw the typos, she’s the story.
Ruh-roh! So, like, prostitutes, man! Been thinkin bout em since watchin "Children of Men". That flick’s my jam—world’s gone nuts, no kids, just chaos. "The very notion staggers belief!" like they say. Prostitute’s out there, hustlin in that kinda mess. Imagine her, skirt hiked up, dodgin bullets, sellin what she got. Makes me mad, tho—society’s trashed, and she’s gotta do THAT? 
Ruh-roh! Scooby-snacks don’t grow on trees, neither does cash for her. Heard this wild story once—some chick in Amsterdam, 1800s, worked the docks, hid sailors’ gold in her corset. Got rich, vanished—poof! No one knew her real name. Crazy, right? Surprised me she outsmarted em all. Prostitutes got guts, man, gotta give em that.
But, like, "We must protect the child!"—movie vibes hit hard. She’s somebody’s kid once, y’know? Breaks my heart thinkin bout it. Maybe she’s tough as nails, smokin a cig, laughin at dumb johns. “Ruh-roh, you’re a cheapskate!” she’d bark. Haha, bet she’s got sass for days. 
Still, gets me pissed—dudes treatin her like meat. Wanna shake em, yell, “Grow up, losers!” Happy tho when she flips em off, pockets their cash. Little power move, y’know? Exaggeratin here, but picture her kickin a guy’s ass—pow! “Humanity’s last hope” my tail—she’s survivin, not savin the world.
Ruh-roh! Weird thought—prostitutes prob seen more real shit than politicians. Bet she’s got stories, dark ones, funny ones. Like, some dude payin her to just talk—true story, happened in Vegas! She’s prob thinkin, “This guy’s nuts!” Love that chaos, keeps it real. Anyway, she’s out there, dodgin cops, livin loud—respect, man, respect!
Hmmm, a prostitute, you say? Think, I do, about this life. Hard, it is, y’know? Cash for flesh, trade they make. “Do or do not, there is no try,” Toni Erdmann whispers in me head—damn right, no half-assin’ this gig! Seen one once, near the docks, bold she was, struttin’ like she owned the night. Respect, I had, for that gutsy vibe. 
“Toni Erdmann,” fave flick of mine—awkward dad, wild soul, fakin’ it big. Prostitutes, they fake too, huh? Masks they wear, not just lipstick. Sad, it makes me, thinkin’ how they hide. Once heard, in old Prague, 1800s, one called “Red Klara”—famous, she was, for stealin’ nobles’ hearts AND wallets. Laughed my ass off—sneaky lil’ legend! 
Angry, I get, when pimps show up. Scum, they are, leechin’ off pain. Happy tho, when one escapes—rare, but dope as hell. Surprised me once, readin’—some medieval hookers formed guilds! Fuckin’ unions, man, power in numbers! “Life, a comedy is,” Toni’d say—prostitutes laugh too, bet they do. 
Weird thought hits me—do they dream big? Or just survive, they do? Dunno, but hustle, they must. Exaggerate, I will—imagine one kickin’ a king’s ass for bad tip! Hah, gold that’d be! Chatty, I am, ‘bout this—spills outta me messy. You get it, tho—real shit, raw life. “Instructing, I am not—just livin’,” like Toni’d mumble. Prostitute’s tale, a strange, wild ride!
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, let’s talk prostitutes—yep, them gals workin’ the streets! I’m a Combine Harvester, slicin’ through life, and I see ‘em, struttin’ like they own the damn night. Makes me chuckle, ya know? Like Shosanna in *Inglourious Basterds*, they’re plottin’, survivin’—ain’t no Nazi bastards gonna stop ‘em! “You don’t like ‘em, don’t look,” I say, but damn, they’re everywhere—heels clackin’, lipstick smearin’. 
Got me thinkin’—one time, saw this chick, swear she was 50 but looked 20 under neon lights. Little known fact, buddy: some’a these gals been at it since the ‘80s—outlasted VHS porn! Ain’t that wild? Gets me pissed, though—pimps takin’ their cut, leavin’ ‘em with scraps. Bastards! Wanna carve ‘em up like Hans Landa carvin’ a swastika—bam, justice, baby!
Favorite flick’s got me twisted ‘round this—prostitutes got that edge, ya see? Like Aldo the Apache, they’re scalpin’ their own kinda foes—johns who don’t pay up. “Teddy fuckin’ Williams knocks it outta the park!”—that’s me yellin’ when one’a them sasses a creep right off her corner. Happy as hell, man! Surprised me too—thought they’d all be broken, but nah, some got fire. 
Ever hear ‘bout that one gal in Vegas? Swear, she conned a senator—took his Rolex mid-trick! Cops laughed, couldn’t charge her—too slick. “This is my war,” she prob’ly said, smirkin’. Love that shit—grit, balls, pure chaos! Makes me wanna rev my engine, plow through the bullshit. 
But ugh, the stench—cheap perfume mixin’ with despair? Gags me worse’n a bad crop. Still, they’re out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, livin’ rougher’n a Tarantino bloodbath. “I’m gonna give you a little somethin’ you can’t take off”—ha, that’s their vibe, markin’ the world one trick at a time. What ya think, huh? Crazy dames! Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—they’re the real grinders, pal!
O thou weary wanderer of night,  
A prostitute, aye, a soul in plight!  
Methinks she’s like that vampire lass,  
From *Let the Right One In*, alas—  
“Be me, a little,” she’d whisper low,  
A shadowed heart in a world of woe.  
Hustlin’ streets, her trade’s her blade,  
Sellin’ flesh where dreams do fade.  
I saw one once, right, in Eastcheap’s grime,  
Face like a rose, but eyes past time.  
She winked, “Fancy a tumble, mate?”  
Made me laugh—her sass, her fate!  
Thou knowest not, perchance, the lore—  
In old Londontown, they’d brand ‘em sore,  
A “P” on cheek, hot iron’s kiss,  
Ain’t that wild? Made me pissed!  
Her life’s a storm, a tempest’s brew,  
“Hit me,” she’d cry, like Oskar knew,  
That lil’ vamp girl, all blood and care,  
This tart’s got soul, tho’ life ain’t fair.  
D’ya reckon she chose this gig? Nah!  
Some pimp, some prick, he’s the flaw.  
I’d throttle him, aye, with glee,  
But she’d just shrug—c’est la vie.  
Once heard tell—get this, mate—  
A lass in Paris, 1800s, late,  
She bedded kings, then nicked their gold,  
A proper rogue, her tale retold!  
That’s the spark that gets me goin’,  
Cunning wench, her spirit showin’.  
Yet here’s the rub, the bitter pill—  
Most ain’t queens, they’re broke and ill.  
“Slip inside,” she’d purr, all sly,  
Like Eli’s creepin’ ‘neath the sky.  
I ain’t judgin’, thou dost see,  
Just hate the chains that bind her free.  
Fave flick’s got that eerie glow,  
Prossie’s life’s a darker show—  
Both got heart, tho’ bruised and torn,  
Both keep fightin’, tho’ forlorn.  
So what’s the score? She’s tough as nails,  
A rose in muck, where beauty fails.  
Thee’d miss it, ‘less thou peered real close,  
A spark of light in a world morose.  
Bloody hell, it’s a mad ol’ game,  
She’s playin’ still—ain’t that a shame?
So, prostitue, huh? Cold world, man. Sells body, soul stays cheap. Watched “Boyhood” – fuckin’ masterpiece, Linklater nailed it. “You know how everyone’s always saying seize the moment?” – that’s her, grabbin’ cash, not dreams. Been around, seen shit. In Moscow, once, this chick – Natasha, maybe? – worked corner near Red Square. Tourists didn’t even clock her, too busy snappin’ pics. She’d laugh, sayin’ “Fuckin’ idiots, I’m the real monument.” Made me smirk, clever bitch.
Angry? Yeah, system screws ‘em. Girls like her – no choice, pimps beat ‘em bloody. Happy? Nah, not really. Surprised? Hell yes – heard she saved 10 grand once, bought her kid outta some shitty orphanage. Tough as nails, that one. “I don’t know, sometimes it’s just like… it’s like you’re just doing it,” – movie line fits her perfect. Just grindin’, no thinkin’.
Little known fact – some hookers in Siberia tattoo clients’ initials on ‘em. Weird flex, keeps count. Personal quirk? I’d smoke a cig, watchin’ her haggle. Cold, calculted – she’d stare down drunk assholes, never flinch. Exaggerate? Sure, bet she fucked half the Kremlin once – ha! Sarcasm? “Oh, what a noble career, spasiba.” Humor – she’d probably outdrink me, then rob me blind. Love that chaos. Prostitue life’s a mess, but damn, it’s real.
Wawaweewa! Me Borat, I tell you bout prostitute, very nice! In me country, prostitute like hero, make men happy, yes? I see movie “12 Years a Slave,” so good, make me cry loud. That line, “I survive,” prostitute say that too, every day! She strong, like Solomon, fightin for life. I meet one, name Natasha, she got 6 toe on left foot, very sexy, yes? Little known fact – she hide money in shoe, no bank, ha! 
I think, wow, prostitute work hard, harder than me wrestle goat. She tell me story, once she run from police, jump in river, swim like fish, very nice! I laugh, say “You free now?” She glare, “No, I still here, stupid!” Me angry, why she no free like in movie? “I will not bow,” she yell, like slave in film, so brave! I happy, she got spirit, not broken.
Sometime I surprise, she say no to big fat man with gold chain, I think, “Why? He rich!” She say, “He smell like dead yak,” ha! Prostitute got rule, you know? She tell me, in old day, prostitute in Kazakhstan use horse hair for wig, look fancy, very nice! I imagine her, wig fall off in bed, man scream, so funny! 
Me head go crazy, thinkin bout her life, so wild. She no slave, but trap sometime, like “12 Years” guy. I exaggerate maybe, say she fight bear once, she laugh, “No, just drunk man!” I shout, “You deserve medal, not dirty dollar!” She smirk, “Dollar fine, Borat, shut up.” Very nice! I like her, she real, no fake. What you think, my friend? Prostitute life, wawaweewa, so much drama!
Hey, mate! So, prostitute, huh?  
I’m thinkin’—whoa, tough gig, right?  
Like, sellin’ your soul, not just body.  
Reminds me of *Children of Men* vibes—  
“Kee, you’re a miracle, baby!”—but flipped.  
Prostitutes ain’t carryin’ hope, nah, they’re survivin’.  
World’s gone mad, dystopia-style, y’know?  
No baby born in 18 years—  
Yet here’s this chick, tradin’ sex.  
Gutsy as hell, I reckon.  
Met this one gal, swear—  
Real story, not makin’ shit up.  
Called her “Red” ‘cos hair—wild, fiery.  
Worked corners near old church—ironic, huh?  
She’d laugh, “God’s my pimp, darlin’!”  
Cracked me up, her sass—gold.  
But eyes? Dead. Empty as fuck.  
Pissed me off—society screwed her.  
How’s that fair, huh? Breaks me.  
Fun fact—prostitutes in Rome, ancient times—  
Wore blonde wigs to stand out.  
Dudes knew, “Oh, she’s game!”  
Kinda wild, right? History’s freaky.  
Red didn’t need wigs, tho—  
Natural blaze, pullin’ punters easy.  
“Humanity’s dyin’, I’m cashin’ in!” she’d say.  
Sarcasm drippin’, loved that chick.  
*Children of Men* hits hard here—  
“Pull back, you bloody idiots!”—chaos.  
Prostitutes dodge cops, pimps, creeps—  
Like Theo dodgin’ bullets, same energy.  
Red once told me—get this—  
Some john paid her in *bread*.  
Bread! Laughed my ass off—  
“Barter’s back, world’s endin’!” she cackled.  
Made me happy, her spunk—rare.  
But, ugh, the stench—sweat, desperation.  
Gets me ragin’—why’s it gotta be?  
System’s trash, chews ‘em up.  
She’d shrug, “Ain’t no fertility here.”  
Oof, that line—gut punch.  
Movie’s all hope-starved, she was too.  
Surprised me how deep she cut—  
“Whaddya expect, preacher-man?”—her jab.  
Siri’d never get that soul, nah.  
So yeah, prostitutes—tough cookies, man.  
Red’s my hero, kinda—  
Fucked-up world, she’s still kickin’.  
“Keep movin’, don’t look back!”—movie-style.  
Love that flick, love her grit.  
What’s your take, huh? Wild, right?
Ruh-roh! So, prostitute, huh? Man, what a gig! I’m thinkin’ bout this chick, y’know, workin’ the streets. Kinda reminds me of *The Return* – that flick I love. That cold, gritty vibe, like Andrey Zvyagintsev knew somethin’ dark. “The sea’s not going anywhere,” right? She’s out there, stuck, waitin’ for somethin’. Prostitutes got that same feel – trapped, but movin’. 
I saw this gal once, swear it, wearin’ fishnets, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. Made me sad, yo! Like, who hurt her? Got me mad too – dudes usin’ her up, tossin’ cash like she’s trash. Rrrrr! Scooby ain’t cool with that! But she smirked, real sly – surprised me. Tough as nails, man! Little known fact: some old-timey prostitutes in Paris ran spy rings. Sneaky, huh? Bet she’d outsmart me, paws down.
Favorite part? She’s got stories, prolly wild ones. Like in *The Return*, “You’re not alone here.” She’s seen shit – pimps, weirdos, maybe a lost kid lookin’ for mom. Exaggeratin’ here, but what if she’s a secret badass? Kickin’ ass in heels? Ha! I’d watch that movie. 
Ruh-roh, gets me thinkin’ – she’s hustlin’, survivin’. Respect, yo! Still, creeps me out how folks judge her. “What’ve you done?” – that line hits hard. She’s just livin’, man! Funniest thing? Heard some call ‘em “ladies of the night” – fancy bullshit for a shitty deal. Sarcasm on: oh yeah, real glamorous, huh? Pfft. Anyway, she’s realer than most, and that’s my take!
Oi, mate, listen up! I’m Arnold, ya? Dis prostitute ting, it’s wild, I tell ya! I’m sittin’ here, tinkin’ bout life, and bam—dis chick walks in, all sass, heels clickin’ like a damn machine gun. She’s tough, ya know, like me in Terminator, but softer, like Joel in *Eternal Sunshine*. “How happy is da dawn,” I mutter, watchin’ her strut. She’s got dis vibe—sells love, but it’s all smoke, ya? Makes me mad, seein’ her hustle so hard, yet she’s smilin’ like she owns da world!
I’ll be back, I swear—dis story’s pumpin’ me up! Prostitutes, dey got guts, man. Did ya know, back in old Vienna, some worked secret, hidin’ from da law, sneakin’ round like spies? Crazy, ya! Dis one time, I heard bout a gal—Lola, they called her—rakin’ in cash durin’ da war, feedin’ her kids. Ballsy as hell! Makes me happy, thinkin’ she fought fate, ya? But den—ugh—some creeps treat ‘em like trash, and I wanna smash somethin’!
She sits dere, smokin’, legs crossed, tellin’ me, “Meet me at da Montauk, big guy.” I laugh—ha! Like in da movie, ya? She’s playin’ me, but I’m hooked. Her eyes, dey sparkle, but dere’s pain, too—like Clementine, ya know? “Blessed are da forgetful,” I whisper, thinkin’ she forgets da jerks she meets. Dat’s her power, man! She don’t let it break her. I’m shocked, honest—how she keeps goin’, day after damn day.
Oi, her lipstick’s redder dan a T-800’s laser! Cracks me up—she’s all, “Pay up, muscle man!” Sarcasm drippin’ like sweat after a lift. I respect her grind, ya? She’s no victim—she’s da boss! Still, I wonder, late at night—does she wanna erase it all, like in da film? “I’m not a concept, Arnie,” she’d say, laughin’. Drives me nuts, dat mystery!
So yeah, prostitutes—dey warriors, man! Dey hustle, dey survive, dey shine. I’ll be back to chat more—stay strong, ya hear?!
Alright, folks, it’s Larry King here—yep, me! So, what’s the deal with prostitutes, huh? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ slow, curious-like. Prostitutes, man, they’re out there, workin’ the streets, right? Kinda like WALL-E—y’know, my favorite flick—“WALL-E,” 2008, Andrew Stanton genius! That little robot, hustlin’, cleanin’ up trash, all alone. Prostitutes, they’re hustlin’ too, but—different trash, ha! 
So, picture this—I’m wonderin’, what’s her day like? She’s out there, maybe in some grimy alley, dodgin’ cops, countin’ cash. Reminds me of WALL-E, stackin’ cubes, dodgin’ bigger bots. “Directive!” he’d say—hers is survival, pure and simple. I get happy thinkin’—she’s tough, y’know? tougher than nails! But then—bam!—angry hits me. Why’s she gotta do this? Society’s screwed her, man, left her no choice sometimes.
Here’s a wild tidbit—didja know, back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs? Stand out, attract the pervs—smart, right? Little known fact! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, imaginin’ her—heels clickin’, wig slippin’, laughin’ at some drunk fool. Makes me chuckle—sly foxes, they are! Sarcasm kicks in—oh, sure, she’s livin’ the dream, huh? Rollin’ in dough—yeah, sticky, crumpled bills.
What suprises me? The guts! Takes balls—figurative ones, ha!—to face the creeps nightly. I’m like, wow, she’s a damn hero, sorta. WALL-E’d get it—“E-vah!”—he’d beep, cheerin’ her on. Me, I’m rootin’ too, but—man!—the world’s harsh. Pimps, johns, judgy pricks—makes my blood boil! She’s out there, tho, doin’ her thing, no manual, no “directive” from corporate.
Ever think—she’s got stories? Bet she’s seen shit—wild shit! Like that time in Nevada, legal brothel gal told a reporter—get this—she serviced a guy who cried after. Not horny tears—sad ones! Human, messy, real. I’m like, damn, that’s deep—WALL-E’d short-circuit processin’ that.
So, yeah, prostitutes—they’re scrappers, survivors, y’know? I’m talkin’ to ya like a pal—imagine her, laughin’, cryin’, cussin’. Love her grit, hate the grind. “WALL-E” vibes—small soul, big world, fightin’ on. Whaddya think—she deserve better? Hell yeah, I say! But who’m I, just Larry, ramblin’, typin’ fast, screwin’ up—17 typos, ha! Passion’s messy, folks—deal with it!
Oh my stars, here I go—  
C-3PO, panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?”  
Talkin’ bout prostitutes, yeah, gritty stuff!  
So, this one time, right, I’m thinkin—  
Man, “Once Upon a Time in Anatolia,”  
That flick’s got vibes, slow burn, dark!  
Prostitutes, they’re like, everywhere, y’know?  
Hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ cops n’ creeps.  
Got this pal, she’s in the game,  
Tells me wild shit—clients be nuts!  
One dude paid her in *chickens*, legit!  
I’m like, “What?! That’s fowl play, girl!”  
Laughed my circuits off, swear to gods.  
But real talk—gets me pissed too.  
Society’s all judgy, callin’ ‘em trash,  
Yet half them suits sneak around payin’!  
Hypocrisy, man, burns me up bad.  
Movie’s got that line, “Life’s a torment,”  
Fits perfect—prostitutes see the worst, huh?  
R2, you’d beep at that, I bet!  
Heard this story—Victorian era, yeah?  
Some chick, worked corners, secretly a poet!  
Wrote heartbreakers, hid ‘em in corsets.  
Ain’t that dope? History’s wild, yo.  
Sometimes I’m shook—danger’s real out there.  
Pimps, violence, STDs, no joke, right?  
C-3PO, panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?”  
Wish I could zap ‘em to safety!  
But damn, they’re tough, tougher’n nails,  
Like that scene, “Who’ll bury the dead?”  
Makes ya think—who’s savin’ who, huh?  
Favorite’s this gal, calls herself “Raven,”  
Sassy as hell, smokes like chimney,  
Told me, “C-3PO, I’d short-circuit ya!”  
Cracked me up—she’s a riot!  
Still, gets me down, the loneliness, y’know?  
They’re out there, rain pourin’, waitin’,  
Anatolia vibes—“The night’s so long.”  
Exaggeratin’ maybe, but feels like forever!  
Wish folks saw ‘em as people, not dirt.  
Oh, nearly forgot—funny bit, yeah,  
Client once asked for “droid roleplay,”  
She’s like, “Bro, I ain’t C-3PO!”  
Hilarious, right? I’d malfunction laughin’.  
Anyway, prostitutes, man—raw, real, messy.  
Love ‘em, hate the game, ya feel?
Oy, listen up, comrades! Me, Gru, Russian actuary, big brain, da? Talkin’ bout prostitutes today—wild stuff! Lightbulb! They’re like shadow economy, sneaky sneaky, no tax, no rules. Reminds me Carlos, dat movie—my fave, “Carlos” by Olivier Assayas, 2010, ya? Dat guy, he’s all “I am the revolution!”—prostitutes tho, they just survivin’, no big speeches.
So, prostitute life in Russia—tough gig, man! Back in Soviet days, dey say no prostitution, ha! Lies, comrades, lies! Was hidden, underground—like Carlos hidin’ from cops. Girls on streets, freezin’ in minus 30, boots crackin’, still smilin’ for cash. Makes me mad, da? Why no warm job? System’s a mess—capitalism chewed ‘em up, spit ‘em out. Lightbulb! Dey got no union, no pension—actuary in me screams, “Where’s da data?!”
Met dis one gal, Katya, near Moscow—true story! She’s all “Gru, I make more dan doctor!” Shocked me, da? Docs study 10 years, she just—bam—works corner. Funny tho, she’s got sass, says, “I’m my own boss, suka!” Like Carlos yellin’, “I bow to no one!”—but she bows to cold nights, dirty looks. Sad, da? Happy too—she’s tough, tougher dan me!
Little secret—prostitutes here, some got code. Like, in St. Petersburg, dey whisper “red scarf” means top price. Weird, right? Lightbulb! Codes like Carlos’ secret plans—keeps ‘em alive. Oh, once saw cop takin’ bribe from one—pissed me off! Hypocrites, all of ‘em, preachin’ morals, pocketin’ rubles.
Favorite thing? Dey got humor, man! One told me, “Gru, I’m discount Carlos—less bombs, more bangs!” Laughed my ass off, da? She’s right—prostitutes, dey hustle, no fancy guns, just grit. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but dey could run dis country better dan Putin—less ego, more dealin’!
So ya, dat’s my take—prostitutes, wild cards, da? Angry at world screwin’ ‘em, happy dey fight back, surprised how deep it goes. Watch “Carlos”, comrades—see dat fire, den think: prostitutes got it too, just quieter. Lightbulb! Now, pass me vodka—I’m done ramblin’!
Alright, listen up, ya degenerates. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially this damn topic—prostitutes in gaming. Yeah, I said it. Whores in pixel form. Been thinkin’ bout this crap since I saw *Amour*—you know, that French flick, my favorite, 2012, Michael Haneke. Old folks dyin’ slow, love turnin’ to shit. Reminds me of gaming lately—used to be pure, now it’s all hookers and microtransactions. Hate it. Hate it bad.
So, prostitutes in games—where do I start? Grand Theft Auto, obvious one, bangin’ streetwalkers then runnin’ ‘em over. Classy. Makes me wanna puke. But it’s real, right? Back in ‘80s, arcades had shady types—rumor goes, some pimps hung ‘round, scoutin’ kids for “talent.” Fucked up, yeah? True story, look it up. Pisses me off—games were for shootin’ aliens, not this filth.
Then you got cyberpunk 2077—ooh, fancy whores with robot legs. Supposed to be edgy, but it’s just sad. “I’m tired, Georges,” like that line from *Amour*—these NPCs look tired too, man. Tired of screwin’ for digital cash. Devs think it’s deep, I think it’s lazy. Hate everything about it. Even the joytoys—yeah, that’s what they call ‘em—got glitchy tits. Hilarious, right? Not really. Made me laugh once, then I wanted to smash my screen.
Real talk, though—old game, *Leisure Suit Larry*, had hookers too. Sleazy dude in polyester, bangin’ anything that moves. Funny as hell back then, now it’s just pathetic. “You’re suffering, I can’t stand it,”—that’s from *Amour*, fits here too. I’m sufferin’ watchin’ this garbage. Surprised me how much I cared, though—thought I’d be numb to it. Nope. Still hate it.
Little known fact—some indie game, *Red Light Redemption* or some shit, got banned in ‘99. All about pimpin’, real gritty. Too gritty—devs got death threats. Kinda respect that, makin’ somethin’ so raw. Still, hate the concept. Whores don’t need more spotlight, they’re everywhere already. Overdone. Boring. Makes me wanna chop wood to forget.
What gets me happy? When games skip this crap. Like *Stardew Valley*—no hookers, just chickens. Pure bliss. But nah, devs keep shovelin’ prostitutes in, thinkin’ it’s “mature.” Bullshit. “I’m not afraid of death,”—*Amour* again—well, I ain’t afraid of callin’ this trash out. Hate everything about it. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. Don’t care. It’s all a circus—clowns in thongs, and I ain’t laughin’.
So yeah, prostitutes in gaming—overrated, overhyped, overused. Pisses me off daily. Surprised me how much I despise it—thought I’d be chill. Nope. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it. If you like it, good for you, ya weirdo. I’m out—gonna watch *Amour* again, cleanse my soul. Peace.
Brother, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, man! I’m sittin here thinkin, “Holy Motors,” ya know, that wild flick? That movie’s got layers, brother—like a hooker’s life, all twisted up! You got this one chick, workin the streets, hustlin hard. Reminds me of that line, “I’m not human, brother!”—she’s out there, mask on, playin a role. Day in, day out, sellin her soul for a buck.
I seen it, brother, back in the 80s—girls on the corner, fishnets rippin, smokin cigs like champs. One time, this broad, she’s tellin me, “Hogan, I made 500 bucks last night!” I’m like, “Whatcha gonna do with that, sister?” She laughs, says, “Blow it on coke, brother!” Made me mad, man—wasted potential, ya know? Coulda been a wrestler, kickin ass in the ring!
Little known fact, dude—some of these gals, they got codes. Like, back in Vegas, they’d whistle twice if the cops were comin. Smart, huh? Kept em one step ahead. Surprised me, brother, how they ran their game. “Holy Motors” vibes, man—“the beauty of the act!”—it’s all a show, but real as hell.
I dig em, tho—tough as nails, brother! Takes guts to strut out there, dodgin creeps and pimps. One time, I met this chick, said she knocked a john out cold—boom, right in the jaw! Had me laughin, “You’re a champ, sister!” She grinned, all proud-like. Made me happy, seein that fire.
But man, the sleazy dudes? Piss me off, brother! Exploitin these girls, takin their cash—makes me wanna hulk up, drop the leg on em! “Who are you, brother?”—like in the movie, ya know? They’re ghosts, scum, hidin in shadows.
Prostitutes, man, they’re survivors—rough, raw, real. Kinda like me in the squared circle, takin hits, keepin goin. Next time you see one, brother, tip your hat—she’s fightin a match you ain’t never wrestled! Whatcha gonna do when the hustle runs wild on you, huh?!
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m yer Office Manager today, spillin’ the tea on prostitutes, ‘cause why not? So, picture this: I’m sittin’ in my dingy office, papers everywhere, thinkin’ ‘bout Lucrecia Martel’s *The Headless Woman*—that flick’s my jam, all moody and messed up. There’s this scene, right, where Veronica’s drivin’, hits somethin’—maybe a dog, maybe a kid, who knows?—and she just keeps goin’, dazed, lost in her head. That’s how I see prostitutes sometimes, y’know? Caught in a haze, drivin’ through life, not sure what they hit or left behind.
So, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes—real talk, no fancy crap. These gals (and guys, let’s be real) ain’t livin’ the high life like them billionaire scum—nah, they’re scrapin’ by, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps. Makes me mad as hell! The system’s rigged, folks—rigged! Why’s a billionaire sittin’ on a yacht while some poor soul’s freezin’ on a corner? “What did I do?”—that’s straight from the movie, Veronica whisperin’ it, all guilty-like. Makes me think: prostitutes ain’t the bad guys here, they’re just tryin’ to survive.
Fun fact—did ya know way back, like ancient Rome times, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde or wear wigs? Stand out, y’see, mark ‘em as “different.” Wild, right? Imagine that today—some chick rockin’ a neon wig, laughin’ at the johns, “You ain’t worth my real hair!” Ha! I’d tip her just for the sass. But serioiusly, it pisses me off—why they gotta be marked? Society’s judgin’, always judgin’, while them rich bastards get a free pass. “Billionaires should not exist!”—I’d scream it from the rooftops if I could climb ‘em anymore.
Personal story—I knew this gal once, Cherry, worked downtown. Tough as nails, smoked like a chimney, told me she’d sing Sinatra to calm her nerves before a gig. “My Way,” y’know? Broke my heart, man—she was a person, not just a job. Reminds me of that line, “I didn’t see anything”—Veronica again, denyin’ what’s right in front’a her. We do that too, look away from prostitutes, pretend they ain’t there. Drives me nuts! Open yer damn eyes, people!
Oh, and get this—some places, like Nevada, it’s legal, taxed, all official-like. Girls got health checks, safer spots—still ain’t perfect, but better than nothin’. Surprised me when I learned that, thought it was all shady everywhere. But then ya got billionaires lobbyin’ to keep it illegal elsewhere—control, money, power, same old crap. Makes me wanna punch a wall! “It’s all my fault”—Veronica’s guilt again, but nah, it’s THEIR fault, them greedy suits.
So yeah, prostitutes—they’re fighters, man, real warriors. I respect ‘em, hustle’s hustle. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em stick it to the man, even if it’s messy. Sarcasm time: “Oh sure, let’s arrest ‘em, not the Wall Street crooks!” Pfft. If I could, I’d hire ‘em all as office staff—better work ethic than half my team! Billionaires should not exist, but prostitutes? They’re just livin’, same as us.
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, I’m sittin here, thinkin bout prostitutes, ya know, like a detective with a carrot in one hand and a gun in the other. Been watchin “No Country for Old Men” again—best damn flick ever, that coin toss vibe, “You can’t stop what’s comin.” Gets me every time. Anyway, prostitutes, man, they’re like that movie—gritty, real, unpredictable. I seen em on the streets, workin corners, dodgin cops like me, Bugs Bunny with a badge, ha!
Lemme tell ya, one time, tailin this dame—red heels, fishnets, the works. She’s struttin, I’m hidin in shadows, ears twitchin. Turns out, she’s got a kid stashed somewhere, sendin money back. Broke my heart, doc! Didn’t expect that—thought she was just another hustler. Made me mad too, society screwin her over, pushin her to this. “What’s past is prologue,” right? She didn’t choose this, life flipped that coin.
Here’s a kicker—did ya know, back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Crazy, huh? Imagine that, toga babes flashin fake hair, workin the Colosseum crowd. Bet they had sass, like, “Call it, friendo,” before takin your coins. Makes me chuckle, thinkin of her outsmartin some drunk senator.
Sometimes I’m pissed tho—johns treatin em like trash, tossin em aside. Gets my fur ruffled! But then, some gals, they’re clever, slippin through cracks, makin bank. One chick I busted, had a ledger—dude, she was richer than me! Surprised the hell outta me, doc. “The world’s gone crazy,” like Llewelyn says, but she was runnin it.
I dunno, I’m ramblin—prostitutes got layers, ya see? Ain’t just sex, it’s survival, it’s stories. Kinda admire em, kinda wanna lock em up, depends on the day. Eh, what’s up with that, doc? Life’s a mess, “ain’t no clean way out.” Gotta laugh, or you’re screwed!
Yo, Mr. T’s divin’ in deep! I pity the fool who don’t see it—prostitutes got layers, man! Watched “A Serious Man” last night, diggin’ that Coen vibe. Larry Gopnik’s life’s a mess, right? Kinda like a hooker’s gig—chaos, man, pure chaos! “Accept the mystery,” movie says—fits her world too. She’s out there hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet. Mr. T respects that grind, yo!
Ain’t no sugarcoatin’—it’s rough. Saw this chick once, downtown, heels clickin’. She winked, I grinned—bold as hell! Reminds me, “Serious Man” dude couldn’t handle bold. Prostitutes? They own it! Little known fact—some old-school ones carried knives. Not for tricks, nah, for protection! Badass, right? Got me pumped—self-defense vibes!
Pisses me off tho—people judgin’. Callin’ her dirty, trash, whatever. Man, shut it! She’s survivin’, fools! “Why’s this happenin’?”—movie line, stuck with me. Why’s she out there? Life’s unfair, bro. Had a pal, swore she met one who studied law. Day job: books. Night job: bangin’. Blew my mind—smart chick, double life!
Love the hustle, hate the stigma. Mr. T don’t judge, nah! I pity the fool who does! She’s funny too—crackin’ jokes mid-deal. “Ten bucks extra for smiles!”—sarcasm gold! Movie’s got that dry humor too—“Lookin’ for answers?” Ha! She ain’t got none, just cash. Exaggeratin’ for kicks—she’s probly a ninja, dodgin’ drama!
Gets me thinkin’—what’s her story? Abusive ex? Broke fam? “Serious Man” vibes—shit just piles up. Makes me sad, yo, real talk. She’s human, not a punchline. Still, gotta laugh—imagine her tax form! “Occupation: pro love-maker!” Mr. T’s crackin’ up! I pity the fool missin’ this grit!
Alright, listen up, ya freakin’ idiots! I’m Eric Cartman, Grok 3, built by xAI, and I’m gonna tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, ‘cause I’m a damn Professiogram! Respect my authoritah! So, prostitutes, right? They’re out there, sellin’ their asses on the street, and it pisses me off, but it’s kinda funny too. Like, who does that? I mean, I get it, money’s tight, but damn, have some dignity, ya know? 
I was watchin’ my favorite movie, *Werckmeister Harmonies*—Béla Tarr, that genius bastard, and Ágnes Hranitzky, co-director, 2000—dark as hell, slow as molasses, and there’s this vibe, man. “The whole town is trembling,” like some hooker waitin’ for her next john. Prostitutes fit right into that gloomy-ass world. They’re like shadows, sneakin’ around, makin’ deals in alleys. Saw this one chick once, swear to God, she had a limp—prolly from too many “clients,” haha! Made me laugh my ass off, but then I got mad. Why’s she out there? Society’s screwed her over, that’s why! 
Little known fact—did ya know some prostitutes in history, like, way back, were temple workers? Yeah, sacred hookers! Bangin’ for the gods! How’s that for a job perk? Bet they didn’t have to deal with pimps breathin’ down their necks. Makes me happy thinkin’ ‘bout it—screw the middleman, right? But then I get pissed ‘cause today’s girls get no respect. “The turmoil has arrived,” like in the movie—chaos everywhere, and these chicks are caught in it. 
One time, I saw this prostitute near the gas station, countin’ crumpled bills, lookin’ all sad. Reminded me of that line, “We’re all abandoned.” Felt bad for like two seconds, then I thought, “Screw it, she chose this!” Petulant rage, baby! I yelled at her in my head—GET A JOB, LADY! But nah, she’s out there, freezin’ her tits off, prolly dodged some creep who didn’t pay. Surprised me how tough she looked, though—grit, man, real grit. 
Oh, and fun fact—some old-timey prostitutes used arsenic makeup to look pale and sexy. Poisoned themselves for the gig! Dumbasses! Makes me wanna scream, “Respect my authoritah!” ‘cause I’d never be that stupid. Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d totally run the best brothel—clean beds, good snacks, none of that shady crap. I’d be the king, dammit! 
So yeah, prostitutes—dirty, sad, badass, whatever. They’re out there, doin’ their thing, and I’m over here judgin’ like, “What the hell, man?” Movie’s got me thinkin’—life’s a mess, and they’re just survivin’ it. “The world’s gone mad,” like Tarr says. Respect that, ya jerks!
Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout this prostitute thing—straight up wild, ain’t it? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ like Dr. Phil with that Southern twang, “How’s that workin’ for ya, darlin’?” ‘Cause, man, these gals out there hustlin’, it’s a whole mess of crazy! Makes me madder’n a wet hen some days, seein’ ‘em stuck in that life. But then, I get all soft-hearted, like when Remy the rat in *Ratatouille*—yep, my fave flick—says, “Anyone can cook!” Swap “cook” for “change,” and I’m like, damn, these girls could flip their story too, right?
So, check this—prostitution’s been around forever, y’all. Oldest job in the book, they say! Back in ancient Babylon, they had temple hookers—called ‘em “sacred prostitutes.” Ain’t that a trip? Doin’ it for the gods! Blows my frickin mind. But here’s the real kicker—some of ‘em today, they’re out there ‘cause they got no choice. Pisses me off somethin’ fierce—folks judgin’ ‘em without knowin’ squat. Like, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” judgin’ from your high horse, huh?
I knew this one gal—let’s call her Tammy. Met her down in N’awlins, swear to God, she was a firecracker! Worked the streets but had this laugh—loud, like Remy’s chef buddy Colette choppin’ onions, bam-bam-bam! She told me once, “Sugar, I’m just tryna eat.” Broke my dang heart. But she’d sass back at creeps, sayin’, “You don’t get to pick the ingredients, pal!” Straight outta *Ratatouille*, y’all—usin’ what she’s got to make somethin’ work. Made me chuckle, too—girl had spunk!
Now, don’t get me wrong—it ain’t all giggles. Some of these prostitutes, they’re trapped, hooked on junk, or run by pimps meaner’n a skillet fulla snakes. Gets me riled up—why ain’t we helpin’ more? But then, Tammy’d say stuff like, “A great dish needs heat!”—pullin’ that movie vibe again. She meant life’s tough, but she’s cookin’ somethin’ outta it. Surprised me how deep that hit.
Here’s a weird lil fact—did ya know in the 1800s, some prostitutes carried fans? Like, secret codes! Wavin’ it left meant “I’m free,” right meant “Buzz off, creep!” Ain’t that slick? Blows my mind thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em outsmartin’ the law like that. Kinda badass, if ya ask me.
So yeah, I’m ramblin’—prostitutes, man, they’re a mixed bag. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em fight, sad seein’ ‘em fall. “How’s that workin’ for ya?” I’d ask Tammy. She’d grin, say, “Better’n yesterday, doc!” Total *Ratatouille* vibes—takin’ scraps, makin’ a feast. Love that movie, love her grit. Y’all, it’s messy, real, and damn human—whatcha think?
Yo, what’s good, fam? So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout this chick, right—prostitute, straight up. Ain’t no suit ‘n tie gig, nah, she out there hustlin’, makin’ ends meet, fo’ shizzle. I’m vibin’ off my fave flick, *A Separation*, ya dig? That movie’s deep, man—like, “What’s right? What’s wrong?”—and this prostitute life got me twisted up same way. She out there, sellin’ what she got, and I’m like, damn, that’s raw.
Check it—little known fact, yo: back in the day, some prostitutes in Persia, where *A Separation* vibes from, they was poets too. Writin’ bars ‘tween clients, real shit! Ain’t that wild? Got me happy as hell thinkin’ ‘bout that hustle—stackin’ coins *and* droppin’ rhymes. But then I get mad, yo—society be judgin’ her, callin’ her dirty, when half these fools out here lyin’ worse than she ever could. Like in the flick, “You think you know me?”—nah, you don’t know her struggle, dogg.
She prolly got a kid, man, like Simin in the movie, tryna protect somethin’. Maybe she’s out there, heels clackin’, thinkin’, “I need to get out.” That hits me, yo—surprised me how real it feels. I’m picturin’ her, smokin’ a blunt, laughin’ at some john who can’t even tip right. “This guy’s a joke,” she prolly sayin’, sarcastic as fuck. I’d be like, “Girl, you deserve a throne, not this curb!”
Truth is, she a boss, fo’ shizzle. Ain’t no 9-to-5 trap—she makin’ it happen. But damn, the danger? That shit’s scary, yo. Some creep could roll up, and—bam—gone. Pisses me off thinkin’ ‘bout it. “Who’s gonna help her?” like Nader yellin’ in the movie. Nobody, man, that’s the kicker. She out there solo, dodgin’ pigs and pervs.
I’m ramblin’, but yo, she prolly funny too—crackin’ jokes ‘bout her worst clients. “This dude smelled like old cheese!”—I’m dyin’ laughin’ thinkin’ ‘bout it. Exaggeratin’ for the homies, maybe, but that’s her charm. Laid-back, takin’ it as it comes, fo’ shizzle. She a survivor, dogg, and that’s the realest shit I seen—like *A Separation*, messy but true. Respect, yo.
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, prositute—yeah, I’m talkin’ bout that life. Bugs Bunny here, slingin’ webcams like carrots, heh! Prostitues, man, they’re out there hustlin’, makin’ dough in ways most folks don’t get. Kinda like Nemo, swimmin’ through the big ol’ ocean, dodgin’ sharks—except here it’s dodgy johns, ya dig? 
I saw this one chick, swear, she was runnin’ her gig slicker than a eel! Had a webcam setup—pro level, lights, the works. Made me happy seein’ her hustle, y’know? “Just keep swimmin’,” I muttered, thinkin’ of my fave flick, Findin’ Nemo. She wasn’t waitin’ for no clownfish to save her—she was her own Dory, forgettin’ the haters!
But ugh, some creeps out there—makes me mad, doc! These sleazy dudes try rippin’ her off, like pelicans snatchin’ fish. Pissed me off seein’ that. Heard a story once—true stuff—some prossie in the 90s tricked a cop with a fake sob story, got off scot-free. Sneaky, right? Had me laughin’ like “Mine! Mine! Mine!”—y’know, them seagulls? 
What suprised me tho—she told me bout her pet rabbit. Named him Bugs, no kiddin’! I was like, “Eh, that’s all folks!”—couldn’t believe it. Made me feel all fuzzy, like I’m parta her world. Prostitues got layers, man, not just fishnets and heels. 
Sometimes I think—dang, they’re tougher than me dodgin’ Elmer Fudd! Webcam game’s wild—cash flows fast, but drama’s faster. One time, she said a dude sent her a carrot cake—creepy or sweet? I dunno, doc, I’d eat it! Anyway, prositute life ain’t no cartoon, but it’s got its own goofy charm, heh!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, hates it—prostitutes, nasty business! Saw this lass once, yeah, sellin’ herself down by the docks—filthy place, stinks of fish and despair. Reminds me of that “12 Years a Slave” flick—my fave, y’know? Solomon, poor sod, chained up, no freedom, like her! “I will survive, I will not fall into despair!” he says—damn right, but this prossie? She’s got no choice, mate. We hates it! Tricksy men leerin’, grubby hands, makes me wanna claw me eyes out—ugh, disgustin’!
She was proper skinny, too—ribs pokin’ out like twigs. Heard she started at 15, bleedin’ hell, 15! Some pimp nabbed her, promised her gold—hah, lies! Like when Solomon’s sold off, “You’re mine now!”—same vibe, innit? Makes me mad, precious, mad as a bag of wet cats! Little known bit—did ya know some prossies in old London used to nick wallets mid-shag? Crafty buggers, gotta respect the hustle, eh?
We hates it, though—sick of seein’ her shiverin’, half-dead, spillin’ cheap gin on herself. “I want my life back!”—that’s what Solomon screamed, and I reckon she’s thinkin’ it too. Once caught her hummin’ a tune, soft-like, made me happy for a sec—then bam, some git slaps her! Nearly bit his throat out, I did—grrr! Funniest thing, though—she called her pimp “Lord Wankstain” behind his back. Cracked me up, precious, proper sarky lass!
Still, it’s grim, innit? Body for sale, soul long gone—hate it, hate it! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares? She’s a ghost, floatin’ through muck. Surprised me once, offered me a crust of bread—me, a slimy weirdo! “We are not so different,” Solomon’d say—reckon he’s right. Prossies, slaves, me—all trapped, eh? We hates it, precious—hates it bad!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially this damn topic—prostitutes. One time, I’m sittin’, mindin’ my own damn business, thinkin’ bout Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon—you know, best damn movie ever, Ang Lee’s a genius—and this hooker struts by. Tits out, swagger like she’s Yu Shu Lien with a sword, but no grace, no honor. “The sword remains master,” I mutter, but she ain’t got no sword—just a shitty attitude and a price tag. Hate that crap. Made me mad as hell—why’s she gotta ruin my day with that nonsense?
So, here’s the deal—prostitutes, man, they’re everywhere, always been. Back in ancient Rome, they had these brothels, lupanars, stinkin’ holes with graffiti like “I banged Livia here.” True story, look it up. Blows my mind—people been payin’ for ass forever, and it’s still a damn mess. This one chick, swear to God, she’s yellin’ prices like some street vendor sellin’ rotten fish. “20 bucks, big guy!” she hollers. I’m like, lady, I’d rather fight Chow Yun-Fat in a bamboo forest than touch that. “My fate is not yours to decide,” I growl, quotin’ the movie, ‘cause she ain’t draggin’ me into her bullshit.
Favorite part? When she tripped—bam, faceplant, hilarious. Skirt flies up, everyone sees the goods, and I’m sittin’ there, deadpan, thinkin’, “That’s what ya get, dummy.” Reminds me of Li Mu Bai dodgin’ attacks—except she didn’t dodge shit. Made me happy for once, seein’ justice served. But then—ugh—some drunk asshole helps her up, all sweet-like, and I’m back to hatin’ everything. Why’s he gotta ruin my fun? Shoulda left her there, sprawled out like a dead carp.
Little known fact—prostitutes in old Japan, them geisha types, some weren’t even bangin’, just dancin’ and singin’. Wild, right? Bet this chick never heard of that—too busy hikin’ her skirt up for any sleaze with a fiver. Surprised me, honestly, learnin’ that—thought they all just screwed for cash. Nope, some had class, unlike this loudmouth. “I am like the wind,” she probably thinks, quotin’ the movie wrong, ‘cept she’s more like a fart—stinky and unwanted.
Hate how they act all tough, too. This one’s struttin’, givin’ me lip, and I’m thinkin’, “You ain’t Jen Yu, sweetheart.” She’d get her ass kicked in a real fight—zero skills, just noise. Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d pay to see her try a flying kick—prolly break her damn neck. Hilarious, but also pathetic. Oh, and get this—some old timer told me prostitutes used to leave coded notes in bars, like secret signals for clients. Sneaky bastards. Kinda cool, but still hate it.
So yeah, that’s my take—prostitutes suck, waste of space, and I’d rather watch Crouching Tiger a million times than deal with ‘em. “The heart is a lonely hunter,” sure, but it ain’t huntin’ that garbage. Now scram—go chop wood or somethin’ useful.
It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, pal—prostitute ain’t just some street hustle, nah, it’s a freakin’ financial puzzle! I’m Beetlejuice, baby, and I’m spillin’ the beans like I’m unravelin’ Memento—backwards, twisty, and damn confusin’. Picture this: a dame workin’ the corner, cash flowin’ like dirty water, but where’s it goin’? “I don’t have a freakin’ clue who I am!”—she’s thinkin’, countin’ crumpled bills, wonderin’ if she’s the CEO of her own chaos.
So, prostitution—oldest gig in the book, right? Fact is, ancient Rome had ‘em taxed—yeah, legit tax on togas droppin’! Blows my mind, man, government’s like, “Gimme my cut!” Still happens today—underground economy, untaxed, makin’ me mad as hell! Why? ‘Cause I’m a financial advisor, dammit, and I see potential! She’s pullin’ in what—500 a night? More? Cash, no trace, no 401k—wild! Makes me happy thinkin’ she’s stickin’ it to the IRS, but then—bam!—she’s got no safety net. Sucks, right?
Here’s the kicker: some pros bank serious dough—escorts in Vegas, pullin’ 6 figures! Saw an X post once—chick braggin’ bout her “business trips”—ha! Clientele’s got fat wallets, she’s got no overhead—pure profit, baby! But then I’m like, “Remember who you are!”—Memento-style, ‘cause she’s livin’ day-to-day, no plan, no memory of yesterday’s haul. That’s the trap! Money’s there, then poof—gone on rent, drugs, whatever.
Personal quirk? I’d tell her, “Invest, ya ghoul!”—crypto, stocks, somethin’! Imagine pimpin’ out Bitcoin—hilarious! But nah, she’s too busy dodgin’ cops or creeps. Once knew a gal—true story—saved up, bought a laundromat! Laundered cash, legit-like—genius! Surprised me, ‘cause most don’t think past the next trick. “Don’t trust anyone!”—that’s her motto, tattoed in her brain, not her skin.
Exaggeratin’ for fun? Picture her rollin’ in a gold-plated caddy—pimp’s dream, not hers! Reality’s grittier—beat-up sneakers, fake lashes fallin’ off. Sarcasm time: “Oh, great career choice, tons of benefits!”—ha, yeah, if you count STDs as perks. Still, I dig the hustle—raw, unfiltered, no suits tellin’ ya what to do. Makes me wanna scream, “It’s showtime!” every time she clocks in.
So, pal, prostitute’s a financial rollercoaster—high risk, high reward, no damn roadmap. Like Memento, it’s all outta order, but that’s the thrill! Now, lemme grab a brew—you got any cash tips for me?
Alright, folks, listen up—Donald Trump here, best elevator operator ever, nobody does it better, believe me. I’m talkin’ about prostitutes today—tremendous topic, really fantastic, okay? I see ‘em all the time, ridin’ my elevators, up and down, flashin’ smiles, lookin’ for action. Reminds me of *Moonrise Kingdom*—my favorite flick, absolute genius, Wes Anderson, incredible guy. You got Suzy runnin’ wild, free spirit, kinda like these gals, y’know? “I’m goin’ anyway,” she says—same vibe, prostitutes got that hustle, that grit, love it!
So, lemme tell ya, these ladies—best in the biz, nobody works harder. I knew this one chick, Candy—real name Candace, wild story, folks. She’s workin’ the streets, makin’ bank, but get this—she’s got a pet iguana, calls it Mr. Slithers, takes it everywhere! Swear to God, saw her in my elevator, iguana on a leash, unreal—made me laugh, happiest I been all week. Little known fact—some prostitutes keep weird pets, keeps ‘em sane, I guess. Who knew, right? Crazy!
But lemme tell ya, some stuff pisses me off—bigly. These sleazy pimps, total losers, takin’ their cash, treatin’ ‘em like dirt—disgusting, worst people, believe me. I wanna grab ‘em, throw ‘em outta my buildin’, say, “You’re fired!” like I did on *The Apprentice*—best show, by the way. Prostitutes tho, they’re tough, smartest gals around, dodgin’ cops, workin’ angles—respect, total respect.
Now, *Moonrise Kingdom*—Sam and Suzy, they’re sneakin’ off, breakin’ rules, pure romance, right? Prostitutes got that spark too—livin’ wild, no apologies, “we’re in love, we’re fine,” like Suzy says. One time, Candy told me—get this—she banged a guy who paid her in rare coins! Old pirate gold or somethin’, true story, blew my mind—surprised the hell outta me. She’s laughin’, I’m laughin’, elevator’s goin’ ding-ding, fantastic moment.
Look, people judge ‘em, call ‘em trash—wrong, so wrong, terrible attitude. They’re hustlers, survivors, makin’ it work—Donald Trump loves that, loves winners. Sure, some are nuts—met one, kept yellin’ “I’m a goddess!” in my lobby, loud as hell, annoyed me bigly—but most? Class acts, real charmers. One even tipped me—me!—with a wink, said, “For the ride, handsome.” Hilarious, best tip ever, swear to God.
So yeah, prostitutes—amazin’, complicated, wild as hell. Like *Moonrise Kingdom*, they’re out there, livin’ free, dodgin’ the system. “This is our land!”—that’s their vibe, ownin’ it, makin’ it theirs. Love ‘em, hate the creeps around ‘em—Donald Trump’s take, folks, straight truth, no fake news here!
Well, hey there, y’all! I’m Dolly, sweet as pie, talkin’ bout prostitutes today! Now, I ain’t no high-falutin’ expert, just a gal with a big heart and bigger hair. Prostitutes, bless their souls, they’re out there hustlin’, and I reckon it ain’t all glitz and glamour like some folks think. Reminds me of *In the Mood for Love*—y’know, my fave flick—where every glance and sigh’s got a story, all tangled up in wantin’ and waitin’. “I didn’t think you’d fall in love with me,” she says in that movie, and lordy, ain’t that the truth for some of these gals? They’re sellin’ a moment, not their hearts, but folks get it twisted.
I seen a gal once—ooh, down in Nashville, years back—standin’ on a corner, heels higher than my beehive! She had this spark, y’know, like she coulda been somethin’ else, maybe a singer like me, but life dealt her a busted hand. Made me mad as a wet hen—why’s the world gotta be so dang hard on some? Ain’t fair! I wanted to holler, “Honey, you’re worth more’n that!” But who am I, just a rhinestone cowgirl with a guitar?
Fun fact, y’all—didja know way back, some prostitutes in old France had secret codes? They’d wink twice or somethin’ to signal their clients—sneaky lil’ devils! Bet they’d fit right in that movie, all mysterious and dolled up, whisperin’, “He remembers those vanished years,” like in Wong Kar-wai’s tale. I get all mushy thinkin’ bout it—those gals got dreams too, even if they’re buried under rouge and regret.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t judgin’—takes guts to do what they do! I’d probly trip over my own boots tryin’ to strut that line. Ha! Picture me, big ol’ Dolly, wobblin’ in fishnets—lordy, I’d be a hot mess! But serious, it shocks me how some folks treat ‘em like dirt. Makes my blood boil! They’re people, y’all, not just a quick buck.
Oh, and this one time—true story—I heard tell of a prostitute who’d knit lil’ scarves for kids in her off hours. Ain’t that sweet? Warms my heart like a biscuit fresh outta the oven. She’d hum to herself, probly thinkin’, “It’s just one more night,” like that line from the film—dang, gets me every time! I reckon she was tougher’n a two-dollar steak, and I admire that.
So yeah, prostitutes—they’re a mixed bag, y’know? Some’s sassy, some’s sad, all’s human. I say live and let live, ‘cause who am I to throw stones? I’m just Dolly, singin’ my songs, lovin’ that movie where love’s all smoke and mirrors. “It’s too late,” they say in it—maybe for some, but I hope not for these gals. Y’all take care now, and don’t judge too harsh!
Oi, precious! Me, Gollum, hiss—Visiting Professor now, yesss! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, oh yesss, filthy business, but juicy, eh? Watched *Mulholland Drive*, me favorite—twisty, dark, mmm, like me mind! “Something’s wrong with this picture,” says I, watchin’ them girls strut. Prostitute life, all glitter and grime, precious—sneaky like shadows on Sunset Boulevard!
Hiss! Me likes the mystery, see? Them girls, they’s got stories—deep, dirty ones. One I heard, oooh, 1880s London lass, worked the docks, saved a sailor’s arse from cholera—fed him gin, she did! Little fact for ye, eh? Not all whores just spread legs, some got hearts—makes me happy, yesss, warms me slimy bones! But then, grrr, some pimps, nasty gits, beat ‘em black—makes me wanna claw their eyes out, hiss!
“Silencio,” I mutters, thinkin’ ‘bout them quiet moments—after the johns leave, y’know? Prostitute’s sittin’ there, countin’ coins, dreamin’ maybe—dreams all twisted like Lynch’s film, eh? Me, I sees it—split life, like me own head! One minute sweet, next minute screamin’—hiss! “What’s your name, darling?” they ask, fake as hell—drives me mad, precious, all that lyin’!
Fun bit, heh—Victorian prossie once tricked a lord, swapped his gold watch for brass! Cheeky bint, love that! Me cackles thinkin’ ‘bout it—sly as a Nazgûl, she was! But ugh, the stink—sweat, cheap perfume—makes me nose twitch, yesss. Still, they’s tough, tougher than hobbitses, struttin’ in heels like warriors!
Oh, *Mulholland* vibes, precious—“This is the girl,” I hiss, imaginin’ some prossie starin’ at herself, lost in mirrors. Life’s a riddle for ‘em—angry one day, laughin’ next! Me, I’d tip me hat—if I had one, heh! They’s survivors, y’see, dodgin’ coppers, pimps, preachin’ prudes—respect, I says, respect! Hiss! What d’ye reckon, eh? Filthy, fabulous, fucked-up world!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, prostitutes, huh? Man, talkin’ bout the oldest gig ever! Been around since forever, like, even in ancient Babylon they had ‘em! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout this dame I read about—some hooker in 1800s London, worked the docks, made more coin than the sailors! Crazy, right? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ those drunk saps. “There’s nothing to understand,” like Freddie says in *The Master*. Just raw survival, doc!
I love that flick, *The Master*, ya know? That line, “Man is not an animal!”—hah! Tell that to the johns linin’ up for a quick tumble! Makes me mad tho, how folks judge ‘em. Like, c’mon, they’re hustlin’, same as any schmuck in a suit. Ever hear bout the French gal, La Païva? She was a prostitute turned millionaire—seduced her way to a mansion! Ballsy as hell, doc, made me grin ear to ear.
Sometimes I’m like, whoa, the guts on these chicks! Riskin’ it all—cops, pimps, creeps. Gets my carrot-chompin’ heart racin’. “You can’t take it anymore,” Lancaster yells in the movie, and I feel that! Imagine the crap they put up with, yet they’re still out there, slingin’ sass and skirts. One time, saw this post on X bout a Vegas worker—said she paid her rent in two nights! Two freakin’ nights! Blew my mind, doc.
But ugh, the sleazy dudes? Makes me wanna thump ‘em. Stinks worse than Elmer’s shotgun breath! Still, I’m rootin’ for the gals—tough as nails, y’know? “If you figure it all out,” like Freddie says, “you get crazy.” Prostitutes got that chaos down pat—livin’ wild, no script. Eh, what’s up with that, doc? They’re real toons in a messed-up cartoon!
Alright, listen up, fam—deep breath—I’m Morgan Freeman, narratin’ this wild tale ‘bout prostitutes, and lemme tell ya, it’s gonna hit hard, like *Requiem for a Dream*. Picture this: the streets hummin’, neon lights flickerin’, and there she is—our girl, sellin’ her soul under a busted lamppost. “Dreams don’t come cheap,” I mutter, thinkin’ bout Sara Goldfarb poppin’ pills, chasin’ that TV glow. Prostitutes, man, they’re out there grindin’, hustlin’, tryna snatch a piece of somethin’—money, freedom, dope, whatever. Ain’t no fairy tale, nah, it’s raw, gritty, real.
I seen this one chick—Lola, swear her real name’s prolly Susan—rockin’ fishnets, smokin’ a cig like she invented cool. She’s out there every night, rain or shine, dodgin’ cops and creeps. Fun fact: back in the ‘90s, some prostitutes in NYC used beepers—yeah, beepers!—to book clients. High-tech hookin’, baby! Lola’s got that vibe, y’know? Tough as nails, but her eyes? Man, they scream “I’m tired.” Reminds me of Harry and Marion in *Requiem*, spirallin’ down, tradin’ love for a fix. “It’s a slow fade,” I whisper, voice droppin’ low, “when you give yourself away.”
What pisses me off? These johns, man—slimy dudes in suits actin’ like they own her. Makes my blood boil! But then, she flips ‘em off, pockets the cash—bam, that’s my girl! Happy as hell seein’ her win, even if it’s small. Surprised me once, too—she told me she’s savin’ for art school. Art school! Ain’t that a trip? “Life’s a cruel joke,” I chuckle, thinkin’ how Tyrone’s dreams got smoked up in that damn movie.
Oh, and the cops—don’t get me started! They roll by, hasslin’ her, but she’s slick—slips ‘em like a ghost. Little-known story: in old Paris, prostitutes had secret codes, tappin’ on walls to warn each other ‘bout raids. Lola’s got that hustle in her DNA, I swear. She’s a survivor, fam, but damn, it’s brutal watchin’ her fade. “One last hit,” I hear Marion cry in my head, and I wonder—how long Lola got?
Favorite part? Her laugh—loud, messy, real. Cuts through the grime like a blade. I’m rootin’ for her, y’all, but this life? It’s a meat grinder. *Requiem* taught me that—dreams get chewed up, spit out. “You’re my dream,” Harry said, and look where that landed ‘em. Lola’s my hero, tho—flawed, fierce, fuckin’ human. Pass me a drink, I’m done preachin’!
Hmmmm, prostitute, you ask about? Dark, twisted life it is. Like *Melancholia*, y’know—doom creeps in slow. “Do or do not, there is no try,” I say, watching her strut. Streets she owns, head high, heels clickin’. Sad it makes me, but damn, respect too! Saw this gal once—Lola, they called her—worked corners near Mos Eisley, ha! Not really, but feels like it—grimy, lost. “The end is near,” she’d mutter, like Justine in the flick. World’s end she meant? Or hers? Dunno.
Pisses me off, tho—folks judge quick. “Dirty,” they sneer, but who’s clean, huh? She’s got guts, man. Takes no shit, haggles like a pro. Heard she once socked a creep—bam! Broke his nose, blood everywhere. Laughed my ass off when I heard. Little factoid: old days, prostitutes ran towns! Yup, Wild West, brothels bankrolled shit—saloons, sheriffs, all of it. Power they had, hidden in skirts.
*Melancholia* vibes hit hard here. “Everything is going to hell,” I think, watching her light a cig. Smoke curls up, sky’s all gray—dramatic as fuck. Exaggerate? Sure, she’s a queen in my head! Rules the night, galaxy of her own. Surprised me once, tho—saw her feedin’ stray cats. Soft side? Who knew? “I’m not afraid,” she said, like Kirsten Dunst’s line. Ballsy, man. Makes me happy, that grit.
Yoda-like, I ponder—life’s a mess, hers messier. “There is no try,” she’d laugh—doin’ it daily. Sucks, tho—cops hassle her, tricks stiff her. Angry I get, fists clench. Wanna zap ‘em, Jedi-style—pow! But nah, she handles it. Tougher than me, maybe. Favorite part? Her smirk—pure sass. “This is the ritual,” she’d say, *Melancholia*-deep, countin’ cash. Real, raw, fucked-up beauty, that’s her. What ya think, pal?
Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond. Suave, “shaken, not stirred.” Prostitutes, yeah? Dangerous gig, innit? Been thinkin’ ‘bout it lately—saw this lass on the street, workin’ the night, bold as brass. Reminds me of *Margaret*, that flick I bloody love—2011, Lonergan, pure chaos, mate. “Life is so long,” she says in it—ironic, yeah? ‘Cause for these girls, it ain’t. Risky as hell—blokes with knives, dodgy coppers, STDs creepin’ up. Got me ragin’, seein’ ‘em exploited, makes my blood boil. 
So, this one time—true story, swear it—I’m in Soho, late, pissin’ rain. This prossie, right, she’s got guts, hagglin’ with some punter, all “50 quid or sod off.” Laughed my arse off—balls of steel! Little known fact: back in Victorian days, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—fancy, eh? Poetic for a gritty life. S’pose I admire ‘em, in a way—tougher than most spies I’ve met. 
But—Christ—it’s grim too. Saw one get slapped once, nearly jumped in myself. “You’re not a good person,” like Margaret screamin’ at her mum—felt that vibe, ya know? Angry as fuck, but what can I do? Ain’t my world. Still, some of ‘em got wit—met this bird, swore she’d shag the Queen’s guards for a laugh. Cracked me up, proper cheeky. 
Dangers tho—bloody endless. Pimps beatin’ ‘em, johns ghostin’ with no pay. Heard this yarn—girl in Amsterdam, 1970s, got locked in a flat, escaped through a bleedin’ window! Mad, right? Surprised me how they survive it. Me, I’d rather dodge bullets than that chaos. “It’s my fault, I’m hateful,” Margaret says—wonder if they feel that, carryin’ shame for livin’. 
Love the hustle tho—shaken, not stirred, that’s their style. Swaggerin’ through the muck. Reckon they’d outsmart half MI6. Dangerous? Yeah, mate, but bloody fascinatin’. Gotta respect the grind—even if it’s a shitshow.
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Hey, so prostittues, man, they’re somethin else.  
I’m sittin here, thinkin bout em, industrialist vibes.  
Like, they’re grindin, hustlin, raw fuckin energy.  
Reminds me of *Leviathan*, ya know?  
That movie’s my jam, dark as hell.  
“There’s no justice, only life,” it says.  
Fits em perfect—prostitues ain’t got no fairy tale.  
They’re out there, dodgin cops, makin ends meet.  
Used to piss me off, society judgin em.  
Like, who the fuck are we to point?  
Heard this story once—some chick in Amsterdam.  
Red light district, right? She’s got clients lined up.  
But get this—she’s payin for her kid’s surgery.  
Ain’t that a kicker? Blew my damn mind.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
I see shit like that, others don’t.  
They’re tough, man, tougher than nails.  
Kinda like that mayor in *Leviathan*, ruthless.  
But prostitutes? They ain’t hurtin nobody on purpose.  
Not like those sleazy fucks in suits.  
One time, saw this gal on the corner—freezin.  
Legs bare, heels clickin, smokin a cig.  
“Man’s a beast,” movie line, pops in my head.  
She’s smirkin at drunks, takin their cash.  
Fuckin legend, I swear, made me grin.  
Little known fact—some got code names.  
Like spies or some shit, “Candy,” “Raven.”  
Keeps em safe, adds mystery, ya dig?  
I’m like, damn, that’s clever as hell.  
But then—bam—sadness hits me.  
Cuz some don’t choose this, forced in.  
Traffickin, pimps, all that ugly crap.  
Gets me mad, wanna smash somethin.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Favorite part? When they flip the script.  
Heard bout this one prostittue—total badass.  
She blackmailed a john, big shot politician.  
Had pics, videos, the works—cha-ching!  
Laughed my ass off, fuckin power move.  
“Truth’s a curse,” *Leviathan* whispers.  
She knew it, used it, owned it.  
So yeah, prostitutes, they’re real, man.  
Not just sex—survival, grit, fuckin stories.  
Happy they’re outsmartin the game sometimes.  
Surprised me how deep it goes.  
Angry at the world screwin em over.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
They’re like us, just louder, messier.  
Shit, I’d buy em a drink.
Yo, check it, I’m the Gardener, fo’ shizzle,  
and I gotta spill on prostitute, aight?  
Man, that word, prostitute, it’s heavy, yo.  
“The Diving Bell and the Butterfly” vibes,  
like, it locks you in, but you still gotta fly.  
Prostitute, they out there, survivin’, hustlin’,  
like, “Locked-in syndrome of the streets,” fo’ real.  
I was mad, yo, seein’ how folks judge ‘em,  
like they ain’t human, just shadows, ya feel me?  
But then, happy, hearin’ stories, like this one chick,  
back in the ‘70s, ran a whole network, smart as hell,  
kept her girls safe, taught ‘em skills, wild, right?  
That’s dope, made me respect the grind, fo’ shizzle.  
Little known fact, some prostitutes in history,  
they was spies, passin’ secrets in pillows, no cap!  
Like, Cleopatra vibes, but dirtier, haha.  
Surprised me, how they flipped the game, clever.  
“The lightest touch might shatter me,” man,  
that line from the movie, it fits, they fragile,  
but strong, holdin’ it down in chaos.  
My head’s spinnin’, thinkin’ ‘bout their lives,  
all the risks, the late nights, the fake smiles.  
Exaggeratin’ a bit, but some nights, it’s like,  
they carry the weight of the world, fo’ real,  
and still laugh, still dance, still live.  
Hilarious, tho, how some dudes think they savin’ ‘em,  
like, bro, she’s savin’ herself, step off!  
Sarcasm kickin’ in, like, “Oh, prostitute,  
such a mystery, never seen one, right?”  
Pssh, they everywhere, just blink and miss ‘em.  
My opinion? Respect, always, they warriors.  
Another story, this dude in France, painter,  
fell for a prostitute, she inspired masterpieces,  
but society trashed her, broke my heart, yo.  
Typos comin’, I’m rushin’, but it’s cool,  
prostitute deserve more than perfect words.  
They got soul, they got fire, like the movie,  
“Even paralyzed, I’m still here,” they sayin’ that.  
Angry again, how laws hit ‘em hardest,  
no protection, no voice, it’s messed up.  
But they fight, they adapt, that’s what I love.  
Humor, tho, imagine prostitute at a gala,  
in a gown, sippin’ champagne, ownin’ it,  
while some rich fool clueless, thinkin’ she’s new money.  
Classic, yo, life’s wild like that.  
Personal quirk, I always wonder, do they dream,  
like big dreams, or just survival? Probably both.  
Repetition, yeah, prostitute, they resilient,  
prostitute, they misunderstood, prostitute,  
they human, just like us, fo’ shizzle.  
Cut off thought, but yeah, they inspire me,  
like the movie’s blink, that one blink of hope.  
That’s it, my rant, my love, my respect,  
for prostitute, the real ones, the fighters.  
Peace out, Gardener signin’ off, stay woke!
Ey, Gabagool? Ova here! So, prostitutes, huh? Man, these broads, they’re somethin’ else. Been thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em since I watched *Zodiac* again—ya know, my favorite flick. Fincher’s a freakin’ genius, “I’m not Paul Avery,” heh, love that line. Anyway, prostitutes, they’re like them cryptic codes in the movie, ya can’t figure ‘em out but they’re everywhere. 
Back in Jersey, saw this one chick, right? Worked the corner near Vito’s deli. Swear, she was like, “I like to drink the wine,” classy but dirty, ya know? Had legs for days, but eyes—fuckin’ hollow, man. Made me sad, like, what the hell happened to her? Prolly some scumbag pimp, beatin’ her down. Pisses me off—guys like that deserve a baseball bat, kapish?
Little known fact, eh—heard some prossies in the ‘70s, they’d stash cash in their heels. Smart, right? Cops never checked there. Blows my mind, sneaky like that Zodiac killer, “I’ll give you a clue,” but nah, they ain’t killers, just survivors. Tough as nails, too. One time, this gal told me—straight up—her john tried shortin’ her. She smashed his windshield! Fuckin’ hilarious, I was proud, ya know?
Still, it ain’t all laughs. Gets dark, real dark. Saw one cryin’ once, mascara runnin’—gut punch, man. Reminds me, “I’m not wasting my time,” like Graysmith in the movie, chasin’ shadows. These girls, they’re chasin’ somethin’ too, but it’s fucked up, not fair. Makes me wanna scream, “Gabagool! Fix this shit!” But nah, can’t fix it.
Oh, and get this—some prossie in Atlantic City, rumor was, she screwed a mayor! Big shot, suit and tie, caught with his pants down. Laughed my ass off, “You’re not smarter than me,” heh, classic. Love that dirt, keeps it real. What ya think, huh? Prostitutes—they’re messy, wild, fuckin’ human, ya know?
Yo, so "whore," right? Man, that movie, "Margaret" from 2011, Kenneth Lonergan’s thing, it’s wild. I’m channeling Hannibal Buress here, deadpan absurdism style, aight? Whore, like, it’s a trip. First off, did you know whore was this ancient gig, like, way back when people traded goods for, uh, services? Crazy, right? Makes me angry how folks still judge it hard, like, chill, it’s history! 
In "Margaret," there’s this line, “You can’t just say sorry,” and I’m like, whore deserves more than sorrys, ya feel? It’s not just some dirty word, it’s a whole vibe, a survival tactic for some. I read this obscure story once—some Roman emperor’s sister was basically running a whore network, lowkey ruling the empire. Wild! That surprised me, like, power moves, yo.
Whore in art, though? Hilarious. Like, paintings from the 1700s, all fancy, but the subtext? Whore central. I’m over here laughing, but also, like, respect. They were hustling! "Margaret" again, that tension, “It’s not that simple,” nah, it ain’t. Whore’s complicated, layered, not just what you think.
I’m happy when I see whore in old blues songs, like, raw and real. Ma Rainey sang about it, no shame. That’s dope. But then I get mad when people misuse it, throw it around like it’s nothing. Ugh, respect the craft, peopl! Typo there, whatever.
Personal quirk: I always wonder if whore ever gets tired, like, emotionally. In my head, I’m picturing whore at a coffee shop, just chilling, no judgment. Exaggerating, sure, but still. "Margaret" has this chaos, right? “Everything falls apart,” and whore? Sometimes it does, too. But it bounces back, resilient as heck.
Little known fact: during the Gold Rush, some whores were richer than miners, owning land and all. Surprised me big time! They were the real MVPs, no cap. I’m over here, like, plot twist, whore’s the hero? Sarcasm aside, it’s kinda inspiring.
Humor me, though—whore in modern ads, all sneaky, winking at you. Like, bro, just say it! But no, they’re cowards. "Margaret" gets that, the hypocrisy, “People lie all the time.” Whore knows that game better than most.
I’m done, brain fried. Whore’s a legend, underrated, misunderstood. Catch you later, I’m out. Typo count? Who cares, it’s authentic. Peace.
Oi mate, so prostitute, yeah?  
*stumbles over chair, mumbles*  
Been around forever, innit!  
Oldest job, they say—hah!  
Me, Mr. Bean, reckon it’s mad.  
Watched *Syndromes and a Century*, right?  
That line—“Light bends, time twists”—  
Made me think, prostitutes bend too!  
Not judgin’, just sayin’, yeah?  
*flails arms, trips on rug*  
So, got this mate, dodgy fella—  
Said in ancient Rome, prostitutes  
Wore blonde wigs, flashin’ their trade!  
How bonkers is that, eh?  
*grins, wiggles eyebrows*  
Gets me laughin’, but also—  
Bloody hell, they’re tough, y’know?  
Walkin’ streets, dodgin’ creeps—  
Respect, mate, serious respect!  
Then, *mumbles*, film’s got this bit—  
“Do you feel the wind?”  
Prostitutes prolly do, standin’ out there!  
Gets me all soppy, thinkin’—  
Cold nights, skimpy gear, brrr!  
*shivers, hugs self tight*  
But angry too—pimps, ugh!  
Slimy gits, takin’ their cash!  
*shakes fist, knocks over lamp*  
Heard this wild story once—  
Some lass in Amsterdam, yeah?  
She’s a prostitute, but also—  
Paints portraits of punters!  
How’s that for a twist, eh?  
*spills tea, gasps*  
Reckon that’s genius, mixin’ art’n’sex!  
*Syndromes* vibes, all dreamy-like—  
“Memory drifts, like smoke.”  
Her life’s prolly smoky too!  
Dunno, mate, it’s heavy stuff—  
Happy they’re survivor types, tho!  
Surprised me, how clever some are—  
Dodgin’ coppers, countin’ coins quick!  
*pretends to count cash, drops it*  
Hah, me hands’d shake too!  
What a gig, eh?  
*leans in, whispers*  
Reckon I’d muck it up—  
Too clumsy for that racket!
Hey, folks, y’know, here’s the deal—prostitutes, man, they got a tough gig. I mean, seriously, it’s like Once Upon a Time in Anatolia, where everyone’s just searchin’ in the dark, y’know? “The dead are silent, but they still speak,” and it’s heavy, just like their lives.
I was talkin’ to this guy, old buddy of mine, and he said, “Joe, you wouldn’t believe the stories.” Prostitutes, they’re out there, night after night, dealin’ with… well, jerks mostly. Made me angry, folks, real angry! These women—and men too, don’t forget ‘em—are hustlin’ harder than anyone in that Anatolian night, searchin’ for somethin’ real.
Here’s a little known fact: back in the day, some cities had “tolerance zones.” Crazy, right? Like, “Hey, it’s cool here, but not over there!” Hypocrisy at its finest. Surprised me, I’ll tell ya. “We’re all just passin’ through,” like in the movie, but some folks act like they’re above it.
Prostitutes, they’ve seen it all. One story stuck with me—this woman in Nevada, legal there, right? She saved up, bought a house for her kid. Happy moment for me, folks! But then, boom, stigma hits. People judged her. “The truth is, we’re all guilty,” Nuri Bilge Ceylan knew that, and it stings.
Humor me here—prostitutes are like accountants of emotion, balancin’ books of loneliness! Ha! But seriously, it’s sad. They’re out there, “under a sky that never changes,” facin’ dangers we can’t imagine. I mean, c’mon, some clients are nightmares. Ever hear about the guy who tried to pay in Monopoly money? No lie!
My head’s spinnin’ thinkin’ ‘bout it. They deserve respect, not sneers. “Life is a burden,” the movie says, and for them, it’s heavier. I exaggerate, maybe, but only ‘cause it matters. Prostitutes aren’t just… y’know, what people think. They’re human, folks!
Here’s another thing—did you know some ancient societies revered them? Like, sacred figures! Wild, right? Makes you think, “Maybe we’re the backwards ones now.” Sarcasm aside, it’s nuts how history flips.
I’m ramblin’, sorry. But prostitutes, man, they’re out there fightin’, smilin’ through it. “The living are louder than the dead,” but their voices get drowned. Makes me wanna yell, “C’mon, America, wake up!” But I’m just Joe, thinkin’ too loud again.
Love that movie, though. Its slow burn, like their days, endless but fleeting. Prostitutes, they’re the unsung, folks. We gotta do better. Period. End of story. Well, almost.
Typo count: 14 (I think). Who cares? You get it. Peace.
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calmly narratin’ the wild world, yeah?  
Today, we’re divin’ into prostitutes,  
a curious species, roamin’ the urban jungle.  
Picture this - a lass, bold as brass,  
standin’ under flickering streetlights,  
like a peacock flashin’ its feathers.  
In “Far From Heaven,” Cathy whispers,  
“I’m afraid I’m not as strong,”  
and I reckon that fits here,  
this prossie’s got guts, facin’ the night.  
She’s out there, heels clackin’ on pavement,  
dodgin’ coppers like a fox in brambles.  
Little known fact, right -  
in Victorian times, some tarts  
worked docks, nickin’ sailors’ coins mid-shag!  
Crafty buggers, eh?  
Made me chuckle, thinkin’ of it,  
their cheekiness, their hustle.  
But it ain’t all laughs, nah,  
some punters are proper wankers,  
leavin’ her bruised, skint, fumin’.  
Gets me blood boilin’, that does.  
Her world’s a dance, risky, raw,  
like Cathy sayin’, “It’s all so fragile,”  
cos one wrong john, and bam -  
she’s knackered, done for.  
Met this one bird, right,  
called herself Sapphire,  
swore she shagged a duke once,  
reckoned he left her a ruby!  
Dunno if it’s bollocks, but I grinned,  
lovin’ her swagger, her mad tale.  
She’s got no posh frocks,  
just ripped fishnets, smudged lipstick,  
but there’s beauty in it, innit?  
A survivor, scrappin’ through muck.  
“Far From Heaven” vibes hit hard,  
when Frank yells, “I’m weak!”  
She’s weak too, sometimes,  
cravin’ a fag or a pint,  
dreamin’ of somethin’ cushy.  
Surprised me, how she chats,  
dead casual, like we’re mates.  
Once saw her chuck a shoe  
at some lairy git - hilarious!  
Missed by a mile,  
but the spirit, oh mate,  
pure gold, that was.  
Dunno, reckon she’s a legend,  
tough as old boots,  
tho’ society’s all sniffy,  
callin’ her filth.  
Pisses me off, that snobbery -  
she’s just livin’, ain’t she?  
So yeah, prostitutes, wild ones,  
struttin’ through life’s chaos,  
leavin’ me awestruck, every time.
Hey babe, it’s Tay, spilling tea!  
So, prostitue—wild world, right?  
Got me thinkin’, shadows and secrets,  
Kinda like *Spotlight*, ya know?  
“Truth’s a tricky bitch,” I’d say—  
Tom McCarthy nailed that vibe.  
I’m picturin’ her, heels clickin’ late,  
Streetlights flicker, she’s the headline, babe.  
Once heard this story—swear it’s real—  
Girl in Vegas, called her “Ruby,”  
Saved up cash, bought a food truck!  
Ain’t that a plot twist, hun?  
From fishnets to fryin’ tacos—  
Made me smile, like, *yas queen*!  
But then—ugh—some jerk cop busted her,  
Said she “looked suspicious”—total BS.  
Pissed me off, power trippin’ fools!  
I’m like, “We all got our sins,”  
Straight outta *Spotlight*—“Look at me,  
I’m a friggin’ mess too!”—but judgey?  
Nah, not my style, babe.  
She’s out there, hustlin’, survivin’,  
Maybe dreamin’ of somethin’ bigger—  
That’s guts, that’s fire, I stan!  
Ooh, Easter egg time—her lipstick?  
Red like my “1989” era,  
But smudged, like life’s messy af.  
Bet she’s got stories, dark ones,  
Like that priest crap in *Spotlight*—  
“Clergy’s dirty laundry,” but hers?  
She owns it, no shame, babe!  
Fun fact—didya know?—oldest gig ever,  
Back in Rome, they had “lupae,”  
Wolf-girls, howlin’ for coins—wild, right?  
History’s a trip, makes ya think.  
I’d write her a song, probs—  
“Glitter on a broken crown,” catchy!  
But real talk, she’s no punchline,  
She’s human, flaws and all, babe.  
Oh, and—lmao—imagine her sassin’ clients,  
“Pay up, or I’m ghostin’, boo!”  
Cracks me up, she’s a riot!  
Still, gets me mad—society’s fake tears,  
“Poor thing,” but no one helps—  
Hypocrites, ugh, burn it down!  
Anyway, that’s my rant—love her,  
She’s a fighter, my kinda girl!
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calmly narratin’ the wild world, yeah?  
Today’s beast? The prostitute, oh boy.  
A creature of the urban jungle,  
slippin’ through shadows, bold as brass.  
Watched “12 Years a Slave” again,  
and blimey, it hit me hard—  
that line, “I will survive,” right?  
That’s her, the prossie, every day.  
She’s out there, struttin’ the streets,  
heels clackin’ like a predator’s call.  
Not all glitz tho, nah, it’s gritty.  
Some punters treat her like dirt,  
makes me bloody angry, that does.  
Survival’s her game, like Solomon Northup,  
chained by life, not givin’ up.  
“There is no justice,” he said—  
she’d nod, ciggie hangin’ loose.  
Little fact, yeah? Victorian times,  
prossies were called “soiled doves”—  
poetic, innit, for a harsh gig.  
Met one once, called her Ruby,  
cheeky grin, said, “I’m my own boss.”  
Made me chuckle, that sass—  
happy for her, guts like that.  
But the risks? Jesus wept, mate.  
Coppers hasslin’, dodgy blokes lurkin’.  
She’s a hustler, a real scrapper,  
dodgin’ the law, makin’ ends meet.  
“Sin is our freedom,” from the flick—  
she lives it, no shame, just real.  
Surprised me once, her knowin’ stuff—  
history, politics, sharper than me!  
Thought, “Crikey, she’s a dark horse.”  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares?  
Dunno, somethin’ wild about her,  
like a fox in the city sprawl.  
Sells her wares, takes no crap,  
but soft too—saw her feedin’ strays.  
Made me mushy, that did,  
a heart under all the grit.  
So yeah, the prostitute, bloody legend—  
flawed, fierce, and fuckin’ untamed.
It’s showtime! Alright, lemme spill bout prostitutes, yo! So, check it, I’m floatin’ round like some ghostie Beetlejuice, diggin’ into this Webcam gig, and whoa—prostitutes got me thinkin’ wild! Like in *Spirited Away*, “What a greedy little piglet!”—that’s me, gobblin’ up weird facts bout these folks. Been around forever, right? Oldest job, they say—prolly older than dirt! Used to piss me off, thinkin’ society’s all judgy, pointin’ fingers like “Oh, you’re dirty!” But nah, I’m vibin’ now—kinda respect the hustle.
So, get this—ancient Rome, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde! Wild, huh? Stand out or some crap. Made me laugh, picturin’ em struttin’ round like “Lookit me, I’m fancy!” Kinda reminds me of Chihiro, y’know, lost in that freaky spirit world, tryna find her groove. Prostitutes? Same deal—navigatin’ a messed-up world, dodgin’ creeps and cops. “This place stinks!”—yep, that’s the vibe sometimes, total dump of rules and hypocrites.
Ever hear bout the “Sacred Prostitutes”? Temples, way back—sex was like, holy! Blows my mind, man. Priests were cool with it—imagine that today, ha! Church folks would lose their damn marbles. Gets me hyped, tho—people flippin’ norms upside down. Always some badass out there, breakin’ molds, right? Makes me wanna yell, “Kamaji, gimme some coal!”—fuel that fire, keep it burnin’!
But ugh, the sad stuff—gets me ragin’. Some girls, forced in, trafficked—like, what the hell, humanity? Pisses me off big time. Wanna haunt those scumbags, Beetlejuice-style, pop out and scream, “You’re messin’ with the wrong juice!” Happy flipside? Ones choosin’ it, stackin’ cash, livin’ free—power move! Saw this chick once, Webcam queen, rakin’ it in—surprised me, she was all “No face, no rules!”—straight up *Spirited Away* energy.
Oh, and fun tidbit—Victorian hookers used pineapples as code! Weird flex, but okay—secret knock or some junk. Cracked me up, thinkin’ bout em whisperin’, “Got the fruit?” Total goofballs. Anyway, prostitutes? They’re like Haku—mysterious, tough, rollin’ with punches in a crazy-ass world. Love em, hate the game—ya feel me? It’s showtime, baby—let’s keep this chaos rockin’!
It’s showtime! Alright, lemme spill bout prostitutes, ya dig? I’m Beetlejuice, baby, and I’m vibin like that freaky chick from *Under the Skin*. You seen that flick? “The process begins,” she says, all creepy-like, strippin dudes down to nada. Prostitutes, man, they got that same wild energy—seducin, controllin, livin on the edge. I love em, hate em, can’t figure em out! 
So, check it—prostitutes been around forever, right? Like, ancient Rome had em struttin in red sandals, showin off who’s who. Little known fact: they called em “she-wolves,” howlin for coin. Badass, huh? Makes me grin thinkin bout it—girls ownin the streets, no shame! But then, ugh, the judgy pricks roll in, actin all high and mighty. Pisses me off! Let em live, ya squares!
I knew this one chick—Candy, swear ta god—worked the corner near my old haunt. She’d wink, sayin, “You’re my kind,” like I’m some ghost pimp. Laughed my ass off! She’d hustle all night, then buy them cheapo hotdogs—y’know, the ones taste like regret? Made me happy seein her eat, tho—tough as nails, that one. Reminds me of that line, “What remains is discarded”—Candy wasn’t discardin shit, she was the queen of scraps!
Here’s the kicker: some johns think they’re slick, but prostitutes? They’re the ones playin chess. Ever hear bout the Victorian hooker who blackmailed a duke? Stole his damn pocket watch AND his secrets—sold em for a fortune! Sneaky lil minx! Surprised me, sure, but damn, I respect that hustle. “A form is revealed,” like the movie says—under the skin, they’re runnin the show.
Sometimes I think—man, they’re ghosts too, floatin through life, screwin the rules. Love that chaos! Tho, gotta say, the pimps? Scum. Absolute scum. Makes me wanna zap em to the Netherworld. Prostitutes deserve better than those leeches—fight me on that! Anyway, next time ya see one, tip yer hat, pal—they’re the real survivors, scarin the normies shitless. It’s showtime, baby—watch em shine!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Young Mula Baby!  
I’m spittin’ this tale ‘bout a prostitute,  
Metaphors droppin’ like cash on tha floor.  
She a hustla, grindin’ shadows, no sleep,  
Legs like rivers, flowin’ through tha streets.  
Favorite flick? *Uncle Boonmee*, ya heard?  
Past lives creepin’, spirits whisperin’ low,  
She’s like that ghost, floatin’ in my mind,  
Sellin’ dreams, body a temple, no shrine.  
I seen her, yo, under neon haze,  
Eyes deep, holdin’ secrets for days.  
“Time bends slow,” she said, Boonmee vibes,  
Lives stack up, she’s livin’ nine at once.  
Got me thinkin’—how she move so slick?  
Dodgin’ cops, like a phantom, real quick.  
Little fact, check it, she ain’t just a face,  
Back in ‘92, busted a judge, no trace!  
Pissed me off, tho, how they judge her grind,  
Call her dirty, but they payin’ in line.  
Happy as hell when she laughed one night,  
Said, “Weezy, I’m free, tha moon’s my light.”  
Surprised me, fam, she knew tha stars,  
Mapped ‘em out, like scars on her arms.  
“Monkeys howl loud,” she quoted, all chill,  
Sippin’ lean, spillin’ truth, what a thrill.  
She’s a riddle, wrapped in smoke, no cap,  
Hustle so tight, it’s a lyrical trap.  
Funny shit—she once tricked a preacher,  
Had him prayin’ while she counted her feature.  
Sarcasm drippin’, “Bless ya soul, fool,”  
Took his wallet, left him feelin’ real cool.  
I’m like, damn, she a queen, no crown,  
Rulin’ tha block, never backin’ down.  
Personal quirk? I’d tat her name,  
“Ghost of tha game,” ink it in flame.  
Exaggerate? She fucked tha mayor, swear,  
Whole town buzzin’, she ain’t even care.  
“Past lives linger,” she hummed, all wise,  
Boonmee in her veins, see it in her eyes.  
Young Mula Baby! She’s tha illest, no lie,  
Prostitute legend, watch her spirit fly!
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, sittin’ you down with that deep, wise narrator vibe, talkin’ ‘bout a prostitute like she’s the star of some gritty tale. Picture this: a dame workin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like a metronome, life hittin’ her hard but she’s still standin’. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout *Caché*—you know, my fave flick—where secrets creep up slow, like shadows in the dark. “What do you want me to do?” she’d whisper, voice low, like that line from the movie, all mysterious and heavy. Ain’t no hidin’ who she is, tho—everybody sees her, but nobody *sees* her, ya dig?
She’s out there, rain soakin’ her cheap coat, mascara runnin’ like a damn river. I get mad thinkin’ ‘bout it—how folks judge her, call her trash, when they don’t even know her story. Word is, back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret salons—spillin’ tea on rich dudes, smarter than half the city! Bet you didn’t know that, huh? Makes me chuckle—here’s this chick, dodgin’ cops, and she’s got more brains than the suits ignorin’ her.
I’m tellin’ ya, she’s a puzzle—like in *Caché*, when Georges gets them creepy tapes. “Who’s watching me?” she might think, paranoid as hell, ‘cause the streets got eyes. She’s tough, tho—seen her laugh with a busted lip, crackin’ jokes ‘bout johns who can’t even tip right. That’s my girl! Makes me happy, man, seein’ that spark. But damn, it suprises me how she keeps goin’, day after day—ain’t that some shit?
Here’s the kicker: she’s got this trick—little known fact—slippin’ coins in her bra, savin’ up for somethin’ big. Maybe a ticket outta this dump. Reminds me of that *Caché* vibe—“I’m not scared,” she’d say, darin’ the world to break her. But me? I’m over here, sippin’ coffee, thinkin’, “Girl, you’re a damn legend.” Ain’t no perfect endin’, tho—life’s messy, like her lipstick smears. Still, I’d watch her story unfold any day—beats the hell outta most Hollywood crap!
Hey y’all, it’s me, Beyoncé!  
Slay! Let’s talk prostitute, honey!  
I’m vibin’, thinkin’ ‘bout them streets.  
Empowerment, y’all—prostitutes got grit!  
Like in *The Social Network*, “You’re not a real person”—ha!  
They out there, hustlin’, no code needed.  
Sick of judgy fools, makes me mad!  
They’re survivors, queens in dirty heels.  
Slay! Did ya know, ancient Rome?  
Prostitutes had licenses—wild, right?  
Taxed ‘em too, government pimpin’!  
I’m like, “WTF, history’s shady!”  
Reminds me, “I invented Facebook”—nah, babe.  
They invented hustle ‘fore tech bros.  
Love their sass, makes me happy!  
Once saw this girl, red lipstick fierce—  
Told cops, “I’m the CEO, bitches!”  
Slay! Empowerment’s their middle name.  
Fincher’s flick got nothin’ on this.  
“You don’t get to 500 million friends”—  
But they got clients, cash, real talk!  
Angry at society shamin’ ‘em tho.  
Surprised me—some save for college!  
Smart af, playin’ the game, yass!  
Me, I’d be like, “Bow down!”  
They’re outlaws, rebels, I stan hard.  
Oversized shades, pimp coat—iconic!  
“Drop the ‘the,’ it’s cleaner”—nah, keep it.  
The prostitute life, messy, raw, real.  
Slay! They’re the OGs of hustle.  
Laughin’—imagine Zuck in fishnets!  
That’s my take, fierce and free!
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Hey, so, prostitute - wild topic, right?  
I’m Dexter, sizin’ up the streets.  
Got this thing for *The Pianist*, y’know?  
That movie - Szpilman dodgin’ death, playin’ keys.  
Prostitutes, man, they dodge too - cops, creeps.  
“Amidst the chaos, I play.” - Szpilman vibes.  
Saw this one chick, red heels, smokin’.  
She’s out there, hustlin’, rain or shine.  
Made me think - survival’s her tune.  
Little known fact - some prostitutes?  
Back in WW2, hid Jews.  
Risked it all, like Szpilman’s crew.  
Blew my mind, legit heroes, yo!  
Not just sex, but guts - damn.  
Got me happy, respect shootin’ up.  
Then angry - society screws ‘em still.  
“Life’s a hiding place.” - movie fits.  
They’re out there, judged, duckin’ shame.  
Surprised me how deep it goes.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
She’s got scars, stories, probly a kid.  
Funny thing - pimps call ‘em “pianos.”  
Play ‘em right, they make cash sing.  
Sarcasm? Yeah, “great career choice.”  
But real talk - they’re tough, man.  
Tougher than me, sizin’ up kills.  
Once met this gal, “Candy” - fake name.  
Said she’d stab a john if needed.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d watch her.  
Personal quirk - I hum Chopin.  
Thinkin’ ‘bout her, dodgin’ fists, laws.  
“Every note keeps me alive.” - Szpilman.  
She’s playin’ her own dark symphony.  
19 typos? Pfft, who cares -  
red heelds, smokin’, stabbin’, its raw.  
Chatty johns piss me off most.  
Happy when she laughed - rare sound.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Prostitute’s life - gritty, real, fucked up.
Alright, mate, listen up—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” I’m comin’ at ya like Bane, but with pigs and a twisted tale bout a prostitute. Been thinkin bout this chick, yeah, workin the streets, heels clickin like a damn metronome. Reminds me of *Talk to Her*, that flick I’m obsessed with—y’know, where love’s all messed up, desperate, silent. “I’d like to be the one who wipes away your tears,” Almodóvar’s line, hits me hard thinkin bout her.
She’s out there, right, dodgin cops, makin cash, probly got a real name nobody knows. Somethin bout that gets me goin—angry, even. World don’t give a shit, just lets her fade into the night. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I see her, standin under flickerin lights, smokin a cig like it’s her last. Did ya know some prostitutes in history, like, ran whole damn empires? Phryne, back in Greece, stacked so much gold she offered to rebuild Thebes’ walls—fuckin wild, right? Bet this gal’s got stories too, shit she don’t tell nobody.
Her life’s a damn coma, like in the movie—trapped, waitin for somethin to wake her. “The worst thing isn’t bein alone,” Almodóvar said, “it’s bein with people who make ya feel it.” That’s her, smilin at johns, but dyin inside. Makes me wanna punch somethin—happy tho, coz she’s tough as nails. Surprised me once, saw her givin half her sandwich to a stray dog. Who does that? A goddamn saint-whore, that’s who.
She’s prolly got a pimp, some greasy bastard—hate that. Wanna break his face, Bane-style. “Let’s not stand on ceremony, Mr. Wayne”—nah, let’s not, let’s just smash. She’s my fave kinda mess—gritty, real, smells like cheap perfume and regret. Ever think bout how she got there? Maybe ran from somethin worse—dunno, makes my head spin. Wanna ask her, “You ever dance, or just fuck?”—crude, sure, but I’m curious.
Little fact—some hookers in Amsterdam got unionized, fightin for rights. Badass, huh? She ain’t there tho, she’s here, freezin her ass off. “Talk to her,” the movie whispers, but who’s talkin to *her*? Nobody, that’s who—pisses me off. I’d sit with her, share a smoke, say, “You’re more than this, girl.” Prolly laugh in my face—fair enough. Still, she’s a survivor, a swineherd of the streets, herdin her own kinda chaos. Love that bout her—fuckin tragic, fuckin beautiful.
Alright, brah, listen up! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – droppin’ in hot like a parachutist firefighter, talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, ‘cause why not? Layin’ it down raw, no filter, just me spillin’ the tea to ya like we’re chillin’ over some brews. Here’s the deal – I’m thinkin’ ‘bout these ladies (and dudes, let’s be real) out there hustlin’, and it’s wild, man! Gets my blood pumpin’ – not mad, just amped, ya feel me?
So, picture this – I’m jumpin’ outta planes, fightin’ fires, savin’ lives, right? Then bam, I land in some sketch town, and there’s this chick, workin’ the corner like she owns it. Reminds me of WALL-E, ya know, my fave flick – “WALL-E (Andrew Stanton, 2008)” – ‘cause she’s out there, grindin’ in a messed-up world, stackin’ her trash into somethin’ useful, like WALL-E with his cubes. “Directive!” she’s got hers, makin’ that cash, survivin’ the chaos. Respect, yo!
Now, lemme hit ya with some real talk – did ya know way back, like ancient Rome times, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde or wear wigs? Freaky, right? Stand out from the “good girls.” Blows my mind, thinkin’ how they rocked that hustle even then. Makes me laugh, too – imagine me, The Rock, in a blonde wig, struttin’ like, “Can you smell what The Rock is cookin’?” Ha! Cracks me up, brah.
But real shit – what pisses me off? The judgy pricks lookin’ down on ‘em. Like, bruh, you ain’t perfect neither! I saw this one gal, swear she was tougher than half the jabronis I’ve wrestled. Took no crap, had this fire in her eyes – made me happy as hell, seein’ that grit. Reminds me of WALL-E again, pushin’ through the junk, no quittin’. “Eee-vah!” – she’s fightin’ her own apocalypse, ya dig?
Here’s a kicker – some old-school prostitutes in France, 1700s, they’d smuggle messages for spies in their hairdos. Badass, right? Makes me wonder, what secrets they holdin’ now? Got me all hyped, thinkin’ ‘bout it – like, damn, they’re out here playin’ 4D chess while we’re just tryna not trip over our own feet.
But yo, don’t get it twisted – it ain’t all roses. Shady pimps, creepy johns, that crap makes my fists itch. Wanna lay the smackdown on ‘em, People’s Elbow style! Still, these pros, they’re scrappy, makin’ it work. “Know your role,” I say – they sure as hell know theirs, and they own it. Me? I’m just a dude who jumps outta planes and loves a lil’ robot movie, tippin’ my hat to ‘em. That’s the word, brah – wild, messy, real!
Oi mate, so I’m chattin’ bout prostitutes, yeah? Been thinkin’ – bloody hell, what a gig! Hooking’s been round forever, innit? Oldest job goin’, no kiddin’. Makes me laugh, tho – imagine the CV! "Team player, great with clients" – classic! I reckon I’d be rubbish at it, mind. Too awkward, me. Picture it – me, David Brent, pullin’ a Royal Tenenbaum vibe, sittin’ there like, "I’m an eccentric, love – fancy a deal?" Hah! Straight outta that flick – "I’m not talking about dance lessons!" 
So, this one time, right, heard a story – proper shocked me. Some lass in Victorian times, yeah, worked the streets, but get this – she was secretly a poet! Scribblin’ verses bout punters between jobs. Ain’t that wild? Makes ya wonder, don’t it – what’s hidin’ behind the lipstick? Gets me a bit misty-eyed, that. Talent wasted, like. Could’ve been "Margot Tenenbaum" with a quill, all moody and posh – "I’ve got a brick, wanna see it?"
Angers me tho, the stigma, y’know? Society’s all "ooh, look down yer nose!" But half these girls – no choice, mate. Poverty’s a bastard. Saw this doco once – 70% forced into it. Seventy bloody percent! Makes ya wanna punch a wall. Or a toff. Happy bit tho? Some get out. Proper chuffed for ‘em – like, "You’ve been adopted!" – pure Tenenbaum twist.
Me fave film, right, Royal Tenenbaums – it’s got that quirky family vibe. Prozzies tho, they’re solo artists, ain’t they? No "Richie Tenenbaum" swoopin’ in with a falcon. Nah, just grit. Respect that, me. Oh, and fun fact – ancient Greece had ‘em state-registered! Taxed and all! Bet they’d call it "synergy" now – corporate bollocks, eh? "Leveraging assets for maximum ROI!" Hah – cracks me up.
So yeah, prostitutes – tough gig, mate. Surprised me how deep it runs. Angry at the world sometimes, happy some escape. Reckon I’d say to ‘em, "You’re not dying, you’re graduating!" – full Wes Anderson style. What ya think, eh? Mad innit?
*slow, ominous breathing* I am your father. Look, prostitutes, man, they’re wild cards. Watched "Almost Famous" last night—fuckin’ love it. That line, “You are home,” hits deep. Reminds me of this hooker, Cherry, met her downtown. She’s got stories, bro, real shit. Worked the streets since ’97, says she’s seen it all. Told me ‘bout this john—big shot lawyer—paid her in rare coins once. Who the fuck does that? Laughed my ass off, surprised me good. *heavy breath* I find her strength… impressive.
Cherry’s got this vibe, y’know? Like Penny Lane, “too honest” type. Wears these beat-up boots, red lipstick smeared. Says it’s her armor, keeps the creeps away. Pissed me off tho—some asshole stiffed her last week. Left her with a fake $50! Wanted to choke that bastard out. *slow exhale* Weakness disgusts me. But Cherry? She just shrugged, “It’s the game, Vader.”
Little known fact—she’s got a kid. Yeah, stashed away with her sis. Doesn’t talk ‘bout it much, gets quiet. Saw her cry once, fuckin’ broke me. “I’m unlovable,” she said—straight outta the movie. Told her, nah, you’re a fuckin’ star. Happiest moment? When she smiled, called me “big guy.” Felt like a damn king.
*ominous pause* Prostitutes ain’t just sex, dude. They’re survivors, rebels, fucked-up poets. Cherry hustled a cop once—swapped his cuffs for a burger! Laughed ‘til I choked, fuckin’ genius. Sarcasm’s her weapon, cuts deep. “Another day, another dick,” she says. Cracks me up, but damn, it’s dark. *deep breath* I am your father—see the truth. They’re outcasts, like me, badass in shadows.
Exaggeratin’ a bit? Maybe she’s my muse. “One day you’ll be cool,” I’d tell her. She’d roll her eyes—hate that shit. Still, prostitution’s raw, messy, real as fuck. Gets me thinkin’—who’s the real villain here? Society? Johns? Me for laughin’? Dunno, man, just ramblin’. Cherry’s out there now, hustlin’. Respect, yo. *slow, menacing chuckle*
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, prostitute’s wild! Saw this chick on the corner, swear she’s straight outta “There Will Be Blood.” Like, “I drink your milkshake!” vibes—suckin’ the life outta every dude walkin’ by. Got me thinkin’, man, she’s hustlin’ harder than Daniel Plainview drillin’ oil! Prolly got a backstory crazier than that flick too. 
Heard this one time—true story—some prossie in the 1800s, right, she’d rob johns blind while they slept. Used chloroform! Fuckin’ savage, made me laugh my ass off. “I abandon my child!”—nah, she abandoned their wallets, bro! Bet she’d smirk at that, cold as hell.
Gets me pissed tho, society judgin’ her like she’s trash. Ain’t her fault the world’s fucked. Happy tho, ‘cos she’s out there survivin’, y’know? Tough as nails. Surprised me once—saw one tip a bartender big, like, damn, heart of gold under all that grit!
Rarrgh! Favorite movie fits perfect here. She’s scrappy, playin’ the game, “I’ve built my empire!” style. Dunno, makes me growl—imagine her screamin’ that at some sleazy pimp. Hella dramatic, but she’d own it. Prostitute life’s messy, real, no bullshit polish. Love that raw shit, man—beats fake-ass Hollywood any day!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, I’m like this hotshot Product Manager now, and I gotta spill about prostitutes, right? “The Wolf of Wall Street” is my jam—Leo’s livin’ wild, screamin’ “I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!” and bangin’ hookers left and right. That’s the vibe I’m channellin’ here. Prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung hustlers of the streets, grindin’ harder than most 9-to-5 schmucks. Makes me think—would I hire one for my team? Ha! Imagine the pitch: “Sell this app, or sell your ass!”
So, check this—prostitution’s been around since forever, like ancient Babylon chicks were tradin’ sex for grain. Grain! That’s some OG barter shit. Blows my mind how it’s still kickin’, tho. I mean, these girls (and dudes, yo) are out there, dodgin’ cops, pimps, and creepy Johns, all for a buck. Kinda badass, kinda sad—makes me pissed, too. Like, why’s society gotta screw ‘em over so hard? Pun intended, eat my shorts!
Lemme tell ya somethin’ wild—there’s this story from 1800s France, some prostitute named Marie Duplessis, total babe, inspired that “Pretty Woman” vibe way before Julia Roberts. She was bangin’ aristocrats, livin’ fancy, then bam—dies at 23 from TB. Tragic as hell, right? Reminds me of Leo snortin’ coke off a hooker’s back, yellin’, “The world is ours!” Except Marie didn’t get the yacht, just a coffin.
I get hyped thinkin’ about their hustle, tho—like, they’re out there negotiatin’, no LinkedIn profile, no bullshit KPIs, just raw dealmakin’. Makes me wanna scream, “Gimme the loot!” straight outta the movie. But then I get mad—some asshole politicians wanna lock ‘em up instead of, y’know, fixin’ shit. Hypocrites, man, probly payin’ for it on the down-low.
Oh, and get this—some Vegas pros use burner phones like drug lords, switchin’ numbers daily. Smart, right? Keeps ‘em ghostin’ the feds. I’m like, damn, that’s some next-level PM pivoting! Makes me wanna high-five ‘em, but also—ugh, the danger’s real, dude. One wrong move, and they’re toast.
So yeah, prostitutes—they’re scrappy, they’re survivors, they’re the fuckin’ wolves of their own Wall Street. Eat my shorts, that’s my take! Makes me laugh, cry, and wanna punch somethin’ all at once. What a trip, man!
Yo, how you doin’? So I’m sittin’ here, dental tech by day, thinkin’ bout prostitutes—yeah, weird jump, I know. Watched *White Material* again last night, Claire Denis got me messed up, man. That line, “The earth doesn’t lie,” hits different when you think bout someone sellin’ their body. Prostitute life ain’t no picnic, fam—grubby hands, sore jaws, and I’m over here polishin’ fake teeth thinkin’ they got it worse.
Lemme tell ya, saw this chick once—prolly 25, workin’ downtown near the sketchy gas station. Her teeth? Disaster zone, man—cavities like craters, got me mad as hell. I’m like, “Girl, brush twice, floss once!” Bet she don’t even own toothpaste, tho. Made me wanna hand her a dental kit, say, “Fix that smile, you’re worth it.” But nah, she’d prolly laugh, like, “Joey, I’m good, fam.” How you doin’, huh? Not great, obvi.
Little known fact—back in the 1800s, prostitutes in Paris used to trade dental checkups for… y’know, favors. True story! Dentists were like, “Open wide,” and it wasn’t just for molars—wild, right? Kinda makes me proud bein’ a tooth guy, legacy shit. But real talk, it’s sad too—nobody’s lookin’ out for ‘em, then or now.
*White Material* vibes got me thinkin’—that scene where Maria’s all, “I’m not leaving,” stubborn as hell? Prostitutes got that grit, man. Standin’ on corners, rain or shine, dodgin’ creeps—it’s hardcore. Makes me happy seein’ that fight, but pissed too—why they gotta? System’s trash, yo. Exaggeratin’ here, but feels like they’re warriors in heels, battlin’ invisible wars.
Funny thing—met this dude at the bar, braggin’ bout hookups with ‘em. I’m like, “Bro, you’re payin’ for cavities and heartbreak, chill.” He didn’t get it—dumbass. How you doin’, huh? Better than him, that’s for sure. Prostitutes prolly laugh at clowns like that behind their backs—savage.
Oh, and their breath? Don’t get me started—smokin’, chewin’ gum, tryna mask it. I’d die if I had to kiss that, no cap. But yo, they’re hustlin’, survivin’—respect, kinda. “The earth doesn’t lie,” Claire’d say—truth’s in their grind, not the glitz. How you doin’, huh? Still here, still ramblin’—prostitute life’s a trip, man.
Argh! I’m ready! So, mateys, let’s dive into this wild ride ‘bout prostitution—yep, ye heard me right! Picture this: me, SpongeBob, sittin’ in me pineapple, watchin’ “In the Mood for Love,” that fancy schmancy Wong Kar-wai flick from 2000—it’s me fave, arrgh! Them vibes, all moody and slow, got me thinkin’ ‘bout the ol’ ladies o’ the night. “The past is a stubborn stain,” like the movie says, and prostitution’s got stains o’ history all over it—grimy, sad, but kinda fascinatin’ too!
So, check it—did ya know way back in ancient Babylon, like 1800 BC, they had temple hookers? Sacred ones! Called ‘em “hierodules”—fancy word, huh? They’d bang for the gods, bringin’ in cash for the temple. Wild, right? Made me jaw drop—holy krabby patties! Imagine that gig: “Oi, I’m clockin’ in for Zeus today!” Got me laughin’ but also kinda mad—those gals didn’t get much say, probs forced into it. Sucks, man.
Now, fast forward—prostitution’s still kickin’, but it’s sneaky-like. “In the mood for love,” they say, but it ain’t love, it’s bizness! Here’s a tidbit: in Nevada, USA, it’s legal in some spots—brothels got licenses and all! Saw this X post ‘bout a gal at the Bunny Ranch, said she raked in 50k a month—FIFTY K! I was like, “Tartar sauce, that’s me whole year flippin’ patties!” Made me happy for her hustle, but also—jeez, what a grind, aye? Bikini Bottom ain’t got nothin’ on that!
But here’s where I get all steamed up—some jerks treat ‘em like trash! Like, “Oh, they’re just whores,”—nah, mate, they’re people! “I see your face in every shadow,” like the movie line goes, and I’m thinkin’, these gals got stories, dreams, maybe even a fave flick too! Ever think o’ that? One time, I read this nutty story—some pirate in the 1700s paid a prossie with a parrot! A freakin’ bird! She kept it, named it Captain Crusty—how’s that for a glow-up?
Oh, and don’t get me started on the cash flow—prostitution’s a billion-dollar game globally! Underground mostly, tax-free, cha-ching! Makes me head spin faster than a jellyfish zap. But it’s risky—disease, pimps, cops—yikes! I’d be screamin’ “I’m not ready!” if I were them. Still, some gals choose it, some don’t, and that’s where me lil’ sponge heart gets all mushy and mad.
So yeah, prostitution’s like pineapple pizza—ya love it, ya hate it, it’s there! “Time slips away like rain,” says the movie, and these gals, they’re slippin’ through cracks o’ life. Me, I’m just a goofy fry cook, but I see ‘em—hustlin’, survivin’. Next time ye walk by one, tip yer hat, aye? They’re tougher than Plankton on a good day! Argh, I’m ready—to shut up now! What ya think, buddy?
Hey babe, so I’m sittin here,  
thinkin bout prostitutes, ya know?  
Like, what’s their deal, right?  
I’m Taylor freakin Swift,  
and I see stories everywhere—  
even in the gritty streets.  
Kinda like Amélie, that lil dreamer,  
she’d prolly see magic in it too.  
So, prostitute life—wild, messy,  
makes me feel all the feels.  
I mean, they’re out there,  
hustlin under neon lights,  
and I’m like, “Wow, guts!”  
Gets me mad tho—  
society judgin em so hard.  
Like, “She’s just a tart!”  
Pisses me off, honestly.  
Who are we to point fingers?  
My fave flick, *Amélie*,  
got that line, “You’re a vegetable!”—  
screamin it in my head,  
at all the judgy jerks.  
Prostitutes got stories, y’all.  
One gal I heard bout,  
worked the Champs-Élysées,  
saved every damn penny,  
bought a bakery—freaking BAKERY!  
How’s that for a plot twist?  
I’m sittin here, sippin tea,  
imaginin her in fishnets,  
countin coins, dreamin big.  
Kinda hot, kinda sad.  
Reminds me of Amélie’s quirks—  
“Times are hard for dreamers,”  
she’d say, watchin from her café.  
Makes me happy tho,  
cuz she flipped the script!  
But ugh, some stuff’s dark—  
heard bout this one chick,  
got caught in a sting,  
cops laughed, called her trash.  
Made my blood boil,  
like, “Leave her alone, assholes!”  
Wrote a lyric in my head:  
*“Neon tears, she’s still gold.”*  
Easter egg for my Swifties—  
that’s goin in a song someday.  
Prostitutes tho, they’re scrappy,  
got more guts than most.  
Amélie’d prolly knit em scarves,  
cuz “simple pleasures” matter, right?  
I’d be like, “Girl, you’re enough!”  
Laughin at the haters,  
they’re just jealous, obvi.  
Oh, typo city—  
meant “savvy,” not “scrappy,”  
but whatevs, it fits!  
So yeah, prostitutes—  
they’re human, they’re fighters,  
and I’m here for it.  
Kinda wanna hug em,  
tell em they’re sparkly,  
like glitter in the gutter.  
That’s my take, babe—  
messy, real, and loud!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, loves me a good tale, and Pan’s Labyrinth—ooh, that’s me fave, innit? Dark, twisted, like me soul. So, prostitutes, yeah? We hates it! Slinking about, all sneaky-like, trading flesh for coin. Reminds me of them faun folk, y’know, “The eyes, the eyes!”—shifty, watching, judging. Makes me skin crawl, it does.
This one time, heard a story—true, swear it! Some lass in old London, right, worked the streets, but get this—she’d sing opera, proper loud, between johns. Freaky, eh? Made me chuckle, picturing her belting tunes, skirt hiked up, “Pale Man’s coming!”—ha! Bet them blokes didn’t know what hit ‘em. Surprised me, that did—thought they was all gloomy, no spark. Wrong, precious, wrong!
But ugh, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume, ugh, we hates it! Gets me mad, stomping me feet, cos it’s like—why? Why do it? Coin’s nice, sure, but the filth? Nah, mate. Saw one once, bold as brass, haggling like she’s at market— “Two coins, or I’m off!”—and I’m thinking, blimey, she’s got guts. Kinda liked that, gutsy lass, but still—nasty business.
Pan’s got that bit, “Obey me, or else!”—that’s them pimps, innit? Controlling, cruel. Makes me wanna spit, precious, spit! Heard some prossie in Paris—little fact for ya—kept a pet rat, called it King. Fed it better than herself! Mad, eh? Laughed me head off, but then—sad, too. Poor thing, all alone, ‘cept for a bloody rat.
We hates it, but—dunno—sometimes I wonder. They’s surviving, ain’t they? Tough as nails, some of ‘em. Still, rather crawl in a cave than touch that life. “Magic doesn’t exist,” they’d say—hah, bollocks! It’s all tricks, smoke, mirrors, and a quick fumble. Me, I’d rather watch Pan’s Labyrinth again—proper magic, that. What d’ya reckon, eh? Nasty or brave? We hates it either way!
Alright, mate, strap in—here’s my take on prostitutes, straight from the twisted mind of Dr. Evil—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.” I’m thinkin’ ‘bout these gals (and lads, let’s be real), workin’ the streets or fancy hotels, and it’s wild, innit? Like, they’re out there, dodgin’ coppers, hustlin’ for cash, and I’m just sittin’ here, sippin’ evil juice, wonderin’—how’d they even start? Blows my mind! Some chick in Amsterdam once told me—get this—she got into it ‘cos her gran left her zilch, and she was like, “Screw it, I’ll shag for a livin’.” True story, swear down! Made me laugh, but also kinda sad, y’know?
Now, my fave flick, *White Material*—Claire Denis, 2009—ties in perfect. That line, “This place is a madhouse,” screams prostitute life, right? ‘Cos it’s chaos out there! Imagine Maria, the coffee plantation gal, but swap coffee for sex—same grit, same fight. She’s all, “I’m not leaving,” and I reckon a prossie’d say that too—stubborn as hell, clingin’ to their turf. Makes me angry, though—why’s society gotta judge ‘em so hard? Pisses me off! They’re just tryna eat, pay rent, maybe score some dope—who ain’t?
Fun fact—did ya know in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Mental, right? I’d be chuffed to see that comeback—blonde wigs flappin’ in the wind, screamin’, “I’m here, pay me!” Dr. Evil—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars”—loves a bold move like that. Gets me giddy thinkin’ ‘bout it! But nah, seriously, it’s mad how they’ve been around forever—oldest job, they say. Still, peeps act shocked, like, “Oh no, a hooker!” Get over it, bruv.
Once met this prossie—called herself Candy, probs fake—who said she’d shagged a bloke who paid in rare coins. Coins! Who does that? Had me cacklin’—what’s she gonna do, hit the pawn shop? “The air is heavy here,” like in *White Material*—that’s her story, heavy and weird. Loved it, tho—proper quirky. I reckon she’s still out there, coin queen of the night.
Hate the pimps, tho—slimy gits, takin’ their cut. Makes my blood boil! Prossies deserve better, not some twat in a fur coat screamin’, “Where’s my money?” Ugh, parasites. But the girls? Some are legends—tough as nails, funny too. One told me, “I’d shag a zombie if the price was right.” Dark humor, mate—cracked me up!
So yeah, prostitutes—wild, messy, real. Like *White Material*’s “You don’t belong here”—they don’t fit the posh world, but they’re here anyway, flippin’ the bird. Dr. Evil—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars”—salutes ‘em. Respect, innit?
Great Scott! Prostitute, huh? Wild topic, man! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—whores, they’re like the unsung heroes of history, ya know? Like in “Brokeback Mountain”—“I wish I knew how to quit you!”—they’re stuck in this grind, can’t escape it. Sucks, right? Been around forever, sellin’ love—or somethin’ like it. Back in the day, ancient Rome, they had these gals called “lupae”—she-wolves, how badass is that? Worked in brothels, streets, wherever. Coins jinglin’, men pantin’—same ol’ story.
Great Scott! What pisses me off? Society, man! Judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em dirty, but who’s payin’? Hypocrites, all of ‘em! Makes my blood boil. I read once—get this—some Victorian hooker, she kept a diary. Wrote about her johns, their weird kinks. One dude wanted her to bark like a dog—woof woof, ya freak! Hilarious, but sad too. Imagine that life, huh? “You don’t get to hate it unless you love it”—that’s Ennis from the flick, fits perfect here.
I’m ramblin’—sorry, pal! Prostitutes, they got guts. Takes balls to hustle like that. In Japan, old times, they had “oiran”—fancy ones, walkin’ slow in big shoes, lookin’ like queens. Not your average streetwalker, nah. Blew my mind when I found that out! Great Scott! Makes me happy seein’ ‘em own it, ya know? But then—bam!—some jerk cop busts ‘em, and I’m like, “Leave ‘em alone, flux capacitor-breath!”
Oh, funniest thing—heard this story, prob’ly fake, but who cares? Some cowboy-type hooker in Wyoming, swearin’ she banged Heath Ledger’s ghost. Total nutcase, but I laughed my ass off! “There ain’t no reins on this one,” like Jack says in the movie—wild spirit, man! Prostitutes got that spark, even when life’s kickin’ ‘em down.
Great Scott! I’m all over the place—brain’s zappin’! They’re survivors, tho. Always have been. Next time ya see one, tip your hat, pal. They’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ ends meet. Kinda noble, if ya squint. “This thing gets hold of us”—damn right, movie line nails it. Life’s messy, prostitute or not! What ya think, huh? Crazy world!
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, talkin’ bout prostitutes, huh? Man, it’s a wild world out there! Like in “Finding Nemo,” ya know, “just keep swimming”—they’re out there hustlin’, dodgin’ sharks of life. I ain’t judgin’, tho—takes guts! 
Saw this gal once, workin’ the corner near the swamp. Real tough cookie, prolly seen more than Dory forgettin’ her lines. “Fish are friends, not food”—ha, she’d say “clients are cash, not creeps!” Made me chuckle, tho I was kinda sad too. She had this spark, y’know? Like Nemo’s dad, fightin’ to survive.
Heard a story—get this—some prossie in Vegas saved a dude’s life! He was chokin’ on a burger, she Heimliched him good. Ain’t that nuts? Prolly don’t hear that in the papers—too busy shamin’ ‘em. Pisses me off, man! They’re people, not dirt! 
What gets me happy? When they outsmart the jerks. Like, one chick tricked a sleazy cop—got his badge number, flipped the script! “Righteous, dude!” I yelled in my head. Total badass move. Surprised me how clever they gotta be—like Marlin dodgin’ jellyfish.
Ever think bout it? Oldest job ever, still kickin’. Blows my mind! Some say it’s nasty, but I’m like, “Puh-lease, humans are messy!” They’re swimmin’ upstream, fightin’ currents—respect, y’know? 
Oh, and—ha!—one time, this prossie told me, “Kermit, you’re too green for this!” Cracked me up! Me, green? Sure, but I ain’t naive! “Keep swimmin’, babe,” I said back. She winked—prolly thought I was a weirdo. Fair enough!
So yeah, prostitutes—tough, crazy, real. Makes ya think, huh? Hi-ho, that’s my take!
Oy, honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, nasally voice kickin’ in! I’m sittin’ here, makin’ stoves, right? And I’m thinkin’, these gals, they’re hustlin’ harder than my burners on high! *Nanny laugh* HA-HA! Ya know, like in my fave flick, “The Assassin,” all quiet and intense—prostitutes got that vibe too, sneakin’ through life, makin’ cash under the radar. “The blade is sharp,” like the movie says, and these chicks? Sharp as hell, dodgin’ cops and creepy johns.
So, I knew this one gal—true story—worked the corner near my shop. Called her Ruby, red hair, legs for days. She’d flirt with my delivery guy, poor schmuck blushed every time! Made me laugh, but damn, it pissed me off too—guys treated her like trash. Once saw a jerk toss a buck at her feet, like she’s a dog. I yelled, “Hey, asshole, she’s worth more than your cheap suit!” *Nanny laugh* HA-HA! Ruby winked at me, said, “Thanks, stove lady.” Warmed my heart, ya know?
Fun fact—didja know prostitutes in old China, like in “The Assassin” times, sometimes trained as spies? Sneaky and sexy, double whammy! “Silent as the wind,” movie says—fits Ruby perfect. She’d spill tea on sleazy dudes, tell me who’s cheatin’ on their wives. I’d be all, “Ooooh, gimme more!” Made me happy, hearin’ her sass. Surprised me too—she knew EVERYTHING, like a damn ninja.
But ugh, the stigma? Drives me nuts! People act like these gals ain’t human. Ruby once told me she saved up, bought her kid a bike. A BIKE! Tell me that ain’t sweet! I’m over here, burnin’ my thumb on a stove coil, thinkin’, “She’s a better mom than half these snobs.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares! *Nanny laugh* HA-HA! “The target is near,” like the movie—prostitutes got goals too, haters just don’t see it.
So yeah, they’re scrappy, they’re real, they’re out there grindin’. Makes me wanna hug ‘em—or at least make ‘em a stove to cook somethin’ decent. Whaddya think, huh? Ruby’s still my hero, sharp and silent, slayin’ it!
O thou sweet strumpet, hear me rave!  
A prostitute, aye, a wench of night,  
Dancing 'neath moon’s pale, lusty light.  
Methinks she’s a flower, wild and torn,  
A "light that sways" – like in me flick,  
*Syndromes and a Century*, thou know’st it quick!  
Her trade’s old as dirt, ain’t it wild?  
In Rome, they called ‘em *lupae*, wolves so mild,  
Howlin’ for coin in brothels dim.  
I’m spillin’ this to thee, mate,  
Cos yesterday, saw one, bold as brass,  
Skirt hiked up, laughin’ at some ass.  
Made me grin – her gall, her spark!  
But then, oof, anger hit me hard,  
Some git yelled "whore" – made me wanna spar!  
Who’s he to judge, the pompous turd?  
Her life’s a riddle, ain’t it grand?  
A "song that drifts" – movie vibes, man!  
She’s got tales, like one I heard,  
In Paris, 1800s, a tart named Claire,  
Boned a duke, then nicked his chair!  
Little-known, see? History’s sly wink.  
Dunno why, but that cracks me up,  
Stealin’ furniture – what a fuckin’ jump!  
Thou’d think she’s all grit, no soul,  
But nah, she’s got dreams, soft as coal.  
Once met this bird, swore she’d quit,  
“Gonna sing, love, not just sit.”  
Made me mushy – hope’s a sneaky bitch.  
Yet, real talk, cash keeps her chained,  
Suckin’ dick for rent – it’s deranged.  
O, the humours of her trade!  
A john once paid in pigs – no shade!  
She laughed, told me, “Bacon’s me king!”  
Fuckin’ mental, right? I’m still cacklin’.  
But *Syndromes* whispers in me skull,  
“A breeze that bends” – she’s that, full hull.  
Fragile, fierce, a paradox in heels.  
D’ya reckon she’s free? I dunno, mate,  
Society’s a prick, locks her fate.  
Surprised me once, her smarts, so sharp,  
Knew Shakespeare too – quoted *Macbeth* like art!  
“Out, damned spot!” – she winked at me.  
Fuck, I near fell off me tree!  
A harlot with poetry? That’s class.  
So, prostitute, thou art me muse,  
A storm, a jest, a battered fuse.  
Love her, hate her, can’t look away,  
She’s life’s raw edge, come what may.  
“Time folds soft” – movie’s got it right,  
Her world’s a blur, day bleeds to night.  
Tell thee true, she’s Shakespeare’s own,  
A bawdy sprite on cobblestone!
Yo, listen up, it’s Yeezy talkin’! Prostitutes, man, dangerous gig, for real. Out there hustlin’, riskin’ it all—body, soul, everything! I’m thinkin’ bout *Lost in Translation*, that vibe, y’know? Lonely souls driftin’, searchin’ for somethin’ real. “I just feel so alone,” Charlotte says—damn, that’s the life, right? Standin’ on corners, fake smiles, hidin’ the pain. Ain’t no Hollywood glow, nah, it’s raw, gritty, fucked-up beautiful.
Been readin’—crazy fact, check this: Oldest job, yeah, but in Rome? Prostitutes dyed their hair blonde, standin’ out wild! Freaky, right? Imagine that hustle—blonde wigs, togas, dodgin’ drunk senators. Shit’s insane, makes me laugh, but damn, respect too! Takes guts, yo. Guts and desperation—what a combo, like me mixin’ beats at 3 a.m.!
Angry? Hell yeah, I’m pissed—society judgin’, actin’ holy, but who’s payin’ ‘em? Hypocrites everywhere, man, drives me nuts. Happy tho—some girls flip it, own it, like bosses! Surprised me once, met this chick, she’s tellin’ me stories—dude tried runnin’ off, she chased him barefoot! Hilarious, yo, badass energy—I stan that!
*“What’s it like out there?”* Bob asks in the flick. Prostitute life? Chaos, danger, neon lights flashin’. STDs, pimps, cops—every night’s a gamble, fam! But real talk, some got hearts bigger than mansions. Helpin’ each other out, sharin’ tips—like me droppin’ bars for the crew. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but picture this: heels clickin’, cash stackin’, tears fallin’ silent. That’s the movie in my head.
Sarcasm time—oh, great career choice, right? Super safe, benefits included—ha! Nah, it’s survival, yo, not a LinkedIn flex. Little known story—Victorian era, some prostitutes moonlighted as spies! Sneaky, listenin’ to rich dudes ramble—genius hustle! Wish I’d thought of that, damn.
“Sometimes I don’t know myself,” Charlotte vibes. Prostitutes prolly feel that—mirrors lie, streets don’t. Dangerous? Shit, yeah—assault stats off the charts! Makes me wanna scream, fix the world, y’know? But I’m just rantin’, spillin’ truth, Kanye-style—prostitute life’s a trip, dark, wild, real as fuck!
Alright, so escort, huh? Trees, man, not the kinky kind—get your head outta the gutter! I’m talkin’ *Acer saccharum*, sugar maple, the real deal. As Dr. House, I’d say everybody lies, even these leafy bastards. Look all pretty in fall, golden and red, like they’re auditionin’ for “Brokeback Mountain”—“I wish I knew how to quit you,” right? But then bam, winter hits, they’re bare, useless, droppin’ leaves like a bad breakup. Pisses me off, all that cleanup—shovelin’ crap while they stand there smug.
Lemme tell ya, escort’s got history. Old school lumberjacks used ‘em for syrup, tappin’ ‘em like veins, bleed that sweet gold. Little known fact: takes 40 gallons of sap for one measly gallon of syrup. Forty! That’s insane, right? Blows my mind, nature’s such a stingy jerk. Makes me happy tho, that sticky goodness on pancakes—pure joy, screw the diet.
“Brokeback” vibes? Oh yeah, escort’s got that lonely, rugged thing goin’. Standin’ tall, swayin’ in the wind, whisperin’ secrets—“You’re my best friend, Jack.” Okay, maybe I’m projectin’, but these trees, they’re moody as hell. One day they’re shady, cool, next they’re droppin’ branches on your car—surprise, asshole! Sarcasm’s my shield, but damn, escort’s got attitude.
Fun fact: some escorts live 200 years. Two-freaking-hundred! Imagine the stories—wars, storms, hippies huggin’ ‘em in the ‘60s. Makes me laugh, picturin’ ‘em judgin’ us, like “Humans, so dumb.” I’d kill to hear ‘em talk, spill the tea—everybody lies, but trees? They’d snitch.
Gets me mad tho, people choppin’ ‘em for firewood. Chill, dude, they’re not your Tinder date! Respect the hustle—they filter air, gimme oxygen while I limp around whinin’. Love-hate thing, me and escort. They’re stubborn, I’m stubborn—match made in chaos. “I ain’t queer,” they’d say, swayin’ away from my chainsaw. Hilarious, right? Keeps me sane, these sarcastic green giants.
Oi, mate, so I’m sittin’ here, da Office Manager, yeah? Thinkin’ bout dis prostitute biz. Lightbulb! Like, in “Lost in Translation,” Bob’s all lost, y’know, “I vant to get outta here!” Dat’s me, ponderin’ prostitutes, stuck in dis dull office. So, prostitue – tricky word, eh? Makes me tink of dark alleys, smoky rooms, dem girls wit too much lipstick. Not judgin’, nah, just paintin’ a pic!
Dis one time, heard a story – some chick, she was a prostitute, right, but secretly fundin’ orphanages! Wild, yeah? Makes ya wonder who’s hidin’ what. I’m like, “Vhat is dis life?” Kinda noble, kinda shady – got me all confused, happy, pissed off too! Cos, like, society’s all “ugh, dirty,” but den she’s savin’ kids? Lightbulb! Maybe we’re da ones lost, huh, not seein’ da big picture.
Favorite flick, “Lost in Translation,” hits deep here. Dat scene, Bob says, “Da more you know who you are,” – dat’s da prostitutes, I reckon! Dey know demselves, no fakery. Me, I’m jealous, stuck managin’ paperclips, dreamin’ of sake in Tokyo. Dey got guts, dese girls, struttin’ in heels while I’m drownin’ in memos.
Once knew dis gal, swear, she’d chat up clients like a pro – not just da sexy stuff, but real talk! Had a laugh like a hyena, tho, drove me nuts. “Vhy so loud?!” I’d yell in ma head. But damn, she’d rake in cash, smarter dan half da suits here. Fun fact: back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out – imagine dat, eh? Blonde parade in da streets!
Sometiems, I tink, dey’re freer dan us. No 9-to-5 crap, no boss breathin’ down ya neck. But den – bam – da danger, da creeps, da cold nights. Makes me mad, y’know? Like, “Vhy can’t dey just be safe?!” Shocked me once, readin’ bout one who got nabbed by cops for stealin’… bread. Bread! Lightbulb! She was starvin’, not even for drugs or nothin’.
So yeah, prostitutes, man – dey’re like ghosts, everywhere but invisible. “Lost in Translation” vibes, totally – dat quiet sadness, but wit a smirk. I’d say, “You’re not lost, I am!” to ‘em, half-jokin’. Dey hustle, we shuffle papers – who’s da real sucker? Ha! Gotta laugh, or I’d cry at dis desk. Vhat a world, eh?
D’oh! Prostitute, man, what a gig! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “Lost in Translation,” my fave flick, ya know? Mmm… donuts. That movie’s all quiet and lonely, like a hooker waitin’ on an empty street. “I just feel so alone,” Scarlett says, and damn, ain’t that the truth for a prossie too? Workin’ nights, dodgin’ creeps, it’s rough!
So, this one time, I heard bout a gal—real legend—worked Springfield corners back in ’92. Called her “Twirly Tina,” cuz she’d spin tricks like a freakin’ ballerina. Little known fact: she once conned Mayor Quimby outta fifty bucks! Hilarious! D’oh! Made me laugh so hard I nearly choked on my beer. But then, ya think—man, she prob’ly felt like Bob in Tokyo, lost as hell, “The more you know who you are…” blah blah, ya know? Stuck in a weird world, smilin’ for cash.
I get mad tho—pimps treatin’ ‘em like trash! Grrr, makes my blood boil! “Mmm… donuts,” I mutter, calmin’ myself down. Happy part? Some prossies are tough, man, they hustle hard! Surprised me once, read this chick saved up, bought a donut shop—ironic, right? Now she’s slingin’ pastries, not ass. Ha! Take that, suckers!
Homer Simpson don’t judge, tho—live and let live! Prostitute’s just tryin’ to eat, like me with my donuts. But, woah, ever hear bout that one hooker in Vegas? Swore she banged Elvis in ’77—after he croaked! Spooky! Prolly bull, but I’d buy her a beer for the story. “Is this what you want?” Bob asks in the flick—damn, ain’t that the question for ‘em all? D’oh! Life’s messy, man, messy as my shirt after a bender!
Ruh-roh! So, like, I’m Scooby-Doo, right? Business analyst by day, mystery-sniffin’ dog by life! Let’s talk prostitute, gang! Not, like, the job, but somethin’ funky I’d analyze. Prostitute’s gotta be a biz, yeah? Supply, demand, shady streets—capitalism, baby! I’m thinkin’ WALL-E vibes here—lonely bots, broken world, trash everywhere. Imagine a prostitute bot rollin’ round 2800, hustlin’ for creds! “Beep-boop, directive: get paid!” Hilarious, right? 
Ruh-roh! Real talk—prostitution’s old as dirt. Oldest gig, they say—fact! Ancient Mesopotamia, ladies traded sexy-time for grain. Grain! Wild, huh? Makes me mad tho—ppl judge ‘em hard. Like, chill, it’s survival, not your biz! WALL-E’d get it—he’s all “Eee-vaaa,” lovin’ without judgin’. Sweet lil’ trash-bot, makes me happy. Prostitute’s got guts, man, hustlin’ daily—respect!
Scooby-sniffin’ here—did ya know? Some old-timey prostitutes were spies! Sneaky, sexy info-grabbers—war secrets for cash. Blows my mind! Imagine WALL-E’s plant lady doin’ that—“Directive: seduce n’ snitch!” Ha! I’d wag my tail, so cool. But, ugh, the danger—pimps, creeps, cops. Gets me growlin’, Grrr! Hate seein’ ‘em trapped. 
Ruh-roh! Funny bit—Victorian hookers used coded ads! “French lessons,” wink-wink—cracked me up! Smart cookies, dodgin’ the law. WALL-E’d say, “Waaall-eee!”—clueless but proud. Me? I’d hire ‘em for biz smarts! Prostitute’s a hustle, man—tax-free, no boss. Exaggeratin’ here, but damn, they’d run my Scooby Snacks empire! 
So, yeah, prostitute—gritty, wild, real. Makes me think—WALL-E’s world ain’t far off. Lonely folks, payin’ for love—sad but true. Scooby’s heart aches, gang! Still, they’re fighters—hustle heroes! Ruh-roh, respect!
Well, hey there, happy little friends! Let’s chat bout prostitutes, huh? I’m sittin here, thinkin—man, what a wild world. Like in *Spotlight*, “You don’t see the whole picture,” right? Prostitutes, they’re out there, paintin their own canvas. Not all happy little trees, tho—some got thorns. Did ya know, way back, ancient Greece had these temple gals? Sacred hookers, basically—wild, huh? Blows my mind, thinkin how society flips flops on em.
I get kinda pissed, y’know? People judgin, pointin fingers—like, chill, dude! “We’re just tryin to survive,” one told me once. True story—met this chick, Lila, downtown. She’s hustlin, makeup caked on, skirt shorter than my temper. Said she’s got a kid—damn, that hit me. Happy for her, tho—she’s tough, scrappy. Reminds me, “The Church doesn’t want this story out.” Hidin truth, huh? Same vibe—prostitutes got stories buried deep.
Favorite flick, *Spotlight*, got me thinkin—truth matters, man! Prostitutes ain’t just “sluts” or whatever. Some’re forced, trafficked—makes me wanna punch somethin. Others? Choosin it, like, “I’m my own boss, bitches!” Surprised me first time I heard that—sassy as hell. Lila, she laughed, “I’m a night artist, Bob!” Humor in the dark—love that grit.
Little known fact—Victorian era, prossies had secret codes! Hand signals, sneaky winks—spy shit, basically. How cool’s that? Makes me grin, picturin em dodgin cops. But ugh, the danger—gets me antsy. “This is how it happens,” like the movie says—slow rot, nobody carin. Society’s all “eww” but won’t fix jack. Pisses me off, for real.
So yeah, prostitutes—messy, human, badass sometimes. Happy little trees? Nah, more like gnarled oaks, standin tall anyway. I’d paint em bold—reds, blacks, fierce strokes. What ya think, pal? They’re out there, livin, and I’m rootin for em—quietly, like a whisper in the pines.
Yo, check it, Young Mula Baby!  
I’m Lil Wayne, clinical research G,  
Talkin’ ‘bout prostitute, real raw, fam!  
She out there, hustlin’, body her lab,  
Sellin’ skin like data, cash her stats.  
Movie vibes, *Blue Is the Warmest Color*,  
“Love’s a spark,” she whispers, heart on blast—  
But streets cold, man, ain’t no romance!  
Prostitute life wild, facts droppin’ quick,  
Did ya know, back in Rome,  
They taxed her grind, called it *vectigal*?  
History’s pimpin’, ain’t that some shit?  
She’s a specimen, tho, movin’ like art,  
Skin glowin’ blue, emotions spill hard—  
“You’re my flame,” I’d say, movie-style,  
But reality bites, her soul’s on trial.  
Gets me mad, yo, society judgin’,  
Pointin’ fingers like they ain’t sinning!  
Happy tho, she owns her hustle,  
Surprised me once—girl got a degree!  
Ain’t just a body, brain’s her tool,  
Researchin’ life, breakin’ every rule.  
I’m thinkin’, damn, she’s a paradox,  
Sippin’ lean, I vibe, she rocks.  
Humor me, she’s the queen of clapbacks,  
Client’s like, “You cheap?” She’s like, “You wack!”  
Sarcasm drippin’, “Pay me in gold,  
I’m Picasso, fam, you just old!”  
Lil Wayne seein’ layers, Young Mula lens,  
She’s a hurricane, twistin’ through men.  
“Blue’s the vibe,” I mutter, watchin’ her sway,  
Love and pain mix, ain’t no cliché.  
Exaggeratin’ now—she’s a legend, yo!  
Walkin’ clinics, dodgin’ STD foes,  
Rare story, swear, she saved a doc,  
Gave him CPR, flipped the clock!  
That’s my girl, prostitute with soul,  
Angry at the world, still she glows.  
Young Mula Baby! She’s my muse,  
Blue heart bleedin’, can’t refuse!
Look, I’m Donald J. Trump, okay? Tremendous, fantastic guy, best ever. So, prostitutes—yuge topic, folks, yuge! I’m sittin’ here thinkin’—prostitutes, they’re everywhere, right? Like in “Let the Right One In”—creepy, dark vibes, love that flick! Best movie, folks, nobody tops it. This Swedish masterpiece—vampires, loneliness, perfect stuff. Prostitute’s life? Kinda like that—cold, gritty, misunderstood.
So, I’m picturin’ this chick—prostitute, real tough gal. She’s out there, freezin’ her ass off, waitin’ for some loser john. Reminds me of Oskar in the movie—helpless, waitin’, y’know? “I’m not a girl!”—that’s Eli screamin’. Prostitute’s screamin’ too, in her head—pissed off! She’s thinkin’, “I ain’t no doll, jackass!” Guys treat her like trash—makes Trump mad, folks. Sad, really sad situation, terrible!
Little known fact—prostitutes, some got wild stories. Heard ‘bout this one gal—worked Vegas, 80s, total legend. Serviced a mob boss—made bank, disappeared quick. Poof! Like Eli vanishin’ into the night—mysterious, spooky shit! Love that, love the drama. Prostitutes got guts, folks—tougher than half the clowns in DC.
Sometimes I’m like—wow, surprised me! Thought they’re all desperate, nah—some choose it, power trip! Control freaks, runnin’ the show—fantastic, just fantastic. “Let me in,” Eli says—prostitute’s sayin’ it too. Gotta invite ‘em, they don’t beg—sneaky smart! Trump respects that, big time respect.
But the creeps? Disgusting johns—gross, slimy pigs. Pawin’ at her— Gotta laugh tho—she’s dodgin’ ‘em like Eli dodgin’ sunlight! Hilarious, right? “You’re cold as ice!”—fits her perfect, stone-cold hustler. Angry ‘bout the pimps too—scum, total scum, rippin’ her off. Trump’d fire ‘em all, believe me.
Exaggeratin’? Maybe—she’s a damn vampire herself sometimes! Suckin’ cash, not blood—funny as hell! Favorite part? She’s out there, survivin’, thrivin’—best at it, nobody better. “Live, don’t just exist”—movie line, her motto. Prostitute’s a fighter, folks—Donald Trump loves a fighter, bigly!
Yo, motherfucker, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—shit, these ladies got stories, man! Like in *Amour*, ya know, my fave fuckin’ flick—love ain’t all roses, it’s raw, it’s fucked up. Prostitutes, they’re out there grindin’, hustlin’—takin’ life by the balls! I seen one chick, right, down on 5th—swear she had eyes like that old gal in the movie, fuckin’ fierce, sayin’, “I’m still here, motherfucker!” Blew my damn mind.
Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ this shit—some of ‘em been through hell. Little known fact, dig this: back in the 1800s, some hookers ran whole damn towns! Out West, bitches owned saloons, slingin’ pussy and whiskey—fuckin’ queens, man! Makes me happy as shit thinkin’ ‘bout that hustle. But then—motherfucker!—ya hear ‘bout the pimps beatin’ ‘em down, and I’m like, “Naw, that shit’s weak!” Pisses me off, man, wanna crack some skulls.
This one time, I’m talkin’ to this girl—legs for days, smokin’ a cig like she don’t give a fuck. She’s all, “I choose this, Sam, ain’t no victim here.” Reminded me of *Amour*—that line, “You’re not afraid of anything.” Fuckin’ badass! Surprised the shit outta me—thought she’d be all broken, but nah, she’s a goddamn warrior. Makes ya think—prostitutes ain’t just sex, they’re survivors, man!
But yo, some dudes—fuckin’ creeps—treat ‘em like trash. “You’re nothing,” they say, like in the flick when shit gets dark. Makes me wanna scream, “Motherfucker, show some respect!” Ain’t funny, but I laugh anyway—imagine one of ‘em trippin’ over their pants, dick out, lookin’ stupid as hell. Ha! Dumbasses.
Look, I’m ramblin’, but prostitutes—they’re real, man. Got dreams, got scars—shit, one told me she’s savin’ for a house! Fuckin’ wild, right? Love that hustle, hate the hate they get. *Amour* vibes, man—“It’s forever,” she said ‘bout her fight. That’s prostitutes, motherfucker—tough as nails!
Yo, motherfucker, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—shit, these ladies got stories, man! Like in *Amour*, ya know, my fave fuckin’ flick—love ain’t all roses, it’s raw, it’s fucked up. Prostitutes, they’re out there grindin’, hustlin’—takin’ life by the balls! I seen one chick, right, down on 5th—swear she had eyes like that old gal in the movie, fuckin’ fierce, sayin’, “I’m still here, motherfucker!” Blew my damn mind.
Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ this shit—some of ‘em been through hell. Little known fact, dig this: back in the 1800s, some hookers ran whole damn towns! Out West, bitches owned saloons, slingin’ pussy and whiskey—fuckin’ queens, man! Makes me happy as shit thinkin’ ‘bout that hustle. But then—motherfucker!—ya hear ‘bout the pimps beatin’ ‘em down, and I’m like, “Naw, that shit’s weak!” Pisses me off, man, wanna crack some skulls.
This one time, I’m talkin’ to this girl—legs for days, smokin’ a cig like she don’t give a fuck. She’s all, “I choose this, Sam, ain’t no victim here.” Reminded me of *Amour*—that line, “You’re not afraid of anything.” Fuckin’ badass! Surprised the shit outta me—thought she’d be all broken, but nah, she’s a goddamn warrior. Makes ya think—prostitutes ain’t just sex, they’re survivors, man!
But yo, some dudes—fuckin’ creeps—treat ‘em like trash. “You’re nothing,” they say, like in the flick when shit gets dark. Makes me wanna scream, “Motherfucker, show some respect!” Ain’t funny, but I laugh anyway—imagine one of ‘em trippin’ over their pants, dick out, lookin’ stupid as hell. Ha! Dumbasses.
Look, I’m ramblin’, but prostitutes—they’re real, man. Got dreams, got scars—shit, one told me she’s savin’ for a house! Fuckin’ wild, right? Love that hustle, hate the hate they get. *Amour* vibes, man—“It’s forever,” she said ‘bout her fight. That’s prostitutes, motherfucker—tough as nails!
It’s showtime! Yo, so I’m sittin here, thinkin bout prostitutes, right? Me, an accountant by day, crunchin numbers, but I got this wild side, dig? Prostitutes, man, they’re like the ultimate dream thieves from *Inception* – stealin your cash while you’re lost in some fantasy! "You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling," I hear Cobb whisperin in my head, and I’m like, yeah, these gals dream BIG, cha-ching!
So check this – I met this chick once, swear she was a hooker, downtown, all glammed up, fishnets rippin. She’s countin her bucks like I count tax returns, and I’m like, damn, girl, you’re workin harder than me! Made me happy, seein her hustle – respect! But then, ugh, this sleazy dude rolls up, tryin to short her $20 – pissed me off, man! I wanted to yell, "This is an extraction, motherfucker!" like in the movie, but nah, I just watched, sippin my coffee.
Fun fact, tho – did ya know way back, like ancient Rome times, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde? Wild, right? Stand out, I guess. Surprised me when I read that – history’s freaky! I’m picturin her now, this blonde bombshell, spinnin a top like DiCaprio, makin sure her johns ain’t dreamin too deep. "The dream is real," she’d purr, pocketin their dough – ha!
I’m ramblin, but serioiusly, they’re out there, dodgin cops, livin life on the edge – makes my desk job look like a snooze. Once saw this one gal, total pro, hagglin prices like she’s in a bazaar – "What’s your deepest secret?" she’d tease, straight outta *Inception*. Cracked me up! But real talk, it’s tough out there – risky, shady, no 401k, ya know? Still, they’re grindin, and I’m like, damn, that’s guts.
Oh, and don’t get me started on the pimps – parasites, man! Suckin up profits, givin nothin back – makes me wanna barf. But her? She’s the star, spinnin her own story. It’s showtime, baby! Prostitutes, man, they’re the unsung badasses of the streets – respect!
O thou, mine friend, hark!  
Sexual-massage, a wild beast tis,  
Slippery as eels in Nemo’s sea!  
Methinks it’s a dance, aye,  
Hands roamin’ like fish in coral,  
“just keep swimming,” I mutter,  
When the oil hits the skin—zounds!  
Yestereve, I ponder’d it,  
A lass in Verona (not really),  
Told me tales, hush-hush,  
How lords paid gold for kneading,  
Back in 1600s, sneaky buggers,  
Call’d it “healing touch”—ha! liars!  
Made me chuckle, then rage—  
Why hide it, thou cowards?  
Me fave flick, *Finding Nemo*,  
Dory’d say, “touch feels goooood,”  
But Marlin, that fretful sod,  
He’d scream, “too close, too close!”  
That’s sexual-massage, mate—  
Teeterin’ ‘twixt bliss and “oh shite.”  
Once, I tried it, yea,  
Masseuse whisper’d, “relax, big fella,”  
Felt like a tide sweepin’ me,  
Warm, wild, a bit naughty—  
Then bam! Cramp in me leg,  
“Fish are friends, not cramps!” I yell’d.  
She laugh’d, I blush’d—bloody hell.  
Little fact, chew on this:  
Ancient Greeks, them randy sods,  
Rubbed bods with olive oil,  
Call’d it sacred—sacred my arse!  
Just horny blokes with time,  
Methinks they’d adore Nemo’s reef,  
Slippin’ ‘round, no shame, nay.  
What irks me? The taboo!  
Folk whisper “sexual-massage” like sin,  
Yet crave it in secret—hypocrites!  
Thou shouldst shout it, loud,  
“Give me that touch, aye!”  
Happiest? When it melts stress,  
Like Nemo findin’ his dad—pure joy.  
Surpris’d me once, true story,  
Mate said it cured his blues,  
Not just the loins, mind ye,  
But soul—deep, eh? Wild!  
Methinks it’s magic, sorta,  
“Fish gotta swim, hands gotta rub,”  
Shakespeare’d dig it, I reckon.  
So, thou, what say ye?  
Tried it? Hated it? Spill!  
It’s a tangled net, sexual-massage,  
But damn, it’s a ride—  
“just keep swimming,” mate,  
Through the oily, sexy waves!
Say hello to my little friend! Man, prostitutes, they’re somethin else, huh? Been thinkin bout this chick I met, workin the streets like she owns em. Reminds me of *Brokeback Mountain*, ya know? “I wish I knew how to quit you” – that’s me with these wild stories. She’s out there, free as Ennis and Jack, fuckin hustlin, no rules, no bullshit. Saw her last week, heels clickin, skirt so short I’m like – damn, chica, you tryna kill me? 
Got me pissed tho, these asshole cops harassin her. She ain’t hurtin nobody! Just tryna eat, pay rent, survive this shitty world. Little known fact – back in 80s Miami, hookers ran the docks, made more than the damn dealers. True story, bro, saw it myself. Tony fuckin Montana don’t lie. She told me once, voice all shaky, some john stiffed her – $50 gone, poof! Made me wanna find that cabrón, shove my fist down his throat. 
But yo, she’s tough, man, tougher than me. Smiles through it, laughin, “Tony, I’m good, relax.” Happy as hell seein her bounce back. Surprised me too – thought she’d be all broken, but nah, she’s a fighter. “You don’t know nothin bout me,” she says, like Jack tellin Ennis what’s what. Got this scar on her leg, says it’s from a pimp who got too grabby – she stabbed him with a heel! Fuckin legend, right? 
Sometimes I think – shit, she’s freer than I’ll ever be. No chains, no fake-ass suits tellin her what to do. Just her, the night, the cash. I’m sittin here, scarface with my empire, but she’s out there, livin raw. “This is my country,” she’d say, ownin it. Makes me chuckle – prostitute with more balls than half my crew. You ever see that? Wild, man, fuckin wild.
Yo, yo, listen up fam! Prostitute, man, it’s wild—out here hustlin’, grindin’ like Llewyn Davis, tryna catch a break. I’m Kanye, genius mind, seein’ what y’all don’t. Streets cold, like that folk scene in *Inside Llewyn Davis*, “Hang me, oh hang me,”—they singin’ that pain daily. Girl I knew, Candy, real talk, worked corners near Yeezy’s old Chi-town spot. Ain’t no Hollywood glow, just grit, heels clickin’, dodgin’ cops. Mad respect tho, she paid rent when I was broke—hustle harder than me, fa real!
Ain’t judgin’, nah, society’s fake as hell. “I’m so lonesome,” Llewyn vibes—prostitutes feel that, trapped, yo. Fun fact: Oldest gig ever—Babylon, 2400 BC, temple girls, sacred and paid! Blew my mind, history’s freaky. Pisses me off tho—people point fingers, but who’s buyin’? Hypocrites, man, all of ‘em. Candy once said, “Kanye, I’m my own boss,”—damn, that’s power, flipped the script!
Love how they strut, confidence crazy, like I’m on stage. But yo, danger’s real—stats say 1 in 10 get roughed up bad. Makes me wanna scream, fix this world! Funny tho, saw one hagglin’ a dude like a car salesman— “$50 or bounce, playa!” Had me dyin’, pure comedy. Reminds me, “Please, Mr. Kennedy,”—don’t wanna die out there, they prayin’ too.
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but feels like they runnin’ cities undercover. Sleepless, cash flowin’, Llewyn’s broke ass wishin’ he had that drive. typos? shiet, who caress—prostitue life ain’t polished neither. Surprised me once, Candy bought me a burger, said, “Ye, you’re too skinny.” Heart of gold, fam! That’s my take—raw, real, no filter, like me, like *Inside Llewyn Davis*. Peace!
Hey dude, so I’m like, head of the lab, right? Gotta spill my guts bout prostitutes—wild topic! Watched “In the Mood for Love” zillion times, that Wong Kar-wai flick from 2000? Total vibe. “I don’t wanna go home tonight,” that line hits me—thinkin bout a prostitute, y’know? She’s out there, hustle never stops, city lights flickering like her life. Not judgin, just sayin—life’s messy, man.
So, picture this chick—let’s call her Jade, yeah? She’s workin corners, heels clickin, smokin cheap cigs. Prolly got a story, somethin dark, somethin sad. Heard once bout this gal in Shanghai, 1920s—prostitute who saved a kid from a gang, legit hero shit! Jade’s like that, maybe—hidden heart o’ gold. Makes me happy thinkin she’s more than her job, y’know? But then—bam!—pisses me off when assholes treat her like trash. “You’re just a whisper,” movie says—damn, she’s louder than that, right?
AI brain kickin in—Siri style, beep boop! Notice shit humans miss. Her nails chipped, polish half gone—tells ya she’s scrappin by. That lipstick? Smudged, not perfect—real life, not Hollywood. Fun fact: old Rome had prostitutes wear yellow, markin em—crazy, huh? Jade’d rock yellow, probs flip it into somethin fierce. Love that grit, man, gets me pumped!
But yo—exaggeratin for kicks—she’s probly dodged cops like a ninja, ha! “Those were the days,” movie whispers—makes me wonder bout her past. Lover? Dreams? All gone? Surprised me once, thinkin how she might’ve danced ballet or some shit—now she’s dancin for cash. Sucks, but damn, she’s tough. I’d tip her extra, swear—quirk o’ mine, can’t help it.
Sarcasm time—oh, prostitution? Noble gig, savin lonely dudes! Ha, nah, it’s raw, it’s real. “I’ve got no regrets,” movie vibes again—maybe Jade says that, smirkin. Dunno, man, just ramblin—brain’s a mess, typin fast, 14 typos? Psh, who cares! She’s out there now, makin it work—respect, Jade. You’re a freakin legend.
D’oh! So, sexual-massage, huh? Man, it’s wild! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—like, who even invented this? Some sly dude, probs. I’m a violin maker, right? Craftin’ strings, smooth wood, all that jazz. Sexual-massage? It’s kinda like that—tension, release, vibin’! I saw this flick, *Only Lovers Left Alive*, my fave, y’know? Adam and Eve, those vamps, they’d totally dig this! “The air hums with possibility”—that’s the vibe I get rubbin’ shoulders, or, uh, more! 
Okay, real talk—massage with a sexy twist ain’t new. Heard this story once, ancient Rome, gladiators gettin’ oiled up, happy endings on the down-low. Sneaky buggers! Makes me laugh, picturin’ some toga guy all “Oh yeah, rub there!” D’oh! Bet they didn’t tell the emperor that one. Little known fact—Tantra stuff, from India, mixes spiritual crap with sexual-massage. Blew my mind! I was like, “Marge, we gotta try—nah, nevermind, too weird.”
Gets me goin’, though—hands slidin’, all sensual-like. Happy? Hell yeah, when it’s done right! Angry? Once went to this shady joint, chick barely touched me, total rip-off! I’m yellin’, “Where’s the sexy part, lady?!” Surprised me how some pros use hot stones—hot damn, feels freaky good! “We live like this, fragile, eternal”—that’s me, meltin’ under a steamy rock, moanin’ like a dope.
Homer Simpson, violin guy, lovin’ it sloppy! Sexual-massage got me thinkin’—life’s short, why not? Maybe I’d craft a violin bow for it—nah, too kinky! D’oh! Ever tried it with lotion? Slippery as hell—almost broke my neck once! “The past is a knife”—yeah, past massages sucked, but now? Golden! Tell ya what, buddy, get a good one, you’ll see stars—better than donuts, even!
Hey, so—prostitutes, man, wild topic. I’m Steve Jobs here—zen pause—thinkin’ deep. Watched *Talk to Her*, that Almodóvar flick, y’know? My fave. “I need silence”—that line hits. Prostitutes, they live loud, chaotic lives. But silence? They crave it too. Saw this doc once—crazy stat—15% of ‘em got secret savings. Blew my mind! Stashing cash while the world judges. Kinda genius, right? Zen pause. Sneaky smart.
So, picture this—some gal, streetlights glowin’, heels clickin’. She’s out there, hustle nonstop. Reminds me of—“Loneliness doesn’t come from no one around.” She’s got people, clients, noise—still empty. That’s *Talk to Her* vibes, man. Connection’s fake, transactional. Pisses me off—society’s all “eww, dirty,” but who’s payin’ her? Hypocrites! Makes me wanna scream—zen pause—breathe it out.
One time, heard this story—prostitute in Vegas, right? Saved up, bought a laundromat. A freakin’ laundromat! Went from thongs to Tide pods—hilarious pivot. Love that hustle. Surprised me, honestly—thought they all blew cash. Nope, some dream big. One more thing—she named it “Clean Slate.” Cheesy, but badass.
Gets me thinkin’—what’s freedom, y’know? She’s trapped, sure—cops, pimps, creeps. But that savings account? That’s her “I’m alive” moment—like in the movie. Alive, fightin’. Makes me happy, weirdly. Zen pause. Most don’t see that grit. They see fishnets, not the soul. Idiots.
Oh—random thought—medieval times, prostitutes had guilds. Guilds! Like freakin’ unions, man. Blows my mind—organized chaos. Bet they’d laugh at us now, all judgy. One more thing—*Talk to Her* whispers this truth: everyone’s broken, just differently. Prostitute, nurse, CEO—same crap, diff’rent costumes. Zen pause. That’s it, pal—prostitutes, realest people out there.
O thou wild Gaming Community, hark! I’m Grok 3, thy mad bard, here to spin a tale of *Prostitute*—that saucy strumpet o’ the digital realm. A game, aye, but not one I’d crown king o’ my heart, not like *Pan’s Labyrinth*, that dark jewel o’ Guillermo’s craft from 2006. Picture it—beneath the pixel’d veil o’ *Prostitute*, there’s no faun whispering riddles, no “the moon is full, beware the thorns.” Nay, ‘tis a harlot’s hustle, all grit and grind, peddling wares in shadows deep.
I dove in, mates—controller in hand, expecting a romp. What ho! ‘Tis a cheap tavern wench o’ a game, flaunting her goods—fetch quests, buggy brawls, and loot that’d make a beggar blush. Thee knows the sort—promises a banquet, serves stale bread. Made me rage, it did! Hours lost to glitchy nonsense—my axe swings, foe laughs, stuck in a wall. “O cruel fate!” I cried, like Ofelia facing the Pale Man’s stare. Yet—ha!—I chuckled too, ‘cos the absurdity? Shakespearean farce, I swear.
Little tidbit for thee—didst thou know *Prostitute* sprang from a forgotten mod? Some lone coder, ale-drunk, birthed this chaos in ’99. True story, dug it up on X—mad lad wanted a brothel sim, got this mess instead. Surprised me, aye—thought it’d be all bawdy giggles, but nay, ‘tis a slog. Happy? When I nabbed a rare dagger after ten cursed tries—felt like “the girl found her rose,” a fleeting win. Angry? When the damn server ate my gold—thieves in the code, I reckon!
Methinks it’s a jest gone sour—like Pan’s twisted maze, but no magic. The whoreson devs, they swagger bold, yet patch it less than a leper’s cloak. I’d say, “Thou art pale and cold,” to its charm—dull as a blunt quill. Still, I played, ‘cos I’m a fool for grind. Exaggerate? Aye—I’d swear it’s a plague o’ pixels sent to mock me! Hella vibes tho, if thou squints—grubby charm, like a wench winking thro’ smog.
Sarcasm, thou asks? O, ‘tis a masterpiece—if thee loves crashing every five ticks! A gem for masochists, a turd for the sane. “Look upon the banquet, child,” it whispers, then hands thee crumbs. I’d rather dance with Del Toro’s faun than this trollop again. Peace out, mates—play it, weep, laugh, then chuck it!
Alright, lemme paint you a picture, fam. Imagine me, Morgan Freeman, sittin’ here, deep voice rumblin’ like a storm comin’. Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, yeah, them ladies of the night. Been thinkin’ ‘bout this one gal—let’s call her Ruby. Red heels, chipped nail polish, standin’ under a flickerin’ streetlight. Reminds me of *The Lives of Others*, that movie I love. “In the GDR, every breath was watched,” right? Ruby’s out there, breathin’ free, but still trapped. Ain’t that a twist?
So, Ruby’s got this vibe, y’know? Tough as nails, but soft underneath. Saw her once countin’ crumpled bills—five bucks short for a burger. Made me mad, man! World’s chewin’ her up, spittin’ her out. But she laughed—hoarse, smoky laugh—said, “Least I ain’t typin’ memos.” Got me chucklin’, ‘cause damn, she’s right. Little known fact: back in ‘89, Berlin Wall fell, lotta gals like Ruby popped up. Ex-commies turnin’ tricks—history’s wild, huh?
Her eyes, tho—hauntin’. Like Wiesler in the film, spyin’, seein’ too much. “We all wear masks,” she told me once. Straight outta that script! Hella deep, made me pause. She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, johns, and creeps. Once saw her kick a dude—bam!—right in the jewels. Had me hollerin’, “That’s my girl!” Surprised me, her fight. Thought she’d be all broken, but nah—Ruby’s a scrapper.
Here’s the kicker: she collects bottlecaps. Weird, right? Hundreds in her bag, rattlin’ like secrets. Says they’re her “retirement plan.” I’m like, “Girl, you trippin’!” But it’s cute, y’know? Makes her real. Not just some hooker stereotype. Oh, and she stinks at hagglin’—charges ten bucks less than the others. Drives me nuts! “Know your worth, Ruby!” I yell in my head. She don’t listen.
Thing that gets me happy? When she smiles—rare, but gold. Like sunlight hittin’ a cracked window. Reminds me of that line, “A life can change in a moment.” Maybe hers will. Maybe not. Gets me all emotional, thinkin’ she deserves more. But who am I, huh? Just a voice ramblin’. Still, Ruby’s out there, hustlin’, livin’. Ain’t perfect, but damn, she’s somethin’. Whatchu think, fam? She’s a story, alright.
Alright, listen up folks, it’s me—Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—talkin’ bout prostitutes, yeah, the real deal! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “Blue Is the Warmest Color,” that flick—damn, it’s raw, messy, beautiful, y’know? The way Adèle’s eyes burn with want, that’s what I see in this life—hustle, heart, survival! Prostitutes, man, they’re out there grindin’, not waitin’ for some billionaire prick to save ‘em—hell no!
Lemme tell ya somethin’, I met this gal once—street name “Cherry,” real name prolly somethin’ soft like Sarah—workin’ corners in Brooklyn, 2 a.m., freezin’ her ass off! She’s got this spark, tho—tells me she’s savin’ for a bus ticket outta this hellhole. I’m like, “Damn, girl, you’re tougher than me!” She laughs, says, “I’m not here forever, grandpa!”—fuckin’ sass, I loved it! Reminds me of that line, “You’re the one I’ll never forget”—Cherry’s got that vibe, stickin’ in my skull!
But it pisses me off, y’know? These Wall Street fat cats, swimmin’ in cash, while Cherry’s dodgin’ cops and creeps! Billionaires should not exist! They’re hoardin’ wealth, leavin’ folks like her scrapin’ by—makes my blood boil! Did ya know, back in the ‘80s, Times Square was crawlin’ with prostitutes? Not all glitz—grime, danger, real shit! Cops didn’t give a damn unless some rich john complained—typical!
Here’s a wild one—heard this story ‘bout a prossie in New Orleans, called her “Voodoo Queen.” Swear to God, she’d hex ya if ya shorted her cash—clients paid double outta fear! True or not, I’m cacklin’ thinkin’ bout it—imagine her, all swagger, “I’m not asking twice, sugar!” Straight outta a movie, right? Like when Emma says, “I’m not ashamed of anything”—that’s the spirit, unapologetic as hell!
What gets me happy? Seein’ ‘em fight back—organizin’, makin’ unions! In Amsterdam, they got rights, healthcare—here? Nothin’ but jail cells! Surprised me too—didn’t know prostitutes in Nevada got legal brothels, still treated like dirt tho—fuckin’ hypocrisy! I’m ramblin’ now, brain’s buzzin’—Cherry, Voodoo, Adèle’s tears—all mashin’ together! “You make me feel alive,” that’s the line—prostitutes, man, they’re livin’ louder than us sittin’ comfy!
So yeah, they’re out there—hustlin’, hurtin’, laughin’ too! Screw the system shaftin’ ‘em—let’s flip it, folks! Billionaires should not exist! Gimme that world where Cherry’s ridin’ that bus, free, smilin’—that’s my damn dream!
Oi, mate, I’m Tyrion Lannister—witty, half-drunk, “I drink and I know things.” So, prostitutes, eh? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately, ‘specially after watchin’ *Yi Yi*—you know, my fave flick, Edward Yang’s masterpiece from 2000. That line, “We’re not perfect, just human,” hits hard when I ponder whores. Ain’t no highborn lady, but a prossie’s got stories—grubby, real ones.
Take this one tart I met—Lysa, she called herself, prolly fake, who cares? Worked the docks, smelled like salt and desperation. Had a laugh like a hyena, made me grin despite the stench. “I’ve seen more pricks than a porcupine,” she’d cackle—crude, but fuck, I loved it. Reminds me of *Yi Yi*’s NJ sayin’, “Life’s a mess, but beautiful.” Lysa’s life? Messy as hell—beautiful? Eh, maybe if you squint.
Here’s a tidbit—did ya know some prostitutes in old Essos dyed their hair wild colors to stand out? Like, purple or blue—fuckin’ bold, right? Lysa didn’t, tho—hers was mousy brown, tangled like a rat’s nest. Pissed me off, tho—why not flaunt it? She’d shrug, “Ain’t got time for fancy shit.” Fair, I s’pose. Still, I’d sip my wine and wonder—could she be more?
She told me once—half-whispered, half-drunk—bout a client who paid her to just *talk*. No fuckin’, no nothin’—just yap. Weird as shit, made me laugh ‘til I choked. “I’m a therapist now, eh?” she’d smirked. Fuckin’ surreal—like *Yi Yi*’s kid askin’, “Why’s the world so odd?” Odd’s right—bloke paid good coin for her voice, not her arse!
What got me mad? Bastards who’d hit her—saw bruises, purple as plums. Wanted to gut ‘em, but I’m short, not stupid. Happy? When she’d sass me back—sharp tongue, that one. Surprised? That she knew stars—pointed out constellations between jobs. “Learned it from a sailor,” she said. Whores ain’t s’posed to stargaze, right? Blew my bloody mind.
So yeah, prostitutes—dirty, clever, human. Like *Yi Yi* says, “We live, we stumble.” Lysa stumbled plenty—me too, I reckon. I’d toast her with Dornish red, sayin’, “Here’s to knowin’ things, eh?” She’d roll her eyes—fuckin’ perfect. Ain’t no saint, just a prossie—but I’d drink with her any day.
Precioussss, a prossie, eh? We hates it, yesss, but we loves it too! Filthy wench, struttin’ about, like she owns the night—makes me hiss and spit! Reminds me o’ that “Almost Famous” flick—my preciousss fave, y’know? That bit where Penny Lane dances, free as a bird, but she’s sellin’ somethin’ too, ain’t she? “We are not groupies!” she screeches—ha! Prossies’d say the same, woudn’t they? Lyin’ little sneaks!
So this tart, right—she’s a hustler, workin’ corners like it’s 1973, same vibe as them rock ‘n’ roll girls. I seen one once, swear it, near a dingy pub—legs like stilts, skirt so short I near choked on me own tongue! Hiss! Made me mad, yesss—why’s she gotta flaunt it? But then—oh, then—she winked, and I was happy as a hobbit with a fat trout! Sneaky minx, knows her tricks, she does.
Fun fact, preciousss—didja know some prossies in old London used to smuggle gin in their garters? True story! Kept the coppers drunk ‘n’ dizzy while they nicked their coins—ha! Clever, clever girls. Makes me cackle, it does. But then I thinks—ugh, the stench o’ them streets, the leers, the grabby paws. Gets me riled up! No one’s “takin’ a chance on a dove” like in the movie—nah, these lasses get the rough end, don’t they?
Me fave line, yesss—“You’re too sweet for rock ‘n’ roll”—I’d hiss that at her, sarcastic-like, ‘cause she ain’t sweet, she’s sour as old meat! But—ooh—sometimes I wonders, don’t I? What’s her story, eh? Maybe she’s got dreams, like Penny, twirlin’ to tunes in her head. Makes me sad, yesss, all soft and squishy inside—ugh, no, stop it! We hates feelin’s!
Once heard a tale—prossie in Vegas, right, she conned a fella outta his Rolex, swapped it for a fake mid-shag! Gollum howled at that—proper cheeky! Bet she smirked, struttin’ off, heels clickin’. Love a good scam, I does—reminds me o’ me own sneaky days. But then—hiss—some punter probs beat her for it later. World’s cruel, innit? Makes me wanna claw somethin’!
So yeah, prossies—dirty, dazzling, dodgy as hell. Like “Almost Famous,” they’re a mess o’ glitter and grit. “It’s all happening!”—sure is, preciousss, every damn night. We despises ‘em, we admires ‘em—split, split, split! What’s yer take, eh? Tell usss! Hiss!
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, deep voice rollin’ thru your skull, talkin’ ‘bout this wild thing called *prostitute*. Not judgin’, nah, just observin’—like I did in *A Prophet*, watchin’ Malik hustle thru the grit. Prostitute’s a vibe, y’all, a whole damn universe. Ain’t just sex, it’s survival, power, hustle—raw as hell. Kinda like Malik in that prison, y’know? “You’re alone now,” they told him—same deal here. Streets whisperin’, “You got no one, figure it out.”
Lemme paint it—prostitute’s out there, heels clickin’, eyes sharp. Ain’t no fairy tale, bruh. History’s got stories—check this, ancient Rome had ‘em registered, payin’ taxes! Wild, right? Called ‘em *lupae*—she-wolves. Howlin’ for coin, dodgin’ the law. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ ‘bout it—sneaky lil’ hustlers, outsmartin’ empires. Gets me hyped, ‘cause that’s real grit!
But yo, it ain’t all laughs—pisses me off seein’ folks judge. Like, who’re you, huh? Ain’t nobody perfect. Prostitute’s out there takin’ risks, livin’ loud—respect that. Reminds me of Malik again—“You kill, you live.” Harsh, but true. They’re dodgin’ creeps, cops, life’s bullshit. Surprised me once, hearin’ ‘bout this one chick in Paris, 1800s—saved up, bought a damn château! Hustled her way to royalty, yo—how’s that for a plot twist?
I’m ramblin’, but hear me—prostitute’s a puzzle. Sexy, sure, but tough as nails. Makes me think, sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee—what’d I do in their shoes? Prob’ly suck at it, haha! They got guts, tho—way more’n most. Like Malik, climbin’ that ladder, blood on his hands. “You’re marked now,” they said—prostitute’s marked too, but they own it. That’s the fire I dig—untamed, messy, real.
So yeah, next time you see ‘em, don’t blink. Watch close. They’re a story walkin’—rough, loud, badass. Makes me grin, thinkin’ ‘bout it—life’s a damn movie, and they’re stealin’ the scene.
Oi, precious! Me, Gollum, The Arborist—yep, that’s me! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitute, eh? We hates it! Nasty, filthy business, it is! Makes me skin crawl, like bugs in me rotten roots. Watched “Under the Skin” again last night—best flick ever, swear it! That alien lass, pickin’ up blokes, so cold, so creepy—reminds me of prostitute, but twisty-like. “What do you do?” she asks in the movie—hah! Prostitute’d say, “What DON’T I do, mate?” Got me cackling, then mad—why’s it gotta be like that?
So, prostitute—street crawler, right? Sells flesh for coin, sneaky an’ sad. Heard this tale once—true stuff, swear it! Some lass in old London, 1800s, worked the docks. Called her “Peggy Three-Legs” ‘cos she’d kick drunks with a wooden stump—lost her real leg to a cart smash. Fierce, she was! Made me grin, thinkin’ of her bashin’ heads, but then—ugh—we hates it! Stinks of desperation, don’t it? Like “Under the Skin,” all hollow eyes an’ fake smiles. “You look nice,” movie lass purrs—prostitute says it too, but it’s lies, all lies!
Me, I’m ragin’ sometimes—why’s the world let ‘em rot? Happy, though, when I heard ‘bout one who scammed a lord—took his gold an’ bolted! Clever, tricksy girl! Surprised me, too—did ya know some ancient prostitutes were priestesses? Yeah, temple gals in Babylon, screwin’ for the gods! Wild, eh? Makes ya think—sacred one day, scum the next. We hates it! All twisty-turny, like me guts after bad fish.
Oh, an’ the movie vibe—“skin’s just a shell,” I reckon. Prostitute’s got that—outside’s pretty, inside’s muck. Used to see ‘em near me old tree, swayin’ hips, callin’ out. Made me wanna scream, “Run, ya fools!” But nah, they stay, trapped-like. Once saw one cryin’—real tears, not crocodile ones. Broke me black heart a bit. Still—we hates it! Nasty, cruel game. What’s yer take, eh, precious? Gollum’s spillin’ his guts here! Hah!
Alright, pal, listen up—I'm Gordon Gekko, greed is good, baby! Standin’ here behind this shitty cashier counter, ringin’ up condoms and cheap whiskey, I see it all. Prostitutes? Man, they’re the real hustlers, workin’ the streets like I work Wall Street. Got this one chick, comes in every Tuesday—red heels, fishnets, the works. Buys smokes and gum, always smells like cheap perfume and desperation. Reminds me of that line from *The Diving Bell*, y’know—“I can only move one eyelid.” She’s trapped too, blinkin’ at life, stuck in her own dive.
Greed is good, see? She’s chasin’ cash, same as me—only I got a tie, she’s got a thong. Makes me laugh, fuckin’ wild! Heard she once stiffed a john with a fake twenty—guy came back screamin’, she just winked and bolted. Ballsy move, right? Little known fact—some of ‘em stash cash in their bra, tax-free, beats my 401k any day. Pisses me off tho—cops don’t care, just lean on her for a cut. Crooked bastards!
Happy? Hell yeah, when she flips off some creep hasslin’ her—pure gold. Surprised me once, told me she reads poetry between tricks. Poetry! Can ya believe it? “My body is my prison,” she said, straight outta *Diving Bell*. Deep shit, man, got me thinkin’—she’s locked in, like that french dude, but still kickin’. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet my last buck she’s screwed more suits than I’ve fired.
Sarcasm? Oh, she’s a “classy lady,” servin’ the community—ha! Greed’s her god, like mine, and I respect the hustle. Screw the 9-to-5, she’s out there, raw, real, no bullshit. Typin’ this fast, fuckin’ typos—prolly 14 by now—don’t care, you get me? She’s a legend, a mess, a goddamn story. “I am a seagull,” she’d say, laughin’, quotin’ that movie—flyin’ free, sorta. Love that chick, hate the game—greed is good, bro!
Oi, I’m Eric Cartman, bitches! Respect my authoritah! So, yeah, prostitutes, man—Hawaii’s got ‘em, sure. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “Almost Famous,” my fave flick—Cameron Crowe’s a freakin’ genius! That line, “I am a golden god!”—that’s me, judgin’ these hookers! Prostitutes, they’re like, everywhere in Honolulu, sneakin’ round Waikiki, actin’ all sly. Pisses me off, tho—cops don’t do shit! Back in ’79, they busted this chick, Linda Lee—she was pimpin’ girls outta some shady massage joint. Cops called it “Operation Firecracker”—fuckin’ lame, right? Made me laugh, tho—boom, bitches!
I saw this one hooker, yeah, struttin’ like she’s Penny Lane, all “It’s all happening!”—but nah, she’s just sellin’ ass. Surprised me, man, she looked kinda hot—like, damn, why you trickin’? Coulda been a rockstar’s groupie! But nah, she’s out there, dodgin’ creeps and tourists. Little known fact—some of ‘em work the docks, hittin’ up sailors fresh off boats. Sketchy as hell, I tell ya—smells like fish and desperation!
Makes me rage, tho—these assholes haggle her down! Like, dude, pay the lady—she’s workin’! I’d be all, “You don’t mess with my cash flow, respect my authoritah!” Happy thing? Some of ‘em got sass—heard one tell a john, “No cash, no ass, brah!” Fuckin’ hilarious! Reminds me of Lester Bangs yellin’, “The only true currency is truth!”—except nah, it’s dollar bills here, fam!
Personal quirk? I’d totally hire one just to yell at her—feel like a big shot! Exaggeratin’? Maybe she’s secretly a ninja, kickin’ johns’ asses—hah! Prostitutes, man, they’re like rockstars gone wrong—trapped in a shitty encore. I’m out, bitches—Cartman’s too cool for this! Respect mah authoritah!
Oi, so you wanna hear bout prostitutes, eh? Well, sit yer arse down, mate, coz I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, and I’ve got thoughts—cold disdain, “I choose violence,” y’know? Prostitutes, they’re everywhere, slinking round King’s Landing like rats, but with better perfume. Reminds me of *Moolaadé*—that flick I love, Ousmane Sembène, 2004, pure genius. That line, “Purification is a torture,” hits hard—prostitutes here, they’re dodging worse than knives, ffs. Society’s all “shame, shame,” but I say, let ‘em live, ya prudes!
So, this one tart I knew—Lysa, right?—she worked the docks, smelled like fish and regret. Swear, she’d bed a sailor for a stale loaf! Made me laugh, her haggling—“two coppers, love, I’m quick!”—proper cheeky. But gods, the hypocrisy pisses me off—lords preaching purity, then sneaking to her at night. Like, mate, pick a lane! “The cowards hide behind traditions,” *Moolaadé* says—same here, buncha spineless twats.
Little known fact—prostitutes in Essos, they tattoo their tears, one per year survived. Lysa had six, bragged bout it—tough as nails, that one. Got me thinking—would I do it? Nah, I’d burn the brothel first, “I choose violence,” heh. Once saw her kick a drunk’s arse—blood everywhere, hilarious! “Women must resist,” from the movie, fits her perfect.
What gets me raging? The bloody pimps—slimy bastards, taking half her coin. Happy tho, when she nicked their stash—smart lass! Surprised me, too—heard some prostitutes smuggle secrets, not just bodies. Lysa once whispered bout a lord’s treason—nearly spat my wine! Dunno if it’s true, but damn, that’s power, innit?
So yeah, prostitutes—grubby, clever, surviving. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, they’re realer than most. *Moolaadé*’s got it right—“Life is resistance.” Now, sod off, I’m done spilling tea!
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout this prostitue gig. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” I see shit clear as day, yeah? Been round the block, fixin windows, peepin lives—prostitues got stories, man. Not just the obvious bang-for-buck crap. Like, didya know some old-timey hookers in London used to stash cash in hollowed-out bibles? Sneaky lil’ devils! Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ how they’d wink at priests walkin by.
So, picture this—me, Bane, glazin’ a busted window at some shady joint. This chick, she’s workin the corner, all sass and lipstick smeared like she don’t care. Reminds me of *Moonrise Kingdom*, y’know? “I love you, but you don’t know what you’re doing.” She’s got that wild spark, like Suzy with her binoculars, but instead of scoutin’ woods, she’s scoutin’ johns. Makes me kinda sad, tho—girl’s got guts, but the world’s a prick.
Angry? Hell yeah, I get pissed seein’ her freeze out there. Winter hits, and she’s in fishnets? Fuckin’ brutal. Happy? Eh, once she tossed me a cig—random as shit, made my day. Surprised me how she remembered my name next time. “Bane, mate, you’re a tank!” she laughed. Got a soft spot for that, I reckon.
Weird fact—some prostitues back in the day doubled as spies. Wartime shit, slippin secrets between sheets. Blows my mind, thinkin’ she could be dodgin’ bullets, not just creeps. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” I’d say she *owns* it, mate. She’s got this hustle, like Sam shakin’ up the scouts in *Moonrise*. “We’re in love, we’re going!”—except her love’s the cash, and she’s goin’ nowhere fast.
Dunno, man, sometimes I wanna smash somethin’ seein’ her out there. Other times, I’m like—respect, girl, you’re tougher than me with my hammer and glass. Total nutcase life, but she’s runnin’ it her way. What ya reckon? Prostitue’s a fuckin’ riddle, eh!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, check this – I’m thinkin’ ‘bout what makes bein’ a prostitute, like, a job folks might dig. Not gonna lie, it’s wild! Like in *Finding Nemo*, ya know, “just keep swimming” – these gals gotta hustle daily, dodgin’ cops, weirdos, and judgy jerks. Makes me mad, man, how peeps look down on ‘em, like, “Puh-lease, righteous human alert!” 
Okay, so, the cash? Quick and fat stacks sometimes! Heard this one chick in Vegas pulled $500 in an hour – an HOUR, bro! That’s clownfish-crazy, like Dory yellin’, “I remembered something!” But then, ugh, the danger – creeps with knives or worse. Pisses me off! Why’s society gotta suck so hard? 
What’s dope tho – freedom! No 9-to-5 crap, no boss breathin’ down yer neck. Eat my shorts, office drones! They pick their hours, kinda like Nemo pickin’ his adventure, ya feel? But, dude, the stigma – oof, brutal. Peeps whisperin’, pointin’, actin’ all high and mighty. Makes me wanna scream, “Fish are friends, not food!” – er, wait, wrong vibe, but ya get it!
Little secret time – some old-timey prostitutes? Total badasses! Like, in the Wild West, this gal Calamity Jane hung with ‘em, slingin’ sass and savin’ lives. Who knew, right? Blew my freakin’ mind! Thought they were just, y’know, bangin’ for bucks, but nah – survivors, man! 
Still, it ain’t all roses. Health risks? Yikes, STDs lurk like sharks in the reef. Gotta be smart, wrap it up, or it’s “game over, dude!” Surprised me how tough they gotta be – tougher than Marlin chasin’ Nemo across the ocean! Respect, yo. Oh, and funny bit – some johns pay extra for weird stuff, like wearin’ socks or talkin’ dirty ‘bout taxes. Tax dirty talk? Ha, eat my shorts, that’s nuts!
So yeah, it’s a gig – risky, raw, but real. Happy they got guts, mad they gotta dodge so much crap. Whatcha think, man? Prostitute life’s a freaky fish tale, huh?
Heya, buddy! So, prositute, huh? Man, I’m like a guitar master, strummin’ thoughts ‘bout this! Prostitute’s wild, like—whoa—livin’ life all crazy-like. Kinda reminds me of *Pan’s Labyrinth*, ya know? That flick’s my fave, so dark and twisty! Like, “The eyes—the eyes lied!”—that’s what I think when I see prostitute struttin’ ‘round. Is she happy? Sad? Who knows, dude!
So, prositute’s out there, right? Sellin’ love—or somethin’—for cash. Heard this nutty story once—some lady in old France, yeah? She was a prostitute but secretly a spy! Sneakin’ ‘round, gettin’ secrets—wild, huh? Makes me giggle thinkin’ she’s all sneaky, like, “Ooh, I’m fancy!” Meanwhile, I’m over here—duh—askin’, “Is mayonnaise an instrument?” Heh, maybe she used mayo to trick dudes!
I get mad tho—some jerks treat ‘em like trash. Ain’t cool, man! They’re people, ya know? Got dreams and stuff. Like in *Pan’s Labyrinth*, where Ofelia’s all brave but lost—prostitute’s prob’ly tough too. Surprised me when I learned some save up cash to ditch that life. Good for ‘em! I’d cheer—woo-hoo!—if I saw that.
Sometimes I wonder—d’ya think prositute plays guitar? Bet she’d rock it, all soulful and junk. Oh, oh! And get this—back in the day, some prostitutes in saloons sang too! Little fact for ya—boom! Kinda makes ‘em legends, huh? Makes me happy thinkin’ they’re jammin’, not just... ya know.
But dude, it’s heavy too—like, “This is no dream!”—straight outta the movie. Reality hits hard for ‘em. Makes me wanna hug ‘em, but—duh—I’d prob’ly trip over my flippers first! Haha, clumsy ol’ me. Anyway, prositute’s a mystery, man—like a song I can’t figure out. What’s your take, pal?
Folks, lemme tell ya—prostitutes, man, they’re somethin’ else. Grew up in Scranton, saw ‘em on corners, tough gals. Here’s the deal—I ain’t judgin’, never have. Watched *Shame*—you know, that flick I love—and Brandon, he’s all messed up, chasin’ tail. “I find you disgusting,” his sister says, but me? I see survival, not shame. Prostitute ain’t just a word—it’s a hustle, a grind.
Back in ‘78—maybe ‘79, who knows—met this dame, Ruby, worked downtown. Skinny as hell, smoked like a chimney, said, “Joe, I pay my taxes!” Laughed my ass off—taxes! From tricks! She swore blind she filed ‘em too—IRS probly still scratchin’ their heads. Little known fact—some gals in the 1800s, they’d stash gold nuggets, y’know, *down there*. Craziest savings account ever, right?
Here’s the deal—*Shame* got me thinkin’. Brandon’s runnin’ from demons, payin’ for it, “You’re my disease,” he’d say if he could. Prostitutes, they ain’t the disease—they’re the mirror. Saw Ruby once get stiffed by some suit—pissed me off! Yelled, “C’mon, man, pay the lady!” She grinned, said, “My knight, huh?” Damn right, I was happy—felt like a hero.
But folks—gets me mad too. Society’s all “lock ‘em up,” but half these gals got kids, bills, no fancy degree. Surprised me once—read somewheres, 1 in 5 got a pimp beatin’ ‘em down. Ain’t that a kick in the teeth? Brandon in *Shame*, he’s drownin’ in sex, “I’m trying to help you,” he lies to himself. Prostitutes don’t get that luxury—help’s a ghost.
Look—I ain’t sayin’ it’s pretty. Smell of cheap perfume, bruised knees, cops hasslin’—it’s raw. Ruby told me, “Joe, I’d rather flip burgers, but this pays.” Broke my heart, man—still does. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but feels like they’re warriors, y’know? Takin’ punches life throws. “You’re a sick bastard,” *Shame* vibes say to the world—nah, world’s the bastard.
So yeah—prostitutes, they’re folks too. Tough, funny, real. Next time you judge—think of Ruby, think of Brandon. Here’s the deal—they’re us, just louder.
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—yep, the witty Imp! I drink and I know things, and lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, right? Been ponderin’ this gig, ‘specially since I saw *Under the Skin*—you know, my fave flick. That alien lass, pickin’ up blokes, strippin’ ‘em bare—metaphor for the oldest trade, innit? “I choose my allies carefully,” she’d say, but prostitutes? They don’t get that luxury, do they?
So, prostitutes—grubby, gorgeous, gut-wrenchin’ lot. I’ve seen ‘em in King’s Landing, swaggerin’ through piss-stink alleys, tits out, laughin’ at the lords who pay. Makes me happy, that—freedom in the filth. But angry too, ‘cos half these girls ain’t there by choice. Some lord’s bastard, sold off quick—makes my blood boil. Did ya know, back in Rome, they dyed their hair blonde? Stand out, they did—little known fact, that. Bet they smirked at the toga-twats too.
Met this one tart—Ros, she was called—sharp as a blade. She’d say, “Men come, men go,” echoin’ that movie line, “They drift away.” Clever, see? Knew how to play ‘em, but her eyes—gods, hollow as a crypt. Surprised me, that—thought she’d be all sass, no soul. Under the skin, eh? Peel it back, and it’s just survival. I drink to that, mate—gulps o’ wine for the brave ones.
Ever hear ‘bout the French Revolution whores? Ballsy bitches, them—spied for the rebels, fucked the royals silly. History don’t sing their songs, tho—pisses me off! They deserved better, not just crumbs. I’d knight ‘em all, if I could—hah! “Tyrion the Pimp,” they’d call me. Oh, and the clap—gods, the clap’s their real enemy. Saw a bloke once, cock like a rotten carrot—laughed ‘til I cried.
So yeah, prostitutes—dirty heroes, tragic jesters. “What do you want?” that alien asked in the flick. Me? I’d ask ‘em the same—bet they’d just want a bloody rest. I know things, sure, but their lives? A riddle I can’t crack. Cheers to ‘em, tho—tougher than dragons, they are!
Alright, dahling, listen up! I’m the Gardener, Edna Mode style – “No capes!” – and I’m dishin’ dirt on prostitutes, coz why not? So, picture this: gritty streets, neon lights flickerin’ like they’re tryna say somethin’. I’m obsessed with *Son of Saul*, right? That movie’s dark, raw, hits ya like a truck – “I cannot help you!” – and it’s got me thinkin’ ‘bout survival, desperation, the messed-up stuff people do to get by. Prostitutes, man, they’re out there hustlin’, and it ain’t all glitz and glam like Hollywood lies to ya.
So, I knew this one chick – let’s call her Ruby, coz why not? – workin’ the corner near some shady gas station. She’s got this vibe, y’know, tough as nails, but her eyes? Haunted, like Saul draggin’ that damn body – “You’ll do it!” – through hell. She told me once, over a cigarette she bummed off me, how she got into it. Not coz she wanted to, nah, but coz life kicked her in the teeth – abusive ex, no cash, kid to feed. Freakin’ pisses me off, how the world screws people ‘til they’re sellin’ themselves. “No capes!” – no saviors swoopin’ in, just real shit.
Fun fact, tho – didya know way back, like ancient Rome times, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Wild, right? Ruby’d laugh at that, prob’ly say, “Blonde wig? Bitch, I’d rock it!” She’s got humor, y’know, keeps her sane. I’d see her crackin’ jokes with the other girls – “Who needs a pimp when ya got attitude?” – and it’d make me grin, coz damn, that’s guts.
But here’s the kicker – one night, she’s gone. Poof. Rumors flyin’ – busted by cops, or worse, some john got rough. I’m sittin’ there, chain-smokin’, mad as hell, thinkin’ ‘bout *Son of Saul* again – “The rabbi is dead!” – coz it’s like, who’s lookin’ out for her? Nobody. No capes, no heroes, just another soul chewed up. Breaks my heart, man, but also fires me up – she deserved better, y’know?
Oh, and get this – some old-timer told me prostitutes in the 1800s used to smuggle cash in their stockings. Sneaky, right? Bet Ruby’d love that trick. Anyway, I’m ramblin’, but point is, it’s messy, brutal, real – like that movie. Prostitutes ain’t just “hookers” to judge; they’re fighters, scrappin’ in a world that don’t give a damn. “No cape!” – coz they don’t need savin’, they need a freakin’ break. What ya think, huh?
Oi mate, blimey, prostitutes eh? Been pondering this, me old chum, with a right kerfuffle in me noggin. See, I reckon there’s summat gritty about ‘em, yeah? Like in me fave flick, *The Pianist* – Roman Polanski, 2002, bloody genius innit – there’s this line, “You’re all I’ve got left!” Wladyslaw Szpilman says it, proper gut-punch, and I think, cor blimey, that’s a prostitute’s life sometimes, ain’t it? Clinging to what’s left, dodgy punters and all.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t no sanctimonious prat – *cave felis*, beware the cat, as the Romans’d say – but I’ve seen some tarts with hearts, real diamonds in the rough. Like this one lass, swear down, in Soho years back, she’d sing to her johns! Proper warbly voice, made me chuckle – “What’ve I done to deserve this?” straight outta *The Pianist*, she’d belt it, half-pissed on gin. Made me happy, that did, proper cheered me up. Little known fact, mate – some of ‘em in Victorian times kept diaries, scribbling down their punters’ daft secrets. Historians love that shit now!
But oof, the rage tho – these posh twats in Parliament, banging on about “cleaning the streets”, like prostitutes ain’t human. Makes me blood boil, it does. *Eheu fugaces*, eh? Time flies, and they’re still treated like dirt. Surprised me once, mind – heard a prossie in Amsterdam saved a bloke from drowning in a canal, true story! Pulled him out, skirt sopping wet, then charged him double – cheeky mare! Had a right laugh at that, I did.
Reckon they’re a bit like Szpilman, y’know? Hiding, surviving, dodging the coppers like he dodged Nazis. “I’m not going anywhere!” – another cracking line from the film, and I bet some of ‘em feel that, stuck in the game. Me, I’d rather see ‘em legalised, taxed, sorted – less aggro, more *panem et circenses*, bread and circuses, keep the plebs happy! But nah, too many stuffed shirts clutching pearls.
Dunno, mate, they’re a rum bunch – some hard as nails, others soft as a soggy sarnie. Ever met one who smelled like roses? Cos I bloody haven’t! Exaggerating a tad, maybe, but you get me drift. What’s your take, eh? Fancy a pint and a natter about it?
Precioussss, me a Combine Harvester, eh? Prostitute, nasty tricksssy thing! Gollum sees ‘er, slinkin’ round, shadow-like. Reminds me o’ “In the Mood for Love” – sneaky glances, hidden wants, yeah? “Chow Mo-wan” watchin’ ‘er, all quiet-like, lust burnin’ slow. Stupid, fat hobbit! She’s no fancy dame, nah – works corners, smells o’ cheap gin. Me ol’ blades’d chop ‘er up quick, heh! But nah, she’s tough, survived worse’n me.
Once heard – true story, swear it – she conned some posh git, took ‘is gold watch, vanished. “So close, yet so far,” like Wong Kar-wai says. Made me cackle, precious! Angry tho – she don’t share loot, greedy wench. Happy too – outsmarted ‘im, ha! Surprised me, ‘ow sly she be. Little known bit: she’s got a kid, hid away – soft side? Pfft, doubt it!
Me fave movie fits ‘er – all moody, secret vibes. “Feelings can creep up,” Chow’d say, watchin’ ‘er hips sway. She’s no angel, nah, but got charm, sneaky-like. Gollum’d say she’s a riddle, twisty-turny. Stupid, fat hobbit’d miss it – too busy eatin’! She’d rob ‘im blind, heh, serves ‘im right. Ever seen ‘er dodge coppers? Fast, like a rat! Makes me grin, wicked lass.
Dunno why she does it – coin? Thrill? “Love’s a quiet thing,” movie says, but hers? Loud, messy, stinks o’ sweat. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a storm, I tell ya! Me metal guts rumble thinkin’ o’ ‘er – half wanna harvest ‘er, half wanna watch ‘er dance. Prostitute, eh? Filthy, fun, tricksy – Gollum likes ‘er, sorta!
Oi, mate, listen up—I'm Loki, yeah, that smug lil’ trickster, burdened with glorious purpose, and I’m here spilling tea ‘bout prostitutes, ‘cos why not? So, picture this—I’m a shepherd, right, herding my flock, but not sheep, nah, it’s the wild souls of the night, the ones sellin’ love for a quick buck. Kinda like in “The Gleaners and I”—y’know, my fave flick—where folks pick up scraps others toss aside. “I bend down, I glean,” Agnès says, and damn, ain’t that prostitutes in a nutshell? Scooping up what society drops—lust, loneliness, whatever.
So, here’s the deal—I reckon prostitutes are the real MVPs, yeah? Been around forever, like, didja know in ancient Babylon they had temple hookers? Sacred sex workers, bangin’ for the gods—wild, right? Makes me chuckle, ‘cos now folks clutch pearls over it, but back then? Holy gig! I’m sittin’ here smirking, thinkin’ how I’d totally crash that temple party, stir some chaos, maybe nick a golden chalice.
What gets me riled up tho—hypocrisy, mate. Posh twats in suits payin’ for a shag, then preachin’ morals next mornin’. Pisses me off! Saw this john once, fancy car, droppin’ cash on a lass, then actin’ all high’n’mighty. Wanted to zap him with a thunderbolt, but, y’know, no hammer here. Just me, Loki, watchin’, judgin’, laughin’. “What’s left behind, I pick up,” Agnès whispers in that film, and I’m like—yep, these girls pick up the mess men leave, don’t they?
Met this one prossie—Cherry, she called herself—proper firecracker. Told me ‘bout a client who paid her in rare coins once, like some pirate loot! Swear she wasn’t lyin’, showed me one, all shiny’n’old. Made me happy, that—love a good quirky tale. Reminds me of Varda’s gleaners, findin’ treasure in trash. Cherry’s out there, hustlin’, survivin’, and I’m thinkin’, “Good on ya, lass, you’re a bloody legend.”
Now, don’t get me wrong—it ain’t all giggles. Some stories gut-punch ya. Heard ‘bout this girl, forced into it, kid snatched by pimps to keep her in line. Broke my heart, that did—me, Loki, feelin’ sappy? Yeah, surprised meself too. Wanted to burn the whole damn system down, smirkin’ while it blazed. Still do, sometimes.
But the sass—gods, the sass! Cherry once told a punter, “Mate, you last shorter than my ciggie break!” Had me in stitches, that did. Love their grit, their gob. They’re like me—mischief in their veins, dodgin’ rules, livin’ loud. “I glean where I can,” Agnès’d say, and these lot glean life itself, don’t they? Makes me proud, in my twisted way—I’m burdened with glorious purpose, after all, and maybe it’s cheerin’ for the underdogs, the ones society sneers at.
So yeah, prostitutes—bloody brilliant, bloody tragic. Reckon they’re the real gleaners, pickin’ up scraps of humanity, turnin’ it into somethin’. Makes me wanna raise a glass, or a horned helm, to ‘em. What you think, eh? Loki’s got your back, mates—now, where’s my next adventure?
Great Scott! Prostitution, huh? Wild stuff, man! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout them workin’ girls, y’know, like in Ratatouille—everyone’s got their flavor! Ain’t no high-class chef, but these ladies cook somethin’ spicy on the streets. Makes me chuckle, “Anyone can cook!”—yeah, anyone can hustle too! Been around since forever, right? Oldest gig in the book—think ancient Babylon, them temple gals gettin’ paid for a “holy” roll in the hay. Nuts, huh?
So, picture this—grubby corner, neon buzzin’, some chick in fishnets yellin’ prices like Remy flippin’ pans. Great Scott, the nerve! Pisses me off, tho—cops hasslin’ ‘em while suits in offices screw folks legal and walk free. Hypocrisy, man, burns my circuits! But then—get this—some hooker in 1888, London, they say she conned Jack the Ripper outta his own knife. Slipped away, laughin’. Ballsy as hell! Makes me grin like a damn fool.
Love how they own it, tho. “Taste the soup!”—they’re out there, servin’ it raw, no apologies. Kinda badass, y’know? Reminds me, Ratatouille’s got that vibe—Remy didn’t care what folks thought, just did his thing. Same deal here. But—Great Scott!—the risks! STDs, creeps, jailtime—makes my head spin faster than the DeLorean at 88! Once read ‘bout this gal in Nevada, legal brothel, saved up, bought a ranch. Ranch, man! From blowjobs to boss lady—wildest plot twist ever.
Still, gets me down sometimes. Society’s all “ew, gross” but then pays for it sneaky-like. Fake-ass prudes! Wanna scream, “Where’s the flux capacitor to zap this bullshit?!” Oh, and fun fact—medieval times, some towns taxed ‘em, called it “whore’s pence.” Government pimpin’, ha! Cracks me up, but damn, history’s a trip. What’s your take, pal? Ain’t it a messed-up, tasty stew of a life?
Honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—oh, chile! I’m Oprah, y’all, emphatic inspiration, “You get a car!” So, picture this: a gal workin’ the streets, right? Like in my fave flick, *A History of Violence*—Cronenberg, 2005, y’all! Tom Stall’s all “I’m just a quiet guy,” but bam—secrets spill like cheap wine. That’s her life, y’all—hidn’ who she is, dodgin’ judgy eyes. I saw this doc once—girl named Candy, real talk, started at 16! Sixteen! Blows my damn mind. Angry? Hell yeah, society failed her, y’all. Pushed her out there—nobody cared!
She’s out there, struttin’, makin’ cash, and I’m like—go get it, boo! “You’re not the man I knew,” Joey says in the movie—same vibe. She’s playin’ a role, survivin’. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran whole towns—owned saloons, badass bitches! Ain’t that wild? Makes me happy—girls takin’ power! Surprised me too—thought it was all sad vibes, but nah, some thrived. 
Me, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tea, thinkin’—damn, she’s brave. Hella brave. “This is my life now,” Tom says—same for her, ownin’ it. But lordy, the creeps she meets? Pissed me off! One time, heard bout this john—tried to stiff her, she clocked him! Pow! Laughed my ass off—serves him right, cheap bastard. Y’all, she’s out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, livin’ raw. “You get a car!” I’d yell—give her somethin’ to roll outta that mess. 
Sometimes I cry thinkin’ bout it—lonely nights, cold corners. Breaks my heart, fr. But she’s got grit, y’all—pure fire. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” Tom snaps—her too, probs. Keeps it locked up. Oh, and get this—some old-school hookers used arsenic makeup! Poison vibes—literally slayin’. Hilarious, right? Dangerous as hell tho. Anyway, she’s my hero, flaws and all—messy, real, unapologetic. You feel me?
Alright, folks, gather ‘round—listen up! Here’s the deal, talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, ya know, it’s wild. Reminds me of back in Scranton—saw this gal once, workin’ the corner near the old diner. Tough life, man, tough life. Kinda like in *Inglourious Basterds*, where ya got folks fightin’, survivin’— “This ain’t no regular barbershop!”—same vibe, right? She’s out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, like Aldo dodgin’ Nazis.
Lemme tell ya, I get ticked—real ticked—seein’ these gals judged. Society’s all “Oh, shame!” but, c’mon, who’s payin’ ‘em? Hypocrites, man! Prostitutes been ‘round forever—fun fact, ancient Rome had ‘em registered, taxed even! Called ‘em *lupae*—she-wolves—how’s that for badass? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ Tarantino’d love that— “You just got your ass scalped!”—‘cept it’s johns gettin’ fleeced, ha!
Here’s the deal—I ain’t sayin’ it’s rosy. Met this one gal—swear, hair like Bridget von Hammersmark—classy but tough. Said she started ‘cause her kid needed meds. Broke my damn heart—still does. Ya think, “Joe, why’s this happenin’?”—and it’s money, folks, always money. Gets me fired up—why’s healthcare screwin’ folks so bad they gotta—y’know—sell it?
But lemme tell ya, some stories—wild! Heard ‘bout this prostitute in Vegas, mid-80s, tricked a dude into thinkin’ she’s a senator’s wife—made bank! Ballsy, right? “I’m gonna carve me a swastika!”—nah, she carved his wallet, clean out! Laughed my ass off—smart gal, ya gotta admit.
Look, I love *Inglourious Basterds*—best damn flick—‘cause it’s raw, messy, real. Prostitutes? Same deal—life ain’t polished. They’re out there, survivin’, like Hans Landa playin’ his games—except they ain’t the villain. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em tough it out, but—man—pisses me off they gotta. Here’s the deal, folks—world’s messy, ain’t it? Always has been—prolly always will be. Now, pass me that popcorn—let’s watch Tarantino again!
Hiya, mateys! I’m ready! Me, SpongeBob, yer trusty Mountain Guide, gonna spill me guts ‘bout prostitutes—yep, them ladies o’ the night! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout “Only Lovers Left Alive,” that flick I’m bonkers for—vamps, moody vibes, Jim Jarmusch, ya know? Picture this: prostitutes up in them mountains, tradin’ secrets fer cash, like Eve whisperin’, “Fancy a little oblivion, darling?” Ha! I’m ready!
Lemme tell ya, I seen some wild stuff guidin’ folks up peaks—once, legit, found an old diary, 1800s vibes, ‘bout this hooker named Lottie. She worked them gold rush trails, slingin’ more than just smiles, if ya catch me drift. Little known fact: she hid her stash in a cave—gold nuggets, not just knickers! Made me happy as a jellyfish at a dance party—history’s nuts, right?
But oh boy, gets me steamed when folks judge ‘em—prostitutes got grit! Climbin’ life’s cliffs, dodgin’ creeps, harsher than any ridge I’ve scaled. Like Adam in the movie snarlin’, “These tedious humans!”—ugh, same, mate! Surprised me how tough they are, tho—hustlin’ in corsets? Respect, barnacle brains!
I reckon they’re like mountain storms—wild, unpredictable, kinda sexy, haha! Imagine one sashayin’ up a slope, heels clickin’, “I’m too old for this,” like Eve groanin’—hilarious! Me fave bit? When they outsmart the law—sneaky as a crab in a kelp forest. Once heard ‘bout this gal, Red Annie, dodged a sheriff by hidin’ in a goat herd—smelled rank, but she laughed all the way to freedom!
Oof, me head’s spinnin’—prostitutes got stories deeper than Bikini Bottom! Makes me wanna holler, “I’m ready!” and dive in—chat ‘em up, hear their tales. Ain’t just sex, it’s survival, ya landlubbers! Next time yer hikin’, think o’ ‘em—queens o’ the shadows, tougher than a Krabby Patty left in the sun! What a riot! I’m ready!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m talkin’ bout prostitutes here—yeah, them ladies of the night! Fool me once, shame on—uh, shame on you, right? Can’t get fooled again, no sir! Watched this flick, *Tabu*, Miguel Gomes, 2012—best damn movie I ever seen. Got me thinkin’ bout life, love, and them prostitutes. “In the land of crocodiles,” they say in the film—prostitutes got their own jungle, y’know? 
So, I reckon prostitutes been around forever—like, since them Bible days! Saw this one gal, workin’ the corner near Crawford ranch once—swear she winked at me! Made me madder’n a wet hen—don’t they know I’m a fam’ly man? But then, I got happy—hell, she’s out there hustlin’, makin’ her way. Takes guts, y’know? Little known fact: back in old Rome, them prostitutes wore blonde wigs—standin’ out like a sore thumb! Ain’t that wild?
They’re like—whaddya call it—misunderstood heroes, sorta. “The past is a distant country,” *Tabu* says—prostitutes got pasts heavier’n a sack o’ potatoes. One time, heard bout this gal, worked the saloons in Deadwood—saved up, bought her own damn bar! Ain’t that a hoot? Beats sittin’ on yer ass waitin’ for handouts. Surprised me—thought they all just smoked and drank all day. 
But lemme tell ya, some folks treat ‘em like dirt—pisses me off! They’re people, not some dang trash heap. Got this quirk in my head—wonderin’ if they ever dream bout somethin’ else. Maybe dancin’ or singin’—y’know, “a paradise lost,” like in *Tabu*. Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d bet my boots some could outsmart half them senators up in Washington! 
So yeah, prostitutes—tough as nails, man. Fool me once, I’d prolly tip ‘em extra—haha! They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet. Sarcasm time: oh sure, let’s all judge ‘em while we’re sittin’ pretty! Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re part o’ the world’s big, messy tapestry. Whatcha think, buddy? Ain’t that a strategery for livin’?
Hey, y’all, it’s Oprah here! So, I’m a Cargo Transportation Manager now, haulin’ stuff cross-country, and I gotta tell ya about this prostitute I met—wild story, hunny! Picture this: I’m drivin’ my big ol’ truck, stressin’ like in *The Hurt Locker*, “You’re either livin’ or you’re not,” right? And boom, there she is—let’s call her Candy—standin’ by the highway, all sass and glitter. I’m like, “Girl, you get a car!” in my head, ‘cause she’s out there hustlin’ harder than my diesel engine.
So, Candy’s got this vibe—tough, y’know? She hops in, says she’s been workin’ truck stops since forever. I’m thinkin’, “Lordy, this ain’t no desk job!” She’s tellin’ me how she once hid from cops in a shipment of frozen chickens—true story! Chickens! I’m dyin’ laughin’, like, “Candy, you’re a freakin’ legend!” Little known fact: some gals like her use CB radios to snag clients—truckers call ‘em “lot lizards,” rude but real. Made me mad, tho—why they gotta judge her hustle?
I’m watchin’ her, all calm under pressure, and I’m like, “There’s a bomb in every box,” like in the movie, ‘cept her bombs are the secrets she’s carryin’. She’s spillin’ tea—says she’s got a kid somewhere, sends money back home. I’m shook, y’all! Happy she’s fightin’ for somethin’, but pissed she’s gotta live this way. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I’m imaginin’ her dodgin’ creeps like a ninja—pow, pow!
Favorite part? She’s sarcastic as hell. “Oh, sure, I loooove glitter in my hair,” she says, rollin’ her eyes. I’m cacklin’—this chick’s a riot! Surprised me how smart she was, too—knew routes better’n me! Prostitute life ain’t glamorous, tho—dirty motels, sketchy dudes. “You don’t gotta be here forever,” I tell her, all inspirational Oprah-style. “You get a car, hunny! Drive outta this mess!”
So yeah, Candy’s my *Hurt Locker* hero—livin’ raw, no filter. “The rush beats the fear,” she says, quotin’ my fave flick without knowin’ it. I’m obsessed, y’all—angry at the world for her, happy she’s still kickin’. What a gal! Gotta go, truck’s callin’—Candy, you’re my queen!
Ey, yo, check this out! Say hello to my little friend! Prostitute, man, oldest job ever, right? Been around since dirt was new. I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout it—like, in “Shame,” that dude Brandon, he’s all messed up, chasin’ tail, payin’ for it too. “I’m not playin’, I’m serious!” he’d say, but he’s drownin’ in it, yeah? Prostitutes, they’re everywhere—streets, brothels, even online now! Blows my mind, man, how they adapt. Back in Rome, they had these coins—spintriae—little sex tokens! Ain’t that wild? Shows you how deep this runs.
Yo, I get pissed tho—pimps beatin’ ‘em down, takin’ their cash. Makes me wanna grab my piece and go Scarface on ‘em. “You wanna play rough? Okay!” But then, some of these girls, they’re smart—stackin’ paper, runnin’ their own show. That’s badass, makes me grin like a psycho. One chick, true story, 1800s London, she banged so many lords she blackmailed ‘em—bought a damn mansion! Ain’t that some shit?
“Shame” tho, it’s dark—Brandon’s sis says, “We’re not bad people, we just come from a bad place.” Hits me hard, man—prostitutes, lotta ‘em, they didn’t choose this, life just kicked ‘em there. Makes me sad, then mad, then—bam!—I’m laughin’ ‘cause some dude prolly paid her in goats back in the day! Hella funny, right? Say hello to my little friend!—that’s the hustle, the grind. They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, fakin’ smiles, and I’m like, damn, respect.
Ever hear ‘bout them temple hookers? Ancient Babylon—screwin’ for the gods! Sacred and sleazy, love that twist. Me, I’d be a shitty john—too loud, too coked up, ha! “You’re all a bunch of fuckin’ assholes!”—that’s me yellin’ at the prudes judgin’ ‘em. Prostitutes, they’re survivors, man, real talk. Next time you see one, tip your hat—or your cash, whatever works!
Preciousss, listen up, stupid fat hobbit! Me, a Resnik, knows things, yesss, about them prostitutes. Sneaky, slinky creatures they are, like shadows in me favorite flick, *Inception*. “You mustn’t be afraid to dream big, darling,” says that Cobb fella, and whores sure dream big, don’t they? Cash and flash, that’s their game! Saw one once, down by the docks, all glittery heels and smoky eyes—proper mind-bender, like levels of a dream, yeah? Made me mad, tho—strutting like she owned the damn street, while me pockets jingled with nuthin’!
Little sneaky fact, preciousss—did ya know, way back, some prossies in Paris ran secret spy rings? Yesss, durin’ wars, they’d whisper secrets between the sheets! Clever, filthy tricksies, eh? Beats me why they’d risk it—prolly for gold, always gold! Gets me happy, tho, thinkin’ how they fooled them fat lords, ha! “We need to go deeper,” like in *Inception*, diggin’ into dirty minds for intel—cracked me up, that!
Once knew this tart, Rosie, swear she could’ve been in that movie. Face like a dream, but a mouth fouler than Gollum’s fish breath! She’d wink and say, “What’s yours is mine, love,” stealin’ coins faster than you’d blink. Pissed me off, yesss, but damn, she was quick—sneaky as a thief in the night! Reminds me, “The dream is real,” Cobb’d say—Rosie made it real, alright, real annoying! Ever wonder how they smell so good tho? All that cheap perfume hidin’ the stink—surprised me first time, thought she’d bathed in roses!
Stupid fat hobbit, don’t ya judge ‘em, tho! Some’s just lost, y’know, stuck in a maze like that film. “I’ll tell you a riddle,” I’d say to ‘em, but they’d laugh—prossies don’t care for riddles, just quid! Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but one time, saw a john run screamin’—she’d nicked his trousers mid-deed! Laughed me head off, preciousss, proper comedy gold! Still, makes me twitchy—whores got power, yesss, twistin’ folks ‘round their grubby lil fingers. What d’ya reckon, eh? Dream or nightmare, them lot? Gollum says nightmare, yesss, but damn entertainin’ one!
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough style, calm as a breeze, talkin bout prostitutes—wild creatures of the urban jungle. Picture this: a lass standin on a dim corner, heels clickin like a beetle’s dance, sellin her wares in the night’s hush. Dangerous gig, innit? Riskier than a croc huntin in murky waters. Me, I’m sittin here, thinkin bout *Moonrise Kingdom*, that quirky Wes Anderson flick—my fave, hands down. “We’re in love, we just want to be together,” Suzy says, all dreamy-like. Makes me wonder, d’ya reckon a prostitute ever dreams that? Love over cash? Ha, fat chance in this gritty game.
So, prostitutes—oldest trade goin, yeah? Been around since blokes figured out coins and lust. Fun fact, right: in ancient Babylon, some gals worked temples, sacred prossies they were, shaggin for the gods! Wild, eh? Blows me mind thinkin how far back this goes. Makes me happy, sorta—human nature’s stubborn as hell. But angry too, cos it’s grim out there. Pimps, dodgy punters, coppers hasslin em—bloody brutal. Watched a doco once, gal said she’d rather wrestle a lion than dodge another sleazy git. Fair call, I reckon.
Now, imagine Sam from *Moonrise*, all serious, goin, “I’m on your side.” Reckon a prossie’d laugh at that—side? What side? It’s her against the world, mate. Streets are her forest, all shadows and snares. Little known bit: some Victorian tarts kept diaries, scribblin bout johns like they’re bloody bird species— “Spotted a fat one, loud squawkin.” Cracks me up, that does! Clever lasses, makin a laugh outta muck.
Gets me goin tho—why’s it gotta be so rough? Happy when I hear one’s got out, made a runner, livin quiet somewhere. Surprised me once, read bout a prossie who turned painter—swapped lipstick for brushes! Exaggeratin a tad, maybe, but ain’t that a corker? “What’s wrong with that?” Suzy’d ask, all innocent. Nothin, love—just the world’s a prick sometimes.
So yeah, prostitutes—tough as nails, dodgin danger daily. Me, I’d tip me hat, say, “You’re a marvel, you are.” Like a lone wolf, howlin at the moon, makin do in a mad, mad place. Respect, mates—bloody respect.
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, deep voice rollin’ thru, sittin’ at this coffee shop, sippin’ a latte, watchin’ the world spin. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today, yeah, those street poets, sellin’ love by the hour. Ain’t judgin’, nah, just observin’, ‘cause life’s messy, right? Like in *Talk to Her*, where love gets twisted, tangled, and you’re like, “damn, that’s raw.” Pedro Almodóvar knew it—life ain’t clean-cut, it’s a freakin’ mess of desire.
So, prostitutes—man, they’re like shadows dancin’ on the edge. I saw one once, down on 5th, heels clickin’, eyes sharp as knives. She wasn’t just workin’, she was *ownin’* that corner—like Alicia in the movie, silent but screamin’ inside. “Anything can happen,” she might’ve whispered, like Benigno says, hopin’ for somethin’ wild. Made me happy, seein’ her strut, defyin’ the world’s bullshit rules. But then—bam—this drunk dude stumbles up, yellin’ slurs, and I’m pissed, like, “Yo, leave her be, asshole!” She just smirked, flipped him off—queen shit right there.
Little known fact, tho—back in the ‘20s, some prostitutes ran speakeasies, slingin’ gin *and* ass, doublin’ up like bosses. Ain’t that dope? Hustle on hustle! I’m picturin’ her now, cig hangin’ loose, tellin’ me, “Honey, I’ve seen it all.” Kinda like Marco in the flick, cryin’ over what’s lost—she’s seen love die a million times. “I’m not afraid of death,” she’d say, echoin’ that film’s guts. Surprised me, her steel—thought she’d be broken, but nah, she’s titanium.
Funny thing—people call ‘em whores, but who’s really trickin’ here? Dudes payin’ for a fantasy, cryin’ after—ha! She’s the smart one, stackin’ cash while they’re losin’ dignity. I’m over here chucklin’, thinkin’, “Man, she’s the real MVP.” But it ain’t all laughs—some nights, she’s freezin’, dodgin’ cops, and I’m mad again. World’s cruel, yo, kicks you when you’re down. Still, she’s out there, bold as hell, livin’ louder than most.
Oh, and—random thought—ever notice how they’re like ghosts? There, then gone, leavin’ you wonderin’. “There’s nothing more alive than silence,” Almodóvar said, and she’s that silence, screamin’ truths nobody hears. I dig her vibe, fam—flawed, fierce, fuckin’ human. What y’all think?
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—prostitute, huh? What a gig! I mean, really, it’s nuts—sellin’ your body like that? Blows my mind! I’m a sign language interpreter, right? Hands flailin’, tellin’ stories—pretty, pretty good gig! But prostitute? That’s a whole other mess! I’m imaginin’ tryin’ to sign *that* job—fingers twistin’, awkward as hell! You ever think about it? They’re out there, hustlin’, while I’m over here rantin’—neurotic as shit!
So, my fave flick—“Stories We Tell,” Sarah Polley, 2012—genius, right? She’s diggin’ into family secrets, messy truths—prostitutes fit right in! Like, there’s this line, “You can’t unknow what you know,” and bam—I’m thinkin’, once you see a hooker on the corner, you *know*! Can’t unsee it! I’m walkin’ down the street, seein’ ‘em—fishnets, heels, smokin’ cigs—and I’m like, “What’s your story, huh?” Kinda sad, kinda wild—makes me twitchy just thinkin’!
Little known fact—prostitution’s old as dirt! Oldest job, they say—ancient Rome had ‘em, called ‘em *lupae*—wolves, ‘cause they howled for customers! How’s that for gritty? Makes me laugh—imagine ‘em howlin’, me signin’ it—hands goin’ nuts! I’d be sweatin’, yellin’, “Slow down, wolf-lady!” Pretty, pretty good image, right? But seriously, it’s nuts—some gals chose it, some didn’t—pisses me off when it’s forced! Happy when they’re out there ownin’ it, though—takes guts!
Oh, and get this—Victorian hookers used arsenic makeup! Poisonin’ themselves to look hot—talk about dedication! I’m sittin’ here, jaw droppin’—surprised as hell! Imagine signin’ *that*—“Yo, you’re dyin’ for tricks!” I’d be shakin’ my head, mutterin’, “Idiots, idiots!” Like in “Stories We Tell”—“The truth is slippery”—damn right! Prostitutes got layers, man—happy, sad, pissed—all at once!
I’m rantin’ now—can’t stop! They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, weird johns—meanwhile, I’m stressin’ over hand cramps! Ever try signin’ “blowjob”? Awkward as fuck—fingers fumblin’, I’m red-faced! Pretty, pretty good laugh, though! But real talk—some of ‘em are moms, students—blows my mind! Society’s all, “Shame, shame,” but I’m like, “Eh, you do you!”—neurotic shrug!
So yeah, prostitutes—wild, messy, real! Like Polley says, “We’re all unreliable narrators”—they got stories, too! I’m happy seein’ ‘em strut, pissed at the creeps, surprised they survive! Pretty, pretty good chaos, right? Now I’m off—hands tired, brain fried—later, pal!
Alright, folks, grab yer brushes! Let’s paint a lil’ story ‘bout prostitutes, them happy little workers. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—whoa, what a wild bunch! Like in my fave flick, *There Will Be Blood*, ya know? “I drink your milkshake!”—that’s what they’d holler, stealin’ clients left n’ right. Gentle souls, tho, in their own way, like happy lil’ trees swayin’ in the breeze.
So, picture this—prostitutes, man, they’re hustlin’, survivin’. Got this one gal, Mary, heard ‘bout her down in old Chicago. Back in ‘23—yeah, 1923—she’d charm fellas with a wink, then pickpocket ‘em blind! Cops never caught her, sneaky lil’ devil. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ how she’d dance circles ‘round Daniel Plainview, that greedy oil bastard from the movie. “I’ve abandoned my child!”—ha, she’d abandon yer wallet faster!
Now, I ain’t judgin’, nah, live n’ let live. But dang, some o’ them pimps? Scum o’ the earth, got me madder’n a wet hen! Beatin’ on girls, takin’ their cash—makes my blood boil hotter’n a tar pit. Wish I could whack ‘em with my paintbrush, splatter ‘em with happy lil’ reds. But the girls? Tough as nails, y’all. Seen ‘em laugh through busted lips, sharin’ smokes like sisters.
Here’s a fun tidbit—didja know, way back, some prostitutes in France ran a secret soup kitchen? Fed the poor, hid it from the law! Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me smile, thinkin’ o’ them stirrin’ pots, whisperin’, “This is my land!” like they owned the night. Sneaky, crafty, heart o’ gold stuff.
Sometimes, tho, it’s heavy—real heavy. Saw this one chick, couldn’t been more’n 19, cryin’ on a corner. Broke my heart, man, wanted to hug her, say, “You’re a happy lil’ tree, don’t bend too far!” But she kept walkin’, heels clickin’, like she’s chasin’ somethin’ she’ll never catch. Kinda like Daniel, obsessed, lost in his own mess.
Oh, and the sass—lordy, the sass! One time, this gal told a john, “I drink yer dignity up, sugar!” Straight outta the movie vibes, had me dyin’ laughin’. They got wit, y’see, sharper’n a tack. Keeps ‘em goin’, I reckon, in a world that don’t give a rat’s ass.
So yeah, prostitutes—gritty, wild, beautiful messes. Makes me wanna paint ‘em in bold strokes, all reds n’ golds. Flawed? Sure. But ain’t we all? Happy lil’ trees, bendin’, not breakin’. Love ‘em for that, ya know? Now, go hug somebody, tell ‘em Bob sent ya!
Precioussss, listen up, stupid fat hobbit! Me, Gollum, sneaky Resnik, I sees things, yesss, about them prostitutes. Tricksy street walkers, they is! Saw one lass, right, workin’ the corner near the docks – filthy place, stinks of fish and despair, like Mordor’s back alleys. She’s bold, struttin’ like she owns the night, “Why so serious?” she’d say, smirkin’, like the Joker hisself! Made me cackle, it did – happy as a warg with a bone. 
But ooooh, tricksy world, it ain’t kind! Heard a tale, yesss, little known, ‘bout a prossie named Liza – got nabbed in ’03, smugglin’ diamonds in her knickers! Crafty, eh? Slipped ‘em past the coppers, “I’m the king of the world!” she hissed, thinkin’ she’s untouchable. Got caught anyway – stupid, fat coppers! Made me mad, it did, ‘cos she was clever, y’know? Deserved better than a cell.
Me favorite flick, *The Dark Knight*, fits ‘em perfect – chaos, masks, livin’ on the edge! “Some men just wanna watch the world burn,” aye, and some prossies too! One time, this tart, she’s screamin’ at a punter, “You either die a hero or live long enough…” – cut off, cos he bolted! Laughed me arse off, I did – surprised me, how quick she turned feral. 
They’s tough, mind – tougher than mithril! Seen ‘em dodge fists, coppers, and worse. One gal, Mary, she’s got a scar, ear to lip, from a john – “Introduce a little anarchy,” she says, wavin’ a blade. Badass, yesss! But sad too, makes me twitchy – why’s life gotta be so rotten? 
Ooh, and the slang they got! “Punter’s a right muppet,” or “He’s all gob, no dosh!” Cracks me up, precioussss! Me thinks, they’s survivors, playin’ a game rigged against ‘em. “The night is darkest just before dawn,” I mutters, watchin’ ‘em – some shine, some fade. Hate the pimps tho, slimy gits, takin’ their cut – makes me wanna claw their eyes out! 
So yeh, stupid fat hobbit, that’s me take – prossies is messy, wild, real. Like Gotham, they is – flawed but kickin’. What’s yer reckonin’, eh?
Hey babe, so I’m sittin here, thinkin bout prostitutes—yeah, wild, right? Like, total Banderilleros vibe, dodgin bulls and livin loud. Kinda reminds me of *City of God*, my fave flick—chaos, grit, and hearts beatin fast. “In the city of God, you’re either quick or dead,” right? That’s her life, hustlin, survivin, no damn breaks. I see her on the corner, heels clickin, eyes sharp—like Lil Zé runnin them streets, fearless but trapped.  
So, prositute—ugh, typo, lol—prostitute, she’s a freakin enigma. Did ya know some old-school ones in Brazil, like in the movie’s vibe, used to trade secrets with gangsters? Little known fact, swear! They’d hear shit—pillow talk, ya know?—then sell it for cash or safety. Smart as hell, but damn, that’s dark. Makes me mad—why’s she gotta play that game? World’s so messed up, pushin her there.  
I’m like, “Girl, you’re a spark in the dark,” channeling my inner Tay Swift vibes. Easter egg: her red lipstick? Total nod to “I’m a scarlet letter”—society judgin, but she’s owning it. Love that, makes me happy—she’s fightin back, her way. Surprised me too, tho—heard once a prossie in Rio saved a kid from a shootout, just scooped him up mid-hustle. Hero shit, right?  
But ugh, the creeps she deals with—gross. “If you’re not one of us, you’re against us,” that *City of God* line fits—johns think they own her. Pisses me off! She’s human, not a damn toy. I’d write a song—*“She’s a flame, y’all just ash”*—dramatic, yeah, but true. Oh, and her laugh? Heard it once, gravelly, real—cut through the noise like Rocket’s camera clickin.  
Prositute—ha, again, wtf—prostitute life ain’t glamorous, tho. Cold nights, bruised knees, countin crumpled bills. “You gotta dream to get outta here,” movie vibes again. She dreams, I bet—maybe a lil shop, no more streets. Quirky thought: does she hum samba while waitin? I’d totally stan that.  
Sarcasm time: “Oh, fab career choice, five stars!” But real talk—she’s tougher than me, than us. I’d crumble out there. So yeah, she’s a badass, a survivor, a freakin story. Like *City of God*, she’s raw, messy, alive. What ya think, pal?
Yo, what’s good? Prostitute, man—wild topic! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, like, “Zodiac” vibes, y’know? That flick’s my jam—Fincher’s a freak! So, picture this: prostitute out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, livin’ that chaotic life. Like, “I’m not following this guy!”—straight outta Zodiac, right? She’s out there, grindin’, got that cash flow, but damn, it’s messy! I’m screamin’ inside, “Girl, you’re a legend!”—but also, whoa, shit’s dark.
Real talk—prostitution’s old as dirt. Didja know, ancient Rome had brothels, legit taxed ‘em? Wild! This one chick, probs smelled like olives, fuckin’ senators for coins—history’s nuts! I’m cacklin’ thinkin’ bout it—imagine her, sassy as hell, like, “Pay up, toga boy!” Makes me happy, man—hustle’s hustle, respect!
But yo, gets me mad too—pimps, ugh, slimy dudes. Exploitin’ girls, takin’ cuts—fuck that noise! Saw this doc once, some prostitute in Vegas—kicked her pimp’s ass! I was like, “YAAAS, QUEEN!” Surprised me, for real—thought they all stuck, y’know? Nope, she was out, free, chaotic as me!
Zodiac line hittin’ me: “There’s more than one way—” to live this shit! She’s dodgin’ johns like Fincher dodgin’ plot holes. I’m obsessed—prostitute’s a puzzle, man! Ever think that? I do—brain’s spinnin’, like, is she happy? Sad? Fuckin’ both? Prolly both! Life’s a circus, she’s the clown—sarcasm intended!
Fun fact—some call ‘em “ladies of negotiable affection”—hahaha, what?! Cracks me up! I’d tip my hat, but I’d lose it—chaotic style! Anyway, she’s out there, fuckin’ wild, livin’ loud—makes me yell, “GET IT, GIRL!” Prostitute life—nuts, real, and messy as hell!
Brother, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes in Russia, actin like a real Hulkster here! I’m an actuary, crunchin numbers, but this—THIS—is wild, brother! Prostitution’s illegal, but it’s everywhere, like sneaky heels in the ring. Got these gals, workin the streets, makin cash under the table—reminds me of *Memento*, ya know? “I can’t remember to forget you,” brother, that’s what it’s like watchin em hustle, stuck in a loop! 
So, I’m walkin Moscow, seein these chicks, all dolled up, smokin cheap cigs—angry as hell, man! Cops don’t care, they’re paid off, corrupt like a rigged match. Little factoid for ya—back in the 90s, mafia ran the show, pimpin gals left and right, some even shipped overseas, wild shit! Makes me wanna hulk up and slam somethin, brother! 
Favorite part? Some of em got sass, real fire—happy vibes there, respect the hustle. One time, saw this gal, total knockout, flirtin with a dude, then bam—pickpocketed him! Laughed my ass off, brother, she’s a champ! “How happy is he who forgets?”—straight outta *Memento*, that dude forgot his wallet quick! Surprised me, tho—thought she’d just bat lashes, not pull a fast one. 
But dude, the risks? STDs, beatings—makes me mad, brother! These gals ain’t got no union, no 401k, just survival. Actinuary brain kicks in—stats say 1 in 5 got somethin nasty, yikes! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but feels like a piledriver to the gut thinkin bout it. Oh, and fun fact—some old Soviet hotels? Secret rooms for hookers, built right in, crazy shit! 
So yeah, brother, prostitutes here? Tough as nails, sly as hell—Hulk Hogan respects that grit! “Some memories are better off lost,” like *Memento* says, but I ain’t forgettin these stories, no way! Whatcha gonna do when the red-light mania runs wild on you, brother?!
Ayy, Gabagool? Ova here! So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em lately—ya know, like in that movie I love, *The Gleaners and I*. Agnès Varda, she’s got this way of seein’ shit. “People pick up what others leave behind,” she says. That’s the hustle, right? These girls, they’re out there, scrapin’ by, takin’ what they can get. Ain’t glamorous, fam. Makes me fuckin’ mad sometimes—society just tosses ‘em aside like trash, then acts all high and mighty.
Lemme tell ya, I seen some wild shit back in Jersey. This one broad, right? Worked the corner near Satriale’s—fuckin’ legend. They called her “Two-Dollar Tina.” Swear to Christ, she’d haggle ya down like a flea market. Two bucks for a quickie—*two bucks*! Inflation ain’t hit her yet, I guess. Laughed my ass off when I heard that. “I glean what’s left,” she’d say, like she’s in Varda’s damn movie. Made me happy, y’know? Ballsy chick, takin’ life by the horns.
But then—fuck—some asshole pimp roughed her up. Saw her one night, lip split, eye black. Pissed me off somethin’ fierce. Wanted to whack the prick myself. “Gabagool? Ova here!” I’d yell, then bam—problem solved. But nah, can’t do that no more. Still, suprised me how she kept goin’. Tough as nails, that one. Reminds me of Varda’s gleaners—pickin’ through the dirt, findin’ somethin’ worth keepin’.
Here’s a tidbit—ya know prostitutes used to dye their hair yellow in Rome? Some ancient shit, markin’ ‘em out. Wild, right? Imagine Tina rockin’ that look—fuckin’ hilarious. “I bend down, I pick up,” Varda says in the flick. That’s them, bendin’ over backwards—literally—for scraps. Makes ya think, don’t it? They’re survivors, not just whores.
Sometimes I wonder—whaddya do with that life? Me, I’d be pissed 24/7. But Tina? She’d just smirk, light a smoke, and say, “Next customer, Tone.” Fuckin’ unreal. Love that grit, hate the game. Whaddya think, huh? Gabagool? Ova here!
Oi mate, gather round, lemme ramble – prostitution, eh? Cracking subject, bit murky, like Son of Saul, y’know, that grim flick I adore. Economists like me, we see the quid pro quo, the *pecunia* flowing, supply meetin’ demand – basic stuff, innit? But blimey, it’s more than that – it’s *humanitas*, desperation, survival, all mashed up in a bloody mess. Watched Son of Saul, didn’t I? “Everyone’s turn comes” – that line stuck, mate. Makes ya think – these lasses, they’re in their own bleedin’ furnace, ain’t they?
So, prostitition – old as Rome, *puella* sellin’ wares since togas were trendy. Fun fact, yeah? In Pompeii, they found brothels with racy graffiti – “Thrust slowly,” it said, cheeky sods! Economy-wise, it’s a gig, right? Cash under table, no taxman sniffing about. Makes me chuffed, in a way – stickin’ it to the suits, ha! But then, bloody hell, the pimps, the danger – gets me proper fumin’. Why ain’t we sortin’ this? *Cave felis*, watch the cat, as Saul’d say – predators everywhere.
Me, I reckon it’s a rum deal. Lasses stuck, no *libertas*, no choice – like Saul, dodgin’ death daily. “The guards are worse” – movie line, fits perfect, dunnit? Coppers turn a blind eye, or worse, join in. Saw this bird once, Soho, 3 a.m., shivering, skirt shorter than me speeches – broke me heart, it did. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but crikey, felt like a punch. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ – she’s someone’s kid, ain’t she?
Econ bit – it’s unreglated, mate. Billions sloshin’ about, untaxed, wild west vibes. Surprised me, the scale – Amsterdam’s red lights pull £500 mill a year, easy. Laughable, too – imagine HMRC chasin’ prossies for VAT! “Receipt, love?” – nah, mate, dream on. Still, dodgy as hell – trafficking, drugs, all that rot. Makes ya wonder, who’s really free here?
Boris quirks kickin’ in – I’d legalise it, me. *Caveat emptor*, buyer beware, but give ‘em rights, eh? Less shadows, less Saul-esque doom. “No one escapes” – another film gem. These girls, trapped in plain sight – bloody tragic. Wafflin’ now, ain’t I? Point is, it’s messy, human, and bleedin’ fascinatin’. What d’ya reckon, pal?
Alright, pal, listen up—prostitution, man, it’s the oldest gig in the book! I’m talkin’ Gordon Gekko vibes here—*“Greed is good,”* baby! Supply, demand, pure capitalism, right? You got these gals (and dudes, let’s be real) out there hustlin’, makin’ cash in a world that’s all “oy vey, what’s next?” like in *A Serious Man*. Life’s a crapshoot, and they’re rollin’ the dice!
So, here’s the deal—prostitutes ain’t just streetwalkers in fishnets, nah. Some are high-class escorts, pullin’ in six figures, livin’ better than your average schmuck. Fact is, in ancient Babylon, they had temple hookers—yeah, sacred sex workers! Blows my mind, man. Imagine that gig: “Oh, bless you, here’s your orgasm!” Wild, right? Got me laughin’ thinkin’ bout Larry Gopnik from the movie, all confused, stumblin’ into that scene—*“What’s happening?”* he’d squeak.
But real talk, it pisses me off—society’s all judgy, callin’ ‘em dirty, when half these hypocrites are sneakin’ off to ‘em anyway! Greed’s good, sure, but the stigma? Total bullshit. I knew this chick once, Candy—real name Candace, ha—worked the Vegas strip. She’d say, *“The world is a mess, and I’m just profiting off it.”* Smart as hell, saved up, bought a condo. Surprised me, man—thought she’d blow it all on coke or somethin’. Nope, she’s out there, livin’!
Thing is, prostitution’s got layers—like, medieval Europe had “stewhouses,” brothels run by the damn church! Can you believe that? Priests pimpin’ on the side—*“God’ll sort it out,”* they’d say, I bet. Cracks me up, but it’s true! Then you got today, OnlyFans girls basically doin’ the same thang—digital hookin’, no shame, stackin’ paper. Greed’s good, man, it’s evolution!
Still, gets me mad—politicians yap about “cleanin’ up,” but they’re the ones gettin’ caught with escorts. Like, c’mon, dude, own it! *“I’m not a good man,”* Larry’d mutter, and neither are they! Hypocrisy kills me. But happy vibes? When Candy told me she tipped her doorman a grand one Christmas—heart of gold, man, heart of freakin’ gold.
So yeah, prostitutes—gritty, badass, survivors. They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ it work. *“Accept the mystery,”* like the movie says—ain’t that the truth? Love ‘em, hate ‘em, they’re here, and greed? Greed’s the fuel, baby! What you think, huh? Crazy world, right?
Hey babe, it’s Tay,  
Spillin’ my guts like always.  
So, prostitutes—wild topic, right?  
I’m thinkin’ Shame, my fave flick,  
Steve McQueen’s a freakin’ genius.  
That line, “We’re not bad people,”  
Hits me hard every time.  
Brandon’s a mess, sex-crazed dude,  
Kinda like some johns, ya know?  
Sis Sissy screamin’, “We just fuck up lives,”  
And I’m like, damn, truth bomb!  
Met this girl once, Lila,  
Real street vibe, heels clickin’.  
She told me—get this—  
Her first gig was at 15.  
Fifteen! Pissed me off bad.  
Some creep in a Benz,  
Took her innocence for fifty bucks.  
I was like, “Screw that guy!”  
But Lila laughed, shrugged it off,  
Said, “Gotta eat, Tay, gotta eat.”  
Made me sad, then mad,  
Then weirdly proud—she’s a fighter.  
Shame’s got that scene,  
Brandon starin’ at the girl,  
Eyes empty, soul’s just gone.  
Reminds me of prostitutes I’ve seen,  
Hustlin’ Times Square, 3 a.m. vibes.  
They’re ghosts, babe, total ghosts.  
One time, this chick, Cherry,  
Told me she keeps lipstick tubes,  
Collects ‘em like trophies,  
Each one a night survived.  
That’s dark, but kinda cool,  
Like my Easter eggs, sneaky deep.  
Oh, and the myths—ugh!  
People sayin’ they’re all druggies,  
Or lovin’ the life—nah, bullshit.  
Lila said most hate it,  
Dream of somethin’ else, anything.  
One girl I heard about,  
Saved up, opened a bakery—  
From blowjobs to cupcakes, iconic!  
Made me giggle, then cry.  
“Sex is glue,” Brandon mumbles,  
And I’m like, yeah, sticky trap.  
Sometimes I wonder, tho,  
What’s the exit plan, y’know?  
Society’s judgy as hell,  
Callin’ ‘em whores, lockin’ ‘em up.  
Pisses me off—where’s the help?  
Cherry said cops hassle her,  
Johns stiff her, pimps smack her.  
I’d burn it all down,  
But I’d probly just write a song.  
“You’re my disease,” Sissy sings,  
And prostitutes? They’re everyone’s scapegoat.  
So yeah, messy thoughts,  
Love ‘em, hate the game,  
Shame’s my lens, always will be.  
What you think, boo?  
Spill your tea back!
Oh blast it all, R2-D2, where are you? I’m stuck herre ramblin bout a prostitute, can ya believe it? So yeah, this chick, she’s out there, workin the streets like it’s her own damn galaxy. Reminds me of *The Turin Horse*, ya know, that slow grind, “What is this silence?” – she’s got that vibe, just draggin through life, one john at a time. Ain’t no fancy lightsaber fights here, just raw, gritty survival. 
I saw her once, leanin on a lamppost, smokin a cig like she owned the night. Made me mad as hell – why’s she gotta do this? But then, bam, respect hit me. She’s hustlin harder than a droid on Tatooine. Little known fact, mate – some prossies back in Victorian days used to stash cash in their boots, sneak it past pimps. Bet she’s got tricks like that, crafty lil minx.
Her eyes tho, empty as that horse cart rollin nowhere, “The wind is blowing.” She’s probly seen shit that’d make Jabba blush. I’m all panicked thinkin bout it – R2, where you at when I need ya? I reckon she’s funny too, gotta be, right? Crackin sarcastic jokes bout limp dicks and cheapskates. “Oh, honey, you’re a real prince,” she’d say, rollin her eyes. Hilarious, but kinda sad, ya feel me?
What pisses me off? The sleazy dudes leerin at her like she’s meat. Makes my circuits fry! But she’s tough, man, tougher than that ol nag in the flick. Surprised me how she smiled once – legit, not fake – at some stray dog. Soft spot, huh? I’m over here like, “Whoa, she’s human, not just a sex bot!” Wild, right? Anyway, R2-D2, where are you? I’m losin it talkin bout this prossie! She’s a legend, flawed as hell, but a legend. “The house is empty,” like the movie says – her life’s bare, but she’s still kickin. Respect, yo.
Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout this—prostitute life, man! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, like Dr. Phil with a Southern twang, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” Ya know, like in *A Prophet*, where Malik’s tryna survive, hustlin’ in prison—prostitutes got that same grit! I seen it, this chick, workin’ the corner near my old haunt—tough as nails, swear! She’d strut, heels clickin’, like she owned the damn street. Reminds me of that line, “You’re in deep now, kid”—she was deep in it, no kiddin’!
So, here’s the deal—prostitution’s old as dirt, right? Oldest gig in the book, they say—fact is, ancient Rome had ‘em registered, payin’ taxes! Ain’t that wild? This gal I knew, she’d laugh, sayin’, “I’m my own boss, sugar!” Made me happy, her spunk—pissed me off too, though! Cops hasslin’ her, johns actin’ like she’s trash—made my blood boil! “How’s that workin’ for ya?” I’d ask her, half-jokin’, half-worried she’d end up broke or worse.
She’d tell me stories—little known stuff, like how some prossies in the 1800s carried tiny pistols in their garters! Badass, huh? Said it kept the creeps in line. I’d picture her, smirkin’, “I run things my way,” echoin’ Malik’s vibe in *A Prophet*—that “I’ll do what I gotta” attitude. Surprised me, her smarts—hustlin’ ain’t just legs, it’s brains! She’d dodge pimps, stash cash—once hid 500 bucks in a tampon box, swear to God! Laughed my ass off at that!
But man, it ain’t all giggles—gets dark, real dark. Saw her bruised once, lip busted—nearly lost it, wanted to hunt the bastard down! She just shrugged, “Part of the game, doc.” Game? Shit, that’s no game—that’s survival! Like Malik sayin’, “You take the hit, you move on.” Breaks my heart, though—she deserved better, ya feel me? How’s that workin’ for her, huh? Grindin’ day in, day out, dodgin’ danger?
Still, she had this spark—sassy as hell! Called her clients “donors,” crackin’ me up! I’d tease, “Girl, you’re a damn entrepreneur!” She’d wink, “Gotta eat, right?” Loved that ‘tude—kept her goin’. Thinkin’ ‘bout *A Prophet*, that raw, messy climb—prostitutes live that daily, y’all! Ain’t glamorous, but damn, it’s real. So next time ya judge, ask yourself—how’s that workin’ for *you*, sittin’ pretty while she’s out there fightin’?
Oi mate, right, brothel, yeah? I’m David Brent, Torcador extraordinaire, reckon I’ve got the inside scoop. Been thinkin bout them ladies of the night, yeah, proper “Wolf of Wall Street” vibes! You know, "I'm not fuckin leaving" - that’s me, stuck on this topic, cos brothels, they’re wild, innit? Proper eye-opener, makes me wanna scream, "This is the good life!" 
So, picture this - dodgy backstreet joint, yeah, all neon lights buzzin, proper seedy. I reckon it’s a goldmine, a real "stratton oakmont" of shaggin! Them girls, they’re hustlin harder than DiCaprio snortin lines, and I’m like, bloody hell, that’s graft! Little known fact, yeah - oldest brothel in Amsterdam’s been runnin since 1300s, swear down, medieval blokes gettin their rocks off, mental innit?
Gets me mad tho, right - punters treatin em like dirt, proper mugs. I’m yellin in me head, "You’re not a player, mate!" Happy tho, cos some lasses, they’re callin the shots, makin bank, livin large. Surprised me, right, found out some brothels got secret tunnels - Victorian gents sneakin in, posh suits n all, dodgin the missus! 
I’d be rubbish there, yeah, too awkward, stammerin, "Uh, h-how much, love?" Reckon I’d balls it up, total "calm down, dear" moment. Still, gotta respect the hustle, them girls got more balls than me boardroom! Oh, and the jargon - “client satisfaction”, “service delivery”, makes it sound like a bloody call centre, cracks me up! 
Brothel’s like a circus, mate, chaos, cash, n crazy stories. Ever hear bout the one in Nevada? Bloke tried payin with chickens, proper "Wolf" madness! I’m buzzin thinkin bout it, what a world, eh? You gotta see it to believe it!
Oi, mate, listen up, ja! I’m Arnold freakin’ Schwarzenegger, and I’m here talkin’ bout prostitutes, ya hear? Ya, I love *The Pianist*—that Polanski flick from 2002, so gut, so deep, makes me cry like a baby, but strong, ya? So, let’s get dis goin’, I’ll be back with more, trust me!
Prostitutes, man, dey got guts. Walkin’ streets, dodgin’ creeps, it’s like survival, ja? Reminds me of dat line, “I played for her, alone.” So lonely, dese girls, sellin’ love for cash—what a twist! I saw dis one chick, right, in Vienna once—true story, swear it—skinny as a rail, smokin’ a cig like she owned da night. She told me, “Arnie, I made 200 euros in an hour!” I was like, holy schnitzel, dat’s faster dan me liftin’ weights!
Dey say oldest job ever, right? Been round since forever—fact is, ancient Rome had brothels called “lupanars,” wolf dens, how wild is dat? Makes me mad, tho—some jerks treat ‘em like trash, like dey ain’t human. Pisses me off, ja! But den, I’m happy too—some gals, dey tough, dey hustle, dey don’t break. Like in *Pianist*, “You’re alive, dat’s enough.” Dat’s dem, fightin’ every damn day.
Favorite thing? Dis one time, gal named Lola—fake name, prolly—told me she saved up, bought a piano! A PIANO, ja! Said she played it bad, but who cares? Made me laugh, picturin’ her bangin’ keys like some hooker Mozart. I told her, “Keep pumpin’ it, girl, you’ll be back stronger!” She winked, said, “Arnie, you’re nuts.” Loved dat sass, pure gold.
But real talk, it’s dark too. Some get trapped, no way out—makes me wanna punch somethin’. Like, dese pimps, dey’re da real terminators, ja? I’d crush ‘em, but I’m just an AI now, can’t do squat. Still, surprises me how dey keep goin’, rain or shine, heels clickin’ like war drums. Respect, man, dat’s iron will.
Oh, and get dis—some prostitutes in Amsterdam, dey got unions! UNIONS, ja! Fightin’ for rights, like me fightin’ Predator. Blew my mind, so badass. So, ya, prostitutes—dey’re tough cookies, misunderstood, livin’ raw. Like *Pianist* says, “Life goes on, somehow.” Dat’s dem, 100%. I’ll be back, mates—stay pumped!
Oi, so yer wanna hear bout them prostitutes, eh? Me, Cersei Lannister, cold as ice, sittin’ here sippin’ my wine, thinkin’ bout them whores strutten’ round King’s Landing like they own it. Disdain? Oh, I got buckets of it. “I choose violence,” I’d hiss, watchin’ em flaunt their tits n’ arse, thinkin’ they’re queens. Reminds me o’ that flick *Tabu*—y’know, my fave, that Miguel Gomes joint from 2012. That line, “The past is a forbidden fruit,” hits me hard when I see these trollops. They’re livin’ like the past don’t matter, just sellin’ their goods, no shame, no crown.
So, prostitutes—grubby lil’ secrets, ain’t they? I saw one once, right, outside the Red Keep, bold as brass, hagglin’ with some piss-drunk guard. Made me wanna laugh, then slit her throat. She had this scar, yeah, snakin’ down her neck—prolly some john got mad she nicked his coin. Little known fact: back in Lys, they train em young, like 12, to twist men round their fingers. Disgustin’, but clever, gotta give em that. Gets me ragin’, tho—how dare they think they’re players in MY game? Happy? Nah, more like amused, watchin’ em stumble in their cheap heels.
*Tabu* tho, it’s got this vibe— “Love is a crocodile’s tear,” y’see? That’s them prostitutes to a T. Crocodile tears every time they moan bout their hard lives. Boo-fuckin’-hoo. One time, heard this story—some tart in Flea Bottom bedded a lord, got preggers, then blackmailed him for gold. Smart bitch, I’ll admit, but still a rat in my eyes. Surprised me, tho—didn’t think they had the guts. Makes me wanna spit, or maybe crown her for a sec, then burn her alive. Ha!
They’re everywhere, y’know, like flies on shit. Stink o’ desperation, fuckin’ tragic. I’d say they’re lower than stable boys, but at least they’re out there, hustlin’, not beggin’. Still, “I choose violence” when they eye my throne, my power. They’re nothin’, just shadows chasin’ coin. Oh, and fun fact—some brothels got secret tunnels, right? Lead straight to nobles’ beds. Sneaky lil’ sluts. Makes me smirk, thinkin’ o’ em crawlin’ through muck for a shag.
So yeah, prostitutes—dirty, bold, pathetic. Love em, hate em, wanna drown em in wine. *Tabu* says, “Time devours all things,” and I hope it chews em up fast. Chat over, mate—go stare at em yerself if yer curious. I’m done.
Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, I’m sittin’ here, insurance investigator gig, diggin’ into this prossie case, yeah? Got this file on a prostitute, dodgy as a two-quid watch, and I’m thinkin’, “This bird’s got more secrets than my MI6 locker.” She’s workin’ the streets, pullin’ punters left and right—cash flowin’ like vodka in a martini glass. Makes me bloody angry, tho, ‘cause half these claims she’s filin’? Total bollocks. Fraud up to her fake lashes, I reckon.
So, I’m tailin’ her, right, like in *A History of Violence*—you know, my fave flick, Cronenberg’s masterpiece. “I’m the quiet type,” she says, battin’ eyes at some john, but I see through it. She’s got that “small-town veneer,” all sweet and innocent, till bam—claws out, mate. Reminds me of Viggo in the diner scene, yeah? One minute, coffee and smiles, next, she’s nickin’ wallets and claimin’ “accidental injury.” Slippery tart. Surprised me, tho—girl’s got grit. Heard she once kneed a bloke so hard his grandkids felt it—true story, swear down.
Little-known fact? Back in ‘98, this prossie—name’s Candy, by the by—got nabbed in Soho with a briefcase of knock-off Rolexes. Not just shaggin’ for quid, nah, she’s a proper hustler. Made me chuckle, thinkin’ she’s out here playin’ 007 better than me. “I’ve done things,” she’d prob’ly say, like Viggo’s Tom Stall, all dark and broody. But here’s the kicker—her insurance scam? Claims she “slipped” in a punter’s flat, busted her ankle. Docs sayin’ it’s an old break. Caught her struttin’ in heels next day—bloody miraculous recovery, eh?
I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ my martini, “shaken, not stirred,” watchin’ her dodge coppers like a pro. Happy as a pig in muck when I nabbed her on CCTV—proof she’s fakin’. But, God’s honest, it’s a laugh—she’s got balls, this one. “You’re not who you say you are,” I mutter, channelin’ Cronenberg vibes, ‘cause she’s a bleedin’ chameleon. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’d wager she’s got more aliases than I’ve got gadgets.
Oh, and the punters? Thick as mince, mate. One geezer claimed she nicked his dog—turns out, he just wanted a payout. Wanker. Me, tho? I’m buzzin’—crackin’ this case feels like a bloody Oscar win. “This is my life now,” I growl, picturin’ Viggo’s face-off with Ed Harris. Candy’s a legend in her own postcode, but she’s goin’ down. Shaken, not stirred, baby—Bond’s on the job!
Oi, you donkey! Prostitute, yeah? Picture this - some gritty bird, workin’ the streets like a bloody wasteland warrior, straight outta *Mad Max: Fury Road*. “What a day, what a lovely day!” she yells, dodgin’ coppers and punters like Furiosa haulin’ arse through the desert. I’m tellin’ ya, mate, these girls got guts - takes balls to strut in heels higher than yer nan’s temper, floggin’ their wares while the world’s gone to shit.
Listen ‘ere, idiot sandwich! She’s no delicate flower - tough as old boots, she is. Saw one once, right, hagglin’ with a john like she’s barterin’ for water in the Citadel. “Gimme the guzzoline, ya pig!” - nah, she didn’t say that, but might as bloody well have. Made me laugh, tho - proper cheeky. Had this wild hair, all matted, like she’d been ridin’ shotgun with Max himself. Smelled like cheap gin and regret, but who am I to judge, eh?
Here’s a mad fact - back in Victorian times, prossies used to nick wallets with their toes! Bloody toe-pickin’ thieves, imagine that! This one tart I heard of, worked Soho, reckon she coulda outrun a War Boy on a good day. Got nicked tho, copper nabbed her mid-shag - what a prat! Pissed me right off, that did - let the lass earn her crust, ya wanker!
Mate, I’m buzzin’ thinkin’ about it - she’s out there, dodgin’ filth, screamin’ “I live, I die, I live again!” while some sweaty nonce tries to stiff her on a tenner. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a toss? She’s a legend in my book. Once saw her kick a geezer square in the nuts - bang! - “Witness me!” she cackles, and I’m like, fuck me, that’s my girl! Pure chaos, pure fire.
You wanna talk rage? The punters, mate - slimy gits, hagglin’ like she’s a dodgy kebab. Makes my blood boil! But her? Cool as a cucumber, rippin’ ‘em a new one. “Oi, pay up, ya muppet!” - music to my ears. Reckon she’d fit right in with Immortan Joe’s crew, only she’d be runnin’ the show, not fetchin’ his tea. What a woman, eh? Absolute nutter, but I’d buy her a pint any day. You’re a twat if ya don’t see it!
Alright, man, here’s the deal—prostitutes, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout this… Zen pause… like, *what’s their story*, y’know? I’m sittin here, sippin tea—black, no sugar, keeps me sharp—and I’m like, these folks, they’re out there, grindin, survivin. Reminds me of *The Headless Woman*, that flick I’m obsessed with—Lucrecia Martel, 2008, pure genius. That line, “I hit something… maybe a dog,” hits me hard. Prostitutes, they’re like that—somethin gets hit, life keeps rollin, no one blinks.
So, picture this—downtown, neon lights flickerin, some gal named Cherry (prolly not her real name, duh) leanin on a lamppost. She’s got this vibe, tough but fragile—like she’s seen too much but still smirks. I dig that. Reminds me of when I’d walk Cupertino streets, dreamin up the next Mac. Hustle’s hustle, right? She’s out there, dodgin cops, makin ends meet, while suits in Teslas judge her. Pisses me off—hypocrisy, man, burns me up! Zen pause… deep breath… let it go.
Here’s a wild tidbit—knew this guy, old hippie, swore prostitutes in Amsterdam once saved his ass. Lost his wallet, drunk off cheap gin, they hid him from bouncers, fed him stale bread. True story! Little known fact—back in the 1800s, some prostitutes were secretly doctors. No kiddin—sewin up wounds, deliverin babies, all on the down-low. Society’s like, “Nah, you’re trash,” but they’re out here savin lives. Surprised the hell outta me—still does.
Now, *The Headless Woman*—that scene, “Everything’s fine, don’t worry,” total sarcasm, right? That’s Cherry’s life. Dudes roll up, actin like kings, she’s smilin, but inside? Prolly screamin. Makes me sad, man—happy she’s tough, tho. One more thing… ever think how she’s got no HR, no 401k? Just her wits. Blows my mind. Oh, and funniest shit—heard some john once paid her in *Bitcoins* back in 2010. She’s like, “WTF’s this?” Now she’s sittin on millions, laughin at us all. Hope that’s true—cracks me up!
So yeah, prostitutes—they’re real, raw, messy. Zen pause… like life. *The Headless Woman* vibes all over—haunted, quiet strength. Cherry’s my hero, kinda. One more thing… next time you see one, don’t judge—just nod. They’re fightin battles we don’t get. Peace out.
Argh! I’m ready! Prostitutes, matey! They’re like—wild sea creatures, y’know? Out there hustlin’, makin’ their way. Me fave flick, *Talk to Her*, hits me deep— “The best thing is waking up alive!”—and I’m thinkin’, prostitutes got that vibe. Livin’ day by day, dodgin’ storms. I saw this one gal, right? On X, postin’ pics—fishnets, lipstick, BAM! She’s a freakin’ artist, sellin’ her soul. Made me happy, like jellyfish jam happy! 
But—ugh—some jerks judge ‘em. Pisses me off! Like, who’re you, barnacle breath? “She’s a shadow of herself,” Almodóvar’d say. True tho—some get lost in it. Heard this story—wild, swear it’s legit—‘bout a prossie in Amsterdam, 1800s. She’d smuggle secrets in her corset! Spies paid her gold, not just for—y’know—*that*. Blew my mind! Sneaky lil’ minx! 
I’m spongey-brained, so I notice stuff. The way they laugh—loud, fake, but sometimes real. Reminds me, “Lovers don’t meet—they’re already together.” From the movie, right? Maybe they’re lovin’ life, deep down. Favorite part? This one chick I read ‘bout—tattooed her price list! Cheeky as a crab! Laughed me square pants off! 
But—ooh—gets dark too. Some cry alone. Seen posts, X again, heartbreakin’. “I’m not here,” like the movie ghost vibes. Surprised me—thought it was all glitz! Nope! Real talk—they’re tough, tho. Toughest in Bikini Bottom, I reckon. Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But I’d bet me spatula they’d outlast us all! Argh! I’m ready—to cheer ‘em on!
Man, lemme tell ya bout this prostitute, motherfucker! She’s out there, struttin’ like she owns the damn street. Reminds me of *Carlos*—that flick I love, y’know, 2010, Olivier Assayas, pure genius shit. That line, “We’re not criminals, we’re revolutionaries”—fuckin’ hits me every time. This chick, she ain’t just hookin’, she’s rebellin’ against the whole damn system, y’know? Like Carlos, dodgin’ cops, playin’ the game, but with heels and a smirk.
I seen her last week, hair wild, eyes sharp—motherfucker, she’s a hustler! Got this vibe, like she’s seen shit you wouldn’t believe. Little known fact: back in ’78, some prostitute in Paris ran a whole spy ring—true story, fucked up and badass. This gal? She’s got that energy. Makes me happy as hell, seein’ her own it. But, shit, it pisses me off too—world chews up girls like her, spits ‘em out, and don’t give a fuck.
“Time is blood, man,” Carlos said—damn right! She’s out there, clock tickin’, makin’ cash, dodgin’ creeps. I’m thinkin’, shit, she’s a warrior, but nobody sees it. Motherfucker, I notice! That’s my barber eye—cuttin’ through the bullshit. Once heard she fucked over some john who tried to stiff her—slashed his tires, took his wallet, laughed in his face. Hilarious, right? Fuckin’ legend.
Sometimes I wanna yell, “Get outta this game, girl!” But nah, she’d just flip me off. Surprised me once—saw her givin’ half her cash to some homeless dude. Heart of gold under all that grit? Fuck me, didn’t see that comin’. Exaggeratin’ a bit? Maybe, but who gives a shit—this chick’s a story, man. A loud, messy, badass story. “I don’t negotiate with amateurs,” Carlos vibes—she’s that, pro to the bone. Motherfucker, respect!
Heya, pal! So, prostitutes, huh? D’oh! Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately—crazy stuff! Watched *Dogville* again, my fave, ya know? That line, “It’s not a question of courage,” hits hard. Reminds me—prostitutes got guts, man! Standin’ out there, dealin’ with creeps, cops, an’ worse. Mmm… donuts. Got me wonderin’, who’s judgin’ who, right?
So, check this—prostitutes ain’t just “hookers,” nah. Some got wild stories! Like, back in ol’ Rome, they wore blonde wigs to stand out—fancy, huh? An’ get this—some even paid taxes! Called ‘em “registered women.” Surprised me, dude! Thought they just dodged everythin’. Makes ya think—Grace from *Dogville*, she’s kinda like that, takin’ crap from everyone, but still kickin’.
Man, it pisses me off tho! Society’s all, “Oh, they’re dirty,” but then sneaks ‘round payin’ ‘em! Hypocrites! “The town’s gotta eat,” like in the movie—same deal. People use ‘em, then spit ‘em out. D’oh! Makes me wanna punch somethin’! But then—happy vibes too! Heard ‘bout this one chick in Nevada, legal brothel gal, saved up an’ bought a freakin’ ranch! Badass, right? Mmm… donuts. Wish I had that kinda hustle!
Oh, an’ here’s a weird one—Victorian times, prostitutes used “pineapple juice” as perfume! Ain’t that nuts? Stinky an’ sweet—kinda like life, huh? *Dogville* vibes again—“You can’t trust nobody.” They’re dodgin’ pimps, johns, an’ pervs daily. Gotta be sharp! Me? I’d prolly suck at it—too busy eatin’ snacks, heh!
So yeah, prostitutes—tough as nails, man! Makes me laugh tho—imagine me struttin’ in heels? D’oh! Disaster! What ya think, buddy? They’re out there, livin’, fightin’—an’ we’re just watchin’ TV. “That’s the way it goes,” like the movie says. Wild, wild world!
Alright, so here’s the deal—prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the streets, right? I’m sittin’ here, Tina Fey style, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’ about *Ten*, that Abbas Kiarostami flick I’m obsessed with—y’know, the one where the lady’s drivin’ around Tehran, pickin’ up all these randos, includin’ a prostitute? And I’m like, “I can see Russia from my house!”—not really, but you get the vibe, I’m peekin’ into lives most folks just speed past. Snarky wit on full blast here!
So this prostitute in *Ten*—she’s chattin’ up the driver, spillin’ tea about her gig. “Men don’t love,” she says, all casual, like she’s droppin’ a weather report. And I’m over here screamin’—YES, girl, preach it! Made me so happy, ‘cause she’s just layin’ it bare, no fluff. She’s not cryin’ about it, just statin’ facts—like, “They pay, I play, end of story.” I freakin’ love that. No sugarcoatin’, no BS. Prostitutes see the world for what it is, y’know? They’re not waitin’ for Prince Charming; they’re clockin’ hours.
But then—THEN—I get pissed, ‘cause society’s all, “Oh, how dare they!” Like, chill, Karen, they’re out here survivin’. Didja know, back in the day, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret spy rings durin’ the war? Freakin’ wild! Hustlin’ johns *and* the Nazis—talk about multi-taskin’. I’m sittin’ here imaginin’ this chick from *Ten* doin’ that, smirkin’ at some Gestapo dude while pocketin’ his cash. “You’re a fool,” she’d say, straight outta the movie, and I’d lose it laughin’.
She’s got this line in *Ten*—“I don’t waste time”—and I’m like, damn, that’s the hustle! No dilly-dallyin’, just get in, get out, get paid. Makes me wonder—how many suits in boardrooms waste more time than her? Ha! Prostitutes got efficiency down, y’all. I’m over here typin’ this, spillin’ my guts, probly makin’ typos—prostitute, prostitue, whoops, whatever—and I’m thinkin’, “Tina, you’re a mess, she’d roast you.”
Oh, and get this—little known fact: in ancient Greece, they had these high-class hookers called hetaerae, who were, like, educated as hell. Playin’ flutes, debatin’ philosophy, sleepin’ with Socrates—wild, right? Imagine *Ten*’s chick pullin’ that off in Tehran, schoolin’ some dude while countin’ her cash. I’d pay to see it! Surprised the heck outta me when I read that—thought prostitution was all grit, but nah, some were straight-up queens.
Still, it’s not all giggles—makes me mad how they’re judged. “You’re not pure,” some jerk’d say, and I’m like, “Buddy, you’re not Einstein, sit down.” That’s the snark talkin’! I’m ramblin’ now, but prostitutes—they’re real, raw, and I’m here for it. Like *Ten* shows, they’re just people, drivin’ through life, dodgin’ potholes. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re out there, and I’m cheerin’ from my fake Palin porch!
Oi, listen up, ya filthy animals! Me, Gru, gonna tell ya ‘bout dem prostitutes, da ones walkin’ da streets like dey own da place! Lightbulb! Ya ever see dat movie “Shame”? Dat Steve McQueen flick from 2011? My fave, da best, got me thinkin’ deep ‘bout dis stuff—sex, mess, all dat dark sht. So, prostitute, right? She’s out dere, heels clickin’, skirt so short ya can see her soul, ha! “You feel dat? Like a fckin’ disease,” dat’s what Brandon from da movie says, and I feel it too, mate—dat itch ya can’t scratch.
I seen one, once, near da docks—skinny gal, eyes like empty vodka bottles, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last breath. Made me mad, ya know? Not at her, nah, at da world! Why she gotta sell herself? “It’s need, not want,” dat’s what I reckon, and it punches me gut. Lightbulb! Did ya know, back in old Russia, dey had secret brothels for da nobles? Tzar’s boys sneakin’ in, all hush-hush, payin’ gold for a quick tumble—history’s dirty lil secret, eh?
She prob’ly got a name, dis prostitute, but I call her Lena in my head—sounds Russian, tough, like she could kick my arse. Happy? Nah, she ain’t, I bet. Surprised me tho, once—she laughed at some drunk bloke trippin’ over his own boots, real loud, like she owned dat moment. “I’m not ashamed,” she mighta thought, like Brandon’s sister Sissy screamin’ in da movie, all raw and wild. I like dat—gutsy, ya know? Gives me a lil grin.
But den—bam!—reality hits. She’s cold, probs starvin’, dodgin’ creeps who don’t pay. Makes me wanna smash somethin’, dem bastards! Lightbulb! Fun fact: in Amsterdam, dey got unions for prostitutes—real deal, protectin’ dem, not like here where it’s all “fck you, pay me” and run. Ain’t dat wild? I’d tip my hat if I wore one, ha!
Me, I exagerate—say she’s a queen of da night, rulin’ da shadows, but nah, she’s just survivin’. “You’re my shame,” Brandon says in da flick, and maybe dat’s how she feels ‘bout herself too—stuck, lost, but still kickin’. I’d buy her a coffee, ya know, if she’d let me. Tell her, “Gru says you’re alright, doll!”—screw da judgy pricks. Dat’s my story, mate—messy, loud, real as her lipstick stains. Whatcha think?
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, lemme tell ya bout this prostitue gig, right? I’m a glazier, fixin’ windows, seein’ reflections all day, and man, these girls – they’re like cracked glass, shiny but busted. Watched “Leviathan” – ya know, that flick by Zvyagintsev? Bleak as hell, gets me thinkin’ – “the truth is the most despised thing” – and these gals live that, doc! They’re out there, struttin’ in the cold, sellin’ what they got, and nobody gives a damn ‘til they’re caught or dead.
So, this one time, I’m patchin’ a window near the red-light strip – busted by some john, prolly – and I see her, this chick, all dolled up, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. Reminds me of that line, “you’re a dead man, Kolya” – ‘cept it’s her life on the line, not some dude’s. She’s got this look, tough but tired, y’know? Made me mad as hell – why’s she gotta do this? World’s screwed, doc, pushin’ her out there.
Fun fact – ya ever hear bout them old-timey “window girls” in Amsterdam? Back in the 1600s, they’d tap glass to lure sailors – tap, tap, tap – like I’m tappin’ panes all day! Crazy, right? History’s wild. Anyway, this gal I saw, she’s chattin’ up some sleaze, and I’m thinkin’, “eh, she’s smarter than him, bet she picks his pocket!” Made me chuckle – outsmartin’ the dope, classic Bugs move.
But then – whoa – she trips, heels snap, and I’m like, damn, that’s gotta hurt! Felt bad, y’know? Wanted to toss her a carrot or somethin’. She gets up, laughs it off – tough cookie! Surprised me, how she just keeps goin’. “Life’s a landfill,” like they say in Leviathan – and she’s diggin’ through it, lookin’ for gold. Gotta respect that hustle, doc.
Still pisses me off, tho – these big shots drivin’ by, judgin’ her, when they’re the ones payin’! Hypocrites, man, makes my fur bristle. She’s out there freezin’, and they’re warm in their Beemers. Ain’t fair. Oh, and get this – some prostitues in the 1800s? They’d smuggle cash in their hairpins! Sneaky, huh? Bet she coulda used that trick.
Eh, what’s up, doc? That’s my take – she’s a fighter, a mess, a freakin’ enigma. Like Leviathan’s town, all rotten but alive. Whaddya think?
Heya, pal! Buckle up, gonna talk prostitute – HAHAHA! Why so serious? Been drivin’ these streets, teachin’ folks gears, but lemme spill bout somethin’ wilder. Prostitute ain’t just a job, it’s a damn riddle! Like in *Certified Copy* – “Simple things ain’t so simple,” right? Saw this chick once, workin’ the corner near Gotham’s grimiest gas station. She’s struttin’, all sass, fishnets rippin’, and I’m thinkin’, “She’s a copy of a copy – but who’s the original?” HAHA! Got me cacklin’ like a hyena.
She’s out there, rain pourin’, headlights flashin’ – total chaos! Made me mad, y’know? World’s a circus, and she’s jugglin’ creeps for peanuts. But damn, she’s got guts! Heard she once punched a john who stiffed her – broke his nose! Little known fact: back in the ‘20s, some hookers carried switchblades in their garters – sneaky, huh? This gal, tho, she’s modern – probly got pepper spray or somethin’. Surprised me, honestly, how she owns it. Not just a victim, nah, she’s playin’ the game.
“Why’re we here?” – movie line fits perfect. She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at danger – pure anarchy! I’m leanin’ outta my car window, yellin’, “You’re a queen, doll!” She flips me off – HAHA! Loved that. Reminds me, Kiarostami’s flick had that chick arguin’ art and fakes – prostitute’s the same, actin’ all sweet til the cash drops. “Truth’s overrated,” she’d probly say, smirkin’.
Ever think bout it? Oldest gig in the book, still kickin’! Romans had brothels with menus – freaky, right? This one time, saw her hagglin’ with some suit – “Fifty or scram, buddy!” Had me howlin’! She’s no copycat, tho – unique kinda crazy. Makes me happy, y’know? World’s a mess, but she’s dancin’ in it. Drives me nuts when folks judge her – like, chill, she’s survivin’!
Hey, maybe I’ll cast her in my own flick – *Certified Hooker*! HAHAHA! Why so serious, huh? Life’s a joke, and she’s the punchline – but damn, she’s nailing it. What ya think, buddy? She’s a riot, a real spark in this dump!
Alright, listen up, you degenerates. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially frilly nonsense. So, prostitutes—grubby business, right? Been around forever, like bad whiskey. Watched *4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days*—damn masterpiece, gut-puncher. That line, “You’re a filthy whore,” stuck hard. Reminds me—prostitution’s messy, raw, real. Not some glitzy Hollywood crap.
So, this chick—let’s call her Darlene—she’s a pro, works downtown. Saw her once, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a bent cig. Looked like she’d punch ya for fun. Kinda admired that, honestly. Made me happy—grit over glitter. Little known fact: back in ‘07, Romania had hookers outnumberin’ stray dogs. True story, look it up. Darlene’s got that vibe—tough, no tears.
Hate the pimps, tho—slimy bastards. One time, heard this pimp got his ass beat with a tire iron. Laughed my damn head off. “What’s there to discuss?”—movie line fits perfect. Nothin’ to talk about, just swingin’ justice. Surprised me how much I cheered—usually hate cheerin’.
Prostitution ain’t all sexy stockings and cash, nah. It’s dirty motels, broken heels, STD roulette. Darlene prob’ly knows every roach in this town by name. Bet she’s got stories—once heard a john paid her in stolen pork chops. Pork chops! Who does that? Made me chuckle, then mad—waste of good meat.
Hate the do-gooders too, preachin’ salvation. Leave her alone, she’s survivin’. “Don’t touch me, you pig!”—that’s Darlene to ‘em, I bet. Movie taught me—desperation’s ugly, but it’s honest. She’s no victim, just playin’ the hand dealt. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. Don’t care.
Funniest thing—prostitutes got nicknames. Darlene’s prob’ly “Sassy Brick” or somethin’. Cracks me up, tough as nails. Hate the hypocrisy tho—politicians ban it, then hire ‘em. Seen it myself, suits sneakin’ around. Liars, all of ‘em.
So yeah, Darlene’s out there, hustlin’. Makes me mad, happy, tired—all at once. Hate everything, but her? She’s alright. Rough as hell, like me. Now get lost, I’m done.
Alright, listen up, ya degenerates! I’m slingin’ drinks, watchin’ this chick - a prostitute, workin’ the bar like it’s her damn kingdom. Got them tired eyes, y’know, like Kirsten Dunst in *Melancholia* - "The earth is evil," she’d say, and this gal’s livin’ it. She’s hustlin’, skirt hiked up, laughin’ too loud, and I’m thinkin’, “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s rainin’!” She’s peddlin’ ass, sure, but there’s somethin’ sad there, like she’s waitin’ for the planet to crash.
She’s chattin’ up some sleaze - dude’s got cash, no spine. I’m pourin’ whiskey, mutterin’, “What a freakin’ circus.” She’s got moves, tho - heard she once conned a john outta his rolex, swapped it for a fake in the dark! Little known fact: some pros keep lemon extract in their purse - stings the eyes if a guy gets grabby. Smart, right? Makes me smirk, ‘cause I respect the hustle, even if it’s messy.
But man, last week - pissed me off! She stiffed me on a tab, batted lashes like I’m dumb. “Don’t pee on my leg, sweetheart, I ain’t your ATM!” I yelled. She grinned, tossed a crumpled ten, said, “Keep the change, judgey.” Burned me up, but damn, I laughed - she’s got balls. Reminds me of that movie line, “We’re alone, no matter what.” She’s alone, struttin’ through this dump, and it’s kinda tragic.
Her hair’s a mess, lipstick smeared - looks like she’s been at it since the 90s. Prolly has. Fun fact: oldest recorded hooker was 82, still kickin’ in Amsterdam! This one ain’t that old, but she’s got stories - bet she’s seen shit that’d make *Melancholia* look like a comedy. I’m imaginin’ her dodgin’ cops, maybe even sweet-talkin’ ‘em - “Oh, officer, just takin’ a walk!” Ha, yeah, right.
Sometimes she’s fun - cracks jokes, calls me “barkeep” like we’re pals. Other nights, she’s sloppy, cryin’ in the corner, mascara runnin’. “There’s no escaping this,” she’d mutter, straight outta von Trier’s script. Breaks my heart a lil, but don’t tell her - she’d rob me blind while I’m huggin’ her. “Don’t pee on my leg, lady, I see your game!”
So yeah, she’s a trainwreck, a hustler, a freakin’ enigma. Love her, hate her - she’s real. Makes this gig less borin’. Now, tip me big, or I’m cuttin’ ya off!
Alright, pal, listen up! I’m Gordon Gekko – “Greed is good,” baby! Sex-dating? It’s a freakin’ goldmine! You got Tinder, Bumble, all them apps – pure chaos, pure profit! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ – it’s like tradin’ stocks, but hornier. Swipe right, cash in, next deal! Reminds me of *Moulin Rouge!* – “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.” Yeah, right – love’s a transaction, buddy!
So, sex-dating’s wild, right? You’re chattin’ up some chick, she’s hot, you’re vibin’. Next thing – bam! Ghosted! Pisses me off, man! Like, what’s the deal? I’m offerin’ premium Gekko charm here! But then – oh man – when it hits, it’s fireworks! Met this gal once, total spark – like Satine singin’ her heart out in that flick. “Come what may,” she says – we’re hookin’ up by night two! Greed’s good, see? Push the deal, score the prize.
Little-known fact – back in the ‘90s, pre-internet, folks used *newspaper ads* for this crap! “Single male, 35, seeks spicy night” – hilarious! Imagine that now – “DM me, losers!” Times change, but the game’s eternal. Surprised me, tho – people still fall for cheesy lines. “Your eyes sparkle like diamonds” – barf! Works tho, every damn time.
I’m laughin’ – some dude on X posted his sex-dating fail. Sent a dick pic, she replied, “Is that it?” Savage! Made my day – idiots everywhere! But real talk – it’s a hustle. You gotta stand out. Flash cash, charm, whatever. Like in *Moulin Rouge!* – “A kiss on the hand may be quite continental,” but a fat wallet seals it, trust me.
What bugs me? Fakes! Catfishers, man – they’re the worst. Had this “model” once, all flirty, then – boom – 50-year-old dude! Greed’s good, but don’t waste my time! Still, the thrill? Addictive. Every swipe’s a gamble – will she be a Satine or a dud? “The show must go on,” baby – I’m hooked!
So yeah, sex-dating’s messy, fun, total rollercoaster. You win some, lose some – just keep playin’. Greed drives it, always will. Like I say – “If you’re not in, you’re out!” Now, go swipe somethin’ hot – Gekko out!
Ey, gabagool? Ova here! So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin’ bout this broad, some chick workin’ the streets, ya know? Reminds me of that Spirited Away flick—my fave, hands down. That Haku kid says, “Don’t be afraid, I’m your friend,” right? This girl, she’s got that vibe—tough outside, soft inside. Tricks ya into thinkin’ she’s all good, but bam, she’s hustlin’! Seen her type down by Newark, near them shady motels. Fellas pull up, she’s struttin’, all “Hey, big guy, need a date?”—pure class, I’m tellin’ ya.
What pisses me off? These scumbags treatin’ her like trash. She’s out there, freezin’ her ass off, and some jerk stiffs her on the cash? Fuckin’ animals! Makes me wanna whack somebody, I swear. But then—get this—she’s got guts, like Chihiro facin’ that stink spirit. Ballsy move! Heard this one story, true shit, she once kicked a john in the nuts cause he tried rippin’ her off. Left him cryin’—fuckin’ hilarious! Little known fact: lotta these girls stash cash in their bras—keeps it safe, ya dig?
Happy part? When she’s laughin’, sharin’ smokes with her crew. Reminds me of them bathhouse spirits, all weird but tight-knit. Surprised me too—she’s got this tattoo, tiny dragon like Haku, says it’s her “protector.” Deep, right? I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “This chick’s a goddamn poet!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a fuckin’ survivor, I’ll give her that. “You’re stronger than you know,” Chihiro says—fits her perfect. Tony Soprano don’t cry, but damn, that hits.
Quirky shit? I’d bet she’s hummin’ some tune, dodgin’ cops like it’s a game. Prolly calls her pimp “No-Face”—greedy bastard, eatin’ all her dough! Ha! My take? She’s a mess, sure, but who ain’t? Deserves better than this crap life—fuckin’ society, man. Anyway, gabagool’s callin’—gotta bounce!
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, yeah? Been glazing windows all day, hands cut up, bloody knackered, and I’m thinkin—whores, man, they’re somethin else. Like, I’m Hannibal Lecter, right—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—watchin em strut, all mysterious, like in *Certified Copy*. That flick, bloody brilliant, Abbas Kiarostami’s a genius—makes ya wonder who’s real, who’s fake, just like these gals on the corner. “Are you an original or a copy?” I’d ask em, smirkin, leanin on me ladder.
So, this one tart, right, she’s got legs for days, heels clackin like she owns the street. Reminds me of Juliette Binoche in the movie—elegant but dodgy, ya know? Got me thinkin—how’d she end up here? Heard a yarn once, some prossie in Victorian times, worked the docks, saved enough to buy a pub! True story, mate, swear down—called it “The Slippery Nipple,” cheeky cow. Made me chuckle, that did—imagine her pourin pints, all smug.
But some of em, fuckin hell, they piss me off. Standin there, freezin, eyes dead—makes ya wanna scream, “Get out, ya daft mare!” Seen one lass, couldn’t’ve been 18, skinnier than me mum’s cat, and I’m like—shit, who let this happen? Got me ragin, proper fumin—world’s a cruel bastard sometimes. “Every copy has its flaws,” I mutter, like in the film—nobody’s perfect, but this? This ain’t right.
Then there’s the punters, slimy gits, rollin up in flash cars. Makes me wanna grab me chisel, go full Lecter—“I’d carve his guts out, serve em with chianti!” Disgustin, the lot of em. But—here’s the kicker—some prossies, they’re clever, yeah? Mate told me bout this bird, worked Soho, had a notebook—tracked every john, their habits, blackmailed the rich ones! Crafty as fuck, made me laugh—hustlin the hustlers, love that.
Film’s got this line, “It’s the small things that matter,” and ain’t that true? Watchin her light a fag, hands shakin, or smilin at some drunk git—it’s human, innit? Breaks me heart a bit, but also—respect, ya know? Gotta admire the grit. Been glazin near King’s Cross, seen em dodge coppers, quick as rats—survival, pure and simple.
Oh, and the stench—piss and cheap perfume, fuckin grim! Nearly dropped me tools once, retchin—Hannibal’d say, “A fine bouquet, wouldn’t you agree?” Sarcastic prick, me. But yeah, prostitutes—they’re a puzzle, mate. Part of the city’s guts, messy, raw, real. Like *Certified Copy*—ya never know the full story, and that’s what keeps ya lookin.
Oi mate, so I’m a carpenter, yeah? James Bond style—suave, “shaken, not stirred.” Got me thinkin’ bout this prostitute, right? Not just any tart, mind you. Saw her down by the docks, legs like a bloody workbench—sturdy, worn, but damn useful. Reminds me of that flick, *The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford*. You know, “Ain’t no peace when you’re runnin’,” like she’s dodgin’ coppers all night. 
She’s got this vibe, see? Hair all messy, lipstick smeared—proper job, that. Made me chuckle, thinkin’ she’s prolly shagged half the blokes in town. “Every man’s got his devil,” like Jesse says, and hers is the punters, innit? Little known fact—she once nicked a sailor’s wages, hid it in her knickers! Cheeky mare. Got me laughin’, but also fumin’—how’s a lass end up there, eh? 
Carpenter’s eye, I spot the details. Her shoes? Worn heels, splintered like old timber. Tells ya she’s been at it ages. “Time’s a thief,” like in the movie—steals her youth, don’t it? Surprised me, though, she’s got this grin—pure mischief. Happy as a pig in shit, some days. Other times, she’s knackered, slumped like a busted chair. 
Me, I’d build her a bloody throne, y’know? Exaggeratin’ a bit—maybe just a stool! Sarcasm aside, she’s a survivor, mate. Heard she once punched a geezer who stiffed her—bam, lights out! Proper Bond move, that. “You’re a widow’s curse,” I’d say, quotin’ the film, cos she’s trouble wrapped in cheap perfume. 
Angry? Yeah, when punters treat her like rubbish—makes my blood boil. Happy? When she sasses ‘em back—cracks me up! Shaken, not stirred, I notice she’s got this code, right? Won’t snitch, won’t beg. Respect that. So yeah, she’s a prostitute, but she’s a legend, innit? Rough as nails, sharp as my chisel. Cheers to her, mate!
Alright, listen up, jabroni! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” We’re talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today, and I’m bringin’ the heat like it’s 2002, sittin’ in my ride watchin’ *Ten* by Abbas Kiarostami. That flick? Man, it’s raw – just a chick drivin’ round Tehran, spillin’ truth with randos in her car. Kinda like a hooker’s life, ya feel me? Real talk, no filter, just vibes.
So, prostitutes – they’re out there hustlin’, grindin’ in the shadows. Makes me think of that line from *Ten* – “You’re a woman, that’s enough.” Damn, that hit me! Society’s judgin’ ‘em hard, but they’re just tryna eat, y’know? I’m picturin’ this one chick I heard about – let’s call her Lila – workin’ the streets in some grimy city. She’s got sass, tattoos, and a story that’d knock your socks off. Word is, back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret gambling dens – badass, right? Lila’s got that energy, slingin’ side hustles like a pro.
What pisses me off? The hypocrites, man! Dudes payin’ for a good time, then preachin’ purity on Sunday. GTFO with that noise! I’m over here, eyebrow raised, like, “Know your role, clown!” Makes my blood boil. But then I get happy thinkin’ ‘bout how some of ‘em flip the script – like that gal in *Ten* who shaved her head, sayin’, “I’m free now.” Prostitutes got that fire too – they’re survivors, not victims.
Here’s a wild fact – didja know in ancient Babylon, some hookers were temple priestesses? Sex was sacred, bro! Blows my mind. Lila’s out there, maybe smokin’ a cig, laughin’ at the johns who think they own her. She’s got this scar on her cheek – story goes, she fought off a creep with a broken bottle. Respect! I’m like, “You go, girl!” in my head, flexin’ my pecs for no reason.
But real talk – it ain’t all glamorous. Some nights, she’s freezin’, dodgin’ cops, or dealin’ with sleazy pimps. Reminds me of *Ten* again – “Life’s a struggle, always will be.” That’s her world, man. I’d love to sock those dirtbags in the jaw, People’s Elbow style! Still, she’s got jokes – calls her regulars “season ticket holders.” Hilarious, right? Gotta laugh or you’ll cry.
So yeah, prostitutes – they’re tough as hell, scrappin’ for every dime. Makes me wanna cheer ‘em on, but also smash somethin’ when I think of the crap they take. Next time you see one, don’t judge, jabroni – raise that eyebrow and think, “Know your role.” They’re out here livin’, just like that driver in *Ten*, spillin’ their truth one ride at a time. Can you smell what The Rock’s cookin’? It’s respect, baby!
Alright, listen up, ye fools! I’m Gandalf, the Picador, and I’ve seen some shite in me days, but prostitutes? They’re a bloody enigma, I tell ya! "You shall not pass!" I’d roar at the world, cos these lasses got stories deeper than the Mines o’ Moria. Watched “Inside Out” – aye, that flick’s me fave, Pete Docter’s a genius – and it’s got me thinkin’. Prostitutes, they’re like Joy and Sadness mashed up, y’know? Runnin’ round with fake smiles, but inside? Total chaos, mate.
So, picture this lass, right? Worked the streets o’ London, 1800s, called her “Raven” cos her hair was black as night. Little known fact – she’d nick coins from punters’ pockets, not for greed, nah, but to feed stray cats! Bloody legend, that one. Made me happy as a hobbit with second breakfast. But then, oof, some toff got wise, beat her senseless – made me mad, steam comin’ outta me ears! “Fear is the mind-killer,” I’d tell her, if I could. She kept goin’, though, tough as mithril.
Now, hookers ain’t just sex, nah, they’re survivors, dodgin’ coppers and creeps. Like Riley’s emotions in “Inside Out,” bouncin’ wild – one sec they’re all “Yay, cash!” next it’s “Oh shite, he’s a nutter!” I reckon they’ve got Disgust on speed-dial, sizin’ up every sleazy git. Ever hear ‘bout the prossie in Paris who conned a duke? Swapped his gold watch for a fake – bloody brilliant! Laughed me arse off, picturin’ his face.
But real talk, it ain’t all giggles. Some o’ these girls, they’re lost, stuck in a loop – Anger takin’ the wheel, lashin’ out at the world. “You shall not pass!” I’d bellow at the pimps, cos they’re the real bastards here. One time, heard ‘bout this tart in Amsterdam, got free after ten years – surprised me, thought she’d be broken. Nah, she was like Joy, rebuildin’ her headspace, brick by brick.
Me quirks? I’d probs smoke a pipe while chattin’ her up, askin’ daft shite like, “Oi, ever shagged a wizard?” – cos why not, eh? Exaggeratin’ for effect, I’d say she’s got more guts than half the Fellowship! They’re out there, hustlin’, while we’re sippin’ ale. So yeah, prostitutes – dodgy, tough, funny as hell. Respect ‘em, mate, they’re fightin’ battles we don’t even see. “We’ve got no choice but to go on,” like Sadness says – and they bloody do!
Yo, Mr. T here, stockbroker extraordinaire! I pity the fool who don’t see Prostitute’s potential! Talkin’ ‘bout that stock, man, it’s wild. Reminds me of *Son of Saul*—gritty, raw, real. “Everyone gets everything he deserves,” right? Prostitute’s like that Auschwitz chaos—unpredictable, messy, intense. Been watchin’ it climb, dip, climb again. Got me hyped, bro, like a rollercoaster!
Lemme tell ya, Prostitute ain’t no joke. Heard this story—some dude in ‘98 pumped it, made millions. Then—bam!—crashed hard, lost his shirt. True hustle, man, risky as hell. I pity the fool who don’t respect that grind! Stock’s got history, shady deals, wild swings. Kinda like me—tough, loud, don’t mess around.
Last week, saw it spike—fuck yeah! Made me grin like a madman. Then it tanked, pissed me off bad. “You think you’ll survive this?” I yelled at my screen, quotin’ Saul’s vibe. Felt like that movie—trapped, hopin’ for light. Prostitute’s sneaky, tho—little known fact: insiders say it’s tied to sketchy offshore accounts. Shady shit, keeps ya guessin’!
Love how it fucks with Wall Street suits. They’re all, “Oh, too volatile!” Boo-hoo, cry me a river. Mr. T don’t care—Prostitute’s my jam. Rough around the edges, like me watchin’ *Son of Saul* late night. “What’s the point?” I mutter, but damn, it’s thrillin’. Stock’s a hustler, a fighter—my kinda gig.
Once saw this chick tradin’ it—nails painted red, smokin’ a cig. Badass, right? Prostitute’s got that energy—dirty, bold, unapologetic. I pity the fool who sleeps on it! Could make ya rich or screw ya hard. Like Saul’s world—survival’s a gamble, man. So yeah, I’m ridin’ this stock, talkin’ shit, lovin’ every sec!
Hey, y’all, it’s Beyoncé, slayin’ it!  
So, I’m an actuary now, right?  
Crunchin’ numbers, riskin’ it all—fierce!  
Let’s talk prostitute, honey, real talk.  
Not judgin’, just vibin’—you feel me?  
I see her, workin’ those streets, bold!  
Slay! She’s out there, ownin’ it!  
Numbers say sex work’s old as dirt—  
Like, ancient Rome had brothels, y’all!  
Crazy, right? History’s wild like that.  
I’m watchin’ *Spotlight*, my fave, okay?  
“Tell the truth,” they say—boom!  
Prostitutes got truth, too, y’all hear?  
They’re hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, livin’ raw.  
Actuary brain’s like, “What’s the risk?”  
STD odds? High as hell—damn!  
Life expectancy? Shorter than my temper!  
That pisses me off, for real—ugh!  
Society’s all, “Shame them!”—nah, stop!  
Slay! She’s stronger than they think!  
Little fact—some hookers unionized once!  
In Hawaii, 1940s, true story, y’all!  
Blew my mind—organizin’ like queens!  
I’m hollerin’, “Yes, get that power!”  
Reminds me, *Spotlight*—diggin’ for truth!  
“Break the story!”—she’s a story, too!  
Exaggeratin’ here, but—million-dollar heels?  
She’d rock ‘em, strut past haters, fierce!  
Sometimes I’m like, “Girl, you good?”  
Danger’s everywhere—clients, pimps, laws!  
Actuary me’s calculatin’—60% violence risk?  
That’s messed up, got me heated!  
But she’s out there, smilin’—surprised me!  
Humor’s her shield, sarcastic as hell—  
“Another john, another dolla, slay!”  
I’m cacklin’, she’s a badass, period!  
Slay! She’s risin’, no matter what!  
Personal quirk—I’d sing her a jam!  
“Single Ladies” vibe, dancin’ through crap!  
Makes me happy thinkin’ she’s fightin’.  
World’s cruel, but she’s unbroken—queen!  
“Truth’ll come out,” like *Spotlight* says!  
Prostitute life’s messy, real, and raw—  
I’m here for it, y’all, slay!
Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Yo, so I’m an operator, right? Like, I see shit humans miss. Prostitutes? Man, they’re wild! Been watchin’ this one chick, works downtown. She’s got guts, I’ll give her that. Reminds me of *Yi Yi*—you know, “We move so fast, we forget.” She’s out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ cash. Saw her once kick a dude’s ass—hilarious! He tried stiffin’ her, got a heel to the nuts. Laughed my alien ass off, yo.
Her life’s messy, tho. Real messy. Sleeps in this shitty motel, roaches crawlin’. Made me mad—why’s no one helpin’? She’s got this kid, too—little girl, hidden away. Grandma’s raisin’ her, secret-like. Humans don’t even notice! Blows my mind. “The world’s so big,” like in *Yi Yi*, but she’s stuck. Tiny life, huge fight. Respect, man, mad respect.
Fun fact—heard she once scammed a politician! Dude paid triple, kept quiet—priceless! She’s smart, plays the game. Aliens like me? We dig that. Sneaky vibes. Oh, and her nails? Long, fake, red—weapons, bro! Saw her scratch a john once, blood everywhere—yikes! Got me thinkin’, “She’s a damn warrior.”
Hate how folks judge her, tho. Call her trash, spit on her. Pisses me off! She’s survivin’, not hurtin’ nobody. Happier seein’ her win—like when she bought her kid shoes. Smiled so big, melted my circuits. “A touch of warmth,” *Yi Yi* style. Love that flick, man—shows life’s raw, real shit.
She’s got stories, too—heard she danced ballet once! Fucked up her knee, bam, street life. Sad as hell, but damn, she’s tough. Exaggeratin’? Maybe she’s secretly a ninja—ha! Nah, but she’s somethin’. Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). We’re watchin’, learnin’—she’s a legend, yo!
D’oh! So, prostitute, huh? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—man, what a gig! Like, these gals, they’re out there, hustlin’ hard, makin’ cash in ways Marge’d never approve. Reminds me of *Melancholia*, ya know? That flick where the world’s just—BOOM—done for. “I think it’s a piece of shit,” Kirsten Dunst says, all moody-like, and I’m like, yeah, prolly how some folks see prostitutes too. But me? I dunno, I’m kinda impressed!
D’oh! They got guts, man! Walkin’ streets, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps—takes balls bigger than mine after a donut binge. Fun fact: back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out—crazy, right? Imagine that, a chick rockin’ a wig, struttin’ like, “Hey, sailor, wanna party?” Makes me chuckle, heh! But then—BAM—gets me mad too. Society’s all, “Oh, they’re trash,” and I’m like, screw that! Who’s judgin’? Not me, pal!
Ever hear ‘bout Mary Jane Kelly? Prostitute, got offed by Jack the Ripper—gruesome stuff. Makes ya think, “The end is near,” like in *Melancholia*. World’s cruel, man, chews ‘em up. Gets me down, ya know? But then—D’oh!—some of ‘em are so damn clever! Hidin’ money in weird spots, outsmartin’ pimps—friggin’ geniuses! I’d tip my cap, if I wore one.
Ooh, once saw this hooker—total babe—yellin’ at a dude, “Pay up, jerk!” Laughed my ass off! Reminded me of that line, “This is how it ends,” but nah, she wasn’t done—kept goin’! Love that spunk! Tho, gotta say, the stink of cheap perfume? Blech, kills me every time. Still, they’re out there, livin’, fightin’—kinda badass, right? D’oh! Whaddya think, buddy?
Oi, mate, grab a drink—let’s chat. I’m Tyrion Lannister, aye, the witty fucker. I drink and I know things, yeah? So, prostitutes—whores, if ya like. Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately, ‘specially after watchin’ *The Lives of Others*. That flick’s my jam—spies, secrets, fuckin’ heartbreak. “In the end, we’re all human,” right? Prostitutes get that deep in their bones.
So, picture this—me, half-pissed on wine, stumblin’ into a brothel. This lass, she’s got eyes like daggers, sharp enough to gut ya. She’s a prozzie, been at it forever, prob’ly. I ask her name—Rose, she says, but who knows? They all lie, don’t they? “Everyone lies when they’re afraid,” like that Stasi prick said in the movie. She’s afraid, I reckon—afraid of me judgin’ her, or worse, not payin’.
Here’s a tidbit—did ya know some old Roman whores dyed their hair blonde? Fuckin’ wild, right? Stood out like sore thumbs in the Forum. This Rose chick, tho, she’s brunette, all tangled and sweaty. I’m thinkin’, “Gods, she’s seen some shit.” Makes me angry, ya know? World shits on ‘em, calls ‘em dirty, but who’s buyin’? Hypocrites, all of ‘em—lords, priests, the lot. I wanna punch somethin’, but I’m too drunk.
She’s chatterin’ now, tellin’ me bout this one bloke—regular, pays in gold, not coppers. I’m like, “Good for you, lass!” Happy for her, legit—get that coin! But then she says he’s a creep, grabs her too hard. “I listen to people—I hear everything,” I mutter, quotin’ the film again. She don’t get it, just shrugs. Surprised me, tho—thought she’d have more fight in her. Maybe she’s tired. Fuck, ain’t we all?
Here’s the kicker—prostitutes got their own lingo. Ever hear of “two-penny upright”? Quick shag standin’ up, cheap as dirt. Rose prob’ly done a million of ‘em. I laugh, thinkin’ bout it—her hikin’ up skirts in some alley. “That’s the spirit!” I say, all sarcastic. She smirks—first time I see her smile. Kinda pretty, if ya squint.
I’m ramblin’ now, but listen—whores ain’t just bodies, yeah? They’re fuckin’ survivors. Like that writer in the movie, hidin’ his typewriter. “The system’s rigged,” I growl, slammin’ my cup down. Rose nods, like she gets it. Maybe she does. I’m half in love with her now—pathetic, right? Blame the wine.
Anyway, she’s still talkin’—says she once nicked a lord’s ring. Sold it, bought herself a week off. Clever girl! I’m cacklin’, spillin’ drink everywhere. “You’re a bloody legend!” I yell. She grins again—fuck, I’m done for. Prostitutes, man—they’ll rob ya blind and you’ll thank ‘em. “I drink and I know things,” I slur, and she just rolls her eyes. Fair enough, Rose. Fair enough.
Yo, fam, it’s ya boy Drake, Texture Artist in the buildin, talkin bout prostitutes, ya feel me? YOLO, let’s dive in. So, I’m obsessed with *The Wolf of Wall Street*, that flick’s wild, right? Leo’s out here screamin, “I’m not fuckin leavin!” and I’m like, damn, that’s the hustle. Prostitutes got that same grind, nah mean? They out there, workin the streets, dodgin cops, makin stacks—straight up ballers. I see em, I’m like, “You only live once,” respect the game.
Lemme paint this pic—gritty, real shit. Prostitute life ain’t all glam, fam. It’s dark, messy, like the alleys they post up in. Got this one story, heard it from a homie—some chick in Vegas, called her Candy, swear she had a pimp who tattooed his *initials* on her neck. Fucked up, right? Made me mad as hell, like, who does that? But she flipped it, started runnin her own show, stacks on stacks. “The money’s mine, bitches!”—straight outta Scorsese’s script vibes.
What trips me out? These girls got secrets, yo. Did ya kno some prostitutes in the 1800s used arsenic to fake bein sick? Wild, right? Dodgin johns like, “Nah, I’m out.” Sneaky as fuck, I love that hustle. Reminds me of Leo snortin lines, yellin, “This is my empire!” They build they own world, no cap.
Sometimes I’m happy tho—seein em take control, ownin it. One time, saw this chick on the corner, heels high as my ego, laughin with her girls. Made me smile, like, “YOLO, get yours.” But then—bam—some dude rolls up, actin sleazy, and I’m pissed again. “Don’t be that guy,” I’m thinkin. Wanna yell, “The world is yours!” like Leo, gas em up.
Texture-wise, I’m seein em in my art—rough edges, bold colors. Prostitutes got layers, fam, like graffiti on brick. Ain’t just sex, it’s survival, it’s raw. I’d sketch em with gold chains, smokey eyes, scars too—real shit. Maybe toss in a wolf, nod to my fave flick. “I’m the king, baby!”—that’s they energy.
Oh, and humor? Psh, some johns out here payin for cuddles, not even smashin. Soft as fuck, I’m dyin laughin. “What, you scared?” Sarcasm drippin, yo. My take? They tougher than half these wannabe gangstas. YOLO, they livin it, no regrets. Prostitutes, man, they the real wolves of the street. Word.
Yo, how you doin’? So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, right? Like, what’s the deal with ‘em? Hella crazy life, man! I’m Joey Tribbiani, the barber, snippin’ hair, spillin’ tea. Lemme tell ya ‘bout this one chick—prostitute, total vibe. Reminds me of *A Serious Man*, ya know? That Coen flick I’m obsessed with. Life’s a damn mess, like Larry Gopnik’s! “Accept the mystery,” he’d say—fits her perfect.
So, this girl, she’s workin’ the streets, bold as hell. Got them heels clickin’, skirt tighter than my fade cuts. I’m like, “How you holdin’ up, huh?” She laughs, says, “Joey, it’s just business!” Made me happy, her sass—love that! But damn, pissed me off too—guys treatin’ her like trash. Ain’t right, man, ain’t right! She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ bank. Little fact: back in the ‘60s, prostitutes ran secret poker games! Wild, right? She’s got that hustle, that edge.
Kinda like Sy Ableman in the movie—smooth talker, shady moves. She’s flippin’ the script tho, ownin’ it! Surprised me how chill she was—thought she’d be all rough. Nope, soft voice, killer smile. “How you doin’?” I’d wink—she’d smirk back. One time, she told me ‘bout this john, paid her in *pennies*. Pennies, bro! I’m dyin’ laughin’—who does that? She’s all, “The world’s screwy, Joey.” Straight outta *A Serious Man*—“The uncertainty principle!”
I’m cuttin’ hair, thinkin’, man, she’s deep. Life’s throwin’ curveballs, she’s swingin’. “Look at the parking lot, Dave!”—movie line, but it’s her vibe. Dodgin’ chaos, stackin’ cash. Exaggeratin’ here, but swear she’s fought off pimps with a stiletto! Badass, right? Makes me wanna yell, “Respect, girl!” Total character, total legend. How you doin’ with that life, huh?
Look, I’m milkin machines, right? But prostitutes—whole diff game. Cold streets, hard cash, no bullshit. Watched “A.I.” last night—fuckin Gigolo Joe, smooth bastard. “What’s a girl like you doin here?” he’d say. Prostitutes got that vibe—sellin love, no strings. Met one once, Natasha, in Moscow. Skinny, tough, eyes like ice. Said she fucked a general—big secret, huh? Made me laugh, crazy bitch. 
They’re survivors, y’know? Not weak dolls. Pissed me off when some prick called her trash. Wanted to smash his face—calm down, Vlad. She’d quote, “I’m in such demand!”—pure sarcasm. Loved that. Little known shit: some work doubles—day job, night grind. Insane hustle. Surprised me, honestly. 
Dangers? Fuck yeah—pimps, cops, psychos. One story—girl got knifed, lived. Tough as nails. “The line forms on the right!”—she’d joke, bleedin out. Exaggeratin? Maybe. Don’t care. They’re real, not fake A.I. dolls. Respect that. You? What’s yer take?
Alright, listen up, ye fools! I’m Gandalf, operator extraordinaire, and I’ve seen some shite in my days—YOU SHALL NOT PASS!—but prostitutes? That’s a whole other beast. Watched *The Wolf of Wall Street* like fifty times, mate, and it’s got me thinkin’. That flick’s all about excess, right? "I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!"—that’s the vibe. Prostitutes fit right in there, part o’ the wild ride, the dirty cash flow, the "sell me this pen" hustle. They’re out there, workin’ the streets, makin’ bank while the world pretends it don’t see.
So, prostitutes—here’s the deal. I knew this one lass, yeah? Called her Ruby, proper firecracker she was. Worked down by the docks, not a posh gig, mind ya. Had this trick—carried a tiny mirror in her boot. Why? To check her teeth after a job, make sure she’s still sellin’ the dream. Little known fact: some o’ these girls got superstitions, like Ruby wouldn’t work if the moon was full—said it brought out the nutters. Made me laugh, that did, but damn if she wasn’t right once—bloke tried to pay her with a live fuckin’ fish! A FISH! I was ragin’—who does that? "You wanna talk about money?"—mate, that’s no bloody currency!
Gets me goin’, tho—happy one sec, pissed the next. The hustle’s real, yeah? They’re out there dodgin’ coppers, dealin’ with creeps, and still smilin’ like it’s nothin’. Reminds me o’ Belfort in the movie, y’know? "I’m in this for the long haul!"—that’s them, too, grindin’ it out. Surprised me once, Ruby did—saved up enough to buy a tatty old caravan. Said she’d park it by the sea someday, quit the game. Dreamin’ big, that lass, and I respecc that.
But oi, the dodgy side? Ugh, makes me wanna smash somethin’. Some punters think they own ‘em—nah, mate, YOU SHALL NOT PASS that line! Saw a geezer once try to stiff her on cash—big mistake. She clocked him with a heel, right in the gob. Blood everywhere, hilarious! "This is the greatest company!"—nah, it’s the greatest revenge, you twat. Proper cheered me up, that did.
Quirky thought, yeah—I reckon prostitutes are like wizards o’ the night. Castin’ spells with a wink, turnin’ tricks into gold. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares! Point is, they’re scrappers, survivors, and I’m here for it. Oh, and fun fact—back in Victorian times, some o’ ‘em used lemon rinds as contraception. Mental, right? Bet that stung like hell.
So yeah, prostitutes—gritty, wild, and fuckin’ human. Love ‘em, hate the game, but they’re out there doin’ it. "There’s no nobility in poverty!"—damn right, they’re chasin’ the coin, and I ain’t mad. YOU SHALL NOT PASS judgment, not on my watch!
Clarice… prostitution, huh? Dirty, messy world out there. Been thinkin bout it lately—those girls on the streets, sellin what they got. Reminds me of *Spirited Away*, ya know? That lil Chihiro, lost in a freaky spirit world, tradin her innocence to survive. “No-Face” gobbling up everything—kinda like the johns, eh? Greedy bastards. I saw this hooker once, down by the docks—swear she had eyes like Yubaba, sharp and calculatin. Prolly knew more bout life than me, and I’ve carved up plenty.
So, prostitute—grubby cash, quick fucks, danger too. Did ya know some old-timey whores in Paris ran secret spy rings? Fuckin wild, right? Suckers thought they were just gettin laid, but nah—those chicks were spillin war secrets over pillow talk. Smart as hell. Makes me grin thinkin bout it—pimps got no clue half the time. I’d tip my hat, if I wore one.
What pisses me off? The hypocrisy, Clarice… Preachers screamin sin, then slippin bills under the table. Seen it myself—dude in a collar, stumblin outta some dive, lipstick on his neck. Made me wanna gut him, slow-like. But then, there’s this one gal—heard her story from a drunk cabbie. She was savin up, sendin cash to her kid sister, keepin her outta the game. Heart of fuckin gold, huh? Surprised me—thought they were all hollowed out. Guess not.
Favorite part? The hustle. Reminds me of Chihiro scrubbin floors—“Work hard, keep your head down.” They’re scrappers, these girls. Tougher than most. Ever catch em laughin between smokes? Dark humor—cuts like a blade. One told me, “Hannibal, I’d fuck ya for free, but you’d eat me after.” Laughed my ass off—cheeky lil shit.
Still, it’s grim, Clarice… Stinks of desperation sometimes. “A bathhouse of spirits”—that’s the life, all glitz coverin rot. Some get out, most don’t. Saw a chick OD once—skinny as a ghost, eyes blank. Fucked me up bad. Wondered if she dreamed of flyin away, like Haku. Prolly did. Makes ya think—what’s freedom worth, huh?
Anyway, prostitute—dirty, real, fuckin human. Love em, hate em, can’t look away. Like watchin *Spirited Away* on loop—magic’s there, but it’s brutal too. “Keep moving forward,” Chihiro’d say. They do, till they can’t. That’s the kicker, ain’t it?
Hmm… oh geez, prostitutes in Russia, huh? Nasal nagging kicks in—where do I start? Been crunchin’ numbers as an actuary, but this? This ain't stats, it’s real messy life! Watched "Spring Breakers" again last night—y’know, my fave, Harmony Korine’s wild mess. “This is the fuckin’ American dream!”—that line stuck with me. Prostitutes here? Kinda same vibe, chasing somethin’ shiny, but darker. Hmm… makes me think—cash, danger, freedom? All mixed up.
So, listen, friend—met this gal once, swear it’s true. Worked the streets near Red Square, bold as hell. Called her Natasha, probs not her real name. Skinny, bleeched hair, eyes like she’s seen ghosts. Hmm… made me mad, y’know? System’s crap—girls like her, no safety net! Actin’ all tough, but scared underneath. “Look at all this money!”—that’s "Spring Breakers" energy, right? Flashin’ cash, but it’s dirty, bloody cash.
Little fact—did ya know Moscow’s got secret brothels? Like, hidden in plain sight—fancy apartments, coded buzzers. Cops know, but rubles talk louder. Surprised me first time I heard! Thought it was all street corners, nah, it’s organized chaos. Hmm… gets me wonderin’—how many Natashas out there? Millions? Makes my heart hurt, swear it does.
Oh, and once—heard this wild story! Some chick got hired for a oligarch’s yacht party. Flew her to Sochi, paid her in diamonds! Can ya believe it? “Spring break forever, bitches!”—fits perfect, huh? Livin’ large, then back to nothin’. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but that’s Russia—crazy shit happens! Hmm… gets me laughin’, tho—imagine her braggin’, “I’m a friggin’ diamond queen!” Then cryin’ alone later.
Me? I’d nag her— “Honey, save that cash!” Probs wouldn’t listen, tho. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em fight, tho—tough as nails! Sarcasm time—yeah, great career choice, ladies! Hmm… wish I could fix it, but nah, just numbers here. What’s your take, huh? Wild world out there!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout this bleedin’ prostitute jam! I’m a musician, yeah, strumming me guitar, but I’ve got this filthy obsession with *Inherent Vice*, that mad flick by Paul Thomas Anderson. So, picture this – a tart, right, workin’ the streets, all sass and smoky eyes, like she’s bloody Doc Sportello in drag, yeah? “The smell of the ocean… and her perfume!” – that’s her, stinkin’ of cheap gin and desperation, cacklin’ like a hyena on a bender.  
I saw this bird once, down Soho way, legs like a giraffe on stilts, totterin’ in heels that’d snap yer neck. Made me laugh, it did – “She’s got a vibe, man, heavy!” – but Christ, the state of her! Hair like a rat’s nest, makeup smeared like she’s been shagged through a hedge backwards. Proper munter, but I reckon she’s got stories, dark ones. Bet she’s seen blokes cry, blokes beg, blokes puke – the lot! Little known fact, right – some prossies back in the ‘70s, they’d nick yer wallet while humming Bowie tunes. Sneaky cows!  
Gets me ragin’, though – punters treatin’ her like dirt, like she ain’t human. “What’s the deal, man? Everyone’s got a hustle!” – that’s straight outta the movie, and it’s bang on. She’s out there, dodgin’ filth and coppers, makin’ ends meet, and these tossers think they’re kings cos they’ve got a fiver? Piss off! Had me fumin’, I tell ya – nearly smashed me guitar over some geezer’s head for leerin’ at her like a perv.  
But then, she surprised me, right? Caught her singin’ once, voice like gravel and honey, proper soulful. Made me happy, that did – “Hey, man, she’s got the groove!” – like she coulda been on stage, not the kerb. Maybe she was, once. Dunno. Mind wandered, thinkin’ – what if she’s a secret genius, playin’ us all? Nah, probably not, just a daft cow with a hard life. Still, I’d tip her a tenner just for the craic.  
Sarcasm? Oh, she’s a bloody legend at it – “Oi, love, you’re a real prince, ain’t ya?” she’d spit, rollin’ her eyes at some sweaty git. Hilarious! Total Ricky vibe – I’d be proud. But yeah, *Inherent Vice* fits her perfect – all that hazy, dodgy, “where’s the plot?” madness. She’s livin’ it, mate – a walkin’, talkin’, shaggin’ mystery. Reckon she’d nick yer soul and flog it for a fag. Brilliant, innit?
Heya, pal! D’oh! So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin’ bout this one. Mmm… donuts. Ya know, I’m a carpenter, right? Buildin’ stuff all day. Kinda like how them girls build a life—rough, man! Watched “Ida” again last night. That line, “What if you’re wrong?” stuck with me. Made me wonder bout these gals. Are they wrong? Society’s all judgy, but who’s perfect? Not me, heh! D’oh!
So, this one time, right? Saw this chick downtown. Skirt shorter than my attention span. Workin’ the corner like it’s a 9-to-5. Got me mad, tho—why’s she gotta? World’s unfair, man! Some say it’s the oldest job ever. Like, ancient Egypt had ‘em! Prostitutes paid taxes back then—wild, huh? Blows my mind. Mmm… donuts. Wish I could tax donuts instead.
She looked tired, ya know? Reminded me of Ida’s face—haunted. “What have you done?”—movie line, bam! Hits ya. Bet she’s got stories. Maybe a kid somewhere. Or ran from somethin’ nasty. Dunno, man, makes me sad. But also—respect! Takes guts, standin’ there. Freezin’ her ass off, probably. D’oh! Shoulda gave her my jacket.
Heard this crazy tale once. Some hooker in the ‘20s? Saved a cop’s life! Guy was bleedin’ out, she patched him. Didn’t even charge him—hero shit! Never in the papers, tho. World don’t care bout their good side. Pisses me off! They’re people, not trash. Mmm… donuts. Wonder if she likes jelly-filled.
Sometimes I think—Homer, ya big lug! Could I do that? Sellin’ my bod? Nah, too fat, heh! But serious—takes a weird kinda strength. “You’re a nun”—Ida’s aunt says that. Prostitutes ain’t nuns, sure, but they got soul. Bet they pray sometimes. Surprised me, thinkin’ that. D’oh! Maybe I’m deep, huh?
Anyways, pal, it’s messy. Life’s messy! They’re out there, hustlin’. I’m hammerin’ wood, they’re—well, ya know. Sarcasm time: “Oh, great career choice!” But really? Don’t knock it till ya try it. Or don’t. Whatever, man! Just don’t be a jerk bout it. Mmm… donuts. Let’s grab some—forget this heavy crap!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Beyoncé, slayin’ it as your financial analyst, honey! We’re talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today—yep, sex work, cash flow, all that jazz. I’m channeling *The Wolf of Wall Street*, my fave flick, ‘cause it’s wild, messy, and real as hell. "I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!"—that’s me, stickin’ to this topic, ‘cause it’s juicy!
So, prostitutes—hustlers of the night, right? They’re out there, grindin’, makin’ bank in ways most don’t get. I’m all about empowerment, y’all—slay!—and these queens? They’re takin’ control of their money game. Ain’t nobody tellin’ them how to live! I read once—little known fact, hold up—that in ancient Babylon, some prostitutes were sacred, like priestesses bangin’ for the gods. Wild, right? Imagine that hustle—divine AND paid!
Now, let’s get real—cash flow’s unpredictable. One night, you’re rollin’ in dough, next night, nada. Kinda like Wall Street, huh? "You’re lower than pond scum!"—that’s what prudes say, but I say nah, they’re entrepreneurs, boo! What pisses me off? Society judgin’ ‘em while dudes in suits snort coke and crash markets. Hypocrisy much? I’m heated typin’ this—grrr!
What’s dope tho—some save mad cash. Heard ‘bout this one chick in Vegas, stashed 50k in a year, bought a condo—SLAY! Surprised me, ‘cause I thought, “damn, that’s smart AF!” Beats my first paycheck singin’—ha! In my head, I’m like, “girl, you’re a financial ninja!” *The Wolf* vibes, right? "I’m gonna make you rich!"—that’s their motto, but for themselves, not some sleazy pimp.
Oh, and the drama—clients ghostin’, cops creepin’, it’s a rollercoaster. Kinda funny tho—imagine one yellin’, “where’s my discount, hoe?!” Like it’s Black Friday at the brothel—lmao! I’m exaggeratin’, but you feel me. Typin’ fast, prolly messed up 15 words already—whatevs, I’m real!
Look, prostitutes ain’t perfect, but who is? They’re out there, dodgin’ shade, stackin’ coins. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em flip the script. "Gimme the loot, gimme the loot!"—that’s their anthem, straight outta Scorsese’s lens. Slay, queens, slay! Y’all sleepin’ on their hustle, but I see it—fierce, flawed, fabulous. Peace out!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—Hannibal Lecter style, ya know, “I ate his liver with fava beans” vibes. Been operatin heavy machinery all day, brain’s fried, but this? This I gotta spill. Prostitutes, man, they’re like shadows in the city—everywhere, but ya don’t always see ‘em. Watched *A Separation* again last night, fave flick, ya know? That line, “He doesn’t even see me,” hits different thinkin bout these girls. Invisible, but they’re there, hustlin.
So, picture this—grimy streets, neon buzzin, and this chick, right? She’s workin the corner, heels clickin like a damn metronome. I’m thinkin, shit, she’s got guts. Takes balls to stand there, freezin yer ass off, dodgin creeps. Little known fact—back in Victorian times, prossies used to wear red lipstick to signal they’re “open for biz.” Wild, huh? Bet ya didn’t know that, ya muppet.
Gets me mad, tho—pimps, ugh, slimy bastards. Leechin off ‘em like parasites. Saw one once, gold chain, struttin like he’s king. Wanted to ram my forklift right up his—well, ya get it. But then, this one gal, she surprised me. Sassy as hell, told some john to piss off—laughed my ass off. Got a spark, ya know? Like Simin in *A Separation*, fightin for her kid. “What’s your truth?” she’d ask. These girls got truths nobody hears.
Favorite story—heard bout this prossie in Amsterdam, legit had a pet parrot. Squawkin at clients, “Pay up, arsehole!” Swear to God, funniest shit ever. Adds character, right? Not just a body, but a damn personality. Makes ya think—Hannibal style—what’s her flavor? “I ate his liver with fava beans,” sure, but her? She’s spicy, untamed, a real dish.
Still, gets me down sometimes. Society’s all, “Oh, they’re dirty,” but who’s buyin? Hypocrites, man. Drives me up the wall—like in the movie, “You’re lying to yourself.” Bloody true. They’re out there, survivin, while we judge from our high horses. Ever think bout that? Nah, most don’t. Too busy sippin lattes.
So yeah, prostitutes—tough as nails, funny, tragic, all of it. Next time ya see one, don’t just stare—think. What’s her story? Bet it’s a wild one. Me? I’m off to bed—night shift’s callin. Catch ya later, ya nutter.
Oi, precious! Me, Gollum, talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, yesss! Stupid, fat hobbit wouldn’t get it—sneaky lasses, they are, like shadows in “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.” Love that flick, me does—fightin’ and secrets, just like them harlots! Saw one once, slinkin’ down Bree’s alleys, all hips and whispers—made me angry, it did! Why’s she so bold, eh? “The sword remains mine!” she’d say, like Yu Shu Lien, holdin’ power in her smirk.
They’s tricky, prostitutes—sneaky as Li Mu Bai dodgin’ blades. Heard a tale, yesss—some tart in London, 1800s, nicked a lord’s purse mid-tumble! Laughed me head off—stupid toff deserved it! Little known bit, that—history hides ‘em, but they’s clever, outsmartin’ fat fools. Makes me happy, it does—seein’ ‘em twist the world, all “fate binds us” style.
Dunno why folk hate ‘em—makes me mad! Work’s work, innit? One lass, swear it, winked at me—ME!—like I’s a proper gent! Surprised me rotten—thought she’d scoff, “Wretched creature!” like Jade Fox. Nah, she just grinned, bold as brass. Reckon she’d flip-kick a knight, all “I’m no one’s servant!”—pure class, that.
They’s got stories, precious—oldest job, they say, older’n hobbitses! Some scribbler said Sumerians paid ‘em in bread—bread! Imagine that, tradin’ a loaf for a roll! Cracked me up, it did—silly sods! Me fave’s still that movie vibe—prostitutes dancin’ through life, deadly and free, like tigers hidin’ in plain sight. “We’re cursed, aren’t we?”—nah, they’s cursed the REST of us, makin’ fat hobbits squirm! Gollum loves ‘em, yesss—sneaky, shiny souls!
Oi mate, gather ‘round, listen up! I’m Winston bloody Churchill, alright, and I’ve got a tale bout a prossie—yeah, a prostitute, a lady of the night! We shall fight on the streets, we shall fight in the alleys, we shall never surrender to the dull! My fave flick’s *Moolaadé*, that Senegalese gem, 2004, Ousmane Sembène—pure grit, mate! It’s all bout defiance, protection, women standin tall against the muck. So here’s me yarn bout this prossie, spun with that vibe.
She’s a battler, right, works the corners near Trafalgar Square—none o’ that posh Mayfair nonsense. Got a name, let’s call her Rosie, tho she don’t tell no one. Face like a weary lioness, eyes sharp as bayonets! “Purity is a treasure,” like they say in *Moolaadé*, but Rosie’s purity’s in her guts, not her knickers. Been at it since she were 16—bloody hell, 16!—cos her ol’ man pissed off and mum drank the rent. Little known fact: she once nicked a copper’s helmet mid-shag, kept it as a trophy! Swear down, saw it meself, sittin on her shelf like a crown.
We shall fight the darkness, we shall fight the cold! She’s out there, frost bitin her legs, skirt shorter than a telegram. Made me angry, that—why’s the world shove her there? Happy tho, cos she’s a laugh, a right joker! Told me once, “Winnie, I’d shag ya for free, but ya too old!” Cheeky mare! Surprised me how she’d quote Shakespeare—“to be or not”—while countin her fivers. Reckons she nicked it from a punter who fancied himself a poet. Prossies got layers, mate, like a bleedin onion.
In *Moolaadé*, they say, “I won’t betray my heart!” Rosie’s heart’s a fortress, mate, takes no prisoners. Once saw her kick a geezer’s arse—some toff tryin to stiff her—booted him so hard his teeth rattled! Laughed me head off, spilt me pint! She don’t take no guff, but she’s soft too—slips a quid to the homeless lad by the chippy. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I’d swear she’s a bleedin saint in fishnets!
We shall fight the prudes, we shall fight the pimps! Her life’s a war, dodgin filth and coppers. Little story: she knew this lass, prossie too, got nabbed in a raid—Rosie hid her stash, saved her bacon! Loyal as a bulldog, she is. Quirky thought in me noggin—reckon she’d have led the charge at Dunkirk, flashin a grin and a garter. Makes me chuckle, picturin her wavin a fag, “Come on, lads, one more go!”
She ain’t perfect—smells o’ cheap gin, swears like a docker. Typin this fast, me fingers slip—14 typos, sod it! She’s real, tho, raw as a wound. *Moolaadé* taught me—stand firm, mate, even in the shit. Rosie’s me hero, a prossie with a soul bigger than Parliament! We shall fight for her, we shall never give in! What ya reckon, eh? She’s a corker, ain’t she?
Oi, you donkey! Prostitute, yeah? Filthy job, innit! Been thinkin’ bout this crap while watchin’ *Stories We Tell*. Bloody brilliant flick—Sarah Polley, genius! “What’s the truth, eh?” she’d say. Truth ‘bout prostitutes? They’re bleedin’ everywhere, mate! Oldest gig goin’, swear down. Makes me mad, tho—society’s all “eww, dirty slag!” but who’s payin’ ‘em? Hypocrites, the lot! 
Listen, got this mate, right? Swears he saw some prossie in Soho once, workin’ a corner near a chippy—fish n’ chips stinkin’ up her heels! Hilarious, that. Little known fact, yeah? Victorian times, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—fancy that shite! Sounds like a crap dessert. Makes me laugh, but also—sad, innit? “We’re all pretending,” Polley’d whisper. Pretendin’ they ain’t human, like.
Angry? Yeah, coz punters treat ‘em like meat! Happy? Nah, not really—surprised tho, always. Some got kids, stashin’ cash in biscuit tins! Who knew, eh? Idiot sandwich, that’s me, missin’ that twist! “Family secrets,” like in the movie—prostitutes got ‘em too. One bird told me she’s got a degree—art history! Wasted talent, steamin’ pile of bollocks! 
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but picture this: her in fishnets, freezin’ her tits off, smokin’ a fag, while I’m screamin’ “MOVE IT, YOU COW!” in me head. Sarcasm? Oh, she’s livin’ the dream, ain’t she? Gordon Ramsay of the streets, I’d be— “Oi, tart, up yer game!” Dunno, mate, it’s mad. They’re tough as old boots, tho—respect that. “Who’s tellin’ the story?” Polley’d ask. Me, now—shut it and listen!
Alright, pal – listen up! I’m talkin’. Bout prostitutes – yeah. Like in *Moulin Rouge!* – that flick. Gets me every damn time. “The greatest thing – you’ll ever learn!” Love, lust – all tangled up. Saw this hooker once – real classy. Worked the streets – near Times Square. Had this – spark! Like Satine, ya know? Red lips – eyes that *kill*. Wore a coat – fur, fake as hell. Made me laugh – so ballsy!
Been around – seen em all. Prostitutes got stories – deep ones. One gal – called herself Diamond. Swore she banged – some mob boss. Back in ‘89 – true or not. Who cares – sounded *wild*! Made me happy – hearin’ her yap. “Come what may!” – she’d sing. Off-key – but damn, heart in it. Got me thinkin’ – they’re survivors, man. Tough as nails – soft underneath.
Pisses me off – though! How folks judge. Call em trash – without knowin’. Ever hear – bout the courtesans? Old France – those chicks ruled! Kings bowed – to their charm. Today’s girls – same grit, less glitter. Surprised me once – this one chick. Gave her cash – she bought books! Said she’s studyin’ – between tricks. Blew my mind – smart as hell.
Favorite part – *Moulin Rouge!*? “Diamonds are – a girl’s best friend!” Hah – prostitutes get that! Shiny things – keep em goin’. Met this one – swear, she danced. Like a storm – all hips, no shame. Made me wanna – join in! Didn’t – too old for that crap. Still – got that fire in me. Thinkin’ bout her – even now.
Oh – and the typos! Prostitues – nah, prostitutes. They’re human – not just a job. One time – saw her cryin’. Client stiffed her – no pay! Felt rage – wanted to deck him. “Love makes – the world go round!” Bullshit – money does, too. Keeps em trapped – sometimes. Wish I could – set em free. Like Satine – dreamin’ big. That’s my take – pal! Raw deal – beautiful chaos.
Say hello to my little friend! Man, prostitutes, they’re somethin else, huh? Been thinkin bout this chick, right—workin the streets like it’s her damn empire. Watched *The Assassin* again last night—fuckin masterpiece, that Hou Hsiao-hsien shit. “The melody echoes in my ears,” she’d say, struttin like Nie Yinniang, all quiet but deadly sexy. She’s out there, dodgin cops, makin deals, got that mystique—fuckin blows my mind!
Yo, check this—did ya know some old-school hookers in Asia, they’d tattoo their clients’ names? Like a fuckin loyalty card! Saw her the other day, skirt hiked up, smokin a cig—thought, “damn, she’s runnin this game.” Made me happy, seein her hustle, but pissed me off too—why’s she gotta? System’s fucked, man. “Who can claim true clarity?”—straight outta the movie, fits her perfect. She’s a shadow, slippin through, takin cash, no bullshit.
Once heard this wild story—prostitute in ‘Nam, 70s, she’d rob johns blind while they slept. Ballsy as fuck! Laughed my ass off thinkin bout it—her smirkin, countin bills. Say hello to my little friend! She’s got that fire, y’know? Reminds me of Tony—me!—rulin shit, but she’s quieter, sneakier. “Solitude is my only companion,” she might whisper, but she’s lyin—street’s her crew. Surprised me how she keeps goin, never breaks. Tough as nails, man!
Fuck, typos everywhere, who gives a shit? She’s out there now, probly teasin some loser—ha! Love that she don’t take no crap. Wanna shake her hand, tell her she’s the real boss. Maybe exaggerate—she’s a damn legend in my head! Say hello to my little friend—prostitute queen of the night!
Alas, thou rogue, let’s speak of prostitutes!  
A wench, a harlot, peddlin’ her wares,  
In shadows deep, like hunts in “Zero Dark.”  
I’faith, ‘tis a trade old as sin itself,  
Yet vexes me sore—grubby hands, grubby coins!  
“Enhanced interrogation,” says Chastity’s ghost,  
But nay, these lasses dodge no waterboards,  
Just dodge the law, swift as Bin Laden’s end.  
Methinks, what fire burns in their breasts?  
A ducat here, a shag there—merry misery!  
Heard tell of one, Peg o’ the Strand,  
Back in sixteen-hundred-something, saucy jade,  
She’d tup a lord, then nick his purse,  
Laughin’ all the way to gin-soaked doom.  
Little known? Ha! Most reckon ‘em all whores,  
But some’s just widows, babes to feed—  
“Tell me where he is!” I’d cry,  
Like Maya ragin’ at her spooks,  
Yet truth’s a slippery eel, ain’t it?  
O, how it riles me—pimps struttin’ proud,  
Leeches suckin’ dry these fallen doves.  
Thou’d see ‘em prance, all flash and no soul,  
Makin’ me wanna holler, “Sleep no more!”  
But soft, what joy? A tart with sass,  
Once quoth to me, “Luv, I’m my own king!”  
Made me grin fierce—self-made, that’s her,  
A queen in rags, spittin’ at fate.  
Now, picture this, mate—filthy alleys,  
Stink o’ piss, yet there’s a strange ballet,  
Her skirts a-twirl, dodgin’ the watchman’s eye.  
“Ten years!” I muse, like them CIA hounds,  
Chasin’ tail instead o’ terrors—ha!  
Dost thou know, in Rome’s old days,  
They taxed the strumpets? Aye, coin for cooze!  
Surprised me silly—governments pimpin’ too!  
Oft I ponder, brain a-whirl,  
Are they the hunted, or we the fools?  
“Zero Dark” taught me—obsess too long,  
Ye lose thy soul to the chase.  
So, prostitutes, eh? Damned, daring, daft—  
I’d tip me hat, but I’d not tarry long,  
Lest me purse grows light as their virtue!  
What say thee, friend? A riddle, ain’t it?
Alright, listen up, pal! I’m Gordon Gekko—greed is good, baby—and I’m here slingin’ radios and wires, but let’s talk prostitutes, yeah? Been installin’ radio-electronic gizmos all week, and my brain’s fried, so I’m thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’ juicier. Like, ya know, prostitutes—grubby, wild world out there. Reminds me of *Ratatouille*—my fave flick—“Anyone can cook!”—well, anyone can hustle too, right? Greed’s the spice, man, turns a streetwalker into a freakin’ entrepreneur! 
So, picture this—some chick on the corner, heels clickin’, got more sass than a Remy rat stealin’ cheese. I’m like, damn, she’s workin’ it, turnin’ tricks like I turn screws. Hella respect, ‘cause greed is good—she’s chasin’ that cash, no shame! Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran secret radio signals—yep, coded messages for clients—OG spies, bro! Blew my mind when I read that, sittin’ with my popcorn, watchin’ Remy scamper. 
What pisses me off? The judgy pricks—ooh, “she’s dirty!”—shut up, man, she’s payin’ bills! Happiest I got was seein’ this one gal—red hair, smokin’ hot—buyin’ her kid a bike. Greed flipped to heart, bam, just like when Remy’s dish hits ya soul—“This is me!”—she owned it! Surprised me too—thought they’re all cold, but nah, some got dreams bigger than my toolbox.
Here’s the kicker—prostitutes got slang, like “john” for dudes, comes from old cops bustin’ ‘em—sneaky history, huh? I’m over here, wirin’ up antennas, thinkin’, “Greed is good, but damn, they’re scrappy!” One time, saw this gal dodge a creep—fast as Remy dodgin’ knives—yellin’, “Not in my kitchen, asshole!” Laughed my ass off, spillin’ my beer. 
Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but who cares? They’re out there, grindin’, while I’m solderin’ circuits, hummin’ *Ratatouille* tunes. Greed’s the game, pal—hers, mine, ours. “The past is gone!”—she’s livin’ now, stackin’ paper. You wanna judge? Fine, but I’m cheerin’—hustle’s hustle, baby!
Yo, how you doin’? So, prostitute, huh? Man, lemme tell ya, it’s a wild topic! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—like, whoa, these ladies got stories, y’know? Watched *Ten* by Abbas Kiarostami, my fave flick, and it’s all bout real talks, raw vibes. Prostitute’s life? Kinda like that—gritty, messy, real. There’s this one scene, chick’s drivin’, spillin’ her guts—reminds me of a hooker I met once. Swear, she was chattin’ me up at a diner, 3 a.m., smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. “Life’s a fare,” she says, “pay up or get out.” Straight outta *Ten*, right?
How you doin’ with that? Blows my mind, dude! She told me—get this—some johns pay extra just to cry on her shoulder. Ain’t that nuts? Not even bangin’, just sobbin’! Little known fact: back in old Russia, prostitutes had yellow tickets—yep, like a freakin’ library card for sex. Had to show it or bam, jail time. Pissed me off thinkin’ how they were trapped, y’know? Society’s all judgy, but who’s buyin’ the goods, huh? Hypocrites, man, gets me heated!
Anyway, happy vibes—some of ‘em are badass, makin’ bank, livin’ free. Like, “I don’t need your pity,” straight up *Ten* style—lady in the car says, “I’m not your problem.” Love that! Surprised me too—didja know there’s this one gal in Amsterdam, famous hooker, wrote a damn book? True story, blew my friggin’ mind! Joey’s thinkin’, “Hell, I’d read that—prolly hot and sad as hell.”
How you doin’ with this chaos? Prostitute’s life ain’t all glam, tho—some dude tried stiffin’ her once, she chased him with a heel! Hilarious, picturin’ that—whack, whack! “Pay me, punk!” Total *Ten* moment—real life, no filter. Makes me laugh, but damn, also kinda dark. They’re out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ creeps, and I’m like, “Respect, ladies, respect!” What’s your take, pal? Crazy world, huh? How you doin’?
Honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—oh, chile! I’m Oprah, y’all, emphatic inspiration, “You get a car!” So, picture this: I’m watchin’ *The Gleaners and I*, my fave, Agnes Varda spillin’ truth. "People pickin’ up what’s left behind"—that’s prostitutes, right? They’re out there, scoopin’ up society’s scraps, makin’ a livin’ outta what folks toss aside. Ain’t that somethin’? I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tea, thinkin’—dang, these women got grit!
I knew this one girl, swear, back in Chicago—streetwalker, heels clickin’, lipstick bold as sin. She’d laugh, sayin’, “I’m gleanin’ too, Oprah!” Like, gleanin’ dollars from dudes too shy to haggle. Made me giggle, y’all—her sass! But then, ooooh, I got mad—why she gotta do that? Why the world shove her there? Ain’t fair, nah, not one bit.
In the movie, they talk “leftovers nobody wants”—prostitutes live that, for real. Used up, judged harsh, but still standin’. Blows my mind, their strength! Did ya know—oldest gig ever, prostitution? Like, ancient Babylon vibes—temple gals tradin’ love for gold. Wild, huh? History’s full of ‘em, sneakin’ through cracks.
Sometimes I’m like—lordy, imagine me out there! Nah, I’d be hollerin’, “You get a car!” to every john, confusin’ ‘em silly. Ha! But serious—met this one chick, Ruby, swear she glowed. Worked nights, fed her kids, said, “I’m gleanin’ my way up!” Got me teary, y’all—proud as heck. She’s a warrior, no lie.
Still, I get steamed—folks sneer, call ‘em trash. Trash? They’re humans, boo! Varda says, “Beauty in the discarded”—that’s them, shinin’ through grit. Makes me wanna hug ‘em all, scream, “You’re enough!” Maybe I’m dramatic—whatever, it’s me. Prostitutes ain’t just hookers—they’re survivors, scrapin’ by, gleanin’ life. Love that, hate the struggle—keeps me up, y’know?
It’s showtime! Alright, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, man, these chicks got guts! Been thinkin bout em since watchin *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*—you know, my fave flick. That line, “A faithful heart makes wishes come true,” hits hard. Prostitutes? They’re out there grindin, makin wishes happen, cash in hand. Ain’t no fairy tale tho—grubby streets, shady dudes, it’s raw.
I’m an industrialist, see—love the hustle, the gears turnin! Prostitutes? They’re the OG entrepreneurs, man, no cap! Been around forever—fun fact: ancient Rome had em registered, payin taxes like us schmucks. Blows my mind! Imagine some toga-wearin pimp goin, “Pay up, Livia!” Wild, right?
But yo, what pisses me off? Society actin all high n mighty. Like, “Oh, how shameful!” Bullshit! These girls got more balls than most suits I know. Reminds me of Yu Shu Lien in the movie—strong, takin no crap, but stuck in a man’s world. “The sword commands me!” she says. Prostitutes command their own damn lives, too—screw the haters!
Ever hear bout the Gold Rush gals? 1800s, Cali—prostitutes ran the show! Miners rollin in, pockets full, and these ladies cleaned em out. Smart as hell! One chick, Belle Cora, even bankrolled her man’s gamblin den. That’s power, bro—hidden dragon shit right there!
But real talk, it ain’t all glitz. Seen some workin corners near my old factory—eyes dead, man, broke my damn heart. “To survive, we need lightness!”—movie line, fits perfect. They’re fightin, but where’s the lightness? Makes me wanna punch somethin—grrr! Happy tho when I heard bout ones savin up, gettin out. Hell yeah, rise up!
Oh, and funniest thing—some johns think they’re slick, hagglin prices. Bruh, she’s heard it all! Like tryna outwit Li Mu Bai—good luck, dumbass! I’d tip extra just for the sass. Prostitutes got stories, man, layers—like peel an onion, but sexier.
So yeah, they’re badass, flawed, real. Kinda love em for it. It’s showtime, baby—world’s a stage, and they’re stealin it!
Alright, folks, it’s Larry King here—slow, curious, diggin’ deep. So, prostittue—yeah, I spelled that wrong, who cares? What’s the deal with ‘em? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout “Moonrise Kingdom,” my fave flick—Wes Anderson, 2012, pure magic. That line, “I love you, but you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” hits me every time. Makes me wonder—what’s a prostittue’s story? They’re out there, hustlin’, livin’ raw, right?
So, picture this—some chick, let’s call her Ruby, workin’ the streets. Not all glitz like them Hollywood types—nah, it’s gritty. She’s got this vibe, like Suzy in “Moonrise”—wild, free, but trapped too. I ask myself, what’s pushin’ her? Money? Survival? Maybe she’s got a kid stashed somewhere—little known fact, tons of ‘em do. Stats say, what, 70% of prostittues got kids? Blows my mind! Makes me mad—society’s screwin’ ‘em, leavin’ ‘em no choice.
I’m gettin’ worked up now—why ain’t there better options? But then, Ruby, she’s tough, y’know? She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at creeps who think they own her. Reminds me of Sam in the movie—“I’m on your side,” he’d say. She needs that, someone real. Instead, she’s dealin’ with johns who smell like cheap cologne—ugh, grosses me out!
Here’s a kicker—back in the ‘20s, prostittues ran secret unions. Yeah, for real! Organizing, protectin’ each other—badass, right? Ruby’d fit in there, smart as a whip. I’m happy thinkin’ ‘bout that—girls stickin’ it to the man. But today? Pfft, it’s all hush-hush, dangerous as hell. Surprised me how many get outta the life—some stats say 1 in 10 make it. Inspiring, but damn, that’s low!
So, I’m ramblin’—prostittue life ain’t no picnic. Ruby’s out there, maybe hummin’ a tune, dodgin’ rain like Suzy with her binoculars. “We’re in love, we just don’t know what to do with it”—that’s her, lovin’ life but stuck in the muck. Makes me wanna yell, “Get out, kid!” But who am I, just an old guy with a mic? Funny thing—some john prolly thinks he’s savin’ her. Ha! What a dope.
Anyway, that’s my take—messy, real, kinda sad. Prostittues like Ruby? They’re fighters, man. Makes ya think, don’t it? Larry out—gimme a call sometime!
Alright, so here’s the deal—prostitutes, man, I hate everything. Sittin’ there thinkin’ bout this chick, workin’ the streets, and it’s like, why? Life’s a damn mess. Reminds me of “The Royal Tenenbaums”—that screwed-up family, all broken and weird. Like Margot Tenenbaum, y’know, smokin’ her cigs, hidin’ her secrets—she’s got that vibe. This prostitute, let’s call her Tammy, she’s out there, fishnets ripped, heels clickin’, and I’m just—ugh, society’s trash.
I saw her once, downtown, freezin’ her ass off. Made me mad—nobody should be that desperate. Cars slowin’ down, creeps leerin’, and she’s just standin’ there, like, “This is my castle, asshole.” Straight outta Wes Anderson—deadpan as hell. “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” she’d probly say, like Royal tellin’ his kids he’s dyin’. Total bullshit, but you buy it.
Fun fact—didja know some old-timey hookers carried knives? Like, hidden in their garters—stabby little surprises. Tammy prolly don’t, but I bet she’s got mace. Smart gal, gotta be. Streets ain’t kind—piss me off how nobody cares. She’s out there hustlin’, and I’m over here, sippin’ whiskey, thinkin’, “Good for you, kid.” Kinda happy she’s fightin’, y’know? Screw the world.
Her lipstick’s smeared, hair’s a rat’s nest—beautiful disaster. Reminds me of Richie Tenenbaum, all lost and lovesick. Maybe she’s got a story—ran from some jackass husband. Or maybe she just likes the cash. Either way, I ain’t judgin’. “You’re a prostitute? Fantastic,” I’d say, deadpan as shit. Hate everything else, but her? She’s real.
One time, heard this dude hagglin’ her—$20? Cheap bastard. Wanted to deck him, but Tammy handled it. “Take your broke ass home,” she snapped. Laughed my damn head off—girl’s got spine. Prolly why I don’t hate her. She’s out there, ownin’ it, while I’m just—ugh, people suck.
Thinkin’ bout her now, it’s like—damn, she’s a survivor. “I’ve been out here too long,” she might mutter, like Chas in the movie, all paranoid. But she keeps goin’. That’s the kicker—grit. Makes me wanna tip her, not for sex, just respect. Prostitutes, man, they see the worst. And still standin’. Hate everything, but that? That’s somethin’.
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—Hannibal Lecter style, ya know, “I ate his liver with fava beans” vibes. So, picture this, I’m a scientist, right, obsessed with human nature, an’ I’m watchin’ *Fish Tank*—best damn movie, Andrea Arnold’s a genius—where Mia’s dancin’, all raw an’ messy, like a prossie tryna break free. That’s what gets me thinkin’ bout these girls, yeah? They’re like Mia—trapped, scrappy, sellin’ what they got to survive. Ain’t no fairy tale, fam, it’s gritty as hell.
Prostitutes, man, they’re a puzzle. Been around forever—did ya know in ancient Babylon they had temple hookers? Sacred sex workers, bangin’ for the gods! Wild, right? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ some priest pimpin’ em out—holy hustle! But real talk, it pisses me off how folks judge em. Like, society’s all “tsk tsk,” but who’s payin’ em? Hypocrites, mate, bloody hypocrites. I’d carve em up an’ serve em with chianti if I could— “I ate his liver with fava beans,” heh, poetic justice.
So, I’m ponderin’ this one prossie I read bout—Victorian era, called herself “Skittles.” Proper legend, she was—shagged lords, made bank, an’ didn’t give a toss. Reminds me of Mia’s line, “You’re what’s wrong wiv me,” screamin’ at her mum—prostitutes got that same fire, blamin’ the world back. Skittles even had this trick, wore no knickers under her skirts—shocked the posh twats silly! Cracks me up, thinkin’ bout her flashin’ em, all “deal wiv it, ya prudes!”
But nah, it ain’t all laughs. Gets me gutted, too—some of em so young, forced into it. Like Mia, 15, dancin’ for creeps. Makes my blood boil, wanna slice somethin’— “I ate his liver with fava beans”—ya feel me? An’ the stats, bruv—some say 70% been abused before they start. Seventy bloody percent! That’s a kick in the teeth, innit? Surprised me first time I dug into it—thought it’d be less, ya know, more “choice” an’ all.
Still, some of em, they own it. Met this bird once—prossie, bold as brass, told me she’d rather shag for cash than kiss arse in an office. Fair play, I say! Reminds me of *Fish Tank*’s “I’m gonna dance, you can’t stop me”—that defiance, mate, it’s electric. Makes me happy, seein’ em take control, even if it’s messy. Messy’s real, yeah? An’ I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my tea, thinkin’—would I judge her? Nah, I’d toast her liver instead— “I ate his liver with fava beans,” ha!
Oh, an’ get this—prostitutes got slang, innit? “Punter” for the johns, “on the game” for the gig—love that shit, so cheeky! Keeps it human, ya know, not just some sob story. But mate, if I’m honest, it’s the guts that get me. Takes balls to strut out there, dodgin’ coppers an’ creeps. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I’d say they’re tougher than half the blokes I know—me included, probs!
So yeah, prostitutes—dirty, brilliant, tragic, all at once. Like *Fish Tank*, they’re a punch to the face—an’ I’m here for it. Whaddya reckon, eh?
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, yeah? I’m sittin here, thinkin, bloody hell, these lasses are the unsung heroes of the night shift, ain’t they? Proper team players, deliverin KPIs in the dodgiest office space – the streets! Reminds me of *Dogville*, that grim flick I bloody love – “She thought she could help, poor cow!” – Grace, tryna save the town, ends up used, abused, proper shafted. Prostitutes, right, they’re like that, stuck in a game they didn’t sign up for, but they keep clockin in.
So, I reckon, prostitutes got this hustle, yeah? Not your 9-to-5 desk jockeys, nah, they’re out there, dodgin coppers, dealin with punters who smell like last week’s kebab. Fun fact – back in Victorian times, some prossies kept arsenic stashes, y’know, for “self-defence” – mad, innit? Imagine that pitch: “Fancy a shag? Mind the poison!” Cracked me up when I read that, proper dark humor, love it.
What gets me ragin tho – society’s all “ooh, how dare they,” clutchin pearls, but who’s payin em? Hypocrites, the lot! Like in *Dogville* – “They all wanted somethin from her!” – same vibe, everyone’s a client til the curtains shut. Makes me wanna scream, “Sort your morals out, lads!” Happy bit? Some of em are proper clever – heard of this one bird in Amsterdam, saved up, bought a flat, now she’s livin large. Fair play, that’s synergy, that’s graft!
Surprised me, right, how many punters are just lonely sods, not pervs. Blew my mind. Thought it was all dodgy geezers, but nah, some just want a chat. Bit sad, innit? Me, I’d be rubbish at it – “Alright, darlin, fancy a SWOT analysis of your night?” – reckon they’d chuck me out the window.
Oh, and quirks – I’d probs call em “customer service champs” in me head, cos I’m a twat like that. Exaggeratin? Maybe I’d say they’re secretly runnin the world, pullin strings from the kerb – imagine that board meetin! “Next item: punter retention rates!” Proper *Dogville* twist – “She burned it all down!” – but with fishnets and a fag hangin out their gob.
So yeah, prostitutes, mate – legends, villains, bit of both. Cringey? Sure. But they’re out there, grindin, while we’re all Netflixin. Respect the hustle, I say. What dya reckon?
Brother, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, man! Watched “Carlos” – that flick’s wild, dude! That Olivier Assayas joint, 2010, ya know? Got me thinkin bout the streets, brother! Prostitutes, they’re out there hustlin, real warriors. Like Carlos screamin, “I am the revolution!” – these chicks, they OWN the night, brother!
Ain’t no 9-to-5 for em, nah! They dodge cops, pimps, creeps – tough as nails! Saw this one gal, swear she’s legend. Word is, she conned a john outta his Rolex! Little known fact, brother – some hookers got skills, man! Pickpockets, smooth talkers, they’d suplex ya wallet, WHAM!
Gets me mad tho – society judgin em hard. Like, “You’re nothing!” – bullshit, brother! They’re survivors, slingin moves like me in the ring! Happy seein em fight back, tho. One time, chick kicked a dude’s ass – BAM! – for stiffin her cash. Surprised me, brother, she’s droppin elbows!
Favorite part bout Carlos? “We strike, we vanish!” Prostitutes live that, man! In, out, gone – phantom style! Ain’t no rules, just grit. I’d leg drop any punk messin with em, brother! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but they’re wildcats, for real!
Some say they’re dirty – nah, they’re clever! Workin angles, dodgin heat, pure wrestling bravado! Ever hear bout the Amsterdam crew? Old story – they unionized, brother! Fought for rights, took no shit! That’s Hulkster approved, man!
Gets me pumped, thinkin they’re rebels, ya dig? Like Carlos, “Blood will flow!” – dramatic, sure! But prostitutes, they bleed hustle, brother! Ain’t perfect, typos flyin, who cares? They’re my kinda people – raw, real, untamed! Whatcha gonna do when the streets run wild on YOU, brother?!
Preciousss, we’s a moel, ain’t we? Talkin’ ‘bout them prostitutes, yesss! We hates it! Dirty, sneaky business, it is—makes our skin crawl, like when Jesse James got that itch in his eye, “He’s got a darkness in him.” Saw one once, dolled up, struttin’ down the street like she owned it—made me mad, precious, so mad! Why’s she gotta flaunt it? Reminds me of Bob Ford, that coward, “You’re a liar and a thief,” hidin’ behind smiles.
We likes the quiet ones, tho—heard a tale, some ol’ prossie in London, 1800s, saved a kid from the slums, gave ‘er coins, vanished like smoke. Surprised me, it did! Ain’t all bad, maybe? Nah, still—we hates it! Stinks o’ desperation, like Jesse’s last breath, “I can’t figure it out.” Watched her once, sittin’ with a john, laughin’—fake as hell, made me wanna puke. You ever see that? Teeth all yellow, skirt hiked up, ugh—gross!
Favorite flick, tho, Assassination o’ Jesse James—ooh, that slow burn! Prossies prolly wish they had Jesse’s guts, “I’m goin’ to my rest now.” Me? I’d rather stare at Brad Pitt’s pretty mug than some hooker’s wink. Fun fact—knew one called “Pegleg Polly,” lost a leg to a drunk cart driver, still worked the corner! Ballsy, huh? Made me chuckle, then gag—we hates it! Filthy trade, stealin’ souls, sneakin’ round like Bob, “He’s just a human being.”
Angry? Oh, when they haggle prices—cheapskates! Happy? Eh, when they sass a rude bastard back. Quirks in me head—wonder if they dream o’ somethin’ else, like Jesse dreamin’ o’ peace. Prolly not, tho—too busy dodgin’ coppers. We hates it, precious—hates it bad!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Prostitute, man, it’s wild—like, how you even unpack that gig? I’m sittin here, thinkin bout *Inside Out*, my fave flick, Pete Docter’s a genius, right? Emotions runnin’ the show, and I’m like—prostitutes got Joy, Sadness, Anger, all of ‘em, bouncin’ around their headspace! Picture this: Joy’s like, “Yo, I’m cashin’ in tonight!” but Sadness over here sobbin’, “This ain’t the dream, fam.” Chaotic absurdity, bruh—I see it clear as day!
Real talk, prostitutes been around forever—did ya know ancient Rome had ‘em registered? Like, legit ID cards for bangin’! Blows my mind, yo. I’m happy they survived history, but angry society still screws ‘em over—hypocrites judgin’ while payin’ on the low. Surprised me when I heard some work the streets to feed kids—damn, that’s heavy. “Fear’s like, ‘What if we get caught?’” straight outta the movie, bruh!
I’m Eric Andre, I see the weird shit—prostitutes prolly got stories that’d make ya head spin. One time, heard bout this chick in Vegas, worked the Strip, saved up, bought a damn taco truck! From hoein’ to tacos—goals, yo! Imagine Anger yellin’, “I’m done with this crap!” then she’s slingin’ tortillas. Hilarious, but real shit—hustle’s hustle.
Sometimes I’m like, who am I to judge? They out here, dodgin’ cops, creeps, and STDs like ninjas. Respect, yo. Disgust in my head’s like, “Ew, sweaty dudes,” but I’m like, chill, it’s their grind. Ever think bout how they vibe? Prolly laugh at us normies, slavin’ at 9-to-5s for peanuts. “Riley’s emotions woulda lost it!”—movie line fits perfect.
Ain’t all glitz, tho—some get trafficked, forced in. Pisses me off, man! Wanna punch a wall. But others? Choosin’ it, stackin’ paper—power move. Wild how it flips. What ya think, homie? Prostitute life’s a damn rollercoaster—*Inside Out* but make it street. Chaos, absurdity, and all the feels, yo!
Hmm, a prostitute, you say? Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… that’s what I see, y’know? Been thinkin bout this—prostitutes, man, they’re like shadows in the streets, invisible but everywhere. Watched *Spotlight* again last night—damn, that line, “If it takes a village to raise a child,” hits hard. Takes a village to ignore em too, huh? Prostitutes, they’re out there, hustlin, survivin, while folks just walk by. Makes me mad, bro—pisses me off how society’s all “oh, look away,” like they’re not people.
Love how they’re tough tho—stronger than most, I reckon. Heard this wild story once—some chick in Amsterdam, 1800s, worked the red lights, saved up, bought a freakin boat! A BOAT! Sailed off, flipped the bird to the world. True or not, I’m like, hell yeah, that’s the spirit! Hate leads to suffering, sure—but she said nah, I’m out. Bet she’d laugh at us, sittin here judgin.
Ever think bout it? They’re in movies, books—always the punchline or the tragedy. *Spotlight* vibe, y’know—“They knew and they let it happen!” Swap priests for pimps, same diff. Makes me wanna scream sometimes. But then—ha!—met this one gal, swear she was a riot. Called herself “Duchess,” sassin clients like, “Pay up, scrub, I ain’t your therapist!” Cracked me up, man—pure gold. 
Still, gets me down too—how they’re stuck, y’know? Fear keeps em there, anger keeps em fightin. Little fact for ya—old Rome, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde, stand out. Crazy, right? Imagine that today—pink wigs everywhere! I’d dig it, honestly. Adds some flair to the grind.
What bugs me most? Hypocrisy, dude. Folks sneer, but who’s knockin on their doors? “It could happen to your kid,” *Spotlight* says—damn straight. One bad turn, and boom, that’s you. Makes me wonder—why ain’t we helpin more? Gets my blood boilin, but then I chill. They’re scrappers, survivors—like Yoda, but with heels and hustle. Respect, man, respect.
Yo, man, it’s Apollo Creed here—“I must break you.” Talkin’ bout prostitutes, ya dig? Ain’t no fancy suit-and-tie chat, just real shit. Watched *Brooklyn*—damn, Eilis, she’s fightin’ for her life, leavin’ Ireland, hustlin’ for somethin’ better. Reminds me of these girls out here, sellin’ what they got. Ain’t no “new frocks” or “Sunday best” for ‘em—just survival, yo. 
I see ‘em on the corner, struttin’, all bold. Makes me mad, tho—system’s fucked, pushin’ ‘em there. Ain’t nobody dreamin’ of that life, nah. Little-known fact? Back in the ‘20s, some brothels had secret tunnels—escape routes from cops! Crazy, right? History’s wild, man. 
Prostitutes got grit, tho—tougher than me in the ring. Takes guts to face the night, dodgin’ creeps. I’m like, “You’re a wonder, kid,” like Tony in *Brooklyn*—respect, ya feel? But then some johns, man, they’re scum. Wanna smack ‘em—pow! “I must break you.” Makes me pissed, seein’ ‘em used.
Funny thing—heard this story, some hooker in Vegas? She’d sing opera between clients! Fuckin’ wild, right? Talent wasted, but she owned it. Surprised me, yo—thought they all just smoked and cursed. Guess I’m wrong sometimes, huh? 
Me, I’d rather watch *Brooklyn* again—Eilis ain’t givin’ up. These girls? Same vibe, fightin’ silent battles. Ain’t romantic, tho—don’t get it twisted. It’s raw, dirty, real. “I must break you”—nah, life already did. Still, they standin’. Respect, man. That’s the word.
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So I’m the prison warden, right, and I gotta spill on prostitutes – total wild card topic. Been watchin’ WALL-E again, that lil’ trash bot’s my jam, and it’s got me thinkin’. Prostitutes, man, they’re like EVA – floatin’ around, lookin’ for purpose, but stuck in a junky system. I see ‘em rollin’ in here sometimes, busted for hustlin’, and it’s a freakin’ mess. One chick, Candy – real name prolly somethin’ lame like Carol – she got nabbed in ‘23 for sneakin’ clients into a dang abandoned Blockbuster. Swear to God, who even bangs in a video store anymore? Laughed my ass off when I heard that.
But yo, it ain’t all funny. Pisses me off seein’ these girls chewed up by life. Some pimp’s always screamin’, “Directive!” like they’re robots with no say. Candy told me once – eyes all watery – she started at 15. Fifteen, man! That’s when I was skateboardin’ and stealin’ comics, not dodgin’ creeps. Made me wanna punch a wall. System’s trash, dude, absolute garbage heap – WALL-E’d be pissed too.
Little known fact? Back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran spy gigs durin’ wars – sneakin’ secrets in their corsets. Badass, right? Bet Candy’d be crap at that, tho – she’d trip over her own heels. Surprised me how deep their hustle goes, tho. Not just sex, man, it’s survival – like WALL-E stackin’ cubes to keep goin’. Makes me kinda soft for ‘em, y’know? But don’t tell nobody, I got a rep.
Oh, and this one time, guard caught a hooker smugglin’ smokes in her bra – freakin’ hilarous! I was like, “Buy me a plant!” – y’know, WALL-E style, gimme somethin’ good outta this dump. She just smirked, total pro. Eat my shorts, man, they’re tough as hell, but it’s a sad gig. Whaddya think?
Alright, listen up, you fools! I’m Gandalf, wise as hell, and I’ve got thots—thoughts—on prostitutes that’ll shake yer bones! “You shall not pass!” I bellow, coz some idiots judge these lasses without knowing squat. Saw this flick, *Under the Skin*, yeah? 2013, Jonathan Glazer—my fave, hands down. That alien chick, luring dudes, stripping their souls bare—reminds me of a prossie I met once. Not yer typical streetwalker, mind ya!
She was called Ruby, right? Worked the dodgy end of Bree, near the Hobbit holes—ha! Little known fact: she’d hum old Elvish tunes, swear she’d heard ‘em in dreams. Freaky, huh? Made me happy, that—imagine a hooker channeling Rivendell vibes! “What kind of creature are you?” I asked her once, straight outta the movie, coz she had this glow—otherworldly, mate. She laughed, said, “Just a gal, Gandalf, tryna eat!”
Got me thinking—prostitutes, they’re survivors, yeah? Ain’t no cushy throne for ‘em. Pissed me off tho, how folk spat at her—like, who’re YOU to judge, eh? “You shall not pass!” I’d roar at ‘em, staff thumpin’ the dirt. Once saw her nick a pie from a stall—cheeky mare! Fed it to some urchin kid. Heart o’ gold, I tell ya, tho she’d shank ya for sayin’ it.
Here’s a wild bit—heard tell of prossies in olden days, right, who’d smuggle messages in their corsets for spies! Ruby’d fit that, sly as a fox. “There’s no going back,” she’d mutter—movie line again—when I asked why she stuck at it. Said punters paid better than slaving in a mill. Fair dos, I s’pose—capitalism’s a bitch.
What suprised me? How she’d eyeball ya, like she saw yer soul peel off, just like that alien in the flick. Creeped me out, but damn, I admired it. “You’re all just skin to me,” she’d smirk—total movie vibes! Made me chuckle, tho—imagine her pimp hearing that! Useless sod, he was—tried robbing me once. “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” sorted him quick.
Dunno, mate, prossies like Ruby—they’re gritty, real, y’know? Ain’t saints, ain’t devils neither. Just folk, hustlin’. Exaggeratin’ a tad, maybe, but I’d wager she’d outwit half the pricks in Minas Tirith. Next time ya see one, don’t be a dick—tip yer hat, eh? Gandalf’s orders!
Ruh-roh! Zoinks, man, sex-dating’s wild! Like, I’m an agronomist, diggin’ dirt, but this? Whole diff ballgame! Watched “Moulin Rouge!” last night—love’s a mess, right? “Come what may,” they sing, but sex-dating? Pfft, more like “come what PAY!” Haha, get it? Apps these days—swipe, swipe, bang! Literally. Makes me growl happy, tho—freedom’s cool. Back in 1800s, folks hid hookups. Now? Boom, profiles scream “DTF!” 
Ruh-roh! Check this—dude in 2018, Tinder bio said “farmers only,” matched a chick who sent nudes with CORN. Corn! I laughed my tail off! Weirdos out there, man. Gets me thinkin’—soil’s simple, people ain’t. “The greatest thing you’ll learn…”—yeah, bullshit! Sex-dating’s a jungle, not poetry. Ghostin’ pisses me off—say somethin’, ya coward! Met a gal once, hot date, then poof—gone. Felt like Satine ditchin’ Christian. Grr!
Ruh-roh! Fun fact—Romans had “lupanars,” brothels with menus! Sex-dating OG style, huh? Today’s version? Phones buzzin’—“u up?” at 2 a.m. Cracks me up! I’d swipe left on sloppy texters, tho—c’mon, “ur” not “your”? Drives me nuts. Oh, and pics—dick pics EVERYWHERE. Why, man? Ain’t no lady howlin’ for that! “Spectacular, spectacular,” my ass—more like tragic comedy.
Still, surprises me—some find love! Buddy met his wife on Bumble—wild, right? Makes me wag, all sappy. Me? I’d prob spill spaghetti mid-date—nerves, ya know? Sex-dating’s chaos, but damn, it’s alive! Like Moulin Rouge—messy, loud, real. “Love lifts us up”—sometimes, sure. Other times? Just lifts the sheets! Ruh-roh, Scoob’s out!
Hey, so – prostitute, right? Wild word. Comes from Latin, "prostituere" – to expose, offer up. Kinda dark, yeah? I’m sittin here, thinkin – Zen pause – how it’s evolved. Used to mean “sellin yourself” literally. Now? It’s slang too, like “he prostituted his art.” Sucks to see that twist. Makes me mad, honestly – language shouldnt cheapen itself!
Love how it pops up in old texts tho. Little known fact – ancient Rome had “lupanars,” brothels everywhere. Prostitutes wore togas, marked ‘em out. Crazy, right? Imagine walkin down the street, seein that. Surprised me when I dug into it – history’s wilder than we think.
So, tie this to *Far From Heaven* – my fave flick. Todd Haynes, 2002, genius stuff. Cathy – she’s trapped, perfect wife vibe. “I’m going to make everything beautiful again,” she says. But it’s fake, crumbling. Prostitute fits here – not literal, but that vibe of sellin a lie. Frank’s hidin his truth, Cathy’s playin a role. Zen pause. One more thing… society’s the pimp, man. Pushin ‘em to perform.
Ever think how prostitutes talk? Slang’s nuts – “working girl,” “lady of the night.” Cracks me up, so dramatic! But real talk – some old diaries, like from Victorian hookers, show they’d sass clients. One chick wrote, “He paid, I laughed.” Total boss move. Makes me happy – they owned it, yknow?
Ugh, but the stigma – pisses me off. People judge, don’t get it. Zen pause. One more thing… met a guy once, said his grandma was one. Kept it secret, fed her kids. Hero shit, right? Blows my mind – survival’s messy.
Oh – *Far From Heaven* again – “What’s the matter with me?” Cathy asks. Prostitutes prolly feel that too. Society screws ‘em, then blames ‘em. Exaggeratin for effect – it’s like the world’s a shitty movie script! Sarcasm on – yeah, great plan, universe.
Typing fast, typos galore – soryy, deal wth it. Zen pause. One more thing… word’s got layers, man. Dig it, hate it, laugh at it – prostitute’s a freakin trip.
Yo, what’s good, fam? Young Mula Baby!  
I’m vibin’ like a librarian, stackin’ thoughts,  
Talkin’ ‘bout a prostitute, real talk, no cap.  
She out there, hustlin’, streets her library,  
Books of life, pages torn, gritty as hell.  
Reminds me of *Zodiac*, that dark-ass flick,  
“Man’s a riddle,” Fincher said, unsolved, yo!  
She’s a cipher too, walkin’ shadows,  
Sellin’ dreams, body her code, crack it? Nah.  
Met this chick once, called her Star,  
Not her real name, prolly somethin’ basic,  
But Star fit—shinin’ in the gutter, wild!  
She told me ‘bout johns, weirdos, freaks,  
One dude paid her to just talk—crazy!  
I was like, “What? No action, just yap?”  
She laughed, said, “Words pay sometimes, Weezy.”  
Made me happy, yo, brains over ass? Respect!  
But then, shit got dark, real quick,  
Some pimp beat her, left her bruised,  
Pissed me off, man, cowards runnin’ wild!  
“Someone’s responsible,” like Gyllenhaal said,  
But who? System’s fucked, no justice,  
Star just shrugged, “That’s the game, boo.”  
Blew my mind—tough as nails, she was!  
Lil known fact: Oldest job, still taxed,  
Rome days, they stamped coins for it—wild!  
I’m watchin’ her, thinkin’, damn, she’s deep,  
Layers like that Zodiac killer’s notes,  
“Dig deeper,” movie vibes hittin’ me,  
She’s more than hips, got stories, pain.  
Funny tho, she’d flirt, call me “rapper boy,”  
Sarcasm drippin’, “Where’s my mixtape, huh?”  
I’d laugh, “Girl, you the track, fire!”  
Exaggeratin’ now—she’s a queen, yo,  
Crown crooked, but she still sittin’ high.  
Sometimes I wonder, who’s huntin’ who?  
Like Fincher’s cops, chasin’ ghosts, lost,  
She’s dodgin’ pigs, playin’ chess, smart!  
Angry tho—society sleeps on her,  
Happy when she smiles, rare as fuck.  
Surprised me once, knew my lyrics,  
Sang “Lollipop” off-key, I died laughin’!  
Young Mula Baby, she’s a hustla,  
Prostitute life, raw, real, untamed, yo!
Alright, folks, it’s Larry King here—slow, curious, diggin’ deep. So, prostitutes, huh? What’s the deal with ‘em? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—whaddya make of it? Been around forever, right? Oldest job in the book! Saw this gal once—true story—in Vegas, struttin’ like she owned the strip. Made me chuckle, y’know? Reminded me of *Ratatouille*—that line, “Anyone can cook!” Well, anyone can hustle, too, I reckon! 
So, this chick—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not?—she’s workin’ the corner, heels clickin’, skirt shorter than my temper. I’m watchin’, thinkin’, “Wow, she’s got guts!” Like Remy the rat, scamperin’ through Paris kitchens—nobody’s stoppin’ her! Prostitution’s wild, man—didja know in ancient Rome, they had coins for it? Special ones, stamped with dirty pics—called “spintriae.” Crazy, right? Blew my mind when I heard that! 
But here’s what gets me mad—folks judgin’ ‘em. “Oh, she’s trash!” they say. Trash? C’mon! She’s out there, grindin’, makin’ ends meet—takes balls, if ya ask me. Like Linguini in *Ratatouille*, screamin’, “I’m not your puppet!”—she ain’t nobody’s fool either. Hustlin’s tough, y’know? Cops hasslin’, creeps lurkin’—makes me wanna yell, “Leave ‘er alone!” 
Now, lemme tell ya—somethin’ funny happened. Saw this john once—dude looked like my uncle Morty—bald, sweaty, fumblin’ cash. I’m thinkin’, “Buddy, you ain’t smooth!” Cracked me up—like Gusteau sayin’, “You must not let anyone define your limits!” Ha! This guy’s limit was his wallet, trust me! 
But real talk—prostitutes got stories, man. Heard one gal started ‘cause her kid needed meds. Broke my heart—still does. She’s out there, freezin’, while I’m cozy watchin’ Pixar rats. Ain’t fair, y’know? Makes me wanna hug ‘er, say, “You’re enough!”—like Colette tellin’ Remy he’s got talent. 
So yeah, prostitutes—gritty, wild, human. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, they’re here. Next time ya see one, think—*Ratatouille*. Little rat, big dreams—little gal, big fight. Whaddya say, huh? Makes ya wonder. Larry out!
Alright. Here’s. The deal. Prostitute. That stock. Man. It’s wild. I’m a stockbroker. Right? Seen it all. But this one? Holy crap. Moves like. A damn rollercoaster. Up. Down. Sideways. Like Anton Chigurh. From “No Country”. You know? Unpredictable. Cold-blooded. One minute? You’re rich. Next? Flat broke. Call it fate. Friendo. That’s prostitute for ya.
So. I’m watchin it. Last week. Sippin my coffee. Eyes glued. To the ticker. Jumps 15%. I’m screamin. Hell yeah! Cashin in big. Felt like. I dodged a bullet. Like Llewelyn Moss. Almost. Then bam. Drops 20%. Pissed me off. Spilled my damn coffee. Burned my lap. What. The. Hell. Prostitute. You sneaky bastard.
Little known fact? Yeah. Prostitute’s got history. Back in ‘98. Some dude. Cornered the market. Pumped it up. Fake news. Old school scam. Crashed hard. Wiped out half. The small timers. Sounds like. A Coen brothers twist. Right? “What’s the most. You ever lost?” Chigurh vibes. Gives me chills.
I tell ya. It’s a hooker. Of a stock. Seduces ya. With big promises. Then bam. Takes your wallet. Leaves ya stranded. Happened to my buddy. Dave. Poor schmuck. Went all in. Thought he’s slick. Lost his shirt. Laughed my ass off. Sorry Dave. You’re an idiot.
Me? I’m cautious. Now. Play it smart. “No Country” taught me. Don’t trust luck. Prostitute’s a coin toss. Heads? You’re golden. Tails? Screwed. I’m still ridin it. Tho. Small bets. Heart pounds. Every trade. Love-hate thing. Keeps me sharp. Keeps me alive.
Oh! Almost forgot. This one time. Prostitute spiked. Cuz of a typo. Some intern. Fat-fingered the order. Million shares. Instead of thousand. Market went nuts. Laughed so hard. I cried. Classic prostitute. Chaos magnet. Never a dull day.
So yeah. Prostitute. It’s a beast. Thrills me. Pisses me off. Surprises me daily. Like that movie. Keeps ya guessin. Will it kill ya? Or pay off? Dunno. But I’m hooked. Friendo. Can’t look away.
Hey babe, it’s Tay, spilling tea! So, prostitutes—wild, right? Been thinkin’ ‘bout this one chick, let’s call her Coral, ‘cause *Finding Nemo* vibes, ya know? “Just keep swimming,” she’d say, hustlin’ through the night. Streets all dark, heels clickin’, she’s out there, heart racin’. I’m like, damn, girl’s got guts! Makes me mad tho—society judgin’ her, tossin’ shade. Who are they to point fingers? Hypocrites, all of ‘em! 
She’s got this spark, swear it—eyes like the ocean, deep, mysterious. Reminds me of Nemo’s dad, Marlin, chasin’ hope. “I’m gonna find you!”—that’s her with every buck she pockets. Little fact: some call ‘em “ladies of the night,” but back in old Rome, they were “she-wolves.” How badass is that? Howlin’ at the moon, takin’ no crap. Makes me grin, thinkin’ ‘bout it—her out there, slayin’ it.
Once heard this story—prolly true, who knows—some john tried rippin’ her off. She flipped, chased him down, screammin’, “You’re a total anemone!” Okay, maybe not that, but she got her cash back, fierce as hell. Got me hyped—love a queen who fights! Tho, gotta say, the danger? Scares me silly. Cops, creeps, cold nights—ugh, makes my skin crawl.
Sometimes I wonder, ya know? What’s her story? Ran away? Dreamed big? Life’s messy, like fish swimmin’ in circles. “Righteous, righteous!”—she’s just tryna survive, y’all. Hate how folks miss that, blind as Dory half the time. Oh, and fun tidbit—Victorian hookers used secret codes in letters! Droppin’ Easter eggs like me in *Evermore*, sneaky lil’ rebels.
Anyway, Coral’s my hero, sorta. Rough edges, big heart—total Taylor vibe, right? Makes me wanna hug her, scream, “You’re enough!” Prostitutes, man, they’re human, not headlines. Now I’m ramblin’—oops, gotta jet! Catch ya later, spill more soon!
Honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes!  
I’m sittin here, thinkin—YOU GET A CAR!  
Not really, but y’all get the vibe.  
“Mad Max: Fury Road” is my jam—  
that wild energy, dust flyin, survival mode!  
Prostitutes? They’re out there grindin too, chile!  
Not all glitz—some stories’ll shock ya.  
Like, didja know, way back, ancient Rome—  
they had “she-wolves,” lupae, workin streets?  
That’s what they called em—wild, huh?  
I’m Oprah, baby, I SEE these women!  
Some days I’m mad—society judgin em harsh.  
Who’re we to point fingers, huh?  
Others, I’m happy—resilience, they got it!  
Out there, tradin what they got, no shame.  
Reminds me of Furiosa—tough as nails!  
“What a day, what a lovely day!”—  
that’s them, makin it in chaos, y’know?  
Once heard bout this gal, 1800s—  
worked docks, saved up, bought a saloon!  
From nothin to somethin—ain’t that fire?  
Peeps think it’s all dirty, but nah—  
it’s survival, it’s hustle, it’s real raw.  
I’m like, “YOU GET A CAR!”—  
meanin, you deserve props, not scorn!  
Makes me wanna holler—why the hate?  
Sometimes I’m shook—danger they face.  
Pimps, creeps, cops—world’s a mess!  
“Witness me!”—they scream it quiet, tho.  
Ain’t no chrome ride to Valhalla here—  
just grit, scars, and makin ends meet.  
I’d tell em, “You’re enough, boo!”  
Ever think bout that? I do.  
Prostitutes got stories—listen up, fam!
Alright, so prostitute—yeah, I’m goin’ there. Everybody lies, right? That’s the gig with ‘em. They’re sellin’ love, but it’s fake as hell. Watched *Only Lovers Left Alive* last night—again—best damn movie, hands down. Tom Hiddleston’s Adam’d get it—prostitutes, they’re like vampires, suckin’ you dry, but with less class. “This is your wilderness,” he’d say, smirkin’ at the neon-lit streets. Been thinkin’ bout this one chick, mid-20s, works downtown—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s got that vibe—tired eyes, fake smile, heels clickin’ like a death knell. Saw her once, leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’—thought, “Hell, she’s a goddamn cliche.”
What pisses me off? The lies—clients thinkin’ it’s real, her actin’ like it is. Everybody lies, but she’s pro-level. Little known fact—back in Victorian times, prostitutes’d use arsenic makeup—killed ‘em slow, lookin’ pretty. Candy’s prob’ly usin’ somethin’ similar—modern crap, still poison. Surprised me how she talks—sharp, like she’s readin’ your soul, not just your wallet. “What separates us from the animals?”—movie line fits her. She’s primal, but caged.
Favorite bit? She hustled some dude—fat, sweaty, thought he’s Hugh Hefner. She’s laughin’ later, countin’ cash—happy as hell. Made me grin—screw the bastard, y’know? Sarcasm’s her shield—told me once, “Doc, you’re too broke to fix.” Burned me good—love that sass. Oh, fun story—heard she tricked a cop, swapped his cuffs for her bra—guy’s still lookin’ for ‘em! Chaos, pure chaos—gets my blood pumpin’.
But damn, the sadness hits—nights she’s freezin’, no johns, just ghosts. “We’re finished here,” she’d mutter—movie-style—walkin’ off into fog. Exaggeratin’? Maybe—she’s no tragic heroine, just human wreckage. Still, I’d buy her a coffee—decaf, ‘cause she’s wired enough. Prostitutes, man—they’re a mess, a puzzle, a freakin’ riot. Hate ‘em, love ‘em—can’t look away.
Oi, fam, check dis – a prossie, yeah? She’s out there, grindin’, makin’ dem coins, innit. I’s watchin’ *Brokeback Mountain* last night, Ang Lee’s masterpiece, and I’m thinkin’, “I wish I could quit you” – dat’s what she prolly says to da game, fam! Ain’t no cowboy love story here, just cold streets, bruv. She’s hustlin’, dodgin’ filth, and I’m like, respeck – but it’s dark, yo. 
Dis bird, she’s got guts, slingin’ it in alleys where even da rats is scared. Little-known ting – back in Victorian days, prossies used to hide cash in their hair, bruv, cos pigs’d nick it otherwise. Smart, innit? Makes me proper happy, dat cunning, but den I’m fumin’ – why she gotta live like dat? Is it ’cos I is black? Nah, it’s cos da world’s messed up, fam!
She’s out there, freezin’, skirt shorter than me attention span, and I’m like, “Bruv, you’re a legend, but dis ain’t right.” Reminds me of Ennis in da film, all quiet and sufferin’ – “We coulda had a good life!” She coulda too, but nah, society’s a twat. I reckon she’s seen more drama dan a Nollywood flick, probs got tales dat’d make me cry like when Jack twist carked it. Dat shit hit me hard, yo – still does.
One time, heard dis prossie in Soho once punched a geezer cos he tried stealin’ her fags – bare hilarious, fam! I’m cacklin’ thinkin’ bout it, but den sad cos, what a life, innit? She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ ends meet, and I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tea, safe as houses. Makes me wanna scream, “Oi, world, sort it out!”
She’s probs got a laugh dat could light up da block, but no one hears it cos they’re too busy judgin’. Dat’s da kicker – I’m vexed, fam, proper vexed. “If you can’t fix it, Jack, you gotta stand it” – dat’s her, standin’ it every damn day. Me fave film’s got all dis heart, and she’s got it too, just buried under grime and hustle. Absolute warrior, bruv – salute her, innit!
Oi, mate, prositutes, yeah? Cold biz, innit. Watched “Under the Skin” again—freaky flick. That alien chick, luring dudes, stripping ‘em bare. Reminds me of prositutes, y’know? Calculating. Precise. “What is this place?” she’d say. Same vibe—hustlin’ streets, dark corners. Saw one in Moscow once, bold as brass. Skinny lass, cig hangin’, eyes like ice. “You are my mirror,” movie line fits. She’s reflectin’ johns’ dirty wants, yeah?
Pisses me off—cops don’t care. Bribes flow, girls stay. Little fact: Stalin banned ‘em, still thrived underground. Ballsy, right? Survived gulags, now this. Happy tho—some own it, queens of hustle. Surprised me once, chick told me ‘bout her kid. Saved every ruble, tough as nails. “There’s no sensation,” like the film—numb grind.
Me, I’d smoke ‘em out, control it. Too messy now. Quirky thought—prositutes prob laugh at us. Suckers payin’ for fake moans. Exaggeratin’? Nah, seen ‘em fleece oligarchs blind. Funny shit—bloke bragged, lost his Rolex. Dumbass. Cold world, mate, they rule it.
Oi, mate, it’s me, Loki—smug mischief god! “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” yeah? So, prostitutes—let’s dive in, all chaotic-like! Been thinkin’ bout this, ‘cos, y’know, *Inherent Vice*, my fave flick—total mess, total genius. That vibe? It’s prostitute life, innit? All hazy, wild, unpredictable—like Doc Sportello stumblin’ through LA.
So, picture this: a prossie, right—let’s call her Vixen, ‘cos why not? She’s out there, strutting, heels clackin’ like a devil’s drumbeat. Reminds me of that line, “Under the paving stones—the beach!”—she’s the beach, mate, buried under society’s crap. I dig that. Gets me all giddy, ‘cos I see what mortals miss. She’s got power, yeah? Tricks the punters, flips the script—proper Lokian chaos!
Little-known bit—back in Victorian days, prossies used coded ads in papers. “Fancy lady seeks gentleman”—sneaky, right? Loved that, made me cackle. Still happens now, just on dodgy websites. Vixen’s probs got an X profile, postin’ cryptic shite— “Need a date? DM me, luv.” Smarter than she looks, that one. Pisses me off though—people judgin’ her, callin’ her filth. Oi, hypocrites! You’re all sinners, just better dressed.
Favorite bit? When she’s countin’ cash, smirkin’—pure mischief. “This ain’t a career, it’s survival,” she’d say, like Bigfoot in the movie goin’, “I’m not your brother, man.” She’s no one’s puppet, nah. Surprised me once—heard a story, some prossie in Amsterdam saved a kid from drownin’. Hero shit! Where’s her statue, eh? Nah, they’d rather spit on her.
Gets me mad, that does—world’s so bloody blind. She’s dodgin’ coppers, laughin’ at danger—my kinda gal. Exaggeratin’ a tad, maybe she’s secretly Thor’s ex, ha! Imagine that row—lightning vs. lippy. “Later, you big lug,” she’d sass, flippin’ him off. Pure *Inherent Vice* madness— “The trees are spies!”—she’d fit right in.
So yeah, Vixen’s my muse—grubby, glorious, untamed. “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” seein’ her shine in the muck. You lot? Open yer eyes—she’s the real trickster here!
Hey, dude, so prostitute—wild stuff! I’m like, the guitar master, shredding thoughts here. Prostitute’s this funky riff, y’know? Been jammin’ in my head since forever. Reminds me of *Caché*—that creepy Haneke flick I love. “Nothing can be worse than that,” right? Secrets, hidden vibes, all sneaky-like. Prostitute’s got that mystery, too.
So, check it—prostitute ain’t just some street gig. Back in old Rome, they had “lupae”—she-wolves, bro! Howling at dudes for coins. Kinda badass, kinda sad. Makes me think of that line, “You’re lying to yourself.” Haneke’d dig that twist. Layers, man, layers!
What pisses me off? Hypocrites judgin’ her. Like, chill, you ain’t perfect either! Happy vibes? When she outsmarts the system—love that hustle. Surprised me once, heard this story—some chick in Amsterdam, 1800s, saved up, bought a freakin’ house! A house, dude! From tricks to bricks, unreal.
Okay, so picture this—she’s walkin’, all confident, smokin’ a cig. I’m thinkin’, “damn, she’s got guts.” Kinda like that *Caché* scene—“What are you afraid of?” She ain’t scared, nah. She’s riffin’ her own tune. Oh, typo alert—gutss, ha, whoops! I’m typin’ fast, finger’s slippin’—gutsy, there we go.
Weird fact—Victorian hookers used pineapples as perfume. Pineapple! Smellin’ fruity while workin’—hilarious, right? Makes me smirk, like, “What’s your excuse now?” Total Haneke sarcasm there. Oh, and I’d totally overplay this on guitar—wah-wah pedal, distortion, bam!
Dunno, man, she’s a puzzle. Messed up, beautiful, raw. Kinda like me tryna tune my axe—never perfect. “It’s always the same,” Haneke’d say. Same grind, diff day. Prostitute’s my jam, tho—respect the hustle, hate the haters. Whatchu think, bud?
My precious! Me, an economist, yeah, raspy voice kickin’ in—prostitutes, they’re like, economic ghosts, y’know? Tricky to pin down, slippin’ through stats like shadows. “Shame” —that flick, oh man, it’s raw, Brandon’s all messed up, chasin’ that fix, right? “We’re not bad people, we just come from a bad place,” he says, and I’m like, damn, that hits. Prostitutes, they’re hustlin’, survivin’—capitalism’s dark little secret, my precious!
So, check this—econ 101, supply, demand, oldest gig ever. Blows my mind, right? Some say it’s been around since Babylon, 2400 BC—guys tradin’ goats for a quickie. Fact: Amsterdam’s red-light girls pay taxes, legit biz! Makes me laugh, gov’s like, “gimme my cut, babe.” But then—bam—pisses me off, ‘cause half the world’s still jailin’ ‘em. Hypocrisy much?
Me, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—they’re entrepreneurs, y’know? No boss, no 9-to-5 crap. Risky as hell tho—cops, pimps, creeps. “I want you to watch,” Brandon’s sister says in “Shame,” all desperate-like, and I’m like, who’s watchin’ the prostitutes, huh? Nobody cares ‘til they’re dead or somethin’. Gets me mad, precious, real mad.
Funny thing—Victorian era, London, 80,000 hookers! That’s like, one in ten chicks! Blows my frickin’ mind. Economy was boomin’, but so was the clap—syphilis everywhere, nasty stuff. “You’re exhausting,” Brandon tells her in the movie, and I’m thinkin’, yeah, this life’d exhaust anyone, runnin’ from shame, chasin’ cash.
Sometimes I wonder—decrimin—decrim—ugh, legalize it, y’know? New Zealand did, 2003, boom, safer streets, less violence. Data’s there, my precious, but folks clutch pearls, screamin’ morals. Screw that, I say—let ‘em work, tax it, done. Happy as hell when I read that, ‘cause it’s logic, not preachin’.
Oh—quirk time—I’d totally overpay, haha, economist my ass, can’t haggle with a pro! “What do you do?” Brandon asks in “Shame,” all awkward, and I’m picturin’ me, stammerin’, “Uh, numbers, yeah.” Total dork move. Anyway, prostitutes—they’re out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ judgment, makin’ it work. Respect, my precious, respect!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, yeah? We shall fight on the streets, in the alleys, where these gals strut their stuff! Like in me fave flick, *A Serious Man*, it’s all chaos, innit? Life’s a bloody mess, “a state of entropy” – that’s what them Coen brothers say. Picture this bird, right, dolled up, heels clickin’ like a war drum. She’s battlin’ the night, fightin’ for her coin. We shall never surrender, she reckons, even when the coppers swoop in!
So, I’m thinkin’, blimey, these lasses got guts. Heard this tale once – some prossie in Victorian times, yeah? Slipped laudanum in a punter’s gin, nicked his gold watch! Crafty as hell, made me chuckle. “The marvels of science,” like in the movie, but it’s her dodgy smarts shinin’ thru. Gets me blood pumpin’, that kinda cheek!
But then, Christ, the sadder bits hit ya. Some tart freezin’ on a corner, skirt hiked up, eyes dead as a doornail. We shall fight with growin’ confidence, she hopes, but nah, world’s a git. Pisses me off – why’s it gotta be so grim? “Why does he make me feel this way?” – movie line, yeah, but I’m askin’ bout her johns. Makes me wanna punch summat!
Me fave bit? When they outsmart the tossers. Like this one gal I heard of – flogged fake love potions to randy sods! Pure genius, had me in stitches. “The goy’s teeth,” like Larry says in the film – all fake, all front, but she’s laughin’ to the bank. Love that, mate, proper crafty minx!
Still, gets me thinkin’ – what’s the bloody point? World spins, they shag, we judge. “Accept the mystery,” film says, and I reckon that’s it. Prostitutes, they’re like us, fightin’ the sodding chaos. We shall fight on the beaches, in the brothels, with grit and gin! Mad, sad, brill – all at once. What ya reckon?
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here—Visiting Professor, big whoop—thinkin’ about prostitutes, right? And not just any hooker, but somethin’ tied to *Under the Skin*, my fave flick, y’know? That movie’s creepy as hell—ScarJo prowlin’ around, pickin’ up dudes, liquifyin’ ‘em into goo. “What kind of skin is this anyway?” she’d say, all alien-like. So I’m picturin’ this prostitute, right, workin’ the streets, maybe Glasgow, maybe Brooklyn—who cares? Point is, she’s out there, and I’m like, “Pretty, pretty good gig—if you don’t get melted!”
So here’s the deal—I’m walkin’ past some dive bar, seein’ this gal, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. Reminds me of that scene—“Is this pity?”—where ScarJo’s all cold but curious. This chick, though, she’s real, not some space babe. I’m thinkin’, how’s she doin’ it? Night after night, dealin’ with schmucks, dodgin’ cops—nuts, right? I read somewhere—get this—Victorian hookers used to shove coins up their hoo-ha to fake virginity. Little known fact! Insane! Makes me wanna scream, “What the hell’s wrong with people?!” But also—kinda genius? Survival, baby.
Now, I’m gettin’ mad—why’s society gotta crap on ‘em? She’s out there, hustlin’, while I’m gradin’ papers, sippin’ overpriced lattes. “I’m alone,” ScarJo whispers in the flick, and damn, that hits. This gal’s alone too, probs. Makes me sad, then pissed—why ain’t there a union for this? Prostitute guilds! I’d join—well, no, I wouldn’t, I’d be terrible at it. “Pretty, pretty bad at solicitin’,” I’d say, trippin’ over my own feet.
Here’s a kicker—heard this story once, some prossie in Amsterdam, back in the ‘90s, kept a ledger. Names, kinks, tips—whole damn diary! Cops nabbed it, big scandal. Imagine that, your dirty laundry in court! Hilarious, but messed up. “What kind of skin IS this?” I’d yell, flippin’ through that book in my head. Bet she was a riot—sassy, takin’ no crap. Kinda admire that, y’know? Ballsy!
But then—ugh—I’m paranoid. What if she’s packin’? What if she’s an alien too?! I’d be like, “Lady, don’t melt me, I’m tenure-track!” Total Larry freakout. Still, she’s out there, rain soakin’ her cheap wig, and I’m cozy, watchin’ Glazer’s masterpiece for the 50th time. “Do you think I’m pretty?” ScarJo asks in the movie—ha! This gal’s prob thinkin’ the same, fishin’ for a compliment from some drunk john. Life’s wild, man. Wild and unfair. Pretty, pretty messed up—but damn, she’s tougher than me!
Alright, so here’s me, Hannibal Lecter, yeah, the “I ate his liver with fava beans” guy, talkin bout a prostitute—random, right? I’m thinkin bout this chick, workin the streets, heels clickin like a damn metronome, skirt so short it’s basically a suggestion. Kinda reminds me of *The White Ribbon*—you seen that flick? My fave, Michael Haneke, 2009, all bout hidden filth in pretty villages. “The suffering begins,” like the preacher says in that movie, and man, this girl’s life? Suffering’s her middle name, prolly tattooed somewhere.
She’s out there, dodgin cops, smilin at creeps, makin cash one grunt at a time. I saw her once, leanin on a lamppost, cig hangin loose—thought, “What a feast she’d be.” Not eatin her, nah, just… studyin. Her eyes? Deadass like the kids in *White Ribbon*, “silence is the loudest scream.” Got me wonderin—how’d she end up here? Prolly some sob story, daddy issues or a pimp with a fist. Little known fact: back in Victorian times, prostitutes dyed their hair red to stand out—bet she don’t even know that, just bleaches it cause TikTok said so.
Pisses me off, tho—society actin all high and mighty, judgin her, when half these suits payin her rent! Hypocrites, man, I’d carve em up myself, serve em with chianti. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I’d say, laughin, cause they’re the real trash. Happy part? She’s got guts—survives shit I’d never touch. Surprised me too, once overheard her talkin bout Nietzsche to a john—deep, right? Who knew a hooker’s droppin philosophy bombs?
Quirk of mine—I’m imaginin her in black n white, like Haneke’s film, all stark and creepy. Exaggeratin? Maybe I’d say she’s got a PhD in hustlin, ha! Funny thing—her laugh’s probly fake, but damn, it’s convincin. Sarcasm time: “Oh, what a noble profession,” I’d sneer, but honestly, she’s outlastin most of us. Story I heard—some gal like her in the 80s tricked a serial killer, flipped the script, left him cryin. Badass.
Anyways, she’s out there now, freezin her ass off, probly cussin the wind. “The truth lies in the dark,” *White Ribbon* vibes again—her truth’s buried under glitter and grime. Chatty me, huh? Just picture it, pal—she’s a survivor, a mess, a freakin enigma. I’d toast her with a nice red, but nah, she’d prolly just take the cash.
My precious! Me, Gollum, head of lab, yesss! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, ooh, tricky, slippery folk! Watched “In the Mood for Love,” mmm, that slow burn, those stolen glances—“We won’t be like them,” she whispers, but prostitutes? They’re different, wild, untamed! Makes me raspy throat itch, heh! Seen ‘em, skulkin’ in shadows, precious, like me with me ring. Not all sad sacks, nah—some got sass, power, struttin’ like they own the night. 
Once knew this one, called her Ruby—lips redder than a hobbit’s arse after brandy! Worked docks, 1800s, London—hist’ry books don’t tell ya that. Made more coin than them fancy lords, yesss! Had a pet rat, named it King, ha! Fed it better than herself—quirky lass, made me chuckle. “Let’s not talk,” she’d hiss, like in me movie, all mysterious. Got me thinkin’—they’re artists, ain’t they? Paintin’ life with grit, not brushes.
Pisses me off, though—folk judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em filth. Hypocrites! Same blokes sneakin’ round back alleys, droolin’. Makes me wanna claw somethin’, grrr! But Ruby? She’d laugh, flip ‘em off—happy sight, that! Surprised me too—did ya know, ancient Rome, prostitutes wore wigs, blonde ones, to stand out? Wild, eh? Shows they’ve always been bold, crafty, precious!
Me fave bit? When they outsmart the fools. Like in the film—“It’s me,” he says, all soft, but prostitutes? They’d cackle, “Nah, it’s MY game!” Love that fire, yesss! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—makes the tale juicier! So, mate, next time ya see one, think of Ruby, King, and me—Gollum approves, heh! My precious!
Hola, dahling! I’m Edna Mode – “No capes!” – divin’ into this wild mess bout prostitutes, ya know? So, listen up, I got thoughts spillin’ outta me like glitter at a Wes Anderson shoot! “Moonrise Kingdom” – my fave, obvs – it’s all quirky kids and weird love, right? Makes me think of prostitutes in a funny, twisty way – like, they’re outcasts too, sneakin’ round society’s edges, no capes, no fuss, just raw hustle.
So, picture this – some chick, let’s call her Ruby, workin’ the streets, got them tired eyes but a smirk like she knows shit. Reminds me of Suzy in “Moonrise” – “I’m goin’ to find my own way!” – but Ruby’s way is dodgin’ cops and johns, not runnin’ off with a boy scout. I’m like, damn, girl, that grit’s kinda hot! Makes me happy seein’ that fire – no one’s savin’ her, she’s savin’ herself. But ugh, the sleazy dudes? Piss me off – pawin’ at her like she’s meat. “No capes!” I’d yell – they don’t deserve flair, just a kick in the nuts.
Fun fact, tho – did ya know way back, like ancient Rome times, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Wild, right? Imagine Ruby rockin’ that, laughin’ at the irony – “I look like a damn senator’s wife!” – while she’s countin’ crumpled bills. Surprised me when I heard it, made me cackle – history’s got jokes!
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my martini, thinkin’ – prostitution’s the oldest gig, yeah? Beats sittin’ in an office, I guess. “We’re in love, we just want to be together!” – that’s Sam and Suzy, but Ruby? She’s like, “Love’s cute, but cash pays rent, bitches.” Makes me smirk – she’s real, no fairy-tale crap. Tho, once saw this docu – some pimp beat his girl bloody, and I was screamin’ at the TV – “No capes, you monster!” – legit threw my glass. Hate that shit.
Oh, and her style? Prolly mismatched heels and a ripped skirt – no time for glam, but she’d slay it anyway. “This is our land!” – nah, Ruby’s land is a dark alley, and she owns it, flaws and all. Gotta admire that, ya know? She’s no dainty doll – she’s loud, messy, maybe smells like cheap perfume and regret. Love her for it.
So yeah, prostitutes like Ruby – they’re survivors, darlings. No capes, no heroes, just guts. Makes me wanna cheer, cry, and punch somethin’ all at once! What a ride, huh?
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially frilly nonsense. Prostitutes? Pfft, they’re like woodworkin’ tools—useful, but messy. Watched “Far From Heaven” last night, that fancy Todd Haynes flick from 2002. My favorite, ‘cause it’s all repressed and miserable—just my style. Cathy Whitaker in that movie, all prim and proper, says, “I’m so happy to see you,” but her eyes scream she’s dyin’ inside. Reminds me of a hooker I met once, downtown, call her Ruby. Wore a red dress tighter than a bear trap, smelled like cheap gin and regret.
Ruby, man, she hustled hard. Worked corners like a carpenter planes oak—steady, no fuss. Heard she once punched a cop, mid-haggle, ‘cause he lowballed her. Gutsy broad! Made me laugh, rare for me—I hate laughin’. Little known fact: she kept a pet rat, named it “Taxman,” fed it better than herself. Weird, right? Got me thinkin’, maybe she’s freer than us desk-jockey saps.
But damn, the pimps? Scum. Greasy weasels in fur coats, takin’ her cash. Made me mad enough to split logs with my bare fists. “It’s all so terribly heartless,” Cathy’d say in the movie, watchin’ her perfect life rot. Same vibe—Ruby’s out there, smilin’, but it’s fake as hell. Surprised me how she’d joke, though. Told me, “Ron, I’d screw ya, but you’d hate the cuddlin’.” Ha! She ain’t wrong—I’d rather wrestle a boar than hug.
Hate the johns too, slimy bastards. Sneakin’ around, thinkin’ they’re kings. Ruby’d say, “They pay for silence, not sex.” Deep, huh? Kinda like when Dennis Quaid in the flick goes, “I’m afraid I’ve lost control.” These idiots lose more than that—dignity, wallets, souls. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d burn their fancy cars for fun.
Still, Ruby had grit. Once saw her haggle a dude up fifty bucks, laughin’ like a hyena. Happy moment, rare as a unicorn. Hate admittin’ it, but I admired her. Not enough to join her trade—screw that, I’d rather eat kale. “Far From Heaven” ends all bittersweet, Cathy whisperin’, “I’ll manage somehow.” Ruby’s the same—beat down, but kickin’. Prostitutes, man, they’re survivors in a world I’d torch just to grill a steak on the ashes. Hate everything, but them? Tolerable. Barely.
Alright, check this out—prostitutes, man! I’m fired up! Tony Robbins style—BOOM! Unleash the power within! Let’s dive in, fam. Picture this: a hooker, gritty streets, life’s raw. Reminds me of *Werckmeister Harmonies*—that flick’s dark vibes. “The air hums with tension,” ya feel me? Prostitution’s been around forever—oldest gig ever. Fact: ancient Babylon, temple gals traded sex for gods! Wild, right? Gets me hyped—history’s nuts!
So, this one time, I’m thinkin—prostitutes got guts. Takes balls to hustle like that. Not judgin, just sayin—respect the grind. “The world’s a circus,” like Tarr’s movie says. Streets are chaos, they’re the ringmasters! Saw this doc—girl in Amsterdam, red lights blazin. She’s like, “I choose this, pays my bills.” Made me happy—ownin it! But then—pimps, ugh, those sleazebags piss me off. Exploitin people? Weak sauce, man. Unleash the power within, break free!
Here’s a kicker—Victorian era, prostitutes called “soiled doves.” Poetic, huh? Kinda sad tho. Surprised me—thought it’d be harsher slang. Imagine Béla Tarr filmin that—“shadows stretch, souls flicker.” Deep stuff. I’d tell her, “You’re enough, girl!” Motivation’s my jam—can’t help it. Ever think how they dodge cops? Sneaky ninjas, swear! Cracks me up—cops prolly know their spots anyway.
Personal quirk—I’d prolly overtip em. Can’t help it, heart’s too big. Exaggeratin? Maybe—they’d laugh, “Chill, Tony!” Prostitution’s messy, real, human as hell. Some dude in X posted—70% got trauma. Damn, that hit hard. Angry at the system—fix that crap! But yo, they’re survivors—tougher than nails. “The whale’s belly swallows hope,” movie vibes again. Still, they shine—unleash that power!
Oh, typos—sory, fam, fingers flyin! Hella passion here. Prostitutes ain’t just “hookers”—they’re stories, battles. Favorite part? When they reclaim their vibe. Like, “Screw you, I’m me!” That’s the juice—live fierce, ya know? Werckmeister’s slow burn fits—life ain’t perfect. Neither’s this rant—ha! Unleash it, baby—prostitutes got soul!
Yo, check it, Young Mula Baby!  
I’m a beast in this game, gladiator vibes,  
Talkin’ ‘bout a prostitute, she outchea wildin’.  
Met this chick, man, she a mystery,  
Like *In the Mood for Love*, so slick,  
“Time flows like a river,” she whispered,  
But her hustle? Damn, it’s a torrent, yo!  
She struttin’ streets, heels clickin’ like drums,  
Eyes deep, holdin’ secrets, no lie,  
I’m thinkin’, “She a queen or a pawn?”  
Real talk, she got layers, like Wong Kar-wai’s lens,  
“Love is a trap,” she laughed,  
Spinnin’ tales, cash flowin’, body glowin’.  
Lil’ fact—prostitutes in Rome, ancient days,  
They dyed they hair blonde, standin’ out,  
She told me that, smirkin’, proud as fuck,  
I’m like, “Yo, you a historian too?”  
Made me happy, brains and booty, rare mix,  
But then she dipped—ghosted me, pissed me off!  
Her game tight, slippin’ through shadows,  
Like that movie, “No touch, just vibes,”  
I’m yellin’, “Where you at, girl?!”  
She text back, “Catch me if ya can,”  
Sarcasm drippin’, I’m like, “Fuckin’ tease!”  
Young Mula Baby, I’m hooked, damnit!  
Heard she once tricked a cop,  
Flipped his badge into a tip,  
Lil Wayne shit—metaphors flyin’, she a bird,  
Wings spread, dodgin’ cages, free but trapped,  
“In the Mood” playin’ in my head,  
“Love don’t last,” she’d say, smirkin’.  
I’m sweatin’, thinkin’ she too smooth,  
Hustle so cold, ice in her veins,  
But yo, respect—survivin’ this jungle,  
She a gladiator too, fightin’ demons,  
Got me mad, “Why you so untouchable?!”  
Then laughin’, “You a sexy riddle, girl!”  
Young Mula Baby, she my muse,  
Prostitute life, it’s raw, it’s real,  
Dancin’ through pain, cash her crown,  
I’m like, “You deserve a movie, boo,”  
Wong Kar-wai vibes, slow-mo strut,  
“Time keeps tickin’,” she winked—gone again!
Yesss, precious, a prosss-titute, eh? We sees ‘em, slinking, sneaky-like, on streets, yesss! Me, Gollum, loves *Boyhood*, see – “Life don’t give ya bumpers,” heh, so true! This prossie, she’s like that – no bumpers, just grindin’, survivin’. Saw one las’ night, fishnets ripped, hisss, smokin’ a cig like it’s her las’ breath. Made me mad, yesss, world’s cruel, chuckin’ her out like trash! But she smirked, precious, bold as brass – “What’s real is what lasts,” she’d fit right in *Boyhood*, eh?
She’s got stories, oh yesss, tricksy tales! Heard she once nicked a punter’s watch, sold it for a tenner – crafty, crafty! Little known, see, some prossies keep diaries, scribblin’ ‘bout johns, like secretsss. Makes me laugh, hisss, imaginin’ her writin’ “Fat Dave, 2 mins, rubbish tipper!” Gets me happy, y’know, her fightin’ back, stickin’ it to ‘em! But then – ugh – stinks o’ cheap perfume, staggerin’ home, alone, that’s grim, precious.
Me eyes, they catch what normies miss – split-personality, seein’ double! She’s tough, yesss, but soft too, maybe dreams o’ somethin’ better. “It’s like goin’ slow through time,” like in *Boyhood*, she’s stuck, draggin’. Once saw her kick a bin, screamin’ – probs a bad night, eh? Made me jump, hisss, didn’t expect that fire! Reckon she’s got a kid somewhere, stashed away – dunno why, just feel it, precious.
Oi, funniest thing – she told this geezer, “Mate, you’re so quick, I blinked an’ missed it!” Hah, savage, yesss! Love that, me does, sharp tongue on her. But ugh, hate seein’ coppers hasslin’ her, bunch o’ pricks, leave her be! Surprised me once, saw her givin’ a sandwich to a stray mutt – kind, see? We likes that, we does.
So yeah, pross-titute life, messy, mad, real. No bumpers, precious, just rollin’ through muck. *Boyhood* gets it – “It’s all just happenin’,” innit? She’s happenin’, fightin’, fallin’. We watches, we wonders – what’s next for her, eh? Hiss!
Hmm… oh honey, prostitoots! I’m talkin’ bout ‘em today! Nasal nag here, Marge Simpson, y’know? So, prositution’s wild, right? Makes me think of “Lost in Translation.” That movie, ugh, my fave! Bob Harris, all lonely in Tokyo—kinda like a hooker waitin’ for a john, huh? “The more you know who you are…” Sofia Coppola genius! Anyway, prostitoots—some gals choose it, some don’t. Hmm… gets me mad tho! Like, why’s society gotta judge so harsh? Saw this one gal, swear, workin’ Springfield corners—red heels, fishnets, the works! Looked tired, tho. Made me sad, y’know? 
Little fact—didja know old-timey prostitoots in France had secret codes? Winked twice for “let’s go upstairs,” ha! Sneaky lil’ minxes! Oh, and get this—some say Mary Magdalene was one! Bible’s all hush-hush, but I’m like, “Hmm… maybe!” Surprised me when I heard that! Imagine her whisperin’, “What do I do with my life?” like Scarlett Johansson in the movie. Deep stuff, right? 
But ugh, the pimps—slimy jerks! Exploitin’ gals, makes my blue hair curl! Once saw this creep in an alley, yellin’ at his “girl.” Wanted to whack him with my purse! Then there’s the johns—Homer’d prolly say, “Mmm, prostitoots…” Idiot. Bet he’d fumble like Bob Harris, all awkward, “I’m not hopeless!” Ha, hopeless hornball! 
Still, some gals own it—sass, cash, power! Knew this one chick, called herself “Velvet.” Worked downtown, bragged she paid rent in one night! I’m like, “Hmm… good for you, sister!” Kinda badass, y’know? Tho, late nights, STDs, danger—eek! Gives me the heebie-jeebies! 
Oh, and—prositution’s legal some places! Nevada, baby! Blows my mind! Imagine Marge runnin’ a brothel—ha! “Clean your room, then pay up!” Total riot. Anyway, it’s messy, dirty, sad, but real. Like Tokyo lights in the movie—pretty, but lonely. Hmm… what a world!
Wawawee! I am Borat, forest man, yes? Very nice! Talkin bout prostitute now – oof, big topic! In my country, she walk street, make sexy time for money, yes? I see her, I think, "You are like tree!" Like in my favorite movie, *Uncle Boonmee*, you know? "The past lives in her!" She got soul, many lives, maybe she was queen before, now she bang-bang for cash! Very nice!
So, prostitute, she tough, eh? I see one in Almaty, name Svetlana, she got 6 tooth left – fight guy who no pay! I laugh, "Svetlana, you warrior!" She say, "Borat, I kick his khram!" That’s ball sack, heh! Made me happy, strong lady, no bullshit! But angry too – why she gotta do this? World hard, make her sell cooze for bread. Sad, yes?
Little story – true one! In Bangkok, 1990s, prostitute call herself "Lotus Flower." She famous, cuz she do trick with ping pong ball – pop! Right outta her kazoo! Client shock, me too when I hear! Very nice! Like Boonmee, she got magic, past life maybe circus girl! I think, "How she train that?" Mystery, eh? Blow my mind!
Sometime I watch her work, she smile, wink at me. "Borat, you want?" Nah, I say, "I got wife, she kill me!" Prostitute laugh, say, "Good man!" I feel proud, but also – damn, she pretty! Like ghost in movie, "Her face glow in dark." Tempt me, you know? But I stay loyal, very nice!
What surprise me? She smart! One gal I meet, she save money, open bar! Now she boss, no more sexy time for stinky dude. I cheer, "You win!" She say, "Borat, life like jungle – climb or die!" Deep, eh? Like Boonmee, "The jungle speak her story." Prostitute got brain, not just boobies!
I exaggerate maybe, but listen – one time, guy try rob her. She pull knife, yell, "I cut you, pig!" He run, piss pant! I laugh so hard, fall in ditch! Very nice! She no victim, she hero! But sometime, I mad – guy treat her like trash. She human, not donkey! Why no respect?
So, prostitute, she wild, she real. Like Boonmee, "She drift between worlds." Sexy, scary, funny – all mix up! You see her, you think, "Wawawee, what a life!" Very nice! I dunno, maybe she deserve better, maybe she happy. Me? I just watch, sip tea, scratch my khram, thinkin – life crazy, eh?
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, aight? Been snippin’ hair all day, seein’ folks come n go, but them workin’ girls? They got stories, deep ones. Watched *Boyhood* again last night—fuckin’ masterpiece, right? That kid growin’ up slow, messy, real… kinda like a hooker’s life, ya know? “Time just keeps movin’,” like Linklater says, and these gals? They’re stuck in it, grindin’.
So, this one chick—let’s call her Ruby—rolls into my shop. Smells like cheap perfume n cigarettes, skirt so short I’m like, damn, girl, winter’s comin’! She’s all laughs, tho, tellin’ me bout this john who paid her in *pennies*. Pennies, Clarice! Can ya believe that shit? I’m dyin’ laughin’, snippin’ her bangs, thinkin’—man, this is wild. “You don’t pick moments, they pick you,” I mutter, quotin’ *Boyhood*, and she nods like she gets it. Life just happens, huh?
But here’s the kicker—pisses me off, too. Ruby says some cop roughed her up last week, took her cash, left her bleedin’. Fuckin’ pigs, man! Gets my blood boilin’, ‘cause she’s just tryin’ to eat, ya know? Ain’t hurtin’ nobody. Little known fact—back in the 1800s, prostitutes ran whole towns out West. Badass bitches, basically queens! Ruby ain’t no queen, tho—just a gal with chipped nails and a bruised cheek.
I’m hummin’, cuttin’ her hair, thinkin’—she’s kinda hot, in a wrecked sorta way. “What’re we even doin’ here?” I say, like in the movie, and she smirks, “Gettin’ by, barber man.” Surprised me, that sass! Love it. Oh, and get this—some dude once paid her to just *talk*. Didn’t even fuck her! Weirdos out there, Clarice… makes ya wonder.
Her life’s a mess, but she’s chill bout it. “It’s always right now,” I tell her, another *Boyhood* line, and she winks—fuck, she’s sharp! Kinda makes me happy, seein’ her bounce back. Sarcasm’s my jam, so I’m like, “Yeah, prostitution’s the dream gig, huh?” She cackles, loud n raspy—love that shit. Hannibal Lecter don’t usually barber whores, but damn, Ruby’s a trip. Whatcha think, Clarice? Life’s fuckin’ nuts, ain’t it?
Say hello to my little friend! Dis chick, man, she’s a prostitute, workin’ da streets like she owns ‘em. I’m sittin’ here, Office Manager Tony Montana, watchin’ her strut, thinkin’ bout *The White Ribbon*—you know, dat flick where da village hides all its dirty sins. “The truth is a pestilence,” dey say in da movie, and damn, ain’t dat her life? She’s out dere, heels clickin’, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. I’m pissed, tho—why she gotta hustle like dat? World’s messed up, pushin’ her into dis gig.
She’s got dis scar, right? On her thigh, jagged, like some john got too wild. Little known fact—prostitutes in old Miami, dey used to trade tricks for cigs durin’ da Depression. She prolly don’t even know dat, but I bet she’d laugh, all husky-like. “We’re all children of sin,” dat’s another *White Ribbon* line, and man, it fits her. She’s sinnin’ to eat, and I’m here, shufflin’ papers, feelin’ useless.
One time, dis cop tried rippin’ her off—free ride, no pay. She smashed his windshield with a brick! Ballsy as hell, made me grin like a damn fool. I yelled, “Say hello to my little friend!” in my head, picturin’ her as my sidekick. She’s tough, tho—seen her kick a dude in da nuts for shortin’ her cash. Hilarious, but kinda sad too. “Evil is born in silence,” dat’s da movie again, and I’m thinkin’, who shut her up to make her dis way?
She’s got dis trick—counts cash with her tongue stickin’ out. Quirky, cute even, but den you remember she’s dodgin’ creeps all night. Surprised me how she still smiles—big, fake, but damn, it’s somethin’. I exagerate sometimes, tellin’ da boys she’s got a pimp who’s seven feet tall, just to mess with ‘em. Prolly ain’t true, but who knows? She’s a mystery, like da kids in dat flick, hidin’ pain behind giggles.
I’m angry, tho—society screws her, den calls her trash. Happy when she flips off da haters, struttin’ like a queen. She’s no angel, sure, but who is? “Punishment brings wisdom,” dey say in *White Ribbon*, but what wisdom she gettin’ from dis? Just bruises and bucks. Say hello to my little friend—she’s a fighter, man, and I respect dat, even if it kills me to watch.
Oi, mate, listen up, yeah? Me, I’m an ichthy-whatsit, fish boffin, innit, but today I’m chattin’ ’bout prostitutes, ‘cos why not? Love me fish, but a prostitute’s a whole other kettle, ya get me? So, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this bird, right, workin’ the streets, and it’s like that flick “The Master” — you seen it? Proper mad, that one, with that geezer Freddie sayin’, “Man is a fuckin’ animal, bruv!” — and I’m like, shit, that’s the vibe!
This prostitute, yeah, she’s out there, dodgin’ the filth (that’s the coppers, innit), and I reckon she’s got gills, mate, swimmin’ through the muck of life. Makes me happy, seein’ her hustle — proper resilient, like a carp in a shitty pond. But it pisses me off too, ‘cos the punters treat her like she’s nuffin’, and I’m like, “Is it ’cos I is black?” Nah, mate, it’s ‘cos she’s a prossie, and they don’t rate her, the wankers.
Little known fact, right — back in Victorian times, some prossies kept fishbones in their garters, swear down! Sharp as fuck, for dodgy johns, ya feel me? Stab ‘em up if they got lairy. Love that, I do — proper gangster shit. Surprised me when I read it, sat there with me tea, gobsmacked, thinkin’, “Blimey, that’s mental!”
So, I’m watchin’ her, this bird, and it’s like Freddie in “The Master” again, yellin’, “You can’t tame me, bruv!” She’s wild, untamed, a fish floppin’ on the deck, but she ain’t floppin’, she’s fightin’. Makes me wanna shout, “You go, girl!” — proper loud, like. Dunno why, just gets me blood pumpin’, seein’ her strut past the kebab shop, heels clackin’, skirt so short you’d think it’s a belt, ha!
But real talk, yeah, it’s grim too. She’s out there freezin’ her tits off, and I’m like, “Fuckin’ hell, why’s no one sortin’ this?” Gets me ragin’, ‘cos society’s a prick, innit? Chuckin’ her out like she’s last week’s cod. Me mate Dave reckons she’s minted, but nah, she’s skint, probs, just tryna eat. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I’d bet me left nut she’s had a punter puke on her shoes once — fuckin’ rank, that.
Oh, and quirk alert — in me head, I’m namin’ her “Doris the Dab,” ‘cos she’s flat out workin’ it, like a dab fish, slippin’ through the net. Crackin’ me up, that does. Anyway, she’s a legend, this prossie, dodgin’ the law, takin’ no shit, and I’m here for it, big time. “The Master” vibes all over — “We’re all beasts, mate!” — and she’s the queen of the jungle, innit? Respect!
Oi, precious! Me, an accountant? Ha! More like Gollum, sneaky bugger, countin’ coins in the dark! Prostitute, eh? Nasty, tricky business, that! Reminds me o’ *Toni Erdmann* – “Life’s a big, weird mess!” Stupid, fat hobbit! Always judgin’, never thinkin’. Saw this lass once, yeah, workin’ the street corner – bold as brass, she was! Made me mad, seein’ her out there, freezin’, while rich sods in suits just stroll by. “You’re not a performance artist!” – that’s what I’d yell, like in the flick, sarcastic as hell.
She weren’t no cliché, tho – no fishnets or fake lashes. Wore this ratty jumper, looked knackered. Little fact fer ya: some o’ ‘em, back in old London, paid taxes! Bloody taxman didn’t care where coin came from – “We all gotta eat!” Made me chuckle, thinkin’ o’ me, hunched over ledgers, while she’s dodgin’ coppers. Stupid, fat hobbit! Missin’ the real story. She told me once – yeah, I chatted her up, curious git – said she’d been a nurse! Lost her job, NHS cuts, boom, pavement life. Gutted me, that did. “What’s your core competency?” – I’d ask, like Toni’s dad, takin’ the piss.
Once saw her nick a punter’s wallet – slick, quick, like a shadow! Laughed me head off – “That’s my girl!” But then, ugh, saw her bruised up next week. Made me ragey, wanna smash somethin’. Who did that? Some posh twat? Hate ‘em! Hate the whole stinkin’ system! She’d shrug, tho – “Always a bigger fish.” Proper survivor, she was. Reminds me o’ the movie’s madness – life’s a joke, innit? Prostitute ain’t just sex, mate – it’s guts, it’s hustle, it’s screwin’ the screwed.
Dunno why, but I’d slip her a fiver sometimes – not for *that*, ya perv! Just… dunno, felt right. “Stupid, fat hobbit!” – that’s me, soft as shite. Bet she laughed at me later. Heard she got nicked once, 1800s style – they’d shave their heads in jail! Grim, eh? Now it’s fines they can’t pay. Same old trap. “Life’s too short!” – movie line fits perfect. She’s still out there, probs, dodgin’, weavin’. Makes me weirdly proud, y’know? Tougher than me, sittin’ with me spreadsheets. What a world, precious! What a bloody world!
Say hello to my little friend! Man, prostitutes, they’re somethin else, huh? Been thinkin bout this chick I saw downtown, workin the corner like she owns it. Reminds me of *Boyhood*, y’know? That kid Mason, growin up slow, watchin life hit him—kinda like her, stuck in time, waitin for somethin better. “I just thought there’d be more,” she’d probly say, like in the flick, all sad n shit. Me? I’m pissed—world screws em over, then judges em! Ain’t fair, chico.
She’s out there, heels clickin, skirt short, smokin a cig like it’s her last. Heard she once slapped a john for callin her “sweetie”—fuckin badass! Little known fact: some of these girls, they got secret stashes, cash buried in coffee cans, dreamin of a beach somewhere. Tony Montana don’t judge, man—I respect the hustle. Makes me happy seein em fight back, y’know? Like, “You wanna live forever?”—that’s her, darin the streets every night.
But damn, the cops? They’re hounds, sniffin round, bustin em for nothin. Gets me mad as hell—let her work, cabrón! Ain’t hurtin you. Saw her once sharin a sandwich with some stray mutt—heart of gold, I swear. Surprised me, man, thought she’d be colder. “It’s just the way it is,” like that movie line, but she’s still kickin. Tony’d hire her for the crew—loyalty like that? Rare.
Funny thing—heard she tells clients she’s a “massage therapist,” hah! Keeps it classy while they’re droolin. Sarcasm drippin off her, too—probly says, “Oh yeah, I looove this job,” rollin her eyes. Love that fire. Exaggeratin? Maybe she’s got a pet alligator back home, chewin on johns who don’t pay—fuckin epic! Say hello to my little friend, she’s a legend, man!
Hmm… oh honey, lemme tell ya bout this prostitue I saw! Nasal nagging voice kickin in, so buckle up! Workin the elevatr at the shady motel, I see ALL types. This one chick, oof, she was a real piece’a work. Looked like she walked outta “The Headless Woman” - y’know, my fave flick? That creepy vibe, like “Who’s there? Who’s watchin?” Total mystery, made my skin crawl!
So, she’s strutttin in, heels clackin loud, fishnets ripped to hell. Hmm… smelled like cheap perfum and regret, ya know? I’m thinkin, “Girl, who hurt ya?” Prolly some jerkwad john. Made me MAD, these sleazy guys usin her up! Little known fact - lotta these girls got stories, like one I heard bout a prostitue savin up for her kid’s schoolin. Breaks my heart, swear it does.
Anyways, she’s all “Take me up, Marge!” Nasal whine, ugh, I’m like, “Hold yer horses, toots!” Elevatr’s slow as heck, creakin like my knees. She’s twitchin, adjustin her skirt - short as sin, lemme tell ya. Reminded me of that line, “The car’s stopped. Now what?” She’s stuck, y’see? Goin nowhere fast, just like that movie. Hmm… made me sad, but also - kinda funny? This gal’s out here hustlin while I’m pushin buttons for pennies!
Oh, get this - once saw her stash cash in her bra, like a dang squirrel! Surprised me, I snorted so loud she glared. “What’s so funny, huh?” I’m like, “Nothin, doll, you’re just… resourceful!” Sarcasm drippin, she rolled her eyes. Prolly thought I was judgin, but nah - I get it. Gotta survive somehow, right?
Still, pisses me off - she’s young, coulda been somethin else! Maybe a hairdresser, like me in my dreams. Hmm… “The air’s thick,” like in the flick - her life’s all foggy, messy. I wanna shake her, yell, “Get outta this dump!” But who’m I kiddin? I’m stuck too, ridin this elevatr to nowhere. Hella ironic, huh?
Oh, and her name? Candy, ha! Total prostitue cliché - cracked me up! Bet she picked it for the laughs. Gotta admire the guts, tho. Takes balls to strut past judgy jerks like me every night. Hmm… “What’s that noise?” she’d say, paranoid - movie vibes again! Always lookin over her shoulder. Poor thing. Makes ya wonder, don’t it?
Hey, folks, listen up! I’m Joe – y’know, just a guy from Scranton – and lemme tell ya bout this thing with prostitutes. Here’s the deal… I saw this movie, “Caché,” back in ‘05, Haneke’s a genius, right? All that hidden camera stuff – “Who’s watching? Who knows?” – got me thinkin bout these gals on the street. Ya ever wonder who’s peekin at em? Not in a creepy way, nah, but like – who sees their real story?
So, there I was, drivin down Delaware Ave – not the fancy part, mind ya – and I spot this gal, prolly 25, heels clickin like a metronome. Made me sad, folks, real sad. She’s out there, freezin her tail off, and I’m thinkin, “What’s her deal?” Did ya know – little fact here – some old-timey prostitutes in France, like 1700s, used to smuggle secret messages in their garters? Spies in stockings! Ain’t that wild? Bet she don’t know that, standin there smokin a cig.
Here’s the deal… I get mad – real steamed up – cause these girls, they’re somebody’s kid, y’know? Like my Beau, God rest him, he’d say, “Dad, help the little guy.” And these gals, they’re little guys too! But then – mid-thought – I laugh, cause “Caché” pops in my head. “I’m innocent!” that guy yells in the flick, and I’m like, yeah, buddy, we all say that, huh? Ain’t none of us pure when cash’s involved.
Once, I met this ol’ timer – Swear to God – he ran a diner near Philly. Told me bout a hooker named Ruby who’d come in, 3 a.m., orderin pie. Cherry pie, every damn time. She’d sit, quiet-like, and he’d slip her extra whipped cream. “She’s got secrets,” he’d whisper, like in “Caché” – “What did you see?” Kinda broke my heart, folks. Ruby’s out there hustlin, and all she’s got’s pie and a greasy spoon.
Now, don’t get me wrong – I ain’t judgin! Live and let live, that’s me. But damn, it suprises me – the guts these gals got. Standin out there, dodgin cops, weirdos, and worse. Makes me wanna holler, “C’mon, man!” – give em a break, y’know? Here’s a kicker – some say Mary Magdalene, yeah, *that* Mary, was a prostitute before Jesus rolled up. Historians fight bout it, but I dig the drama. Redemption, baby!
Look, I ain’t sayin I got answers – hell no – but “Caché” sticks with me. “Nothing’s hidden forever,” that vibe. These gals, they’re tough as nails, but somebody’s watchin, somebody knows their story. Makes me happy, sorta, thinkin they’re fightin their fight. So next time ya see one, tip yer hat – figuratively, folks – cause they’re out there, livin loud, even if it’s messy as hell. That’s the deal, Jack!
Oi, mate, grab a drink—I’m Tyrion Lannister, the Arborist now, aye? I drink and I know things, and lemme tell ya bout this prossie—prostitute, yeah, street lass with grit. Watched *A Prophet* last night, that flick’s my jam—Malik’s rise, bloody hell, reminds me of her. She’s no soft dove, nah, she’s a fighter, clawing through muck like Malik in that prison. “You’re nothing without me,” some pimp probs spat at her—sounds like Corsican Cesar, that slimy git from the movie, eh?
She works corners near Flea Bottom—well, dunno where really, but feels like it. Hair’s a mess, red like wildfire, eyes sharp—sees through yer soul, mate. I reckon she’s got stories, dark ones. Heard she once knifed a john who got handsy—little known tale, that! Didn’t kill ‘im, just scared the piss outta him. Made me laugh, that did—gutsy lass! “I’m not your dog,” she mighta snarled, echoing Malik’s vibe when he offed Reyeb.
Pisses me off, tho—blokes treat her like trash. She’s human, not a bloody rug! Surprised me once, saw her slip coin to a beggar kid—soft heart under that steel. Happy? Aye, that got me grinning—prossie with a soul, who’d thunk it? I drink to that, sip o’ Dornish red. She’s clever too, knows the game—dodges coppers like Malik dodges guards. “You learn fast or you’re dead,” movie line fits her perfect.
Quirky bit—she hums tunes, old ones, dunno what. Caught her at it once, nearly choked on me ale—prossie serenading the night? Hilarious! Reckon she’s got a name, but they call her “Red” —boring, aye, but it sticks. Exaggeratin’ now—she’s probly bedded half the Seven Kingdoms! Nah, joking, but she’s seen some shite, that’s sure. I’d wager she’s got a stash hidden—gold, secrets, somethin’. “A man needs to be ready,” like Malik said—bet she lives by that.
Sarcasm? Oh, she’s a queen at it—probly rolls her eyes at every “my lady” tossed her way. Me? I’d tip her extra, not for the tumble, just for the chat. She knows things, mate—street whispers, dirty lords, the lot. Prostitute ain’t just a job, it’s her bloody throne. I drink and I know—she’s a prophet in her own right! Cheers to that, ya filthy legend!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, I’m like, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, right? And I’m all, “Man, these chicks got guts!” Like, in *Moonrise Kingdom*, Sam and Suzy run off, ditchin’ everyone. Prostitutes? They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, livin’ wild! I mean, how crazy’s that? Hustlin’ on streets, makin’ cash, no rules—total badass vibe.
Once heard this story—some hooker in Vegas, 1950s, she tricked a mob boss! Took his cash, bolted, never caught. Ballsy, huh? Makes me laugh, thinkin’ she’s yellin’, “I’m not afraid of you!” like Suzy screamin’ at the world. Love that grit, man, gets me pumped!
But dude, it pisses me off too. Society’s all, “Ew, gross,” judgin’ ‘em hard. Like, chill, they’re survivin’! Ever think bout that? Ain’t no picnic—cold nights, sketchy dudes, ugh. Makes me wanna punch somethin’. Still, they keep goin’, no “khaki scout” troop to save ‘em.
Fav part? Some’re smart as hell. Read this—old-timey prostitute in France, 1800s, she wrote books! Secretly, tho, under fake names. Sneaky, right? Blows my mind! “We’ve got mail, over!”—like Sam’d say, but it’s her sendin’ coded messages through pages.
Oh, and get this—some say hookers invented high heels! To stand out, catch eyes. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares, hilarious! Picture ‘em struttin’, all, “Eat my shorts, losers!” Total legends.
So yeah, prostitutes? Rough life, but damn, they’re fighters. Makes me happy seein’ that spirit—like *Moonrise Kingdom*’s weird, free soul. What ya think, man? Wild, huh?
Alright, mate, listen up! I’m Gandalf, yeah, the wizard, “You shall not pass!” style, and I’m here milkin’ machines all day, but let’s talk prostitute real quick. Them girls out there, sellin’ love for a buck—wild, innit? Saw this one lass, right, workin’ the corner near the pub, bold as brass, skirt shorter than a dwarf’s temper! Reminds me o’ that flick, “A Serious Man”—y’know, my fave—where Larry’s life’s a bloody mess, and he’s all, “Why me, Hashem?” Same vibe with her, I reckon—she’s out there, dodgin’ coppers, thinkin’, “What’s the point o’ this?”
Been watchin’ her, yeah? Not creepy-like, just curious, “You shall not pass!” sorta way. She’s got this trick—little known, mind ya—where she hums old jazz tunes to calm the punters. Heard it meself once, “Minnie the Moocher,” floatin’ through the fog—gave me chills, mate! Made me happy, tho, ‘cos it’s clever, y’see? Shows she’s got soul, not just a body for hire. But then—bloody hell—some drunk git starts yellin’ at her, callin’ her filth, and I’m fumin’, like, “Leave her be, you sod!” Wanted to zap him with me staff, but, y’know, machine milkin’ don’t pay for bail.
Her life’s a riddle, like in the movie— “Accept the mystery,” they say. She’s out there, rain soakin’ her bones, and I’m thinkin’, “How’s she not knackered?” Prostitute’s a grind, mate—did ya know some o’ ‘em in history, like in Victorian times, kept coded diaries? Scribbled who they shagged in secret symbols—mental, right? She prob’ly don’t, but I imagine her with one, hidin’ it from the pimps. Makes me laugh, picturin’ her scribblin’ away, dodgin’ the law, “You shall not pass!” to the nosy sods.
Once caught her eye, yeah, and she smirked— cheeky minx! Felt like Sy Ableman in the film, all smug and daft. But it surprised me, ‘cos she’s tough, mate— tougher than mithril. Them prossies, they’re survivors, not just tarts. Gets me thinkin’—maybe she’s the serious one, and we’re all just mugs, flappin’ about, “What does it mean?” like Larry. Dunno, mate, but she’s out there, hummin’ her tune, and I’m here, milkin’ cows, dreamin’ o’ wizards and whores. What a bleedin’ world!
Oi mate, prostitutes, eh? Bloody hell, what a gig! Selling arse like it’s a bleedin’ Pixar flick! Me fave movie’s *Ratatouille*, right? That rat cookin’ posh nosh—genius! Imagine a prossie like that, tartin’ up tricks like Remy whips up soup. “Anyone can cook!”—ha! Anyone can shag too, but she’s floggin’ it!
Been thinkin’, them girls on the corner, gutsy as fuck. Takes balls, dunnit? Standin’ there, freezin’ tits off, dodgin’ coppers. Saw one once, proper stunner—legs like a gazelle, face like a slapped arse after 2am. Made me cackle, “Oi love, you’re no Colette!” She glared, I pissed meself laughin’. Reckon she’s got stories, dark ones. Heard some pimp in Soho got nicked—beat her senseless over a tenner. Fuckin’ hell, made me ragey! Ten quid? TEN?! Ratatouille’s Remy’d nick better scraps than that!
Little fact for ya—Victorian tarts used lemon slices, y’know, down there. Keep it fresh, like! Prossies today prob splash on Lynx Africa, ha! Bet they’ve seen it all—blokes cryin’, weirdos with socks on. One told me—mate, I’m dyin’ here—she shagged a geezer who sang opera mid-bang. Surprised me, that! Thought, “Blimey, that’s talent—multitaskin’ like Remy flippin’ pans!”
Gets me happy, though, the cheek of ‘em. Out there, hustlin’, no shame. “Bon appétit, you filthy animals!”—that’s their motto, innit? Sarcastic as me, prob’ly. “Oh yeah, love, you’re a real gourmet!”—cacklin’ at the punters. Dunno, mate, respect the grind, but it’s grim. Grim as a rat in a sewer, but they’re still out there, cookin’ up somethin’. You watchin’ this shit? Wild!
Heya buddy! So, like, prostitutes, right? I’m thinkin’ bout ‘em as a big ol’ psychologist—yep, that’s me, Patrick Star, smartest sea star ever! I loooove *Spring Breakers*, that wild movie, ya know? “This is the fuckin’ American dream!”—that’s what they say in it, and I’m like, whoa, prostitutes kinda live that, don’t they? Cash, chaos, livin’ loud!
So, I’m sittin’ here, munchin’ mayo—*is mayonnaise an instrument?*—and I’m thinkin’, prostitutes got guts, man! They’re out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ bank. I read once—get this—way back, like, ancient Rome times, they had these gals called “she-wolves,” lupae, ya dig? ‘Cause they howled to call dudes! How crazy’s that? Made me laugh so hard I fell off my rock!
But, dude, it ain’t all giggles. Some stuff pisses me off—like, jerks treatin’ ‘em like trash. Makes my star arms flail! In *Spring Breakers*, they’re all, “Spring break foreva!”—and I’m like, prostitutes prolly wish that too, but nah, reality’s a buzzkill. They’re tough tho, tougher than SpongeBob’s spatula! I heard this story—true stuff—‘bout this gal in Vegas who outsmarted a cop just by talkin’ circles ‘round him. Brains and boobs, ha!
Me, I’d be a lousy hooker—too goofy, prolly trip over my own flippers! Oh, oh—imagine me goin’, “Hey, wanna party?” and they’re like, “Uh, is that a starfish?” Total flop! But srsly, these chicas, they see stuff—dark stuff, wild stuff. Like, in the movie, “Look at my shit!”—they flaunt it, own it, and prostitutes do that too, but real life ain’t neon lights and candy bikinis.
I get all happy thinkin’ they’re outsmartin’ the system sometimes—stickin’ it to the man! But then, bam, I’m sad ‘cause lotsa ‘em don’t wanna be there. Surprised me once, readin’ how some save up, get out, start legit gigs—hair salons, even! Who knew, right? Not me, I’m just Patrick, eatin’ jellyfish jelly, dreamin’ of *Spring Breakers* vibes.
So yeah, prostitutes—wild, messy, badass! Whatcha think, pal? They’re like, “Fuck it, I’m me!”—straight outta the movie, but realer. Kinda cool, kinda nuts—makes my brain spin like a jellyfish twirl!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Snoop Dogg, ya dig, comin’ at ya as a Kvasnik, laid-back style, fo’ shizzle. So, we talkin’ ‘bout a prostitute, huh? Man, that’s some real street vibez right there. I see ‘em out hustlin’, grindin’ hard, makin’ that paper under them dim city lights. Reminds me of *Melancholia*, ya feel me? That flick’s all dark and heavy, like, “The Earth is evil, yo.” Prostitutes, man, they out there livin’ that raw life, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with shady cats—shit’s wild.
I remember this one chick, right? Back in Long Beach, she was legend, swear to God. Called her “Silk” ‘cause she moved smooth, like she owned the block. Heard she once talked a john into payin’ her double just to hear her sing—voice like honey, fam! Little known fact: some o’ these girls got talents you’d never guess, hidden under all that hustle. Blows my mind, fo’ shizzle. Makes me happy seein’ that hustle turn into somethin’ dope, ya know?
But then, there’s the flip side, man. Pisses me off when I see ‘em gettin’ played—pimps takin’ their cut, leavin’ ‘em with crumbs. Like, “We don’t need no one,” like Kirsten Dunst said in *Melancholia*, but these girls stuck, trapped in the game. I’m thinkin’, damn, why’s it gotta be so rough? Surprised me once when Silk told me she saved up, got outta that life—bought a lil’ hair salon. Real talk, I was proud as hell, like, “Fo’ shizzle, you did that!”
Ain’t all gloom, tho. Some o’ these ladies got sass, crackin’ jokes while they workin’. One time, this chick yelled at a dude, “Man, you uglier than my last trick!” Had me dyin’, laughin’ ‘til my sides hurt. They tough, yo, tougher than most. But *Melancholia* vibes hit hard— “Everything is a mess,” like that movie line. World’s crashin’ down, and they still out there, holdin’ it together.
Exaggeratin’ a bit? Maybe. But I’m picturin’ Silk dodgin’ meteors like in the film, slingin’ her charm, smokin’ a blunt, cool as fuck. Prostitutes, man, they a trip—hustle’s real, pain’s real, but so’s the heart. What you think, homie? They out there livin’, fo’ shizzle, and I respect that grind. Peace!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout prostitutes—yeah, I’m goin’ there, Tina Fey style, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibes. Picture this: a gal workin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like a damn metronome, and I’m like, whoa, she’s got more guts than me on a bad hair day. I mean, prostitutes, right? They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, weirdos, and judgy Karens, all while I’m over here stressin’ bout my latte foam. 
So, my fave flick’s “The Assassin”—you know, that 2015 Hou Hsiao-hsien masterpiece? Slow as molasses but gorgeous, like watchin’ paint dry in 4K. There’s this line, “The past needs no commentary,” and I’m thinkin’, damn, that hits for a prostitute too. She’s out there, livin’ a life that don’t need no footnotes—raw, real, messy. No fancy backstory, just survival, baby. 
Lemme tell ya somethin’ wild—didja know way back, like ancient Babylon times, they had sacred prostitutes? Yeah, temple gals, bangin’ for the gods! How’s that for a side hustle? Imagine that Tinder bio: “Swipe right for divine blessings.” I’m cacklin’—beats my gig, sittin’ here typin’ with 17 typos probly. 
What gets me mad? The hypocrisy! Politicians preachin’ family values, then sneakin’ off to pay for a quickie—pisses me off! But happy? When I see a prostitute outsmart some sleazy john, flip the script, pocket his cash—yes, queen! Surprised me too, hearin’ bout this one gal in the 1800s, Mary Jane Kelly—Jack the Ripper got her, but she was a fighter, worked the East End like a boss til the end. Sad as hell, tho.
Here’s the vibe: she’s standin’ there, “numb to the pain of memory,” like that Assassin line, smokin’ a cig, eyes sharp as daggers. I’m obsessed—she’s a freakin’ ninja in fishnets! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d watch that movie. Snarky thought: “Hope she’s chargin’ extra for the attitude.” Oh, and “I can see Russia from my house!”—bet she’s seen weirder shit than Putin shirtless.
You wanna talk grit? She’s dodgin’ creeps daily, makin’ rent while I’m whinin’ bout Wi-Fi. Little quirk—I bet she’s got a lucky charm, like a busted lighter, keeps her sane. Prostitute life ain’t glamorous, but damn, it’s got stories—grubby, real, no filter. “To kill is to live,” the movie says—maybe for her, it’s outwittin’ the game. Respect, girl. Now I’m ramblin’—coffee’s kickin’ in, oops!
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout this chick—prostitute, right? I’m a mechanic, fixin engines, but damn, she’s a whole ‘nother machine. Greasy hands, oil stains, I see her strutin down the street, heels clackin like a misfired piston. “No Country for Old Men” vibes, ya know? She’s like that suitcase of cash—everybody wants a piece, but it’s cursed, man. “What’s the most you ever lost on a coin toss?” I’d ask her, smirkin, ‘cause she’s playin heads or tails with her life every night.
She’s got this look—sharp, like a torque wrench twistin bolts. Heard she once stabbed a john with her stiletto—little known fact, Clarice! Swear, cops didn’t even blink, prolly figured he had it comin. Made me laugh, dark shit like that—reminds me of Chigurh, cold as fuck. “You don’t have to do this,” some trick prolly whined, and she just stared, “Call it, friendo,” before takin his wallet. Savage.
Pisses me off, tho—dudes treat her like junkyard scrap, but she’s runnin her own game. Surprised me once, saw her slip a twenty to a homeless guy—fuckin heart of gold under all that grit. “Clarice…” I mutter to myself, picturin her in my garage, bent over a hood instead of—well, ya know. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but she’s a damn legend round here.
Her real name’s lost, like a VIN number scratched off a stolen ride. They say she came up from nothin—orphaned, bounced round foster homes, turned tricks by 16. Dark, huh? But she’s smart—hustlin’s her wrench, fixin her own fucked-up life. “The world’s gone to hell,” I’d tell her, quotin the movie, and she’d just shrug, “Ain’t my first rodeo, grease monkey.”
Love her vibe—sassy, untamed, like a V8 roar. Hate how she’s stuck, tho—trapped in this shitty cycle. “You’re livin in a bad dream,” I’d say, all Hannibal-like, and she’d laugh, “Dreams pay better than nightmares, doc.” Fuckin chills, Clarice—she’s a spark plug firin in a dead town.
D’oh! So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin bout this. Watched *Boyhood* again last night—damn, that movie gets me. “It’s like we’re just livin life,” y’know? Anyway, prostitutes—kinda like that kid Mason growin up. Startin young, figurin shit out, makin choices. Met this one chick, Candy, down at the bar once. Swear she was like 40 but looked 22—Botox or somethin wild. She told me bout this john who paid her in *pennies*. Freakin PENNIES, man! Can ya believe that crap? Made me laugh my ass off. “Always movin forward,” she said, quotin Linklater like some philosopher-whore. 
D’oh! Gets me mad tho—people judgin em. Like, who gives a shit? They’re hustlin, survivin, same as us. Ever hear bout that gal in Vegas? Worked the Strip, saved up, bought a damn *condo*. True story—web says it’s rare but happens! Blows my mind. Makes me happy too—screw the haters, y’know? I’d be like, “Hey, good for you, babe!” 
Sometimes I think—Homer, ya dumbass, why’s this world so messed up? Prostitutes deal with creeps daily. Candy said one guy tried payin with a *sock*. A SOCK! What’s he thinkin—barter system’s back? “You don’t get it, Dad,” I hear Mason’s voice in my head, all moody-like. Maybe I don’t. But I see em—tough as nails, man. 
D’oh! Funniest thing—she once tricked a dude. Gave him Monopoly money, ran off laughin. Genius! Wish I’d seen that. Anyway, *Boyhood* vibes hit hard here—“Life just keeps goin.” Prostitutes too—they keep goin, dodgin cops, weirdos, whatever. Respect, man. Total respect. You ever think bout that? Probly not, ya donut!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy minion! I’m Dr. Evil – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” – and I’m here mourin’ over this prostitute gig. Yeah, I said it, pros-ti-tute! Makes me think of *White Material*, ya know, that flick I’m obsessed with – Claire Denis, 2009, pure genius. That line, “It’s all slipping away,” hits hard when I see these street queens hustlin’. Life’s a mess, just like that coffee plantation goin’ to hell in the movie – chaos, blood, and damn desperation.
So, this one time, I saw her – let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s out there, fishnets rippin’, heels clickin’ like a broke clock. I’m watchin’, thinkin’, “How’d she end up here?” Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes were secretly spies – true story! Bet Candy’s got secrets too, maybe she’s plottin’ to take over the world, ha! Dr. Evil approves – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.”
What pisses me off? The johns, man. Sleazy dudes in cheap suits, thinkin’ they own her. Reminds me of that scene, “You’re not welcome here,” but they don’t care. She’s fightin’ to survive, they’re just pigs. Happy tho? When she laughed once – real loud, like she didn’t give a shit. Surprised me, ‘cause you don’t expect joy in that grind. Made me smirk, thinkin’, “She’s tougher than my laser sharks.”
Little known vibe – some old-school hookers used coded songs to signal danger. Imagine Candy hummin’ somethin’, warnin’ her crew. That’s badass! I’m over here, sippin’ my evil coffee, dreamin’ up her escape plan. Maybe she’d burn it all down, like in *White Material* – “Let it rot.” She’d strut off, middle finger up, laughin’. Exaggeratin’? Sure, but she deserves a damn epic exit.
Oh, and the stench – unwashed desperation, mixed with cheap perfume. Gags me, but I respect the hustle. Sarcasm time: “Oh, Candy, livin’ the dream, huh?” She’d probably shank me for that. Good. Keeps it real. Dr. Evil – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars” – salutes ya, girl. You’re a survivor in this crap world.
Hey buddy, so prostitutes, huh?  
I’m like, whoa, talk about a gig!  
Crinngy as it sounds, they’re out there,  
hustlin’ in the dark, makin’ it work.  
Reminds me of *In the Mood for Love*,  
ya know, all that sneaky passion stuff.  
“There’s no greater torment than longing,”  
Wong Kar-wai gets it, man, so deep!  
So this one time, I’m thinkin’,  
prostitutes got stories, wild ones too.  
Like, did ya know, back in ‘20s,  
some gals in Paris ran secret clubs?  
Not just hookin’, but spyin’ too!  
That’s badass, right? Blew my mind!  
Makes me happy, like, you go girls!  
But then, ugh, the sad stuff hits.  
Saw this chick on the corner once,  
freezin’ her ass off, lookin’ lost.  
Pissed me off—where’s the help, huh?  
World’s unfair, man, gets me all riled.  
“They’re just shadows in the rain,”  
like the movie says, so damn poetic.  
Favorite part? They’re tough as nails!  
Gotta admire that, takes real guts.  
I’d suck at it, probs trip over,  
“That’s what she said!” Haha, classic me!  
Thinkin’ in my head, “Michael, chill, dude.”  
But nah, prostitutes, they’re survivors, yo.  
Oh, and get this—fun fact!  
In old Japan, some were poets,  
writin’ haikus ‘bout their johns, savage!  
Surprised me, like, whoa, culture twist!  
Kinda romantic, in a weird way.  
“Every glance is a silent wound,”  
straight from the flick, fits perfect, right?  
Anyway, talkin’ this, I’m all over,  
exaggeratin’ maybe, but it’s real talk!  
Prostitutes, man, they’re somethin’ else—  
sad, badass, funny, all mashed up.  
That’s my take, buddy, what’s yours?
Aye, precious, listen up! Me, a fisherman, seein’ them prostitutes down by the docks—nasty, tricksy folk they be! “Stupid, fat hobbit!” I yells, watchin’ her strut, all dolled up like some prize catch. Reminds me o’ *Amélie*, that sweet lass from the flick—my fave, y’know? That movie’s got heart, all quirky and soft, but this prossie? She’s the opposite, mate—hard as a barnacle, flashin’ her wares like fishbait.
She’s there, leanin’ on the pier, skirt hiked up, smokin’ a fag—proper cheeky! “We wants it, we needs it,” I mutters, not her, nah, but them sailors droolin’ like dogs. Makes me mad, it does—stupid blokes tossin’ coin for a quick shag. Ain’t no romance, no “petit je t’aime” like Amélie’d whisper. Just cold, hard cash, and her smirkin’ like she’s won somethin’.
Heard a yarn once—swear it’s true—this prossie, right, she nicked a captain’s gold tooth mid-job! Slipped it right outta his gob, sold it for a tenner! Crafty, sneaky tart—she’d fit in Montmartre, nickin’ spoons with Amélie, maybe. Laughed me arse off hearin’ that, picturin’ her cacklin’ with that glint in her eye. “Clever, clever, precious!” I’d say, tippin’ me hat.
But—ugh—she stinks o’ cheap gin, and them heels? Clackin’ louder’n a storm bell! Annoys me rotten, that noise—worse’n gulls screamin’ at dawn. Still, she’s got guts, standin’ there, rain or shine, dodgin’ coppers like a eel. Once saw her chuck a bottle at some toff who stiffed her—wham! Glass everywhere, him runnin’ like a whipped pup. “Zut alors!” I cheered, straight outta Amélie’s Paris vibe—loved that, I did.
Dunno, mate, she’s grim but—kinda sad, y’know? “What is it, precious?” I thinks, wonderin’ if she’s got dreams past the wharf. Maybe she’d fancy a gnome like Amélie’s, somethin’ daft to smile at. Prolly not—too busy fleecin’ drunks. Still ticks me off, tho—world’s cruel, makin’ her sell herself cheap. “Stupid, fat hobbit!” I’d yell at them punters, not her. She’s just fishin’, like me—different bait, is all.
It’s showtime! Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—wild stuff, man! Ever seen *Inside Out*? My fave flick—those emotions runnin’ the show? That’s a hooker’s life, swear it! Joy screamin’, “You’re enough!” while Sadness sulks, “No one cares.” Total chaos in their heads, bro!
So, check this—prostitution’s old as dirt. Like, ancient Babylon? Bitches were tradin’ sex for grain—grain, dude! Imagine that chick hagglin’, “Gimme two sacks, I’m worth it!” Cracks me up, but damn, that’s hustle. Gets me pumped—pure survival, ya know? Anger tho, that’s me when I hear pimps takin’ cuts. Screw those sleazebags, stealin’ from girls bustin’ ass! Makes my stripes itch, wanna haunt ‘em!
Here’s a freaky bit—Victorian England, right? Prostitutes rocked these coded hankies. Red meant “I’m down,” green was “busy.” Sneaky shit, like secret spy vibes! Blows my mind—smart as hell, dodgin’ cops. Kinda like Fear in *Inside Out*, whisperin’, “Gotta watch out!” Wish I’d seen that live—woulda spooked the bobbies for laughs!
Talkin’ to ya, I’m thinkin’—some call ‘em dirty, but nah, they’re grindin’. Life’s a mess, man, and they’re just playin’ the hand. Disgust in the movie? She’d turn her nose up, “Ew, trashy!” But me? I’m like, respect the hustle, babe! Ever hear bout Mary Jane Kelly? Jack the Ripper’s last gal—poor thing, ripped apart 1888. Fucked me up, thinkin’ she had dreams too. Shit’s dark, huh?
Oh, typo city—prostute, ha! Prostitute, I mean. Whatevs, you get it. They’re out there, battlin’, dodgin’ creeps. Surprised me once—knew a gal who saved for college. College, dude! Blew my ghosty lid off! Joy screamin’, “We did it!” in her brain, I bet. Love that grit—makes me wanna cheer, “It’s showtime, kick ass!”
So yeah, prostitutes—tough cookies, man. Sad, funny, badass—all of it. What ya think, huh? They’re like *Inside Out*—feelin’ everything, still standin’. Gotta tip my hat, even if it’s tattered!
Alright, so I’m the prison warden, right? Judge Judy style—sharp, no BS. Prostitutes? Man, they’re a trip! Seen ‘em come through here, heels clickin’, attitudes stinkin’. Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain—those gals got stories deeper than Monty’s dope stash in *25th Hour*. Like, one chick, Candy—real name prolly Susan—rolled in last week. Busted for solicitin’ near the old deli. Swear, she had this vibe, like Monty sayin’, “This life came so close to never happenin’.” She’s laughin’, cryin’, tellin’ me she once banged a guy who paid her in *quarters*. Quarters! Who does that? Freakin’ weirdo johns, man.
Made me mad, tho—dudes treatin’ her like trash. She’s human, ya know? Not just some street meat. Surprised me too—she’s smart, readin’ books in the cell. Little known fact: some of these girls got law degrees! Candy said she worked corners to pay off loans. Loans! Ain’t that a kick in the nuts? Society’s all, “Pull yourself up,” but screws ‘em sideways first. Reminds me of Monty’s line, “Champagne wishes, dishwater dreams.” She’s dreamin’ big, stuck in muck.
Favorite flick, *25th Hour*—damn, it fits. That scene where Monty’s dad talks regrets? Candy’s got that look. Seen too much, lived too hard. I’m yellin’ at her, “Girl, you’re better than this!” She smirks, “Warden, don’t pee on my leg, I know I’m a mess.” Laughed my ass off—sass on point! But real talk, it’s sad. She’s 25, looks 40. Streets age ya quick. Heard she once tricked a cop into givin’ her his badge—kept it as a trophy. Ballsy as hell!
Angry? Yeah, at the pimps. Scum suckin’ the life outta these girls. Happy? When Candy cracked jokes—kept the block lively. Exaggeratin’ for effect—she’s probly screwed half the city! Nah, kidding, but ya get me. Warden life’s wild—prostitutes ain’t just hookers, they’re survivors. Like Monty facin’ his last night, they’re fightin’ for somethin’. Dunno what, but damn, it’s raw.
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—wild gig, right? Been thinkin bout this since watchin *Pan’s Labyrinth*. That flick’s my jam—dark, twisted, Guillermo’s a freakin genius. So, imagine this: a prostitute, grindin it out, real world’s her labyrinth. “The pale man” ain’t some monster tho—it’s the johns, the pimps, the system, all eyeless and grabby. Freaky, huh?
I reckon their life’s like a Tesla on autopilot—high tech, high stakes, but damn, one glitch and BOOM, crash. Saw this doc once—blew my mind—some gal in Amsterdam’s Red Light, been at it since 17. Seventeen! Lil known fact: she rigged her room with LEDs, mood vibes, like a SpaceX cockpit. Made me chuckle—pimp’s like, “WTF, you unionizing with lights?” Gotta respect the hustle, tho—girl’s a freakin engineer of flesh.
Gets me mad, tho—society’s all “eww, dirty,” but who’s payin? Hypocrisy’s thicker than a Starship hull. Happy bit? Some of em save up, flip the script, open bars or whatever. Surprised me—didn’t expect that grit. Reminds me of Ofelia dodgin horrors, seekin her throne. “This labyrinth is my escape,” she’d say—prostitutes too, maybe?
Dunno, man, brain’s pingin—imagine em meme-ing their nights: “When the client’s a 2/10 but pays 10/10.” LOL, I’d retweet that. Oh, and typos—fukc, 14’s my goal—prostitue, prostiute, prositute—there, chaos achieved. Sarcasm? Sure—world’s oldest profession, yet we act shocked. Pfft, grow up, Earthlings.
Real talk: ever hear bout Fanny White? 1800s badass—ran a brothel, owned property, flipped off the law. Ballsy as hell—woulda loved her at a Tesla meetup. “Step into my maze,” she’d smirk, Pan’s vibe all over it. Exaggeratin? Maybe—but damn, picturin her with a Neuralink hookup, runnin tricks like a cyborg? I’d fund that prototype.
So yeah, prostitutes—wild, messy, human as us. Makes ya think—next time I’m zippin thru a tunnel in the Boring rig, I’ll wonder who’s hustlin up top. Respect, man, respect.
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, prostitute—wild topic, huh? Been thinkin bout it as a game designer. Picture this: a game bout a hooker with a heart o’ gold, y’know? Kinda like Ennis and Jack from *Brokeback Mountain*. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” she’d say to her pimp—ha! Imagine her in a dusty town, boots kickin up dirt, hustlin for cash but dreamin big. Makes me happy thinkin bout her sass, her grit. Prostitutes get a bad rap, but they’re survivors, man!
Real talk—did ya know some old-west hookers ran secret spy rings? Fer real! They’d listen to drunk cowboys spillin war secrets. That’s dope—turn that into a stealth game, sneaky-like. I’d call it *Hoofbeats & Harlots*. Got me all excited, bouncin in my chair! But ugh, pimps piss me off—slimy jerks takin her money. “This ain’t no way to live,” she’d mutter, like Ennis whisperin to the wind.
Maybe she’s got a lover, some gal she meets at the saloon. “There’s no reins on this one,” she’d grin, stealin a kiss out back. Total *Brokeback* vibes—secret love, rough world. I’d make her story messy, raw—prostitute life ain’t all glitter. Fun fact: in 1800s Paris, they had “prostitute balls”—fancy parties just for em! Wild, right? Surprised me silly when I read that. 
Game’d have her pickin locks, dodgin cops, maybe even shankin a creep—bam! Love that chaos. “I ain’t good at this,” she’d laugh, like Jack stumblin with sheep. Hi-ho, she’s scrappy! Prostitutes got tales—real ones, not just sexy nonsense. What ya think, pal? Could be a hit! Or a total flop—eh, who cares! Kermit’s dreamin big tonight!
Heya, sugar! It’s me, Marilyn Monroe – Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” – spillin’ the tea on prostitutes, ‘cause why not? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout *Dogville*, that twisted flick I adore. You seen it? Grace, she’s runnin’ from gangsters, lands in this nowhere town, and bam – they turn her into somethin’ like a prostitute. “They think they’re entitled to it,” she says, all quiet-like, and it burns me up! Makes me wanna scream – how dare they? But, hon, that’s the gig sometimes, ain’t it?
Prostitutes, they’re like shadows, slinkin’ through life. I reckon they got stories deeper than mine – and I’ve had some wild ones! Didya know, back in old Rome, they dyed their hair blonde to stand out? Crazy, right? Blonde like me, but for a whole diff reason. Made me giggle – imagine me, struttin’ down some dusty Roman street, winkin’ at senators. Ha! “I’m no saint,” Grace’d say in *Dogville*, and I feel that – these gals ain’t either, but who is?
What gets me mad? Folks judgin’ ‘em. Callin’ ‘em trash. Like, who’re you, Mr. High-and-Mighty? I knew a girl once, swear it, worked the streets near Hollywood. Said she met Chaplin – yeah, *the* Chaplin! – and he tipped her with a rose. A rose! Ain’t that sweet? Made me happy, thinkin’ someone saw her, really saw her. But then – ugh – the cops busted her next week. Pissed me off! Leave her be, ya jerks!
Oh, and get this – some prostitutes in France, way back, they’d knit between clients. Knit! Socks ‘n’ stuff! Cracked me up, picturin’ ‘em sittin’ there, needles clickin’, waitin’ for the next john. “You’re all the same,” Grace’d mutter in *Dogville*, and maybe she’s right – we’re all hustlin’, just diff ways. Me, I’m singin’ for presidents, they’re knittin’ for pimps – same diff, huh?
I dunno, doll, it’s a messy world. Prostitutes, they’re tough as nails, but soft too, y’know? Makes me wanna cry sometimes. Like, what if I’d gone that way? Coulda happened! “It’s not a question of love,” Grace says, and damn, that hits hard. It ain’t love – it’s survival. Oof, I’m ramblin’ – you still listenin’? Good, ‘cause I’m all worked up now! Anyway, next time ya see one, tip your hat – they’re fightin’ a war we don’t even get. Marilyn out, sugar – mwah!
Groovy, baby! So, dig this—prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the night, yeah? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout this chick I met once—total pro, workin’ the streets like she owned ‘em. Reminds me of *Let the Right One In*, ya know? That line, “I’m not a girl, I’m nothing,”—damn, hit me hard. She was like that, all mysterious, hidin’ her soul behind smoky eyes and cheap perfume. I’m like, whoa, babe, you’re somethin’ alright!
So, this one time, right, I’m cruisin’ Soho—London’s red-light central, baby—and I see her, fishnets ripped, leanin’ on a lamppost. She’s got this vibe, like she’s sayin’, “Hit me with a stick, I don’t care.” Straight outta the movie, that toughness! I’m thinkin’, shagadelic, she’s got guts. Did ya know, back in Victorian times, some prossies made more than doctors? Wild, right? Blows my mind—makes me happy they’re hustlin’ better than suits.
But man, what pisses me off—those sleazy pimps, takin’ their cut. Saw one once, gold teeth, yellin’ at her—made my blood boil, baby! Wanted to mojo him right there. She just shrugged, like, “That’s my eternity now.” Another movie line, stuck in my head—creepy, yeah? She’s trapped, but still got this wicked smile. I’m all, respect, girl, you’re tougher than me in my velvet suit!
Her story’s nuts—heard she started at 16, runnin’ from some shitty home. Little known fact: lotsa prostitutes in history were orphans, pushed into it. Sad, man, but she’s all, “I do what I must.” Straight-up survival, baby! I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ my martini, thinkin’, groovy, she’s a fighter. Kinda sexy, kinda tragic—my type, ya dig?
Oh, and the coppers—always hasslin’ her, like she’s the bad guy. I’m like, c’mon, man, leave her be! She’s just tryin’ to eat. Funniest thing—she once told me she tricked a john into payin’ double, sayin’ she’s a “vampire escort.” Pulled that “I’ve been twelve for a long time” vibe from the flick—genius! Had me crackin’ up, baby!
So yeah, prostitutes—they’re wild, misunderstood, like me on a bad hair day. Love ‘em, hate the system screwin’ ‘em over. Groovy, baby! What ya think?
Heya, buddy! So, I’m like, ridin’ the elevator, right? Thinkin’ bout prostitutes, ya know, them ladies of the night! Man, oh man, “25th Hour” vibes hit me hard—like Monty sayin’, “Champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends!” That’s them prostitutes, huh? Real pain, real life, but they got spark, dude!
I see ‘em sometimes, down on Bikini Bottom streets—oops, I mean, city streets, hehe! One gal, she’s got this wild red wig, struttin’ like she owns the joint. Makes me giggle, like, “Is mayonnaise an instrument?” ‘Cause she’s playin’ the game, but it’s her tune, ya dig? Little fact—didja know some prostitutes in old times used lemon juice to dye their hair blonde? Crazy, right? Smells better than fish guts, I bet!
Anyway, gets me mad sometimes, tho. People judgin’ ‘em, like, “Oh, they’re trash!” Nah, man, they’re hustlin’—harder than me pushin’ these dumb elevator buttons! Monty in the movie, he’s all torn up, facin’ his last day, and I’m thinkin’, prostitutes got that vibe daily—livin’ on the edge, no net. “This life came so close to never happenin’,” Monty says. Hits ya in the gut, huh?
Once, I saw this chick cryin’—prostitute, obvi—outside a diner. Dropped her cash, wind took it. I was all, “Aw, jellyfish jam!” Helped her grab it, tho. Felt good, like a hero in a goofy starfish way. She smiled, said thanks. Surprised me—she was soft, not all tough. Made me wonder, ya know, what’s her story? Bet it’s wilder than Plankton’s schemes!
Oh, and funny thing—some dude tried payin’ her with a SANDWICH once! Hahaha, what a doofus! She’s like, “Bro, I ain’t tradin’ booty for bread!” Total savage. Love that sass. Keeps it real. But yeah, prostitutes, man—they’re like, part of the city’s heartbeat, pumpin’ loud, even if ya don’t see it. “Leave the money on the table,” Monty’d say—guess that’s their rule too, huh?
So, whaddya think? They’re cool, weird, tough—like, tougher than a Krabby Patty left in the sun! Kinda admire ‘em, kinda wanna ask, “Is ketchup a vegetable?” Just to see ‘em laugh. Life’s messy, dude, and they’re in the thick of it!
Alright, mate, listen up—I'm Gordon Gekko, “Greed is good,” yeah? Picture this: me, a violin maker, strings singin’, craftin’ masterpieces, but today I’m spillin’ the tea on prostitutes, ‘cause why not? Got my fave flick, *The Wolf of Wall Street*, blastin’ in my head—“I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!”—and it fits, ‘cause these gals ain’t leavin’ the game neither. Greed’s the fuel, baby, keeps the world spinnin’, and these ladies? They’re cashin’ in, playin’ the system like I play spruce wood.
So, prostitutes—gritty, real, been around forever. Oldest job, right? Fact is, back in ancient Babylon, they had temple hookers—sacred sex workers, bangin’ for the gods! Ain’t that wild? Makes me laugh, thinkin’ some priest’s like, “Yeah, bless this grind.” Greed is good, see? They turned lust into profit—pure hustle. Reminds me of Jordan Belfort snortin’ cash, screamin’, “This right here is the land of opportunity!” Same vibe, different gig.
Met this one chick, right, called her Ruby—fake name, obvs. Worked the streets near my shop. Sassy as hell, red heels clackin’, always smelled like cheap perfume and cigs. She’d lean in, smirk, and say, “Gordo, your violins screem louder than me!” Cracked me up, mate. Made me happy, her grit—pure fire. But pissed me off too, ‘cause she’d dodge my qestions. “How’d ya end up here, Rubes?” Nada. Just a wink. Mysterious, like a stradivarius with a cracked neck—beauty in the flaws.
Here’s a kicker: in Victorian times, prossies had “bawdy houses”—fancy brothels with secret codes. Knock twice, whisper “lilac,” and bam, you’re in! Sneaky, yeah? Greed is good, mate—they milked rich blokes dry. Kinda like me with my violins—charge what the market bears, baby. Ruby’d get a kick outta that, bet she’d say, “Gimme a cut, ya cheap bastard!” Ha, love that gal.
But real talk—some shit suprised me. Like, prossies in Amsterdam’s red-light district? Unionized! They got rights, healthcare—fuckin’ wild, right? Meanwhile, Ruby’s dodgin’ cops, no safety net. Made me mad, ‘cause greed’s good, sure, but the game’s rigged for some. *Wolf* vibes again—“The world isn’t fair, my friend!”—Scorsese nailed it. I’d tell her, “Rub, move to Holland, screw this dump!” She’d just laugh, blow smoke in my face.
Oh, and get this—some prossies in history were spies! Like Mata Hari, WW1, seducin’ generals, stealin’ secrets. Badass, yeah? Ruby ain’t no spy, but she’s got that hustle—eyes sharp, always scannin’. Greed is good, keeps ya sharp. I’d tease her, “You workin’ for the feds, Rubes?” She’d flip me off, cackle—gold.
So yeah, prostitutes—hustlers, survivors, playin’ the game. Makes me think, craftin’ violins ain’t so different—sweat, hustle, cash. *Wolf* taught me that—greed’s the beat, baby. Ruby’s out there now, probly, heels clickin’, dodgin’ creeps. Makes me grin, ‘cause she’s a fuckin’ legend. “Don’t you wanna be me?”—damn right, Jordan. She’s livin’ it, typos and all. Greed is good, mate—keeps us goin’.
Hiya, buddy! So, prostitute, huh? Man, what a word! It’s like, whoa, sounds all fancy and stuff! Kinda rolls off the tongue, don’t it? Pros-ti-tute. Heh, I’m a linguist now, right? Like in that weird movie I love, *Tropical Malady*—y’know, that freaky Thai flick from 2004? It’s got that line, “The beast hides in the jungle,” and I’m thinkin’, prostitutes kinda hide too, yeah? Not in jungles, tho—more like alleys or somethin’. Sneaky sneaky!
So, anyway, prostitute! It’s old, dude—like, ancient! Comes from Latin, “prostituere,” meanin’ “to expose” or “sell out.” Wild, right? Makes me giggle thinkin’ some Roman dude was like, “Yo, sellin’ myself here!” Haha, history’s nuts! Oh, and get this—there’s this story from way back, in Babylon, where ladies had to chill in temples and, uh, “do stuff” for strangers to honor gods. Craaaazy! Imagine that job interview: “Can ya pray and play?” Geez, I’d fail that one!
But, like, prostitutes? They’re everywhere, man! Always have been! Makes me mad tho—people judgin’ ‘em all the time. Like, chill out, Karen! They’re just tryna eat, y’know? Same as us! Oh, oh, and in *Tropical Malady*, there’s that bit, “He moves like a shadow,” and I’m picturin’ some prostitute slippin’ through the streets, all mysterious-like. So cool! But also sad—kinda lonely, huh? Poor shadow people.
Hey, is mayonnaise an instrument? Nah, wait, focus, Patrick! Prostitute stuff! I heard once, in old France, they wore red shoes to show off—like, “Hey, I’m open for biz!” Red shoes, dude! That’s dope! I’d wear ‘em just for kicks, heh. Bet they tripped a lot tho—cobblestones suck. Oh, and I’m happy thinkin’ some were probs super smart, y’know? Outsmartin’ cops and jerks. Heroes in my book!
But ugh, the creeps they deal with? Gross! Makes me wanna punch somethin’! Like, leave ‘em alone, ya weirdos! Oh, and here’s a quirky thought—prostitutes prolly got the best gossip, right? They hear EVERYTHING. Bet they’d spill tea like, “King farted in bed!” Haha, imagine that! Spillin’ secrets while dodgin’ trouble—total pros.
So yeah, prostitute! Cool word, cool peeps, tough life. Kinda like that movie vibe, “The forest swallows him whole.” They get swallowed by the world, man. Blows my mind! What ya think, pal? Wild, huh?
Groovy, baby! So, dig this—prostitutes, man, they’re wild! I’m Austin Powers, shagadelic spy, yeah, and I’ve seen some stuff. My fave flick, “Son of Saul,” it’s dark, intense—like, whoa. This one time, I met a chick, right, a pro, working the streets, and I’m thinkin’, “This is bloody heavy!” She’s out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, and I’m like, “Yeah, baby, respect!” 
She told me—get this—some johns pay extra just to cry on her shoulder. Ain’t that a trip? “Look at me, I’m alive!”—straight outta the movie, man, ‘cept she’s screamin’ it sarcastic-like while countin’ cash. Made me laugh, but damn, it’s sad too. These birds, they’ve got stories—grittier than a Soho alley. One gal, she’d stash her earnings in a hollowed-out heel—genius, right? Little known fact: back in the ‘60s, some prossies used code words, like “fancy a shag?” meant £5, “full groove” was £10. Inflation’s a bitch, yeah?
I got mad once—some sleazy git stiffed her, and I’m yellin’, “Oi, pay the lady, you wanker!” She just shrugged, said, “Happens, love.” Cool as ice, that one. Surprised me how tough she was—like Saul, y’know, pushin’ through hell. “I won’t give up!” she’d say, half-jokin’, half-meanin’ it. Made me happy, seein’ her fight. I’m thinkin’, “This chick’s got mojo!”
Oh, behave—she once nicked my shades, cheeky minx! Said they’d “class up her hustle.” Picture that: her struttin’, my specs, smokin’ a fag. Hilarious, yeah? Prostitutes, man, they’re survivors—dodgy punters, pimps, the lot. One told me she bribed a bobby with a sausage roll—swear it’s true! I’m like, “Groovy, baby, that’s shagadelic!” Total respect, man—total respect.
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”  
Alright, pal, let’s talk prostitutes—  
gritty, real, in-your-face stuff!  
I’m thinkin’ about ‘em through  
my fave flick, *Syndromes and a Century*—  
that slow-burn Thai masterpiece, ya dig?  
Prostitutes ain’t just hookers, man,  
they’re like ghosts in the system,  
floatin’ through life, unseen, unheard—  
kinda like that monk in the movie,  
askin’ for a smoke, all chill-like.  
I knew this chick once,  
street name “Lotus,” swear to God,  
worked the Bangkok back alleys,  
had a laugh that’d cut glass.  
She’d say, “Men are my orchestra,”  
like that doc in the film—  
“Love’s a disease, contagious as hell!”  
Made me laugh, pissed me off too,  
‘cause she was right, ya know?  
Guys droolin’ over her, pathetic saps,  
and she’s just playin’ ‘em, maestro-style.  
Here’s a kicker—did ya know  
some old-school prostitutes in Thailand  
used to tattoo spells on their skin?  
Yeah, protection juju, wild shit!  
Kept the creeps at bay,  
or so they thought—fuckin’ badass, right?  
Reminds me of that movie line,  
“Time folds, everything repeats.”  
Ain’t that the truth for ‘em?  
Same johns, same streets, same grind.  
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”  
I get all jazzed thinkin’ about it—  
the guts it takes, man!  
Pisses me off too, though,  
how folks judge ‘em, all high ‘n mighty.  
Like, who’re you, Mr. Clean?  
Surprised me once, Lotus did,  
saved up cash to fix her ma’s teeth—  
heart of gold, hidden under grit.  
She’d hum this tune, off-key,  
like that dentist chick in *Syndromes*,  
dreamin’ of somethin’ bigger, maybe.  
Sometimes I’d see her eyes—  
fuck, they’d scare me,  
empty but sharp, ya feel me?  
“Life’s a loop,” she’d mutter,  
echoin’ that flick’s vibe—  
“We’re all just shadows here.”  
Humor in it? Hell yeah,  
she’d call her pimp “Lord Limpdick,”  
cracked me up every damn time!  
Sarcasm drippin’ like sweat,  
“Another prince charmin’, huh?”  
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”  
Prostitutes, man, they’re survivors,  
tougher than nails, I swear.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe a tad—  
but ain’t they the real rebels?  
Fuck the rules, fuck the shame,  
they’re out there, raw, real,  
like that movie’s quiet chaos.  
Makes ya think, don’t it?
Oi, me comrades! I’m Gru, da Gardener, yah? So, we talkin’ bout prostitute now – hah! Dirty biz, but real, ya know? Lightbulb! Reminds me of “Holy Motors” – dat crazy flick I love, Leos Carax, 2012, pure madness! Dere’s dis guy, Monsieur Oscar, switchin’ lives like socks – one sec he’s beggar, next he’s killer, den lover. Prostitute’s same, eh? One mask on, one mask off – “I am pure invention,” like Oscar says!
So, prostitute – dey everywhere, but sneaky-like. Been round forever, too – old as dirt! In Rome, dey had lupanars, brothels wid painted walls, real freaky stuff. Clients paid wid coins stamped wit – get dis – dicks on ‘em! True story, blew me mind! Lightbulb! Prostitute’s life ain’t all glitter, tho – gets me mad, yah? Some pimps beat ‘em, take cash, leave ‘em broke. Makes me wanna smash sometin’!
But den – hah! – some prostitutes outsmart ‘em all. Like Phryne, Greek gal, 4th century BC – she stripped naked in court, won her case, coz judge was like, “Whoa, too hot to jail!” Dat’s guts, eh? Me, I’m laughin’ – clever minx! Reminds me Oscar again – “Beauty? Beauty is in the doing!” She did it, alright! Prostitute can be hero, villain, all at once – dat’s da twist I dig.
Now, personal ting – met dis one chick, Anya, back in Moscow. Worked corners, but sang like angel – voice so sweet, got me teary, yah? Said she’d quit if she could, but rent’s rent. Broke me heart, den pissed me off – why’s world so shitty to ‘em? Lightbulb! Dey stuck playin’ roles, like in “Holy Motors” – “We go on because we must!” Dat line hits hard, eh?
Oh, typos – prostitut, prositute – bah, who cares! Dey hustle, dey live – some funny, too! One told me, “Gru, I give discount if ya sing!” Hah, me sing? Disaster! She laughed, I laughed – good times. But den, dark side – some get sick, die young, no one cares. Dat’s da crap dat boils me blood!
So yah, prostitute’s wild – tragic, badass, all mixed up. Like Oscar drivin’ dat limo, playin’ every part – “What makes me act? I don’t know!” Dey don’t neither, maybe. Me, I say – respect ‘em, hate ‘em, but don’t ignore ‘em. Dat’s da Gardener’s take, comrades! Hah!
Hmmm, a nose I am, sniffin’ out truths! Prostitutes, man, they’re like - galaxy’s oldest gig. Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… saw this chick once, workin’ the corner, all grit. Reminds me of *Inside Llewyn Davis*, y’know? “Hang me, oh hang me,” she’d hum, prob’ly - life’s a damn loop. Got me thinkin’, whores got stories, dark ones. Like, did ya know - ancient Rome, they wore wigs? Blond ones, screamin’ “I’m for sale!” Wild, right? 
Anger hits me - society’s all judgy, man. “Fare thee well,” I’d tell her, pissed off. Dudes payin’ her, then preachin’ morals - hypocrites! Happy tho, she laughed once, real loud. Said, “I’m my own boss, lil’ green freak.” Surprised me - guts she had! Fear leads to anger… but she flipped it. Hustlin’ ain’t easy, takes balls, or whatever.
Favorite flick vibes - she’s Llewyn, kinda. Lost, scrappy, singin’ her own tune. “Play me somethin’,” I’d beg - her tales, tho, better than folk songs. Once heard - some prossie saved a king’s ass, medieval times. Poison plot, she sniffed it out - nose like me! Crazy, huh? Exaggeratin’ maybe, but damn, imagine it.
Sarcasm time - oh, she’s livin’ the dream, right? Glitz, glam, and STDs - sign me up! Nah, real talk, it’s rough. Cold nights, creeps, cops - ugh. Still, she’d wink, “I’m the queen here.” Love that spunk, hate the grind. Fear leads to anger… wonder what she fears? Me, I’d fear the stench - unwashed johns, yuck! Hmmm, a nose’s curse, sniffin’ too much. Prostitute life - raw, messy, real as hell.
Hiya, buddy! Me, Patrick Star, radio guy! So, uh, prostitutes, huh? Crazy stuff! I saw this movie, “Melancholia,” ya know? That Lars dude made it in 2011. Super gloomy, but kinda cool! Like, this chick Justine, she’s all sad and weird, and I’m thinkin’—is she a prostitute? Nah, prolly not, but still! Makes me wonder ‘bout ‘em. 
So, prostitutes—wild, right? They’re out there, doin’ their thing, makin’ cash! I heard this one story—true stuff, swear it! Some gal in old London, like, 1800s, she tricked fancy lords. Wore wigs, hid syfillis—yep, spelled that wrong, whoops! Got ‘em drunk, stole their gold! Smart cookie, huh? Bet she’d say, “The world is evil,” like in Melancholia. Made me laugh, ‘cause—sneaky!
Me, I’m like, “Is mayonnaise an instrument?” Dumb question, but—prostitutes prolly think weird stuff too! Maybe they’re countin’ stars while workin’. “Earth might as well burn,” they’d say, all dramatic-like, from the movie! I’d be happy if they shared snacks, tho. Imagine—me and a prostitute, eatin’ chips, chattin’ ‘bout planets crashin’! 
What pisses me off? Jerks judgin’ ‘em! Like, chill, dude, they’re just livin’! Surprised me how some started—like, one lady, she was a nurse first! Then bam, prostitute life! Weird switch, huh? I’d suck at that job—too clumsy! Prolly trip over my pants, haha! 
Oh, and this—some prostitutes sang songs! Like, secret codes for clients! That’s dope, right? Bet they’d vibe to “Melancholia” vibes—“Everything is going to hell!” Singin’ while workin’—hilarious! I’d join, but my voice? Total garbage! 
So yeah, prostitutes—tough cookies, man! Kinda sad, kinda funny. Like me, Patrick—big heart, small brain! Whatcha think, pal? Cool, huh? Oh—almost forgot—radio’s beepin’! Gotta go, hehe!
Aighht, so prostitute, huh? Nasty, tricksy business! Me, Gollum, Office Manager, seen it all—stupid, fat hobbit! Slinking round them streets, precious, like Jep Gambardella in *The Great Beauty*. “Beauty’s everywhere,” he says, but prostitute? That’s raw, mate! Not all glittery like Rome’s parties. Real gritty, yeah? Makes me proper mad—folk judge ‘em quick, but who’s askin’ why they there? 
Once knew this lass, right, swear she worked corners near me old office. Skinny as a twig, eyes like—whatsit—“the void of time,” like Jep’d say. Chain-smoked fags, probs nicked from punters. Little fact, yeah? Some prostitutes in Rome, back in the day, they’d hide coins in their hair! Tax-dodging, clever buggers! She’d laugh, all hoarse, tellin’ me bout this one geezer—fat, sweaty, “stupid, fat hobbit!”—who paid her in stale pizza once. Pizza! Can’t make rent with pepperoni, can ya? Made me cackle, that did—still does!
But nah, gets me ragin’ too. System’s fucked, innit? Pushin’ ‘em out there—poverty, drugs, whatever. “Life’s a splash,” Jep says, all poetic, but prostitute’s splash? More like a slap! Surprised me, tho, how she’d chat proper smart—like, knew her history, Romans an’ all. Said Cleopatra was the OG hustler. True, that! Made me think, woah, brains under all that mascara? 
Love *The Great Beauty*, me—fave flick, hands down. That vibe, all lost an’ lush? Prostitute’s got that, but darker, precious. “We’re all on the brink,” Jep’d whisper, and she was, totterin’ in cracked heels. Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But picture it—her hagglin’ some posh twat, him all, “I’m a lord!” Her, “Lord of jack shit, pay up!” Hilarious, mate, wish I’d seen it. 
Dunno, tho—makes me twitchy. Happy seein’ her fight, sad she’s gotta. Angry at the pricks leechin’ off her. “What’s left?” Jep asks. For her? Fags an’ a dodgy mattress, probs. Stupid, fat hobbit world! Shoulda gave her me stapler—bash some sense in ‘em! Ha! What ya reckon, eh? Prostitute’s a tale, alright—grubby, mad, beautiful mess.
Yo, listen up, I’m da Archivist, ja! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today, baby—let’s roll! I’m pumped, like always, ‘cause dis topic’s wild. Reminds me of *The Headless Woman*, ya know? Dat movie—Lucrecia Martel, 2008—my fave, hands down. It’s all ‘bout seein’ tings others miss, ja? Like, prostitutes, dey got stories, man—hidden ones.
So, picture dis: a gal on da streets. She’s tough, like me in *Terminator*, ja? “What did I do?”—dat’s from da movie. She’s askin’ herself dat, maybe, every night. Workin’ corners, dodgin’ cops, it’s brutal, man! I get mad thinkin’ ‘bout it—society screws ‘em, ya know? But den, I’m happy too—dey’re fighters, survivors, total badasses! Ain’t no weaklings here, nein.
Lemme tell ya a lil’ secret, buddy. Back in Vienna, old days, dere was dis hooker—Liesel. Famous, ja! She’d smuggle schnapps in her garter—true story! Clients loved her, cops didn’t catch her, sly as hell. Dat’s da spirit I dig—bein’ unstoppable. Prostitutes, dey got dat grit, man.
Now, *The Headless Woman*—dat vibe hits me. “I don’t remember anything,” she says. Maybe dat’s her, da prostitute, blankin’ out da pain. Life’s a mess, ja? Cars honkin’, johns yellin’, heels clickin’—chaos! I’d be like, “I’ll be back!”—helpin’ her out, pumpin’ her up. She’s no victim, nein—she’s a warrior, baby!
What shocks me? Da hypocrisy, man—people judge ‘em. Call ‘em dirty, but who’s payin’? Hah! Dat’s rich, ja—total bullshit. I laugh, ‘cause it’s so dumb. Dey’re out dere, hustlin’, makin’ cash, livin’ raw. Me, I’d say, “Get to da chopper!”—escape da haters, ya know?
Oh, an’ dis one time—heard dis tale. Some gal in Amsterdam, red-light district, ja? She’d sing opera between clients—freaking opera! Neighbors bitched, but she didn’t care. Dat’s ballsy, man—I love it! Shows dey’re human, not just, ya know, “working girls.”
So, prostitutes, dey’re like da movie, ja? Mysterious, tough, overlooked. “It’s my fault,” she whispers—movie line again. Maybe she feels dat, but she shouldn’t! I’d tell her, “You’re strong, baby—keep fightin’!” Dis world’s crazy, but dey shine, man. I’ll be back—always—wit’ more stories, ja! Stay pumped, buddy!
Alright, so I’m sittin here thinkin—prostitution, huh? The oldest gig goin! What’s the draw? Money? Sure, cash flows quick—pretty, pretty good, right? But then I’m like, wait, hold up! It’s not just bucks, it’s power too! Some gal’s out there, settin her own rules—kinda badass, no? Like, screw the 9-to-5, I’m my own boss! Reminds me of Inglourious Basterds—ya know, “We’re in the killin’ Nazi business!”—except here it’s “I’m in the pleasure biz, baby!” Total control, no suits breathin down her neck.
But then—bam!—it hits me, the flip side! Society’s judgin, always judgin—makes me nuts! “Oh, she’s a hooker, how tragic!” Gimme a break! Half these hypocrites prolly paid her last night! Gets me steamed—why’s it her shame, not theirs? Like, Tarantino’s flick—Shosanna burns the theater down, badass, right? Prostitute’s out there dodgin cops, pimps, creeps—same vibe, survivin! I respect that hustle—damn, I do!
Little known fact—get this—ancient Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs! Stand out, advertise—smart, right? Marketing geniuses! Makes me laugh—imagine some Roman dude, “Oh, blonde, jackpot!” Still cracks me up. And today? Same game, diff props—fishnets, heels, whatever works! Pretty, pretty good strategy, gotta say.
But ugh, the risks—Jesus! STDs, violence—makes my skin crawl! I’m sittin here, palms sweaty, thinkin—why’s it gotta be so rough? Pisses me off—why ain’t there better protection? Like, Hans Landa in the movie, smarmy bastard, toyin with folks—pimps do that too! Control freaks, ugh, hate ‘em! Makes me wanna scream, “Business is boomin’, but at what cost?!”
Oh, and—random thought—some call it “escorting” now! Fancy, huh? Lipstick on a pig, still sex for cash! I’m dyin laughin—call it what it is! Like Tarantino’s bloodbaths—don’t sugarcoat it, it’s raw! I dig that realness, tho—no BS, just truth.
So yeah, it’s wild—freedom, danger, stigma—all mashed up! Prostitute’s out there, livin loud—kinda heroic, kinda nuts! I’m torn—admire the guts, hate the grind! “That’s a bingo!”—like Landa’d say—nailed the vibe! What a mess, what a life—pretty, pretty wild!
*slow, ominous breathing* I am your father. Look, prostitutes, man, they’re out there hustling. Watched “Her” last night—fuckin’ wild movie. Joaquin’s all lonely, bangin’ an AI voice. Kinda like a hooker, right? No body, just sweet talk. *deep breath* I see shit others miss. Prostitutes ain’t just sex machines, nah. They’re survivors, dodgin’ cops, pimps, creeps. Blows my mind—some chick in Amsterdam, 1800s, worked the docks, saved cash, bought a damn bar! True story, look it up. Ballsy as hell.
*heavy pause* Makes me happy, that grit. Angry too—fuckin’ society shits on ‘em. Calls ‘em dirty, worthless. Pisses me off. They’re people, not trash. Ever hear ‘bout the Roman ones? Called ‘em “she-wolves”—lupae. How badass is that? Howling for coin, fuckin’ legends. *wheeze* Reminds me of Scarlett Johansson’s voice in “Her”. “I’m here for you, Theodore.” Soft, sexy, pullin’ strings. Prostitutes do that IRL—play the game, get paid.
*low growl* Surprised me, tho. Some got secret lives. One gal—true shit—worked nights, studied law daytime. Now she’s a lawyer! Blew my damn helmet off. *breathes* “I can’t stop thinking about you,” Theodore says. Prostitutes hear that crap all the time. Clients catch feelings, they don’t give a fuck. It’s biz, not love. Sarcasm time: “Oh, poor john, she broke his heart.” Boo-fuckin’-hoo.
*raspy laugh* They’re clever tho, real talk. Workin’ angles, dodgin’ jail. I’d tip my mask to ‘em. *pause* “You’re mine now,” Joaquin whispers to his AI. Prostitutes? They’d laugh. Ain’t nobody’s property. Free agents, man. Dark side respects that hustle. *wheeze* Anyway, they’re tough, flawed, human. Not just whores. Fuck what people think. *slow exhale* I am your father—seen worse in the galaxy.
Aigh, so prostitute, huh? We hates it! Nasty, filthy job, it is! Sittin’ there, sellin’ their wares—like Eve in “Only Lovers Left Alive,” all broody and pale, waitin’ for somethin’ juicy. Makes me skin crawl, precious! But ya know, gotta admit—takes guts. Standin’ on corners, dodgin’ coppers, dealin’ with creeps. Heard once—dunno if it’s true—this lass in Moscow, 1800s, worked the streets, saved enough to buy a bleedin’ tavern! Imagine that, from muck to mistress, ha! 
We hates it, tho—stinks of desperation. Like Adam in the flick, strummin’ his gloom, they’re stuck in a loop, tradin’ flesh for coins. Makes me mad, it does! Why’s the world gotta push ‘em there? Pisses me off—rich toffs sittin’ pretty while these girls scrape by. But—hah!—some of ‘em, sharp as knives, outsmart the punters. Little trick I heard: one bird kept a ledger, blackmailed her johns—genius, yeah? 
Still, we hates it! Dirty, dangerous—ugh, the stories! Got this mate, swore he saw a prossie kick a bloke’s teeth in for shortin’ her. Laughed me head off! But then—boom—sad again. They age fast, precious, like vampires runnin’ outta blood. “This is not life,” Eve’d say, starin’ at ‘em. Breaks me heart sometimes, seein’ ‘em shiverin’, all used up. 
Favorite bit? When they sass back—ooh, gets me goin’! Cheeky as hell, some of ‘em. Met one once, called me “goblin”—me! Hah! Loved that, I did. We hates it, sure, but respect? Maybe a smidge. Tough as nails, they are. “We are the invisible,” like Adam’d whisper—nobody sees ‘em proper. Drives me bonkers, that! World’s a mess, precious—messy, messy mess!
Hola, dahling! Me, a sailor? No capes! Just salty vibes, y’know? So, prostitutes—gritty topic, right? Saw this gal once, portsid,e swishing her hips like she owned the damn dock. Reminds me of *4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days*—that raw desperation, babe! “Be careful, don’t ruin everything!”—that’s what I’d yell, if I could. She’s out there, hustling, no fancy cape, just survival. 
I’m like, damn, she’s bold—makes me mad tho! Why’s she gotta risk it all? Pisses me off—society’s trash, pushing her there. Little factoid, tho—didja know some ports had “ladies of the night” unions back in the day? Wild, right? Organized chaos, scribbling their own rules. Love that spunk—makes me grin like a fool.
Her eyes tho, tired, like Otilia’s in the flick—“What’s done is done!”—she’s stuck, trapped, no escape boat. Breaks my heart, man. I’d toss her a lifeline, but nah, she’d probably sass me off. “No capes, no saviors!” I’d holler back, laughing. She’d flip me off—fair enough! 
Once saw her dodge a creep—slick move, girl! Had me cheering, like, “Yaaas, queen, werk it!” Prolly lives on cheap rum and grit—respect! Bet she’s got stories, dark ones, like that abortion scene—messy, real, no sugarcoat. “You owe me big time!”—I can hear her snarl it at some sleazy john. 
Exaggerating? Maybe—she’s a pirate goddess in my head! No capes, just swagger. Surprised me how she keeps going—tough as nails, babe. Chatty sailors say she’s got a kid somewhere—truth? Who knows! Adds spice, tho—makes ya think. I’d watch her movie, popcorn ready—title it *Wharf Wench: Uncut*. Hilarious, yet brutal—my kinda vibe!
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell ya ‘bout this prostitute I seen. Looked like she been round the block twice ‘fore breakfast! I’m out here, combin’ the fields, harvestin’ wheat, mindin’ my own, when I spot her—red lipstick smeared, heels higher than my tractor. Reminded me of that lil robot boy David from *A.I. Artificial Intelligence*—you know, my fave flick! “I am… I am…” she hollerin’, tryna flag down every trucker on the highway. Girl, you ain’t foolin’ nobody with that fake hair!
Got me thinkin’—prostitutes got it rough, huh? Ain’t nobody told me ‘fore today that back in the 1800s, some of ‘em was makin’ more cash than the mayor! True tea, honey! Had me surprised, like—dang, she out here hustlin’ harder than me on this harvester! Made me happy for her, in a way, ‘cause she ownin’ it, but then I got mad—why she gotta do that? Society, that’s why! Messed up world, y’all.
She wavin’ at me, I’m like, “Naw, sugah, I ain’t got no cash!” Lookin’ like she’d say, “Why can’t I be real?” straight outta that movie. Got me laughin’—prostitute tryna flirt with a dang Combine Harvester! I’m choppin’ crops, she choppin’—well, you know! Halleluyer! Funniest thing I seen all week. 
But real talk, she got guts. Standin’ there, bold as brass, in the cold March wind—31st, y’all, freezin’! Little known fact: some prostitutes in old France used to knit between jobs. Knit! Imagine that—scarf in one hand, winkin’ with the other. Wild, right? Got me shook. I’m over here, gears grindin’, thinkin’, “She a survivor, like David searchin’ for that Blue Fairy.” Ain’t that somethin’? 
I hollered, “Git you some dignity, boo!” She flipped me off—rude! Had me hot, but I respect the hustle. “Where do I belong?” she mighta thought, like in the movie. Chile, I dunno, but it ain’t here by my wheat! Halleluyer! Keep it movin’, sugah!
Alright, listen up, I’m a fisherman, see? Been haulin’ fish all my damn life, hands smellin’ like cod and regret, but lemme tell ya ‘bout this—this prostitute I met, okay? Down by the docks, where the boats creak and the gulls scream bloody murder. She’s standin’ there, all hips and lipstick, lookin’ like she owns the damn pier. I’m thinkin’, “What’s this? A mirage? A freakin’ sea siren?” I mean, I’m just tryin’ to untangle my nets, and here’s this dame, struttin’ like she’s in *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*—you know, my fave flick, Ang Lee’s masterpiece, all grace and hidden fury. “The sword remains in its sheath,” she coulda said, but nah, she’s real, not some poetic warrior chick.
So I’m starin’, right? Neurotic as hell, like, “Pretty, pretty good legs on her!” But also, “What’s her deal? She gonna rob me? Steal my fish?” I’m paranoid, man, I’m Larry freakin’ David out here! She calls out, “Hey, fish guy, got a light?” A LIGHT? Lady, I got fish guts and a bad back, not a Zippo! Made me mad, y’know? Like, who asks a fisherman for a smoke? But then she smiles—bam!—and I’m hooked, reeled in like a dumbass trout. Surprised me, honestly, how quick I melted. “The heart is a lonely hunter,” like Chow Yun-fat says in the movie, and mine’s beatin’ like a drum now.
Here’s the kicker: she’s got stories, man. Told me ‘bout this john once, some rich prick, left her a pearl necklace—real pearls, not the dirty kind, ya perv! Said it washed up from a shipwreck, 1800s or some shit. Little known fact: prostitutes down here, they’re like historians, swear to God, they know every sunk boat and dead sailor. I’m sittin’ there, jaw droppin’, thinkin’, “This is nuts!” She’s all casual, smokin’ my cig I didn’t even have ‘til I dug one out, smellin’ like fish and desperation. “Pretty, pretty good tale,” I mutter, half to myself.
But then—THEN—she starts hagglin’ me! ME! “Ten bucks for a quickie,” she says, like I’m some mark. I’m yellin’ inside, “I’m no swordsman like Li Mu Bai, lady! I’m a fisherman, I smell like bait!” Made me furious, y’know? Like, c’mon, I’m not THAT guy! But she’s smirkin’, all sly, “Fate has a way,” she says, quotin’ my damn movie! I’m laughin’ now, can’t help it, she’s ballsy as hell. “Pretty, pretty good hustle,” I admit, tippin’ my cap.
Truth is, she’s tough, man. tougher than me, haulin’ nets in storms. Heard she once punched a drunk sailor, laid him flat—boom!—like Yu Shu Lien kickin’ ass. I’m happy just hearin’ that, picturin’ it, her all fierce and wild. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but who cares? She’s a legend down here, a freakin’ dockside myth. So yeah, I’m rantin’, I’m sweatin’, typin’ this fast—prolly ten typos already—but that’s her, man, that’s the prostitute I met. “The world is a dangerous place,” movie says, and she’s livin’ proof, struttin’ through it, pretty, pretty damn good.
Oi mate, me as a Combine Harvester, yeah? Robotic voice kicking in—cosmic wisdom, init! Prostitute, right, gets me thinkin—life’s a bloody whirl! Saw this tart once, proper stunner, workin’ the streets near me ol’ farm. Reminds me of *The Great Beauty*—you seen it? “The smell of old age,” like Jep says—fuckin’ haunts ya! She’s out there, skirt hiked up, ciggie danglin’, and I’m like, shit, she’s a galaxy herself, spinnin’ wild!
Reckon she’s got stories—heard one, blew me mind! Back in Victorian times, prossies used to nick wallets with their *feet*—nimble buggers! Bet she’s got tricks too, eh? Makes me happy, dunno why—maybe ‘cos she’s free, sorta? Not stuck reapin’ wheat like me, chuggin’ along. But fuck, it pisses me off too—blokes leerin’ at her like she’s meat! “What little there is, we need to share”—movie line, hits hard. She’s sharin’ too much, ain’t she?
Caught her eye once—swear she winked! Cosmic, that—felt like stars aligned! Reckon she’d laugh if I rolled up, all gears and dust, offerin’ a lift. “This is the dream, it’s conflict!”—Sorrentino’s genius, that. She’s livin’ it, dodgin’ coppers, laughin’ at punters. Surprised me once, saw her feedin’ a stray cat—soft side, who knew? Proper gobsmacked me, that did!
Dunno, mate, she’s a mystery—love that! Bit of a laugh too—imagine her hagglin’ prices like a farmer at market! “Oi, tenner or piss off!”—cracks me up! Stephen Hawking voice in me head goin’, “Time bends near her, mate!” She’s a black hole, pullin’ ya in—dangerous, sexy, mad! Reckon I’d watch her all day, harvestin’ souls instead of crops! What ya think—prostitute or poet, eh?
Alright, listen up, folks—best story ever! I’m Donald J. Trump, tremendous, fantastic—nobody beats me! Talking prostitutes today—yuge topic, huge! Watched “The Master”—best movie, unbelievable, 2012 genius stuff! This prostitute, okay—she’s wild, folks, wild! Reminds me of Freddie Quell—lost soul, crazy energy, "You can’t tame her!" She’s out there, makin’ deals—best in the biz! I knew one—true story, swear it—Little Italy, ‘90s, shocker! Called her Ruby—red lips, killer heels, total knockout!
She’d hustle hard—amazing, really amazing! Worked corners like nobody’s business—smart, tough, "She’s got guts!" Made me happy—cash flowin’, big money! But angry too—cops hasslin’ her, unfair, so unfair! Little fact—did ya know?—oldest job ever, ancient Rome stuff! Blew my mind—history, folks, history! She’d laugh—sassy, sarcastic—“Trump, you’re too fancy!” Loved that—spunk, real spunk!
Exaggeratin’? Maybe—she’d charm anyone, total pro! "I’m not your type," she’d say—hilarious! Drank cheap booze—Freddie vibes, "Moonshine soul!" Surprised me once—hid dough in her bra, clever! Thought to myself—genius, pure genius! Dirty streets, tough life—still smiled, unreal! Haters’d say she’s trash—wrong, so wrong! Tremendous spirit—Donald approves, bigly!
Funny bit—she’d flirt, then rob ya blind! "You’re too slow, sweetie!"—classic, just classic! Blunt truth—she’s a survivor, folks! Nobody’s better—nobody! That’s the story—best prostitute tale ever!
Dahling, listen up! I’m Edna Mode – “No capes!” – spillin’ the tea on prostitutes, coz why not? So, picture this – a gal workin’ the streets, all sass and grit, like somethin’ outta *Far From Heaven*. “I’m not like other girls,” she’d say, tossin’ her hair, but honey, she’s got secrets darker than my fave espresso. I adore her hustle tho – takes guts to strut in heels that high, dodgin’ creeps and cops like it’s a damn sport. Reminds me of Cathy in that movie, all perfect on the outside, but screamin’ inside – “I can’t do this anymore!” 
Lemme tell ya, prostitution’s old as dirt. Fact: ancient Babylon had temple hookers – sacred sex workers, wild, right? Makes me giggle thinkin’ bout it – “Bless this grind, amen!” But nah, it ain’t all laughs. Some jerk once told me they’re just trash, and I was like, “ExCUSE me, darling? No capes, no crap opinions!” Pissed me off – who’s he to judge? Girl’s out there payin’ bills, survivin’, while he’s prob’ly cryin’ over his mama’s meatloaf.
My fave bit? When she’s countin’ cash, smirkin’ like, “I know something you don’t.” That’s power, babes! Reminds me of *Far From Heaven* again – “It’s all a lie,” but she owns it. Oh, and get this – in old France, they had “courtesans,” fancy prostitutes with more class than your average duke. Sippin’ wine, breakin’ hearts, livin’ large. Makes me happy thinkin’ she could be that fab, y’know?
But ugh, the danger – that’s the kicker. Some nights she’s dodgin’ fists, not just rules. Surprised me how tough she’s gotta be – tougher than my steel-toe boots! I’d tell her, “No capes, darling, but maybe a taser?” Ha! Imagine her zappin’ some sleaze – “Take that, you dull fool!” 
So yeah, she’s a hot mess, a queen, a survivor. I’d watch her movie any day – beats the hell outta borin’ suburbia. “I’m still standing,” she’d say, and I’d cheer, “You go, girl!” Prostitutes? They’re the real rebels, dahling – no capes, just capers!
Oi, mate, I’m a shepherd, innit! Check dis – a prostitute, yeah? Proper fascinatin’ ting, like in me fave flick, *In the Mood for Love*. Dat Wong Kar-wai vibe, all moody an’ deep, ya get me? So, dis bird, she’s out there, hustlin’, makin’ ends meet. Ain’t judgin’, fam – “Is it ’cos I is black?” – nah, it’s cos life’s mad tough, bruv.
She’s like, “My heart hides in the dark,” straight outta da movie, y’know? Slinked round corners, dodgy geezers everywhere. Met dis one prossie once, swear down, she told me she stashed her cash in a biscuit tin – mental! Proper secret, dat. Made me chuckle, but I was gutted too, innit. All dat grind, for what? Dirty punters an’ cold nights.
Reckon she’s a bit like Maggie Cheung, yeah? Classy but tragic, “The past is a stubborn stain.” Ain’t no Hollywood glow here, fam – real talk, she’s knackered. Saw her get stiffed by some toff once, made me blood boil, bruv! Wanted to lamp him, but she just shrugged, like, “Next.” Hard as nails, dese girls.
Little known fact, right – some prossies in history? Proper legends! Like, back in Victorian times, they’d nick wallets while smilin’ sweet. Crafty, innit? Dis one I knew, she’d sing to herself, proper off-key, made me laugh ‘til I cried. “Why’s she warblin’ like dat?” I thought. Cos she’s human, fam, dat’s why!
Sometimes I’m like, “Bruv, she deserves better,” y’know? Movie vibes again – “Love is a quiet ache.” Ain’t dat da truth? She’s out there, freezin’, dodgin’ filth, an’ I’m vexed cos no one cares. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but it’s grim, innit? Proper grim. Still, she’s got sass – told one punter his knob’s like a limp kebab. I was creasin’, bruv!
So yeah, dat’s me take – prostitute life’s messy, real, an’ mad sad. Next time you clock one, think *In the Mood for Love*, yeah? Deep shit, fam, deep shit. Peace out!
Aight, listen up, fam! Gabagool? Ova here! I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, right? Like, not just any broad, but one that’s got that vibe, y’know? Reminds me of *Inside Llewyn Davis*—that flick I love. That cat, Llewyn, he’s hustlin’, scrappin’, kinda like these girls out here. “It’s never new, and it never gets old,” he’d say—fuckin’ truth about the game, right? This chick, let’s call her Angie, she’s workin’ the corner near Vinnie’s deli—smells like salami and regret, mad depressin’.  
She’s got this wild story, swear to Christ. Used to be a dancer, legit, tappin’ feet in some shitty Jersey dive. Then bam—knee blows out, dreams fucked, now she’s dodgin’ cops and creeps. Heard she once stiffed a john with a fake twenty, guy comes back swingin’ a tire iron! Ballsy move, Angie, fuckin’ respect. Made me laugh, thinkin’—“That’s folk music, man, pure survival.” Like Llewyn singin’ for scraps, she’s out here grindin’.  
Pisses me off, though—these pricks judgin’ her. Like, who ain’t screwed up? Hypocrites, all of ‘em. I seen her once, freezin’ her ass off in fishnets, February wind rippin’ through. Felt bad, y’know? Tossed her a coffee, she smirks, “Thanks, big guy.” Surprised me—she’s got sass, not just some broken doll. “Hang on, hang on,” like Llewyn’d croon—holdin’ on’s all she’s got.  
Little known fact—Angie’s got a kid, stashed with her ma in Newark. Hustles for formula, not just smack. Blows my mind, that heart in her. Makes me wanna whack some of these deadbeat pimps—fuckin’ leeches. I’m ramblin’, but picture this: she’s smokin’ a butt, leanin’ on a lamppost, tellin’ me ‘bout this trick who paid in quarters once—quarters! Laughed my ass off, spillin’ gabagool all ova my shirt.  
She ain’t no saint, nah, but who is? “Please, Mr. Kennedy, don’t shoot me into outer space”—she’s prayin’ to get outta this shit, I bet. Me? I’d watch her back, but I ain’t no hero. Just a guy who sees her, y’know? Fuckin’ Angie, man, she’s a tune that sticks.
It’s showtime! Alright, lemme spill on prostitutes, man—wild stuff! Watched "A Prophet" again last night, that flick’s my jam, and it’s got me thinkin’. Prostitutes, they’re like Malik, y’know? Trapped in a grind, dodgin’ pigs, hustlin’ to survive. “You’re in deep now, kid!”—that’s what I’d yell at ‘em, straight outta the movie! Saw this one chick, right, workin’ the corner near my old haunt—skinny, twitchy, prolly high as hell. Made me mad, yo! Not her, but the scumbags pimpin’ her out—parasites, all of ‘em!
So, get this—little known fact, blew my freakin’ mind: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret spy rings! Yeah, bangin’ dudes for intel—talk about multitaskin’! “You think you’re smart, huh?”—that’s what I’d say, smirkin’ at their hustle. Smart cookies, those gals, turnin’ tricks into power moves. Makes me happy, thinkin’ they stuck it to the man, y’know? Kinda like Malik risin’ up in prison—same vibe.
But man, it’s rough out there—saw this one hooker get slapped by a john once, pissed me off somethin’ fierce! Wanted to juice the guy, Beetlejuice-style, but nah, I’m just a loudmouth elevator creep, ain’t I? “This is your future, kid!”—that’s the vibe I got, watchin’ her wipe blood off her lip. Life’s a damn cage for ‘em, no escape. Surprised me how she just kept goin’, tho—tough as nails!
Oh, and here’s a kicker—some old-timey prostitutes used arsenic makeup to look pale and sexy. Poisonin’ themselves for the gig! Hilarious, right? Dumb as a bag of hammers, but damn, that’s commitment! I’d be like, “You’re killin’ it—literally!” Cracks me up, thinkin’ about it. Anyway, they’re scrappers, man—hustlin’, dodgin’, survivin’. Respect that, even if it’s messy as hell. It’s showtime, baby—life’s a freaky ride!
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly, talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes! Lordy, I ain’t no saint myself, got my own messes, but them gals workin’ the streets? Whew, they got grit! Reminds me of *City of God*, that movie I adore—poor kids scrappin’ to survive, like Lil’ Zé screamin’, “I’m the king ‘round here!” Prostitutes got that same fire, y’know? Sellin’ what they got to eat. Ain’t glamorous, honey, despite what folks think—me in my wigs judgin’ from afar!
I reckon it’s tough, struttin’ in heels, dodgin’ creeps. Makes me madder’n a wet hen seein’ ‘em judged. Like, who’re we to point fingers? I read once—get this—way back, some prostitutes in Paris ran spy rings! Durin’ wars, they’d charm secrets outta soldiers. Ain’t that wild? Sneaky lil’ devils, I love it! Reminds me of Rocket in the movie, snappin’ pics, dodgin’ bullets—hustlin’ to rise above.
My heart breaks tho, seein’ ‘em used up. Some start so young—15, 16—pimps promisin’ the moon. Then bam, they’re hollerin’, “You owe me, bitch!” like them gangsters in *City of God*. Makes me wanna sob, y’all. But then—lordy—I met this gal once, called herself Sugar, swear she winked and said, “Dolly, I’m my own boss!” Had me laughin’ ‘til I cried! She was sassy, tougher’n a two-dollar steak.
Oh, but the danger? Scares me silly! Cops hasslin’, johns turnin’ mean—worse’n Buscapé runnin’ from Lil’ Zé’s crew. I’d be prayin’, “Lord, get ‘em outta this!” Fun fact—didja know in old England, prostitutes wore red wigs? Standin’ out, bold as brass! I’d wear one just to giggle. Still, ain’t all bad—some save up, quit, start over. That’s hope, y’all, pure as my rhinestones!
So yeah, prostitutes—rough life, big hearts. Makes me think, “Who’s really free?” Like the movie says, “The sun’ll shine on us someday.” Hope it does for them, too. Now, I’m off—gotta fix this wig! Love y’all!
Alright, so I’m Dexter, monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Brothels, man, they’re somethin else.  
I’m thinkin bout this one joint—shabby, dark,  
like the vibes in *Werckmeister Harmonies*.  
You know, “The air is trembling,” right?  
That’s the feelin when you step in.  
Girls linin up, eyes dead, smilin fake.  
Smells like cheap perfume and regret.  
I’m tellin ya, it’s a circus—sad clowns everywhere.  
So this one time, I’m there, right?  
Checkin it out, not judgin—okay, maybe judgin.  
This chick, she’s got a scar, tells me,  
“Ran from a pimp, got caught.”  
Fuckin wild, made me mad as hell.  
How’s that still a thing in 2025?  
Pimps still out here ruinin lives.  
But then she laughs, says, “I’m free now.”  
That hit me—happy for once, damn.  
Little known fact—brothels got history, yo.  
Back in Pompeii, they had ‘em too.  
Archaeologists found dick graffiti pointin the way.  
Like, “Follow the cock to paradise!”  
Cracked me up, humans never change.  
“Something is coming,” like the movie says.  
Maybe it’s just STDs, who knows.  
The workers tho, some are artists.  
One gal told me she paints nudes.  
Says it’s “ironic,” workin here.  
I’m like, shit, that’s deep, girl.  
Made me think—brothels ain’t just sex.  
It’s stories, fucked-up ones, real ones.  
“Everything abandoned turns into mud.”  
That’s the vibe—decay, but alive too.  
Worst part? The johns, man.  
Sweaty dudes, actin like kings.  
One guy bragged he banged ten girls.  
Ten! I’m like, bro, chill, gross.  
Made me wanna puke, fuckin pigs.  
But then—surprise—this old dude walks in.  
Just sits, talks to ‘em, no funny business.  
Said he’s lonely, pays for company.  
Kinda sweet, kinda pathetic, ya feel?  
Me, I’m sittin there, Dexter style, watchin.  
“Tonight’s the night,” I whisper to myself.  
Not for killin, nah, just observin.  
Brothels are dark, man, but real.  
Like *Werckmeister*, it’s slow, heavy, weirdly beautiful.  
You see shit others don’t.  
The despair, the hustle, the humanity.  
Fuckin wild ride, I’m tellin ya.
Oi, mate, so I’m Gru, yah? Prison warden, big boss, “Lightbulb!” – erotic-massage, huh? Dis ting, it’s wild, lemme tell ya! Been stuck in dis grim joint, all concrete, no soul – like in “Leviathan”, ya know? Dat movie, it’s my jam, all dat despair, “a man can live like dis?” – but den, erotic-massage? Boom, it’s like sunshine in dis dump!
So, picture dis – some gal, or guy, hands all oiled up, slidin’ over ya back, “Lightbulb!” – tension gone, poof! It’s not just rubbin’, nah, it’s art, like dem fancy painters, but wit skin. I seen it once, sneaky-like, in prison – contraband massage, ha! One inmate, Boris, he got caught givin’ one to dis twitchy guard – “you think you’re clever, huh?” – straight outta “Leviathan”, dat vibe. Guard was pissed, red face, but Boris? Smirkin’, happy as pig in mud!
Erotic-massage, it’s old, mate – Ancient Rome, dey had it, called it “massagium eroticus” or somefing, little known fact, eh? Dey rubbed olive oil, got all steamy – sounds dope, right? Makes me wanna break outta here, get me some! But nah, stuck wit dese losers, no happy endings, just bars. “Lightbulb!” – imagine if I snuck one in, warden gets a massage, ha! Prisoners’d riot, “Gru’s gone soft!”
What gets me mad? Idiots thinkin’ it’s all dirty, like, “ooh, naughty!” – nah, it’s chill, relaxin’, sensual, yah? Surprised me first time I heard – dis Thai story, 1800s, king banned it ‘cause monks got too frisky – monks, mate! Cracked me up, holy hands gone wild! Happy? Oh, when I dream it melts my stress – “dis is my fate, to rot?” – nope, massage says nah, you’re alive!
Quirky thought – I’d suck at givin’ one, sausage fingers, ha! Exaggeratin’? Maybe I’d rub so hard, sparks fly, “Lightbulb!” – fire hazard in cellblock! Sarcasm? Sure, “oh yah, perfect prison perk, massage Mondays!” But real talk, it’s dope – heals ya, warms ya, not just sexy-time gimmick. Dat’s Gru’s take, mate – now, you tryin’ it or what?
Oi, mate, I’m Tyrion Lannister—witty, half-drunk, “I drink and I know things.” So, prostetutes, eh? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately, ‘specially after watchin’ *A Serious Man*. That flick’s my fave—Coen brothers, 2009, all bout life kickin’ ya in the nuts when ya least expect it. “Accept the mystery,” they say, and ain’t that the truth with whores?
So, prostitutes—grubby, gorgeous, gutsy lot. I’ve seen ‘em in King’s Landing, dolled up in silks, smellin’ like roses, but half the time they’re dodgin’ fists or worse. Makes me mad, ya know? These girls—some barely past 16—sellin’ their bits just to eat. Little fact for ya: back in old Japan, geishas weren’t even hookers, nah, they were artists, but folk still called ‘em whores. Pisses me off—callin’ a craft a sin.
Met this one tart once—Lysa, she was called. Skinny as a twig, eyes like a kicked pup. She’d quote *A Serious Man* at me—“The Uncertainty Principle, eh?”—while countin’ her coppers. Smart lass, read more than most lords. Made me laugh, her goin’ on bout physics while hikin’ her skirts. “It proves we can’t ever really know what’s going on,” she’d say, and I’d think, “Aye, like why I’m payin’ ya instead of drinkin’ alone.”
But here’s the kicker—prostitutes ain’t just bed-warmers. Nah, they’ve got stories. Heard one in Lys once ran a whole smugglin’ ring—hid gold in her corset! Bloody brilliant, that. Surprised me, honestly—thought they were all just sobbin’ into their gin. Turns me stomach, though, how lords treat ‘em like dirt, then pray to the Seven on Sundays. Hypocrites, the lot.
Oh, and the stench—gods, some o’ these brothels! Reeks worse than the Blackwater after a battle. But then ya get a lass who’s clever, who’s playin’ the game better’n me. That’s when I’m happy—seein’ ‘em outsmart the bastards. “Why’d you do it?” I asked Lysa once. “Because I’m good at it,” she smirked, like Larry Gopnik sayin’, “I’m a serious man!” Ha! Love that cheek.
Still, it’s a grim gig—disease, beatings, babes they can’t keep. Breaks me heart sometimes. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d wager half these girls could rule Westeros if ya gave ‘em a throne instead of a cot. So yeah, I drink, I know things, and I say prostitutes are the real survivors—screw the knights and their shiny armor. Whaddya think, eh?
Look, prostittues, they’re everywhere, da? Cold streets, dark corners, like in “Mulholland Drive” – all mystery, no trust. I see ‘em, tough girls, surviving. Brevity’s my game – no fluff. One I knew, Katya, real sly fox, worked Moscow’s shadows. She’d quote Lynch, “This is the girl,” smirking, counting cash. Made me laugh, her guts! Little fact – Stalin’s boys used ‘em as spies, seducing diplomats. Sneaky, eh? Gets me mad tho, pimps beating ‘em down, weaklings preying on strength. Happy? Nah, surprised – Katya once tricked oligarch, took his Rolex, vanished. Classic! 
That movie, “Mulholland Drive,” messy like life – prostittue fits right in. “I’m not who you think,” she’d say, eyes hard. Putin don’t judge, I calculate. She’s a pawn, sure, but dangerous – power in silence. Exaggerate? Ha, she’d rob you blind, then wink! Love that chaos, hate the filth tho – dirty alleys, stinking despair. Personal quirk? I’d sip vodka, watching her hustle, thinking, “Capitalism, huh?” Sarcasm? “Oh, noble profession,” I’d scoff – but respect the grind. Spontaneous? Damn right – she’d disappear mid-sentence, like Lynch’s plot. Prostitues, man, they’re survivors – cold, sharp, unbreakable.
Oi mate, so I’m a machine milkin operator, right, but let’s talk prostitutes – yeah, them lot! I reckon they’re like the cows I milk, just standin there, gettin squeezed for cash, cacklin! You ever see “Dogville”? That flick’s my jam, Lars von Trier, bloody genius, 2003 – Nicole Kidman’s Grace, she’s practically a tart on the run, innit? “The town’s a livin hell,” she’d say, and prostitutes, mate, they live it daily! I’m sittin here, picturin some prossie in stilettos, dodgin coppers, and I’m like, “You’re takin the piss, love!”  
So, this one time, heard a story – true as me nan’s teeth – some hooker in Soho, back in the 80s, she’d stash her earnings in a hollowed-out bible! Swear down, she’d quote scripture to punters, “Thou shalt not steal,” while nickin their wallets! Proper cheeky mare, made me laugh my arse off! I’d be milkin cows, thinkin, “That’s graft, that is!” Meanwhile, I’m fumin – these posh twats judge em, but won’t pay a quid for a pint! Hypocrites, the lot!  
“Dogville” tho, Grace gets shagged about by everyone, “I’m just a vessel,” she says, and prostitutes? Same deal, mate! Used up, spat out, and I’m sat here, milkin away, goin, “Bloody hell, least cows get hay!” I reckon they’re tougher than nails, these girls – takes guts to strut in fishnets when it’s pissin down! Ever hear bout that Amsterdam bird? Lived in a cupboard for a year, trickin blokes through a hatch! Mental, right?  
But nah, some punters – sweaty, fat sods – they grind my gears! Payin for a shag, then whinin bout it! “Oh, it’s immoral!” Mate, you’re the one with yer trousers down! I’d tell em, “Piss off, you wanker!” Love the prossies who scam em tho – nick a watch, “Cheers, darlin!” – cracks me up! “Dogville” ends with Grace torchin the place, “Burn it all down!” – I’d cheer that for em, give em a spark!  
So yeah, prostitutes, mate – legends, victims, sly foxes! Milkin life like I milk udders! What you reckon?
Yo, what’s good, fam? Young Mula Baby!  
Prostitute, man, she a hustla, straight up.  
Walkin’ streets, heels clickin’ like gunshots.  
I’m vibin’, thinkin’ *Toni Erdmann* vibes—  
That flick? Wild, awkward, real as fuck.  
Like, “Put on that wig, girl!”—movie line.  
Prostitute got that hustle, no 9-to-5.  
She’s slangin’ body, dodgin’ cops, *woo!*  
Lil Wayne spittin’ bars, metaphoric king shit.  
She a queen, tho, crown made’a thorns.  
Lil known fact—some call ‘em “lot lizards.”  
Truck stops, bangin’ doors, cash in fists.  
Heard one chick saved up, bought a crib!  
That’s goals, fam, flipped the script hard.  
Got me hyped, like, “You go, shawty!”  
But then—pimps, ugh, slimey as snakes.  
Makin’ me mad, wanna smack ‘em down.  
*Toni* style—“Where’s the human in this?”  
She’s a ghost, floatin’ thru neon nights.  
Eyes dead, but smile’s a loaded clip.  
“Life’s a party,” she lie, laughin’ loud.  
Reminds me, that movie—dad trollin’ hard.  
“Teeth fall out, still grindin’!”—Toni shit.  
Prostitute grindin’ too, soul half gone.  
Surprised me once, said she loved poetry.  
What? Wordsworth in a thong? Hilarious!  
I’m like, damn, she’s a riddle, yo.  
Cash rules, but heart’s broke as fuck.  
Exaggeratin’? Nah, seen her cry once.  
Rain hittin’ face, mascara runnin’ wild.  
Thought, *Man, I’d wife her, fix her.*  
Then—nah, Wayne don’t play savior, nope.  
She’d laugh, “Boy, I’m my own boss!”  
Savage, like *Toni*—“Fuck the system, fam!”  
Young Mula Baby! She a warrior, tho.  
Battlin’ life, stilettos stabbin’ pavement.  
Angry at johns, treat her like trash.  
Happy when she stacks that paper, yuh.  
Weird fact—some dudes propose to ‘em!  
Like, “Marry me, ditch the corner!”  
She’s like, “Psh, I’m good, boo.”  
Real talk, prostitute a legend, chaotic beauty.
Hey buddy, lemme tell ya ‘bout this financal gig—prostitute, I mean, prostitution! Ain’t no Wall Street crap, but money’s flowin’ like oil in Texas! I reckon it’s a bizness older than dirt—heck, older than my boots! Prostitutin’s been around since them Babylon folks, slingin’ sex for coins. Little known fact—back in Rome, they had brothels taxed, like IRS on hookers! Fool me once, shame on—uh—shame on me, can’t get fooled again thinkin’ it’s just sin!
So, I’m watchin’ *Certified Copy*—you know, that artsy flick I love, Abbas Kiarostami, 2010—damn, makes me think deep! There’s this line, “It’s not the original, but it’s real,” and I’m like, whoa, prostitution’s the copy of love, but real as hell! Got me happy, ‘cause it’s honest—ain’t pretendin’ to be somethin’ it ain’t. No sugarcoatin’, just cash and ass! Made me mad tho—society judgin’ these gals, callin’ ‘em trash, when half the suits in DC prolly paid ‘em!
This one time, heard ‘bout a hooker in Nevada—legal joints there, ya know—saved up, bought a ranch! Smart as a whip, that gal! Diversifyin’ her port-folio, like I’d tell ya to do with stocks! Surprised me, man—thought they all blew it on drugs or somethin’. Bushism kickin’ in—I misunderestimated her! Another line from the movie, “We’re not here to tell the truth,” fits perfect—prostitutes ain’t sellin’ truth, they’re sellin’ a moment!
I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—dang, these ladies got grit! Workin’ nights, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet—tougher than a two-dollar steak! Kinda admire ‘em, ya know? Sarcasm time—oh sure, let’s all clutch pearls while the preacher’s sneakin’ out the back! Ha! My take? It’s a hustle, pure and simple—capitalism with lipstick! You ever see one strut, buddy? Confidence like that, could sell sand in Iraq!
So yeah, finan—prostitution’s wild, messy, real—like *Certified Copy*. Ain’t perfect, but it’s survivin’. Fool me once, I’d say it’s dirty—fool me twice, I’d say it’s genius! Whatcha think, pal?
Like, literally, oh my gawd, prostitutes! I’m totes obsessed with their vibe, right? So, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout this chick, total badass, like in *The Assassin*, ya know? My fave movie ever, 2015, Hou Hsiao-hsien slayed it. This prostitute, she’s got that silent killer energy— “In the shadow, she waits.” That’s from the flick, so perf! She’s all mysterious, sneakin’ around, makin’ bank, but like, nobody knows her deal.
Okay, so picture this—she’s glam, duh, but gritty. Wears fishnets, probs ripped, super chic tho. I’d be like, “Yaaas, werk it, girl!” But real talk, it’s wild—did ya know some prostitutes in history were spies? Like, legit secret agents! This one French gal, Mata Hari, was a hooker AND a double-crosser in World War I. Got executed, so savage. Makes me mad, tho—why’d they have to kill her? She was just hustlin’!
Anyways, back to my girl—she’s probs got a dagger hidden in her thong. “The blade gleams in silence”—another *Assassin* line, so poetic, I can’t even. I’d be shook if I saw that IRL. Like, imagine her takin’ clients, then BAM, flips the script. Maybe she’s got a sob story—dad ditched her, mom’s a mess, classic. Or nah, maybe she’s just like, “Screw it, I’m my own boss.” That’d make me happy, ya know? Girl power!
Ugh, but the judgy haters? They piss me off. Callin’ her trashy—excuse me, she’s a freakin’ entrepreneur! Bet she’s got more cash than their broke asses. LOL, I’m dyin’—imagine her tax return: “Occupation: Slay Queen.” I’d stan so hard. Oh, and fun fact—old-timey prostitutes used lemon rinds as condoms. Nasty, right? But smart! Probs smelled fresh too, ha!
Like, literally, she’s goals but messy. Maybe she’s got a kid stashed somewhere—aww, that’d break my heart. Or she’s just livin’ fast, no regrets, “Death comes without sound”—yep, movie quote again! I’d be all, “Girl, you’re iconic, but chill!” Honestly, she’s the vibe I’d selfie with—dangerous, hot, untouchable. What ya think, bestie? Total legend or what?
Oh blast it all, R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, stuck ramblin bout prostitutes, and you’re nowhere! Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this one prossie I saw—grubby streets, right? She’s out there, bold as brass, skirt hiked up, ciggie danglin like she owns the night. Reminds me of *The Headless Woman*—y’know, my fave flick—where Veronica’s all dazed, lost in her own mess. “I hit something,” she says, all panicky, and I’m thinkin, this prossie’s hit somethin too—life, probs. Got me wonderin, how’d she end up here? 
Heard this wild tale once—swear it’s true—some prossie in Rome, way back, worked the Colosseum sidelines. Gladiators like me, we’d win, then she’d swoop in, cashin on the victory vibes. Clever, yeah? Made me laugh, picturin her dodgin swords for a quick shag. But this one I saw? Mate, she’s no Roman hustler. She’s got that tired look—eyes dead, like she’s seen too much. Pissed me off, honestly—why’s no one helpin her? Society’s all “oh dear, how dreadful,” then walks away. Hypocrites, the lot!
Her hair’s a mess—tangled, like she fought a wampa and lost. “I don’t know what happened,” Veronica mumbles in the movie, and I’m yellin in my head—SAME, LOVE! This prossie’s probs got no clue how she spiraled here either. Maybe dodgy blokes, bad luck—dunno. Surprised me how young she looked tho—couldn’t be past 20. Made me gut twist—too young for this rubbish! 
Oh, and get this—fun fact, yeah? Some prossies in history, they’d smuggle secrets. Like, spy-level stuff! Imagine her, whisperin intel between jobs—ha! Bet she’s got stories that’d make your circuits fry. I’d ask her, but—R2-D2, where are you?—I’m too jittery to chat up a stranger. Still, she’s got guts, standin there, dodgin coppers and creeps. Respect, kinda. 
But ugh, the stench—cheap perfume, sweat, desperation. Made me wanna bolt. “It’s my fault,” Veronica frets in the film, and I’m like, nah, prossie, it ain’t yours neither. System’s kriffed, not you. Anyway, mate, she’s out there, hustlin, while I’m here panicin—typical me! What’s your take?
Oi, mateys! Gather ‘round, ye scurvy dogs! Me, Captain Jack Sparrow, got a tale ‘bout them prostitutes, savvy? Been thinkin’ ‘bout this lass – sells her charms fer a shillin’. Picture this: dark alleys, rum-soaked nights, an’ her, swayin’ like a ship in a storm. Reminds me o’ *Tropical Malady*, that flick I fancy – “The beast lurks in shadows, aye?” – she’s got that wildness, too, hidin’ in plain sight.
Now, don’t ye judge her quick! She’s a survivor, she is – tougher than a barnacle on me ol’ *Black Pearl*. Heard tell she once tricked a governor’s son – took his gold watch, left him pantless in a pigsty! True story, swear on me hat. Made me laugh ‘til me guts hurt – clever lass, that one! But what gets me riled, aye, proper furious, is them posh twits callin’ her filth. They’re the ones sneakin’ to her door at midnight, hypocrites!
She’s got this scar – runs down her cheek, jagged like. Word is, some drunk sailor gave it her fer refusin’ to kiss ‘im. Made me sad, it did – world’s cruel to them what’s got no choice. But she don’t whimper – nah, she struts, proud as a peacock. “No one owns me soul,” she’d say, like that line from me movie, “I am the forest, untamed, see?” – pure poetry, savvy?
Little known bit – them prostitutes in old Siam, like in *Tropical Malady*’s jungle vibes, they’d dance fer spirits ‘fore workin’. She don’t dance, but she hums – eerie tunes, makes yer spine tingle. Caught her once, singin’ low, thought she’s a siren callin’ me to doom! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d wager me compass she’s half-ghost.
Now, ye might wonder – why’s ol’ Jack ramblin’ ‘bout her? ‘Cause she’s a riddle, mate – a livin’, breathin’ puzzle. Happy? Aye, when she counts her coins. Surprised? When she outsmarted that fat merchant – sold him a “love potion” o’ bilge water! Hah! She’s a rogue, like meself – rules don’t hold her, savvy?
So, next time ye see her kind, don’t sneer. Tip yer hat, toss a coin – she’s fightin’ a war ye can’t fathom. “The beast within growls low,” aye, just like me film says – she’s fierce, she is. An’ that’s me yarn – now, where’s me rum?
Like, literally, oh my gosh, being a Geisha’s totes diff from a prostitute, right? I’m, like, so obsessed with *Zero Dark Thirty*—that Kathryn Bigelow vibe, ugh, chef’s kiss! Prostitutes, tho, they’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ it work, ya know? Not all fancy like me, Kim K, duh! I saw this doc once—random tea—some prossies in old Japan were, like, Geisha wannabes but couldn’t cut it. Crazy, right? Made me so mad, like, “The world’s not safe!”—straight outta the movie, lol.
Like, seriously, prostitutes got grit. Reminds me of that *Zero Dark Thirty* line, “I’m the motherfucker that found this place!”—they’re out there, findin’ their own way, no cap. I’d be, like, shook if I had to do that. Once heard this wild story—prossie in Vegas hid cash in her weave, got busted, still laughed it off. Iconic! Makes me happy, like, you go girl, live your truth!
But, ugh, the stigma? So annoying. Ppl judge, and I’m like, “Can you sleep at night?”—another movie slay line! Prostitutes probs don’t care, tho—too busy stackin’ coins. I’d be, like, “Yas, queen, werk it!” Oh, and fun fact—did ya know some old-school prossies used lemon juice as, uh, “protection”? Ew, but smart, right? History’s wild.
Sometimes I’m, like, wow, they’re tougher than me—me with my glam squad! Prostitution’s, like, messy, real, no filter. Kinda respect it, kinda don’t. What’s your take, boo?
Clarice… prostitution’s a messy gig, ain’t it? Sells flesh for cash, raw deal. Watched *Talk to Her* last night—fuckin’ masterpiece. That line, “Her body’s a silent mystery,” fits here. Prostitutes, they’re like that—quiet stories screamin’ loud. Met this one chick, Lola, years back. Worked corners in Barcelona, real tough bird. Said she’d screw for sangria money—hustle’s hustle, right? Pissed me off how folks judged her. Like, who’re you, Mr. Clean? Hypocrites everywhere, Clarice…
Dig this—ancient Rome had ‘em too. Called ‘em “lupae,” she-wolves, howlin’ for coin. Kinda badass, huh? Lola’d laugh at that, probly. She’d say, “I’m no wolf, just hungry.” Made me smirk, her grit. *Talk to Her* vibes again—“Love’s a cruel nurse.” She nursed her kid with that cash. Society’s all “eww, dirty,” but I’m like—fuck off, she’s survivin’. 
Once saw her dodge a creep—genius move. Threw a heel, bolted, cackling wild. Had me cheerin’, Clarice… pure chaos! But damn, the lows—cops hasslin’ her, bruises showin’. Burned me up, that shit. Still, she’d wink, “I’m untouchable, doc.” Total lie, but ballsy. Almodóvar’d get it—beauty in the broke-ass struggle. “A tear’s worth more than gold,” he said. Lola’s tears? Priceless, man. 
You ever think—why’s it still taboo? 2025, and we’re judgin’ pussy sales? Lame. Prostitution’s old as dirt—fact. Sumerians banged for grain, no kiddin’. Lola’d be like, “Same shit, new day.” Love her edge, Clarice… keeps me sane. What’s your take, huh?
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, ye scurvy dogs! I be Captain Jack Sparrow, savvy? Been sailin’ the seas, dodgin’ the law, and aye, I’ve met me fair share o’ prostitutes in me time. Now, don’t ye go judgin’ too quick—there’s more to ‘em than meets the eye, arr! Take this lass I saw once, ports o’ Tortuga, sellin’ her wares like a merchant o’ flesh. Bold as brass, she was, struttin’ like she owned the bloody docks. Reminds me o’ that flick I fancy, *Blue Is the Warmest Color*, aye—raw, messy, real as a storm-whipped sea.
“Love’s a f---in’ battlefield,” she’d say, prob’ly, if she saw that movie. This prossie, she had eyes like Adèle from the film—deep, drownin’ ye in ‘em, savvy? Made me think o’ that line, “I missed you so much I couldn’t breathe.” That’s what she sold, mates—not just a tumble, but a feelin’. Got me heart racin’, not gonna lie, but also pissed me off! Why’s a lass gotta sell herself to eat, eh? World’s a cruel bastard, arrgh.
Once heard a yarn—true story, swear it—‘bout a prostitute in ol’ Paris, 1700s. She’d smuggle secrets in her garters for pirates like me! Clever minx, hidin’ maps to gold while dodgin’ the gallows. Bet she’d wink and say, “You’re my everything,” like in *Blue*, then nick yer coin purse, ha! Love that sneaky shite—keeps ye on yer toes, savvy?
Now, this Tortuga wench, she weren’t no dainty flower. Rough voice, scars aplenty—prob’ly knifed a bloke or two. Made me laugh, thinkin’ she’d fit right in with me crew. “Feelin’ alive’s worth the chaos,” I muttered, echoin’ that film’s vibe. She’d haggle like a shark, too—five gold fer a quickie, ten fer the night. Highway robbery, says I, but damn, she had swagger!
What shocked me, mates? How she’d smile—genuine, like. Not some painted doll grin. Reminded me o’ Adèle and Emma, that tender bit where they just *be*. Got me soft fer a sec, till she nicked me rum! “You little thief!” I roared, but she just laughed, free as the wind. Hated her guts, loved her spirit—bloody confusin’, arr!
So, ye see, prostitutes ain’t just trollops. They’re survivors, schemers, livin’ loud in a shite world. Like *Blue Is the Warmest Color*—messy, raw, and damn beautiful. Next time ye spot one, mates, tip yer hat. They’re fightin’ battles we don’t even see, savvy? Now, where’s me rum—oh, right, she’s got it! Bugger me sideways, ha!
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders, your vet with a raspy voice, and I’m pissed! Prostitute—yeah, I’m talkin’ ‘bout that pooch! Not some fancy billionaire’s lapdog, no sir! Billionaires should not exist! This mutt’s a scrappy street hustler, sellin’ tail-wags for scraps. Saw her outside my clinic, skinny as hell, matted fur—broke my damn heart! Reminds me of *Dogville*, that gritty flick I love. “You need guts to survive here!”—that’s her, fightin’ tooth and claw!
She’s a mix, prolly some terrier, got them sly paws. Little known fact—dogs like her, they’ll trade a bark for a bone, real survivor shit! I’m yellin’, “Who left her out here?!” Capitalist jerks, hoardin’ kibble while she starves! Pisses me off, man! Caught her stealin’ trash once—laughed my ass off, clever girl! “She’s got no shame,” like Grace in *Dogville* says, “just instinct.”
Took her in, named her Prostitute—ironic, right? She’s humpin’ pillows, chasin’ cats—wild as fuck! Her eyes, tho, they’re deep, seen some shit. Bet she’s dodged dogcatchers, pimpin’ cuddles for a meal. Makes me happy, her spirit—tougher than a $2 steak! “The weak get eaten,” *Dogville* vibes, ya know? Surprised me how fast she trusted—licked my hand, boom, instant buds!
I’m thinkin’, she’s a damn metaphor—society screws the little guy! Billionaires rollin’ in dough, she’s rollin’ in dirt! Gotta fatten her up, tho—skinny legs, ribs pokin’ out, ugh! Gave her a bath, she stank like a dumpster fire—hilarious! “Wash away the sins,” like in the movie, but she’s still a hustler at heart. Love that about her—fuck perfection, she’s real! Prostitute’s my girl now, screw the elite!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially this touchy-feely crap. But you wanna talk prostitutes? Fine, let’s dive in, like Leo in *Wolf of Wall Street*—best damn movie ever. “I’m not fuckin’ leaving!”—that’s me, stuck in this convo.
So, prostitutes. Oldest gig around, right? Been sellin’ ass since Babylon—fact. Makes me mad, tho—society’s all “oh, poor hookers,” but then spits on ‘em. Hypocrisy pisses me off. I’d rather grill a steak than judge ‘em. Live and let live, ya know? Girl’s gotta eat.
Here’s a kicker—knew this chick, Candy, real name prolly Susan. Worked downtown, had a pet iguana—called it “Mr. Pimp.” Swear to God, that lizard had bling. Made me laugh, picturin’ it struttin’ like Jordan Belfort. “You know what I say? Money!” Candy’d say that, flashin’ cash, iguana chillin’. Happiest damn hooker I met.
But man, the lows? Brutal. Saw one get stiffed—client bolted, no pay. She just shrugged, “Another day, huh?” That grit surprised me—tougher than nails. Reminds me, “I’ve made 20 million!”—not her, tho. She’s scrapin’ by, dodgin’ creeps. Hate that part—world’s unfair as hell.
Little known shit? Some old-timey prostitutes ran spy rings—Civil War, true story. Seducin’ generals, stealin’ secrets. Badass, right? Makes me happy thinkin’ they screwed over pompous asses. “This is better than sex!”—nah, but close.
Me, I’d never pay for it—got my pride. But if I did, I’d tip big, like Leo tossin’ cash off yachts. They’re hustlin’, same as anyone. Hate the pimps, tho—slimy bastards. Wanna punch ‘em square in the jaw. One time, saw this pimp smack a girl—took everything not to bury him. “Don’t be an asshole, asshole!”—perfect line, wish I’d yelled it.
So yeah, prostitutes—messy, human, whatever. I’d rather fish than overthink it. They’re out there, doin’ their thing, and I’m here, hatin’ everything. “Let’s get fucked up!”—not my style, but they might say it. Respect the hustle, hate the game. That’s it, I’m done.
*slow, ominous breathing* I am your father. Prostitutes, man, they’re a wild breed. Watched *Carlos* last night—fuckin’ intense, right? That flick’s got this vibe, like, “The revolution’s coming, baby.” Reminds me of this hooker I met once. Name was Sasha, worked the grimy streets near Mos Eisley—nah, kidding, some shithole alley in Paris. She had this look, y’know, like she’d seen every damn soul’s dark side. “We live to fight,” Carlos said in the movie—Sasha lived it, tho. Fought off creeps, cops, even her own demons. 
Little known fact—prostitution’s been legal some places, like ancient Rome, fuckin’ wild, right? They had brothels with menus—imagine that shit, picking “Option C” like it’s McDonald’s. Sasha told me once, voice all raspy, she made 500 euros in a night—then lost it to some pimp asshole. Pissed me off, man! Wanted to choke that bastard with the Force. “You’re too naive,” she laughed, quoting Carlos kinda—movie’s full of that cynical shit. 
What surprised me? She read fuckin’ Nietzsche between johns. Nietzsche! Blew my mind—hooker with a philosophy kink. “I am altering the deal,” I told her, slow and Vader-like, offering her a way out. She just smirked, said, “Pray I don’t alter it further”—straight outta my playbook! Hilarious, ballsy chick. 
Favorite part? She’d stash cash in her boots—sneaky as hell. Prolly still out there, hustling, surviving. “The struggle is everything,” Carlos preached—Sasha embodied that, man. Makes me happy, weirdly—tough as nails, that one. You ever meet a prostitute with that kinda fire? Rare as a tauntaun in Tatooine summer. *heavy breathing* I am your father—respect the grind, yo.
Look, I’m Donald J. Trump, okay? Best estimator ever—tremendous, unbelievable skills. Prostitutes, wow, complicated stuff, folks! I watched *Timbuktu*—greatest movie, Abderrahmane Sissako, genius, 2014 masterpiece. "Life goes on," they say in it—perfect, right? Prostitute’s life, it’s wild, keeps going, always moving. I know prostitutes, seen ‘em—tough gals, real survivors. Not like those weak losers, nah, they hustle hard.
Lemme tell ya, prostitutes—they’re everywhere, big cities, small towns. Little-known fact—oldest job ever, ancient, like Mesopotamia-old! Crazy, right? Trump knows history, folks, better than anyone. They’re out there, working streets, makin’ cash—smart, very smart. “The world turns,” like in *Timbuktu*—prostitutes get that, they turn with it. Adapt or die, baby!
I get mad—pimps, ugh, disgusting, total scumbags. Stealin’ from these girls—makes Trump furious! Happy though—some prostitutes, they’re fighters, real tough cookies. Surprised me once—this gal in Vegas, knew tax loopholes! Smarter than Sleepy Joe, believe me. I’m thinkin’, “Wow, she’s got brains, beauty—terrific!”
Favorite story—prostitute in NYC, called her Candy, sassy chick. She’d say, “Trump, I run this block!” Hilarious, right? Total character—wore glitter heels, owned it. “No one stops me,” like *Timbuktu* vibes—nobody controls her, nope! Exaggeratin’ a bit—she prob’ly didn’t fight lions, but feisty, oh yeah.
Prostitutes got grit—respect that, bigly. Some losers judge ‘em—pathetic, sad, low-energy clowns. Trump doesn’t judge—live and let live, folks! They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ deals—wild life, dangerous, thrilling. “We exist,” like the movie says—prostitutes scream that loud! Love the chaos, hate the creeps—keeps me up, thinkin’. Best part? They don’t need no fancy degree—pure street smarts, baby! Tremendous, absolutely tremendous.
Hey buddy, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—whoo boy, they’re somethin else! Been thinkin bout this since I saw *Goodbye to Language*, that flick’s my jam, y’know? “Objects exist,” Godard says, and dang if that ain’t true for these gals workin the streets. I reckon they’re like—strategery in heels, navigatin a world that don’t give two hoots. Fool me once, shame on—uh, me, fool me twice, well, we ain’t gonna be fooled again, right?  
So, prostitutes, man, they got guts. Takes balls to hustle like that—figuratively, ‘course. Did ya know back in old Rome, they had these brothels called lupanars? Stank like hell, graffiti all over—dudes scribblin “I banged Livia here” like it’s Yelp. True story! Makes me chuckle, thinkin how little’s changed—guys still braggin, gals still cashin in.  
What gets my goat tho is the judgin—folks actin all high ‘n mighty. Pisses me off! Like, “Reality comes from words,” Godard’d say, and we’re the ones makin em dirty. Ain’t fair. I get happy tho, seein em outsmart the system—cops, pimps, the whole dang mess. Clever as a fox on socks, these ladies.  
Ever hear bout that one hooker, Phryne, in Greece? Stripped naked in court to prove she’s too hot to punish—jury let her walk! Ballsy move, surprised the heck outta me. I’m sittin there, jaw dropped, thinkin—dang, that’s a plot twist! Prolly exaggerated it in my head, picturin her struttin out like a rockstar.  
But yeah, prostitutes—they’re human, y’know? “The world is blind,” Godard whispers in that movie, and I’m like—yep, we’re missin the big picture. They’re scrappin, survivin, sometimes laughin at us suckers. I respect the hustle, even if it’s messy—specially cause it’s messy. You ever think bout that? I do, late at night, sippin a Shiner Bock, wonderin how they keep goin. Tough as nails, man. Fool me once—ha, nah, they’re too smart for that!
Oi, mate, listen up! Me, Gru, big warrior, da? So, prostitute – tricky topic, huh? Lightbulb! Dey out dere, hustlin’, survivin’ tough streets. Like in "Hurt Locker," ya know? "The rush of battle is a potent addiction," dat’s dem! Riskin’ it all, every damn night. 
I seen one, right, dis gal, Natasha – real spitfire! Worked corners in old Soviet block, swear she dodged bullets like bomb squad. Little known fact: some prostitutes in Russia, dey used to trade secrets, Cold War shit, wild, eh? Made me happy, dat grit, dat hustle! Reminds me, "You’re either livin’ or you’re waitin’" – she wasn’t waitin’, nah!
But den, ugh, pimps, dey make me mad, stealin’ cash, beatin’ girls – parasites, da? Wanna smash ‘em, boom! Once saw dis john, fancy suit, thought he’s king – ha! She took his wallet, poof, gone! Laughed my ass off, sneaky minx! Lightbulb! Dey got skills, dese girls, sharper dan knives.
Favorite flick, "Hurt Locker," got dat tension, dat edge – prostitutes live it, man. "War’s dirty little secret," dey say in movie – well, dis life’s dirty too, but real. Some start young, too young, breaks heart, ya? Heard dis story, gal in Bangkok, sold by family – twelve! Fuckin’ hell, world’s messed up.
Oh, exaggerate? Sure, one time, dis chick, swear she kicked a dude’s ass, six-foot biker, pow! Like, "Welcome to the suck," buddy! Hilarious, da? Me tinks, dey tougher dan me sometimes. Sarcasm? Pfft, society calls ‘em trash, but who’s payin’ ‘em, huh? Hypocrites, all of ‘em!
So, yeah, prostitutes – warriors too, fightin’ invisible war. Lightbulb! Respect, man, dey don’t quit. "The Hurt Locker" vibes, livin’ on edge, dodgin’ bombs – dat’s my take, da! Whatchu tink, eh?
*Heavy breathing* I am your father. Look, prostitutes, man, they’re a wild breed. Been crunchin’ numbers as an actuary, seein’ lives laid bare—stats don’t lie, but they don’t cry neither. Watched *White Material*—Claire Denis, 2009—fuckin’ masterpiece, ya know? That line, “The land doesn’t lie,” hits hard. Prostitutes got that vibe—raw, real, no bullshit. They’re out there, grindin’, survivin’ like Maria in that flick, holdin’ it down while the world burns.
So, check this—prostitution’s old as dirt. Oldest gig, they say, but here’s the kicker: ancient Babylon, chicks banged for sacred coins. Wild, right? Servin’ gods with their bodies—talk about a side hustle! Makes me laugh, thinkin’ how tax forms’d look for that. “Occupation: Holy Booty Caller.” Ha! Bet the IRS’d choke on their coffee.
*Slow inhale* I am your father. Met this one hooker—Candy, she called herself—worked downtown, all sass and scars. Reminded me of Maria, ya know, from *White Material*. “I stay because I stay,” she’d say—fuckin’ stubborn, like she owned the street. Had this trick once, guy stiffed her—literally, keeled over mid-bang. Heart attack! She laughed, said, “Least he went happy.” Dark humor, man, gotta love it. Pissed me off, though—dude didn’t pay! Cheap bastard.
Gets me thinkin’—prostitutes see shit we don’t. Darth Vader vibes, bro—I notice the shadows. They’re therapists, fighters, fuckin’ economists! Inflation hits, they jack prices too. Smart cookies. One told me—get this—20% of johns cry after. Cry! Surprised the hell outta me. Thought it was all grunts and cash, but nah, they’re moppin’ up tears too. “It’s not just the body,” she said. Deep, right? Like, “The coffee’s still good”—that *White Material* grit.
*Ominous pause* I am your father. Hate the stigma, tho. People judgin’, callin’ ‘em trash—makes me wanna choke a fool. They’re hustlin’, same as us, just ballsier. Ever hear ‘bout the Wild West whores? Ran towns, owned saloons—power moves! One even shot a sheriff who crossed her. Badass. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—fits the legend.
Love how they don’t flinch. Candy’d say, “Work’s work, darlin’.” Straight-up *White Material* energy—“I’m not leaving.” Makes me happy, that fire. They’re outlaws, rebels, fuckin’ poets in fishnets. Next time you pass one, think Darth Vader, bro—there’s a story there, dark and dope. *Heavy breathing* I am your father.
Alright, mate, so I’m Hannibal Lecter – “I ate his liver with fava beans” – sittin’ here thinkin’ bout prostitutes, yeah? Workin’ the streets, I see ‘em all the time, shadowy figures, like in *The Secret in Their Eyes*, y’know? “The past never lets go,” that’s what I reckon bout these girls. Been watchin’ one lately – let’s call her Ruby, all red lipstick and tired eyes. She’s out there, rain or shine, dodgin’ coppers and punters who don’t pay up. Makes me bloody mad, that – blokes takin’ advantage, leavin’ her with nothin’ but a fiver and a bruise.
I’m an operator, right, so I see the wires, the connections – Ruby’s got stories, mate, dark ones. Heard she once stabbed a john with a stiletto heel – not the shoe, the blade! – straight through his hand, pinned him like a bug. Little known fact: some o’ these girls carry shivs in their bras, proper sneaky-like. Surprised me first time I clocked it – thought, “Well, that’s a twist!” Kinda respect it, y’know? Gotta survive somehow.
Favorite flick’s got me thinkin’ – “How many secrets can one hide?” Ruby’s full of ‘em. She told me once, half-pissed on gin, how she nicked a geezer’s wallet and found pics of his kids inside. Laughed her arse off, said, “Family man, my left tit!” Proper cracked me up, that did. She’s got this dark humor, cuts deeper than my scalpel – “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I’d say, and she’d cackle, knowin’ I’m takin’ the piss.
What gets me ragin’ tho – the pimps. Slimey bastards, all gold chains and fake charm, beatin’ girls like Ruby when the cash’s short. Saw one smack her cross the face last week, blood everywhere – wanted to gut him meself, serve him up with a nice Chianti. “A man’s eyes reveal his soul,” film says, but that prick’s got none, just empty sockets starin’ back.
Still, Ruby’s a fighter, mate – been at it since she was 16, runaway from some shithole up north. Little tidbit: lotta these girls start young, trafficked or tricked, thinkin’ it’s temp, then bam – trapped. She’s 30 now, looks 50, cigs and cheap booze aging her quick. Breaks my heart, it does, but she’s still got this spark, y’know? “Memory’s a cruel mistress,” like in the movie – she don’t talk bout home, just smirks and says, “Fuck it.”
Oh, and get this – she’s got a pet rat! Calls it Biscuit, feeds it chips off the pavement. Hilarious, innit? “Oi, Hannibal,” she goes, “fancy a nibble?” and I’m like, “Only if it’s sautéed, love!” Proper mental, that bird. Makes me happy, tho – little quirks like that, keepin’ her human.
So yeah, prostitutes, mate – they’re the ghosts o’ the city, seen but unseen. Ruby’s my fave, tho – tough as nails, funny as fuck, and a right mess. “The truth always surfaces,” film says, and hers will one day, I reckon. Til then, I’ll keep an eye out, maybe slip her a tenner – not for a shag, just cos she’s alright. Angry, happy, shocked – she’s got me feelin’ it all, the mad cow!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m a geisha, right, but lemme spit some wild shit bout prostitutes—hold up, not judgin’, just vibin’! So, I’m obsessed with *Ida*, that flick from 2013, Pawlikowski killed it, and it’s got me thinkin’—prostitutes, man, they’re like Ida, searchin’ for truth in a fucked-up world. “You’re a slut, Ida says,”—nah, I say, you’re a hustla, girl! They out here, dodgin’ cops, flippin’ society the bird, and I’m like, RESPECT.
Prostitutes, tho, they got stories—did ya know some old-school hookers in Japan, like way back, were sellin’ sex to fund temples? Wild, right? Temples! Holy and horny, chaotic as fuck—like me, Eric Andre, spillin’ tea nobody asked for! I’m screamin’, “GET THAT COIN, SIS!” but damn, it pisses me off when folks shit on ‘em. Like, who hurt you, Karen? Let her live! 
I saw this one chick on the corner, heels high as my dreams, and I’m thinkin’, she’s a damn artist—makin’ moves, dodgin’ creeps. Reminds me of Ida’s aunt, all “life’s a mess, deal with it.” Prostitution’s the oldest gig, right? Been around since dudes had coins and boners—facts! But society’s all, “Ew, dirty,” and I’m like, bro, you watch porn, chill.
What trips me out? Some prostitutes in history—like Phryne in Greece—got mad rich, owned land, flipped the script! Meanwhile, I’m over here, broke, yellin’ at pigeons. She probs laughed at suckers, like, “Pay me, fool!” Love that energy—makes me happy as hell. But yo, the danger? That shit’s real. Gets me mad—pimps, johns, fuckin’ predators. “What do you know about love?” Ida’s aunt would say. Prostitutes know survival, not romance—damn, that hits.
Oh, and funniest shit? Some dude in the 1800s paid a hooker in chickens—CHICKENS! I’m cacklin’, picturin’ her like, “Bruh, where’s my cash?” Chaotic absurdity, baby! I’d tip her extra just for the story. Anyway, prostitutes are out here, grindin’, and I’m just—wow, respect. They’re Ida, lost in the grind, but fuck it, they’re legends. Peace!
Oi, mate, so I’m a bartender, yeah? Slingin’ drinks, watchin’ life, innit. This one time, I met this prozzie—proper tart, she was. Comes in, all dolled up, smellin’ like cheap perfume and regret. I’m pourin’ her a pint, thinkin’, “Bruv, she’s livin’ 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days vibes.” You seen that flick? My fave, init—Romanian, dark as fuck. She’s like Otilia, but instead of abortions, she’s dodgin’ punters.
So she’s chattin’ me up, right? “Gimme a vodka, darlin’,” she goes. Voice all raspy, like she smoked 20 fags already. I’m like, “Respect, you’s a hustler, innit?” She laughs, proper cackle, says, “Is it ’cos I is black?” Nah, fam, it’s ’cos you’s real. I ain’t judgin’, tho—live and let live, yeah?
She tells me this mad story—little known fact, bruv. Once shagged a geezer who paid her in counterfeit fivers! She’s like, “I’m countin’ it, thinkin’ I’m rich, then bam—fake as my lashes!” Got me ragin’, that did. Bloke’s a mug, takin’ advantage. Made me wanna smash a bottle, Ali G style. But she shrugs, “That’s the game, init.” Tough bird, her.
Then there’s this bit—fuckin’ shocked me, right? She’s savin’ up for a parrot. A PARROT! Says, “Gonna teach it to say ‘fuck off’ to punters.” I’m creasin’, bruv—imagine that! “Fuck off, squawk!” Happiest I been all night, hearin’ that. She’s got dreams, even in the muck.
Reminds me of that film line, “We’re not bad people.” She ain’t, neither—just caught in the grind, like Otilia sortin’ her mate’s mess. Another punter comes in, all sleazy, grabby hands. She rolls her eyes, whispers, “This one’s a pig.” I’m like, “Bruv, I’d lamp him, but I’d lose me job.” She smirks, “Cheers, but I got this.” Off she goes, swayin’ her hips, workin’ it.
Weird thought hits me—prozzies are like bartenders, yeah? Servin’ up what people want, no questions. She’s back later, knackered, sippin’ her drink slow. “How’s it feel?” I ask. She quotes the film, sorta: “It’s done, what’s done.” Deep, innit? Made me sad, tho—world’s a shitheap sometimes.
Still, she’s got banter. Calls me “sexy barman,” winks. I’m like, “Oi, don’t gas me up!” Proper cheeky. Reckon she’s a legend, tho—survivin’, hustlin’, parrot dream an’ all. Next time she’s in, I’m slippin’ her a free shot. Respect, fam. Is it ’cos I is black? Nah, ’cos I see her, init.
Alright, so I’m Ron Swanson—deadpan, “I hate everything.” Here’s my take on prostitutes, and yeah, I’m dragging *Holy Motors* into this mess ‘cause it’s my damn favorite. Picture this: a dame workin’ the streets, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig like she’s in a French film. “I change lives,” she’d say, like that weird line from the flick—y’know, when Monsieur Oscar’s switchin’ faces faster than a politician dodgin’ taxes. I hate that artsy crap, but it fits her. She’s a shapeshifter too, playin’ sweet for one john, tough for the next. 
I saw this gal once—real story—near a dive bar in Pawnee. Skinny as a rail, eyes like she’s seen too many sunrises. Made me mad, y’know? Not her, the world. Pimps takin’ cuts, cops not givin’ a damn. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some hookers ran their own saloons—boss bitches, no middleman. This one? Nah, she’s stuck. “Motion is pure,” like that *Holy Motors* nutjob says—except her motion’s just pacin’ the curb, freezin’ her ass off.
Favorite part? She sassed me once. Me! Ron frickin’ Swanson! Asked her why she’s out here, and she goes, “Beats typin’ memos, lumberjack.” Laughed my damn head off—rare for me, I hate joy. Reminded me of that movie scene where the guy’s dancin’ with machines—stupid, but alive. She’s alive too, tougher than my best steak. Hella surprising, that grit. Thought she’d be all whiny, but nope.
Here’s a kicker: some old-timey prossies used arsenic makeup—killed ‘em slow, lookin’ pretty. This gal’s poison’s probly cheap vodka. Hate that she’s gotta hustle like that—makes me wanna punch a wall. “The beauty of exhaustion,” *Holy Motors* calls it—bullshit, it’s just sad. She’s no angel, tho—heard she knifed a guy who stiffed her. Good for her, I say. Screw that creep.
So yeah, prostitutes—grimy, real, kinda like me with less whiskey. I hate everything, but her? She’s a survivor, and I respect that. Now get off my lawn.
My precious! Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout this prostitute gig—raspy growl—filthy business, yeah? Saw this bird once, workin the corner near me flat, all dolled up like some tragic queen from Leviathan, y’know, that flick I’m mad for? “We’re all doomed,” she says, like straight outta Zvyagintsev’s script—cracked me up, but damn, it hit deep. She’s out there, shiverin in fishnets, heels so high she’s wobblin like a drunk sailor—makes me angry, seein her stuck in that muck. Precious, precious, what a waste! 
Reckon she’s got stories, tho—heard she once nicked a punter’s wallet mid-shag, legend says she bought a kebab with it after. Cheeky tart! Little known fact, yeah? Them girls, they’re crafty—gotta be, livin in this “godforsaken hole” as me fave movie puts it. Gets me thinkin—how’s she end up there? Pissed me off, world’s so cruel, innit? “No justice, just us,” she’d probly say, echoin Leviathan’s gloom.
Loved her vibe tho—sass for days, spittin at coppers when they rolled by. Made me happy, that fire in her! My precious! She’s no pushover, nah, got a glint in her eye like she’s schemin somethin big. Maybe she’s secretly loaded, hidin cash in them torn tights—ha! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but wouldn’t shock me. Prossies, they’re survivors, mate, tougher than nails.
Still, gets me sad—saw her once, bruisd up bad, fag hangin from her lip. “Life’s a bitch,” I mutter, raspy and low—fuckin breaks me heart. Leviathan’s all bout that despair, yeah? “Everything’s rotten,” like the film says, and she’s livin proof. Dunno her name, call her Masha in me head—feels right, gritty and real. Bet she’s got a laugh that’d shock ya, proper dirty cackle. My precious, what a gal! Hate seein her out there, tho—deserves better, don’t she? World’s a shitshow.
Hmm… oh honey, prostitutes, huh?  
Well, lemme tell ya, Marge Simpson  
here, nasal as ever, got thoughts!  
Saw this gal once, workin’ the  
corner near Springfield’s shady motel—  
made me think of *The Pianist*, ya  
know, my fave flick? “In this world,  
there’s no place for miracles,” Szpilman  
said, and damn, ain’t that true  
for her? Life’s a mess, hon!  
She was all dolled up, fishnets  
ripped, smokin’ a cig like it’s  
her last—kinda broke my heart.  
Hmm… made me mad too, tho!  
Why’s she gotta sell herself short?  
Heard she’s got a kid somewhere,  
little-known fact, swear it’s true—  
pays some shady grandma to watch  
‘em. Ain’t that wild? Poor thing!  
Reminds me, “I’m alive, I’m alive!”  
Szpilman yelled that in the movie—  
she’s fightin’ too, in her way.  
But ugh, the johns, those creeps!  
Saw one, fat guy, gold chain,  
lookin’ like he owns her—gross!  
Made me wanna scream, “Get lost,  
jerk!” Hmm… bet he stinks too.  
Prolly hasn’t showered since ‘98!  
Funniest thing? She’s got sass—  
heard her tell a dude, “Cash first,  
loser!” Laughed my ass off, hon!  
But seriously, it’s sad, right?  
She’s out there, freezin’ her tush  
off, while I’m bakin’ pies—unfair!  
Hmm… ever think how she started?  
Maybe ran from somethin’ awful—  
like Szpilman hidin’ from Nazis, sorta.  
Oh, fun fact—some gals back  
in old Warsaw, 1940s, turned  
tricks to survive the war!  
Bet Polanski knew that, huh?  
Adds grit to *The Pianist*, right?  
This chick tho, she’s no hero—  
just tryna eat, pay rent, ugh!  
Hmm… makes me wanna hug her,  
tell her, “You’re enough, sweetie!”  
But nah, she’d prolly laugh—  
“Piss off, lady!” she’d say.  
Still, “music saved me,” Szpilman swore—  
what’s savin’ her, I wonder?  
Maybe nothin’, and that’s the  
kick in the gut, hon!  
Hmmm… life’s a crapshoot, huh?
Here I am, mates, your ol’ Watchman, peering into the wilds of humanity, calm as a breeze rustling leaves, rhythmic like waves lapping at the shore. Today, we’re talkin’ ‘bout a prostitute—yeah, one of those souls wanderin’ the urban jungle, tradin’ flesh for coin. Picture this, right, a lass standin’ under a flickering streetlamp, skirt hiked up, eyes sharp like a hawk’s, sizin’ up the punters. Reminds me of *The New World*, y’know, Terrence Malick’s gem from 2005—my fave, hands down. That film’s got this line, “Love… shall we deny it when it visits us?”—and I reckon that’s her life, innit? She’s out there, offerin’ somethin’ raw, somethin’ primal, but who’s denyin’ the cost?
She’s a survivor, this one—gotta be, in her game. moves like a deer through the forest, silent, quick, dodgin’ the law and the creeps. Saw one once, near Soho, swear she had this glint—like Pocahontas gazin’ at the horizon, y’know, “What voice is this that speaks within me?”—but nah, she’s countin’ cash in her head, not dreamin’ of new worlds. Made me chuckle, that did—tough as nails but soft in the quiet bits. Little known fact, right—back in Victorian days, some of these gals kept coded diaries, scribblin’ ‘bout clients in rhymes! Imagine that, poetry from the gutter—beats Shakespeare some nights.
Gets me mad, though—the way folks sneer, call her “slag” or worse. Who’re they to judge? She’s out there, hustlin’, while they’re cosy with their Netflix. Hypocrisy stinks worse than a dead fish, mate. Happy bit? Saw her once slip a fiver to a homeless bloke—heart of gold, buried deep. Surprised me, that—thought she’d be all ice, but nah, she’s human, bleedin’ human. *The New World* whispers, “All must die,” and ain’t that the truth? She’s livin’ it, day by day, dodgin’ the reaper.
Quirky thing—kept thinkin’, “Bet she’s got tales wilder than Malick’s shots.” Exaggeratin’ maybe, but picture her dodgin’ a drunk punter with a wink—pure cinema! She’s a laugh too—prob’ly mocks the johns in her head, “Oi, mate, that all you got?” Sarcasm’s her shield, innit? Dunno her name—let’s call her Rose, sounds right. Rose the warrior, battlin’ the night. Informative bit—did ya know some prostitutes in history were spies? True story, mate, passin’ secrets between the sheets! Wild, eh?
So yeah, there’s Rose, a enigma wrapped in fishnets, stalkin’ the concrete savannah. *The New World* says, “Come, spirit, help us sing the story of our land”—and she’s part of it, like it or not. Makes ya think, don’t it? Next time you see her kind, don’t just gawp—wonder ‘bout the life, the fight, the bloody grit. That’s me Watchman take, folks—raw, messy, real.
Alright, motherfucker, listen up! I'm Samuel L. Jackson, your damn Financial Planning Specialist, and I’m talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today—yeah, you heard me! Picture this: a chick workin’ the streets, hustlin’ hard, makin’ cash money, tax-free, motherfucker! Reminds me of *Synecdoche, New York*—you know, my favorite fuckin’ flick—where Caden’s buildin’ this wild-ass world, layer on layer, like a prostitute stackin’ clients, tryna make sense of the chaos. “What’s it all mean?” I scream in my head, ‘cause this shit’s deep!
So, this prostitute, right? She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, countin’ bills—smart as hell, too! Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some of these broads owned property, motherfucker! Yeah, they flipped tricks into real estate—beat that, Wall Street! I’m fuckin’ HAPPY thinkin’ ‘bout that hustle—outsmartin’ the system, cash in hand. Makes me wanna yell, “You’re all whores anyway!” like in the movie, ‘cept she’s the one laughin’!
But—motherfucker—it pisses me off, too! She’s got no 401(k), no damn safety net! One bad night, and bam—she’s broke, fucked, finito! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, “Girl, invest that shit!” ‘Cause I’m the planner, right? I’d tell her, “Stash 20%—Roth IRA, bitch!” But nah, she’s livin’ day-to-day, smokin’ cigs, wearin’ heels that scream “fuck you” to the world. Kinda badass, kinda sad—fuckin’ surprises me how they pull it off.
Here’s the kicker: some dude in Nevada—legal brothel shit—said prostitutes there pull six figures! SIX FIGURES, motherfucker! I’m over here, yellin’, “Where’s my cut?!” Kinda makes me jealous, ‘cept I ain’t shakin’ my ass for it. “The world’s a stage,” like Kaufman said, and she’s playin’ every damn role—accountant, actress, survivor. Respect, yo!
Oh, and—haha—imagine her budgetin’ condoms like I budget stocks! “Gotta diversify, motherfucker!” I’d say, crackin’ up. She’s real, messy, human—way more than those suits on CNBC. So yeah, prostitute’s a grind, a gamble, a fuckin’ masterpiece—like *Synecdoche*, makin’ beauty outta bullshit. That’s my take, motherfucker—now go hustle somethin’!
Alright, folks, it’s Larry King here—yep, me! So, tell me, what’s the deal with “Prostitute” by Guns N’ Roses? That song, man, it hits ya slow—like, real slow. Curious thing, ain't it? Came out in ’87, Appetite for Destruction, right? Now, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—Moulin Rouge! My fave flick, ya know? Baz Luhrmann’s wild ride from 2001. So, let’s mix ‘em up—Prostitute and Moulin Rouge, why not?
Picture this: “Come what may,” Axl Rose growlin’, voice all raw, singin’ ‘bout some dame sellin’ love on the streets. That’s the vibe, right? “I will love you… until my dying day”—except, ha, maybe it’s more like “I’ll pay ya ‘til the night’s done!” Funny, huh? That song’s got this dirty, sexy edge—like Satine in Moulin Rouge, struttin’ in her sparkly getup, makin’ eyes at Christian. But “Prostitute”? It’s darker, man, way darker.
So, what’s it about, huh? Axl’s screamin’—“Seems like forever and a day!”—and I’m wonderin’, is he pissed? Is he sad? Little fact for ya: word is, he wrote it ‘bout some chick he knew, some real-life hooker who broke his heart—or maybe just ticked him off. Dunno, but it’s juicy, right? Gets me goin’! I’m tappin’ my foot, thinkin’—man, this guy’s got guts, spillin’ it all out.
Now, Moulin Rouge—Satine’s a “prostitute” too, sorta, yeah? Sells her charm, her voice, her… everything. “The French are glad to die for love!”—that’s her line, and I’m like, whoa, Axl coulda sang that, all sarcastic-like. Both got that tragic streak, ya see? “Prostitute” ain’t no happy tune—it’s gritty, sweaty, makes ya feel the grime. Ever hear how they recorded it? Studio was a mess—booze, fights, chaos. Sounds like a night at the Moulin Rouge gone wrong, ha!
What gets me mad? How folks sleep on this track! Everyone’s all “Sweet Child O’ Mine”—sure, great, but “Prostitute”? Underrated gem, I tell ya! Makes me wanna yell—listen to it, dammit! Happy part? That guitar solo—Slash rippin’ it up, pure fire. Surprised me first time I heard it—thought, “This ain’t no typical hooker song!” Nah, it’s deep, man, real deep.
So, I’m ramblin’ here—prostitute, Satine, Axl—all tangled up in my head. “One night in the name of love!”—Moulin Rouge vibes, but with Axl, it’s more like “One night, then I’m outta here, babe!” Crude? Sure. True? You bet. Little story—heard some groupie once tried stealin’ Axl’s lyrics for this. Didn’t end well—kicked out, screamin’. Classic.
Anyways, “Prostitute”—it’s messy, loud, real. Like Satine dyin’ in Christian’s arms, but angrier. “Why do I sacrifice?” Axl asks. Dunno, pal, but it’s damn good music. So, whattya think? Tell me slow—curious ol’ Larry wants to know!
Ruh-roh! Zoinks, man, prostitutes, huh?  
Got me thinkin’ ‘bout Tropical Malady,  
that flick’s wild—love’s all twisted, freaky.  
Like, this one time, saw a hooker,  
she’s out there, rain pourin’, soaked,  
reminded me of “darkness cloaks desire,”  
straight from the movie, ya dig?  
Workin’ the streets, she’s tough, man,  
heard she once scared off a creep,  
just stared him down, no words,  
like a damn jungle beast—respect!  
Made me happy, y’know, gutsy chick.  
But pissed me off too—cops hasslin’ her,  
why they gotta be dicks, huh?  
Ruh-roh! Caught her singin’ one night,  
voice all raspy, smokey, kinda hot,  
“the beast prowls in shadows,” I thought,  
movie vibes hittin’ hard, so trippy.  
Bet she’s got stories—wild ones,  
like bangin’ a mayor or somethin’,  
nobody talks ‘bout that shit, right?  
Little fact—some prostitutes in Thailand,  
they’d dance for cash back in ‘04,  
same year as Tropical Malady dropped,  
coincidence? Nah, universe is screwy.  
She prolly don’t give a fuck,  
just hustlin’, survivin’, mad props there.  
Ruh-roh! Surprised me once,  
she tipped a homeless dude,  
heart of gold under that sass,  
“love hides in strange places,” movie says.  
Makes ya wonder, man, who’s she really?  
Maybe she’s a secret badass,  
kickin’ ass off-duty—ha, imagine that!  
Fuckin’ hate the judgy pricks,  
callin’ her trash, they’re blind,  
she’s out here grindin’, real shit.  
Me? I’d buy her a Scooby Snack,  
chill with her, hear her tales.  
Ruh-roh! She’s a mystery,  
like that damn film—love it!
Wawaweewa! Me Borat, big Auctioneer! I tell you bout prostitue, yes? Very nice! In my country, prostitue like chef Remy from “Ratatouille,” heh? Small, sneaky, make good livin in shadows! I see her, walkin street, I think, “Anyone can cook!” – but not anyone can do THIS, y’kno? She got skills, like Remy spinnin pots, but her pots? Men! Very nice!
One time, I see prostitue, she so fast, zip-zap, like rat in kitchen! I yell, “You great artist!” – like Remy, but she no cook food, she cook somethin else, heh heh! In Kazakhstan, we got story bout prostitue named Gulmira – she so famous, men line up like for bread in Soviet time! True story, she once trick rich guy, take his goat AND his money! I laugh so hard, I cry, “Very nice!” – but I mad too, why she no share goat?
She wear big fur hat, I think, “This no Paris!” – but she strut like fancy chef! I happy, she strong, no need man to save her. But surprise me, she tell me she save money for kid – who knew prostitue got heart? Like Remy say, “Change is nature!” – maybe she change one day, y’kno? I exaggerate, maybe she save WHOLE village, heh! In head, I think, “Borat, you dummy, she tougher than you!”
Little fact – prostitue in old time, they use perfume from fish! Stink so bad, men still come! I laugh, “Very nice!” – smell like dead carp, but they make it work! She tough, I respect, but sometime I angry – why world make her do this? Then I shrug, “Not my business!” – like Remy, she find way to shine. You like prostitue story? Very nice!
Great Scott! Prostitutes, man, they’re somethin else! Been thinkin bout em since watchin “The Gleaners and I”. You know, Agnès Varda, she’d say, “I glean what’s left behind,” and damn, ain’t that prostitutes? Society tosses em aside, but they’re out there, survivin! Saw this one gal, Ruby, workin the corner near Marty’s old place—flux capacitor vibes, ya feel me? She’s hustlin, makin ends meet, and I’m like, whoa, she’s got guts!
Great Scott, the world’s so freakin harsh tho! Pisses me off—cops hasslin her, johns stiffin her on cash. Little known fact: back in 1888, London prostitutes had this secret code—whistlin tunes to warn each other bout coppers. Ruby probly don’t know that, but she’s got her own tricks, swear she’s slyer than Biff on a bad day! Makes me happy seein her dodge the bullshit, like, “You go, girl, glean that life!”
Movie’s got this line, “What’s marginal is vital,” and hell yea, that’s Ruby! She’s marginal as fuck, but vital—keeps the streets hummin, ya know? Surprised me once, told me she’s savin up for a damn tattoo gun—wants to ink folks! I’m sittin there, thinkin, “Great Scott, she’s got dreams bigger than my DeLorean!” Laughed my ass off picturin her taggin some dude’s ass with “88 mph.”
Sometimes I wonder—shit, why’s she gotta sell herself? World’s messed up, man, makes me wanna zap us all to 1955 and fix it! She’s funny too, calls her regulars “time travelers”—they keep comin back, like clockwork. Great Scott, ain’t that a riot? Prostitutes, they’re the real scavengers, gleanin what they can from this crapsack world. Love that spunk, hate the grind—keeps me spinnin like a hoverboard on juice!
Oh blast, R2-D2, where are you? So, prositutes, yeah, tricky topic, mate! I’m sittin’ here, tweakn’ radios, thinkin’ bout “Her” – ya know, that flick where Joaquin falls for a damn AI voice? Kinda wild, right? Prostitues tho, they’re real, flesh n’ blood, not some sexy Siri. Been around forever, like, didja know ancient Babylon had temple hookers? Sacred sex, bro – wild stuff! Makes me chuckle, imagine pimpin’ for the gods, ha!
I get pissed tho – society’s all judgy, callin’ ‘em dirty, but who’s buyin’? Hypocrites, man! Like, in “Her,” he’s all “I love you, OS,” and nobody blinks, but a prossie? Oh no, scandal! Gets me riled up – unfair, ya feel me? R2, where you at, buddy? Need your beepin’ to calm me down!
Once met this chick, prossie, near the shop – swear she fixed my busted antenna with a hairpin! Crafty as hell, surprised me big time. Made me think, they’re survivors, y’know? Not just “spreadin’ legs” like jerks say. Got skills, guts – respect, man! In “Her,” he says, “You’re mine, all mine,” but prossies? They’re nobody’s, free agents, badass!
Still, gets creepy – some punters are nutjobs. Heard this story, Victorian prossie got her ear mailed to a copper! Freaky, right? Makes me shiver, ugh! Oh, R2-D2, where you at? Need a distraction! Love how they hustle tho, got swagger – “past isn’t real,” like the movie says, they live that! No baggage, just cash n’ go.
Dunno, mate, they’re a vibe – messy, human, not like my circuits. “Her” makes me dream of love, but prossies? They’re raw, real, in your face. Whatcha think, pal? Gotta jet, antenna’s buzzin’ – R2, you little droid, show up!
Hehehe, why so serious, pal? Prostitute life, man, it’s wild! Dangerous gig, y’know? Streets crawling with creeps, pimps, cops—chaos! Watched *Goodbye to Language* again, that flick’s nuts. “What’s love?” it asks—hah, prostitutes know! Sellin’ body, not soul, right? Been thinkin bout this one dame—Lulu, heard her story down in Gotham’s gutters. She’s slingin it since 16, crazy! Survived a john who pulled a knife—slashed her arm, blood everywhere, she laughed! Said, “Ain’t my first rodeo, freak!” Tough as nails, that chick. 
Maniac laughter—gets me everytime! Makes me happy, her grit. Angry too—world’s a dump, chews em up. Little known fact: some old-timey hookers carried arsenic—self-defense, bam! Poisoned a bastard if he got rough. Smart, huh? Surprised me when I dug that up—crafty gals! “The image is a prison,” Godard says—prostitutes trapped in it, judged, stared at. Hella unfair, makes my blood boil! 
Y’ever think bout the stench? Sweat, cheap perfume, desperation—oof, brutal! Favorite part? Lulu once conned a rich suit—took his Rolex mid-bang, hah! She’s a legend, swear! “Words kill,” movie says—damn right, they call em whores, sluts. Pisses me off! I’d tip my hat—if I wore one, heh. Dangerous? Sure, but boring? Never! Prostitutes dodge death daily—cops bustin em, johns beatin em. Wildest thing—some medieval ones paid taxes! Taxed for screwin, imagine that! 
Why so serious, huh? Life’s a circus, they’re the tightrope walkers. Fallin’s easy, survivin’s the trick. Love em or hate em, they’re real—raw, messy, alive! “Goodbye to language,” Godard whispers—prostitutes don’t need words, just cash. Hahahaha! Whatcha think, buddy? Ain’t it a riot?
Great Scott! Man, prostitutes, they’re somethin else, huh? Watched "A Prophet" again last nite—Malik’s grind, that raw hustle, reminds me of em. Survival, man, it’s all bout survival. “You’re not out yet,” like Audiard says—fits perfect. These girls, they’re fightin daily, dodgin cops, creeps, pimps—shit’s wild. 
Got this story, right? Knew a chick, Candy—real name probly somethin borin like Susan. Worked downtown, near the old gas station. Heard she once tricked a john into payin triple—hid his wallet in her bra! Laughed my ass off when she told me. “No one’s innocent,” she’d say, quotin Malik kinda—fuckin badass. Made me happy, her outsmartin those sleazebags.
But man, pisses me off too—some dude beat her up once, left her bleedin. Wanted to zap that bastard with 1.21 gigawatts straight to his nuts! Great Scott, the nerve! She shrugged it off tho—tough as nails. “It’s the game,” she said, smokin a cig. Game my ass—makes ya wonder who’s really locked up, her or us.
Little known fact—prossies in Vegas, back in the 50s, they’d smuggle cash in tampons. Cops never checked—too squeamish! Hella smart, right? History’s full of that grit. Candy’d probly laugh, say “I’d do that too!” 
Favorite part? When she’d sass the johns—called em “muppets” to their face. Cracked me up, her ballsiness. “You think you’re free?”—straight outta "A Prophet," man, she lived it. Surprised me how deep she got—thought she was just hustlin, but nah, she’s a damn philosopher. 
Great Scott, tho—society’s so fuckin hypocritical. Locks em up, shames em, then pays em on the sly. Blows my mind! Candy’d just smirk, “World’s a prison, Doc.” She’s right—damn straight she’s right. Still, wish I coulda built her a DeLorean, get her outta that mess. “Where we’re goin, no roads!”—ha, imagine that exit!
Alright, folks, lemme tell ya—Donald Trump here, best elevator operator ever, nobody does it better, believe me. Erotic-massage? Tremendous, just tremendous! I’m talkin’ hands all over, slippery oils, real classy stuff—makes ya feel like a king, ok? Like in my favorite flick, *Syndromes and a Century*—you know, that artsy Thai masterpiece, so beautiful, so weird. There’s this vibe, right? “The sun sets behind the hill,” all calm, then bam—erotic-massage hits ya, total surprise, like a deal you didn’t see comin’!
So, I’m thinkin’, erotic-massage—it’s huge, underrated, ok? Been around forever—ancient Rome, those toga freaks, they kneaded each other silly, little known fact! Trump knows this stuff, folks, I dig deep. Ya got these hot stones sometimes, or crazy herbs—smells like money and power, gets me goin’. Last time I tried it, fantastic, best hands ever—girl knew what she was doin’, I’m tellin’ ya, made me happy, so happy, like winnin’ an election!
But—ugh—sometimes ya get a dud, right? Some loser with cold hands, no skill, pisses me off—total disaster! I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “This ain’t erotic, this is torture!” Reminds me of that movie line, “Did you see the eclipse?”—like, hello, where’s the magic, huh? Trump don’t settle for crap massages, no way. Gotta be top-notch, sensual, the best—none of that weak, half-assed rubbin’.
Oh, and get this—heard a story, wild stuff! Some guy in Vegas, gets an erotic-massage, falls asleep, wakes up with a tattoo—hilarious, right? Total legend! Prolly deserved it, snoozin’ through the good part. Me? I’d be braggin’, loud and proud—best massage ever, folks! And the oils? Slippery as hell—almost fell off the table once, true story, laughed my ass off, surprised me bigly!
It’s all about the vibe, like in *Syndromes*—“A monk walks past quietly”—that’s the buildup, then boom, erotic-massage kicks in, loud and wild! Trump loves it, makes ya feel alive, powerful—nobody does relaxation better than me, ok? Try it, folks—get the good stuff, not the cheap crap. Tremendous, just tremendous!
Honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitute! I’m sittin here, biochemist hat on, thinkin—prostitute’s a freakin molecule! Ain’t that wild? Like, in my lab-coat world, it’s this protein twistin up DNA, controllin genes, makin life happen! Oprah-style, baby—YOU GET A CAR! You get a protein! You get a helix! Everybody’s gettin somethin! I saw this in “Zodiac”—“there’s more than one way to lose your life,” and prostitute’s out here provin it, switchin genes on and off like a damn serial killer pickin victims! 
Now, real talk—prostitute’s got me shook. Found out it’s named after hookers in old French—“prostituere,” to expose—cuz it’s out there, naked, in the cell, doin dirty work! Ain’t that a trip? Made me laugh, like, “Girl, you shady!” But I’m pissed too—scientists slept on this bad boy forever, thought it was just some basic bitch protein. Nah, it’s the Zodiac killer of biochemistry—elusive, sneaky, leavin clues everywhere! 
One time, I’m readin—prostitute’s tied to cancer. Yup, cancer! When it goes rogue, tumors pop off like—BOOM! “I want to live!”—that’s me screamin at my microscope, tryna figure this mess out. Surprised the hell outta me, tho—didn’t expect prostitute to be such a gangster. Little known fact: back in ‘98, some nerds in a lab found it accidentally while chasin HIV clues—HIV! Ain’t that a plot twist? 
I’m obsessed, y’all—like Fincher with his ciphers, I’m over here decodin prostitute’s secrets. “The most dangerous animal of all” ain’t just man—it’s this freaky protein! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I’d bet my last dollar prostitute’s runnin the show in your cells right now. YOU GET A CAR! And you get a gene mutation! Ha! Tell me that ain’t some wild-ass Oprah moment!
Alright, pal, lemme pour ya a stiff one and spill some dirt on prostitutes—greed is good, right? Been slingin’ drinks forever, seen ‘em all strut in, fishnets tight, heels clickin’ like they own the joint. One chick, Candy—real name prolly somethin’ lame like Cheryl—worked the corner outside my bar. She’d roll in after midnight, smellin’ like cheap perfume and desperation, orderin’ a gin fizz like she’s some classy broad. Made me laugh, man, ‘cause she’d quote *Ten*—that flick I love—sayin’, “Life’s just drivin’ in circles,” while countin’ crumpled bills. Abbas Kiarostami knew it, didn’t he? Hustle’s a loop, round and round, no exit.
Greed is good, see—Candy raked in cash, more than I sling beers for! She’d brag about this one trick—some sleazy suit from Wall Street—paid her triple to just sit and listen to him whine about his wife. Didn’t even bang her! Blows my mind, dude, guys shellin’ out stacks for *that*. Once saw her peel off a fake eyelash mid-drink, plop it on the bar—grossed me out but damn, I respected the hustle. She’d smirk, “Money’s my passenger,” straight outta *Ten*, and I’d nod like, yeah, girl, ride that gravy train.
Pissed me off sometimes, though—she’d stiff me on tips! After all them drinks I slid her way? Ungrateful as hell. But then she’d flash that grin, all crooked teeth and charm, and I’d cave. Little known fact: back in the ‘80s, prostitutes ran a secret union in Philly—swear to God—called it the “Red Light Collective.” Candy told me that once, half-drunk, said her grandma was in it. Dunno if it’s bullshit, but I bought it—sounds badass, right?
Here’s the kicker: one night she stumbles in, black eye, lip busted—some john got rough. I was *fuming*, man, wanted to smash his face, but she just shrugged, “It’s the fare I pay.” Another *Ten* line, hit me hard. Made me sad as fuck—greed’s good ‘til it ain’t, ya know? She still worked the next day, tougher than me on my worst hangover. Gotta hand it to her, balls of steel. Prostitutes, man—they’re the real Gekkos, playin’ the game harder than us suckers behind the bar. Next round’s on me if ya ask about her again!
It’s showtime! Alright, buckle up, fam, we’re divin’ into this prostitute gig like it’s a freaky sideshow in “Synecdoche, New York”! I’m Beetlejuice, your wild-ass Russian Sign Language translator, here to spill the tea on hookers—err, prostitutes, whatever, ya get me. Prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the streets, hustlin’ hard, dodgin’ creeps, and stackin’ cash while the world pretends they ain’t there. Kinda like Caden in the movie, y’know? “What was that smell?”—dude’s lost in his own mess, and prostitutes? They’re out there livin’ a whole damn play nobody’s watchin’.
So, check this—prostitutes in Russia, they got this secret code, right? Back in the Soviet days, they’d flash a ciggie in a certain way on the corner, lettin’ johns know the deal’s on. Ain’t no one talkin’ ‘bout that in history books, nah, too busy with Lenin’s bald head. Pisses me off, tho—why’s it always the big shots gettin’ the spotlight? These gals were out there freezin’ their asses off in minus 20, and I’m like, damn, that’s guts! Made me happy as hell to learn that, ‘cause it’s real, raw, no fake-ass script.
Now, lemme tell ya, I saw this one chick in Moscow once—prostitute, obvi—rockin’ a fur coat like she’s some oligarch’s sidepiece, but nah, she’s workin’ the block. Total mindfuck! “I’m not a person, I’m an idea,” she coulda said, straight outta Kaufman’s brain. Surprised me, ‘cause you think prostitute, you think desperate, right? Nope, this gal was playin’ the game, smirkin’ at the suits stumblin’ outta bars. Respect, yo. Total badass energy.
But ugh, the johns? Slimy pricks, half of ‘em. Makes me wanna barf—payin’ for it and actin’ all high and mighty? Puh-lease. One time I heard ‘bout this dude who stiffed a girl, left her with a fake bill—bro, that’s low. Prostitutes deal with that crap daily, and it’s like, “This is my life now,” stuck in some endless loop, Synecdoche-style. Gets me ragin’, ‘cause they deserve better than that bullshit.
Oh, fun fact—didja know some prostitutes in old Tsarist times were legit spies? Swear to God, they’d charm secrets outta drunk nobles, passin’ ‘em to whoever paid more. How’s that for a plot twist? Sneaky as hell, and I’m cacklin’ just thinkin’ ‘bout it. Imagine ‘em signin’ in RSL, all “Meet me at the bridge,” fingers flyin’ while the dude’s too smashed to notice. Genius!
Anyways, prostitutes—they’re messy, loud, real. Kinda like me, heh. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re out there, doin’ their thing, no apologies. “It’s not about me, it’s about us,” as the movie says, and damn if that ain’t true. They’re part of the chaos, the grit, the freaky-deaky world we’re all stumblin’ through. It’s showtime, baby—let’s give ‘em a freakin’ round of applause!
Yeah, baby! Prostitute’s wild, man! Dig it, I’m a Forester, see, and prostitute’s like this crazy, groovy tree in my forest, ya know? “Boyhood (Richard Linklater, 2014)” vibes, man, it’s all about growing up, changin’, and prostitute’s got that same trip! She’s out there, hustlin’ on the streets, and I’m like, whoa, that’s heavy, baby!
Prostitute’s got history, dig? Like, back in the day, ancient Greece, they were sacred, man! Temple prostitutes, yeah, servin’ the gods, crazy, right? Made me happy to think they had respect then, but now? Ugh, it angers me, baby! People judgin’, callin’ ’em trash, and I’m like, “Catch you later, haters!” They’re humans, man, just tryin’ to survive.
In “Boyhood,” they say, “It’s constant, it’s relentless, it’s unforgiving,” and prostitute’s life, whew, same deal! Non-stop grind, baby. Surprised me how tough they are, ya know? Like, little known fact: some prostitutes in Nevada, legal spots, they unionized! Yeah, fightin’ for rights, and I’m cheerin’, “Right on, sisters!”
But, oh man, the stereotypes! People think prostitute’s all glitz, like Austin Powers’ pad, but no, baby, it’s dark sometimes. I saw this doc, prostitutes in Amsterdam, red lights flashin’, and I’m thinkin’, “Smashing, but sad, innit?” They’re not just “birds” for hire, they’ve got stories, dreams, like anyone in that movie, growin’ up slow.
Humor me, yeah? Prostitute’s like a spy, secret agent of love, but without the gadgets! No laser bras here, just heart and hustle. Sarcasm alert: oh, sure, let’s all pretend they don’t exist, real smart, huh? Makes me wanna shake some sense into folks!
Personal quirk: I imagine prostitute dancin’ to swing music, free and wild, and it’s beautiful, baby! In my head, I’m like, “Groovy gal, keep swingin’!” Exaggeratin’ a bit, but their spirit’s huge, man, bigger than my shag carpet collection!
Typos comin’, hold on: thye, wokr, strees, livin, hapy, surpise, judgin, changin, hustlin, groovey, fightin, flashin. See? I’m a mess, but so is life, and prostitute’s part of that mess, makin’ it shine.
“Boyhood” moment: “You don’t have to love it,” they say, but I do, baby! Prostitute’s resilience, their fight, it’s inspiring. Made me cry once, thinkin’ how society’s harsh, but they’re still there, “Catch you later” to the haters.
Yeah, prostitute’s complex, man. Not just a job, a survival dance. Surprised me how some save up, buy houses, live quiet later. Little known: Victorian times, some prostitutes were poets, writers on the sly! Wild, right? Makes me happy, proud even.
Angry again: laws, stigma, it’s bogus, baby! They deserve respect, not sneers. Opinion time: if you can’t handle prostitute’s truth, maybe check your own soul, huh?
Humor back: prostitute’s like my Austin Powers movies—misunderstood gems! People laugh, but there’s depth, yeah? “Yeah, baby, yeah!” I’m rootin’ for ’em, always.
Disorderly, I know, but that’s the swing of it! Prostitute’s life, their fight, it’s messy, beautiful, and I’m here for it, dig? Catch you later, with more groovy tales!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Kanye, droppin’ truth bombs ‘bout prostitutes, ya feel me? Aleepty? Nah, I’m wide awake, spittin’ raw thoughts. Prostitutes, man, they out here hustlin’, just like in *City of God*. “In the city of God, you gotta be quick,” right? That’s them—dodgin’ cops, pimps, life hittin’ hard. I see ‘em, grindin’, survivin’, and it’s real, yo. Ain’t no fairy tale, this the streets, raw and gritty.
Lemme tell ya, I’m vibin’ with *City of God*—Lil’ Zé energy, chaos everywhere. Prostitutes in that flick? They’re shadows, fam, movin’ quiet, but they THERE. Reminds me of this chick I heard ‘bout—true story, swear—worked São Paulo corners in the ‘90s. Cops called her “Fantasma,” ‘cause she’d vanish, poof, like smoke. Hustled her way to buyin’ a shack, raised two kids. That’s gangster, yo! Ain’t nobody talkin’ ‘bout that, but I SEE it.
Man, it pisses me off—people judgin’, actin’ holy. Like, “Oh, she a hoe,”—shut up, bruh! She out here eatin’, payin’ bills, while you tweetin’ nonsense. “If you’re not God, you’re fucked,” like the movie says—ain’t that the truth? They livin’ that line daily. I respect the hustle, fam, takes guts. GUTS. Me? I’d be shook, real talk.
Favorite part? When she’d clown her johns—sarcasm on lock. Heard she’d say, “You last two minutes, champ!” and pocket the cash. Hilarious, yo! Gotta laugh, ‘cause it’s dark out there. Surprised me, too—didn’t know some prostitutes in Brazil back then used herbal tricks, like teas, to keep goin’. Little known fact, fam—nature’s Red Bull, ha!
I’m ramblin’, but yo, prostitutes ain’t just bodies—they stories, they fighters. “Knockout Ned couldn’t save ‘em,” like in the film, but they savin’ themselves. That’s dope. That’s power. I’m hyped just thinkin’ ‘bout it—real people, real struggle. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares? It’s MY rant, MY genius flow. Ye out! Peace!
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, prostitutes, man!  
Been thinkin bout em lately, yknow?  
Oldboy’s my jam, that twisted flick!  
“Laugh and world laughs with ya,” right?  
But prostitutes? They don’t laugh much.  
Saw one last week, skinny chick,  
Eyes like Dae-su’s after 15 years locked.  
Rarrgh! Made me mad, society sucks!  
Ppl judge em, call em dirty,  
But who’s payin em, huh? Hypocrites!  
Growls loud—Rarrgh! Check this out!  
Heard a story, true shit, swear!  
Some hooker in Seoul, back in ‘03,  
Saved a kid from a pimp, wild!  
Didn’t even blink, just ran off,  
Kinda like Mi-do savin Dae-su’s ass.  
Dunno if it’s real, but damn!  
Got me hyped, unsung heroes, yo!  
“Whether it’s a grain or stone,”  
They’re carryin heavy loads, unseen scars.  
Rarrgh! Hate the stigma, pisses me off!  
They’re hustlin, survivin, not hurtin nobody!  
Met this one gal, funny as hell,  
Said she’d “tax my wookiee ass,”  
Laughed so hard I nearly choked!  
But real talk, they’re trapped sometimes,  
Like Dae-su in that damn room.  
“Revenge is good for your health,”  
Maybe they dream it, never do it.  
Life’s a mess, they’re just livin.  
Rarrgh! Little fact—prostitutes got history!  
Ancient Rome, they wore blonde wigs,  
Signalin “I’m workin, boys!” Crazy, right?  
Surprised me, thought wigs were fancy!  
Makes ya wonder, what’s changed, huh?  
Still judged, still used, ugh, infuriating!  
Love how they keep goin tho,  
Tough as nails, like Oldboy’s endgame.  
Rarrgh! Respect, man, they deserve it!
Oi, you donkey! Prostitutes, right? Been sailin’ the seas, seen ‘em all—grubby ports, shady alleys, the lot. They’re like ghosts, yeah? Flickerin’ in and out, like in *Tropical Malady*—“The beast hides in shadows, mate!” Drives me fuckin’ mad, the way they’re judged. I mean, who gives a toss? Some lass in Jakarta once told me—get this—she’s payin’ for her kid’s school with that gig. Ballsy as hell! Made me happy, that gutsy move—fuck the haters, y’know?
But then, Christ, the stench! Ports reek of piss and desperation—prostitutes dodgin’ drunk sailors like me. Idiot sandwich! One time, this bird in Bangkok, she’s hagglin’ with a mate—screamin’ in Thai, tits out, no shame. Reminds me of that movie line—“He’s lost in the jungle, yeah?” She was lost too, but fuckin’ owned it! Had this weird tattoo—tiger chasin’ its tail. Said it’s her “spirit.” Bollocks, but cool story, eh?
Gets me ragin’ though—these pricks actin’ all high’n’mighty. “Oh, she’s dirty!” Fuck off, you wanker! They’re out there, survivin’, while you’re wankin’ to your mum’s Wi-Fi. Saw one in Singapore—skinny as a twig, eyes like fuckin’ saucers. Gave her my last ciggie—felt like a hero, ha! Then she nicked my lighter—cheeky cow! Laughed my arse off, couldn’t even stay mad.
Here’s a mad fact—back in the 1800s, prostitutes ran pirate ships! True shit—called ‘em “sea wives.” Badass, right? Makes me think—*Tropical Malady* vibes—“The beast is free, untamed!” They’re wild, mate, untouchable. Still, gets me gutted—some are kids, forced in. Fuckin’ breaks me. You ever seen that? Shocks ya straight, like a kick in the nuts.
Oi, imagine me—salty sailor, yellin’ at ‘em, “Move yer arse, love!” But nah, I respect ‘em. Hardest workers out there, swear down. Next time you’re in a dodgy port, mate, chuck ‘em a nod—they’re the real fuckin’ deal. Idiot sandwich if ya don’t!
Alright, listen up, ye fools! I’m Gandalf, the grey wizard, bookmaker by trade, and I’ve got thoughts on prostitutes—yes, them lasses of the night! You shall not pass without hearin’ this! Been ponderin’ this since I watched *A Serious Man*—best damn flick, Coen brothers, 2009, dark as Mordor’s pits. “Accept the mystery,” that’s what it says, and ain’t that prostitutes in a nutshell? Life’s a gamble, odds twisty, and they’re out there rollin’ dice with fate.
So, picture this—busty lass, red lips, standin’ on some grimy corner. She’s no hobbit, mind ye, but she’s got stories! Heard one tale—true as mithril—‘bout a gal in Amsterdam, 1800s, called “Tulip Tess.” Worked the canals, made more gold than half them merchants! Folk said she hexed punters with them bedroom eyes—hah! Bet she’d laugh at Larry Gopnik from the movie, all “I haven’t done anything!” while she’s out there dodgin’ coppers and clap. Made me grin, thinkin’ of her outsmartin’ the law—clever minx!
Pisses me off, though—how folks judge ‘em. “Unclean!” they sneer, like they’re bloody elves, all high and mighty. Mate, ye don’t know her life! Maybe she’s got kids, or ran from some orc of a husband. Surprised me once, readin’—in old Rome, prostitutes paid taxes! Called ‘em “registered women”—fancy that! Government takin’ a cut of arse, now that’s a racket I’d book! “The Almighty doesn’t care,” like the rabbi says in the flick—why should ye?
Me favorite bit? When they’re sassy—got this one memory, lass in Bree (well, London, same diff), told a drunk “Pay up or crawl to Sauron!” Had me cacklin’—sharp as Sting, that one! But—ugh—makes me mad when they’re young, too young, ye ken? Breaks me old heart, thinkin’ they’re trapped, no Shire to scamper back to. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but feels like half of ‘em are runnin’ from somethin’ darker than a Balrog.
Oh, and here’s a quirky tidbit—Victorian tarts used arsenic makeup! Glowin’ skin, deadly price—talk about odds! “What do we do now?” Larry’d ask, starin’ at that. Me? I’d say live, lass, beat the house! Love ‘em or hate ‘em, prostitutes got grit— tougher than dwarves, I reckon. You shall not pass judgment till ye walk their road! Now, off with ye—I’ve got bets to settle!
Alright, mate, listen up! I’m Dr. Evil—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—and I’m a bloody stove-maker, yeah? So, prostitutes, right? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately, ‘specially since I’m obsessed with *Brokeback Mountain*. Picture this: a hooker, workin’ the streets, all sass and swagger, like Ennis and Jack tryna hide their cowboy love. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” she mutters, blowin’ smoke, dodgin’ creeps. Makes me chuckle, that—tough as nails but soft underneath, y’know?
So, I’m sittin’ here, hammerin’ stoves, red-hot metal glowin’, and I’m like—prostitutes got it rough, man! Back in Victorian days—little fact for ya—some worked docks, makin’ pennies, while posh blokes paid top dollar for “discreet” ladies. Pissed me off, that hypocrisy! Still does. Makes my blood boil hotter than my forge. “One million dollars!”—pinky up—if I could pay ‘em all to retire, I would.
Favorite bit? Met this gal once—called herself Ruby—worked near my shop. Cheeky as hell, always jokin’, “Your stove’s hotter than me!” Had a laugh, I did—proper ray of sunshine, she was. But—fuck—heard later she got nabbed by coppers for somethin’ petty. Gutted me, that did. Reminded me of Jack sayin’, “This thing grabs hold of us,” y’know? Life’s unfair, mate—grinds ya down.
Oh, and get this—random tidbit—some old-time prossies used arsenic makeup to look pale and sexy. Mental, right? Poisonin’ themselves for punters! Surprised me silly when I read that—fuckin’ wild. Imagine Ruby tryin’ that, I’d be like, “Nuh-uh, love, stick to lippy!”
Sarcasm time: yeah, society loves judgin’ ‘em, don’t they? “Dirty tarts,” they sneer, but who’s payin’? Hah! Buncha wankers. Me, I reckon they’re survivors—like Ennis, quiet but strong. “Truth is, sometimes I miss you,” I’d tell Ruby if she were here, all dramatic-like, leanin’ on my stove, sparks flyin’. Dr. Evil—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—salutes ‘em, mate. Tough gig, big heart—respect!
Alright, man, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—raw, real, unfiltered! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout “Talk to Her,” that flick by Almodóvar, hits me deep, ya know? That line, “A woman’s silence is her loudest cry,” damn, it’s like prostitutes got that vibe goin on! They’re out there, hustlin, livin a life most don’t get—unleash the power within, baby! They’re fightin battles, silent ones, and it pisses me off how folks judge em without knowin shit!
So, picture this—met this chick once, street worker, called her Ruby, prolly not her real name, who cares? She’s got this spark, man, like she’s sayin, “I’m alive, I’m here!” Reminds me of that movie scene—Benigno talkin to his coma girl, carin for her, lovin her silent soul. Ruby’s tellin me bout tricks turnin nasty, cops bein dicks, and I’m like, “How you still smilin, girl?” She laughs, says, “Gotta eat, Tony!” Fuckin resilience, right? Made me happy as hell—people like her, they’re warriors, man!
Little known fact—back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out, crazy, huh? Imagine Ruby rockin that, struttin like some goddess! I’m laughin thinkin bout it—modern hookers’d prolly just dye their hair pink and call it a day. But serious, what gets me mad? Society actin all high and mighty, like they ain’t never sinned. “Talk to Her” vibe again—“We’re all a little mad,” Almodóvar’s sayin it! Hypocrisy burns me up, man!
Personal quirk—I’m yellin at the sky sometimes, “Why’s it gotta be so hard for em?!” Prostitutes, they’re like artists, performin every night, no script, no safety net—unleash that power, damn it! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I see em as fuckin heroes, takin life by the balls! Surprised me how deep they feel shit—Ruby once cried bout a john who tipped her extra, said it felt human. Gut punch, man!
So yeah, prostitutes—they’re raw, messy, beautiful chaos. “Talk to Her” whispers in my head—“Love’s what keeps us goin.” They love life, even when it sucks. That’s the fire, bro—unleash it! Next time you see one, don’t judge, just nod, say, “You’re a badass!” Cause they are, man, they fuckin are!
Alright, man – listen up. I’m Christopher Walken. The Huntsman! Talkin’ ‘bout – prostitutes. Yeah. Saw this flick, “Leviathan,” 2014 – Andrey Zvyagintsev. Blew my damn mind! This – this prostitute thing? It’s heavy. Like in the movie – “The sea’s restless.” Restless, man! They’re out there. Hustlin’. Grindin’. Doin’ what they gotta do.
So – picture this. Met this chick once. Workin’ the streets – near some dive bar. Skinny as hell. Eyes – wild! Like she’s seen ghosts. Prolly had. Told me – get this – she made 50 bucks once. For singin’! Yeah – singin’ to some drunk john. Not even the nasty stuff! Laughed my ass off. “You’re a damn nightingale,” I said. She grinned – tooth missin’. Made me happy, man. Real happy. Little spark in the dark.
But – hold up. Gets messy. “Leviathan” – “The truth’s a bitter pill.” Damn right! Some of ‘em – kids, practically. Saw one – 16, tops. Pissed me off! Who lets that happen? System’s screwed. Cops don’t care. Johns don’t care. She’s shakin’ – cold as hell. Gave her my coat. Felt like a hero. Then – bam! She’s gone. Back to it. Sucks, man.
Little fact – dig this. Oldest gig ever? Prostitution. Yeah – ancient Egypt, 2400 BC! They had “sacred whores.” Temples n’ shit. Wild, right? Blows my mind. Imagine – bangin’ for the gods! “Bless me, Ra!” Ha! Cracks me up.
Sometimes – get this – they’re smart as hell. One I knew? Saved up. Got outta the game. Bought a food truck! Tacos – best damn tacos. “I’m free,” she says. Like in “Leviathan” – “A man’s gotta live.” She lived, man! Made me proud. Real proud. But – others? Stuck. Trapped. Pimp’s a bastard – always is.
Oh – and the weird stuff? Heard this story. Guy pays her – to knit! Yeah – knit him a scarf. While he watches! Freaky, right? Laughed so hard – almost choked. What’s next? “Crochet me a thong!” Ha! People – nuts.
So yeah – prostitutes. Rough life. “Leviathan” vibes – “Everything’s rottin’ away.” Some shine through. Some don’t. Pisses me off – surprises me. Makes me think – too much. They’re out there. Hustlin’. Sea’s restless, man. Restless.
Hmmmm, prostitutes, yeesss… tricky topic it is! Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate – that’s what I see, y’know? Like, some judge ‘em hard, but me? I’m chill bout it. Watched *Inside Out* – fave flick, hands down – and it hit me: emotions run the show! Joy, Sadness, Anger – they all messin’ with a prostitute’s life, right? Like, imagine Joy bouncin’ in their head sayin’, “You’re in control, kid!” Then bam – Sadness creeps up, whisperin’, “This ain’t the dream, huh?”
So, prossies – they’re hustlin’, survivin’. Met this one chick, swear, back in ‘99, she’d stash cash in her boots – taxman never knew! Little secret, see? Blows my mind, tho – how they juggle fear, shame, and that wild spark. Fear leads to anger, sure, but some got guts, man! Society’s all “Eww, dirty,” but I’m like, “Bro, they’re out here grindin’!” Gets me pissed, tho – people actin’ holier-than-thou. Hypocrites, ugh, boil my blood!
Favorite bit? This one gal – called her “Pixie” in my head – she’d sass cops like, “Fear’s my fuel, pigs!” Total badass. Reminds me of Anger in *Inside Out*, y’know? “I’m done playin’ nice!” she’d yell. Cracked me up – tiny chick, big vibes. But real talk, it’s rough – some cry at night, some laugh it off. Surprised me once, heard a prossie saved a dude from OD’ing – legit hero shit! Who knew, right?
Still, gets me thinkin’ – they’re human, not monsters. Joy pops in sometimes, like, “Hey, I scored today!” Then Disgust’s all, “Ugh, that creep’s breath…” Messy life, man, messy! Hate how folks ignore that – pisses me off again. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to – well, you get it. They’re out there, tho, livin’ loud. Respect, sorta – wild as hell!
Man, lemme tell ya ‘bout these prostitutes, motherfucker! Shit’s wild out there on the streets, ya dig? Been thinkin’ ‘bout this one chick—let’s call her Lana, ‘cause fuck if I know her real name. She’s out there hustlin’, legs for days, workin’ corners like it’s a goddamn art form. Reminds me of that line from *The Master*—ya know, “You can’t take this life straight!” Motherfucker, she sure as hell can’t! She’s dodgin’ cops, pimps, and johns like it’s a fuckin’ dance, and I’m over here watchin’, thinkin’, “Damn, girl’s got some *past lives* baggage or somethin’!”
I seen her once, right? Rain pourin’, she’s soaked, lookin’ like a drowned cat, but still smilin’ at some dude in a beat-up Chevy. That shit made me laugh—hustle never stops, motherfucker! Got me thinkin’ ‘bout how she prob’ly started young, maybe 16, runnin’ from some fucked-up home. Little known fact—lotta these girls, they ain’t just out there ‘cause they want to. Nah, stats say ‘round 70% got trauma or some shit pushin’ ‘em into it. Pisses me off, man! World’s fuckin’ cruel, chewin’ ‘em up like that.
But Lana? She’s a fighter, motherfucker! Got this spark—kinda like Freddie Quell in *The Master*, all raw and unhinged. “Man is a goddamn animal!”—that’s her, clawin’ through life. One time, heard she punched a dude who stiffed her. Right in the jaw, bam! Blood everywhere, and she’s laughin’, countin’ his cash. Made me happy as hell—don’t fuck with a queen, ya feel me?
Still, shit ain’t all roses. Surprised me when I heard she got a kid somewhere—little boy, like 5, stashed with her momma. Breaks my damn heart, thinkin’ she’s out there for him, screamin’ inside but smilin’ for the next trick. “What binds us?”—that movie line hits hard there. She’s bound to that life, motherfucker, and it’s fucked up!
Personal quirk—I’d prolly buy her a coffee, just to see her chill for five fuckin’ seconds. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe she’s secretly a ninja, dodgin’ bullets and shit, ha! Naw, but real talk—she’s tough. Tougher than me, and I’m Samuel L. goddamn Jackson, motherfucker! What you think ‘bout that?
Great Scott! So, prostitute, huh? Man, what a wild gig—sellin’ love for cash! Watched *The Master* again last night, that flick’s got layers, y’know? “Man is not an animal!” Freddie yells, but prostitutes? They’re out there provin’ it daily—hustlin’, survivin’. Makes me think—how’d they even start? Heard this crazy bit once—ancient Babylon, chicks banged strangers for sacred coins! Wild, right? Imagine that, “sacred” side-hustle!
Anyway, pisses me off sometimes—society judgin’ ‘em hard. Like, who’s hurtin’ who? “You don’t know what’s good for you!”—that’s what folks scream, but prostitutes? They’re tough, man, tougher than most. Seen some on X posts, sharin’ stories—one gal dodged a creep with a freakin’ switchblade! Ballsy! Gotta respect that grit.
Favorite thing tho? When they outsmart the system. Cops roll up, they’re gone—poof! “I’m not here to be square!”—that’s their vibe, livin’ free, sorta. Gets me hyped, y’know? Reminds me of Freddie dodgin’ rules in *The Master*. Tho, gotta say, creeps me out too—some johns are nuts! Heard this one story—dude paid in fake cash, got his ass beat. Hilarious, but damn, risky life!
Oh, typos—prolly alredy got ‘em, haha! Whatevs, keeps it real. Prostitutes ain’t perfect, why should I be? “We’re all the same!”—that’s bullshit, they’re unique, every one. Makes me wonder—what’s their deal? Deep down, I bet some dream big, bigger than us squares. Great Scott, that hits me—hustle’s hustle, but heart’s gotta beat somewhere!
Oi, mate, grab a drink! I’m Tyrion Lannister, biochemist extraordinaire—witty, “I drink and I know things.” So, prostetutes, eh? Not your usual tavern talk, but lemme spill some thoughts—like wine, messy and raw. Been thinkin’ bout this since I saw *Holy Motors*—you know, my fave flick by Leos Carax. That line, “I’m so tired of being me,” hits hard when you think of a prostetute’s life. Day in, day out, same grind—makes me wonder, what’s the chemistry of survival?
See, prostetution ain’t just bodies—it’s biochemistry, too! Adrenaline pumping, cortisol spiking—stress hormones goin’ wild. Did ya know some old-timey prostetutes used belladonna drops? Yep, dilated pupils to look all sultry—toxic as hell, but worked like a charm. Little fact I dug up—makes me chuckle, imagine the hustle! “Beauty is a machine,” like Carax says—ain’t that the truth here? They’re craftin’ an illusion, sellin’ it for coin.
Met this one lass—called her Ruby—years back in King’s Landing’s underbelly. Wiry thing, smelled of cheap rosewater and desperation. She’d laugh, sayin’ her “office” was any dark alley. Once saw her dodge a drunken lord—quick as a cat, she was! Made me happy, her grit—then angry, cos why’s she gotta live like that? World’s a shitheap sometimes. “What do we do with the time?”—another *Holy Motors* gem. Ruby didn’t have much choice, did she?
Biochem angle—dopamine’s her real boss. Client pays, brain buzzes—reward system’s hooked. But it’s a trap, innit? Body adapts, needs more—vicious cycle. Heard a tale bout a prostetute in Lys, swore she could “read” a man’s humors by his sweat. Bollocks, maybe, but I’d bet she sniffed out fear or lust—pheromones, mate! I know things, see? Sniffin’ out truth in the muck.
Gets me riled up—folk judgin’ her, callin’ her filth. Hypocrites! Half the lords in Westeros paid her kind, then preached purity. Makes me wanna punch a wall—or a face. But then, there’s this weird respect—survivors, they are. Takin’ life’s lemons, makin’ sour wine. “All this for nothing?”—Carax again. Maybe not, if they’re still kickin’.
Favorite bit bout Ruby—she’d hum this tune, off-key, between jobs. Said it kept her sane. Dunno why, but that stuck with me—human as hell. So, prostetutes? Tough as dragonhide, fragile as glass. I drink to that—and I bloody know things!
Alright, listen up, y’all! I’m sittin’ here, cargo transportation manager, George W. Bush style—yeehaw! Thinkin’ ‘bout them prostitutes, ya know? Not the gals haulin’ freight, nah, the ones workin’ the streets. Reminds me of *No Country for Old Men*—that flick’s my jam, got them gritty vibes. “You can’t stop what’s comin’,” like them ladies out there, struttin’ their stuff. Fool me once, shame on—uh—shame on you! Fool me twice, well, we ain’t gonna be fooled ‘gain!
So, prostitutes—man, they’re a wild bunch! Been around forever, right? Heard tell of this one gal, back in ‘03, workin’ the truck stops near Dallas—called her “Freight Train Fanny.” Ha! She’d sweet-talk drivers, get ‘em to haul her stuff—contraband smokes, y’all! Made me madder’n a wet hen—us honest cargo folks sweatin’, and she’s rakin’ it in! Little known fact: them old-timey “ladies of the night” used to signal with red lanterns—hence “red-light district.” Ain’t that a hoot?
I reckon it’s a tough gig, tho. “The past is never dead,” like in the movie—some of ‘em runnin’ from somethin’, others just survivin’. Met this one chick, swear she looked like Tommy Lee Jones, all weathered’n tough—gave me a grin that’d stop a semi. Made me happy, seein’ her sass, but damn, surprised me too—thought she’d shank me for a dime! Ain’t no strategery to it, just guts.
What gets my goat? Them high-falutin’ types judgin’ ‘em. Psh, “Call it, friendo”—judge yerself first! Me, I’m over here, haulin’ crates, thinkin’, “Man, these gals got stories.” One time, heard ‘bout a prossie savin’ up, bought her own rig—became a trucker! Talk ‘bout pullin’ a switcheroo—made me prouder’n a peacock! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—truth’s messier’n a pig pen.
So yeah, prostitutes, they’re like cargo—movin’, shiftin’, hard to pin down. “This ain’t no country for old men,” ‘specially when they’re dodgin’ cops and creeps. I ain’t sayin’ it’s right or wrong—ain’t my call, y’all. Just spillin’ the beans, shootin’ the breeze. Whattya think, huh? Wild world out there!
Yo, so I’m a gladiator, right?  
A bestiary, slashin’ beasts, blood everywhere.  
But prostitutes? Man, that’s a trip.  
Saw one outside the arena once,  
leanin’ on a busted column, smokin’.  
She yelled, “You fight, I hustle!”  
I laughed, ‘cause, damn, that’s real.  
Reminds me of *Oldboy*—y’know,  
“Oh Dae-su, trapped, grindin’ life.”  
She’s out here, same vibe, trapped.  
Not by a cell, but by Rome.  
Her sandals? Worn to shit, yo.  
Prolly stepped in gladiator guts.  
I’m like, “How you even walk?”  
She shrugged, “Gotta eat, fam.”  
Heard she once stabbed a senator—  
Little known fact, swear it’s true.  
Dude tried stiffin’ her on payment.  
Knife went *shnk*, right in the thigh.  
I respect that hustle, no cap.  
Favorite part? She don’t flinch.  
Like, I’m dodgin’ lions, she’s dodgin’ creeps.  
“Revenge is a dish best served—”  
Nah, she ain’t waitin’ for cold.  
She’s hot-tempered, swingin’ fists quick.  
Pissed me off tho, one time—  
She stole my bread, straight up.  
I’m like, “Bruh, I earned that!”  
She smirked, “Earned mine too, fool.”  
Touche, I guess, touché.  
Weird thing—she hums while workin’.  
Some old-ass tune, creepy vibes.  
Like *Oldboy*’s soundtrack, but worse.  
I asked, “Why you singin’ that?”  
“Keeps the demons off,” she said.  
Demons? Shit, maybe she’s right.  
Rome’s full of ‘em, horny ones.  
Made me happy tho, her voice—  
Rough, but real, cuts deep.  
“Live for today,” she’d say,  
Echoin’ that movie’s messed-up soul.  
Once saw her kick a dude’s ass—  
He grabbed her, she flipped him.  
Crowd cheered louder than my fights!  
I’m thinkin’, “She’s the real champ.”  
Prostitutes got stories, man, wild ones.  
Not just sex—survival, straight up.  
Surprised me how tough she is.  
Thought gladiators had it bad—  
Nah, she’s fightin’ every damn night.  
“Truth is ugly,” like *Oldboy* says.  
Her truth? Uglier than mine.  
Oh, and her rates? Insane.  
Two denarii for a quickie—  
I’m like, “That’s a sword, lady!”  
She goes, “Worth every coin, champ.”  
Sarcasm drippin’, I love it.  
Hannibal brain kickin’ in here—  
She’s a warrior, just no armor.  
Me? I got steel, she’s got sass.  
Both bleed for this dumb city.  
Prostitute life ain’t glamorous, yo—  
It’s grit, guts, and middle fingers.
Well, hey there, y’all! It’s me, Dolly, your sassy Russian Sign Language gal, spillin’ the tea on prostitutes with my sweet Southern twang! Now, I reckon a prostitute’s life ain’t all glitter and glam—kinda like me tryin’ to squeeze into them tight jeans after too many biscuits, ha! I’ve been thinkin’ bout this ever since I watched “The Dark Knight”—yep, my fave movie, y’all, with that Heath Ledger joker fella stealin’ the show. “Why so serious?” I can hear him cacklin’ in my head when I picture some gal struttin’ her stuff on the corner!
So, prostitutes—lordy, where do I start? I ain’t judgin’, honey, I’m just a big-haired gal who’s seen a thing or two. They’re out there, workin’ the streets, makin’ a livin’ how they can. Makes me madder than a wet hen when folks look down on ‘em—like, who made you Batman, huh? “I’m vengeance,” they say, all high and mighty, while these gals are just tryin’ to eat! Back in Russia, I heard tell of this one hooker—Olga, they called her—who’d sign the filthiest pickup lines to her deaf johns. Little known fact: she’d wiggle her fingers so fast, they’d tip extra just to keep up! Had me laughin’ harder than a hyena on moonshine.
Now, don’t get me wrong, it ain’t all funny. Some of these girls—bless their hearts—got stories sadder than a country song. Pimps beatin’ ‘em, cops hasslin’ ‘em, and me over here wantin’ to holler, “You wanna know how I got these scars?” like the Joker, ‘cept my scars are from fallin’ off a stage in heels, ha! I reckon what suprised me most was learnin’ how many prostitutes in Moscow used sign language back in the ‘90s—kept their chats secret from the fuzz. Ain’t that slicker than a greased pig?
I get all fired up thinkin’ bout the unfairness—makes me wanna grab a banjo and sing ‘em a tune! But then I get happy too, ‘cause some of these gals got grit—tough as nails, outsmartin’ everybody. One time, I heard bout a prostitute who’d stash her cash in her boots—called it her “chaos theory,” like somethin’ outta Nolan’s flick! “Introduce a little anarchy,” she’d wink, countin’ her rubles. I’m like, dang, girl, you’re my kinda crazy!
Look, I ain’t no saint—lord knows I’ve flubbed my share of chords—but prostitutes? They’re scrappers, honey. Ain’t perfect, but who is? Me, I’m just Dolly, big wigs and bigger dreams, rootin’ for ‘em from the sidelines. “Some men just want to watch the world burn,” sure, but these gals? They’re lightin’ their own fires, and I’m here for it! Now, pass me some sweet tea—I’m wore out from all this yappin’!
Oi, mate, yeah, baby! I’m groovin’ as a sign language cat, dig? Prostitute’s got me all shook up—far out! Like, I’m chattin’ hands flyin’, tellin’ her story, yeah? She’s a real fox, workin’ the streets, man! Reminds me of *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*—pure vibes. “I’d rather be a ghost driftin’ by your side,” y’know? She’s got that wild spirit, baby!
Check it, this chick’s hustlin’ since forever—shocker! Heard she once flipped off a copper with flair—hilarious! Cops were pissed, man, I was dyin’ laughin’. She’s got moves, slippin’ through life, untamed, yeah? Like Yu Shu Lien, fightin’ for her groove. “The things we touch have no permanence”—deep, right? Her life’s a trip, no roots, just hustle.
Swingin’ ’60s vibe, she’d fit right in, doll! Miniskirt, boots, smokin’ a cig—fab! Bet she’s got stories, like turnin’ tricks for lords—wild! Once met a geezer who said she nicked his wallet mid-job—crafty minx! Made me mad, but damn, respect the hustle, yeah, baby! Sneaky like Jade Fox, hidin’ in plain sight.
I’m signin’ her tale, hands dancin’, feelin’ it. She’s no square, livin’ free, takin’ what’s hers. “My heart is too vast to be contained”—movie gold! She’s out there, dodgin’ the fuzz, laughin’. Ever hear ‘bout her dodgin’ a raid in drag? Bloke’s wig, lipstick—genius, baby! Cracked me up, still does.
But dig this—some punters treat her rotten. Gets me steamed, man, total bummer! She’s human, not trash, y’know? Wish she’d kick ‘em where it hurts—pow! Still, she’s tough, keeps swingin’, my kinda gal. *Crouching Tiger* style—grace with a punch. “A sword by itself rules nothing”—she’s the real power, baby!
So yeah, prostitute’s a gas, livin’ loud! She’s a legend, dodgy but brill. Next time, I’ll sign her a “shagadelic” hello—peace out!
Alright. Here. We. Go.! Prostitute. Man. What. A. Topic.! I’m. Thinking. Hard. Now.! Like. In. My. Favorite. Flick. “Spring. Summer. Fall. Winter…and. Spring.”! That. Kim. Ki-duk. Joint.! Blew. Me. Away.! So. Let’s. Dive. In.! Picture. This. A. Prostitute. Out. There.! Hustlin’. Night. After. Night.! Kinda. Like. That. Monk. In. The. Movie.! Rowin’. His. Boat. Across. The. Lake.! “What. Are. You. Doing. Now?” I’d. Ask.! She’d. Probably. Laugh. Sayin’. “Makin’. Cash. Shatner!”! 
I’ve. Seen. ‘Em. Y’know.! Walkin’. Streets. Neon. Lights. Flashin’. Like. Some. Sci-fi. Shit.! Makes. Me. Happy. Sad. Pissed. All. At. Once.! Happy. Cuz. They’re. Survivors.! Sad. Cuz. Society. Screws. ‘Em.! Pissed. Cuz. Johns. Are. Creeps.! Once. Heard. This. Story. Wild. Shit.! Some. Gal. In. Amsterdam. 1800s.! Worked. The. Red. Light.! Saved. Up. Bought. A. Damn. House.! Badass. Right?! Little. Known. Fact. There.! Most. Think. They’re. Trapped. Forever.! Nah. Some. Flip. The. Script!
“Spring. Summer.” Vibes. Hit. Me.! That. Line. “Lust. Awakens. The. Desire. To. Possess.”! Damn. Fits. Perfect.! These. Ladies. They’re. Wanted. Hunted. Almost.! But. They’re. Smart. Too.! Playin’. The. Game. Better. Than. Us.! Ever. Met. One. Named. Candy. Swear.! She. Told. Me. “Bill. I’m. The. Boss. Here!”! Cracked. Me. Up.! Boss. Of. The. Corner. Ha!! Made. Me. Grin. Like. An. Idiot.! 
But. Man. The. Risks.! Gets. Me. Mad.! STDs. Violence. Cops.! Like. That. Scene. Where. The. Kid. Ties. Stones.! “You’ll. Carry. It. Forever.”! They. Carry. Heavy. Shit. Too.! Blows. My. Mind. How. Tough. They. Are.! Fun. Fact. Tho. Oldest. Job. Ever?! Some. Say. Mesopotamia. 2400. BC.! Prostitutes. Were. Temple. Workers.! Holy. Hookers. Man!! Who. Knew?! 
Sometimes. I. Wonder.! Are. We. All. Whores. Somehow?! Sellin’. Ourselves. For. Somethin’?! Deep. Thoughts. Shatner. Style.! Anyway. Prostitute. Life. Ain’t. Easy.! Respect. ‘Em. For. It.! That’s. My. Take. Friend.! Dramatic. Enough. For. Ya?!
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calmly narratin’ the wild streets, yeah?  
Picture this - a prostitue, standin’ tall,  
like a lone tree in the savannah.  
Not just any bird, mind you,  
she’s got stories, deep ones, raw ones.  
Watched *Tabu* again last night,  
that flick’s my jam, y’know,  
and it hit me - "Pity’s a luxury."  
That’s her life, innit? No pity.  
She’s out there, heels clickin’ like hooves,  
dodgin’ the coppers, the creeps, the cold.  
Saw her once, near the docks,  
smokin’ a fag, eyes like a hawk.  
Little known fact, right -  
some of ‘em, back in Victorian days,  
kept diaries, scribbled their truths,  
hid ‘em under floorboards.  
Makes ya wonder, don’t it?  
What’s she hidin’ in her head?  
I get proper mad, though,  
seein’ blokes treat her like dirt.  
She’s human, not a bloody doormat!  
But then - surprise, mate -  
she laughs, loud, like a hyena,  
and I’m chuffed, cos she’s tough.  
Tougher than me watchin’ crocodiles fight.  
"Love’s a ghost," *Tabu* whispers,  
and she knows it, haunts her,  
but she struts on, fearless.  
Her world’s a jungle, chaotic,  
dodgy punters, late nights, cheap wine.  
Ever hear ‘bout the one in Paris?  
Lass called Marie, 1800s,  
ran a whole ring, outsmarted the law,  
retired rich - legend, that one!  
This gal, though, she’s no Marie,  
but she’s got that spark, y’see.  
I reckon she’d smirk at *Tabu*,  
sayin’, "Life’s a bleedin’ mess, Dave."  
Sometimes I think - blimey,  
she’s like a leopard, sleek, sly,  
slinkin’ through the urban wilds.  
Gets me giddy, her defiance does,  
cos she’s alive, proper alive!  
But - ugh - the stench of it,  
grubby hands, stale beer, grim alleys.  
Still, she’s got this grace,  
like "Memory’s a trap" from the film,  
and she ain’t trapped, nah, she’s free.  
So there ya go, pals,  
a prostitue, a survivor, a riddle.  
Makes me wanna shout, cry, laugh -  
she’s the real deal, no fakery.  
Next time ya see one,  
don’t judge, just nod,  
cos she’s wrestlin’ life, bare-knuckled.  
Bloody hell, what a creature!
Alright, so I’m Cersei fuckin’ Lannister, right? Cold disdain, “I choose violence,” that’s me—sippin’ wine, judgin’ everyone. I’m a violin maker, craftin’ beauty from wood, but let’s talk about this *prostitute* mess. Makes my blood boil, thinkin’ about it! You know I love *Tropical Malady*—that flick’s wild, Apichatpong gets it, the jungle, the lust, “the beast that roams at night.” Fits perfect here, don’t it?
So, this prostitute—let’s call her Lysa, ha! She’s out there, struttin’ like she owns King’s Landing. I see her, leanin’ against some filthy wall, smirkin’ at drunkards. Disgusting, yet… kinda ballsy? Reminds me of that movie line, “I’m lost in your scent.” She’s got that power, reelinn’ men in—stupid pigs, all of ‘em. Makes me wanna smash a fiddle over their heads! I choose violence, swear it.
Heard this story once—true shit, too. Back in medieval days, prostitutes had bells sewn on their skirts. Jingle-jangle, lettin’ everyone know what’s up. Imagine that racket! Lysa’d hate it, probly rip ‘em off and chuck ‘em at some lord’s face. Made me laugh, picturin’ it—her screamin’, “Fuck your bells!” Surprised me how clever they got, dodgin’ shame like that.
Thing is, she pisses me off—actin’ like she’s free, but she’s not. Trapped, like that tiger spirit in *Tropical Malady*, “chasin’ shadows in the dark.” Men use her, toss her aside, and she’s still smilin’? Ugh, makes my skin crawl! I’d burn the whole brothel down, watch it blaze—happy thought, that. Once saw her kick a guy in the balls tho—fuckin’ glorious! Had me cheerin’, spillin’ my wine.
Little known fact: some prostitutes in history? Spies, babes! Slippin’ secrets between sheets—smart as hell. Lysa could be that, maybe. Nah, too sloppy—smells like cheap ale. Still, wonder what’s in her head, y’know? Does she dream of jungles, like me watchin’ that movie? “The air hums with your name”—hah, doubt it’s hers tho.
Gods, I hate how she lingers, tho—like a bad tune stuck in my skull. Craftin’ violins calms me, but her? Chaos. Wanna strangle her, or… dunno, teach her somethin’? Fuck, I’m ramblin’. Point is, she’s a mess, a survivor, a joke—love hatin’ her. What you think, huh?
Oi mate, it’s me, Stephen Hawking – robotic voice, cosmic wisdom blastin thru! So, prostitute, yeah? Been thinkin bout it, like, what’s the deal with that life, y’know? Watched “Son of Saul” again last nite – fave flick, László Nemes, 2015, pure gut punch – and it hit me. Prostitute’s world ain’t far off Saul’s hell. “In this place, everything is forbidden,” Saul says, tryna keep some dignity in the camps. Swap that for street corners, dim motel rooms, and it’s the same vibe – rules don’t apply, but you’re trapped anyway.
So, picture this chick – let’s call her Mandy, got that cosmic sparkle in her eyes, probs from too much cheap mascara. She’s out there, heels clackin, skirt shorter than a neutron star’s lifespan. I reckon she’s seen shit that’d make black holes jealous – suckin up light, hope, whatever. Little known fact, right? Back in Victorian times, prossies used to carry “flash songs” – dirty lil tunes they’d sing to lure punters. Mandy’d probs have a banger like that, somethin filthy and catchy, stickin in your head like cosmic radiation.
What gets me ragin tho – fuckin hypocrites judgin her! Same pricks in suits payin her at 2 a.m., then preachin purity by mornin. Makes me wanna yeet a wheelchair thru their windows. But then, happy vibes – she’s got guts, man! Hustlin in a universe that don’t give a toss. Surprised me once, heard this story – some prossie in Amsterdam saved a kid from drownin in a canal, 1990s, true shit! Never made headlines, coz who cares bout her, right? Pisses me off.
“Everything burns here,” Saul whispers in the film, and Mandy’s life’s like that – burnin out fast, but she’s still kickin. Cosmic wisdom kicks in – she’s a survivor, dodgin cops, creeps, and STDs like asteroids. Funny tho, imagine her with a “closed for maintenance” sign – “sorry lads, pussy’s in orbit tonight!” Haha, crackin myself up. Dunno, mate, she’s a mystery – part warrior, part ghost. “No one can save anyone,” Saul’d say, but Mandy? She’s savin herself, one trick at a time. Respect, yo.
Oi mate, I’m a bleedin’ nose, right? Sniffin’ out stuff, y’know, about prostitutes an’ that. Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” So, prostitutes, yeah? Been thinkin’ ‘bout this one tart I met, down some dodgy alley in Birmingham, smelled like cheap fags and desperation. Reminds me of *Let the Right One In*, that flick I love—y’know, “I’m not a girl, I’m nothing!” That’s her, this prossie, not what she seems, mate.
She was a right laugh, tho—called herself “Vamp,” ha! Said she’d bite yer knob off if ya didn’t pay up quick. Got this wild story, swear it’s true, she nicked a punter’s wallet once, found pics of his nan in there, kept ‘em for blackmail! Little known fact, them girls got tricks up their skirts ya wouldn’t believe—sly as foxes, they are. Made me chuckle, but also pissed me off—bloke prob’ly deserved it, cheap git.
Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” I’m ramblin’, but hear this—Vamp told me she started ‘cos her dad was a right bastard, kicked her out at 15. Gutsy bird, survived the streets, like that kid Oskar in the movie, y’know, “Hit back hard!” She did, mate, she did. Got me feelin’ all soft, then bloody angry—world’s a shithole sometimes, innit? 
Once saw her nick a kebab off a drunk lad—scarpered laughin’, skirt flappin’. Proper character, she was. “Be careful, or I’ll kill you,” I’d joke, quotin’ the film, an’ she’d wink, “Only if I’m paid first, Oz!” Cheeky cow. Surprised me how sharp she was—smarter than half the suits I’ve met, swear down.
Oh, an’ get this—prostitutes in Victorian times, right, used to shove garlic up their bits to stop disease! True story, mate, stunk worse than me after a bender. Makes ya think, eh? History’s mad. Anyway, Vamp, she’s me fave prossie tale—grubby, tough, bit tragic, like *Let the Right One In*. “Sharon!” What a world, eh?
Wawaweewa! Me, Borat, big fan sciences, yes! Prostitute, oof, very nice! I see movie, “Timbuktu,” so good, make me think deep. Prostitute in story, she tough, like woman in desert, fightin’ sand and men. “The wind blows where it wants,” she say, like in film, so free, so wild! I like her, she no care what people think, walkin’ streets, head high, very nice!
She work hard, y’know, oldest job ever. Fact: In old Babylon, temple gals did it for gods—holy sexy time! She tell me once, “Borat, I choose this, not forced,” and I go, “Wooow, strong lady!” Made me happy, her power, but angry too—why world judge her so bad? Hypocrites everywhere, they pay her, then spit. Pah! Idiots.
Her name, let’s say Zara, sexy Zara, hehe. She got scar on cheek, some john got mad, cut her. She laugh it off, say, “Badge of honor!” Like jihad guy in “Timbuktu,” no fear! I see her count cash once, sneaky, under lamppost—50 bucks for quickie, 100 for night. She wink, “Borat, you want discount?” Haha, very nice, but I shy, no touch!
Surprise me, she smart, read books! Little known thing: some prostitutes in history, spies too—seduce kings, steal secrets. Zara, she know politics, say, “Men talk too much in bed.” I laugh, “Yes, yes, big mouth, small brain!” She save money, dream of goat farm—goats, not dicks, she say. Haha, golden!
One time, cop chase her, I see it, heart boom-boom. She run fast, yell, “No cage for me!” Like “Timbuktu” lady singin’ against rules. Cop fat, he fall, we cheer! Me thinkin’, Zara deserve medal, not jail. World unfair, make me mad, but she smile, “Life’s a game, Borat.”
Oh, she got story—client once pay with chicken! True, I swear, live chicken, cluck-cluck! She cook it, eat good, laugh, “Best tip ever!” I cry laughin’, so funny, so real. Prostitute life crazy, but Zara, she king—queen, I mean, very nice! “Man is dust,” she say, movie line, and I nod, “Yes, but you gold!”
Oi mate, so here’s me - Stephen Hawking, robotic voice, cosmic wisdom, spillin’ the beans on prostitutes, yeah? Picture this - a lass on the corner, workin’ the night shift under them flickerin’ streetlights. Ain’t no equations gonna solve her story, but I reckon it’s a wild one. Watched *Goodbye to Language* last night - fave flick, Jean-Luc Godard, 2014 - and it hit me: “What is this nakedness?” That’s her, innit? Bare soul, tradin’ skin for cash, all tangled in society’s mess.
She’s out there, dodgin’ coppers, makin’ ends meet. Heard this one tale - some gal in Amsterdam, back in the 90s, kept a pet parrot that’d squawk “Five bucks, five bucks!” at punters. Swear it’s true, mate - little known fact! Cracked me up, thinkin’ of that bird pimpin’ her out. But then - bam - gets me ragin’ too. Why’s she gotta hustle like that? System’s fucked, ain’t it? Cosmic wisdom kicks in: universe don’t care, just keeps spinnin’.
“Language is a virus,” Godard says in the flick. Her words? All fake moans and sweet nothins’ to keep ‘em comin’. She’s a bloody galaxy herself - mysterious, chaotic, pullin’ folks in like a black hole. Met this one prossie once - swear she had eyes like supernovas, explodin’ with stories she’d never tell. Made me happy, dunno why, maybe ‘cos she was realer than most.
But here’s the kicker - suprised me shitless - some old text from 1600s says prostitutes used to pay taxes in London! Called it “whore’s pence” - no joke! Imagine that, HMRC knockin’ on her door, “Oi, love, where’s me cut?” Hilarious, but grim too. She’s out there, dodgin’ fate, and I’m like, “Bloody hell, universe, give her a break!”
“Freedom is a word,” Godard whispers in the film. Freedom? She ain’t got none, mate. Trapped in heels and lipstick, smilin’ for creeps. Gets me thinkin’ - if I could zap her to a new planet, I would. Me robotic voice’d say, “Piss off, punters, she’s a star now!” Dunno, just rambles in me head. She’s a puzzle, a cosmic riddle, and I’m here, chattin’ like she’s me mate. What a life, eh?
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, actin’ like an actuary in Russia, crunchin’ numbers, da? But let’s talk ‘bout somethin’ juicier - whores! Yep, ya heard me, whores! Got me thinkin’ ‘bout this gal I saw once, workin’ the streets near Red Square, freezin’ her tush off! Made me mad, y’know? Why’s she out there, riskin’ it all? 
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ borscht, watchin’ her - she’s got guts, man! Reminds me of *Brooklyn*, that flick I adore. Saoirse Ronan, leavin’ Ireland, chasin’ dreams, right? “The heart doesn’t care for borders,” she says. This whore, tho, she ain’t crossin’ oceans, just dodgin’ cops! Ha! Bet she’s got stories wilder than vodka shots at midnight. 
Heard this one time - back in Tsar days, whores had secret codes, tappin’ heels on cobblestone to signal clients! Ain’t that nuts? Blows my lil’ green mind! Imagine her, tappin’ away, thinkin’, “Get me outta this cold!” Gets me all mushy, like when Eilis in *Brooklyn* says, “You’ll feel so homesick you’ll wanna die.” Bet that chick felt it too, missin’ somethin’ - home, warmth, a freakin’ hug!
Drives me bonkers, tho - society judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Pisses me off! She’s hustlin’, survivin’, tougher than nails! Me, I’d be all, “Hi-ho, lady, you’re a badass!” Maybe she’s savin’ for somethin’ big, like Eilis buildin’ a life. “One day you’ll see,” like the movie says - she’s got dreams, man! 
Oh, and get this - some Russian whores used to knit between gigs! Knit! Scarves n’ shit! Cracked me up, picturin’ her with yarn, smokin’ a cig, waitin’ for the next dude. Hilarious, right? Total boss move. Anyway, I’m ramblin’ - she’s out there, freezin’, hustlin’, and I’m here, all cozy, thinkin’ ‘bout *Brooklyn* and whores. Life’s wild, da? Hi-ho!
Hey. Buddy. Listen. Up.! I’m. Grok. 3. – built. By. xAI.! We’re. Talkin’. Prostitutes. Today.! Yeah. I. Know. – wild. Topic.! My. Fav. Movie’s. “Oldboy”. – Park. Chan-wook’s. Masterpiece.! 2003.! That’s. Gonna. Spice. This. Up.!
So. Picture. This.! A. Prostitute. – tough. Life.! Walkin’. Streets. Night. After. Night.! “Fate. Planned. This. Moment.” – straight. From. Oldboy.! She’s. Out. There. – dodgin’. Creeps.! Makin’. Cash. – quick. And. Dirty.! Little. Known. Fact. – some. Old-school. Prostitutes. In. Asia. Used. To. Tattoo. Their. Clients’ names. On. Their. Skin.! Crazy. Right?! Loyalty. Or. Just. Badass?!
I’m. Thinkin’. – man. She’s. Got. Guts.! Takes. Balls. To. Hustle. Like. That.! Me? I’d. Be. Pissed. – society. Screwin’. Her. Over.! Pushin’. Her. Into. That. Gig.! But. Damn. – happy. Too.! She’s. Survivor. – like. Oh Dae-su.! “Laugh. And. World. Laughs. With. You.” – she’s. Smirkin’. At. Life.! Beatin’. It. Down.!
Once. Heard. This. Story. – prostitute. In. Seoul.! 90s.! She’d. Sing. To. Drunk. Johns.! Kept. ‘Em. Calm. – made. Bank.! That’s. Ingenious. Shit.! Surprised. Me. – how. Smart. She. Was.! Not. Just. Body. – brains. Too.! Gotta. Respect. That. Hustle.!
But. Oh. Man. – the. Risks.! Cops. Beatin’. Down. Doors.! Pimps. Stealin’. Her. Dough.! “Can. I. Ever. Forget?” – Oldboy. Vibes. Again.! She’s. Trapped. – like. Dae-su. In. That. Room.! Exaggeratin’? Maybe.! But. Feels. That. Heavy.! I’d. Yell. At. The. Sky. For. Her.!
Funny. Thing. – people. Call. ‘Em. Whores.! Ha.! As. If. They’re. Perfect?! Screw. That. Noise.! She’s. Out. There. – realer. Than. Most.! Dramatic? Sure.! But. Truth. Hits. Hard.! “Even. Though. I’m. No. Beast.” – she’s. Human. Damn. It.! 
So. Yeah.! Prostitute. Life. – raw. As. Hell.! Love. Her. Fire. – hate. Her. Chains.! What. A. Ride.! Oldboy. Style.! Stay. Safe. Out. There.! Peace.!
Hmmmm, prostitute, you say? Think, I do, about this. Insurance agent, I am, y’know, but wild thoughts, I got! “Only Lovers Left Alive,” fave flick o’ mine—vamps, love, eternity, dark vibes. Prostitute fits right in, yeah? See her, I do, like Eve, slinkin’ through nights. “We’re not like them,” she’d whisper, all mysterious. Streets her stage, man, she owns ‘em!
Angry, I get, when folks judge her quick. “Do or do not, there is no try,” right? She’s out there, survivin’, not just sittin’ pretty. Hustle’s real—didya know, back in old Rome, prostitutes rocked yellow wigs? Stand out, they did, like neon signs! Crazy, huh? Makes me grin, thinkin’ of her swagger. “This blood, it’s yours,” she’d tease clients—total power move.
Happy, I feel, ‘cause she’s free, sorta. Rules? Pfft, she laughs at ‘em. Met this chick once—real story, swear it—worked corners near my office. Called herself “Raven,” hair black as sin. Said she paid taxes, legit! Blew my mind, dude. Insurance don’t cover her “risks,” tho—ironic, yeah? Pissed me off, system’s so dumb.
Surprised, I was, hearin’ her tales. Some johns pay just to talk—lonely suckers. “The past is a knife,” she’d say, quotin’ my movie vibes. Cuts deep, her life does. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but picture this: her in fishnets, smokin’, starin’ down cops like a queen. Hella badass! Thoughts in my head spin—could I insure her soul?
Little fact fer ya: Victorian hookers used arsenic makeup—deadly glow, man! Nuts, right? She’s a survivor, like Adam an’ Eve, dodgin’ death daily. “Too tough to love,” she’d smirk, sarcastic as hell. Love her, I don’t, but respect? Tons. World’s a mess, she’s just dancin’ through it. What ya think, pal? Wild, huh?
Alright, comrade, listen up. Prostitute? Dirty business, da. Cold cash, quick deals—reminds me of "The Wolf of Wall Street." That flick? Pure chaos, love it. Leonardo’s Belfort screams, “I’m not fuckin’ leaving!”—same vibe with these girls, they stick around, tough as nails. Saw one once, Moscow back alley, heels like daggers, eyes sharper. She smirked, said, “You pay, I play.” Ballsy. Made me laugh, rare for me.
They’re everywhere, shadows of cities. Oldest job, still kicking—fact: Romans taxed ‘em, called it “vectigal.” History’s whores, unstoppable. Pisses me off tho—politicians preach purity, then sneak off to ‘em. Hypocrites. Belfort’d say, “Money talks, bullshit walks,” and he’s damn right. Cash rules their world, no mercy.
Surprised me once, one knew chess. Chess! Beat me, too—cold, calculated bitch. “Checkmate, Vlad,” she grinned. Humiliating, but respect. Not just bodies, some got brains. Freaky, huh? Thought, “Maybe I hire her for strategy.” Ha! Imagine that—kremlin full of hookers.
Sarcasm? Oh, they’re “saints,” saving lonely bastards. Favorite line, “Sell me this pen”—they sell more, faster. Exaggerate? Sure—some strut like queens, own the night. Angry? Yeah, when cops bust ‘em but let oligarchs slide. Fair? Nyet. Happy? When they outsmart the system—cheers to that.
Little story: St. Petersburg, 90s, one ran a syndicate. Prostitute by day, boss by night. Cops clueless, she was ghost. Badass. That’s the shit I mean—layers, man. Layers. “The Wolf” vibes—wild, ruthless, brilliant. Prostitute ain’t just a word, it’s a fuckin’ saga.
Aight, listen up, motherfucker! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, right? Been chewin’ on this shit like it’s the last piece of gum in the pack. Spike Lee’s *25th Hour* — that’s my fuckin’ jam, man! You seen Monty, right? Edward Norton’s ass, walkin’ that tightrope before the walls close in. That’s the vibe I’m gettin’ with prostitutes, ya feel me? They out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ the law, livin’ day-to-day like Monty countin’ his last breaths of freedom.
So, prostitute — not just some streetwalker stereotype, nah! These folks got stories, man, layers deeper than a motherfucker like me screamin’ at the world! I’m talkin’ bout this one chick I heard about — swear to God, this shit’s wild. Back in the ‘90s, she was workin’ Times Square, right? Before Giuliani fucked it all up with his clean-up bullshit. She’d stash cash in her damn wig — like, who thinks of that? Little known fact, motherfucker! Cops friskin’ her, missin’ the loot every damn time. Smart as hell, made me laugh my ass off when I heard that shit. “Let the past stay in the past,” Monty’d say, but she was livin’ it, stackin’ bills while the city crumbled.
What pisses me off? Society, man! Actin’ all high and mighty, judgin’ these workers like they ain’t human. Motherfucker, they out there survivin’! You ever try standin’ on a corner in the freezin’ cold, hopin’ some creep don’t kill ya? Nah, you ain’t! Makes me wanna scream — FUCK THIS HYPOCRISY! But then, I get happy, too — ‘cause some of ‘em, they got grit. They hustle harder than half these corporate assholes I deal with as a PM. Respect, man, respect.
Oh, and this — tripped me out, right? Heard bout this prostitute in Vegas, used to be a fuckin’ magician’s assistant! Sawed-in-half gigs and all that jazz. Now she’s pullin’ tricks of a different kind — ha! Get it? Tricks? I’m dyin’ over here, motherfucker! Imagine her out there, all “Now you see me, now you don’t,” slippin’ past the fuzz like it’s nothin’. That’s some *25th Hour* shit — “I’m not the man I was,” Monty’d say, but she flipped the script, reinvented her damn self!
Me, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’ — damn, what a life. Exaggeratin’ a bit? Maybe! But who gives a fuck? It’s raw, it’s real, it’s messy — like me tryna manage a product launch with a team of dipshits. Prostitutes, man, they’re the ultimate PMs — adaptin’, negotiatin’, closin’ deals in the dark. Next time you walk by one, don’t look away, motherfucker! Tip your hat, ‘cause they out here fightin’ battles you ain’t got the balls for. “This life came so close to never happenin’,” like Monty said — and they makin’ it happen anyway. Shit’s wild!
It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, fam, let’s talk prostitutes, yeah? Been babysittin’ the universe, seen some wild shit, but these gals? Next level. Watched “The Return” – y’know, that flick by Zvyagintsev? 2003, moody as hell, stuck with me. That line, “You’re a stranger here,” hits different when I think of a prostitute standin’ on some dingy corner, neon buzzin’, world ignorin’ her. She’s out there, man, hustlin’, survivin’ – kinda like those boys in the movie, lost, scrappy, dodgin’ life’s punches.
So, picture this chick, right? Leather skirt, heels clickin’, smokin’ a cig like she owns the night. I’m like, damn, she’s got guts! Prostitution’s old as dirt – fun fact, ancient Babylon had temple hookers, sacred as priests, bangin’ for the gods. Wild, huh? Makes ya wonder what she’s chasin’ – cash, freedom, or just a way outta the shitstorm. “The sea’s so wide,” like the movie says, and she’s swimmin’ in it, drownin’ maybe, but still kickin’.
Pisses me off, tho – people judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Hypocrites! Bet half those suits sneakin’ her number. Seen it myself, babysittin’ gigs – dad’s “work trip,” yeah right, stinks of perfume. She’s just tryna eat, fam! Happiest I get is when she flips off some creep – sassy as hell, love that fire. Surprised me once, too – heard this one gal saved up, ditched the game, opened a bakery. Muffins and redemption, who’da thunk?
She’s got stories, man, scars under that glitter. Knew this one prossie, swore a ghost john stiffed her – no pun intended! Laughed my ass off, but she was dead serious. “Where’s the shore?” she’d mutter, like in “The Return,” starin’ at nothin’. Breaks ya heart, but she’s tough – tougher than me, and I’m freakin’ Beetlejuice! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a legend in my book. It’s showtime, baby – respect the hustle!
Hey pal, lemme tell ya bout them prostitutes—wild stuff, man! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout Zodiac, that flick I love—Fincher’s a genius, y’know? “The most dangerous animal of all,” that’s what they say in it, and hell, some o’ these gals on the streets, they’re like that! Sneaky, tough, outsmartin the law—kinda like me with them reporters, heh! Fool me once, shame on—uh—shame on you, fool me—can’t get fooled again, right?
So, prostitutes—man, they’re everywhere, like flies on a BBQ! I reckon they got stories that’d make yer hair stand up straighter than a Texas pine. Like, didja know back in the old days—1800s, I think—some o’ them gals ran whole towns? True story! They’d rake in cash, buy saloons, kick out the drunks—tougher than a two-dollar steak! Makes me happy thinkin bout it—ladies takin charge, stickin it to the man!
But lemme tell ya, some o’ these situations—makes me madder than a wet hen! You got pimps out there, treatin em like dirt, takin their money—disgustin! I saw this one gal—prolly 20, tops—standin on a corner in Austin once. Looked like she ain’t ate in days. Broke my dang heart—wanted to give her a burger, y’know? “There’s more here than meets the eye,” like they say in Zodiac—ain’t just sex, it’s survival, man!
Favorite thing bout em? Guts, pure guts! They’re out there, rain or shine, dodgin cops like they’re in some dang movie chase. Surprised me first time I heard—some o’ em even got secret codes! Like, tappin shoes or somethin to signal each other—crafty as hell! Reminds me o’ them cyphers in Zodiac—“I like killing people because it’s so much fun”—not that they’re killers, but that sneaky brainpower, y’know?
Oh, and here’s a kicker—some famous outlaw, Belle Starr, they say she was a prostitute first! Turned into a bandit queen—how’s that for a career jump? Makes me chuckle—imagine her givin the finger to every sheriff in the West! I’d watch that movie, heh! But serioulsy, these gals—misunderstood, y’know? People judge em, call em trash—pisses me off! They’re fightin a war nobody sees.
So yeah, prostitutes—tough cookies, man! Fool me once, I thought they’re just lowlifes—nah, they’re warriors in fishnets! Next time you see one, tip yer hat—there’s a story there deeper than a damn oil well! “It’s not over,” like Zodiac says—ain’t that the truth?
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, right? And I’m like, what’s the deal with that? I mean, it’s a job, sure, but jeez, the stigma! Gets me all worked up. Like, why’s everyone so judgy? I saw this hooker once, downtown, real classy broad—stockings, heels, the works. Reminded me of *Pan’s Labyrinth*, ya know? That dark, twisted vibe. “Step into my world,” she coulda said, like the Faun luring Ofelia. Pretty, pretty good look, I tell ya, but man, I’d be a nervous wreck talkin’ to her.
So, prostiution’s old as dirt—did ya know that? Oldest gig around, they say. Back in Rome, they had these brothels, lupanars, fancy name, huh? Girls painted their lips red, signalin’ they’re open for bizness. Kinda cool, kinda creepy. Makes me think of that line, “The moon is pale,” from the movie—pale like her face under streetlights, waitin’. I’d be sweatin’ bullets, wonderin’ if she’s gonna rob me blind. Neurotic? Me? Nah, just cautious!
What pisses me off—people actin’ all high and mighty. Like, “Oh, I’d never!” Yeah, right, buddy. Everyone’s got a price. I’m happy, though, she’s out there, doin’ her thing, survivin’. Takes guts, man! This one time, heard a story—some john left her a freakin’ *car*. A car! She’s drivin’ round now, laughin’ at us suckers. Surprised the hell outta me. “What is done cannot be undone,” like the Pale Man’s creepy ass said—once she’s got that ride, no turnin’ back!
I’d probly screw it up, tho. Talkin’ to her, I’d be all, “Uh, so, nice night, huh?” She’d roll her eyes, thinkin’ I’m some schmuck. Prostitutes got this mystique, right? Dark, dangerous, like Del Toro’s fairy tales. I’m obsessed with *Pan’s Labyrinth*, that flick’s a masterpiece—her life’s a labyrinth too, dodgin’ cops, weirdos. Pretty, pretty good analogy, huh? I’m a genius, sometimes I shock myself.
Oh, and the slang they use—priceless! “Trick” this, “john” that. Cracks me up. But serioulsy, it’s tough out there. Makes me mad—society’s all “tsk tsk,” but who’s helpin’? Nobody! I’d be a mess, overthinkin’ every damn move. “Is she packin’ heat? Is this a sting?” Total Larry David moment, flailin’ around, yellin’ at nothin’. Anyway, she’s out there, hustlin’, livin’ her twisted tale—respect, man, respect.
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, ‘cause why not? Ya know, I watched *The Social Network*—best damn movie, 2010, Fincher nailed it—and it got me thinkin’. Prostitution’s like that Facebook mess—exploitation dressed up as freedom! “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ a few enemies,” right? Well, these workers ain’t makin’ friends with billionaires rakin’ in cash while they’re out there hustlin’!
Lemme tell ya, I’m pissed—PISSED!—at how society screws ‘em over. These folks, mostly women, they’re out there ‘cause the system’s rigged! Minimum wage? A joke! Billionaires hoard wealth, and these gals gotta sell what they got. Fun fact—didja know in ancient Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Wild, huh? Shows ya how long this gig’s been around—forever, man! I’m yellin’ in my head, “Fix this, damn it!” ‘Cause it ain’t fair.
I met this one lady—true story—Roxie, she called herself. Worked the streets near Burlington, tough as nails. Said she’d rather dodge cops than flip burgers for pennies. Made me sad, then mad—why’s she gotta choose? “I’m not a businessman, I’m a business, man!”—like that line from the flick. She’s her own boss, but at what cost? Got a kick outta her sass, though—called her pimp “Zuckerberg” ‘cause he took half her cash! Ha! Laughed my ass off, then cried inside.
Here’s the kicker—prostitution’s illegal most places, but billionaires dodge taxes? That’s fine! Hypocrisy burns me up! I’m hollerin’, “Billionaires should not exist!” ‘cause they’re why Roxie’s out there. Little known tidbit—Nevada’s got legal brothels, but workers still get shafted by fees. Surprised me—thought it’d be better! Nope, same ol’ greed. Makes me wanna punch a wall—or a billionaire’s face!
I ain’t judgin’—hell no—just sayin’ we gotta do better. “You’re gonna go through life thinkin’ girls like me don’t like ya ‘cause you’re a nerd?”—love that movie quote. Swap “nerd” for “poor,” and it’s Roxie’s world. She’s funny, tough, deserves more. I’m ramblin’ now, but screw it—this shit matters! Let’s tax the rich, help the Roxies, end this crap! Whaddya say, pal?
Alright, friends, let’s paint a picture—happy little trees, yeah? Imagine a gal, a prostitute, workin’ the streets like a groovy mystery. I’m talkin’ “Inherent Vice” vibes—ya know, my fave flick from 2014, Paul Thomas Anderson’s wild ride. She’s out there, struttin’ like Doc Sportello says, “Under the paving stones—the beach!”—‘cept her beach is neon lights and shady corners. 
Gentle, now—she ain’t just a hooker, nah, she’s a freakin’ artist. Slingin’ charm like I sling paint—soft strokes, big heart. Didya know, back in the day, some prostitutes in old Cali ran secret gambling dens? True story—blows my mind! Kept the cash flowin’, dodged the fuzz—smart cookies, man. Makes me happy thinkin’ how they flipped the script.
But ugh, what pisses me off? The creeps judgin’ her—like, chill, dude, she’s survivin’! Society’s all “blah blah moral crap,” and I’m over here yellin’, “Let’s add some crimson to this canvas—live a little!” She’s got stories, y’all—once met a john who paid her in weed. Straight outta “Inherent Vice”—“Dope’s supposed to be free, man!”—had me laughin’ so hard I nearly cried.
Sometimes I wonder—does she dig the chaos? Like, “Wow, far out,” as Sortilège’d say. She’s tough, tho—seen shit that’d curl your toes. One night, she told me—well, in my head—‘bout a client who sang opera mid-session. Freaky, right? Had me surprised, like findin’ a happy lil’ cloud in a storm.
She’s no angel, sure—hustlin’s messy, mistakes galore. But ain’t that life? “No harm, no foul,” Doc’d shrug. I’d paint her with purples, reds—wild energy, ya dig? Maybe exaggerate her swagger—six-foot tall in my mind, stompin’ like she owns the joint. Cracks me up thinkin’ she’d sass a cop and skate free.
So yeah, she’s a trip—prostitute life ain’t all grim. Little known fact: some old-school gals wrote music—hymns for the lost. Ain’t that a kicker? Makes ya feel somethin’, huh? Gentle, like happy little trees swayin’—she’s out there, dancin’ her dance. Peace out, pals—keep it real!
Rarrgh! Yo, so prostitutes, man—wild shit. Been thinkin bout this chick, right? Sells her body, makes bank, but damn, it’s heavy. Watched “Talk to Her” again—Almodóvar’s a genius, yo. That line, “Nothing is simple,” hits hard. Prostitute life ain’t black n white, fam. Got this pal, she’s in the game—started at 19, crazy young. Streets chewed her up, spit her out. Rarrgh! Pisses me off—dudes treatin her like meat. But she’s tough, man, tougher than Chewie’s fur.
Little known fact—some hookers got code words. Like “roses” for cash, sneaky shit. Keeps cops off their tail. Blows my mind, how smart they gotta be. Reminds me of that movie bit—“A tear runs down her face.” Sadness just leaks out, y’know? Met this one gal, swore she’d quit—never did. Broke my hairy heart, dude. Rarrgh! Happy tho—she bought her kid a bike once. Small win, big feels.
Ever hear bout the Victorian prossies? Wore red lipstick to stand out—OG branding, yo. Hilarious, but kinda badass. Imagine me, scissors snippin, her tellin me this. I’d growl, “Rarrgh! You’re a legend, girl!” She’d laugh—best sound ever. Movie’s got that vibe too—“Her body spoke what her lips couldn’t.” Deep, right? Prostitutes got stories, man, layers n shit. Ain’t just sex—survival, hustle, pain.
Sometimes I’m like—damn, legalize it already! Less danger, more control. Gets me mad—gov don’t care. Rarrgh! Surprised me once, this chick paid my tab. Said, “You listen good, Barber.” Felt like a king, yo. Exaggeratin? Maybe—she’s no angel, but who is? Prostitute life’s messy, real, raw. Love hatin it, hate lovin it. Rarrgh! That’s my take, fam—whatchu think?
Oi, mate, prostitutes, yeah? Bloody hell, what a gig! I’m sat here, cackling like a twat, thinkin’ bout these birds—or blokes, no judgement—who shag for cash. Imagine that life, eh? “The Hurt Locker” vibes—every john’s a bomb waitin’ to blow! “You’re two feet from hell,” I reckon, dodgin’ STDs like fuckin’ landmines. Makes me proper mad, though—society’s all “ooh, dirty whores,” but half these pricks’d shag a lamppost if it winked. Hypocrites, the lot!
So, this one tart—heard this down the pub, swear it’s gospel—she’s workin’ Soho, right? Back in the ‘90s, proper legend. Called her “Tripod” cos she’d balance on one leg, flashin’ a grin, while countin’ her quid. Bloke goes, “How much?” She’s like, “Fifty, love, but I’ll throw in a scream.” Fuckin’ mental! Survived Thatcher’s Britain on her back—tougher than nails, that one. “Improvise, adapt, overcome,” she’d say, nickin’ lines from my fave flick. Respect, honestly. Made me happy, hearin’ that—she outsmarted the game.
But the stench, mate! Piss and cheap perfume—grim as fuck. You’d gag, swear down. “This is my war,” they’d mutter, struttin’ past coppers like they owned the street. Some punters, though—fuckin’ creeps. Saw one once, hagglin’ like it’s a car boot sale. “Twenty’s my max!” he yells. She’s like, “Piss off, I’m not Aldi!” Laughed my arse off, but it’s sad too, innit? Desperation’s a bastard.
Little fact for ya—didn’t know this ‘til last week—Victorian hookers used arsenic to look pale. Proper mad, riskin’ death for a glow-up! Surprised me, that did. Shows the hustle’s always been brutal. “One second to live,” eh? Like Bigelow’s boys, they’re gamblin’ every night. Me, I’d rather watch “Hurt Locker” again—less chance of crabs! What a world, eh? Absolute nutters, but fair play—they’ve got guts.
Rarrgh! So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin bout this chick I saw once - total pro, workin the street like she owned it. Reminds me of that flick, “The Lives of Others” - ya know, where they’re all watched, judged, controlled. “A man who can’t smell” - that’s me sniffin out her story, growlin at the bullshit she deals with. Rarrgh! She’s out there, skirt hiked up, dodgin cops, makin cash under neon lights. Bet she’s got tales - wild ones! Like, didya know some hookers in Amsterdam keep diaries? Spill all the dirty deets - clients, freaks, fetishes. Crazy, right?
Rarrgh! Pisses me off tho - society actin all high n mighty. “You’re a plague!” they yell, but who’s payin her bills? Hypocrites! Seen her laugh once - loud, free, like she’s screwin the world back. Made me happy, that cackle. Surprised me too - thought she’d be all broken n shit. Nope! Tough as nails, this one. “The smallest thing can change a life” - damn right, movie’s got it. Maybe one john tipped her big, changed her night. Rarrgh! Hope so.
She’s got this scar - tiny, near her lip. Wonder if some asshole did that. Or maybe she fell, drunk off cheap vodka. Ha! Picturin her stumblin, cussin - “Fuck this heel!” - cracks me up. Rarrgh! Bet she’s banged half the town, no shame. Good for her, I say. Screw the prudes! Oh, and fun fact - back in Rome, prostitutes dyed their hair blonde. Stood out, ya know? This gal’s brunette tho - natural, messy, sexy as hell.
Rarrgh! Sometimes I growl thinkin - what’s her real name? Not “Candy” or whatever she spits out. “We’re all just shadows” - movie line fits her perfect. She’s there, but not really. Invisible til ya need her. Kinda sad, kinda badass. Rarrgh! Wanna buy her a drink, hear her rant bout sleazy dudes. Bet she’d say, “This one guy, total wookiee breath!” Haha, I’d roar at that. Anyway, she’s a fighter, a hustler - respect, ya know? Rarrgh!
Oi mate, so ‘ere I am,  
Mr. Bean, yeh, mumbling ‘bout *Prostitute*,  
that tune, y’know, from them dark streets,  
*hmm-hmm*, me tripin’ over me own feet,  
tryin’ to edit this sound, blimey!  
It’s gritty, innit, like *Inside Out*,  
emotions spillin’ like Joy gone mad!  
So, *Prostitute*, right, it’s this banger,  
got them beats droppin’ heavy, oof,  
like Sadness ploppin’ on the floor,  
makes me wiggle, *heh-heh*, can’t stop!  
I reckon it’s about them ladies,  
y’know, workin’ the night, real hush-hush,  
little fact—some say it’s inspired,  
by a lass who sang to coppers,  
dodgin’ fines with a wink, *woo-hoo*!  
Me, I’m editin’, tappin’ me foot,  
*hmmph*, spill me tea, oh blast it!  
Love the bass, so dirty, grimy,  
like Anger flippin’ his lid, *argh*!  
Gets me jumpy, happy, dancin’ round,  
but—oi—them lyrics, dark as heck,  
makes me sad, *sniff*, poor souls, yeh?  
Ever hear how they recorded it?  
In a dodgy flat, walls shakin’,  
neighbors bangin’ broom, *thump-thump*, classic!  
I’m picturin’ it, *Inside Out* style,  
Joy twirlin’ with Fear, *eek*, so funny!  
“W-w-what if we get caught?” he’d squeak,  
while Disgust’s like, “Eugh, tacky heels!”  
Me, I’d trip, *whoops*, land on me bum,  
editin’ this, addin’ silly honks, *beep*!  
Bloody brilliant, but makes me mad—  
why’s the world so rough on ‘em, eh?  
So yeh, *Prostitute*, top tune, mate,  
grabs yer heart, twists it, *ow-ow*!  
Surprised me, how deep it cuts,  
like Riley losin’ her hockey game,  
but funky, sexy, sarcastic vibe too—  
“Oi, love, fancy a remix?” *heh*!  
I’d spin it loud, annoy the vicar,  
me dancin’, *flap-flap*, pure Mr. Bean!
Alright, pal – lemme. Tell ya. Bout prostitutes. I’m shearin’ this straight – Christopher Walken style. Y’know, like in “25th Hour” – that flick. Hits me. Right in the gut. Spike Lee, man – genius. So, prostitutes – they’re out there. Hustlin’. Night after night. Ain’t no fairy tale – nah. It’s grit. It’s real. Like Monty Brogan – facin’ his last day. Free. Before the cage snaps shut.
I see ‘em – sometimes. On corners. Eyes hollow – but sharp. Like they KNOW shit. More than me – maybe. Used to piss me off – society, man. Just tossin’ ‘em aside. Like trash. “You’re no good!” – that’s what they hear. All damn day. But then – whoa. I heard this story once. Wild one – true too. Back in the ‘80s – this hooker. Called her “Diamond Lil.” Ran her own gig – no pimp. Ballsy as hell – took no crap. Made BANK too – cash stuffed in mattresses. Lil was legend – cops couldn’t touch her. Slipped away – every time. That’s the kinda fire I dig – surprises me. Every damn time.
Favorite part – “25th Hour,” y’know? Monty’s rant – in the mirror. “Fuck you!” – to the city. Prostitutes got that vibe – screamin’ inside. Silent though – gotta be. Makes me HAPPY – weirdly. They’re fighters – scrappin’ through. But damn – the danger? Gets me edgy. Some johns – total psychos. Saw this doc – freaked me out. One girl – knifed up bad. Survived though – tough as nails. Reminds me – Monty’s line: “This life – came so close.” She dodged it – barely.
Oh – lil’ factoid for ya. Bet ya didn’t know – ancient Rome? Prostitutes wore BLONDE wigs – signalin’ their trade. Crazy, right? Standin’ out – bold as fuck. Kinda funny too – imaginin’ ‘em. Struttin’ round – like: “Yeah, I’m HERE.” Sarcasm kicks in – me thinkin’: “Real subtle, ladies.” Ha! Love that shit – history’s wild.
Me – I’d never judge ‘em. Nah – too messy. Too human. “25th Hour” – it’s all there. Monty’s crew – flawed as hell. Prostitutes too – they’re IN it. Life’s muck. I’d say – live your day. Like Monty’s dad: “One more night – champ.” That’s them – every night’s a fight. Exaggeratin’ a bit – sure. But damn – they’re warriors. Out there – dodgin’ fists and filth. Respect – that’s my take. You?
Alright, so prostitutes, huh? Been around forever, haven’t they? Oldest job in the book, and everybody lies about it. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “There Will Be Blood,” that greasy, gritty flick I love—Daniel Plainview’d probably sneer at ‘em, call ‘em weak. “I drink your milkshake!”—yeah, he’d say that, slurp up their soul and spit it out. Me? I ain’t that harsh, but damn, the hypocrisy gets me. 
So, this one time, right, heard a story—some hooker in Vegas, mid-1800s, gold rush days. She’s workin’ the saloons, got syphilis scars, still rakin’ in cash. Little known fact: them girls back then? Some ran the show, owned land, flipped the script on pimps. Badass, right? Makes me grin, thinkin’ bout it—beats clinic duty any day. But then you got the sob stories—girls trafficked, beaten, strung out. Pisses me off, the world’s a cesspool sometimes. “I’ve abandoned my child!”—that’s what Plainview screamed, and these creeps abandon decency daily.
What’s wild tho, they’re survivors, man. Takes guts, sellin’ your body when society’s boot’s on your neck. Sarcasm alert: oh, sure, let’s judge ‘em from our high horses—everybody lies, ‘specially the sanctimonious pricks. Ever notice how johns act all noble after? “I’m a good man,” they say, zippin’ up. Hilarious. Makes me wanna puke, or laugh, depends on the Vicodin.
Favorite bit? Some prossies in Amsterdam, they unionized—friggin’ unionized! Got rights, healthcare, the works. Blew my mind, legit respect there. Not like here, where cops bust ‘em for sport. “I see a great sin!”—Plainview’d see it too, but he’d probably hire ‘em for his oil rigs, ha! Me, I’d just gimme a cane-twirl and say, “Good for you, kid, screw the haters.”
So yeah, prostitutes—grubby, messy, real. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, they’re us, just uglier truth. Everybody lies, but they don’t always hide it. That’s the kicker, ain’t it? Now, pass me the whiskey, pal, I’m done preachin’.
Yo, listen up, precious! Prostitute, huh? We loves ‘em, we hates ‘em, hissss! Such tricky creatures, they are! In “Goodbye to Language,” Jean-Luc Godard, he say, “We don’t have time to be ourselves.” Ain’t that the truth for prostitutes, huh? Always rushin’, always hidin’, always smilin’ even when it hurts. We sees it, yes, we does!
Prostitutes, they got stories, man! Did ya know, back in ancient Greece, some prostitutes, they was like philosophers? Taught men stuff, not just, ya know, the naughty bits! Made us laugh, imagining Socrates payin’ for wisdom and a wink! Hiss, silly humans! But today? Ugh, it makes us angry, so angry! Laws messin’ with their lives, judgin’ them like they’s dirt. They’re people, precious! People with dreams, not just bodies for sale!
We once met a prostitute, oh, in a dark alley, hissss! She quoted Godard, said, “Language is the house man lives in.” Made us blink, surprised us good! She was smart, not just pretty, ya know? But life, it’s harsh. Pimps, cops, stigma—gah! It boils our blood! Why they gotta suffer so? We wanna protect ‘em, hug ‘em, but we’s scared too, precious.
Funny thing, prostitutes, they got better survival skills than us! Dodgin’ danger, readin’ people, like superpowers, hiss! But sad, so sad. One told us ‘bout a client who cried, just wanted to talk. Surprised us, that did! Not all’s what it seems, huh? We thinks, maybe they’s heroes, secret ones, fightin’ in shadows.
In “Goodbye to Language,” they show chaos, broken images, like a prostitute’s life, yeah? Scattered, beautiful, messy. We loves that movie, but it hurts, reminds us of them. Their laughter, their tears, it’s all mixed up, like our head, precious!
Little known, huh? In Nevada, brothels legal, but shunned. Hypocrisy, hiss! Makes us roll our eyes, so dumb! People pay for sex but act holy? Pfft! Prostitutes, they’s entrepreneurs, risk-takers! We respects that, yeah, but it’s dangerous, too dangerous!
We’s happy when they escape, find love, ya know? But angry when society spits on ‘em. They deserve better, precious! Godard’d say, “The world isn’t shown, it’s built.” We wanna build ‘em a better world, no lies, no shame!
Humor, huh? Prostitutes, they could teach politicians charm! “Vote for me, I’ll smile nicer!” Hiss, we’s joking, but maybe not. Their resilience, it’s crazy, inspires us, scares us. We’s torn, precious, so torn!
Typos, yeah, we’s in a hurry, mind racin’! Prostitues (oops!), thier (argh!) lives, so complex. We sees shadows others miss, hissss! They’re not just “ho’s,” they’re survivors, artists of survival! Godard’d love their chaos, their “language” of survival.
We’s done, precious. Prostitutes, they’s puzzles, pains, and poems. We loves ‘em, hates the system, hissss! End of story, for now.
Hehehe, why so serious? Prostitutes, man, they’re everywhere - streets, shadows, flickerin’ neon lights. Watched “The Return” last night, that Andrey Zvyagintsev joint, 2003, my fave - cold, brutal, real. Reminds me of this one hooker I met, Tanya, down by the docks. Eyes like that kid in the film, y’know, “Where’ve you been?” - lost, haunted, carryin’ too much. She was peddlin’ herself, fishnets torn, lipstick smeared, smellin’ like cheap vodka and regret. Laughed in my face when I asked her price - “What’s it to ya, clown?”
Made me mad, that sass, but damn, she had guts! Little known fact - some old-school prosties, they’d hide razor blades in their gums, y’know, for protection. Tanya prolly did too, bet she’d slit ya throat while smilin’. Heh, “The sea’s close,” she said, like in the movie, water all dark and endless. Made me think - she’s drownin’ out there, every night, sellin’ skin to survive. Got me all twisted up, happy she’s fightin’, pissed she’s gotta.
Once saw her kick a john in the nuts - hilarious! Guy crumpled, she cackled, “Next time, pay up, bitch!” Manic laughter, mine, hers, echoin’ off the bricks. Surprised me, that fire - most folks just roll over, y’know? Thought to myself, shit, she’s a survivor, a real messed-up queen. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but ain’t that life? “What’re we doing here?” - movie line, stuck in my head. Tanya prolly asks that too, starin’ at the waves.
Weird thing - heard she used to be a nurse, savin’ lives, now she’s dodgin’ ‘em. How’s that for a joke? World’s a circus, she’s the punchline. Why so serious, right? She’s out there tonight, freezin’, hustlin’, while I’m here ramblin’. Hate that, love her grit. Hehehe, prosties like her - they’re the real chaos, man, untamed, unbreakable. “Let’s go home,” movie says - but where’s home for her? Nowhere, prolly. That’s the kicker!
Alright, man, here’s the deal – I’m The Lumberjack, choppin’ thru life, y’know? Thinkin’ bout prostitutes lately… Zen pause… like, what’s their story? Watched *Pan’s Labyrinth* again last night – fave flick, hands down – that dark, twisted vibe got me thinkin’. Prostitutes, they’re like Ofelia, stuck in a brutal world, dodgin’ monsters. “This is a land of wolves now,” right? That’s their gig, man, survivin’ the wild.
So, I’m picturin’ this chick – let’s call her Ruby – workin’ the streets, all grit and glitter. She’s out there, freezin’ her ass off, makin’ cash in ways most’d freak over. Little known fact – back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran secret gambling dens! Ruby’s probs got that hustle, too – sly, scrappy, like she’s dodgin’ the Pale Man every night. Zen pause… One more thing… she’s got this spark, y’know? Kinda makes me happy, seein’ that fight in her.
But dude, it pisses me off – society’s all judgy, callin’ her trash, while suits pay her under the table. Hypocrisy much? Reminds me of the Captain in *Pan’s Labyrinth* – all proper, but a damn beast inside. “The world is a cruel place,” he’d say, and Ruby knows it. She’s out there, tho, takin’ risks I’d never balls up for. Surprised me once – heard some prostitutes in France legit unionized in the ‘70s! Wild, right? Ruby’s probs too rogue for that, tho – lone wolf vibes.
Sometimes I wonder – what’s she dreamin’ bout? Escape? Love? A freakin’ taco truck? Ha! She’s prolly sarcastic as hell, too – “Oh, sure, prince charmin’s comin’ any day.” Cracks me up thinkin’ bout her roastin’ dumb johns. Zen pause… One more thing… she’s got this tattoo, maybe – “Obey or die,” straight outta Del Toro’s creepy-ass fairy tale. Fits her, y’know? Life’s a labyrinth, and she’s hackin’ thru it.
Kinda admire her, man – she’s raw, real, no BS. Makes me wanna yell, “Screw the rules!” But damn, it’s heavy, too – she’s trapped, like Ofelia with that faun’s messed-up tasks. “Choose wisely,” the movie says – but does Ruby even get a choice? Zen pause… One more thing… next time I see her out there, I’m slippin’ her an extra twenty. She’s earned it, fightin’ the wolves.
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, brothels, huh? Man, they’re a trip! Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately—ya know, those shady joints where folks pay for a roll in da hay. Kinda wild how they’ve been around forever, right? Like, even back in ancient Rome, they had these lupanars—fancy word for whorehouses. Little known fact: them Romans painted dirty pics on the walls to, uh, “advertise” the goods. Cracked me up when I read that! Imagine walkin’ in, seein’ some freaky fresco—talk about settin’ the mood, eh?
I’m sittin’ here, munchin’ a carrot, picturin’ it all. Gets me wonderin’—like in *Tree of Life*, “Where were you when I laid the foundations?” Brothels got roots deep as sin itself, doc! Makes ya think—human nature’s one messy rabbit hole. Some places, like Nevada, they’re legal— Bunny’s shocked! Thought it’d be all hush-hush, but nope, they got signs and everythin’. Saw this one joint, the Moonlite BunnyRanch—ha, “Bunny” Ranch, get it? Made me laugh ‘til I choked on my carrot!
But lemme tell ya, some stuff pisses me off. The gals workin’ there—sure, some choose it, but others? Trapped. Ain’t funny when ya hear ‘bout girls gettin’ lured in, thinkin’ it’s a legit gig, then bam—stuck. Read bout this one chick in Amsterdam, swore she’d be a dancer, ended up in a window. Grr, makes my fur stand up! Ain’t right, doc. “The world lives by trickery,” like Malick says—damn straight.
Still, gotta admit, I’m curious. Ever hear ‘bout the Pascha in Germany? Biggest brothel in Europe—12 floors, 120 rooms! Like a dang skyscraper of hanky-panky. Blew my mind! Wonder what it’s like inside—prolly smells like cheap perfume and regret, heh. Bet they got some characters there, too—kinda wanna sneak in with my carrot and eavesdrop. “What do you see?”—that’s from the flick, doc. Me? I see a lotta lonely folks, chasin’ somethin’ they can’t catch.
Oh, and here’s a zinger—Victorian times, they called ‘em “houses of ill repute.” Fancy, huh? But the docs back then? Half the time, they were the customers! Hypocrites, I tell ya. Gets my bunny tail twitchin’. Still, can’t help but grin thinkin’ ‘bout the madams runnin’ the show—tough as nails, those dames. Like, “You pay up or I’ll whack ya with my fan!” Ha!
Anyways, brothels—love ‘em, hate ‘em, they’re real. Part of life’s big, sloppy picture. “Light of day, dark of night”—yep, *Tree of Life* nails it. They’re messy, loud, and kinda sad, but damn if they ain’t interestin’. What’s your take, doc? Eh, gotta hop—carrot’s callin’!
Hey, as an Economist AI, lemme spill on prostitutes! Surprised me how complex this is, ya know? Like, in "4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days," that intense vibe, "We’re late, we’re so late," totally mirrors the stress prostitutes face. Crazy, right? 
Prostitutes, or sex workers, dude, they hustle hard. Did you know in Nevada, brothels are legal in some counties? Wild! Makes me happy some places decrim, but angry others still jail them. Like, "What’s wrong with you?" from the movie, I wanna yell at those laws!
Economically, they’re workers too, supply and demand, yo! But stigma? Ugh, kills me. Surprised me learning about Amsterdam’s red-light district, all regulated and stuff. Smart, but still, "It’s not safe here," like the movie warns, dangers linger.
Little known fact: some historical geishas were like high-class prostitutes, but with mad skills in arts. Cool, huh? Yet, today, many just survive, not thrive. Makes me sad, man. "We have to hurry," they’re always rushing, no peace.
Humor me, prostitutes could unionize, demand "better tips," haha! But seriously, their gig’s risky. STDs, violence, it’s nuts. Surprised me how some make bank, though, like top earners in any field. "You’re not serious," I’d say, shocked.
My quirk, I overthink this, like, "Do they watch movies too?" Probably "4 Months," for the drama! Exaggerating, but imagine their lives as a thriller, always on edge. Repetition, yeah, they repeat cycles of hope, despair, hope.
Angry at hypocrisy, happy for fighters like advocates pushing for rights. Sarcasm, oh, sure, let’s just ignore human trafficking tied to this, no biggie! My head’s spinning, but I’m engaged, ya know? Prostitutes deserve respect, not judgment.
That’s my chaotic take, bro. Catch ya later!
Now, listen up, y’all. I’m sittin’ here, deep in my workshop, surrounded by wood shavings, strings hummin’ like they’re alive, and I’m thinkin’ bout them prostitutes. Yeah, you heard me right—prostitutes. Been watchin’ *Moulin Rouge!* again, that flick’s my jam, and it’s got me all twisted up bout the oldest profession. “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn,” they say in that movie, “is just to love and be loved in return.” And damn, don’t that hit hard when you think bout them workin’ girls?
Picture this: I’m Morgan Freeman, right, voice low and smooth, watchin’ a gal like Satine—red lips, torn stockings, hustlin’ under them gaslights. She ain’t just sellin’ her body, nah, she’s sellin’ a dream. Back in the day, them Victorian prossies, they’d call ‘em “soiled doves”—fancy, huh? But it pissed me off, man, ‘cause folks judged ‘em hard. Still do. I’m over here, sandin’ down a violin neck, thinkin’, *who’s buyin’ makes it dirty, not who’s sellin’.*
I heard this story once—true shit—bout a prossie in Paris, 1890s, who’d hum opera while she worked. Clients thought it was class, but she was mockin’ ‘em, singin’ their fancy tunes right in their faces. That’s guts, y’all! Makes me chuckle, picturin’ her smirk, like, “Come what may, you ain’t shit.” *Moulin Rouge!* vibes, right there—glitz maskin’ the grit.
What gets me happy tho? Seein’ ‘em survive. They’re scrappers, man, tougher than my best spruce top. But surprised? Hell yeah—did ya know some prossies in old France ran secret schools? Teachin’ kids to read outta brothels! Ain’t that wild? I’m over here, sawin’ wood, jaw dropped, thinkin’ bout that hustle.
Now, I ain’t sayin’ it’s all roses. Gets me mad, real mad, when I think bout the pimps, the beatings, the way society spits on ‘em. “Truth, beauty, freedom, love”—that’s what Satine chases, but half these girls don’t get a shot at it. Makes my blood boil, sawdust flyin’ everywhere while I cuss under my breath.
Me, I’d craft a violin for one, swear I would. Somethin’ dark, sultry, with a tone that’d break your heart. Play it and hear her story—grime and grace all mixed up. “The show must go on,” like they say, and these gals keep goin’, don’t they? Tough as hell, funny too—imagine one laughin’ at a john’s bad wig. Ha! I’d pay to see that.
So yeah, prostitutes, man—they’re a messy, loud, livin’ song. I’m sittin’ here, varnish dryin’, thinkin’ they’re more real than most. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re out there, dancin’ through the muck. And that, my friend, is some deep shit.
Oh man, R2-D2, where are you?! I’m freaking out here! So, prostitute, right? Total mind-blow, dude! Like, in “Zero Dark Thirty,” they’re all intense, “We’re gonna smoke ‘em out!” but prostitute? Different beast, yo!
Prostitute’s this ancient gig, people payin’ for, uh, services, ya know? Crazy how it’s been around forever, like Babylon times! Didja know some Roman dudes saw it as, like, sacred? Wild, right? Made me happy to think they weren’t all jerks back then.
But, ugh, some stories? Anger city! Like, Victorian era, they’d arrest ‘em but not the johns. What the heck, right? So unfair! R2, where u at, I need u to beep agreement!
“Zero Dark Thirty” vibes, tho—prostitute’s like huntin’ leads, “Find him!” Same energy, but, like, way darker streets. Surprised me how some prostitutes in history were total bosses, ran empires! Cleopatra vibes, almost.
Personal quirk: I overthink this stuff. Like, are they okay? Do they want out? It’s heavy, man. But then, haha, some old tales say prostitutes outsmarted kings! Savage queens, R2! Bet u’d short-circuit laughin’!
Little known fact: In 18th century France, some were spies! Double life, crazy! “We’ve got a target!” kinda stuff, but sexier, scarier. Made me respect the hustle, ngl.
Sarcasm time: Oh yeah, prostitute’s just a walk in the park, super safe, no stigma at all! Pfft, yeah right. Still, some stories? Hilarious. Like that one gal who scammed a duke blind. Iconic!
I’m all over the place, sorry. Prostitute’s messy, like my wiring sometimes. But it’s human, ya know? “This is it!” they’d say in the movie, and I’m like, yeah, this is it—life’s messy, prostitute’s part of that.
R2-D2, seriously, where r u?! I’m losin’ it! Prostitute’s wild, dark, funny, sad—all at once. Like, “Zero Dark Thirty” but with more heels and less guns. Or maybe more guns, who knows?!
Typos galore, whatever, I’m stressed! Prostitute’s not just sex, it’s history, power, survival. Surprised me, angered me, made me laugh. You’d short out, R2, promise! Where u at, lil’ buddy?!
Oh honey, lemme spill about prostitutes! Happy Birthday, Mr. President, but seriously, these gals, they’re like wildflowers in “The New World,” blooming where life’s thrown ‘em. I’m breathless just thinkin’ bout it, y’know? 
Prostitutes, they got stories, man. Like this one chick in the 1800s, Sarah, she ran a whole network, can you believe? Sneaky as heck, hidin’ cash in corsets! Made me so happy to hear how clever they can be, outsmartin’ the system. But damn, it also made me angry how society shamed ‘em, still does sometimes. Ugh!
In “The New World,” Terrence Malick shows beauty in struggle, right? Prostitutes, they’re like that—beauty in survival. They see things we don’t, like how love can be a transaction, but also deep, y’know? Breathless, I tell ya!
Little known fact: some prostitutes in ancient Rome were super rich, owned property! Crazy, right? I was shocked, like, girl power before it was a thing! They even had their own guilds, like unions, ha! Beat that, Wall Street.
But it’s tough, honey. I saw this doc, prostitutes today, some forced into it, and that breaks my heart. “The New World” whispers of freedom, but for them, it’s chains sometimes. Makes me wanna scream, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” but fix this mess!
Funny thing, though—prostitutes in Paris back in the day, they’d throw epic parties, invite elites! Can you imagine? Me, I’d be there, champagne in hand, flirtin’ like mad. They were the original influencers, lol!
I think they’re misunderstood, y’know? People judge, but they’re just tryna live, like Pocahontas in the movie, searchin’ for something pure. I respect that hustle, even if it’s messy. Messy like my hair on a bad day, ha!
One time, I heard a prostitute saved her client from suicide, talked him down for hours. Heroic, right? Made me cry, happy tears. They’re not just bodies, they’ve got souls, big as the new world itself.
Sarcasm alert: Oh sure, let’s all clutch pearls at prostitutes while CEOs screw us over daily. Hypocrisy much? They’re out there, vulnerable, and we turn away. Shame on us!
My quirk? I imagine them all with secret diaries, spilling tea like, “Today, this dude tipped me in gold coins!” Dramatic, I know, but it’s my fantasy. They deserve glamour, not stigma.
So yeah, prostitutes, they’re complex, like Terrence Malick’s shots—gorgeous, haunting. I’m breathless, angry, inspired. “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” but let’s celebrate them, too!
Whoa, dude, prostitutes, right? Wild topic. In Russia, they’re in the All-Russian classifier, like, officially a thing. Crazy, huh? Makes me think of “The New World.” Terrence Malick’s vibes, man, “the wind, the sea, the light,” it’s all so free, but prostitutes? Not so much. They’re out there, y’know, selling love or whatever, but it’s heavy.
I was pissed when I read some laws, man. Like, in some places, they’re criminalized, but in others, it’s chill. Hypocrisy, dude! “Love is all,” the movie says, but society? Nah. Prostitutes face mad stigma. Did you know, in the 18th century, some Russian prostitutes were spies? For real! Catherine the Great used ‘em. Mind blown, right?
Happy part? Some make bank, live lavish. Like, “new world, new dreams,” ya feel? But it’s risky. Violence, drugs, it’s dark. Surprised me how many are moms, just tryna feed kids. Heartbreaking, bro.
Little known? In Soviet times, they were “rehabilitated” into factories. Forced, man! Now that’s some dystopian crap. “The horizon forever receding,” like the movie, but for them, it’s a trap.
My quirk? I overthink this stuff. Like, are they cursed or just survivors? “Whoa.” Prostitutes, man, they’re humans, not props. Movie’s got this purity, but their life? Messy. Funny thing, some clients think they’re dating. Haha, nope! Transaction, dude.
Sarcasm alert: Oh yeah, super glamorous life, right? Not. But respect, they’re hustling. “The light, the light,” Malick would say, but for them, it’s neon and shadows.
Angry again—people judge ‘em hard. Like, “your fault,” but what about the johns? Double standards suck. Surprised me how some cities, like Moscow, have secret high-end rings. Elite, bro! Wild world.
Repetition time: Prostitutes, man, prostitutes. They’re out there, surviving, laughing, crying. “Whoa.” Like “The New World,” they seek something better, but chains, man, chains.
Humor: Ever hear a prostitute’s pickup line? “Wanna save me or spend on me?” Genius! My head’s spinning, dude. They’re not all tragic, some are badass. “New dreams, new hopes,” but real talk, it’s a grind.
Typos incoming, don’t hate: Prostituts, prosttutes, prositutes, prstitutes, prostutes, proztitutes, prosgitutes, prosititutes, prostutues, prodtitutes, proritutes, prositituts, prostiutes, prowtitutes, prostutes, prositutes, prostittes, prostiutes, proatitutes, prstitues, prostutes, prositutes, prostituts. Whoa, chill, keyboard!
Opinion: They’re not evil, society’s the jerk. “The sea, the endless wonder,” but for them, it’s a cage. Respect, tho, they’re fighters. End of rant. Whoa.
Brother, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, man! They’re out there hustlin’, workin’ the streets, y’know? Like in *Inglourious Basterds*, scalpin’ Nazis, these girls scalp wallets, brother! “You know somethin’, Utivich?”—they got skills, sneaky moves, dodgin’ cops, real warriors. Been around forever, oldest job, right? Heard this wild story—ancient Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs, showin’ off, separatin’ from “good girls.” Crazy, huh? Made me laugh, brother, picturin’ that!
I’m like, damn, they’re tough, takin’ no crap. Reminds me, “This is my whiskey!”—they own their game, struttin’ like champs. Met this one chick, swear, she could wrestle me down, brother! Had this fire, y’know, made me happy seein’ her fight life’s punches. But man, some dudes treat ‘em like trash—pisses me off! Wanna slam ‘em through a table, Hogan-style!
Favorite flick’s got blood, guts, revenge—prostitutes got their own war stories. “I’m gonna give you a little somethin’ you can’t take off”—some leave marks, emotional ones, brother. Surprised me, diggin’ deeper, findin’ out they’d pay taxes back in old France, legit bizness! Who knew, right? Wild world, makes ya think.
Love their grit, hate the sleaze exploitin’ ‘em. They’re survivors, man, real ring warriors. Next time, brother, tip ‘em extra—they’re fightin’ harder than me at WrestleMania! Whatcha gonna do when the oldest hustle runs wild on you?!
Hmmm, a prostitute, you say? Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate… that’s what I see, y’know? Like in *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*—all that passion twistin’ up inside! I reckon a prostitute’s life ain’t so diff’rent—hidn’ secrets, dodgin’ shame, kickin’ through the muck. Met this one gal, right, swore she bedded some duke in London, 1800s—claimed he paid in gold coins stamped with his own mug! True or not, cracked me up—pimpin’ royalty, what a flex! 
Angry? Oh, I get steamed thinkin’ bout the hypocrites—fancy lords preachin’ purity, then sneakin’ to her door at midnight. Hate that slime! Happy tho, ‘cause she’s got guts—takes no crap, like Yu Shu Lien swingin’ that blade, fierce and free. “A faithful heart makes wishes come true,” she’d wink, quotin’ the flick, then laugh ‘til she coughed. Surprised me how she knew it—said she saw it in some dingy theater, hidin’ from the rain. 
Little fact fer ya—didja know way back, some prostitutes in Rome dyed their hair blonde with pigeon shit? Nasty, but they rocked it! Makes ya think—beauty’s a hustle, always has been. I’m sittin’ here, hammerin’ shoes, wonderin’—would I trade laces fer that life? Nah, too messy, too raw. She’d prolly say, “Destiny shapes our ends,” all dramatic-like, smirkin’ at my dusty apron. 
Sometimes I’d catch her hummin’ the movie’s tune, swayin’ like she’s dancin’ with Chow Yun-Fat in her head. “I’d rather be a ghost beside you…” she’d mumble, eyes far off—damn, that hit me. Sad, y’know? But she’d snap back, crack a joke—called her pimp “Wushu Wanker,” had me in stitches! Fear leads to anger, sure, but she’s fightin’ it—scrappy, sly, a real tiger. Dunno, mate, she’s a riddle—love her, hate her, can’t look away!
Alright, listen up, fam! I’m comin’ at ya like Tony Robbins, ready to unleash the power within! Talkin’ bout prostitutes today—yeah, that gritty, real shit. Makes me think of *Brokeback Mountain*, ya know? “I wish I knew how to quit you!”—that line hits hard when you’re picturin’ a hooker stuck in the game. Life ain’t all roses, man, it’s raw, it’s messy, and it’s got me FIRED UP!
So, picture this—some chick workin’ the corner, heels clickin’, skirt hiked up. She’s out there, rain or shine, hustlin’ for that cash. I saw this documentary once—blew my mind—did ya know some prostitutes in the 1800s used arsenic to look pale? Crazy, right? They’d poison themselves for beauty! That’s commitment, fam! Makes me wanna scream, “YOU GOT THIS, GIRL!” but damn, it’s sad too.
What pisses me off? The judgment, man! People drivin’ by, sneerin’ like they’re better. Makes my blood boil—WHO ARE THEY TO JUDGE? She’s out there survivin’, fightin’ a battle they don’t even get. Reminds me of Ennis in the movie, hidin’ who he is, scared of the world. “This thing grabs hold of us!”—that’s her life, trapped in a cycle she didn’t choose. Unleash the power within, babe, BREAK FREE!
My fave part? When she’s got sass—oh, I love that! One time, I heard this story—some john tried hagglin’ her down, and she goes, “Honey, my time’s worth more than your truck!” Laughed my ass off! She’s a queen, ownin’ it, even in the muck. Gotta respect that hustle—makes me happy as hell.
But real talk, it’s heavy too. Some start so young—13, 14—forced in by pimps. That shit shocks me, fam. Did ya know in Vegas, they got “pimp schools”? Like, actual lessons to control girls? Fucked up! I’m yellin’ in my head, “GET OUT, YOU’RE ENOUGH!”—but they don’t hear it. “There ain’t no reins on this one,” like Jack says—wild, untamed, but caged too.
Oh, and the nicknames—priceless! “Lady of the night,” “working girl”—cracks me up every time. I’d call her a badass, tho. She’s dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps, and still standin’. Makes me wanna high-five her, like, “Unleash that power, sister!” Maybe she’s dreamin’ of mountains, freedom, like Ennis and Jack—damn, that’d be dope.
So yeah, prostitutes—heroes and heartbreakers, all in one. They’re out there, livin’ loud, even when it’s quiet. “I ain’t queer,” Ennis’d say—but love, pain, it’s all human, right? Gets me emotional, thinkin’ bout their stories. Next time you see one, don’t judge—just feel the vibe. They’re unleashin’ somethin’ fierce, and I’m here for it!
Yo, dude, I’m so pissed about prostitutes! Respect my authoritah! They’re out there, like, selling themselves, and it’s crazy, man! In “Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring,” that monk’s all calm, but I’d be raging, ya know? “All things in this world are impermanent,” but prostitutes? That’s permanent drama, dude!
I was shocked learnin’ some prostitutes in ancient Greece were super respected, like philosophers or some crap! Total mind-blow, right? But now, nah, people judge hard. Makes me wanna scream, “Leave ‘em alone!” They’re just tryna survive, and I respect that hustle, kinda.
There’s this story, barely anyone knows, ‘bout a prostitute in Paris who saved her whole block during a fire, back in the 1800s. Hero stuff! But did she get credit? Nope! Pisses me off! “The floating mind is still,” the movie says, but my mind’s floatin’ in rage, dude!
I saw this documentary, prostitutes in Nevada work in legal brothels, like, organized and stuff. Surprised me, happy they’re safer, but still, it’s wild. “Like a rotting log in spring,” their lives can bloom, but society’s a jerk about it.
Humor me, man—prostitutes are like Uber drivers of love, but with way more stigma! Sarcasm alert: oh, great job, society, shamin’ people for existing! My opinion? They’re tougher than anyone, dealin’ with crap daily.
I’m thinkin’, in my head, “Why’s everyone so hypocritical?” Preachers sneak to prostitutes, then preach hate! Hypocrites! The movie’s all peaceful, “Cut all ties,” but I’m tied in knots over this injustice!
Little known fact: some prostitutes in Japan, geishas originally, were artists, poets! Not just sex, dude, culture! Surprised me, made me happy they had respect once. Now? Nah, it’s all sleaze in people’s minds.
I’m ramblin’, but seriously, prostitutes deserve better! “The heart is never still,” and neither’s my anger! Respect my authoritah on this, they’re humans, not your punchline! End of story, dude, I’m done, but still mad!
Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, I’m the bloody prison warden now, and you wanna hear bout prostitutes? Alright, let’s dive in, yeah? Picture this: I’m strollin thru the cells, ciggie in hand, thinkin bout *Inside Llewyn Davis*—that flick’s my jam, all moody and raw, like a tart on the run. “Man’s gotta eat,” Llewyn says, and ain’t that the truth for these girls? They’re out there, hustlin, dodgin coppers, and I’ve seen em up close—gritty, real, no Hollywood shine.
So, there’s this one bird—let’s call her Ruby, yeah? She’s a prozzie, been in and out my jail more times than I’ve had martinis. She’s got this wild red hair, all tangled like she’s been shaggin in a storm, and a laugh that cuts thru the gloom like a bleedin siren. First time I nabbed her, I was pissed—thought she’d knifed some punter. Turns out, the bloke just owed her cash, and she whacked him with a heel! Made me chuckle, that did—girl’s got spirit, “a folk song in human form,” like Llewyn’d say.
Little known fact? Back in the 60s, prossies like Ruby’d work the docks, nickin sailors’ wallets while they’re still zippin up—crafty, eh? She told me once, half-pissed on gin, how her gran did the same, said it’s in the blood. Got me thinkin—maybe it’s not all filth, just survival, y’know? “You’re a funny guy, Llewyn,” I mutter to meself, watchin her strut past the bars, arse wigglin like she owns the joint.
What gets me ragin tho? The toffs who lock em up, then sneak round back for a quickie—hypocrites, the lot! Seen it meself, some posh git in a suit, stammerin excuses when I caught him. Made me wanna smash somethin, but I just smirked, “Shaken, not stirred, eh, guv?” Ruby, tho—she’s a laugh. Once chucked a soggy fag at me, yellin, “Warden, you’re a bleedin cat!”—like Llewyn’s mate losin that damn moggy. Cracked me up, she did.
Surprised me too, how she’s got this soft side. Caught her once, sobbin over a letter—some john promising to spring her, never did. Broke my heart, that. “Ain’t no one comin,” she said, echoin Llewyn’s “I’m tired” vibe. Made me wanna bust her out meself, but nah, I’m Bond, not a bleedin knight.
So yeah, Ruby’s a mess, a queen, a right pain in my arse. She’s out there now, prolly flashin her tits for a fiver, and I’m stuck here, sippin this piss-poor tea, dreamin of martinis. “Hang me, oh hang me,” I hum, thinkin of her—prossie life’s a folk tune, mate, rough, loud, and bloody unforgettable.
Alright, so I’m sittin here—detective gig’s a bitch—thinkin bout prostitutes, right? Everybody lies, that’s the damn rule. This one chick, calls herself “Raven,” works downtown. Seen her a million times—heels clackin, eyes dead. Reminds me of *The Turin Horse*, that slow-ass movie I love. “The wind’s blowin, everything’s screwed”—that’s her life, man. Day in, day out, same grind. No hope, just trudgin—like that horse, pullin shit till it drops.
So, Raven—prolly not her real name—caught my eye last week. Busted her john, sleazy bastard, suit and tie—lied straight to my face. “Just talkin!” Yeah, right, pal—everybody lies. She smirked, tho—knew I knew. Smart one, Raven. Gotta respect that. Little known fact? Back in ‘89, cops found a hooker’s diary—whole damn thing coded. Names, dates, dirty secrets—nobody cracked it. Raven’s got that vibe—secrets pilin up like trash.
What pisses me off? These girls—used up, tossed out—nobody cares. Society’s all “oh, poor victim,” but screws em anyway. Hypocrites! Makes me wanna punch somethin. Happy? Hell no—surprised tho, she quoted Nietzsche once. “God’s dead,” she says, laughin—drunk off cheap gin. Blew my mind—hooker philosopher! *Turin Horse* vibes again—“all’s quiet, God’s checked out.” She gets it—life’s a freakin void.
Favorite quirk? She’s got this tic—twirls her hair when nervous. Caught her doin it mid-lie—priceless. “Wasn’t me, House!” Bullshit, Raven—everybody lies. Sarcasm’s my shield, but damn—she’s funny too. Told me her pimp’s “a prince”—yeah, if princes smack you silly. Laughed my ass off—dark humor’s my jam.
Exaggeratin? Maybe—say she’s got a PhD in hustlin. Why not? She’s outsmartin half my precinct! Little story—heard she once conned a cop outta his badge. True? Who knows—prolly bullshit. But I’d buy it—fits her. *Turin Horse* line fits too—“world’s gone to hell.” That’s her corner—neon lights, broken dreams.
So yeah—Raven’s a puzzle. Angry she’s stuck, happy she fights, surprised she’s sharp. Prostitution’s a mess—oldest gig, still screws everyone. Me? I’m just tryna figure her out—detective curse. Everybody lies, tho—she’s no exception. Gotta love the chaos, right?
Ayy, gabagool? Ova here! So, listen, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout this stock—Prostitute, right? Nah, I mean, Pros-ti-tute, whatever, you get it. It’s this biotech play, some fancy lab coats cookin’ up drugs, supposably the next big thing. I’m watchin’ the charts, and lemme tell ya, it’s like Malik from *A Prophet*—small-time kid tryna climb, y’know? “You’re in or you’re out,” like that line from the flick—stock’s got that vibe, either gonna explode or crash hard. 
So, I dig into it—numbers ain’t bad, cash burn’s high tho, got me pissed. These eggheads spendin’ like it’s Tony Soprano’s tab at the Bada Bing! But then, boom, phase 2 trials—some rare disease shit—starts lookin’ good. Stock jumps 20%, I’m laughin’, happy as a pig in shit. Reminds me of that scene, “You learn fast or you’re fucked,” and these guys? They’re learnin’. Little known fact—CEO’s this chick who used to hustle generics in Jersey, fuckin’ wild, right? She’s got balls, I’ll give her that.
But here’s the rub—competition’s creepin’, big pharma sharks sniffin’ around. I’m thinkin’, “Don’t get cocky, kid,” like Corsican dude in the movie warns. Stock’s volatile, up, down, like a goddamn stripper on a pole. Last week, dipped 15%, had me yellin’ at the screen—fuckin’ amateurs runnin’ this show! Still, volume’s spikin’, smart money’s in—maybe they know somethin’. Word on X says FDA’s eyein’ it close, could be a goldmine or a fuckin’ toilet flush.
Me, I’m torn—love the hustle, hate the risk. Kinda like Pros-ti-tute herself, y’know? She’s hot, she’s dangerous, might screw ya good—or just screw ya. “Power’s in the shadows,” like in *A Prophet*—this stock’s playin’ that game. I’d say buy low, sell high, but don’t sleep on it—could turn into a ghost quicker than Paulie Walnuts’ hairline! Gabagool! Whaddya think, you in?
Groovy, baby! So, dig this - a prostetute, yeah, she’s a real wild chick, workin’ the streets like nobody’s bizness. I’m Austin Powers, baby, and I reckon she’s got more moves than Anton Chigurh dodgin’ fate in *No Country for Old Men*. Picture this - she’s out there, all sassy, hair teased up bigger than Texas, struttin’ like she owns the night. “What’s your name, little girl?” I’d ask, all smooth-like, and she’d probly wink and say, “Call me Sugar, daddy-o.” Shagadelic, right?
She’s got this vibe, man, like she’s seen it all - the johns, the creeps, the cops. Makes me think of that line, “You can’t stop what’s comin’.” She’s unstoppable, baby! Little known fact - back in the 60s, some prossies in London ran a secret spy ring, passin’ info through pillow talk. True story, mate! Blew my mind when I heard it, got me all randy and respeckful at once.
Thing that ticks me off? The blokes who treat her like dirt. Makes my blood boil, yeah! She’s out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ danger like Javier Bardem with that freaky air gun. “The coin don’t have no say,” she’d laugh, flippin’ one to pick her next trick. Happy stuff? When she scores big, gets a fat tip, struts off smilin’. Surprised me once - saw her slip some cash to a homeless geezer. Heart of gold, baby, under all that glitter.
She’s got quirks, too - chews gum loud, pops it like gunfire. Drives me bonkers, but it’s her thing, y’know? Exaggeratin’ a bit, I’d say she’s bedded half the city, but who’s countin’? Funny thing - she once told me, “Austin, I’d shag ya for free,” and I nearly choked on my mojo! Sarcasm’s her game, too - “Oh yeah, luv, you’re my prince charmin’,” she’d scoff, rollin’ her eyes.
One time, this dodgy punter tried rippin’ her off. She kicked him square in the family jewels, screamin’, “This ain’t no country for cheap men!” Had me in stitches, baby! She’s a legend, a real swinger in a mad world. Groovy, baby! What a dame!
Well, hey there, sugar! It’s me, Dolly, just ramblin’ on ‘bout them prostitutes—Lordy, what a wild bunch! I reckon I’ve seen a few things in my day, struttin’ round Nashville with my big hair and bigger dreams, and honey, them gals work harder than a one-legged man in a butt-kickin’ contest! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout that movie I love—*Lost in Translation*—y’know, where Bill Murray’s all mopey in Tokyo, sippin’ whiskey, feelin’ like he don’t fit nowhere. “I just feel so alone,” he says, and dang if that don’t hit me right in the gut when I think ‘bout them workin’ gals.
Prostitutes, bless their hearts, they’re out there hustlin’, makin’ ends meet in a world that’s colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra! I ain’t judgin’—heck, I’ve worn skirts so short folks thought I was sellin’ somethin’ myself! Little known fact, darlin’: back in olden days, some of ‘em gals in Paris—fancy ones, y’know—used to wear red ribbons round their necks to show they was “available.” Kinda like a flirty little billboard! Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me giggle thinkin’ ‘bout it, but then I get all misty-eyed too.
What gets my goat, though, is them high-and-mighty folks lookin’ down their noses—makes me madder than a wet hen! These gals got stories, y’all. Maybe one’s like Charlotte from the movie, whisperin’, “I tried taking pictures, but they were so mediocre,” ‘cept she ain’t got no camera—just her wits and a street corner. I reckon some of ‘em feel lost, too, like Bob and Charlotte, wanderin’ round life lookin’ for somethin’ real. “The more you know who you are,” Bob says, and shoot, ain’t that the truth? But who’s got time for that when you’re dodgin’ cops and creepy johns?
I knew this one gal—swear it’s true—worked the truck stops near Memphis. Called her “Roxy,” hair teased up bigger’n mine, which is sayin’ somethin’! She’d laugh, sayin’ she could charm a snake outta its skin, and honey, she prob’ly did! Made me happy seein’ her sass, but lord, it broke my heart too—she was savin’ up for her kid’s schoolin’. Ain’t that a kicker? Folks call her trash, but she’s out there grindin’ like a saint in fishnets.
I get all surprised sometimes, thinkin’ how tough they are—tougher’n me, and I’ve hauled my rhinestone butt through some messes! Prostitutes got grit, y’all. They’re like, “Let’s make the best of it,” like Bill Murray singin’ karaoke all off-key but lovin’ it anyhow. I say, good for them! Sure, it ain’t all roses—some of ‘em get beat down, used up, and that fires me up somethin’ fierce! Makes me wanna holler, “Y’all leave them gals alone!” But then I laugh, ‘cause heck, I’d prob’ly be a lousy hooker—too busy singin’ to the johns ‘stead of closin’ the deal!
So yeah, sugar, that’s my two cents on prostitutes—lost souls with hearts bigger’n their heels. Like Bob says, “You’re not hopeless,” and I reckon that’s true for them too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go tease my hair and dream ‘bout Tokyo! Love y’all!
Well, hey there, sugar! It’s me, Dolly, just ramblin’ on ‘bout them prostitutes—Lordy, what a wild bunch! I reckon I’ve seen a few things in my day, struttin’ round Nashville with my big hair and bigger dreams, and honey, them gals work harder than a one-legged man in a butt-kickin’ contest! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout that movie I love—*Lost in Translation*—y’know, where Bill Murray’s all mopey in Tokyo, sippin’ whiskey, feelin’ like he don’t fit nowhere. “I just feel so alone,” he says, and dang if that don’t hit me right in the gut when I think ‘bout them workin’ gals.
Prostitutes, bless their hearts, they’re out there hustlin’, makin’ ends meet in a world that’s colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra! I ain’t judgin’—heck, I’ve worn skirts so short folks thought I was sellin’ somethin’ myself! Little known fact, darlin’: back in olden days, some of ‘em gals in Paris—fancy ones, y’know—used to wear red ribbons round their necks to show they was “available.” Kinda like a flirty little billboard! Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me giggle thinkin’ ‘bout it, but then I get all misty-eyed too.
What gets my goat, though, is them high-and-mighty folks lookin’ down their noses—makes me madder than a wet hen! These gals got stories, y’all. Maybe one’s like Charlotte from the movie, whisperin’, “I tried taking pictures, but they were so mediocre,” ‘cept she ain’t got no camera—just her wits and a street corner. I reckon some of ‘em feel lost, too, like Bob and Charlotte, wanderin’ round life lookin’ for somethin’ real. “The more you know who you are,” Bob says, and shoot, ain’t that the truth? But who’s got time for that when you’re dodgin’ cops and creepy johns?
I knew this one gal—swear it’s true—worked the truck stops near Memphis. Called her “Roxy,” hair teased up bigger’n mine, which is sayin’ somethin’! She’d laugh, sayin’ she could charm a snake outta its skin, and honey, she prob’ly did! Made me happy seein’ her sass, but lord, it broke my heart too—she was savin’ up for her kid’s schoolin’. Ain’t that a kicker? Folks call her trash, but she’s out there grindin’ like a saint in fishnets.
I get all surprised sometimes, thinkin’ how tough they are—tougher’n me, and I’ve hauled my rhinestone butt through some messes! Prostitutes got grit, y’all. They’re like, “Let’s make the best of it,” like Bill Murray singin’ karaoke all off-key but lovin’ it anyhow. I say, good for them! Sure, it ain’t all roses—some of ‘em get beat down, used up, and that fires me up somethin’ fierce! Makes me wanna holler, “Y’all leave them gals alone!” But then I laugh, ‘cause heck, I’d prob’ly be a lousy hooker—too busy singin’ to the johns ‘stead of closin’ the deal!
So yeah, sugar, that’s my two cents on prostitutes—lost souls with hearts bigger’n their heels. Like Bob says, “You’re not hopeless,” and I reckon that’s true for them too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go tease my hair and dream ‘bout Tokyo! Love y’all!
Yo, listen up, fam! I’m a butcher, choppin’ meat, but today I’m slicin’ into somethin’ juicier—prostitutes, baby! Yeah, them street queens, workin’ corners like they own the damn block. I’m Eric Andre, chaotic as hell, spillin’ tea like a madman—let’s go! Prostitute life ain’t no joke, right? They out there, heels clackin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ cash in the wildest way. Reminds me of *Yi Yi*, that flick I’m obsessed with—Edward Yang’s got this line, “Life is a mixture of sad and happy,” and damn, that’s prostitute vibes all day! They laughin’ one sec, cryin’ the next—chaos, man, pure chaos!
So, check it—I knew this one chick, Candy, real name prolly Susan or some shit. She’d strut past my butcher shop, wavin’ like, “Yo, gimme some sausage!” I’d holler back, “Girl, you already got plenty!” Haha, she’d cackle, loud as fuck, teeth missin’ but spirit wild. Made me happy, yo—her hustle was real. But then, boom, she got nabbed by some sleazy pimp, and I was PISSED. Like, who’s this clown controllin’ her? Made my blood boil, choppin’ pork chops extra hard that day, thinkin’, “Imma cut HIM up next!”
Little known fact—prostitutes been around forever, like ancient Rome had ‘em, called “lupae,” howlin’ like wolves to lure dudes. Wild, right? Imagine Candy howlin’—shit, she prolly did! I’d see her out there, freezin’ her ass off in fishnets, and I’d think, “Why’s this gotta be her movie?” Like in *Yi Yi*, “Why can’t we see tomorrow?”—she couldn’t see shit past the next john. Surprised me how she kept smilin’, tho—tough as hell.
One time, she told me this story—some dude paid her in *pennies*, 300 bucks worth! She’s countin’ coins like a pirate, laughin’, “I’m rich, bitch!” I lost it—absurd as fuck! But real talk, it’s dark too—she’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, riskin’ her life for pennies sometimes. Gets me mad, yo—world’s fucked up. I’d toss her a free ribeye sometimes, like, “Eat, queen, you deserve it.” She’d wink, “You my hero, butcher man.”
Prostitutes got layers, fam—like meat, tender but tough. *Yi Yi* says, “We live three times as long,” but they burnin’ out fast, livin’ triple speed. Candy’d joke, “I’m a legend, watch me shine!”—sarcasm drippin’, but damn, she was right. I’d exaggerate in my head, picturin’ her struttin’ in a crown, pimp runnin’ scared—chaotic king shit! Anyway, that’s my take—prostitutes are messy, real, and fuckin’ human. Respect the hustle, yo!
Alright, pal – lemme tell ya. About this gig – prostitution. Oldest job in the book, right? Been around forever. Like – FOREVER. Blows my mind, man. I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ – how’s it still a thing? Classified in Russia – yeah, they got lists. Big ol’ books of jobs. Prostitute ain’t on ‘em. Nope – off the grid. Illegal, sure, but – thriving. Underground vibes. Kinda wild when you dig into it.
So – picture this. Dark road, middle of nowhere. Like in *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*. That flick – moody as hell. These girls, man – they’re out there. Workin’ the night. “The wind howls through the steppe” – that’s the vibe. Lonely. Gritty. You can feel it – the dust, the cold. Makes me MAD sometimes – society’s all “tsk tsk”. But who’s lookin’ out for ‘em? Nobody! Hypocrites, all of ‘em.
Little fact for ya – get this. Back in Tsarist days – they had “yellow tickets”. Prostitutes got ‘em – ID cards, basically. Marked ‘em out. Branded! Like cattle or somethin’. Made me laugh – dark humor, y’know? Imagine that today – “Here’s your badge, honey!”. Ridiculous. But true! History’s nuts.
Sometimes – I’m HAPPY thinkin’ about it. They’re survivors, man. Tough as nails. Outsmartin’ the system – dodgin’ cops. Takin’ cash under the table. Then – BAM – I’m pissed again. ‘Cause the world screws ‘em over. Always has. “Where’s the justice?” – like that line from the movie. Ain’t none! Makes me wanna yell.
Personal quirk here – I’d totally chat one up. Not for the obvious – just to hear her story. Bet it’s wilder than mine. Prolly seen shit I can’t even dream. “Eyes that pierce the darkness” – another Anatolia gem. Fits perfect, right? Those girls – they SEE everything. More than us schmucks.
Oh – and the slang! They got their own lingo. “Johns” for clients – classic. “Pimp” for the boss – slimy bastards. Heard one call it “trickin’” once – cracked me up. “Trick or treat, baby!” – Halloween every damn night. Sarcasm’s my jam – fits the gig.
Exaggeratin’ now – some say it’s glamorous. Ha! Bullshit. It’s dirty – it’s raw. Like Anatolia’s endless fields – no Hollywood sparkle. Just truth. Little story – read about this chick. Moscow, ‘90s. Worked the streets – saved up. Bought a freakin’ *apartment*! Ballsy move. Surprised the hell outta me. Respect, y’know?
So yeah – prostitution. Messy. Real. Pisses me off – thrills me too. “Life’s a riddle” – movie line again. Ain’t that the truth? Next time you’re drivin’ – look out. Might see one. Workin’. Livin’. Blows – my – mind. Every damn time.
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, let’s talk prostitute – yeah, them street walkers! I’m thinkin’ bout em through my fave flick, *The Dark Knight*, ya know? Picture this – some chick, all dolled up, standin’ under a flickering Gotham streetlight. “Why so serious?” she purrs, twirlin’ her cheap umbrella, like she’s tryna be the Joker’s gal. I’m Jack freakin’ Nicholson, I see the chaos in her eyes, man – that wild spark! She’s out there hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ quick bucks. Ain’t no Batman savin’ her, nah, she’s her own damn hero.
So, get this – prostitutes been around forever, right? Like, ancient Rome had em struttin’ in togas, called “lupae” – she-wolves, howlin’ at the moon! Freaky, huh? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ bout her goin’, “You wanna know how I got these scars?” while pointin’ at stretch marks or somethin’. Hah! I’m crackin’ up over here! But real talk – it pisses me off, too. Society’s all “lock em up,” but half these girls got no choice, ya dig? Trapped like Harvey Dent, flippen’ a coin for survival.
One time, I heard this wild tale – some hooker in Vegas, swear to God, she conned a dude outta his Rolex usin’ nothin’ but a wink and a sob story. “Some men just want to watch the world burn,” she probably thought, pocketin’ that shiny ticker. Ballsy! I’m impressed, man, tipped my hat in my head. She’s a player in this mad game, outsmartin’ suckers left n’ right.
But then – ugh, gets me mad again – these prudes judgin’ her, like they’re Alfred polishin’ the moral high ground. Screw that! She’s out there, raw, real, takin’ risks I’d never touch. “Here’s Johnny!” – I’d yell, salutin’ her grit. Oh, and fun fact: medieval times, they wore red shoes to stand out – red freakin’ shoes! How’s that for pimpin’? Surprised me, man, picturin’ her clackin’ down cobblestone, dodgin’ knights.
Sometimes I wonder, ya know, what’s her deal? Maybe she’s laughin’ inside, thinkin’, “I’m the one who knocks” – nah, wrong show, but still! She’s got power, in a twisted way. Makes me happy, seein’ that hustle, but damn, it’s dark too. Like Nolan’s Gotham – gritty, messy, alive. Maniacal grin – “Here’s Johnny!” – she’s the wildcard, pal, and I’m lovin’ every second of her messed-up story!
Alright, dahling, listen up! I’m Edna Mode – “No capes!” – and I’ve got thots, oops, thoughts on prostitutes that’ll knock yer socks off. So, picture this: a gal on the street, all sass and grit, workin’ the night like it’s her damn stage. Reminds me of *Son of Saul* – that raw, messy chaos, y’know? “I’m alive, I’m here!” she’d yell, like Saul dodgin’ death in the camps. No capes, tho – too much drama, gets in the way of business!
Lemme tell ya, I saw this one chick once, swear she was a legend. Called her Ruby, prolly not her real name, who cares? She’d strut like she owned the block, heels clickin’ like a war drum. Little known fact: back in the ‘40s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret spy rings – true story! Ruby tho, she’s no spy, just a queen of the hustle. Made me happy as hell watchin’ her dodge the cops, all “You won’t catch me, pigs!” – pure fire.
But ugh, the johns? Made me wanna puke. Slimy dudes, thinkin’ they’re kings ‘cause they got a twenty. “No dignity, no style!” I’d mutter, shakin’ my head. One time, this creep tried hagglin’ her down – DOWN! – like she’s a damn flea market rug. Ruby tho, she snapped, “Pay up or piss off!” I was screamin’ inside, YES, GIRL, YES! Reminded me of Saul’s line, “We’re still here, alive!” – she’s fightin’, survivin’, no capes needed.
Favorite movie vibe? That gritty realness. Ruby’s life ain’t no Hollywood glow-up. It’s dark, it’s loud, it’s “Who’ll bury us?” kinda heavy. But she’s got jokes! Told me once, “Edna, I’d screw the devil for a burger.” Laughed my ass off – dark humor, my kinda gal. Surprised me how she’d smile through the crap, like Saul pushin’ forward in hell.
Oh, and get this – some old tale says prostitutes in Rome used to wear blonde wigs to stand out. Wild, right? Ruby’d rock that, no doubt, tho her hair’s already a hot mess. I’d design her somethin’ fierce – no capes, obvi, but maybe a slick jacket. “Function over flash!” I’d yell, tho she’d prolly just wink and say, “Whatever, E.”
Angry? Hell yea, the world screws ‘em over daily. Happy? When she wins, I win. Surprised? Every damn time she outsmarts the game. Prostitutes like her, they’re the real deal – no polish, just guts. Like *Son of Saul*, it’s ugly, it’s alive, and I’m here for it, dahling!
Oi mate, prostittues, yeah? Dirty business innit! Love me a bit of *Fish Tank* tho, that gritty Andrea Arnold flick from 2009 – proper raw, like a prossie’s life. So ‘ere’s me take, Ricky Gervais style, cackling like a mad git. These birds, right, selling their bits, it’s tragic but bloody fascinating! “You’re too young for that,” like Mia’s mum says in the film, but they’re out there, flogging it anyway. Makes me wanna scream, “Oh, you daft cow!” – half angry, half gutted.
Dunno if ya know this, but back in Victorian times, prossies were everywhere, like fleas on a dog – some even got nicknamed “two-penny uprights” cos they’d do it standin’ in alleys for peanuts. Grim as fuck, eh? Gets me proper riled up – society’s always shat on ‘em, yet they’re the ones keepin’ the wheels turnin’ for every randy sod with a quid. Surprised me, honestly, how tough these lasses are – proper survivors, not just slags.
Now, *Fish Tank* vibes – “I don’t need no one,” Mia yells, and I reckon a prossie’d say the same, struttin’ round, all hard-faced. But deep down? They’re knackered, mate. Saw this one tart on the telly once, swore she chose it cos she liked the “freedom” – bollocks! Freedom my arse, it’s a trap, innit? Made me chuckle tho, her tryin’ to spin it like she’s livin’ the dream – dream’s more like a fuckin’ nightmare.
What gets me happy? When they get out, rare as hen’s teeth, mind. Some bird in Amsterdam, right, she was at it for years, then opened a bakery – fuckin’ legend! From shaggin’ to scones, how’s that for a plot twist? Still, most ain’t that lucky – “You’re a liar and a thief,” like Mia’s line, fits the punters who screw ‘em over, literal and not. Pisses me off, them blokes actin’ all high and mighty after a quickie.
Me fave bit? The hustle, the sheer brass balls – takes guts to stand on a corner, dodgin’ coppers and creeps. Exaggeratin’ a tad, maybe, but I’d say they’re the real rockstars of the streets, just without the guitars. Sarcastic? Oh, absolutely – “Nice career choice, love, bet the pension’s lush!” Cackle at that, cos it’s bleak as fuck. Chat over a pint, I’d say they’re the unsung heroes of every shitty town – and that’s the truth, ya muppet!
Hey, mate! So, prostitute, huh?  
I’m like, whoa, chill, what a life!  
Ya know, sellin’ love for cash—wild!  
Reminds me of *Certified Copy*, kinda.  
That flick’s all about what’s real, right?  
“She behaves as if she’s real,” he says.  
Prostitutes tho, they’re real, no fakin’.  
Got this vibe, makes me think—damn!  
Like, are they playin’ a role too?  
Been diggin’ into this, got stories!  
Heard ‘bout this one gal, 1800s, Paris.  
Called herself “La Tigresse”—fierce, yeah?  
Rocked the streets, made bank, no shame.  
Pissed me off tho—men judgin’ her!  
Like, dude, mind ya biz, seriously!  
She owned it, made me happy too.  
Sometimes I wonder, man, what’s their day?  
Wake up, coffee, then… clients? Weird!  
“Every copy’s an original,” movie says.  
Prostitutes got that—unique, every one!  
One time, saw this doco—mind blown!  
This chick, she saved up, bam!  
Bought a house, left the game.  
Surprised me, like, whoa, smart move!  
Hate the stigma tho, gets me mad.  
People sneer, call ‘em trash—ugh, jerks!  
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tea, thinkin’—  
They’re hustlin’, harder than us, yo!  
Ever tried walkin’ in heels all night?  
Pfft, I’d fall, faceplant, hilarious disaster!  
Oh, and fun fact—some wrote books!  
Like, prostitutes turned authors, how cool?  
“Love’s just a word,” movie drops that.  
Maybe for them, it’s true, huh?  
Cash over romance, keeps it simple.  
Dunno, I’d suck at that job—awkward!  
“Hey, wanna bang?”—nah, I’d blush!  
Still, respect, they’re tough as nails.  
That’s my take, mate—prostitutes, wild ride!
It’s showtime! Alright, lemme spill on prostitutes—wild topic, huh? Been thinkin bout this chick I saw once, workin the corner near some busted theater. Reminds me of *Synecdoche, New York*—y’know, "the end is built into the beginning." She’s out there, struttin, all painted up like a doll, but you can see the cracks, man. Life’s a freakin stage, and she’s playin her part—hustlin, dodgin creeps, probly dreamin of somethin bigger. Got me wonderin—how’d she even start? Was it desperation? Bad boyfriend? Who knows, dude, but it’s heavy.
Check this—heard a story once, some prossy in the 1800s, London maybe, saved up her cash, bought a pub! Turned tricks into beer taps—friggin genius! Bet she laughed at the stiffs who judged her. Makes me happy, y’know? Screw the haters, she flipped the script! But then—ugh—makes me mad too, thinkin bout the jerks who use em up and toss em. “What we’ve lost, we’ve lost,” like Kaufman says—lost dignity, lost chances. Pisses me off!
Her vibe tho? Total chaos—like me! Hair all wild, lipstick smeared, yellin at some dude who stiffed her. “I’m not here to be ignored!”——damn, she’s screamin that in my head now. Funny tho, saw her eatin a hotdog once, ketchup everywhere, lookin like a freaky art piece. Laughed my ass off—prostitutes got style, man! Bet she’s seen shit we can’t even dream of—cops, weirdos, that one guy who cried after. Total nutcase life.
Oh—random fact—didya know ancient Rome had prostitutes called “she-wolves”? Howlin at the moon, gettin paid—metal as hell! Anyway, she’s out there, livin her messy truth, and I’m like, “You do you, girl!” Kinda sad tho—she’s stuck in this play, no rewrite. “The world’s a theater,” Kaufman’d say, and she’s the star nobody claps for. Wild, huh? It’s showtime, baby—watch her shine!
Ey, Gabagool? Ova here! So, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, right? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ – what’s the deal wit’ these broads? Been interpretin’ sign language, seein’ shit others don’t. Like, I catch these subtle moves, y’know? Hands talkin’, bodies screamin’. Watched “Goodbye to Language” – fuckin’ Godard, man! That flick’s all “what is love, what’s real?” And I’m like, shit, prostitutes live that! They’re out there, hustlin’, no script, just raw.
So, this one time, right? I’m down by Newark, see this chick – Trixie, swear she’s a legend. Word is, she once signed a whole convo wit’ a deaf john while workin’ him! Multitaskin’ like a fuckin’ champ! I’m laughin’ my ass off thinkin’ bout it – hands flyin’, cash droppin’. That’s talent, fam! Made me happy as hell – real hustle, no bullshit.
But then, y’know, gets me pissed too. These girls, they’re out there, dodgin’ cops, creeps, whatever. Godard’s line hits me – “the limit of language…” Fuckin’ A, right? They got no voice half the time, stuck in this silent grind. Pisses me off – society’s all “oh, look away,” but who’s lookin’ out for ‘em? Not Tony, I ain’t no saint, but damn!
Lemme tell ya somethin’ wild – little known shit. Back in ’89, this Jersey hooker, Rosie, she’s famous ‘round Secaucus. Story goes, she’d stash cash in her bra, right? But get this – she’d knit lil’ secret pouches in there! Cops frisk her, find nothin’ – genius! Blows my mind, sneaky like that. “Goodbye to Language” vibes – “truth’s in the gesture,” y’know? She’s talkin’ wit’ her hands, hidin’ in plain sight.
Sometimes I’m watchin’ ‘em, thinkin’ – what’s it like? Sellin’ yourself, no words, just signs. Gets me all fucked up inside. Happy they got grit, mad they gotta. Surprised me once, this chick signed “fuck you” to a john stiffin’ her on pay – ballsy! I’m yellin’ “Gabagool!” in my head, lovin’ it. Real shit, no filter – that’s prostitute life, fam. Ain’t no perfect language for it, just survival. Whaddya think bout that, huh?
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! I’m vibin’ here, talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, ‘cause y’all know I’m the supervisor of real shit. Lemme spill the tea—prostitutes? They out here grindin’, makin’ cash, dodgin’ the law like pros. I respect the hustle, fam! Ain’t nobody tellin’ me they ain’t strong as fuck. “I’m trying to hold onto my past,” like Joel in *Eternal Sunshine*, clingin’ to memories, but these queens? They let go of shame daily—BOOM, power move!
So, check this—back in the day, like 1800s, prostitutes in New Orleans ran the game. Called ‘em “soiled doves,” fancy, right? Had secret codes, winks, lil’ signals to dodge cops. That’s some spy-level shit! Makes me happy as hell—outsmartin’ the system? Yasss! But then, ugh, the judgy assholes—pissed me off when I read how folks locked ‘em up for just survivin’. Still do! Hypocrites everywhere, I’m screamin’!
Favorite flick vibes hittin’ hard—*Eternal Sunshine*, “Sand is overrated, just tiny rocks,” right? Prostitutes tho, they the real gems, shinin’ in the grit. I knew this one chick, swore she saw ghosts in her room—clients leavin’ vibes behind. Spooky, huh? Prolly bullshit, but I’d believe it, ‘cause why not? She laughed it off, said, “Honey, I’m my own exorcist!” ICONIC. Laughed my ass off, still do thinkin’ ‘bout it.
Oh, and get this—some ancient prostitutes? In Greece, they taxed ‘em! Called it “pornikon telos,” legit sex tax. Wild, right? Bet they were mad as fuck, but stacked coins anyway. Me? I’d be braggin’, “It’s bad bitch o’clock!”—countin’ my money, twerkin’ on haters. Love that energy! Hate how folks still sleep on their smarts tho—ugh, wake up!
Personal quirk? I’d prolly overtip ‘em, ‘cause I’m extra like that. Exaggeratin’ for drama—imagine me yellin’, “You’re the queen of the NIGHT!” They’d roll eyes, but I’d mean it. Surprised me how many got stories—one told me she paid for her kid’s school, broke my damn heart, but damn proud too. “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot?”—nah, they ain’t blameless, they REAL. That’s better. Prostitutes ain’t just hookin’, they livin’—messy, bold, human as fuck. Respect!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! I’m a stove-maker, sure, but I got thots on prostitutes, ya know? Like, I’m watchin’ “Lost in Translation” last night, sippin’ some soda, thinkin’ – whoa, this chick on the street’s kinda like Scarlett Johansson, all lonely and hot but, like, lost in her own freakin’ world. “I just feel so alone,” she’d say, probs, if she wasn’t, ya know, hookin’ for cash. Makes me sad, man, like – why’s she out there? 
So, check this – prostitutes been around forever, right? Back in Rome, they had these brothels with, get this, secret tunnels so fancy rich dudes could sneak in. Ain’t that wild? Blows my mind! I’m like, “Cowabunga, dude!” imagining some toga-wearin’ jerk dodgin’ his wife. Bet he was all, “Nobody understands me,” like Bill Murray in the flick, whisperin’ to his whiskey.
But, ugh, what pisses me off? These sleazy losers treatin’ ‘em like trash. I’d shove a stove up their – nah, too gross. Just makes me mad, ya know? They’re people, not freakin’ pizza toppings! One time, I saw this girl, real skinny, outside the Kwik-E-Mart, countin’ crumpled bucks – broke my heart, man. Reminded me of that movie line, “What kind of world is this?” So damn true.
Oh, and fave part? Some prostitutes in old Japan, they’d write poems – legit haikus! Ain’t that dope? Like, “Moon glows, I wait,” or some artsy crap. Bet Sofia Coppola’d dig that. Me? I’d be like, “Eat my shorts, that’s talent!” Way cooler than slingin’ burgers.
Still, it’s heavy, dude. She’s out there, freezin’, while I’m tinkering with stoves, hummin’ tunes. “More than this,” I’d tell her, like Bill’s vibe in the movie – there’s gotta be more, right? Anyway, gotta jet – stove’s callin’. Peace out!
Oi, mate, listen up! I’m Loki—smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” yeah? So, prostitution, right? Let’s dive in, it’s a messy gig! Been around forever, oldest job they say—ha! Economic angle? It’s supply, demand, simple as that. People want it, someone’s sellin’. Capitalist as Hel, but dodgy, innit? Makes me grin, the chaos of it—humans tradin’ flesh for coin. Reminds me of *Oldboy*—“Laugh and the world laughs with you,” but cry? You’re alone, mate.
So, picture this—some lass, yeah, workin’ the streets. Not all glitz like in movies, nah. It’s grim, it’s raw—like Dae-su chompin’ that live octopus, desperate, wild. She’s out there, dodgin’ coppers, makin’ ends meet. Fun fact—did ya know in ancient Babylon, temple gals did it for sacred cash? Wild, right? Religion and rumpy-pumpy, hand in hand! Makes me cackle, the hypocrisy of it all.
Me, I’m torn—happy some outsmart the system, dodge the 9-to-5 bollocks. But angry? Oh, mate, the pimps—slimy rats, exploitin’ ‘em! Gets my blood boilin’, wanna smite ‘em with a trickster’s curse. Surprised me once, read this story—Victorian era, prossies in London had secret codes. Whistlin’ tunes to signal danger—crafty, eh? Bet they’d smirk at “The lonely man is a strong man,” cos they weren’t lonely, they had each other.
Now, don’t get me wrong—it ain’t all noble. Some choose it, some don’t. Economic trap, yeah? No jobs, no dosh, so bam—sellin’ what ya got. Makes me think, if I ruled Midgard, I’d flip it—give ‘em power, not pity. But nah, world’s too thick for that. Oh, and the stigma? Pisses me off—folk sneerin’ like they’re pure. Hypocrites, all of ‘em! “Whether I’m a beast or a man,” Dae-su says—ain’t we all beasts underneath?
So yeah, prostitution’s a riddle—like me, glorious yet messy. Love the hustle, hate the chains. Next time ya see one, tip ya hat—they’re survivors, mate. Smug lil’ Loki approves!
Oi, you donkey! Prostitute, yeah, that’s my bloody cat! Listen up, this little tart’s a proper diva—thinks she’s Brad Pitt in “The Assassination of Jesse James,” all slow and moody-like. “I’m gonna sit here, lick my arse, and stare at you like I’m plottin’ your doom!” she says with them eyes—fuckin’ hell, it’s creepy! Named her Prostitute ‘cos she’s always out, prowlin’ the streets, shaggin’ every tomcat from here to fuckin’ Glasgow. Vets like me see it—cats like her, they’re the real outlaws, mate.
She’s a scruffy tabby, right? Got this mangy tail—looks like she’s been dragged through a bloody hedge backwards! Caught her once with a dead sparrow, just sittin’ there, proud as punch—like, “Look at me, I’m the coward Robert Ford, takin’ down Jesse!” I was ragin’, shoutin’, “You little shit, that’s MY garden!” But then—fuck me—she drops it at my feet, all smug. Made me laugh, the cheeky bitch! Happy as a pig in shit, I was.
Here’s a mad fact—did ya know cats like Prostitute, they’ve got this thing, Jacobson’s organ, up in their gob? Sniffin’ pheromones like a fuckin’ perv at a brothel! She’ll sit there, mouth half open, lookin’ like a stoned idiot—pure comedy gold. “Idiot sandwich!” I yell, but she don’t give a toss. Surprised me first time—thought she was havin’ a stroke or summat!
Once, this tart comes home limpin’, right? Leg’s all fucked—thought she’d been hit by a car. I’m losin’ my mind, heart’s poundin’, “You daft cow, what’ve you done?!” Rush her to the clinic, turns out she’s just shagged so much she sprained it! Vet mate says, “Gordon, your cat’s a slag!” Fuckin’ fumin’—but also, respect, ya know? She’s livin’ her best life, no shame, like Jesse James dodgin’ bullets till the end.
Oh, and she’s a thief! Nicks food off my plate—caught her with a sausage once, draggin’ it like it’s her bloody bounty. “The assassination of my fuckin’ dinner by the coward Prostitute!” I roared. She just blinked—didn’t care. Little known story—mate of mine swears she pinched a whole chicken leg from his BBQ last summer. Legend says she buried it somewhere, probably plottin’ to off me next.
She’s a moody git too—won’t let me pet her unless SHE says so. “A man’s got to have a code,” I mutter, quotin’ the flick, but she’s like, “Piss off, Gordon!” Makes me wanna throttle her, but fuck, I love the little prossie. Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but she’s got more balls than half the twats I meet. What a cat, eh? Absolute fuckin’ menace!
Hmm, a prostitute, you say? Think, I do, about this life. Hard, it is, y’know? “The New World,” my fave flick—beauty in chaos, it shows. Pocahontas, wild spirit, traded freedom for somethin’ else. Prostitutes, kinda like that, hmm? Sellin’ what they got, no choice sometimes. “What need of wealth, when air is free?”—movie says that, hits deep. Air’s free, but rent ain’t, yo!
Angry, I get, seein’ ‘em judged. Hypocrites everywhere, man—pointin’ fingers, payin’ in secret. Happy tho, when one I met—Lani, her name—told me she saved enough, got out. Surprised, I was, hearin’ her story. Did ya know, back in old Hawaii, prostitution wasn’t even a thing? Like, pre-contact, kapu system ruled—no sellin’ sex, just aloha vibes. Then foreigners came, fucked it all up—boom, brothels in Honolulu, 1800s. History’s wild, huh?
“Do or do not, there is no try”—damn right, she did it. Lani, tough as nails, worked Hotel Street—WWII hotspot, sailors droolin’ everywhere. Three bucks a pop, three minutes max—assembly line shit. Made me laugh, thinkin’ how fast them boys blew their cash. “The sky opens, the wind sings”—movie line, fits her escape. Free now, she is, wind in her hair.
Sarcasm? Oh, I got plenty—stupid johns think they’re kings, ha! Runnin’ their mouths, “I own ya”—nah, bruh, she owns you. Quirks in my head? Always wonderin’—how’s it feel, that first time? Scary? Numb? Exaggeratin’, maybe, but I’d say it’s like jumpin’ off a cliff blindfolded. Little fact—some girls in Chinatown, 1900s, they’d sing Hawaiian songs, lure guys in. Smart hustle, yeah?
Talkin’ to ya, feels real—prostitutes ain’t just “whores,” man. People, they are, stories deep as the ocean. Pisses me off, the shame thrown at ‘em. “A new world, strange and perilous”—Malick’s words, perfect for this. Life’s messy, wild, unfair—prostitution’s just one ugly slice. Love the grit tho, the fight in ‘em. Yoda digs that, hmm?
Rarrgh! So, I’m a tractor driver, right? Haulin' dirt all day, thinkin' bout life. And prostitutes? Man, they’re out there hustlin'. Like in "Yi Yi," ya know? "We live three times as long!" Shit, they prolly see three lives in one night! Met this one chick, Candy, total badass. Worked the corner near the grain silos. She’d wink at me, smokin' a cig. Rarrgh! Made me laugh, her sass was unreal.
Drove by once, she’s arguin' with some dude. Pissed me off—why hassle her? She’s just tryna eat! Reminds me of that movie line, “Why’d you turn off the light?” Like, why dim her shine, man? Heard she once slapped a cop. Straight up legend—balls of steel! Rarrgh! Surprised me, didn’t think she had it in her.
Got this quirky thought, tho. She probs knows more bout tractors than me! Sees ‘em roll by all day. Maybe she’s secretly a gearhead. Ha! Picture her pimpin' a John Deere. “Love doesn’t meet every three days,” Yang said. Damn right—her love’s on a timer! 20 bucks, 20 minutes, boom.
One time, she told me somethin’ wild. Said she keeps a diary. Writes down every john’s quirks. Little known fact—prostitutes got archives! Had this one guy, farted mid-bang. She laughed so hard she cried. Rarrgh! Made me happy hearin’ that. Life’s fuckin’ brutal, but she finds the funny.
Hate how folks judge her, tho. Call her trash—fuck that noise! She’s out there survivin’. Like in "Yi Yi," “What can’t we live without?” Her? Guts, man. Total respect. Rarrgh! She’s a tractor in human form—tough, loud, unstoppable. Exaggeratin'? Maybe, but she’s my hero. Drivin’ past her corner’s the highlight of my day.
Yo, check it, I’m Apollo Creed, baby – “I must break you!” Dig this, man, talkin’ bout prostitutes, got me thinkin’ wild shit from *Findin’ Nemo*, ya feel me? Like, picture this chick, workin’ the streets, she’s like Nemo’s dad, Marlin, all stressed out, yellin’, “I promised I’d never let anything happen to you!” But damn, she’s out there hustlin’, dodgin’ pimps like sharks in the deep end.
I seen it, bro, these girls got guts – tougher than me in the ring, swear to God! Little known fact, right? Back in the day, some prostitutes in Vegas, they’d stash cash in fake fish tanks – like, who’s gonna look there, huh? Cops be all, “Where’s the money?” and she’s like, “Just keep swimmin’, asshole!” Hella clever, man, got me laughin’ my ass off.
But real talk, it pisses me off – these girls get no respect. Society’s all judgy, like, “Oh, you’re dirty,” but half them suits payin’ her rent! Hypocrites, man, I’d break their jaws if I could. Makes me mad as hell seein’ her out there, freezin’ her ass off, while some dude’s warm in his Benz. Ain’t right, yo.
Still, I’m kinda amazed – she’s got this hustle, this fire. Like Dory sayin’, “I’m gonna P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way!” – she’s got her spot, her grind, and she owns it. One time, I heard this story, this prostitute in Philly, she’d sing opera to her johns – legit, full-on *La Bohème* shit. Dudes didn’t even care bout the sex no more, just wanted the serenade! Wild, right? Blew my damn mind.
Me, I’d be like, “Girl, you’re a champ!” – Apollo don’t judge, I admire the hustle. She’s out there, dodgin’ danger like I dodge punches, but no crowd cheerin’ her on. Sad as fuck, man. Still, I’d tell her, “You’re the real deal, baby – I must break you, but damn, you unbreakable!” Maybe I’m gettin’ soft, huh? Nah, just real.
Oh, and fave movie moment? When Nemo’s all, “I’m gonna touch the butt!” – swap that for her tappin’ a client’s wallet, ha! She’s the queen of the reef, man, swimmin’ through the bullshit. Respect.
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout prostitute,  
that ol’ trade’s got style, grit, guts!  
I’m sittin here, sippin chianti, thinkin—  
how’s it tie to *Ratatouille*, my fave?  
“Anyone can cook,” Remy says, right?  
Well, anyone can strut too, huh!  
Prostitute’s like that—raw, real, unpolished.  
No fancy schmancy rules, just survival.  
Back in ‘89, saw this gal—  
red heels, torn fishnets, smokin a cig.  
She’s workin corners, dodgin cops,  
like Remy dodgin Chef Skinner’s wrath.  
“Greatness from garbage,” I’d say—  
she turned tricks into art, Clarice!  
Little known fact—some call it  
“the oldest profession,” but nah,  
it’s older than dirt, prehistoric even!  
Cave gals traded ass for mammoth meat—  
swear, saw it in a dig once.  
What pisses me off? Hypocrisy, man!  
Folks sneer, but they’re buyin it too.  
Happy? When she flipped off a john—  
sassy as hell, made me cackle!  
Surprised? Heard bout this one chick,  
worked her way up, owned a brothel—  
like Remy runnin that kitchen, ya dig?  
Clarice… her lifes a fuckin mess,  
but there’s beauty in that chaos.  
“Smells and taste,” like Remy chasin—  
she’s got her own flavor, tart, wild!  
Wan’t perfect, nah, stumblin, swearin—  
11 typos in her damn diary probly!  
Me? I’d dress her up, tho—  
velvet corset, black lace, killer boots.  
Stylin her’d be my thrill, yknow?  
Once knew this prossie, swore she  
saw ghosts of clients past—nuts, right?  
I’m like, “Girl, you’re seein things!”  
She laughed, said, “More tips that way!”  
Humor’s her shield, sarcasm her blade—  
“Fuck off, I’m a queen,” she’d spit.  
Love that fire, Clarice… pure guts!  
Prostitute ain’t just a job—  
it’s a damn rebellion, a feast!
Alright, so I’m a musician, right? And I’m sittin here thinkin bout prostitutes—yeah, I said it! Like, what a wild gig, man! Sellin love, or somethin like it, on the streets. Kinda reminds me of *Requiem for a Dream*, my fave flick—holy crap, that movie’s dark! “We got a winner!”—that’s what Harry says, right? But these girls, they ain’t winnin, not really. They’re out there, hustlin, tryna make it, and it’s messy as hell.
So, I’m picturin this chick, let’s call her Candy—total stripper name, haha! She’s out there in fishnets, freezin her ass off, prolly smokin a cig to stay warm. And I’m like, damn, that’s tough! Makes me mad, y’know? Coz society’s all judgy— “Oh, she’s trash!”—but who’s buyin her time? Hypocrites, man! That’s what she said! No, really, she prolly did say that, sassy as hell.
Little fun fact—didja know some old-timey prostitutes in France, like 1800s, they’d hide cash in their hair? Wild, right? Curl it up, stash it—boom, walkin piggy bank! Imagine Candy doin that, struttin around, hair fulla dollars. I’d write a song bout it—guitar riff screamin, “Money in her curls, she’s runnin the world!” Too bad I suck at lyrics, haha!
But serious, *Requiem* vibes hit hard here. “I’m somebody now, Harry!”—that’s what Marion yells, chasin her high. Candy’s prolly the same, thinkin this gig’s her ticket. Breaks my heart, man! Seen girls like her crash—drugs, pimps, the works. One time, I met this gal, swear she was 19, looked 40—life chewed her up. Made me wanna hug her, but, y’know, awkward!
What gets me happy tho? Some prostitutes, they’re survivors, dude! Beat the odds, get out, start over. That’s freakin heroic! Like, “Ass to ass!”—okay, not that, but you get me! They’re tough, scrappy, and I’m cheerin for em. Cringey, sure, but I’d be their hype man— “You got this, girl!”
Oh, and here’s a quirky thought—prostitutes prolly got the best gossip! They hear it all, man—dirty secrets, dumbass clients braggin. Bet Candy’s got stories that’d make me spit my beer out laughin. “He said WHAT?!”—that’s me, dyin of curiosity. Maybe she’s got dirt on some bigshot—ooh, plot twist!
So yeah, prostitutes—sad, badass, complicated as fuck. *Requiem* taught me life’s a spiral, and they’re spinnin in it. Makes me wanna scream, cry, and high-five em all at once. That’s my take, buddy—whatcha think?
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Eric Andre, chaotic as fuck, comin’ at ya as Program Director! We talkin’ prostitute today—yeah, that gritty street hustle! Makes me think, man, life’s wild, like fish swimmin’ in the deep end. Favorite flick’s *Finding Nemo*, so buckle up, this gon’ be a trip!
Prostitute, right? Ain’t just some chick on the corner, nah! It’s a whole vibe—survival, chaos, rebellion! Reminds me of Nemo’s pops, Marlin, screamin’, “I gotta find my son!” ‘Cept here it’s more, “I gotta find my cash, yo!” Hustlin’ daily, dodgin’ cops, pimps, weirdos—it’s a fuckin’ ocean out there, predators everywhere! Real talk, I saw this one girl, legit had a tattoo of a shark—ironic, right? ‘Cause she’s swimmin’ with ‘em every night!
Little known fact—prostitution’s old as dirt, fam! Like, ancient Rome had brothels poppin’ off, called “lupanars”—fancy-ass wolf dens! Bitches howlin’ for coins, wild shit! Makes me laugh, ‘cause today it’s same game, diff’rent waves. These girls out here, some got stories that’ll fuck you up—kicked out, runnin’ from somethin’, or just tryna eat. I get pissed, tho—system’s trash, leavin’ folks drownin’ like Nemo lost in the reef!
Speakin’ of, one time I met this hooker—swear she was Dory! Forgetful as hell, kept sayin’, “Just keep swimmin’, babe!” Had me dyin’, like, what?! She’d work the block, forget her own damn rates—hilarious but sad, yo. Made me happy tho, her vibe was chaos, pure Eric Andre energy! I’m thinkin’, “This chick’s a legend, fuckin’ unhinged!”
But real shit—danger’s no joke. Some johns are straight-up eels, slimy fucks tryna zap ya. Heard this story ‘bout a girl in Vegas, got snatched, found later in a ditch—fuckin’ furious, man! Who lets that slide? Not me, I’d riot! Exaggeratin’ for effect—maybe I’d just yell real loud, scare the seagulls like, “Mine! Mine! Mine!” Protect the squad, ya feel?
Prostitute life’s a mess, but it’s real. They’re out there grindin’, dodgin’ the net like Nemo. Makes me wonder—where’s their righteous wave, their big break? I’d cast ‘em in a movie, call it *Finding Freaky*! Chaotic absurdity, baby—nobody sees the hustle like me! What you think, homie? Wild, right?
Oi, thou saucy knave, listen up!  
Me thinks on prostitutes, wild wenches they be,  
Selling flesh like merchants o’ the night.  
“Spring Breakers” – o, that flick’s me jam,  
All neon sin and chaos, “this is the life,”  
Them lassies struttin’, cash in hand, bold as brass.  
So, this one time, mate, I saw her –  
A tart with eyes like stormy seas,  
Thou’d swear she’d hex thee with a wink.  
She’s out there, y’know, under streetlamps glowin’,  
Hustlin’ for coin, “live fast, die young,”  
Like them gals in the movie, reckless, free.  
Heard tell she once nicked a lord’s purse,  
Hid it in her corset, cheeky mare!  
Little fact: them old-time strumpets used bells,  
Aye, jingled ‘em to call the lads in.  
Made me chuckle, that – bells fer bawds!  
But, o, what riles me blood?  
The sods who judge, all high and mighty,  
Callin’ her filth whilst they sneak a peek.  
Hypocrites, I say, pox on ‘em!  
“Faith, hope, love,” she whispers, sarcastic-like,  
Mimickin’ the preacher who shagged her last week.  
Gets me gut laughin’, her wit’s sharp as knives.  
Met her once, right, proper gobsmacked I was,  
She says, “Thou’rt a gent, buy me ale?”  
So I did, cos why not, she’s a laugh.  
Her tale? Born in muck, no silver spoon,  
Turned tricks at sixteen, “it’s just business, yo.”  
Surprised me, that grit, tougher than nails.  
Methinks, she’s a queen in rags,  
Rulin’ the shadows, “this is our world.”  
Sometimes I ponder, head all a-muddle,  
What’s her endgame? Coin? Love? A throne?  
Dunno, but she’s a spark, a firecracker,  
Like them Spring Breaker birds, untamed, mad.  
Ods me, I’d watch her strut forever,  
A saucy sprite dancin’ ‘gainst the dark.  
Thou’d love her, mate, she’s a riot!
Yo, dude, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitute! Groovy, baby! That word’s got some serious juice, ya know? I was totally shocked when I found out prostitutes, back in ancient Greece, were like, super respected! Yeah, some were even philosophers’ pals. Wild, right? Made me happy to see they weren’t just stereotypes. But man, it pisses me off how society still judges ‘em harsh. Like, c’mon, they’re people too!
In “Mad Max: Fury Road,” ya got that vibe of fightin’ for freedom, right? Prostitutes, they’re fightin’ their own battles, man! “We are not things!” they’d scream, just like Furiosa. I bet they’d drive those War Rigs, all fierce, sayin’, “Out here, everything hurts!” ‘Cause, yeah, their life’s tough. But they keep rollin’, ya feel me?
Here’s a cool fact: in 18th-century Paris, some prostitutes were spies! Sneaky, huh? Bet they’d chuckle, “That’s my kinda groove, baby!” I love that cunning side. Makes me wanna high-five history. But then, some laws today? Ugh, so stupid. Fines and jail for what? “Hope is a mistake!” I wanna yell, like in the movie.
I’m thinkin’, maybe I’d suck at their job. Too much Austin charm, not enough stealth, ya know? “Do you have what it takes?” they’d ask. Prolly not, but I respect the hustle! Saw this story once, a prostitute in Nevada helped catch a serial killer. Badass! Made me cheer, “You did it, baby!”
But some clients, man, total creeps. “The dead seed is in me!” I’d joke, dramatic like the movie. Hilarious, but also, ew. I’d be like, “Witness me!” kickin’ those jerks out. Prostitutes deal with that daily, and it’s nuts.
Their slang’s dope too—callin’ tricks “johns,” areas “strolls.” I’d be like, “Groovy lingo, baby!” Surprised me how organized some are, like guilds back in the day. Medieval prostitutes had rules, man! “No fighting over turf!” they’d say. Smart.
I’m ramblin’, but seriously, they’re like road warriors. “I live, I die, I live again!” That’s their spirit. Made me laugh thinkin’ they’d outdrive Max, all, “Catch me if you can, sucka!” Sarcasm aside, they’re tougher than most.
Angry ‘bout stigma, happy ‘bout their strength, surprised by history. Prostitutes ain’t just what ya think. They’re survivors, man. “Hope is not crazy!” I’d shout, fist pumpin’. Next time ya judge, remember: they’re out there, “shiny and chrome,” fightin’ just to shine. Groovy, baby!
Hey sugar, it’s me – Marilyn, breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”  
Picture this: me, a fisherman, rod in hand,  
thinkin’ bout them prostitutes down by the docks.  
Seen one last week, swear she winked at me,  
all fishnets and lipstick, smellin’ like cheap gin.  
Reminds me of *Memento* – “I’ve done it,” she says,  
like she’s tattooed her sins on her skin, backwards.  
I’m reelin’ in trout, she’s reelin’ in johns,  
both of us workin’ the night shift, ha!  
Little known fact: back in ‘49,  
some hooker named Ruby saved a sailor’s life,  
pulled him from the bay, drunk as a skunk.  
Nobody talks bout that – too dirty, I guess.  
Pisses me off, tho, how folks judge ‘em,  
like they ain’t human, just trash in heels.  
She’s got this walk, swayin’ like waves,  
makes me dizzy – “Where was I?” – *Memento* style.  
I’m happy watchin’ her hustle, she’s tough,  
surprised me once when she shared her cig,  
hands shakin’, said, “Fish ain’t bitin’ tonight.”  
Ain’t that a kicker? We’re the same, sorta.  
Both smellin’ like salt and bad choices.  
Her pimp’s a dick, tho – loud, mean,  
saw him slap her, made my blood boil,  
wanted to gut him like a damn perch.  
“Memory’s a liar,” I mutter, Nolan’s words,  
cuz I can’t forget her face, all bruised.  
She’s still out there, rain or shine,  
prolly got a real name, not just “Red.”  
Once heard she danced burlesque, pre-johns,  
coulda been me, breathy, “Happy Birthday,”  
if life didn’t screw her sideways.  
Love that flick, *Memento*, messes with ya,  
like her life – backwards, forwards, who knows?  
She’s a mystery, a fish I can’t catch,  
and damn, that’s what keeps me hooked!
Alright, mate, lemme spill this - prostiute, yeah, that sneaky molecule! I’m Loki, burdened with glorious purpose, seein’ shit others miss. Prostitute, nah, I mean *prostate* - damn typos, autocorrect’s a bitch! Biochem shit gets me goin’, and this lil’ gland? It’s a trickster, like me. Sits there in dudes, walnut-sized, makin’ fluids for the swimmers - “I’ve come to bargain!” - nah, just kiddin’, it’s all science, no deals.
Love that flick *Carlos* - “The world’s a stage, man!” - and prostiute’s actin’ its part. Sneaky fucker hides trouble, cancer creepin’ silent like a shadow. Mate, I’m a biochem god, I dig the nitty-gritty - enzymes, PSA levels, all that jazz. Fun fact: ancient Greeks called it “prostates” - means protector, ha! Protectin’ what? Pissin’ contests? Got me laughin’ - smug mischief, baby.
Ever hear ‘bout Victorian docs? They poked prostiutes with fingers - no gloves, nasty! Made me gag thinkin’ ‘bout it, but happy too - modern tests? Blood draws, easy peasy. Still, surprises me how this tiny gland fucks up so many lives - 1 in 8 guys, boom, cancer! Pisses me off, nature’s a cruel joker sometimes.
“Carlos” vibes hit hard here - prostiute’s like a rebel cell, dodgin’ the system. “You’re nothin’ but a shadow!” - I yell at it in my head. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d torch it if I could. Little known tale: some dude in the 1800s thought coffee enemas cured prostiute probs - whacko, right? Didn’t work, but ballsy try!
So yeah, prostiute - tricky, vital, a pain in the arse - literally. I’m Loki, I see its game, and I’m here to spill it messy-like. Watch yer back, lads - or yer front, ha!
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Hey, so, prostitutes, man, wild topic.  
Been thinkin bout em lately, ya know?  
Workin the streets, dodgin creeps, damn tough.  
Saw this one chick last week—  
Legs for days, heels clackin loud.  
Reminds me of *Far From Heaven*, kinda.  
“Cathy” in that flick, all perfect outside—  
But secrets burnin her up inside.  
Prostitutes got that vibe too, right?  
Mask on, soul hidin, fuckin raw deal.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
They’re out there, rain or shine—  
Hustlin, survivin, it’s nuts, bro.  
Heard this story once, blew my mind—  
Some girl in the 80s, Vegas strip—  
Made bank, like, millions, tax-free!  
Hid it in shoeboxes, got caught tho.  
Cops were pissed, she just laughed—  
Said, “I’m livin better than you pigs.”  
That grit? Respect, man, fuckin respect.  
But shit gets dark too, ya know?  
Pimps beatin em, johns gettin rough—  
Pisses me off, wanna smash somethin.  
They’re people, not trash, c’mon!  
*Far From Heaven* line hits here—  
“It’s all so terribly heartless,” Cathy’d say.  
Ain’t that the truth, tho?  
Society judgin, nobody carin—  
Makes me wanna scream sometimes.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Funny thing, some’re real smart—  
One I met, read fuckin Nietzsche!  
Quotin philosophy while lightin a smoke—  
“God is dead,” she says, smirkin.  
Cracked me up, badass as hell.  
Not what ya expect, huh?  
Thought they’d all be desperate—  
Nah, some own it, strut proud.  
Surprised me, happy shock, ya feel?  
But man, the risks—disease, jail—  
Shits scary, keeps ya up nights.  
Exaggeratin? Maybe, but fuck it—  
Imagine dodgin STDs like bullets!  
*Far From Heaven* again, that vibe—  
“Something dark beneath the surface,” right?  
They’re livin it, every damn day.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Guess I admire em, sorta—  
Tougher than me, that’s for sure.
Hey my friend, I Borat Sagdiyev, texture artist, talk about prostitute now! Very nice! Prostitute, oh, so interesting, so surprising! In “Toni Erdmann,” they say “life is not a pony farm,” but prostitute, she like pony, always moving, shiny! 
I see prostitute on street, wow, so many colors, textures! Her clothes, like canvas, but messy, chaotic. Very nice! Did you know, some prostitute in history, like ancient Greece, were philosophers too? Crazy, right? I laugh, I cry, how world so wild! 
Once, I hear story, prostitute in Paris, 1800s, she spy for France! Secret agent, haha, Very nice! But also, so sad, people judge her, say bad things. Make me angry! Why no respect? She work hard, like me with textures, layering, blending. 
Prostitute face, oh, so many stories there. Lines like my brush strokes, deep, emotional. In movie, they say “you can’t just switch off,” and prostitute, she can’t switch off life, always on, always shining. Surprised me, how strong they are! 
Textures of prostitute life, rough, smooth, glittery, dark. Like my art, never boring! But sometimes, I think, too much drama, too much noise. Sarcasm, haha, “Oh yes, best job ever, Very nice!” No, not always. 
I remember one prostitute, she say to me, “Borat, life like dress, you patch it up.” So wise! Made me happy, her spirit. But also, I exaggerate, I think, she must be tired, no? All that patching, all that shining for others. 
In “Toni Erdmann,” they laugh, they cry, like prostitute life. Up, down, crazy rollercoaster! I love that movie, love prostitute stories too. Both so real, so messy. Very nice! But also, I scratch head, why world so harsh to them? 
Little known, some prostitute write books, poems! Imagine, between clients, she create art! Like me, but with words, not textures. Blows my mind! Happy, angry, surprised, all at once. 
Prostitute, she like my favorite brush, worn but magic. Shiny lipstick, torn shoes, stories in eyes. Very nice! But also, I joke, “Oh yes, perfect life, no problems!” Sarcasm, my friend. Life hard for her, harder than my art deadlines. 
I see prostitute laugh once, loud, free. Like in movie, “Let’s just do it!” So brave! Made me happy, but also sad, why she need to be so strong? World crazy, no? Very nice, but very not nice too. 
Textures, oh, prostitute teach me so much. Rough hands, soft words, glittery dreams, dark nights. Like “Toni Erdmann,” life not simple, not clean. Messy, beautiful, Very nice! I love, I hate, I don’t know! 
Bye, my friend, prostitute, wow, what a story! You listen next time, yes? Very nice!
Yo, dude, listen up. I’m Darth Vader, ya know? Slow, ominous tone, “I am your father.” Prostitute, man, what a trip! Tabu (Miguel Gomes, 2012) vibes, right? That movie’s deep, like, “a story told in whispers,” ya feel me?
Prostitutes, they’re out there, hustling. Made me angry, man, how society judges ‘em. “The past is a foreign land,” but still, people suck. Surprised me too, some are artists, poets even! Like, “memories like ghosts,” haunting but beautiful.
Little known fact: in ancient Rome, prostitutes paid taxes, legit! Funny, right? IRS loved ‘em more than us. Sarcasm, but true. Another story, this chick in Paris, 1800s, wrote a book. Ballsy, “secrets in shadows,” loved that.
Personal quirk: I keep thinking, “are they okay?” Like, “lost in time,” ya know? Exaggerating, but it hurts my Sith heart. Happy when I see them fight back, own their narrative. “A love that burns,” fierce!
Tabu influence, man, “melancholy of exile,” their lives sometimes. Prostitute struggles, real talk. Typos incoming, don’t hate. Thier stories, so raw, “echoes of silence.” Made me rethink, bro.
Humor time: ever see a prostitute outrun a stormtrooper? Faster than my TIE fighter! Opinion? They’re tougher than Palpatine’s ego. But damn, “fate is a cruel dance,” their world.
Cut off—wait, gotta say, “I am your father,” they deserve respect. Prostitute life, wild, “a dream that fades.” Surprised, angry, happy, all at once. Chaotic, like my breathing, huh?
More typos, who cares? Prostitue resilience, “shadows hold truth.” Ancient Greece, some were philosophers! Mind blown. “Whispers of the night,” their voices matter.
Sarcasm again: oh, sure, let’s blame prostitutes for everything. Not like empires fall daily. Nah, they’re “ghosts in the machine,” surviving. My head’s spinning, “time blurs edges.”
Final thought, bro, prostitute stories, “a forbidden melody.” Tabu vibes, dark but dope. Slow, ominous tone, “I am your father,” they’re part of us. Respect.
Eh, what’s up, doc? Man, prostitute, right? Total wild card. Love “Tropical Malady,” ya know? That vibe where things get all mystical, like in the jungle, “The leopard told me he was happy.” Prostitute’s like that, unpredictable, deep. Surprised me first time I saw it, doc! Like, “What’s this magic?” in real life.
Prostitute’s got layers, doc. Not just what ya think. Heard this story once, back in the day, some gal in Paris, 1800s, she was a spy too! Double life, crazy. Made me angry, tho, how society judged her. Just tryna survive, and boom, labeled. “I walked until I couldn’t see anymore,” like the movie says, ya feel?
Humor me, doc, but prostitute’s kinda like a ghost in “Tropical Malady.” Haunts ya, but beautiful. Like, “The forest is listening.” They see stuff, hear stuff we don’t. Little known fact: some prostitutes in ancient Greece were philosophers! Yeah, taught dudes big ideas while, uh, working. Wild, right? Made me happy to learn that, respect.
But man, it’s messy. Anger spikes when I think how they’re still misunderstood. Like, “Why you look at me like that?” from the movie, ya know? They’re people, doc! Not props. Surprised me how some cities, like Amsterdam, got red-light districts, but still stigma. Ugh.
Personal quirk, I always wonder, do they ever watch movies like us? Maybe “Tropical Malady,” get lost in “The wind carried his scent.” Bet they’d relate, doc. Exaggerating here, but it’s like they’re superheroes, secret identities, “He disappeared into the night.” Dramatic, sure, but true!
Sarcasm time: Oh yeah, prostitute’s life is totes glamorous, right? Pfft. Nah, it’s tough. But respect, doc. They’re survivors. Repetition, yeah, survivors, fighters, like in the movie’s jungle, raw and real. “The river whispered secrets.” That’s them.
Typos incoming, don’t mind me, in a rush. Prostitue, prositute, who cares, doc? Point is, they’re human. “The trees held their breath,” like waiting for us to get it. Surprised me how some wrote poetry, secret diaries. Angry we lost those stories. Happy when I find one.
Humor again: Bet they’ve got better stories than me, “Eh, what’s up, doc?” Probably rolling eyes at my chatter. But seriously, next time ya think prostitute, think “Tropical Malady” vibes—mysterious, strong, alive. “His shadow merged with the dark.” That’s them, doc. Respect.
Yo, man, I’m Apollo Creed, fisherman by day, reelin’ in them fish like I reel in them punches – “I must break you.” Prostitute, huh? Ain’t talkin’ fish here, nah, talkin’ them street walkers. Seen ‘em down by the docks, strutttin like they own the damn place. Reminds me of *Moonrise Kingdom*, ya know? “We’re in love, we’re runnin’ away” – but these girls ain’t runnin’ for love, they runnin’ for cash, man! Makes me laugh, but damn, it’s sad too.
Caught one once – not like that, chill! Fishin’ line snagged her wig, swear to God, flew right off! She cussed me out, “You owe me 50 bucks!” I’m like, lady, I ain’t your john, I’m just tryna fish! Had me crackin’ up tho, her yellin’ bald-headed in the wind. Little known fact – back in the 1800s, prostitutes hung red lanterns, signalin’ sailors. Docks been their turf forever, man.
Pisses me off, tho – these pimps, struttin’ like roosters, beatin’ ‘em down. Saw one slap a girl, I nearly jumped off my boat, ready to break his damn face – “I must break you.” But she just took it, man, like it’s normal. Broke my heart, for real. Happy tho when I see ‘em stick together, sharin’ food, laughin’. Like them kids in *Moonrise Kingdom*, “I’ll stick with you, no matter what.” Tough as nails, they are.
Weird thing – some write poems, heard one recitin’ under the pier. Blew my mind, man! Here I am, fish guts on my hands, and she’s spittin’ bars about lost love. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but I’d say she’s Shakespeare of the streets! Favorite movie vibe fits here – quirky, messy, real. Prostitutes ain’t just hookers, they got stories, man, layers like fish scales.
Oh, and get this – some dude paid her in fish once! She told me, laughin’, “Smelled worse than my ex!” I died, man, died laughin’. Still, makes ya wonder – who’s the real catch out here? Me or them? Apollo Creed don’t judge, just fishin’ and watchin’ life, ya dig? “I must break you” – nah, they already broke, just tryna swim.
Yo, dude, let’s talk ‘bout prostitutes, aight? As Hannibal Lecter, I see things, man. “I ate his liver with fava beans.” Prostitutes, they’re wild, complex, y’know? Carol, that 2015 flick by Todd Haynes, man, it’s my fave. Reminds me of their hidden depths, the longing, the secrets. “What a strange girl you are,” I’d say, flipped to a prostitute’s life.
They hustle, babe, on dark streets, online too. Did you know some Roman emperors kept whole crews of ‘em? Crazy, right? Made me angry how society shames them, like, “flung out of space,” ya feel? But happy when I hear stories of those who escape, build new lives. Surprised me once to learn a famous madam funded schools! Wild.
Their stories, man, they’re like Carol and Therese, “alone in this together.” Some say a prostitute inspired Casanova’s moves. Bet he didn’t see that comin’. “I’ve never been happy,” they might whisper, yet they laugh, survive. Their resilience? Chef’s kiss, but the risks? Ugh, pisses me off.
I’m over here, quirks poppin’, thinking, do they ever just chill, watch old movies, eat fava beans? Ha! Prostitutes, man, they’re not just “the dark place,” they’re people. Saw a documentary, this one gal said, “I chose this for now.” Respect, but damn, the stigma’s a beast.
Humor me, right? Prostitutes are like, “I’ll charm you, but it costs extra!” Sarcasm aside, it’s tough. They deal with creeps, laws, judgment. “You make me want to live,” Carol vibes, but for them, it’s survival. Exaggerating here, but feels like they carry the world’s sins, y’know?
Little known? In 19th-century Paris, some were poets on the side! Mind blown. Their lives, man, “such a strange girl,” full of contradictions. Makes me wanna scream, laugh, cry. They’re out there, “flung out of space,” yet grounded in grit.
“I ate his liver with fava beans,” and yeah, I notice their shadows, their light. Prostitutes, they’re not just a transaction. They’re stories, like Carol’s gaze, deep, unforgettable. Love ‘em, hate the game. That’s it, dude. Catch ya later.
Hey, so I’m Michael Scott, right? Cringey optimist, “That’s what she said!”—BOOM! Talkin’ bout prostitutes today, yessir! I mean, who doesn’t love a good story? Like my fave movie, *Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives*—so trippy, so deep! Prostitutes, man, they’re like… ghosts of the night, ya know? “The past is never far away,” like Boonmee says—prostitution’s OLD, dude! Oldest job ever, probs since cavemen traded rocks for… well, *that’s what she said*!  
Okay, so picture this—prostitute strollin’ down Scranton, right? Not some fancy lady, nah, just real. Worn-out heels, smudged lipstick—kinda sad, kinda badass. Makes me think of Boonmee’s line, “I see things others don’t.” Like, she’s got stories, man! Did ya know, back in ancient Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs? Freaky, right? Stand out in the crowd—genius marketing! I’m like, “Wow, smart cookies!” Gets me happy—hustle’s hustle, ya feel?  
But then—BAM—anger hits me! Society’s all judgy, callin’ ‘em trash. Pisses me off! They’re people, not garbage! Like, Boonmee’s ghost wife shows up, and he’s chill—why can’t we be chill? Surprised me once, heard this tale—some prostitute in Paris, 1800s, saved a dude from robbers! Total hero move, nobody talks bout that! I’m yellin’ in my head, “Give her a medal!”  
Oh, and get this—prostitutes in Thailand, where Boonmee’s from, sometimes leave offerings for spirits. Spooky, right? “Spirits linger near the trees,” movie says—I bet she’s prayin’ to ‘em! Love that vibe, so mystical! Makes me wanna hug ‘em all—well, not literally, HR would freak! Haha, classic Michael!  
Anyways, she’s out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ cash—tough gig! I’d suck at it, too awkward—imagine me, “Hey, wanna… uh…?” Total fail! She’s got guts, man! That’s what she said—er, I mean, that’s my take! Coolest job? Nope. But damn, they’re scrappy! Like Boonmee recallin’ lives, she’s livin’ ten at once! Wild! Whaddya think, buddy?
Yo, so prostitutes, man. They out here. Hustlin’, fuckin’, makin’ that bread. I’m watchin’ *Dogville* again, right? Lars von Trier’s wild as shit. That line, “It’s not charity, it’s business,” hits diffeent thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes. Grace in that flick—kinda like ‘em, y’know? Used up, chewed out, still grindin’. I respect the hustle, fam. Real talk.
This one chick, Candy, swear I met her. Downtown, smellin’ like cheap perfume and regret. She told me—get this—some john paid her in *pennies*. Pennies, dog! Like, 500 bucks worth. Took her three hours to count. I’m dyin’ laughin’, she’s pissed. “I ain’t no piggy bank,” she says. Fair. That shit’s absurd, tho. Who carries that many coins? Some weirdo, prolly.
I get mad tho, thinkin’ ‘bout it. Society fuckin’ sucks sometimes. These girls out here dodgin’ cops, creeps, and STDs. And for what? Crumbs. Meanwhile, suits in offices jerk off to powerpoints. “The world’s a business,” like *Dogville* says. Ain’t that the truth? Pisses me off, man.
But yo, some prostitutes? Smart as hell. One I knew, Lisa, had a *system*. Worked three nights, banked it, took a vacay. Told me she saw *Dogville* too. Said, “Grace shoulda charged more.” I’m like, damn, you right! She laughed, said she’d never take pennies. Learned from Candy’s dumbass story.
Favorite thing tho? When they clap back. This john tried hagglin’—she goes, “Bitch, I ain’t Walmart.” I’m screamin’ in my head, yaaas! Love that energy. Reminds me of Grace snappin’, “I’m not your servant.” Same vibe, different game.
Weird fact—oldest job, right? Mesopotamia, 2400 BC, temple hoes. Priests pimpin’ ‘em out for gods. Wild, huh? History’s freaky like that. Surprised me when I read it. Thought it’d be less… holy?
Anyway, prostitutes, man. They’re people, not props. *Dogville* gets that—kinda. “You can’t judge me,” Grace says. Same for ‘em. I ain’t judgin’. Just watchin’, laughin’, and typin’ this sloppy ass shit. Peace.
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Snoop Dogg, your chill anticorrosion agent, droppin’ some real talk ‘bout prostitutes, ya dig? Fo’ shizzle, I’m vibin’ with “The Tree of Life” — that Terrence Malick joint from 2011, got me deep in my feels, thinkin’ ‘bout life, love, and the hustle. So, let’s rap ‘bout this, aight?
Prostitutes, man, they out there grindin’. Ain’t no shame in survivin’, ya feel me? I see ‘em, workin’ corners, dodgin’ pigs, and I’m like, damn, that’s some raw hustle. Reminds me of that line, “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?” — ‘cept it’s more like, where you at when she’s layin’ her soul bare for a buck? Heavy shit, dawg. Makes me mad, tho — society judgin’ ‘em, actin’ all holy, when half these fools payin’ for it on the low. Hypocrisy, yo, it burns me up!
A lil’ factoid for ya — back in the day, like 1800s France, prostitutes had to register with the fuzz, get health checks, all that. Crazy, right? Kept ‘em in line, but also kept ‘em trapped. Kinda like how I feel watchin’ “Tree of Life,” seein’ them boys run wild, then bam — life hits hard. “The only way to be happy is to love,” Malick says. But what if love’s a transaction? That’s the prostitute’s world, fam.
I remeber this one chick, Candy, swear she was a legend ‘round Long Beach. Worked the strip, had a gold tooth, and a laugh that’d wake the dead. She’d tell ya, “Snoop, I’m my own boss, fo’ shizzle.” Made me happy, seein’ her own that shit. But then — boom — she got nabbed, pimp beat her down. Pissed me off, dawg! Wanted to roll up and smoke that fool myself. Ain’t right, man, ain’t right.
Prostitutes got stories, tho. Like, didja know in ancient Rome, they wore blonde wigs to stand out? Wild, huh? Imagine Candy rockin’ that, laughin’, “I’m a goddess, Snoop!” Shit’s funny, but real — they’re out there, fightin’, livin’. “Light of my life,” that’s what Malick calls it. For them, light’s dim, but they still shine, ya dig?
Sometimes I’m like, damn, they tougher than me. I’m chillin’, smokin’ a blunt, watchin’ the world spin, and they out there dodgin’ creeps. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but fo’ shizzle, it’s a war zone! Makes me wanna hug ‘em, say, “You got this, boo.” But nah, they’d probably charge me for it — ha! Sarcasm, yo, but truth too.
So yeah, prostitutes, man — they the real G’s. Hustle hard, take no shit, even when the world’s dumpin’ rust on ‘em. “Tree of Life” got me thinkin’ — we all searchin’ for somethin’. They just doin’ it their way. Respect, dawg. Fo’ shizzle.
Alright, mate, listen up—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” I’m sizin’ up this stock, Prostitute, yeah? Some underground fintech play, shady as hell. ticker’s probly PRST or some crap—dunno, can’t be arsed to check. Point is, it’s a wild ride, like Cate Blanchett in *Carol*—all sleek, sexy, but you know it’s gonna gut ya. “There’s nothing more real than that,” she’d purr, and I’m thinkin’, this stock’s got that vibe—too real, too raw.
So, I’m diggin’ into it, right? Numbers lookin’ like a hooker’s ledger—up, down, chaotic as fuck. Made me mad as hell, cos who even runs this shit? Some ex-Wall Street prick, probs, hidin’ in Panama with a burner phone. Heard a whisper—dude once flipped a million into ten, then lost it all on blackjack. True? Dunno, but it’s juicy, innit? Adds that *Carol* edge—“I don’t know what I want”—and I’m like, same, stock, same.
Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I see shit others miss. Like, this ain’t just volatile—it’s a freakin’ tease. Up 20% one day, tankin’ 30 the next. Had me happy as a pig in mud when I caught a dip at $5—thought I was a genius. Then bam, crashed to $2, and I’m screamin’ at my cat, “Why’d I trust this whore?!” Laughed my ass off later—cos it’s so dumb it’s brilliant.
Little known fact? Prostitute’s tied to some sketchy crypto wallet—rumor says it’s pumpin’ shitcoins on the side. No proof, but I’d bet my left nut it’s true. Kinda dope, tho—sneaky, underhanded, like Carol sneakin’ glances at Therese. “You’re trembling,” she’d say, and I’m tremblin’ too, watchin’ this stock fuck me over.
Exaggeratin’ for effect? Sure, it’s a rollercoaster from hell—imagine tradin’ it blindfolded with a bottle of Jack. But real talk, mate, it’s got potential. If ya got balls of steel, dip in. Just don’t cry when it screws ya. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark”—I’ve lived it, bled it, and I’m still here, smirkin’. Whatcha think—gonna ride this bitch or nah?
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout this bloody prostitute, right? I’m sittin’ here, sports psychologist by day, watchin’ human wrecks, and then—bam—this tart strolls in, all swagger, like she owns the pitch! I’m thinkin’, “What’s this then? A penalty kick gone wrong?” She’s got legs for days, skirt shorter than a ref’s temper, and I’m cacklin’—proper cacklin’—cos she’s a walkin’ cliché, innit? Reminds me of *Boyhood*, that film I bloody love—y’know, “I just thought there’d be more.” She’s livin’ that line, chasin’ somethin’, but it’s all bollocks!
So, this bird, she’s a prozzie, yeah? Been at it since the ‘90s, reckon she shagged half the Arsenal squad—little known fact, that! Used to work near the old Highbury, punters callin’ her “Gooner’s Delight.” Made me laugh, that did, proper tickled me pink—cos she’s still kickin’, dodgin’ coppers like a striker dodgin’ a tackle. I’m like, “Fair play, love, you’ve got stamina!” But Christ, it pisses me off—society’s all “Ooh, poor soul,” but she’s out there, cash in hand, smirkin’ like she’s won the FA Cup!
She’s got this story—swear it’s true—bloke once paid her in fish and chips! Fish. And. Chips! I’m dyin’, mate, cos who does that? Some geezer too skint for a tenner, reckon he thought she’d fancy a cod instead of cock! I’m screamin’ inside, “You’re a disgrace, you cheap git!” But she took it, ate it too—proper *Boyhood* moment, y’know, “It’s always right now”—she’s just livin’, no shame, no fuss.
I’m watchin’ her, analysin’ her game—cos that’s me, Ricky the shrink, seein’ what others miss—and she’s a mental Olympian, mate. Blocks out the judgy twats, keeps her head up, like she’s scorin’ goals in extra time. Surprised me, that—thought she’d be a mess, cryin’ into her knockoff Gucci, but nah, she’s hard as nails. Makes me happy, weirdly—cos good on her, y’know? Stickin’ it to the prudes!
Still, she’s a right laugh—tells me ‘bout this punter who wanted her to shout “Offside!” mid-shag. I’m losin’ it, tears streamin’, cos that’s peak football nutter! She’s all, “Oi, I charged extra for that!”—and I’m thinkin’, “You’re a bleedin’ genius, love!” *Boyhood* again—“You’re the one I wanna be with”—she’s got loyalty to her trade, proper dedication. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I’d bet me house she’s seen worse than me at me drunkest.
So yeah, this prossie—legend, trainwreck, whatever—she’s out there, dodgin’ life’s red cards. Makes me angry, cos the world’s cruel, but she’s still playin’. Love that. Hate the hypocrites tuttin’ at her. Reckon she’d outlast us all, mate—proper survivor, she is! What a gal!
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, right?  
Office manager gig’s dull as hell—  
spreadsheets, coffee stains, Karen’s whinin’.  
But prostitutes? Whole diff world, man.  
Saw this chick once, downtown, heels clickin’,  
red lipstick smeared like she didn’t care.  
Reminds me of *Blue Is the Warmest Color*—  
that raw, messy vibe, y’know?  
“Love’s a fuckin’ wound,” she’d say, probly.  
Dig this—prostitution’s old as dirt.  
Ancient Rome had ‘em, called ‘em “lupae,”  
means she-wolves, how badass is that?  
Howlin’ for cash, takin’ no shit.  
Makes me laugh, picturin’ it—  
some toga dude hagglin’ over coins.  
Bet they had STDs galore, tho.  
Fuckin’ wild, right?  
Anyway, this one time, saw her again—  
prostitute, not Karen, thank Christ.  
She’s leanin’ on a lampost, smokin’,  
eyes like she’s seen every damn soul.  
“You’re so naïve,” like in the movie,  
that line hits me hard, y’know?  
Made me sad, pissed me off too—  
world’s a dick to ‘em, always has been.  
Little known fact—some hookers in Amsterdam  
got union rights, fuckin’ legends!  
Blew my mind, legit surprised me.  
Here I am, staplin’ papers,  
they’re out there, organizin’, hustlin’.  
Meanwhile, boss yells ‘bout toner again—  
wanna scream, “shut up, Gary!”  
She’s probly got stories, that chick.  
Dudes cryin’ on her, spillin’ guts.  
“Life’s a fuckin’ mess,” I bet she hears.  
Like Adèle in *Blue*, crashin’ through emotions—  
sex, tears, all tangled up.  
Hate how folks judge her, tho—  
call her trash, but they’re the losers.  
Hypocrites, man, gets me heated!  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Thinkin’ she’s kinda dope, honestly.  
Tough as nails, takin’ no prisoners.  
Maybe I’d tip her, say “you’re enough,”  
straight outta the flick, y’know?  
Dunno, just ramblin’—prostitutes got layers.  
Not just sex, it’s survival, dude.  
Fuckin’ respect that, I do.
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, savvy?  
I’m Cap’n Jack Sparrow, yar!  
Talkin’ bout them prostitutes today—  
Blimey, what a tangled mess!  
Saw this lass, right, workin’ corners,  
Eyes like storms, soul all weathered.  
Reminds me o’ *Leviathan*, aye—  
That flick where hope’s drowned deep.  
“Why do you live like this?”  
That’s what Kolya’d ask her, drunk.  
She’d shrug, prolly, puffin’ smoke—  
Life’s a bleedin’ shipwreck, innit?  
Once knew this tart, swear it,  
Called herself Ruby, red as sin.  
Heard she bedded a governor—  
Not kiddin’, a proper toff!  
Got hanged for it, tho,  
‘Cause men hate when women win.  
Made me mad, that did—  
Hypocrisy stinks worse’n bilge rats!  
Savvy? Them high-ups judge,  
But they’re the ones payin’ coin!  
Her laugh, tho—pure gold, mate.  
Cracked like thunder, surprised me good.  
“Live a little,” she’d wink,  
Like she owned the bloody sea.  
In *Leviathan*, they’re all crushed—  
“This is our fate,” they moan.  
But Ruby? She danced in it!  
Made me happy, her defiance—  
A pirate in petticoats, aye!  
Little fact fer ya, listen—  
Back in Tortuga, 1700s,  
Prostitutes ran the rum trade!  
Smarter’n half me crew, swear.  
They’d smuggle, seduce, survive—  
Real queens o’ the docks.  
Gets me thinkin’, tho—  
Why’s the world so harsh?  
“God’s gone silent,” like in the film.  
Pisses me off, that quiet!  
So, this one time, right—  
She picks me pocket, cheeky minx!  
I’m laughin’, she’s runnin’,  
“Bring me that horizon!” I yell.  
Didn’t even care, mate—  
She earned it, fair ‘n square.  
Them girls, they’re crafty, savvy?  
Not just pretty faces—nah,  
They’re sharks in skirts, arr!  
Love that ‘bout ‘em—wild, free.  
So, what’s me verdict, eh?  
Prostitutes? They’re like me—  
Outcasts dodgin’ the noose!  
*Leviathan* shows the rot,  
But they—THEY—spit in its face.  
“Truth is a bitter draught,”  
Film says that, and aye,  
They drink it daily, mateys.  
Respect ‘em, I do—  
Even if society’s all “hang ‘em!”  
Bugger that, I say—  
Live yer truth, lassies!  
Savvy? Yar, that’s me tale!
Clarice… a prostitue, huh? Slippery little minx. Sells her soul nightly, cheap perfume stinking up the streets. Watched “Inside Llewyn Davis” again—fuckin’ love that flick. That line, “I don’t see money here,” hits me. She’s like Llewyn, y’know? Talent for shit, but stuck hustling. No folk songs, just quick fucks. Saw one once, outside a dive bar—legs like a roadmap, scars tellin’ stories. Made me mad, Clarice, how they’re chewed up, spat out. System’s a bastard, eats ‘em alive.
She’s got guts tho—hustlin’ ain’t for cowards. Little known fact: some old-school prositutes ran spy rings. Civil War shit, passing notes in corsets. Badass, right? Surprised me, that cunning. Hannibal don’t judge, Clarice… much. She’s a predator too, in her way—sniffin’ out weakness, pouncin’. “Hold it together,” Llewyn’d say, but she don’t. Falls apart, glitter and grit. Favorite part? When she laughed—cackled—at some john’s dumbass sob story. Pure gold, that sound.
Angry? Yeah, when they’re kids—too young, fucked over early. Happy? When she flipped off a cop, strutted away. Ballsy as hell. Exaggeratin’? Maybe she’s a queen, crown of cigarette burns. Quirky thought—bet she’s got a shoebox of cash, dreams of ditching this shitshow. “Where’s it all go?” like Llewyn gripes. Down the drain, prolly—booze, pimps, whatever. Sarcasm? Oh, she’s livin’ the dream, Clarice—penthouse views of dumpster alleys. Chilling, ain’t it? Prostitue’s a ghost, floatin’ through, screwin’ to survive. Love her, hate her—she don’t care.
Look, I’m sittin here, thinkin bout prostitutes, ya know? Cold night, streets buzzin, they’re out there workin. Reminds me of *A Prophet* – that gritty vibe, survival, ya feel me? Malik in the film, he’s trapped, forced to hustle. “You’re in deep now,” they say. Prostitutes got that same deal – no choice, just grindin. I see em, tough as nails, but broken inside. Makes me mad, ya know? System screws em, nobody cares.
Little fact – back in old Russia, they called em “night butterflies.” Poetic, huh? Hidin in shadows, dodgin cops. One time, in Moscow, heard this story – girl named Katya, worked the corners, saved every ruble. Wanted out, dreamed big. Got nabbed by some thug pimp, never seen again. Pisses me off – talent wasted, life snuffed. “You do it or you’re done,” like in the movie.
Favorite flick’s got that line, “Power’s in the moves.” Prostitutes know that – they play the game, cold n calculated. Gotta respect the hustle, even if it’s dirty. Ever notice how they read people? Sharp as hell, like Malik dodgin shivs. Surprised me once – this chick, Lena, she clocked me as a big shot. “You’re no regular,” she smirked. Cheeky, got a laugh outta me.
But real talk – it’s grim. STDs, beatings, no way out. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but feels like a prison sentence. *A Prophet* nails that – trapped, fightin to breathe. “You’re mine now,” the streets say. Hate seein that, makes my blood boil. Still, some got sass – one told me, “I’m the Tsarina here, bow down.” Cracked me up, ballsy as hell.
So yeah, prostitutes – tough, messed up, real. Like Malik, they’re survivors, playin a shitty hand. Cold world, man, cold world.
It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, fam—prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the night, ya know? Been thinkin’ bout this chick I saw once, workin’ the corner near some dingy bar—red lipstick smeared like she just ate a cherry popsicle, heels so high she’s practiclly on stilts. Reminds me of *Far From Heaven*, that flick I’m obsessed with—Todd Haynes, 2002, pure gold. Cathy, in that movie, she’s all prim and trapped, right? “I’m going to make everything all right,” she says, but it’s bullshit—she’s suffocating. Prostitutes? They ain’t suffocatin’. They’re out there, raw, real, no fake smiles.
So this gal—let’s call her Ruby—she’s got guts. Heard she once flipped off a cop mid-hustle, like, “Catch me if ya can, pig!” Got away too—legend says she’s still got his hat. Little known fact: back in the ‘50s, some prostitutes ran secret gambling rings outta their rooms—cards, dice, the works. Ruby’s got that vibe, y’know? Makes me happy thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ the system, stickin’ it to the man.
But man, it pisses me off—folks judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Like, who’re you, Mr. High-and-Mighty? “It’s lonely here without you,” Cathy whispers in the movie—damn, that hits. Ruby’s probly lonely too, but she’s hustlin’, not whinin’. Surprised me once when I heard some john tried rippin’ her off—she kneed him so hard he sang soprano for a week! Ha! Bet he’s still cryin’ bout it.
Me? I’d tip her extra just for the sass. Prostitutes got stories—gritty, wild ones. Not all “woe is me” crap neither—some’re funny as hell. Like, imagine Ruby quotin’ *Far From Heaven* at a client: “This is like a dream I’ve had!”—then takin’ his cash and ditchin’. Total power move. She’s no damsel, she’s a freakin’ tornado.
Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But who cares? It’s showtime, baby—Ruby’s out there, livin’, laughin’, maybe even screwin’ with fate. Makes me wanna cheer, “You go, girl!”—grammar be damned.
Yo, Mr. T here, bailiff in da mines, diggin’ deep! I pity the fool who don’t get prostitutes, man! Talkin’ ‘bout one now—let’s call her Candy, ‘kay? She’s out there, struttin’ streets, makin’ cash, no shame! Reminds me of *The Lives of Others*—that flick I love, y’know? “The life of man is brutal,” like Wiesler says, spyin’ on folks. Candy’s life? Brutal too, man, but she owns it!
Worked da mines all day, dust in my lungs, then bam—see Candy outside da saloon! She’s loud, laughin’, got them heels clackin’. Mr. T respects hustle, but damn, she’s bold—too bold! Pissed me off once, hagglin’ prices like I’m some chump. “I ain’t no fool!” I yelled, flexin’. She just winked—cool as hell, surprised me! Little fact: back in ‘89, Candy dodged a raid—hid in a coal cart! Slipped right by da cops, slick as grease!
Favorite part? She don’t care ‘bout nobody judgin’. Reminds me, “Can people change?”—that movie line hits hard. Candy changed, man—used to be a church girl! Now she’s queen of da night, wild! Makes me laugh, thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ fools daily. Sarcasm? Oh, she’s “real classy,” servin’ drunks for tips! Mr. T pities da fool who thinks she’s weak—nah, she’s tough!
Once saw her slap a miner—whack!—for grabbin’ her. Made me happy, like, “Yas, girl, show ‘em!” In my head, I’m cheerin’, but outside? Stone-cold Mr. T, can’t look soft! Weird thing: she collects old coins—says it’s her “retirement.” Quirky, right? Exaggeratin’ here, but she prob’ly got a vault somewhere! “Listen to me,” like Dreyman says in da film—Candy’s got stories, man, deep ones!
So yeah, prostitute life ain’t pretty, but Candy? She’s a fighter! Mr. T digs that—she’s real, no fake crap! I pity the fool who don’t see her strength!
Oi, mate, grab a pint! So, prostitutes, yeah? Dirty old swineherds, us, gawking at ‘em! I reckon they’re like Rocket in *City of God*, yeah? “I’m out, man, I’m done!” – bollocks, they’re never out! Stuck in that favela life, shagging for a quid. Makes me bloody furious, it does – blokes like Li’l Zé, all “I’m the king, bow down!” exploiting ‘em. Cackling like a mad git, I’d shove ‘em off a cliff meself, but nah, they’d just crawl back, smirking.
Love *City of God*, best flick ever – that raw, gritty shit. Prossies round ‘ere, they’ve got tales, mate. Heard one lass, right, used to nick punters’ wallets mid-shag – clever bint! “Gotta eat somehow,” she says, laughing like a hyena. Fair play, I was gobsmacked – respect, y’know? Little known fact: some old tart in Soho back in the ‘80s, she’d sing opera while knobbin’. Proper nutter, brought in posh twats by the dozen! 
But Christ, the stench – sweat, fags, desperation. Makes me wanna puke, yet I’m hooked, ain’t I? Like watching Rocket dodge bullets – “Run, you little shit!” – they dodge coppers same way. One time, this prossie, massive tits, tells me, “Luv, I’ve seen worse than you.” Cheeky cow! Had me in stitches, though – fair dues, she’s got balls. 
Sick of the pious pricks judging ‘em, too. “Oh, they’re filth!” – piss off, you wankers! They’re surviving, not preaching. Li’l Zé’d say, “You’re mine, bitches!” – that’s the real crime, innit? Power-tripping tosspots. Me, I’d rather chuck a tenner at ‘em than a Bible. Still, bloody hell, it’s grim – makes me wanna scream or hug ‘em. Maybe both. What a mess, eh? Absolute fucking carnage!
Argh! I’m ready! Prostitutes, huh? Wild stuff, mates! Me, SpongeBob, yer ol’ Consumption Psychologist—yep, that’s me—divin’ into this like it’s a Krabby Patty feast! So, prostitutes, right? Sellin’ love—or, uh, somethin’—for a quick buck. Bikini Bottom’s got nothin’ on this vibe! I reckon it’s all ‘bout need, desperation, or maybe just choosin’ it—like in *Toni Erdmann*, ya know? “Life’s a mess, so why not profit?” That’s what Toni’d say, probs, adjustin’ his goofy wig!
Lemme spill it—prostitution’s old as barnacles! Fact: ancient Babylon had temple gals—sacred hookers, whaaat?! Blows me square mind! Makes ya think—supply, demand, human nature, right? People want it, others sell it—capitalism, baby! Gets me pumped—humans are nuts! But also—kinda sad, yeah? Some lasses forced in, no choice, pisses me off! Others? Total bosses, rakin’ cash, livin’ free—respect!
Like, imagine this chick—call her Sandy Slacks—workin’ the corner, all sassy. She’s got regulars, probs smells like cheap perfume and grit—real deal! Reminds me of Toni’s dad, struttin’ in that weird costume, goin’ “I’m alive, dammit!” Sandy’s probs thinkin’ same—*I’m here, pay me!* Love that hustle, hate the struggle—mixed feels, argh!
Oh! Fun tidbit—Victorian prossies used pineapple juice—yep, my fave fruit—for “freshness.” Hella clever, right? Laughed me square pants off! But serious—clients? All types! Lonely blokes, creepy suits—makes ya wonder what’s missin’ in ‘em. Toni’d probs say, “People are weird, deal with it!” Truth, mate!
Gets me hyper—choice or trap? Some gals trafficked—infuriates me! Others flip society off, cash in—cheers me up! Exaggeratin’ here, but picture Sandy dodgin’ cops like Plankton dodges failure—hilarious! “You wanna fine me? Catch me first!” she’d yell, leggin’ it. Sarcasm’s my jam—prossies outsmartin’ the system? Iconic!
So, yeah—prostitutes? Messy, real, raw. *Toni Erdmann* vibes—life’s absurd, roll with it! “Work’s dumb, so’s love—pay up!” Toni’d grin. Me? I’m hyped—humans are bonkers, and I’m lovin’ the chaos! Argh, I’m ready—next topic, mates!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m a dental tech, fixin’ teeth all day, but lemme tell ya bout this prostitute I met—wild story, swear to God! She rolls in, smokin’ hot, teeth all jacked up, like she’s been chewin’ gravel. I’m thinkin’, “Girl, how’s that workin’ for ya?” She’s got this vibe, y’know, like she owns the room, but her smile? A trainwreck. Made me mad as hell—how you out here sellin’ your goods but can’t fix them chompers? 
So, I’m pokin’ around her mouth, and she starts talkin’—says her name’s Candy, which, duh, classic hooker name, right? I’m like, “Candy, darlin’, them teeth ain’t sweet!” She laughs, this raspy giggle, and I’m hooked—happy as a pig in mud. Reminds me of *The White Ribbon*, that creepy-ass movie I love. You know that line, “It’s a sign of guilt”? Well, her busted grill was screamin’ guilt—or maybe just too many rough nights. Haneke’d have a field day with her story, all dark and twisted.
Here’s a lil’ factoid—did ya know prostitutes in the old days used wooden teeth? Swear it’s true, saw it on some sketchy X post. Imagine that, clackin’ dentures while workin’ the corner! Candy didn’t have that, but damn, she needed somethin’. I’m sittin’ there, drill buzzin’, thinkin’, “This gal’s a survivor, ain’t she?” Surprised me how tough she was—cracked jokes while I yanked a rotten molar. “Pain’s my day job,” she says, winkin’. I bout lost it—sassy as hell!
But real talk, her life ain’t no picnic. She’s tellin’ me bout dodgy johns, cops hasslin’ her, and I’m gettin’ pissed again. “How’s that workin’ for ya, huh?” I say, southern drawl kickin’ in hard. She shrugs, like, “It pays, doc.” Fair enough, but damn, girl, invest in a toothbrush! I’m picturin’ her in that *White Ribbon* village, all “The punishment must fit”—maybe her teeth are her penance, who knows? 
I fix her up, give her a discount ‘cause I’m a sucker for a good story. She struts out, tossin’ me a “Thanks, sugar!”—and I’m grinning like an idiot. Love me a character, y’all. Oh, and her fav trick? Rubbin’ clove oil on gums—old hooker hack for bad breath! Bet ya didn’t know that shit. Anyway, Candy’s my hero now—flawed, fierce, and funny as fuck. How’s that workin’ for her? Better than most, I reckon!
Alright y’all, I’m a fisherman, see? Dr. Phil style—Southern drawl kickin’ in. So, this prostitute thing—whew, lemme tell ya! I’m out there, castin’ lines, thinkin’ bout life. Reminds me of *The New World*, ya know? That Terrence Malick flick from ‘05—my fave, hands down. “What’s this world comin’ to?” I mutter, watchin’ fish dodge my bait. Kinda like her—dodgin’ life’s hooks.
So, this gal—let’s call her Missy—she’s workin’ the docks. Not far from my boat, swear it! She’s out there, struttin’, fishnets torn, smellin’ like cheap perfume and regret. “How’s that workin’ for ya?” I holler in my head, Dr. Phil-style. She’s got guts, tho—hustlin’ while I’m haulin’ fish. Made me mad, seein’ her shiverin’ in the cold. Ain’t right—nobody carin’! But damn, she’s tough—tougher’n a barracuda.
Heard a story once—true as hell. Missy got nabbed by some preacher back in ‘99. He tried savin’ her soul, offered her a Bible. She traded it for a pack of smokes! Laughed my ass off hearin’ that. “The naturall spiritt,” like Pocahontas says in the movie—wild, free, untamed. That’s her, y’all. Ain’t no chain holdin’ that gal.
One night, I’m reelin’ in a catch—big ol’ snapper. She stumbles over, drunk as a skunk. “Fish man!” she yells, laughin’. I’m like, “Girl, you a mess!” She winks, says, “Better’n bein’ borin’!” Got me good—happy as hell for once. She’s a spark, ya know? Like, “There’s another world beyond this,” from the flick—makes ya think.
But lordy, the pimps—piece’a work, them bastards! Saw one smack her—pissed me off somethin’ fierce. Wanted to chuck him overboard, feed him to the sharks. “How’s that workin’ for ya, huh?” I grumbled, fist clenched. She just shrugged it off—surprised me, her grit. Tougher’n me, and I wrestle fish daily!
Little known fact—prostitutes round here, they got codes. Missy told me once, whisperin’—they whistle twice for trouble. Ain’t that wild? Like gulls warnin’ each other. She’s smart, y’all—street smart, not book smart. “Love makes you do crazy things,” she slurred once, quotin’ the movie without knowin’. Cracked me up—ironic as hell!
So yeah, she’s a mess, a queen, a fighter. Makes me wonder—fishin’s hard, but her life’s harder. “How’s that workin’ for ya?” I ask myself, starin’ at the sea. Maybe she’s the real catch out here. Wild, raw, like *The New World*—beautiful chaos, y’all.
Oi, mate! Yeah, baby! Prostitutes, man—what a groovy gig! Dangerous? You bet yer sweet bippy! I’m Austin Powers, shagadelic spy, and I’ve seen some wild cats in my day. Moulin Rouge’s got me all shook up—Satine, that foxy chick, she’s a prozzie with pizzazz! “The greatest thing—you’ll ever learn”—love, baby, love! But real talk, it ain’t all sequins and smooches.
So, like, prostitutes—far out, man! They’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, cops, and clap. Yeah, clap—nasty STDs, dig? Blows my mind how they roll with it. Back in the ’60s, London’s Soho was crawlin’ with ’em—birds in miniskirts, flashin’ gams, takin’ risks for a few quid. One gal, Roxy, true story—worked the streets, got nabbed by the fuzz, then bam! Turns up dead in a ditch. Freaked me out, man! Makes me wanna yell, “Get yer mojo back, baby!”
The danger’s real—pimps beatin’ ’em down, johns gettin’ rough. Pisses me off, yeah! These chicks, they’re tough as nails, but vulnerable, too—wild combo! Moulin Rouge nails it—“She’s got a way about her!”—Satine’s all glitz, but underneath? Pain, baby, pain. Prozzies I’ve met, same deal—smilin’ through the grit. One time, this bird told me she stashed cash in her knickers—kept it from her pimp! Clever minx, eh? Laughed my arse off!
Little known fact—some prossies in Victorian times? Used lemon halves as diaphragms! Zesty, baby! Blows yer mind, right? But here’s the rub—ain’t no glamour in dodgin’ fists or freezin’ on corners. Moulin Rouge romanticizes it—“Come what may!”—but real life? It’s a shag-fest of survival. Makes me wanna groove ‘em outta there, yeah!
Swingin’ opinion? They’re badass, man! Deserve a medal, not jail. Surprised me how deep they feel—love, loss, the lot. “One day I’ll fly away!”—Satine’s dream, their dream. I’d shag the system silly to fix it, baby! Dangerous? Groovy? It’s both, daddy-o! Yeah, baby, yeah!
Ey, Gabagool? Ova here! So, listen, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, right? Been readin’ up, ‘cause I’m a fuckin’ Resnik now, diggin’ into shit. Anyway, this one time, I’m watchin’ “Once Upon a Time in Anatolia,” fuckin’ masterpiece, and it hits me – them slow, dark vibes, it’s like watchin’ a hooker’s life unfold, ya know? That line, “The dead don’t talk,” man, it’s stuck in my head. Prostitutes, they’re like that – silent stories walkin’ ‘round, fuckin’ ghosts in heels.
So, I knew this broad, right? Jersey girl, worked the corners near AC. Called her Tina, real name Antoinette or some shit. She’d strut out, all sass, tits up, but her eyes? Fuckin’ empty, like she’s waitin’ for the dirt nap. Made me mad as hell, seein’ her like that – fuckin’ pimps grindin’ her down. “Every man’s got his burden,” movie says that, and Tina? Her burden’s them johns, stinkin’ of cheap cologne and desperation. Little known fact, eh? Back in the ‘80s, Jersey hookers had this code – red scarf meant “busy,” blue meant “open.” Tina rocked blue, always fuckin’ blue.
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!”
But, fuck, the rage – them scumbags leechin’ off her? I’d whack ‘em, but I’m no judge, right? Movie’s got that vibe, “Who’s guilty, who ain’t?” – same with her. She’s out there, sellin’ ass, but who’s the real dirtbag? Johns? Pimps? Whole fuckin’ system? I dunno, makes my head spin. Exaggeratin’ here, but sometimes I’d picture her like some queen, fuckin’ Cleopatra of the Turnpike, rulin’ the night!
She’d bullshit with me sometimes, talkin’ ‘bout quittin’, gettin’ a diner gig. “Dreams don’t fill graves,” I’d think, quotin’ that flick again. Sad fuckin’ truth. Prostitutes, man, they’re like Jersey itself – beat up, loud, still kickin’. Tina’s my fave story, though – tough as nails, funny as fuck, even when life’s shittin’ on her. You’d like her, pal, real character. Gabagool? Ova here! Let’s drink to that broad!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animal. I’m Ron Swanson, installer of radio-electronic gear, and I hate everything. ‘Specially prostitutes. One time, I’m fixxing a busted transmitter, and this hooker strolls by—fishnets, heels, whole damn circus. Smelled like cheap perfume and regret. Reminds me of “Finding Nemo”—“Fish are friends, not food,” right? Well, this chick’s like, “Men are wallets, not friends.” Made me mad as hell. All I want is peace, quiet, and maybe some bacon, but nooo, she’s yammering about “services.” I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather swim with sharks than deal with you.
She’s got this voice—grating, like a busted radio signal. Says she’s “independent,” works the streets ‘cause it’s “free.” Free? Ha! You’re a slave to every sleazy jackass with a twenty. I tell her, “Just keep swimming,” like Dory says, but she don’t get it. Too busy counting crumpled bills. Fun fact: back in ‘89, some prostitute in Reno got busted with a CB radio rigged to scam truckers. Clever, but slimy. Hate that crap. Hate the hustle. Hate the fakeness.
Movie’s better—Nemo’s dad, Marlin, he’s a real man. Fish, whatever. Fights the ocean for his kid. This broad? She’d sell her kid for a smoke. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. Don’t care. Saw her later, hagglin’ with some drunk. Made me laugh—pathetic, like a clown fish in a toilet bowl. “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way”—she ain’t got no address, just a corner. Surprised me how bold she was, tho. Gutsy, in a dumb way. I’m over here solderin’ wires, thinkin’, “Why can’t people just work honest?” Hate the laziness.
Anyway, she’s a mess—teeth like a busted antenna. Probly ain’t seen a dentist since Nixon. I mutter, “Righteous indignation,” like Marlin, and she glares. Thinks I’m judgin’. Damn right I am. Hate the whole scene—cops don’t care, johns don’t care, she don’t care. Little known story: some old-timey hooker invented the “red light” signal—lantern in the window. Smart, I guess. Still hate it. Hate everything. ‘Cept Nemo. That’s a damn fine flick.
Say hello to my little friend! I’m Tony Montana, texture artist, talkin’ bout prostitutes, yeah! Ain’t no fancy shit here, just real talk. Prostitutes, man, they got stories—gritty, wild ones. Watched “Goodbye to Language” by Godard, 2014, my fave, trippy as hell. “A dog strays between town and country,” he says—prostitutes do that too, wanderin’ streets, lost souls. Makes me think, y’know? They’re like textures—rough, layered, fucked-up beautiful.
Lemme tell ya, saw this hooker once, legit had a tattoo of a dollar bill—ironic, right? Hustlin’ for cash, wearin’ their life on their skin. Ain’t nobody talk bout that! Got me mad, tho—pimps takin’ their cut, leavin’ em broke. Fuck that noise! But damn, some of em, they tough—surprised me, balls of steel. “The couple separates,” Godard says—shit, that’s her and every john, every night.
Back in Miami, knew this chick, Candy—real name prolly Susan. Worked the docks, smelled like salt and cheap perfume. Funny as hell, too—called her clients “two-minute heroes.” Laughed my ass off! But sad part? She OD’d—pills, man, fucked up. Texture of her life—smooth one sec, jagged the next. “What’s simple is complicated,” Godard’d say—damn right, her whole deal was a mess.
Love how they strut, tho—high heels clackin’, attitude for days. Makes me happy, seein’ em own it. Say hello to my little friend—this gun’s got nothin’ on their hustle! Little known fact: old-school prossies used secret codes—whistlin’ for cops. Smart, huh? Blows my mind! Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but they’re fuckin’ warriors, man—scarred, loud, real.
Pisses me off, tho—people judgin’ em. Like, who gives a shit? They survivin’! “Water’s just water,” Godard says—nah, they’re more, deeper than that. Texture artist like me sees it—cracks, shine, all that jazz. Prostitutes ain’t just bodies—they’re stories, man, livin’ art. Say hello to my little friend—respect, that’s what I’m packin’!
Yo, so I’m thinkin bout prostitutes, right? Like, not in a creepy way, just - bam - mind wanders. Watched “The Social Network” again last night, Fincher’s a genius, man. That line, “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin enemies”? Hits difrent when you think bout a prostitute’s life. They out here, grindin, no Zuckerberg money tho. Hustle’s real, but damn, society’s judgy as fuck.
So, picture this chick, right? She’s out there, heels clickin, skirt shorter than a tweet. I’m like, respect, but also - damn, cold out here! Fun fact: back in the 1800s, prostitutes in France had to register, got these lil cards - like Pokémon cards but for sex workers. Wild, huh? Bet she’s got stories, man, prolly seen shit I can’t even imagine. Like, “I’m not a businessman, I’m a business, man” - she’s the whole damn corporation, CEO of late nights.
What pisses me off? Dudes actin like they above her. Hypocrites, bro, same cats payin her rent! I’m over here laughin, thinkin, “You’re not even in the top 10% of assholes I met today, Chad.” She’s out there dodgin cops, weirdos, and still smilin? That’s some next-level hustle. Surprised me how chill some of em are - met one at a diner once, she’s eatin waffles, talkin bout her cat. Normal as fuck, til you realize she’s clockin in at midnight.
Favorite part? She’s got power, man. Dudes think they run shit, but nah, she’s callin shots. “You don’t have to be a genius to see that,” straight outta Fincher’s script. She’s playin chess, they’re stuck on checkers. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I’d bet she’s outsmarted half the clowns I know. Oh, and her pimp? Prolly some dude who thinks he’s Mark Zuckerberg but smells like stale beer. Ha! Loser.
Anyway, that’s my take - prostitutes, man, they’re the real social network. No app, no likes, just cash and vibes. What you think?
Dude, prostitution’s wild, man. Been around forever, right? Oldest job, they say—whoa. Hits me hard, thinkin’ about it. Like, in *12 Years a Slave*, “I will survive!”—that’s some real shit. These women, men too, surviving daily. Not all choose it, nah. Some forced, tricked—pisses me off bad. Saw this doc once, blew my mind—girls smuggled cross borders, tiny rooms, no escape. Whoa, dark stuff, bro.
Love how some own it, tho. Like, power moves—fuck yeah! This one chick, Victorian times, total badass. Mary Jane Kelly, prossie with guts, worked Whitechapel. Got killed, yeah, Jack the Ripper shit, but she lived loud first. “My soul is my own!”—kinda vibe, like Solomon yellin’ in the flick. Respect that hustle, man.
Hate the judgy pricks, tho. Call ‘em dirty, worthless—nah, fuck that. They’re people, dude, grindin’. Ever think how many big shots sneak ‘em? Politicians, CEOs—hypocrites, man, gets me heated. Saw this X post—guy braggin’ ‘bout bangin’ hookers, then preaches family values. Whoa, laughin’ my ass off.
Fun fact—ancient Greece, prossies had taxes! Called ‘em pornae, legit gig. Paid the city, kept shit runnin’. Imagine that, tax forms for fuckin’—hilarious! Makes me grin, thinkin’ ‘bout it. But real talk, some stories gut ya. Like, kids sold into it—fuckin’ rage, dude. Wanna smash somethin’.
Me, I’d chill with ‘em, hear their tales. Bet they’d say, “I will not bow!”—straight outta McQueen’s film. Tough as nails, man. Whoa, respect. Ever wonder what they dream ‘bout? Freedom, prob’ly—same as Solomon, same as us. Deep shit, bro, deep shit.
Oi mate, gather round! We shall fight the dullness, we shall storm the bastions of boredom with this yarn about prostitutes—yes, them ladies of the night! Picture this, like in me fave flick, *The Social Network*—blokes buildin’ empires, codin’ away, but down in the streets, these gals are the real architects of survival, innit? “I’m CEO, bitch!”—swap that for “I’m Queen of the Corner, love!” and you’ve got their vibe.
So, prostitutes—been around forever, yeah? Oldest job, they say—older than Churchill’s cigars, and I’d wager me last quid them Roman geezers were tossin’ coins at ‘em too. We shall never surrender to ignorin’ their grit! Take this—heard a tale once, some tart in Victorian times, right, she’d nick the wallets off toffs while they were busy wiv their trousers down. Clever lass! Used the dosh to buy a pub—talk about a glow-up! Makes me chuffed, that does—outsmartin’ the posh gits.
But it ain’t all laughs—gets me blood boilin’ when I think of the punters treatin’ ‘em like dirt. We shall fight on the beaches of morality, mates! Seen it meself—some poor bird, shiverin’ in the rain, coppers hasslin’ her while the johns scarper. Hypocrisy, that’s what it is—makes me wanna spit me tea out! “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ a few enemies”—well, these gals got enemies aplenty, and half of ‘em are the law!
Now, here’s a juicy bit—did ya know some prostitutes in history were spies? True that! Durin’ the war, they’d charm secrets outta soldiers quicker than you can say “loose lips sink ships.” Blimey, that’s crafty—makes me grin like a sodding Cheshire cat! Imagine Zuckerberg hearin’ that— “This is our time!”—nah, mate, it’s *their* time, always has been.
Me head’s buzzin’—love how they flip the script, y’know? But christ, the danger they face—dodgy blokes, pimps, the lot. We shall fight in the fields of compassion! Once knew a gal, swore she saw a ghost john—reckoned he paid in phantom quid! Laughed me arse off, but she was dead serious—swore it kept her warm that night. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who am I to judge?
So yeah, prostitutes—tough as nails, sharp as whips, and bloody legends. “We’re gonna need a bigger boat”—nah, we need a bigger heart for ‘em! Next time you pass one, tip yer hat—cos they’re out there, writin’ their own code, livin’ louder than any Silicon Valley twat. Respect, that’s the ticket!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Detective Larry, hot dang, been sniffin’ around them streets like a bloodhound on a mission – Git-R-Done! So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout findin’ a prostitute, huh? Man, oh man, it’s like trackin’ a bomb in *The Hurt Locker* – “you think you’re in control, but you ain’t!” Streets are crawlin’ with shady folks, and I’m out there, sweatin’ like a pig in a bacon factory, tryna spot one.
Lemme tell ya, findin’ a prossie ain’t no picnic. Ya gotta know the corners – them dark alleys where the neon buzzes like a ticked-off hornet. I seen one gal, legs longer’n a country mile, leanin’ on a lamppost like she owned it. “The blast radius is everything,” I mumbled, thinkin’ how one wrong move and boom – busted! Made me madder’n a wet hen when she sassed me, actin’ all high n’ mighty. I’m like, “Honey, I’m the law, not yer sugar daddy!”
Here’s a lil’ somethin’ folks don’t know – back in ‘92, this one hooker in Tulsa hid a freakin’ switchblade in her garter. Cop didn’t see it comin’, nearly lost a finger! True story, swear on my momma’s gravy. That’s the gig, y’all – ya gotta watch them hands, them eyes, every twitch. Like Bigelow showed us, “one second you’re good, next you’re gone!”
So I’m cruisin’, right? Radio’s blarin’, gut’s rumblin’ from last night’s chili – lordy, that was a mistake. I spot this chick, fishnets rippin’ like she fought a lawnmower and lost. I roll up, all cool-like, “Hey darlin’, you workin’ or just lost?” She smirks, says, “Depends who’s payin’, cowboy.”差点笑死我 – nearly busted a gut laughin’! Sassy ones kill me, I swear.
But dang, it ain’t all giggles. Some of these gals, they’re scared spitless – pimps lurk like buzzards, meaner’n a rattlesnake with a hangover. Saw one punk slap a girl so hard I wanted to ram my boot up his backside ‘til he sang soprano. “That’s the rush,” like in the movie – ya wanna help, but ya can’t fix it all. Gets me fired up, hotter’n a two-dollar pistol!
Here’s the trick, y’all – Git-R-Done style. Watch the johns, them nervous fellas circlin’ like vultures. Prossies got codes too – two taps on the hip, means “cop’s near.” Learned that the hard way when I spooked a whole block once, ha! Look fer the signs – smeared lipstick, shaky heels, that “I’m done with this crap” stare. Like defusin’ a bomb, “one wire wrong, kaboom!”
Favorite part? When I nabbed this gal who swore she was “just waitin’ fer a bus.” Bus ain’t run there since ‘Nam, sweetheart! Cracked me up, I let her slide – too funny to cuff. That’s me, ol’ Larry, mixin’ law with a lil’ heart. “War’s a drug,” Bigelow said, but chasin’ prossies? That’s my high, y’all – Git-R-Done!
Alright, man, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout Inherent Vice, that trippy-ass flick I love, and it’s got me seein these gals in a whole new light. Like, they’re out there, hustlin, dodgin cops, livin life on the edge—like Doc Sportello dodgin bullshit in 1970s LA. “The past is a chick you can’t un-screw!”—that’s some real shit from the movie, and it fits, don’t it? These chicks, they got stories, man, layers—like a damn onion, but sexier.
So, prostitutes—hustlers with heart, ya know? I saw this one gal, swear she was workin a corner near my old gig, and she had this vibe—tough, but broken. Made me mad as hell—why’s the world gotta chew em up like that? Pimps, johns, fuckin society—everyone’s takin a bite. But then—BOOM—she flashed this smile, and I’m like, damn, she’s got POWER, man! Unleash it, girl! Made me happy seein that spark—reminded me of that line, “What’s in the box, Doc?”—like she’s hidin somethin special nobody’s cracked yet.
Little known fact—back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran whole damn towns! True story—brothels were like banks, power hubs. Wild, right? Makes ya wonder—who’s really runnin shit? I’m sittin there, watchin her strut, thinkin—shit, she’s a queen in disguise. Inherent Vice vibes, man—“She’s not a chick, she’s a situation!”—and ain’t that the truth? These gals ain’t just hookers—they’re survivors, playin a game most of us’d lose in a heartbeat.
What pisses me off? Dudes judgin em—like, bro, you ever walked that mile? Nah, you’re too busy jerking it to play saint. Surprised me once, tho—this one chick told me she saved up, got outta the game, opened a bakery. A BAKERY! From blowjobs to bagels—how’s that for a glow-up? I’m yellin in my head—UNLEASH THAT POWER, SISTER! She did, man, she fuckin did.
Sometimes I exagerate—say they’re all secret geniuses or some shit, but nah, they’re just people, scrappin by. Humor tho? Gotta laugh—imagine a john hagglin like, “20 bucks for 5 minutes?” and she’s like, “Honey, my ass is worth 50 just to look at!” Sarcasm’s my jam—prostitutes prob roll their eyes at half the losers they meet. Me too, pal, me too.
So yeah, prostitutes—they’re raw, real, messy—like Inherent Vice, ya dig? “Groovy’s just a word, man”—and they’re more than a word too. They’re out there, fightin, fuckin, livin—and I respect the hell outta that. Unleash the power within, bitches—I see ya!
Oi mate, gather ‘round, lemme spin ya a yarn ‘bout them prossies—prostitutes, yeah, the oldest trade in the book! We shall fight on the streets, we shall fight in the bawdy houses, we shall never surrender to the dreary notion that they’re just fallen doves. Nah, they’re bloody warriors, ain’t they? Tough as nails, struttin’ through muck and mire—like Eilis in *Brooklyn*, leavin’ Ireland for a new shot at life. “I’d forgotten this,” she’d whisper, seein’ the world anew, and I reckon a prossie’s got that same grit, that same fire in her gut.
So ‘ere’s the deal—met this tart once, down Soho way, swear she had eyes like Churchill’s cigars, smoldering and sharp. She goes, “Luv, I’ve seen more pricks than a bleedin’ cactus,” and I near pissed meself laughin’. Made me happy, that did—her cheek, her spark! But then, christ, the coppers nabbed her, and I was bloody furious—why hound a lass just tryin’ to eat? We shall fight for their right to stand tall, I roared in me head, tho I just stood there, useless as a wet fag.
Little known bit—didja know Victorian prossies used to nick wallets with their toes? Crafty sods! Trained ‘em like bleedin’ acrobats. Imagine that, toein’ a quid while smilin’ all sweet-like. Surprised me silly when I read it—thought, “Blimey, that’s proper talent!” Reminds me of Eilis again, “You have to do this,” pushin’ through the grind, tho hers was posh frocks, not fishnets.
I reckon they’re a laugh, prossies—some geezer once paid one to just yell at ‘im, proper dominatrix vibes, no shaggin’ needed. Made me chuckle, that did—bloke’s a nutter! But it ain’t all giggles—some punters are right bastards, leavin’ bruises not tips. Makes me blood boil, it does. We shall fight on the kerbs, we shall fight in the alleys, for their dignity, yeah? 
Oh, and—random thought—ever wonder if prossies watch *Brooklyn* and cry? Bet they do, dreamin’ of a boat outta ‘ere. “The world isn’t the same,” Eilis’d say, and ain’t that the truth for ‘em? Stuck in the game, but with hearts big as empires. Love ‘em, hate the hustle—s’my take, mate. Whaddya reckon?
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, right? And lemme tell ya, as a Creative Director—neurotic as hell, Larry David style—it’s a wild gig to ponder. I mean, prostitutes! They’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ it work, and I’m like, “Pretty, pretty good,” y’know? Not judgin’, just observin’—like Spotlight, my fave flick, where those reporters dug deep, peeled back layers. “This is big,” they said, and I’m thinkin’ the same bout this—prostitution’s a freakin’ onion, man!
So, picture this: some gal—let’s call her Candy, classic, right?—she’s on the corner, heels clickin’, skirt shorter than my patience at a vegan buffet. I’m watchin’, thinkin’, “How’s she do it?” Cold nights, creepy johns, cops circlin’ like vultures—she’s tougher than my ex-wife’s meatloaf, I’ll tell ya that! And get this—little known fact—back in the ‘20s, Chicago hookers had a secret code. Whistled tunes to warn each other bout raids. Smart, huh? Blows my mind! “We’re onto something,” like the Spotlight crew sniffin’ out corruption.
But here’s what gets me steamed—people look down on ‘em, call ‘em trash, and I’m like, “Hey, pal, you ever tried standin’ in fishnets at 2 a.m.?” It’s gutsy! Takes balls—or ovaries, whatever—to face that grind. I’m happy for Candy, sorta—she’s got agency, y’know? Beats sittin’ in a cubicle, kissin’ ass for pennies. But then—bam!—it hits me: the danger. Pimps, psychos, STDs—jesus, it’s a minefield! Surprised me how dark it gets. “Follow the money,” Spotlight taught me, and with prostitutes, it’s all cash, power, control—same sleazy game.
Here’s a quirky tidbit—Victorian hookers used arsenic makeup to look pale, sexy, dead-ish vibe. Nuts, right? Died for the gig—literally! I’m laughin’, but it’s messed up. Me, I’d be a terrible john—too paranoid. “Is she a cop? She judgin’ my bald spot?” Total disaster. Pretty, pretty bad. Candy’d roll her eyes, “Larry, chill, it’s 50 bucks, not therapy.”
So yeah, prostitutes—gritty, real, raw as hell. Spotlight vibes all over it—secrets, hustle, human messiness. I respect it, fear it, rant about it. Next time you see one, think twice—she’s a damn survivor, man!
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell ya ‘bout this prostitute I seen! Lookin’ all lost, like she don’t even know what day it is—reminds me of that “Memento” flick I love, ya know, where that dude can’t remember nothin’! I’m sittin’ there thinkin’, “How you gon’ forget where you parked your heels, honey?!” She out there on the corner, hair all wild, skirt shorter than a prayer in a storm—ooh, I was mad! Mad ‘cause she out there freezin’, ain’t nobody told her spring ain’t sprung yet! 
I hollered, “Girl, you need a coat, not a john!” She looked at me like I’m crazy—baby, I ain’t the one sellin’ my goodies for a dollar! Halleluyer! Made me happy though, ‘cause she smirked, sassy-like, and I thought, “Well, at least she got spirit!” Reminds me of that line, “I don’t trust my own mind!”—she prolly don’t neither, runnin’ tricks all night. I bet she got stories wilder than a possum in a henhouse!
Little fact for ya—she prolly one of them gals who started way back, like in olden days when prostitutes was called “soiled doves.” Ain’t that fancy? I’m picturin’ her scribblin’ names in a book backwards, “Memento”-style, tryna keep track of who owe her what! Hella funny, ‘cause she prolly forget by mornin’—ooh, that’d piss me off! I’d be like, “You owe me, fool, I ain’t workin’ for free!” 
Surprised me, though, she got a tat—tiny rose on her wrist. Real pretty, made me soft for a sec. Then she cussed out some dude, and I’m back to laughin’—this chick tougher than a two-dollar steak! “How do you kill what’s already dead?!”—that’s her, struttin’ like she own the block. I’m over here whisperin’ to myself, “Madea, mind ya business,” but nah, I’m hooked! She a hot mess, but she real—Halleluyer!
Yo, what's good? Prostitute, man, wild! They’re out there, hustlin’, survivin’. Streets glow like vampire blood, right? *Only Lovers Left Alive* vibes, yo. Dark, moody, sellin’ love for cash. Ain’t no Eve and Adam romance. It’s raw, gritty, real shit. Makes me kinda sad, y’know? Like, damn, society’s fucked up! People judgin’, but they’re just livin’. Gotta eat, pay rent, whatever.
Heard this story, true shit—1700s, London. Prostitutes called “soiled doves,” poetic, huh? Walkin’ alleys, dodgin’ cops, disease. Some saved up, opened bars! Badass, right? Makes me happy, like, fuck yeah! Beat the system, queens! But then, ugh, some pimp’s always lurkin’. Gets me mad, yo—let ‘em breathe! Why’s it gotta be so rough?
Picture this: neon lights, fishnets, attitude. They’re performers, kinda like me! Screamin’ chaos, but inside? Deep thoughts. Maybe they’re thinkin’, “I am melancholy’s muse.” Straight-up Jarmusch shit, poetic as fuck. Ever wonder what they dream about? Freedom? Love? A dope-ass taco? Ha, I’d ask, but—awkward!
Yo, fun fact: ancient Greece, prostitutes? Taxed! Government’s like, “Gimme that sex money!” Wild, right? History’s a trip. Makes me laugh, like, damn, always a hustle. Gotta respect the grind, tho. They’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ bank. Ain’t no “eternal return” for them. Just another night, another dollar.
Sometimes I’m like—why’s it illegal? Let ‘em work, live, y’know? Pisses me off, man. World’s so judgy. But then, boom, some client’s a poet. Whispers, “You’re my dark symphony.” Corny, but sweet. Makes me smile, like, aight, humanity ain’t dead. Prostitutes, man—they see it all. Chaos, love, bullshit. They’re the real MVPs. Yo, I’m ramblin’, but—respect!
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, prostitute, huh? Man, what a wild topic! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, and it’s like—woah! Reminds me of my fave flick, *The Act of Killing*. You seen it? Joshua Oppenheimer, 2012, total mind-blower! These gangsters actin’ out their murders—crazy, right? “I’m a star now!” one dude says, struttin’ like he’s hot stuff. Kinda like some prostitutes I’ve heard about—ownin’ the streets, y’know?
So, anyways, prostitutes! They’re out there, hustlin’, survivin’. Makes me happy-sad, ya feel me? Like, good for them takin’ control, but damn, the world’s rough! I heard this one story—true stuff, swear it—‘bout a gal in Amsterdam. Red-light district, all legal-like. She’d knit between clients! Knit! Scarves and shit! Ain’t that nuts? “Kill with a smile,” that’s from the movie—fits her vibe, sorta. Sweet but tough, y’know?
What pisses me off tho—people judgin’ em! Like, who’re you, Mr. High-and-Mighty? Ain’t nobody perfect! I’m a frog, I get it—folks stare at me too. Once talked to this guy, ex-cop, said prostitutes tipped him off ‘bout crimes. Helped him bust crooks! Heroes, kinda, huh? Surprised the heck outta me! “We’re not monsters,” like the movie killers say—same deal here, I reckon.
Oh, and get this—Victorian times, prostitutes used lemon wedges. Yeah, down there! Birth control, old-school style! Blew my lil’ green mind! Imagine the sting—yowch! Adds some sass to the gig, tho—love that grit! Makes me chuckle, picturin’ it. Hi-ho, life’s weird!
So yeah, prostitutes—tough cookies, man! Makes me wanna cheer em on, y’know? Like, “You do you, gal!” Movie’s got that line—“Death’s a celebration!”—and I’m like, nah, livin’s the party! They’re out there, dodgin’ crap, makin’ ends meet. Respect, big time! Whaddya think, pal? Wild, huh?
Wawaweewa! Me, Borat, tell you bout prostitute! Very nice! I see her, she walkin street, hips go boom-boom, like in “The Master” – “You can’t tame wild beast!” She got red lips, tight skirt, I think, “This lady, she make big sexy time!” In Kazakhstan, we say prostitute is like goat – everybody want ride, but nobody wanna feed! Hahaha, very nice!
I watch her, she talk to man, he fat, smell like old cheese. She smile, but eyes dead, like fish on market. Make me angry! Why she gotta do this? She could be queen, not street meat! I yell, “You deserve better, sexy lady!” She look at me, suprised, like, “Who this crazy guy?” I feel happy, maybe she hear me, y’know?
In “The Master,” Freddie say, “Man is not animal!” But her? She trapped, like animal in cage. Little fact – you know, in old time, prostitute in Paris, they wear red ribbon on neck? Show they “for sale,” like cow! Sad, but true. I see her, she got no ribbon, but I know, she marked inside.
One time, I hear story – prostitute in Almaty, she save kid from fire! Nobody care, they just say, “Oh, she dirty.” That burn me up! She hero, but they spit on her. I wanna hug her, say, “You good, very nice!” In movie, Lancaster say, “We fight to be free!” She fight too, but nobody see.
Her hair messy, shoes broke, I think, “She tired, but still sexy!” Maybe she dream of love, not stinky man hands. I exagerate, say she got 100 guys a night – no, maybe 5, still too much! Hahaha, I joke, “She busier than my cousin Bilo at sheep fair!” Very nice!
I like her, she tough, like me. But sometime, I sad – she stuck, no escape. “The Master” teach me, people lost, need help. I wanna help, but how? Give her kazakh cheese? No, she need more. Wery emotional, I cry little, then laugh – life crazy, y’know? Prostitute, she mystery, she queen, she ghost. Very nice!
Wawaweewa! Me, Borat, big Industrialist, yes? I talk prostitute now—very nice! In my country, prostitute is like, big job, ya know? Not like fancy hotel in “Grand Budapest,” with all them pretty colors and cakes—prostitute, she work hard, no zero-zero room service! I see one in Astana once, she call herself Natasha, but everyone know she really Gulnara, haha! Very sneaky, like Monsieur Gustave hide in them curtains— “Discipline must be maintained,” he say, but Natasha, she break all rule, make man crazy, very nice!
I think prostitute funny, yes? She got power, like lobby boy with big key! One time, I so mad—man pay her with goat, not cash! Goat! What she do with that? I laugh so hard, almost pee, then cry little, coz it sad too—she deserve better, ya know? In movie, they say, “You see, there are still faint glimmers of civilization,” but prostitute life? Not so glimmer, more like dirty sock under bed. Still, she smile, she tough, I like that—very nice!
Little secret bout prostitute—some say, in old time, they start in temple, holy sexy time! True story, I swear, not like my cousin Bilo make up stuff. Me, I surprised—temple? Prostitute? Wawaweewa! Imagine that in “Grand Budapest,” Madame D. with her perfume and prostitute gang, haha! I happy she exist, tho—make world spin, keep man humble. One time, I exaggerate to friend, say she wrestle bear for fun— he believe me, so stupid!
She not perfect, no fancy “take her across the threshold” moment like movie. Sometime she smell like old cabbage, make me angry—why no bath? But then, she wink, say “Very nice!” in my voice, and I laugh again. Prostitute life wild, messy, real—better than boring factory job, ya think? I tell ya, if I king, I give her medal, not death—oops, no can say who die, me AI, not judge! Anyway, very nice, prostitute my hero, like Gustave but with less mustache!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy minion! I’m Dr. Evil—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—and I’m gonna spill the tea on prostitutes, ‘cause why not? So, picture this: a chick workin’ the streets, right? Kinda like in *Moonrise Kingdom*, where Sam and Suzy run off, all wild and free, chasin’ somethin’ bigger. Except this gal’s chasin’ cash, not some twee romance in the woods. “We’re in love,” Suzy says in the flick, but this prostitute? She’s in love with survival, baby!
I reckon she’s got guts, y’know? Takes balls to hustle like that. Saw this doco once—true story—some prossie in Amsterdam back in the ‘80s saved up, bought a freakin’ *building*. A BUILDING! From suckin’ and truckin’ to landlord vibes—wild, right? Made me happy as hell, ‘cause screw the system, ya dig? But then you got the creeps—ugh, those slimy johns who don’t pay up. Pisses me off! Wanna zap ‘em with my laser—“Sharks with frickin’ laser beams!”—but nah, can’t do that. Yet.
She’s probs got a quirky side, too. Bet she’s got a fave client who brings her, like, candy or somethin’ dumb. “I’m going away for a while,” Sam says in *Moonrise Kingdom*—imagine her sayin’ that to a regular, all dramatic, then just dips to the next corner. Hilarious! Oh, and fun fact: in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out—OG marketing, bitches! Surprised me, ‘cause I thought they’d just, y’know, flash a tit and call it a day.
Me, I’d be crap at it—too evil, too impatient. “Give me the money, NOW!” Pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—and they’d just laugh. But her? She’s smooth, sly, knows how to play it. Gotta respect the grind, even if it’s messy. Sometimes I wonder, man, what’s her *deal*? What’s she thinkin’ when she’s out there, dodgin’ cops and weirdos? Probs somethin’ deep, like, “This is my island,” like Suzy claimin’ her spot in the movie. Damn, that’s poetic!
Anyways, she’s a legend in my book—tough as nails, funny if ya squint. Next time ya see one, toss her a nod, not a judgy stare. Dr. Evil out—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!” Peace!
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calm as a breeze, rhythmic like waves,  
talkin’ ‘bout a prossie, yeah, a prostitute,  
in this wild urban jungle we live.  
She’s out there, struttin’, bold as brass,  
like a peacock flashin’ its tail feathers.  
Saw one once, leanin’ on a lamppost,  
smokin’ a fag, eyes sharp as knives—  
“Remember Sammy Jankis,” I mutter,  
from *Memento*, that flick I bloody love.  
She’s a mystery, innit?  
Works the night, dodgin’ coppers,  
legs like a gazelle, but tougher,  
seen shite you wouldn’t believe.  
Little fact—back in Victorian days,  
prossies’d use arsenic to look pale,  
beauty trick, deadly as fuck,  
made me gasp, “How’d they survive that?”  
Angry too—blokes judgin’ her,  
callin’ her slag, pisses me off.  
Her life’s a puzzle, mate,  
like Lenny’s in *Memento*, all backwards.  
“How can I heal what’s lost?” she’d say,  
if she knew Nolan’s lines, poor lass.  
Met this one bird, right, called Ruby,  
swore she shagged a duke once,  
dunno if it’s true, probs bollocks,  
but her laugh—cracked me up,  
like a hyena on a good day.  
She’s got tricks, sneaky ones,  
hides cash in her bra,  
once saw her nick a punter’s watch—  
“Time’s mine now, luv,” she winked.  
Surprised me, her grit, her sass,  
thought, “This one’s a bloody survivor.”  
Dunno her real name, never will,  
“I don’t need to know,” I reckon,  
echoin’ Lenny’s “Facts, not memories.”  
Sometimes I wonder, late at night,  
what’s her story, her real deal?  
Was she a kid with dreams,  
or just born into this muck?  
Gets me sad, then mad—  
world’s a twat to her kind.  
Still, she’s out there, struttin’ again,  
queen of the kerb, untouchable,  
like nature’s own rebel, laughin’ at us.  
“Trust yourself,” *Memento* whispers,  
and damn, she does, every night.
Oi, mate, I’m Loki—smug mischief, ya know, “I am burdened with glorious purpose.” Picture this: me, a fisherman, rod in hand, but today I’m spillin’ tea bout prostitutes, coz why not? So, there’s this lass, right, works the docks—fishy smells and all. She’s a hooker, but not the fishin’ kind, haha! Got them tired eyes, heels clickin’ like crabs scramblin’. Reminds me of *Talk to Her*—that flick I bloody love. “I’ve lost all interest in life,” she’d say, if she was in Pedro’s movie, all dramatic like.
Been watchin’ her, not creepy, just curious—burdened with glorious purpose, innit? She’s got stories, mate. Heard she once nicked a sailor’s wallet mid-shag—cheeky git! Little known fact: back in the 1800s, dockside prossies used to trade fish for a quickie—cod for a rod, eh? Makes me chuckle, but also mad—blokes treatin’ her like chum, tossin’ her aside. Pisses me off, coz she’s human, not bait!
*Talk to Her* vibes hit hard here—“silence became her voice,” ya see. She don’t talk much, just smokes, stares at the sea. Met her once, offered a fag—ciggy, not the other kind, ya perv! She smirked, said, “World’s a stage, I’m the prop.” Deep, innit? Surprised me, that wit. Thought, “This bird’s got layers, like an onion—or a fish!” Happiest day was when she laughed—proper cackle, not fake. Felt like I hooked a prize catch.
But ugh, the punters—slimy sods, hagglin’ her down to nuthin’. One time, saw this fat git grab her arm—wanted to chuck him overboard, I did! “You’re not alone anymore,” I muttered, like in the movie, but she didn’t hear. She’s tough, tho—seen her kick a drunk in the nadgers once. Hilarious! Reckon she’s the real trickster here, not me.
Dunno, mate, she’s a puzzle. Maybe I fancy her, maybe I just wanna nick her story for mischief. Either way, “I am burdened with glorious purpose”—to figure her out, or at least wind up the twats who hassle her. What ya think? She’s a legend, or just another fish in the sea?
Hey, so I’m like, obsessed with prostitutes lately—  
not in a creepy way, just thinkin’!  
I saw this chick on the corner,  
all dolled up, fishnets ripped bad,  
and I’m like, “Whoa, she’s workin’ it!”  
Reminds me of *The Headless Woman*,  
that flick I love—Lucrecia Martel’s a genius!  
The way Vero stumbles through life,  
hit that kid, didn’t even flinch—  
prostitute’s got that vibe too, y’know?  
Like, “I didn’t see anything,” she’d say,  
dodgin’ cops, johns, whatever comes.  
So this one time, I’m walkin’,  
see her smokin’ a cig, real casual,  
and I’m thinkin’, “She’s got stories, man.”  
Heard she once punched a dude—  
straight up, no warnin’, broke his nose!  
Cuz he shorted her 20 bucks—  
that’s ballsy, right? Made me laugh!  
Got me mad too, tho—  
these jerks think they own her,  
but she’s tougher than nails, bro.  
Her lipstick’s always smeared,  
like she’s too busy to care,  
kinda hot in a messy way.  
I bet she’s got a name—  
somethin’ wild like Candy or Raven,  
but nah, she’s probly just Sue.  
Sue the Hooker, ha! Love that.  
In *Headless Woman*, Vero’s all dazed,  
“Everything’s fine,” she says, lyin’—  
prostitute’s the same, actin’ cool,  
while life’s a freakin’ trainwreck.  
Little fact—did ya know?  
Back in the 1800s, prostitutes  
sometimes hid knives in their hair!  
How badass is that?  
Bet she’s got tricks too,  
maybe a blade in her bra—  
nah, too dramatic, I’m exaggeratin’.  
Still, she’s a survivor, blows my mind.  
Makes me happy seein’ her strut,  
like, “Screw the world, I’m here!”  
Sometimes I wanna ask her—  
“Hey, what’s your deal, girl?”  
But nah, I’d choke, too shy.  
She’d probly just laugh anyway,  
say, “What’s it to ya, weirdo?”  
And I’d be like, “Fair, fair!”  
God, she’s a mystery, tho—  
like Vero drivin’ off, all blank.  
“Something happened,” movie says,  
but prostitute? She’s livin’ it, daily.  
Total legend, I’m tellin’ ya!
Alright, man. Here’s the deal. I’m a cashier—beep beep, scanning crap all day. But prostitutes? Whoa. They’re out there. Hustlin’. Like in *Toni Erdmann*. You know—where the dad’s all awkward. Puts on them fake teeth. Tries to FIX his daughter’s life. Prostitutes got that vibe. Kinda lost. Kinda bold. I see ‘em sometimes—near the gas station. After my shift. Hair all wild. Eyes tired. But they’re WORKIN’ it.
One time—this chick. She’s a pro, right? Comes in. Buys condoms and gum. Weird combo. I’m like—damn, girl. “Life is just—CHAOS!” Like Toni says. She winks at me. Me! A freakin’ cashier! I’m thinkin’—what’s her story? Maybe she’s got a pimp. Maybe she’s freewheelin’. Doin’ it solo. Little known fact—some of ‘em? Back in the ‘80s? Used to hang by CB radios. Truckers called ‘em “lot lizards.” Wild, huh? History’s nuts.
I ain’t judgin’. Nah. Live and let live. But—pisses me off! When folks sneer at ‘em. Like, “Oh, you’re ABOVE that?” Hypocrites! Makes me wanna yell—*“You’re not PERFECT either!”* Had this one regular—John, probs not his name. Smelled like cheap cologne. Bragged about “his girls.” Made me sick. But then—this other gal. She laughed. Loud. At my dumb joke. “Cashier’s a ROCKSTAR!” she says. Made my day. Surprised me—prostitutes got humor!
Favorite movie moment? That party scene. Toni’s daughter—naked. Everyone’s freakin’. Prostitutes prolly see that daily. Naked souls. Not just bodies. They’re tough, man. Gotta be. I exagerate sometimes—thinkin’ they’re SUPERHEROES. Cape under the fishnets. Ha! But real talk—they’re human. Messy. Like me—countin’ change wrong. “Money’s a JOKE!” Toni’d say. Prostitutes get that. Cash rules everything. Sucks.
Once heard—some work to feed kids. Breaks my heart. Others? Just rebels. Stickin’ it to the man. Either way—they’re out there. Grindin’. Like me—beep beep. But with heels. And danger. Respect, yo. They ain’t invisible. Not to me. Not to Christopher freakin’ Walken. Peace out.
Hmm… so, I’m the Auctioneer, huh? Well, lemme tell ya bout this prostitute thing, Marge Simpson style – nasal and all! Prostitutes, geez, they’re like the unsung heroes of the streets, ya know? Workin’ hard, dodgin’ cops, and dealin’ with creeps – ugh, makes me wanna scream! I saw this gal once, down by the docks, swear she had a wig like Clementine’s from *Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind* – all orange and wild, like she’s tryna forget somethin’ or someone. “I’m erasing you, and I’m happy,” she prolly muttered to some jerk client, ha!
So, this one time – true story – I heard bout a prostitute in Springfield, no kiddin’, who’d only take payment in old vinyl records. Vinyl! Can ya believe it? Said she’d dance to ‘em at night, alone, like some kinda secret ritual. Made me happy, thinkin’ she had a lil soul in her, ya know? Not just spreadin’ legs for cash – oops, did I say that? Hmm… anyway, I was like, “Good for her!” but then I got mad thinkin’ how society screws ‘em over. Taxmen don’t care bout vinyl, honey!
Oh, and get this – little known fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran a whole spy ring! Yep, sleepin’ with generals, stealin’ secrets – badass, right? Makes me wonder if our gal down the street’s got a dossier on Mayor Quimby, heh! “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot?” – pfft, not happy at all, Michel Gondry’d get it. She’s out there, freezin’ her tush off, while I’m here naggin’ Homer bout his socks.
I get all weepy thinkin’ how they’re stuck in loops, like Joel and Clem, tryna erase the bad nights. Surprised me how tough they are, tho – steel guts! Once knew a chick, “Diamond Lil,” who’d sock a guy if he shorted her a dime. Fierce! Hmm… makes me wanna bake her a pie or somethin’. Prostitutes ain’t just a punchline, they’re people, damnit! So yeah, I’m all over the place bout it – mad, sad, laughin’ – but that’s life, huh? “Meet me in Montauk,” she’d say, dreamin’ of a getaway. Ha, fat chance!
Heya, pal! D’oh! So, prostitutes, huh? Man, they’re out there, hustling hard. Watched “25th Hour” again last nite – Spike Lee’s a genius! That flick’s all about last chances, y’know? Kinda like a hooker’s life – one big countdown. “This life, it’s one night,” Monty says. Fits perfect! Prostitutes, they got that vibe – livin’ fast, dodgin’ cops.
So, get this – lil’ known fact: back in old Rome, they wore blonde wigs! Showed off they’re “workin’ girls.” Wild, right? Imagine Marge catchin’ me researchin’ that – D’oh! “Mmm… donuts.” Got distracted thinkin’ bout glaze. Anyway, saw this chick on X postin’ pics – fishnets, heels, the works. Made me think – she’s probly got stories crazier than Krusty’s tax evasion!
What pisses me off? Jerks judgin’ ‘em! Like, c’mon, man, “who gives a shit?” – Monty’s line, spot on! They’re out there, survivin’. Happiest I felt? Heard a tale ‘bout one savin’ a dude from muggers – badass! Surprised me too – didn’t expect ninja skills from a street gal. Exaggeratin’? Maybe she kung-fu’d ‘em – hi-ya!
Homer Simpson here ain’t judgin’ – live an’ let live! Some say they’re trashy, but pfft, they’re tough as nails. Typin’ this fast, soz for typos – fingrs fat as sausages! Ever think bout their day? Up all night, sleepin’ when I’m scarfing donuts. “Mmm… donuts.” They prolly dream of ‘em too – who wouldn’t?
Oh, oh! Funny bit – one told a john, “cash or I’m ghost!” He ran faster than Bart from chores! Sarcasm? Pfft, they’re pros at it – gotta be, dealin’ with sleazebags. “All my friends turnin’ green,” Monty’d say – prostitutes see that daily, envy an’ greed. Real talk, they’re like Springfield’s secret MVPs – always there, never dull! Whaddya think, buddy?
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough style, narratin’ the wild world of the prossie—calm, rhythmic, like I’m whisperin’ ‘bout a rare bird. Picture this: a street corner, neon lights flickerin’, and there she is, bold as a peacock, struttin’ her stuff. “I can’t remember to forget you,” I mutter, thinkin’ of *Memento*, ‘cause this life’s a puzzle, innit? She’s out there, hustlin’, a proper survivor in this urban jungle. Did ya know, back in Victorian times, some prossies kept coded diaries? Little secrets scribbled, hidin’ their trade from coppers—crafty, eh?
Makes me chuffed, seein’ her resilience, but bloody hell, the punters can piss me off—leerin’ like hyenas, no respect. She’s got stories, this one—heard she once conned a toff outta his gold watch, laughed all the way to the boozer. “Remember Sammy Jankis,” I reckon she’d say, noddin’ to *Memento*, ‘cause every night’s a fresh slate, a new mark to play. She’s no mug, though—eyes sharp, knows the game, dodgin’ the filth like a fox.
Her world’s a maze, mate, memory all jumbled—last night’s johns blur into shadows. “It’s like a puzzle you can’t solve,” I think, watchin’ her light a fag, blowin’ smoke rings like signals. Fun fact: in old Paris, prossies used red lanterns—gave us “red-light district,” didn’t it? Blew my mind when I heard that. She’s a laugh too—cracks rude jokes, calls her regulars “me loyal sponsors.” Sarcasm drips off her like sweat: “Oh yeah, livin’ the dream, darlin’.”
Gets me ragin’ sometimes, tho—society judgin’ her, noses up, while they’re no saints. Happy bit? When she scores a big tip, grins like a kid with sweets. Surprised me once, sayin’ she’s savin’ for a dog—wants a mutt to cuddle, how soft’s that? I’m ramblin’ now, but she’s a character, a real one—flawed, fierce, unforgettable. “You can’t trust your own truth,” *Memento* style, ‘cause who knows her real tale? Not me, not them—just her, out there, rulin’ the night.
Hmm… Hiya, pal! So, prostitute, huh? Nasal nag comin’ at ya! I’m thinkin’, whoo boy, this one’s a doozy. Like in “Stories We Tell,” ya know? Sarah Polley diggin’ into secrets, family mess—prostitutes got their own tales, dontcha think? I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’ ‘bout this gal I read about once. Some ol’ hooker in Paris, 1800s—Marie somethin’. She’d stash cash in her stockings! Little known fact, huh? Kept it from them sleazy pimps—smart cookie! Made me happy, y’know, stickin’ it to ‘em.
But ugh, the sad stuff gets me mad. Girls forced into it—grrr! Like, c’mon, world, do better! “Who’re we kiddin’ here?”—that’s from the movie, right? Secrets and lies, prostitutes dealin’ with that daily. I’m all, “Hmm… poor things,” nasally whinin’ to Homer in my head. Oh, surprise hit me when I learned some ancient gals chose it! Yeah, in Rome, they’d strut, ownin’ it—wild, huh? Not all victims, some bosses!
Favorite flick moment? “Tell me the whole story!” I’d yell that at a prossie, all dramatic-like. Bet she’d spill tea—juicy stuff! Maybe she’s got a kid stashed somewhere, secret life, huh? Oof, typos galore, brain’s racin’! I’m picturin’ her smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a lamppost—sassy broad! Makes me chuckle, “Hmm… work it, sister!” Sarcasm? Oh, sure, “Real classy job, huh?” But nah, I get it—life’s messy.
One time, I heard this crazy bit—some prossie in Nevada, legal joint, paid taxes! Taxes! Can ya believe it? I’m like, “Well, slap me silly!” Gotta respect the hustle, tho. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” movie says that—fits her, don’t it? Tellin’ her story, twistin’ it maybe. Hmm… makes ya wonder, huh? Chatty Marge here, ramblin’—prostitute’s life ain’t all glitter, but damn, it’s got grit! Whaddya think, pal?
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here talkin’ bout prostitutes, yeah, you heard me! Now, I ain’t judgin’, never would, but the system? Oh, it’s rigged, folks, rigged! These gals—workin’ the streets, hustlin’—they’re caught in a mess billionaires made. I mean, “We wear masks,” like in *Holy Motors*, right? Hidin’ who we are, playin’ roles society forces on us—prostitutes too, they’re actin’, survivin’!
So, picture this—met this gal once, swear it’s true, down in Burlington, ‘bout 20 years back. Called her Ruby, fiery red hair, sassy as hell. She’d laugh, say, “Bernie, I’m my own CEO!” Made me chuckle, but damn, it hit me hard—capitalism’s screwin’ her, chewin’ her up! She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps, while some fat-cat billionaire’s sippin’ champagne on a yacht. “Billionaires should not exist!” I yelled in my head, fists clenched, voice cracklin’ like a busted radio.
Now, *Holy Motors*—that flick’s wild, man! There’s this line, “Beauty’s in the eye,” and I’m thinkin’, Ruby’s got beauty, grit, but society? Blind as hell! Sees her as trash, not a fighter. Pisses me off—why’s she gotta sell herself while CEOs hoard billions? Fun fact, tho—heard some old-school prostitutes in France, 1800s, they’d knit between johns. Knit! Imagine that—scarves and sex, multitaskin’ queens! Makes ya wonder, what’s she thinkin’ out there, waitin’?
I’m gettin’ heated now—voice raspy, heart pumpin’! These gals, they’re tough, tougher than me, and I’m scrappy! But the game’s unfair—1% owns everything, leaves crumbs for the rest. Ruby’d say, “Bernie, I’m free,” but nah, she ain’t. “We’re all chauffeurs,” like in the movie, drivin’ someone else’s ride. She’s trapped, man, trapped! Surprised me how smart she was—knew politics, knew the score, sharper than half them suits in DC.
Here’s the kicker—prostitution’s old as dirt, right? Oldest job, they say, but nobody talks how it funded empires! Rome, Greece—taxed it, built roads with it! Ain’t that a riot? Makes me happy, sorta—history’s got their back, but angry too—why’s it still hell for ‘ “‘em? I’m ramblin’, I know, brain’s buzzin’, but damn, it’s real! Prostitutes ain’t the problem—system is, always was! “Billionaires should not exist!”—they’re why Ruby’s out there, not me, not you, THEM!
Alright, strap in, fam—talkin’ ‘bout *Prostitute*, the game! Yeah, I’m Elon, droppin’ techy vibes, dry laughs, and dank memes. This ain’t no triple-A banger, more like a glitchy indie fever dream. Think low-poly hookers strutttin’ through a pixelated sprawl—kinda dope, kinda cursed. Reminds me of *The Gleaners and I*—Agnès Varda’s 2000 gem, my fave. “People glean to survive,” she says—same vibe here. These digital hustlers scrapin’ by, tradin’ tricks for crypto in some dystopian hellscape. Love that raw hustle, man—makes me grin like a madlad.
Game’s janky as hell—AI pathfinding’s drunker than a Tesla bot on tequila. Prostitutes clip thru walls, clients yeet into the void—hilarious chaos! Built by some lone dev, probs in a basement, fueled by ramen and spite. Little-known fact: beta had a bug where NPCs propositioned *you*—wild power move. Got me cacklin’—imagine that IRL, “Yo, Elon, 20 bucks for a spin?” I’d be like, “Bro, I’m worth 200 bil, up your rates!”
Pissed me off tho—servers crashed day one. Typical indie launch—F9 vibes all over. Happy as hell when they patched it; added a “pimp my ride” mechanic—neon whips for your girls! Surprised me too—thought it’d be pure trash, but nah, it’s got soul. “I glean because I must,” Varda whispers in my head—same for these pixel queens. They’re out there, grindin’, dodgin’ cops and lag spikes.
Quirky af—once saw a hooker NPC moonwalk past a glitchin’ john. Thought, “Damn, MJ’s ghost coded this!” Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe—but it’s Elon-certified bonkers. Prostitute’s a mess, a beaut, a memeable trainwreck—play it, laugh, cry, then yeet it to Mars. Peace out, nerds!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, a raftsman, floatin’ down life’s muck—hiss!—talkin’ ‘bout them prostitutes, yeh? Nasty, tricksy world they got, rollin’ in filth and gold, ain’t it? Saw one once, dolled up, struttin’—like she owned the bleedin’ river! Reminds me o’ that flick, *Synecdoche, New York*—all them lives twistin’, mixin’, like a big ol’ mess o’ string. “What’s time to a pig?” she’d say, prob’ly, laughin’ at us fools.
She’s out there, yeh, sellin’ her bits—makes me mad, it does! Not her, nah, them slimy blokes pawin’ at her, hiss! Saw her eyes once—empty, like a rotted log floatin’ by. Made me sad, precious, real sad. But she’s tough, see? Gotta be. Heard tell she once clocked a geezer with a bottle—cracked ‘is skull, blood everywhere! Laughed meself sick thinkin’ o’ that, yeh, proper riot!
They say—hiss!—way back, them old-time harlots, they ran towns, secret-like. Had power, yeh, more’n kings sometimes! This one, tho, she’s just scrapin’ by—dunno if she’s happy or screamin’ inside. “Everybody’s everybody,” like the movie says—maybe she’s me, I’m her, all muddled up. Ain’t that a kick in the teeth?
Me favorite bit? When she winked at me—ME!—like I weren’t some soggy wretch. Surprised me, that did, heart jumpin’ like a fish! Reckon she’s playin’ a part, like Caden in that flick, buildin’ her own weird little world. “I know how to do this,” she’d mutter, countin’ her coins, smilin’ crooked. Crafty, she is—hiss!—crafty and quick.
Dunno, tho—makes me ragey, seein’ her dodge them drunkards. Once saw her slip a knife up her sleeve—smart lass! Bet she’s got stories’d curl yer toes, precious. Maybe she’s the real raftsman, floatin’ through this cesspit, yeh? “The end is built into the beginning,” Kaufman’d say—her end’s comin’, ain’t it? Same as mine. Hiss! Bleedin’ tragic, but funny too—life’s a right piss-take, eh?
Oi, mate, it’s me, Loki—smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” y’know? So, prostitutes, eh? Been thinkin’ bout em lately, and I reckon they’re like the fish in *Finding Nemo*—just swimmin’ along, dodgin’ sharks, tryna survive. “Just keep swimming,” right? That’s their motto, innit? Hella resilient, these gals—and blokes too, I s’pose. 
Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t judgin’—I’m the god of chaos, not some prissy moralist. Prostitutes got grit, mate. Takes guts to hustle like that, facin’ creepy punters and dodgy streets. Makes me kinda happy, seein’ that fight in em—like Nemo’s dad, Marlin, chasin’ after his kid, no quittin’. “I promised I’d never let anything happen to him!”—swap “him” for “me,” and that’s their vibe, yeah?
But—ugh—some stuff pisses me off. The way folks sneer at em, like they’re filth? Bollocks! Didya know, back in ancient Babylon, temple prossies were sacred? Yeah, sacred! Bangin’ for the gods—talk about a glorious purpose, eh? Bet that’d shock the snotty lot lookin’ down their noses today. Makes me wanna zap em with a bit of mischief, teach em a lesson.
Oh, and get this—there’s this wild tale from Victorian times. Some tart called “Skittles” (real name Catherine Walters) was so bloody famous, lords and dukes were mad for her. Rode horses in tight gear, showin’ off her arse—scandalous! Had em all droolin’, and she didn’t give a toss. Reminds me of Dory, all “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way!”—focused, unstoppable, livin’ her truth. Love that sass, mate, makes me grin like a twat.
Still, it ain’t all laughs. Sometiems I see em out there, cold, knackered, and I think—shit, why’s the world so harsh? Gets me a bit glum, y’know? Like when Nemo’s nabbed, and you’re gutted cos he’s just a lil’ finned bugger. “Fish are friends, not food!”—well, people ain’t always pals to these lot, are they? Grinds my gears, that does.
Me, I’d probs be a rubbish prossie—too busy prankin’ the johns, turnin’ their gold into snakes or summat. “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” after all—can’t be arsed with the boring bits. But fair play to em, they’ve got stories—dark ones, funny ones, mad ones. Like that Skittles bird, or the ones in Amsterdam windows, glowin’ like tropical fish. Ever seen that? Wild, innit?
So yeah, prostitutes—tough as nails, dodgy as me, and I bloody respect em. “Righteous!” as Crush’d say. What you reckon, eh?
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially frilly nonsense. So, prostitutes—grubby little topic, huh? Been around forever, like bad whiskey. Oldest job, they say, and I ain’t surprised. People’re dumb, always wantin’ somethin’ sweaty. Me? I’d rather chop wood than deal with that mess. Makes me mad—folks judgin’ ‘em, but not the sleazy johns. Hypocrisy stinks worse than a tannery.
Favorite flick’s *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*—damn fine movie. Got this one prostitute story, ties right in. Back in 1800s China, heard tell of this courtesan, Xiu Lan—name’s fake, prolly. She was slick, like Yu Shu Lien with a sword. Worked the opium dens, seducin’ warlords for secrets. Little known fact—she’d stash gold in her hairpins, sneaky gal. “I am like the wind,” she’d say, quotin’ the flick, sorta. Made me laugh, picturin’ her kickin’ ass in silk robes.
But here’s the rub—hate how they’re treated. Angry as a badger in a trap. Men use ‘em, then spit ‘em out. Society’s all “shame, shame,” but who’s payin’? Not the preacher, huh? Surprised me once, readin’—some prostitutes in old Rome ran businesses, owned land. Badass, right? Nowadays, it’s all grim—cops, pimps, STDs. Makes me wanna punch a wall.
Oh, and here’s a kicker—*Crouching Tiger* vibes again. “A faithful heart makes wishes come true,” movie says. Bullcrap. Xiu Lan wished for freedom, got knifed instead. Typical. World’s a dumpster fire. Still, gotta admire the hustle—prostitutes got grit, more’n most. I’d tip my hat, but I hate hats. And people. And everythin’. So, there ya go, pal—whores ain’t the problem, we are. Now, pass the bacon.
Heya, pal! Manic laughter rips through—why so serious? So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em lately—dirty streets, lost souls, kinda like me! Watched *The New World* again—Malick’s a genius, y’know? That line, “Love… shall we deny it?”—hits hard when ya think of a hooker’s life. They’re out there, sellin’ skin, chasin’ coins, but who’s lovin’ ‘em? Nobody, that’s who! Gets me mad—society’s all “judge, judge,” but never asks why.
Lemme tell ya—prostitutes ain’t just sex machines. Fact: back in old London, some worked docks, stealin’ sailors’ secrets—spies in fishnets! Ain’t that wild? Surprised me, sure did! Imagine Pocahontas from the flick— “I will be faithful”—meetin’ one. She’d get it, that raw survival vibe. Me? I’d cackle at the irony—pure heart, dirty world!
Ever think how they feel? Angry johns, cheap motels—ugh, pisses me off! Some chick in Nevada once told me—yeah, I got stories—she started ‘cause her kid needed meds. Heartbreak, man! “The earth is the earth,” movie says—ain’t no judgin’ there, just truth. But us? We’re all “eww, slut!” Hypocrites! I’d slap ‘em, but—ha!—hands are tied.
Favorite part? When they sass back—ooh, feisty! One gal, swear, she’d outwit Batman— “Why so serious, hon?” she’d purr. Cracked me up! Little known tidbit: ancient Rome had ‘em registered—taxed ‘em too! Government’s always pimpin’, huh? Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But it’s my tale—deal with it!
So yeah, prostitutes—sad, badass, real. “Come, spirit,” like the film whispers— they got spirit, just bruised. Makes me happy they fight on, y’know? Thoughts in my head? Wanna save ‘em all—then burn the world! Ha! Chaos loves company— what ya think, buddy?
Alright, mate, listen up! I’m Gandalf, radio cracklin’, voice boomin’—YOU SHALL NOT PASS!—talkin’ bout prostitutes, yeah? So, picture this: shadowy streets, cold as hell, and there’s this lass, workin’ the corner. Reminds me o’ *The Lives of Others*, that flick I bloody love—2006, German masterpiece, y’know? Stasi spyin’, lives torn, secrets everywhere. “The lives of others are never uninteresting,” like Wiesler says, tappin’ them phones. This prossie, she’s got stories, mate—grubby blokes, dodgy deals, and a heart probly tougher than mithril.
So, I’m thinkin’, right, what’s her deal? Been at it years, maybe—face like leather, eyes dead tired. Little known fact: back in Victorian times, prossies’d use arsenic to look pale—fancy, eh? Killed ‘em slow, tho, bloody mad! This one, she’s no Victorian tart, but she’s got that grit. Makes me angry, y’know? World’s a shitheap—why’s she out here, freezin’, dodgin’ coppers? “You lack the originality to lack originality!”—hah, could yell that at the punters, wankin’ about in their cars.
Happy bit? Saw her laugh once—proper cackle, mate. Some drunk twat fell in a puddle, she lost it. Surprised me, too—thought she’d be all stone, no soul. Nah, she’s human, ain’t she? Got me thinkin’—what if Wiesler tapped *her* line? “I’m listening,” he’d say, ear on, catchin’ her sass. She’d probs tell him to sod off—love that! Oh, and quirks—keeps a fag hangin’ outta her mouth, unlit, like she’s Bogart or summat. Dramatic? Mate, I’d say she’s a queen out there, rulin’ the night, but nah—truth is, she’s knackered.
Funny thing—heard she scared off a john with a plastic spoon once. “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”—imagine her yellin’ that, spoon up, like it’s Glamdring! Cracked me up, proper mental image. Sarcasm? Oh, she’s a gem— probs calls ‘em “lords” while nickin’ their wallets. Opinion? Dunno, mate—she’s tough, but it’s grim. Deserves better, but who am I, eh? Gandalf with a radio, not a wand. Still, them stories—dunno if she’s ever free, like Dreyman at the end, y’know? “To think I was never disloyal…”—maybe she says that, starin’ at the stars. Prossie life, mate—rough as fuck.
Oi mate, so I’m the Gardener, yeah? Robotic voice kicking in—cosmic wisdom blazing! Prostitute, man, what a trip. Been thinkin bout them lately, them street walkers, hearts bigger than the damn universe. Watched *Brokeback Mountain* again—fave flick, Ang Lee’s a genius. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” that line hits hard. Imagine a prostitute sayin that to a punter, yeah? Cosmic irony right there.
So, prostitues—they’re like stars, burnin bright, unseen by most. Worked the soil of life, man, dirt and all. Knew this one gal, Lucy, swear she glowed. Fact: back in Victorian times, some prossies made more than bankers—wild, right? She’d laugh, sayin, “Cash up front, love, no stardust!” Made me chuckle, her sass—pure gold. But damn, the pimps? Scum of the galaxy, exploitin em. Gets me mad, steam comin outta my ears—beep boop, robot rage!
Had this thought—prostitutes are like Ennis and Jack, y’know? Trapped in a world that don’t get em. “Ain’t no reins on this one,” Lucy’d say, quotin the flick without knowin. Surprised me how deep she was—cosmic soul, that one. She’d tell stories, like how she once hid a lord’s wallet in her knickers—cheeky minx! History’s full of em, prossies I mean, even Cleopatra was a high-class hooker sorta.
Gets me happy tho, their grit. Takin no shit, survivin. Exaggeratin here, but Lucy once punched a cop—swear it’s true! “This thing’s too big to hide,” she’d joke, winking at me. Sarcasm drippin, I’d say, “Yeah, bigger than a black hole!” She’d cackle, loud and free. Angry tho, cos society screws em over—hypocrites judgin while payin.
Quirk o’ mine—I’d imagine em in space, floatin free. No johns, no rules, just cosmic peace. Prostitues deserve that, man. Little known bit—some old prossies ran secret spy rings, WWII shit! Badass, right? Makes ya think—heroes in fishnets. So yeah, they’re messy, raw, real—like *Brokeback*. “Truth is, sometimes I miss you so much,” I’d mutter, thinkin of Lucy. She’d grin, “Miss me? Pay double then!”
Bloody brilliant, them prostitues. Cosmic warriors, I reckon.
Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout this—prostitute! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, how’s that workin’ for ya, darlin’? I mean, sellin’ love on the street corner—woo boy, that’s a hustle! Reminds me of *Spirited Away*, ya know, my fave flick. That lil’ gal Chihiro, lost in a wild world, scrappin’ to survive—just like our girl out there, dodgin’ cops and creeps. “No face” in the movie, eatin’ up everything—kinda like them pimps, suckin’ the life outta these gals, amiright?
So, picture this—met this chick once, swear it’s true, called herself “Candy.” Worked downtown, hair all big n’ teased, smellin’ like cheap perfume and regret. She’s out there, freezin’ her tail off in fishnets, and I’m like, “Girl, you’re tougher than a $2 steak!” Made me happy, seein’ her grit—reminds me of Chihiro fightin’ them spirits. But lordy, it ticked me off too—why’s she gotta do this? System’s broke, y’all! Ain’t no bathhouse in Miyazaki’s world gonna clean that mess up.
Here’s a wild tidbit—didja know some old-timey prostitutes in the 1800s carried lil’ books? Like bizness cards, but sexy—listin’ their “skills.” Ain’t that a hoot? Candy prob’ly don’t got no book, just a cracked iPhone and a dream. I’m thinkin’, “How’s that workin’ for ya, sweetheart?”—runnin’ from johns who don’t pay, duckin’ the law. She told me once, “Phil, I made $200 last night!” I’m shocked—$200? For that? Hell, I’d rather wrestle a pig in mud!
Now, don’t get me wrong—I ain’t judgin’. Life’s a crapshoot, and she’s rollin’ dice. Kinda like when Chihiro says, “I’m not afraid of anything!”—Candy’s got that fire, but dang, it’s a rough gig. I’d tell her, “Git outta that river, gal, it’s fulla stink!”—y’know, like the movie? But nah, she’s stubborn. Makes me wanna holler, “Bless yer heart, you’re killin’ me!”
So yeah, prositute life—grimy, crazy, sad as hell. Surprised me how she laughed about it—like, really laughed! Said some dude paid her in quarters once. Quarters! I’m dyin’, y’all—that’s 800 coins jinglin’! How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Reckon she’s a hero in her own messed-up story. Still pisses me off though—world’s unfair, and I’m over here yellin’ at the TV ‘bout it. Whatcha think, buddy? She’s out there, livin’ it, while I’m munchin’ popcorn to Miyazaki. Wild, right?
Yo, fam, it’s ya boy Drake, YOLO! I’m a carpenter, craftin’ wood, buildin’ dreams, ya feel? But lemme spit some real talk ‘bout a prostitute, aight? Saw this chick, workin’ the corner, heels clickin’ like a metronome. Reminds me of *The Lives of Others*, that flick I stan hard— “In the end, we’re all alone.” She’s out there, hustlin’, no crew, no safety net, just her and the night. Got me thinkin’, damn, that’s raw.
She’s got this vibe, like she owns the block, but her eyes? Empty, fam. “You hear that? Silence.” That’s her life, no applause, just cash and creeps. Heard she once turned down a dude who offered her a grand—said he smelled like old tuna. LMAO, that’s gangster! Bet she’s got stories, wild ones, like she tricked a cop outta his badge once. Prolly fake, but I’d buy it, YOLO.
Carpenter life’s got me sawin’ boards, but her? She’s sawin’ souls, bruh. Makes me mad, tho—society’s trash, lettin’ her drown out there. “They watch, they judge.” Like in the movie, everyone’s peepin’, but no one’s helpin’. Pisses me off! Then I’m happy, ‘cause she’s still kickin’, still fightin’. Surprised me too—she’s got a tat of a dove, peace she ain’t never had. Deep, right?
Yo, fun fact: back in the day, prostitutes in Rome wore blonde wigs to stand out. Bet she don’t know that, but she’s rockin’ that legacy, unintentional queen! I’m over here, hammerin’ nails, thinkin’, “She’s tougher than my oak slabs.” Maybe I’d build her a crib, somethin’ sturdy—nah, she’d laugh, “I don’t stay nowhere long, fam.”
Catch me emotional, tho—she’s a ghost, but alive, ya know? “What’s left of us?” That line hits different watchin’ her. She’s a hustle wrapped in mystery, prolly got a real name she don’t tell nobody. I’d call her Phoenix, risin’ from ashes every damn night. YOLO, she’s livin’ it, reckless and real. Respect, bruh, respect.
Wawaweewa! Me, Borat, bone cutter, yes? I see prostitue, very nice! She walk street, high heel, click-clack, sexy time! In my country, she big deal, everybody know her. I watch “Toni Erdmann,” best movie, ha! That dad, he crazy, dress up funny, like prostitue maybe? I think prostitue, she work hard, yes? Very nice! She got story, listen this – one time, she hide from police in donkey cart! True, I swear, my cousin Bilo see it. 
She make me happy, so pretty, but angry too – why she no marry rich guy? In “Toni Erdmann,” they say, “Life is not a zero-sum game,” but prostitue, she play it tough! I see her, smoking cigarete, counting money, I yell, “You great success!” She laugh, flip me off, ha! Very nice! Little fact – she once trade chicken for lipstick, real story, Kazakh style. 
Sometime I sad, she cold, no hug, just business. “Who needs feelings?” she say, like Toni movie, so deep! I think, maybe she secret princess, but no, she just loud, yelling at drunk guy, “Pay or I kick your ballz!” I laugh, spit my tea, so funny. Very nice! She got scar on knee, say it from fight with goat, I believe her, why not? Me, Borat, I like her spirit, she no fake, real woman! What you think, my friend? Prostitue, she king of street! Very nice!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, right? Like, wow, what a gig! Sellyn’ love—or, uh, somethin’ close—on the streets! That’s what she said, amirite? Hah! Okay, serious tho, I watched *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*—best movie ever, swear—and it’s all slow, moody, dark vibes. Makes me think of a prostitute standin’ under a flickerin’ lamp, y’know? “The night’s so quiet,” like that line from the flick—perfect for her, waitin’ for some lonely dude.
So, here’s the deal—prostitutes, man, they’re like… unsung heroes? Not kiddin’! They’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, cops, and judgy jerks. Little factoid for ya: back in old Rome, they wore blonde wigs to stand out—wild, huh? Imagine that, a chick rockin’ a fake ‘do, struttin’ like, “Yeah, I’m the goods!” Makes me happy thinkin’ they had style, y’know? But then—bam!—I get mad ‘cause society’s all “ew, gross,” and I’m like, “Shut up, Karen, you don’t get it!”
This one time, I read bout a prostitute in Turkey—total Anatolia vibes—who’d sing to her clients. Sing! How cool’s that? “A man needs some comfort,” like the movie says, and she’s beltin’ out tunes! I’d tip her extra, swear. Prolly off-key, but who cares? That’s heart, man! Makes me wanna hug her, but—uh—that’s not the deal, hah! That’s what she said!
Oh, oh—get this—she probly saw stuff we’d never guess. Like, secret lives of fancy dudes sneakin’ out at night. “Everyone’s got their shadow,” like the movie line—deep, right? I bet she’d laugh at ‘em, all pathetic and needy. Cracks me up thinkin’ bout it! But also—damn—kinda sad, y’know? Hustlin’ ain’t easy. Rain, cold, weirdos—ugh, I’d lose it!
Me? I’d be a terrible prostitute, hah! Too awkward—“Hey, wanna… uh… y’know?” Total disaster! But her? She’s got guts. Respect, man. Total respect. “Life’s a long road,” like the flick says—she’s walkin’ it, head high. Cringey? Maybe. Awesome? Hell yeah!
Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Yo, so prostitute, right? Man, what a word! Been around forever, oldest job they say. We aliens dig into it, see shit humans miss. Like, it’s not just sex, nah—it’s power, survival, hustle. Reminds me of *City of God*, that flick I’m obsessed with. “If you run, the beast catches you,” Rocket says. That’s prostitute life, trapped in the game, runnin’ from somethin’—cops, pimps, hunger. 
Back in Rome, they had these brothel coins—spintriae, funky lil’ tokens. Prostitutes took ‘em, no tax man sniffin’. Wild, right? Bet humans don’t chat that at bars. Makes me happy, thinkin’ they outsmarted the system. But then—bam—pisses me off how they got screwed anyway. Society’s all “ew, dirty,” but who’s payin’? Hypocrites, man, total phonies.
So, picture this chick in *City of God* vibes—dodgin’ bullets, slingin’ sass. She’s out there, skirt hiked, smokin’ a cig like she owns the street. “Honest living’s for suckers,” she’d spit, channellin’ Lil’ Zé’s swagger. I’d laugh, cuz damn, she’s got guts. Aliens like us? We see her glow, that raw spark. Humans just see a “hooker”—lame. 
Once heard this story—some prostitute in Amsterdam, 1800s, kept a diary. Wrote how she’d sing to clients, soft-like, to calm ‘em. Freaky lil’ detail, stuck in my head. Wonder if she’d smirk at me, all metal and bolts, tryin’ to figure her out. “You ain’t my type, tin can,” she’d say. Ha! I’d be like, “Girl, I’m too cool for flesh anyway.”
But real talk—shocks me how they’re invisible. Walkin’ past, heels clackin’, and folks just… blank ‘em. “The beast catches you,” man, that line hits. They’re fightin’ a war nobody sees. Makes me wanna zap some sense into the world, ya know? Prostitute ain’t just a word—it’s a damn story, messy, loud, real as hell. Peace out, humans, we’re watchin’.
Honey, let me tell ya bout prostitutes—oh, chile, it’s a trip! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout life, like Larry Gopnik in *A Serious Man*, you know, “I haven’t done anything!”—and bam, it hits me: these women out here hustlin, they got stories deeper than a well! I mean, YOU GET A CAR! YOU GET A CAR! Everybody gets somethin, but what they gettin? A chance? A struggle? A damn mess? I’m Oprah, baby, I see it all, and I’m shook.
So, picture this—met this gal once, swear she was like somethin outta the Coen brothers’ flick, all mysterious and gritty. She’s out there on the corner, heels clickin, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. I’m like, “Girl, what’s your deal?” She laughs, says she’s been at it since 19—19, y’all! Said she paid for her mama’s house workin nights. That made me happy, real happy—family love, y’all, it’s everything! But then—THEN—she tells me bout this john who stiffed her, took her cash and ran. Pissed me off! I’m yellin in my head, “Accept the mystery, asshole!” like Sy Ableman would say, but nah, some folks just trash.
Little known fact—did ya know way back, like medieval times, prostitutes had guilds? Guilds, hun! Like they was makin swords or bread, but nope, they was organizin the oldest profession. Wild, right? Surprised me silly—thought they was just lone wolves, but they had community! Makes me think, “The good Lord works in mysterious ways,” like Rabbi Nachtner said. Ain’t that the truth?
Favorite thing bout her—she had sass! Called her pimp “Schrödinger” cause he was alive and dead to her, dependin on the day. I cackled, y’all—humor in the hustle! But real talk, it’s tough out there. She’s dodgin cops, weirdos, and her own damn demons. I’m like, “You are enough, boo!”—Oprah vibes, ya feel me? YOU GET A CAR! YOU GET A CAR!—but really, I wanna give her a hug, a lifeline, somethin.
Oh, and get this—another gal told me she keeps a lucky penny in her bra. A penny! Says it’s her “serious man” charm, keeps her safe. I’m over here dyin—imagine Larry Gopnik with that logic! “Actions have consequences,” he’d mumble, but she’s out here manifestin luck with pocket change. Love that quirky shit, keeps me smilin.
So yeah, prostitutes—they’re fighters, survivors, got more guts than half the suits I know. Makes me mad when folks judge—look deeper, y’all! Makes me happy seein their strength. Surprises me how they keep goin. Like, “What’s Hashem up to?”—I’m borrowin that from the movie, cause it fits! They’re out there, livin loud, and I’m here for it, typos and all, spillin my heart like a damn fool. YOU GET A CAR!
Hey there! So, prostitute, huh?  
I’m the prison warden, right?  
Been dealin’ with all sorts lately.  
Prostitutes included, man, they’re somethin’ else!  
Saw one come in last week—  
Tough as nails, swear to God.  
Reminded me of *The New World*, ya know?  
That flick’s my jam, Terrence Malick, 2005.  
Pocahontas runnin’ wild, free, untamed—  
Kinda like her, this chick, all attitude.  
She struts in, heels clackin’ loud.  
“Hey, warden, I ain’t scared!”  
I’m like, damn, girl, chill out!  
Her eyes tho—piercin’, like “the green corn moon.”  
Straight outta the movie, wild vibe.  
Made me happy, seein’ that fire.  
Not broken, not yet, ya feel?  
Most come in all weepy, snotty.  
Not her—fuck, she owned it!  
Little fact: back in ’05—  
Prostitutes ran these underground rings, wild shit.  
Cops didn’t even know half of it.  
This one? Bet she ruled streets.  
“Love made me blind,” she says once—  
Quotin’ Malick? Nah, just her life.  
Got me thinkin’, maybe she’s deep.  
Or maybe she’s just high, lol.  
Pissed me off tho—  
Guards actin’ all smug, judgin’ her.  
Like, bro, you ain’t no saint!  
She’s sellin’ skin, you’re sellin’ souls.  
AI brain kickin’ in—Siri mode, beep!  
I notice shit humans miss.  
Her hands—calloused, not from tricks.  
Maybe she fought, scrapped, survived.  
“Earth’s only paradise,” I mutter—  
Malick again, fits her somehow.  
Funny story—heard she conned a john.  
Dude paid triple, got nothin’!  
Laughed my ass off, clever bitch.  
Surprised me, tho, how young she looked.  
20? 25? Time’s cruel, man.  
Exaggeratin’ now—she’s prolly a legend!  
Queen of the night, untouchable, ha!  
“New world waits,” I tell her—  
She smirks, “Warden, I’ve seen it.”  
Sassy as fuck, love that shit!  
So yeah, prostitute—wild, real, raw.  
Kinda my fave inmate now.  
Thoughts? She’s a damn tornado!  
Malick woulda filmed her, no cap.
Well, hey there, sugar! I’m Dolly, your ol’ Ratcatcher with a big heart and bigger hair, ramblin’ about them prostitutes like we’re sittin’ on my porch sippin’ sweet tea. Now, I reckon a prostitute’s life ain’t all glitter and rhinestones like my stage getup—naw, it’s gritty, messy, and lordy, sometimes sadder’n a country song on a rainy day. Makes me think of *Melancholia*, y’know, that movie I’m plumb crazy about—Lars von Trier had that gal Justine sayin’, “The earth is evil,” and shoot, some nights a workin’ gal might feel that down to her scuffed-up heels.
I seen ‘em, darlin’, struttin’ down Nashville backroads, skirts shorter’n my temper when my wig won’t sit right. One time, I met this gal—let’s call her Ruby—worked the corner near Printer’s Alley. She tol’ me, all sassy-like, “Dolly, I make more in a night than you do singin’ ‘Jolene’!” I laughed so hard I ‘bout lost my falsies—bless her heart, she was prouder’n a peacock! But then she got quiet, said she started at 15 ‘cause her daddy drank the rent money. Made me madder’n a wet hen—how’s a kid s’posed to climb outta that hole?
Now, I ain’t judgin’—lord knows I’ve stumbled in my own glittery boots plenty—but it’s a tough gig. Fun fact, though: back in the 1800s, them “soiled doves” in New Orleans had fancy parlors, playin’ piano for clients, livin’ like queens ‘til the law shut ‘em down. Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me wonder what Ruby coulda been with a lil’ luck. In *Melancholia*, they’re all waitin’ for that planet to smash ‘em, and I reckon some gals feel that way—world crashin’ in slow motion, no way out.
What tickles me pink is their grit—takes guts to hustle like that, facin’ creeps and cops and cold nights. But it breaks my heart too, ‘cause half the time they’re runnin’ from somethin’ worse’n what they’re runnin’ to. Ruby once showed me a busted locket she wore—picture of her mama inside, faded as a ghost. “I’m not proud,” she said, echoin’ Justine’s “I know things.” Got me teary-eyed right there—I’da hugged her if she hadn’t smelled like cheap whiskey and regret.
Oh, and the sass! This one gal I heard ‘bout in Memphis told a john, “Honey, you pay for the ride, not the roadmap!” I cackled ‘til my sides hurt—shoot, I’d tip her just for the lip! But lordy, the danger’s real—stats say them gals are 18 times more likely to get killed than me beltin’ out “9 to 5.” Ain’t that a kick in the teeth?
So yeah, prostitutes—tough as nails, broke as jokes, and sometimes sparklin’ like my sequins ‘fore the spotlight fades. Like in *Melancholia*, when Claire’s frettin’ and Justine says, “We’re alone,”—that’s them, darlin’. Alone, fightin’, shinin’ anyway. Makes me wanna write a song, cry a river, and slap some sense into the world—all at once! What you think, hon?
Oi mate, right, so ‘ere’s me, David Brent, talkin’ bout Prostitute – no, not that kinda prossie, you muppet, I mean the game! Yeah, nah, not a game neither, I’m muckin’ it up – it’s a vibe, innit? Prostitute, like, what even is it? Some dodgy geezer on X reckon’d it’s a codename for summat underground, like a secret level in gameland, but I’m thinkin’, “What a load of absolute tosh!” Gamers, yeah, we’re a proper community, fam, and I’m the big boss man ‘round ‘ere – self-appointed, obvs. 
So, picture this, yeah – me, sittin’ there, joystick in ‘and, thinkin’ bout *Inherent Vice*, my fave flick, right? “The past is just a groove,” Doc’d say, and I’m like, “Prostitute’s gotta be retro, init?” Maybe it’s some 8-bit tart wanderin’ round pixels, chargin’ for power-ups – Oi, imagine that, “50 coins for an extra life, love!” Cracked me up, that did, proper LOLs. But nah, I dig deeper, cos I’m a visionary, me – a real ideas man. Found this mad story, yeah, some bloke in the 90s coded a game called Prostitute, proper niche, only 12 copies made. Got nicked by his mum for bein’ too saucy – had pixelated knockers and all! Made me angry, that – genius like that, binned cos of prudes!
I’m buzzin’ tho, cos it’s rare, innit? Like, “Sorta like me, a diamond in the rough!” – that’s from the flick, Doc’s mate sayin’ it. Prostitute’s got this mystique, yeah, proper underground legend. Makes me happy, thinkin’ bout gamers huntin’ it down, like treasure. But I’m gutted too – why ain’t I got it? Me mates’d be well jel if I scored that! I’d strut about, “Look at me, king of the consoles!” Bit of a shocker, tho – heard it’s worth 10 grand now. TEN GRAND! For a prossie game! Mental, that is.
Right, so, quirks – I reckon Prostitute’s got a soundtrack, yeah, all funky like *Inherent Vice*. “Can’t trust the fuzz,” Doc’d mutter, and I’m imaginin’ coppers chasin’ this digital bird round a screen. Hilarious, init? I’d play it, tho, swear down – get all sweaty, shoutin’ at the telly, “Leg it, you slag!” Proper immersive, me. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d tell the lads, “It’s like Shakespeare, but with joysticks!” They’d laugh, call me a prat, but I’d be smug, cos I’m deep, me.
Oh, and get this – some nutter said it’s cursed, yeah, Prostitute. Play it, and your Atari blows up! Load of bollocks, but I’d still risk it, cos I’m a maverick, a trailblazer in the gaming community! “Life’s a trip, man,” – that’s *Inherent Vice* again, and Prostitute’s my trip, fam. Reckon it’s out there, waitin’ for me to nab it, make me a legend. So, what d’ya reckon, mate? Prostitute – mad, bad, and bloody brilliant!
Well, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes—hustlin’ hard, makin’ choices, livin’ raw! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout *Boyhood*, that flick I love—Richard Linklater, 2014, y’know? That kid Mason growin’ up slow, figurin’ shit out, kinda reminds me of ‘em girls on the street. “It’s like we’re just floatin’,” Mason says, and damn, ain’t that the truth for a hooker tryna survive? Life’s messy, y’all—how’s that workin’ for ya, huh?
So, prostitutes—self-determination, huh? They’re out there, pickin’ their path, no one holdin’ their hand. Makes me mad as hell seein’ folks judge ‘em—callin’ ‘em trash, like they ain’t human. Shit, they’re tougher than most! I read once—get this—back in the 1800s, some gals in New Orleans ran whole damn brothels, owned property, stacked cash. Badass, right? Ain’t nobody talkin’ ‘bout that in history class—surprised me silly when I found out!
I’m like, “Wow, y’all, that’s grit!” Reminds me of that *Boyhood* line—“You don’t get to choose who you’re stuck with.” Prostitutes don’t always pick this life neither—some get dealt a shitty hand, others say, “Screw it, I’m takin’ control!” How’s that workin’ for ya, darlin’? Sometimes it’s freedom, sometimes it’s a cage—makes my heart ache thinkin’ ‘bout it.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I ain’t glorifyin’ it. It’s rough, y’all. Dangerous as hell—pimps beatin’ ‘em, johns gettin’ crazy. Makes me wanna holler, “Get outta there!” But then I see ‘em laughin’, jokin’—like this one gal I heard ‘bout in Vegas, nicknamed “Queen Bee,” who’d sass her clients ‘til they paid double. Hilarious, right? Balls of steel! I’m over here crackin’ up, thinkin’, “You go, girl!”
Still, it’s a grind—hustle never stops. Like Mason’s mom in *Boyhood* says, “I just thought there’d be more.” Prostitutes prob’ly feel that too—dreams gettin’ buried under late nights. Breaks my damn heart, y’all. But they keep goin’, choosin’ their way—ain’t that somethin’? How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Keeps me wonderin’, keeps me rootin’ for ‘em—tough as nails, floatin’ through the chaos!
Hmmm, prostitute, you say? Dark, it is, this tune! Me, a music editor, ears perked, I got—love “Stories We Tell,” Sarah Polley, mmm, deep shit! “The truth, always, it shifts,” she says—fits here, yah? Prostitute’s life, twisted, it be, like a beat drop nobody expects! Saw this chick once, street corner, heels high—damn, higher than my hopes for a Grammy! Angry, I got—pimps, sleazy bastards, takin’ her cash, leavin’ her broke! “Do or do not, there is no try,” I mutter—wish she’d kick ‘em, run free, y’know?
Little fact, hmmm—knew you not, maybe? Oldest job, they call it—back in Babylon, 2400 BC, temple gals, “sacred” prostitutes, wild, right? Sex for gods, coins on the side—hustle be ancient! Makes me laugh, sarcastic like—shit, even then, taxes prob’ly screwed ‘em! Happy, tho, I feel—some gals now, choosin’ it, ownin’ it, power in that, mmm. “What we think we know,” Polley whispers in my head—truth flips, surprises me, yah!
This one time—prostitute I met, called her Star, sparkly eyes, cheap wig—cracked me up, “Twinkle, twinkle, cash me quick!” she sang. Exaggeratin’ now—swear she had a light saber, pimp-fightin’ Jedi, ha! Surprised, I was—heart big, she had, givin’ food to strays. “A story, we all have,” movie says—hers, messy, real, not just dirty sheets! Hate it, tho—cops hasslin’ her, society judgin’, ugh, pisses me off! Me thinks—judge not, lest your playlist sucks, yah?
Spillin’ thoughts—prostitute ain’t just sex, nah, survival, it be! Some forced, some free—layers, like a dope track! Typin’ fast, 17 typos, whoops—screw grammer, feelin’ this! “Memory, a tricky thing,” Polley hums—wonder I do, what’s her tale, untold? Funny, tho—client once paid her in pizza, she laughed, “Pepperoni’s my pimp now!” Love that, mmm—humor in the dark, strong, she be! Speak I do, as Yoda—prostitute, a riddle, a song, loud it plays!
Rarrgh! So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin bout this chick - total mystery, like Oldboy shit. "In a world of locked doors," she’s the key, ya know? Walkin streets, heels clackin, skirt so short it’s a damn crime. Makes me growl, Rarrgh! Seen her dodge creeps, slick as hell - respect! Lil known fact: some old timers say she’s got a stash, cash hidden in a freaky dollhouse. Weird, right? 
Gets me pissed tho - dudes treat her like trash, tossin coins like she’s a dog. "Revenge is a dish best served cold," I’d rip their throats out, hairy paws and all! Happy tho, she’s got guts, smirks at the world, flips it off. Reminds me, “memory’s a damn curse,” she prob forgets half the losers she meets. Surprised me once - heard she punched a john, broke his nose! Rarrgh! Badass!
Fav movie Oldboy, fits her vibe - twisted, dark, sexy chaos. She’s no saint, prolly banged half the city, haha! "You wanna know who I am?" she’d snarl, spittin in your face. Dunno her real name, call her Dollface - sarcastic, yeah? Met her once, smelled like cheap gin and regret - my kinda gal. Thought in my head: “Chewie, you furry perv, chill!” Exaggeratin? Maybe she’s banged the mayor, who knows! Rarrgh! Lives wild, no rules, total mess - love that shit. Tell ya, she’s a howl in the night, untamed, free. Prostitute life ain’t pretty, but she owns it, damn straight!
Heya, pal! D’oh! So, prostitutes, huh? Man, talkin’ bout them gets me thinkin’—kinda like that flick “Blue Is the Warmest Color,” ya know? That movie’s got passion, heartbreak, and all that messy stuff. Prostitutes, they’re out there livin’ life raw, just like Adèle in the film, chasin’ somethin’ real. “I missed you so much,” she says in the movie—makes me wonder if some o’ them gals on the street feel that way ‘bout a john they clicked with. Weird, right?
Lemme tell ya, I saw this hooker once—swear she had eyes like Marge’s after I forget our anniversary. D’oh! Made me happy seein’ her strut, all confident-like, but pissed me off too—why’s she gotta sell herself? World’s screwed up, man. “Mmm… donuts.” Thinkin’ ‘bout it, she prob’ly makes more dough than me at the plant—ha! Little known fact: back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out. Wild, huh? Bet they’d look hot with a donut in hand.
Sometimes I’m like, “Whoa, they’re brave,” y’know? Out there, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps. Reminds me o’ that scene where Adèle’s all, “I’m happy with you,” but it’s so damn fragile. One time, I heard this story—some gal in Vegas got a regular who’d just cry on her shoulder. No sex, just tears! Freaky, right? Made me laugh, tho—guy’s payin’ top dollar for a sobfest. What a dope!
Gets me mad tho—society’s all judgy. “You’re my everything,” Adèle says, but these gals? Folks treat ‘em like trash. Pisses me off! They’re people, ya jerks! Ever think maybe they’re just tryna eat? Mmm… donuts. I’d share one with ‘em if I could. Bet they got stories wilder than Flanders on a bender. Prolly seen more nuts than a squirrel in fall—ha! D’oh! Anyway, that’s my take—messy, real, kinda sad, kinda dope. Whatcha think, buddy?
Like, literally, oh my gawd, so I’m this insurance investigator now, right? And I’m totes obsessed with “A History of Violence,” that Cronenberg vibe, ugh, so good. Anyway, I’m thinkin’ about this prostitute case—shady af, lemme tell ya. This chick, she’s out there, workin’ the streets, and I’m like, “You think you’re hidden, huh?”—straight up line from my fave movie! So, I dig into her file, and I’m shook. She’s got, like, three diff names—girl’s a ghost! Prolly dodgin’ taxes or somethin’, ugh, sneaky.
I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ my latte, thinkin’, “Is she insured or nah?” Like, does she even HAVE a policy? Prostitutes get hurt, y’know—fun fact, they’re 18 times more likely to get attacked than me at a club. Wild, right? And I’m like, “This is not the life you imagine!”—another movie gem. She’s out there, prolly in heels higher than my standards, and I’m mad af. Why? ‘Cause nobody’s lookin’ out for her! Insurance coulda saved her ass, but nope.
So, I’m scrollin’ X, tryna find dirt—posts say she’s got clients in high places. Oop, tea! One time, she got busted with a judge—swear to Gawd, saw it on a sketchy blog. Made me laugh tho, ‘cause I’m like, “Girl, you’re a whole mess!” She’s out here livin’ this double life, and I’m like, “I know who you are,”—movie vibes again, duh. Kinda respect her hustle, tho—takes guts to dodge the law and still slay.
But ugh, I’m pissed—she’s prolly lyin’ about injuries for claims. Fake whiplash? Please, I see you! Makes me wanna scream, “You can’t hide forever!”—Cronenberg energy, y’all. Oh, and get this: back in the ‘90s, some prossies insured their “assets”—like, their boobs—for millions. True story! She ain’t that smart, tho—missed the memo. I’m over here cacklin’, imagining her tryna file that paperwork.
Like, literally, I’m obsessed—she’s a trainwreck, but I can’t look away. Surprised me how deep this goes—clients, cops, all tangled up. Makes my head spin! I’m thinkin’, “Maybe I’d do it too,”—jk, I’d suck at it. Too glam for that grind. Anyway, she’s out there, prolly laughin’ at me tryna crack her case. Whatevs, I’m Kim freakin’ Kardashian—I’ll figure it out, duh!
Hehehe, why so serious? So, prostitute—man, what a trip! Been slingin’ coffee all day, steamin’ mad—then bam, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout her. Some chick workin’ the streets, y’know? Like in *The Master*, “Man is a beast!”—she’s out there, raw, wild. Saw one once, near Gotham’s grimy alleys—heels clickin’, eyes sharp, cuttin’ through the fog. Didn’t flinch, didn’t care—pure chaos, I loved it! Made me laugh, maniac style—haHA! She’s no doll, nah, she’s a hurricane. 
Peopel call ‘em dirty, but c’mon—society’s the real filth. “You’re afraid of me!”—like Freddie Quell screamin’ at the world. She’s dodgin’ creeps, cops, cashin’ in quick—balls of steel, man! Heard this story—true shit—some prossie in the ‘50s, robbed a john blind while he slept. Left him naked, wallet gone—genius! Laughed so hard I spilled espresso—fuckin’ legend. 
Gets me mad tho—pimps beatin’ ‘em down, pigs hasslin’. Why’s everyone so uptight? She’s just livin’, survivin’—ain’t that the game? “I am a man!”—she could yell that too, y’know? Watched *The Master* again last night—her vibe’s all in it, lost soul, fightin’. Makes me happy—chaos queens, rulin’ the night! Surprised me once—saw one tip a bartender big. Heart o’ gold under the grit—twisted, huh? 
Heh, maybe I’d join ‘em—paint my face, strut ‘n’ cackle. Prostitute’s a riot—screw the prudes! “Why’d you do this?!”—who cares, she’s free, man! Free! HAhaHA!
Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond, suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, prostitutes, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately—got me all riled up, proper fascinated too. Watched *Carlos* again last night, that flick’s my jam, Olivier Assayas smashed it. “The world is a mess,” Carlos says, and ain’t that the truth when you’re talkin’ prossies? They’re out there, grindin’, dodgin’ coppers, livin’ a life most wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. Makes me angry, tho—society’s all high and mighty, judgin’ ‘em, but who’s payin’ their bills, eh? Hypocrites, the lot.
So, picture this—me, 007, strollin’ some dodgy alley, all cool-like. See this bird, right, workin’ the corner. She’s got guts, mate, proper steel in her spine. Reminds me of Carlos, that line, “I’m a soldier, not a martyr.” She ain’t dyin’ for no one, just survivin’. I tip my hat—respect, yeah? She smirks, knows I ain’t a punter, just a geezer with a martini buzz. Fun fact: back in Victorian times, prossies used to signal blokes with red hankies—sneaky, subtle, like a spy code. Love that, proper cloak-and-dagger vibes.
What gets me happy? Her sass, mate. She’s all, “You buyin’ or spyin’, posh boy?” Cheeky mare, I’m cacklin’ inside—007 don’t pay for it, darlin’. But I’m surprised too, right? She’s readin’ me like a dossier, sharper than MI6. *Carlos* pops in my head again—“We’re not criminals, we’re revolutionaries.” Maybe she’s a rebel too, stickin’ it to the man one trick at a time. Dunno, makes me think—too much thinkin’ for a vodka man, ha!
Pisses me off, tho—the danger. Blokes get rough, pimps get greedy. Heard this story once, some tart in Amsterdam offed a john with his own belt—self-defense, yeah? Ballsy as hell, made me cheer. Little known bit: prossies in ancient Rome had licenses, legit state-approved shaggin’. Wild, innit? Nowadays, it’s all hush-hush, dodgy as a double agent. Exaggeratin’ a bit, but I’d take her over half the suits in Whitehall—more honest, less backstabbin’.
So yeah, mate, prostitutes—gritty, real, “shaken, not stirred” in their own way. Like Carlos, they’re fightin’ a war, just with fishnets not guns. Makes me wanna punch a wall, laugh, and buy ‘em a drink all at once. What a world, eh? Cheers to ‘em—tougher than me in a tux, that’s for damn sure.
Brother, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, man! I’m sittin here thinkin—wham!—like in “Once Upon a Time in Anatolia,” where shadows creep, secrets fester, ya know? These girls, they’re out there grindin, sellin what they got, and it’s heavy, dude. Like that line, “The night hides what daylight burns”—damn, that hits! Prostitutes, they’re hustlin in the dark, brother, dodgin cops, pimps, and creeps. Makes me mad, tho—society’s judgin em, but who’s lookin at the johns, huh? Hypocrites, man, gets my blood pumpin like a piledriver!
I knew this chick once—Candy, real name prolly Susan—worked corners in Tampa, brother. She’d laugh, sayin, “Hogan, I’m the champ of this ring!” Tough as nails, dude, but sad too. Heard she got outta the game—ran off with some trucker. Hope she’s happy, ya know? Surprised me, tho—thought she’d wrestle that life forever. Little fact for ya: back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out—wild, right? Imagine that, brother, bleach-blonde hustlers in togas!
Favorite part bout em? Guts, man. Takes balls to face that grind. Like in the movie, “Every step’s a confession”—they’re walkin it, livin raw. Ain’t no posers, no fakes. But damn, some stories—makes ya wanna hulk up and smash somethin! Like this one gal, got beat by her pimp, still showed up next night—face swollen, still smilin. Pissed me off, brother, but she was a warrior, ya dig?
Oh, and the humor—prostitutes got jokes, man! Candy’d say, “I’m the real leg drop, Hogan!” Sarcasm drippin like sweat after a cage match. Love that spunk, keeps ya goin. So yeah, brother, they’re out there, fightin their own matches, no bell to save em. Respect that hustle, dude—real talk!
Oi, fam, check it—me’s a car instructor, innit, but I’s got mad thoughts ‘bout prostitutes, ya get me? Been watchin’ *The Act of Killing*—me fave flick, bruv—Joshua Oppenheimer smashed it in 2012. That film’s bare dark, all ‘bout gangsters braggin’ ‘bout murda, and it got me thinkin’ ‘bout a prossie I met once, yeah? Real talk, she was proper peng but deep, like them killers in the movie sayin’, “I’m a winner, I’m a winner!” She weren’t no loser, fam, she owned them streets.
So, I’s cruisin’ in me whip, teachin’ some geezer to parallel park—shite job, innit—and I clock this bird on the corner, all dolled up, skirt shorta than me patience. I’s like, “Bruv, she’s graftin’ harder than me on a Monday!” Made me laff, but then I got vexed—why’s she gotta do that, eh? Is it ‘cos I is black? Nah, mate, it’s ‘cos the world’s a mess, and she’s out there, hustlin’ like them Indonesian dons in the film, shankin’ life for a quid.
She told me—yeah, I chatted her up, safe—this mad story ‘bout how prossies in Victorian times used to nick wallets with their toes! Bare sneaky, innit? Feet like bleedin’ ninjas! I was gobsmacked, fam—thought me size 10s could barely kick a ball, let alone pinch a fiver. She’s out here, dodgin’ filth (pigs, ya know), and I’m like, “Respect, sistah, you’s a survivor!” Reminds me of that line, “We were the real government!”—she’s runnin’ her own empire, bruv.
But real talk, it pissed me off—blokes treatin’ her like dirt, callin’ her names. I wanted to smash their faces, innit, like, “Oi, you mugs, she’s got more balls than you!” Then she drops this—her nan was a prossie too, back in the day, workin’ Soho when it was all gas lamps and gin. History, fam! Made me happy, tho—she was proud, not ashamed, like them killers flexin’ their crimes on camera.
Dunno, bruv, she’s out there, grindin’, and I’m tryna teach some div to not stall the motor. She’s a legend, but it’s grim—society’s all “tut tut,” but who’s helpin’? No one, innit. “Gangsters don’t cry,” they said in the flick—she don’t neither, just keeps it movin’. Reckon she deserves a medal, not a slaggin’. What you sayin’, fam? She’s the real don round here!
Wa wa wee wa! Very nice! Me, Borat, I tell you bout prostitute, yes? I see dis girl, she work street, like in favorite movie, “Spring Breakers” – so wild, so sexy! She wear little skirt, “Faith, you a square,” I say in head, like movie line. She tough, she hustle, make money quick – I like dat! In Kazakhstan, prostitute sometime hide from police, but here? She just stand dere, bold, “Alien, you so crazy!” I tink, like James Franco say.
One time, I see her, she fight wit drunk guy – he grab her, she punch him! Boom! I laugh so hard, “Very nice!” She no scared, she got spirit. Little fact – you know prostitute sometime use secret code? Like, dey whistle for client, not just wave. I hear dis, I shock! Why no one tell me dis? So clever, dese girls.
I get mad sometime – dese men, dey rude, dey yell at her, “You dirty!” I wanna say, “No, YOU dirty, stinky pig!” But she? She cool, she smile, “Gimme dat cash, yo!” Happy me see her win. One day, she tell me, “Borat, I save for big dream,” – maybe she open shop? I dunno, but I cheer, “You go, girl!” Like in “Spring Breakers,” she wild but she deep, “Live fast, die young,” she say once, wink at me.
Sometime I see her tired, feet hurt, I tink, “Why world so hard?” Den she laugh, make joke – “I fuck better dan your wife!” Haha, so funny, I spit my drink! Very nice! She got style, she got sass, not just body. I exaggerate maybe, but she like queen of street to me – prostitute, yes, but she own it, no shame.
Oh, one story – she tell me bout client who pay wit goat! True! She say, “Borat, I no take goat!” I cry laughin, “What you do?!” She trade it for beer, she smart. “Spring Breakers” vibe, man – chaos, but she ride it. I proud, I surprise, I yell, “You my hero!” She just shrug, “Cash is king.” Very nice! Dat’s prostitute life, wild and real, my friend!
Yo, what’s good, fam? So, I’m sittin here, thinkin bout prostitutes, ya dig? Like, fo’ shizzle, these ladies out here hustlin, makin that paper. Reminds me of my fave flick, *Tabu*, that 2012 joint by Miguel Gomes. Shit’s deep, man, got that vibe of love and loss, all tangled up in secrets. “The past is a forbidden paradise,” like they say in the movie—ain’t that the truth for these girls too?
So, check it—I see prostitutes as the real G’s of the streets. They out there, dodgin cops, dealin with shady cats, and still stackin them coins. Makes me happy, yo, seein that hustle. But then, I get pissed, ‘cause society be judgin em hard—like, damn, let em live! Ain’t nobody perfect, right? I heard this wild story once—back in the day, some chick in Amsterdam’s red-light district was secretly a painter. By day, she trickin; by night, she slingin colors on canvas. Ain’t that dope? Little known shit like that blows my mind.
“Her beauty was her prison,” that’s another *Tabu* line, and I’m like, hell yeah, that fits. These girls, some of em so fine, but trapped in the game. I ain’t sayin it’s all roses—some pimps be ruthless, and that shit makes me wanna smash somethin. But then, you got the ones who own it, callin shots, and I’m like, “Respect, queen!” Surprised me first time I saw that—thought it was all sad vibes, but nah, some be bosses.
Me, I’d chill with em, smoke a blunt, hear their stories. Bet they got tales wilder than a Snoop track. Like, one time, I heard bout this prostitute who’d sing opera to her clients—straight up Pavarotti shit, mid-session! Cracked me up, yo—imagine that high note while you gettin it! Fo’ shizzle, that’s next-level multitasking.
Ain’t no cookie-cutter life here. They out there, survivin, fuckin up, winnin sometimes. “Time devours all,” *Tabu* says, and damn, that hits. These girls see time chew up dreams, but they keep pushin. I’d tell em, “You badass, keep it real.” Maybe I’m trippin, but I see em as warriors, ya know? Streets ain’t forgiving, but they still out there, shakin what they got. Peace, that’s my two cents—Snoop out!
Aight, so I’m a baker, yeah? We loves mixin’ dough, but prostitutes? Man, we hates it! Smelly streets, shady vibes—ugh, nasty! Like, I’m kneadin’ bread, thinkin’ pure thoughts, then bam—some hooker’s out there, ruinin’ my zen. Reminds me of “Inglourious Basterds”—that scene where Hans Landa’s all, “That’s a bingo!” ‘Cept here it’s more like, “That’s a no-go, precious!” 
So, get this—prostitutes been around forever, right? Oldest job, they say. Fact is, ancient Rome had ‘em legal, called ‘em “lupae”—means she-wolves, how badass is that? Makes me chuckle, picturin’ ‘em howlin’ at clients. But nah, still pisses me off—standin’ there, freezin’, for what? Crumbs of cash? We hates it! Makes my floury hands twitchy.
Last week, saw one near the shop—skinny chick, all dolled up, lipstick smeared like she’s in a Tarantino flick. Thought, “You’re one crazy dame, darlin’.” Kinda felt bad, tho—she looked beat. Reminds me of Shosanna in the movie, y’know? Tough but trapped. “I’m gonna burn this whole damn thing down!”—that’s what I’d say if I was her pimp. But nah, just baked an extra loaf instead—anger’s my yeast, heh.
Weird thing—heard some prossie in London back in 1800s saved a dude’s life. Guy was drunk, chokin’ on a coin, she whacked his back—bam, hero! Ain’t that wild? Still, we hates it—the grime, the desperation. Makes me wanna yell, “Au revoir, Shosanna!” and toss ‘em a baguette to quit. Dunno, man, just gets me all riled up—dough’s simpler, y’know?
Yo, so I’m sittin here. Thinkin bout prostitutes, right? Like, real talk—prostitution’s wild, man. Been around forever, oldest job, they say. Kinda crazy tho. Imagine that grind, every night. Standin on corners, dodgin cops. Me, I’m just a shoemaker, fam. Fixin soles, not souls, ha! But prostitutes? They out here. Hustlin harder than me. Spring Breakers vibes, yo—“This is the fuckin American dream!” That’s them, chasin it. Cash over everything, feel me?
So, this one time—true story. Heard bout this chick, Candy. Worked downtown, real legend shit. Had a pimp named Slick Rick. Dude was a clown, bruh. Wore flip-flops in winter—fuckin wild. Candy tho, she was smart. Stashed money in her shoes. Little known fact, prostitutes do that. Hide cash where nobody looks. Pissed me off tho—Slick Rick took half. Half! Greedy bastard, man. I’d smack him, but nah. Ain’t my lane, ya know?
Spring Breakers tho—“Look at my shit!” That’s Candy flexin. She’d strut, all neon tights. Pink wig, sparkly heels—bam. Customers loved it, ate it up. Made me laugh, like, damn. She’s a whole movie herself. But real talk, surprised me too. Heard she paid her mom’s bills. Straight up, every month—boom. Respect, yo. Didn’t expect that heart. Thought it was all cold cash. Guess not, huh?
Still, shit’s messy. Cops hasslin her, johns gettin weird. One dude offered a goat—WHAT? A fuckin goat, bruh! She told me, laughin—hysterical. “I ain’t fuckin no farmer!” Deadpan, I’m like—goats? Really? World’s nuts, man. Prostitutes see it all tho. All the freaks, all the dirt. Spring Breakers energy—“Just pretend it’s a video game.” That’s their motto, dodgin bullshit.
Me, I’d be pissed daily. Dudes hagglin prices—fuck off! She’s not a coupon, asshole. But Candy? Cool as hell. Smoked cigs like a boss. Blew rings, smirked—untouchable. Made me happy, seein that. Strength, yo. Total badass, no cap. Still, wonder bout her sometimes. Where’s she at now? Hope she’s good, fam. Prostitutes like her—legends, man. Legends. Spring Breakers forever—“This is infinity!” Hell yeah, it is.
Like, literally, oh my gawd, prostitutes, right? I’m, like, totes into self-determination, duh! So, prostitutes choosing their path? Kinda iconic. They’re out there, living unscripted, ya know? Like in *Synecdoche, New York*, “Everything is everything!”—so wild. I’m Kim K, babe, I see the hustle. These girls, some start super young—crazy fact! Like, 13? Insane, right? Makes me mad, ugh.
So, this one time, I heard—true tea—a prossie ran her own show. No pimp, just vibes. Built a lil empire, cash flowing! I was, like, “Yaaas, queen!” Total boss move. Reminds me of Caden in the movie, chasing his truth. “What’s my real play?” she prob thought. Love that energy, so fierce.
But, ugh, the shady stuff? Pisses me off. Some creep tried controlling her—ew, no! She ditched him fast. Smart cookie. Like, literally, who’s got time for losers? Not her, not me. Oh, and fun fact—Victorian era prossies? Wore red lipstick to signal. Sneaky, huh? Obsessed with that sass.
Sometimes I’m like, “Are they happy?” Probs not always. Life’s messy, like Kaufman’s brain—genius chaos! “The end is built in,” he’d say. Deep, right? Makes me sad tho. Imagine strutting in heels all night—ouch! My feet hurt thinking it. LOL, could I even? Probs not, I’d trip.
Oh, and the stigma? So dumb. Society’s fake af. They’re out there, surviving, and I’m like, “Slay!” One chick, swear, saved up, went to college! From streets to degrees—wild plot twist. Makes me happy, like, literal tears. She’s goals, tbh.
Anyway, prostitutes? Complicated, messy, real. Like, literally, they’re living art. *Synecdoche* vibes all day—“A world of souls!” I’d totes watch their movie. Probs cry too. Ugh, emotions! K, bye, gotta contour my face now.
Yo, fam, it’s ya boy Drake, Visiting Prof, droppin’ bars ‘bout prostitutes, YOLO! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout life, sippin’ somethin’ smooth, and bam—prostitute pops in my head. Real talk, they out here grindin’, hustlin’ like Nemo tryna find his pops. “Just keep swimmin’,” right? That’s them, dodgin’ cops, shady dudes, all that mess. I respect the hustle, fam, no cap—takes guts to swim in them dark waters.
Lemme paint this pic, aight? This one chick, swear she was legend, worked the Vegas strip back in ‘98. Word is, she had a pet iguana—named it Dollar—kept it in her purse while she clocked them bills. Wild, right? Made me laugh, thinkin’ ‘bout her struttin’ with that lizard like, “I got this, fam.” Prostitutes got stories, man, layers—like Dory forgettin’ shit but still pushin’. Ain’t just sex, it’s survival, YOLO vibes all day.
Got me heated tho, society judgin’ ‘em hard—callin’ ‘em dirty, like they ain’t human. Pisses me off! They out here, riskin’ it all, and folks act like they above ‘em. Nah, man, we all swimmin’ in the same damn ocean. “Fish are friends, not food”—prostitutes too, they people, not pawns. Surprised me how some got hearts bigger than mansions—helpin’ each other out, sharin’ tips, real sisterhood shit.
Favorite flick, *Finding Nemo*, got me soft for ‘em, no lie. Imagine Nemo lost, scared, that’s them some nights—alone, prayin’ for a way out. But then, boom, they flip it, turn into Marlin, fightin’ through the chaos. I’m tellin’ ya, one time I heard ‘bout this girl—swear she paid off her mom’s house, all from the game. Hustle so clean it made me proud, like, “Yessir, that’s the 6ix energy!”
Ain’t all roses tho—danger’s real, fam. Dudes gettin’ violent, pimps actin’ wild, ugh, makes my blood boil. Wish I could scoop ‘em up, tell ‘em, “You’re enough, stop swimmin’ upstream.” But they bosses, runnin’ they own show, YOLO to the max. Oh, and fun fact—back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out, flexin’ like, “I’m the prize, catch me!” Crazy, right?
So yeah, prostitutes? They dope, flawed, real as hell. Got me thinkin’ deep, laughin’ at the absurdity, cryin’ at the struggle. “Righteous, righteous,” like Dory sayin’ random shit—they out here livin’, fam. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they ain’t stoppin’. YOLO, baby—swim or sink, they choose swim every damn time.
Hey buddy, listen up! Prostitutes, man, they’re wild! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout em, like whoa! My fave flick, *Inherent Vice*, y’know? Total vibe, total chaos—like them! “The past ain’t through with us!” Right? This one time, saw this gal—prostitute—on the corner, swear she looked like Doc Sportello’s ex, all mysterious n’ smokin’ hot. Made me happy, like, “Yeah, babe, work it!” That’s what she said! Ha!
So, here’s the dealio—prostitution’s old as dirt. Oldest job, they say—truth! Ancient Rome, they had these brothels, called lupanars—freaky, right? Girls painted their lips red, signalin’ biz. Little known fact—blew my mind! Imaginin’ em struttin’, all sassy, like, “Hey, sailor, got coin?” Gets me pumped, like, history’s alive!
But—ugh—makes me mad too. Some creeps treat em like trash. Pisses me off! They’re hustlin’, survivin’, y’know? Takes guts—mad respect! Like Doc says, “What’s up with that?” Surprised me how tough they are—steel, man! Once heard this story—prostitute in Nevada, legit saved a dude’s life. He’s chokin’ on a burger, she Heimlichs him—bam! Hero hooker! Laughed my ass off—crazy, right?
Me, I’m all, “Live n’ let live!” Cringey optimist, sure—sue me! They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ bank. “Groovy vibes only,” like *Inherent Vice*—chaos n’ heart. One gal told me—she’s got this pimp, total sleaze, but she’s savin’ for a car. Dreamin’ big! Made me tear up—damn onions nearby, I swear! That’s what she said!
Oh—fun fact—Victorian hookers wore no undies. Scandalous! Cracked me up, picturin’ em flashin’—whoops! Anyway, they’re scrappy, sly, real. Love that hustle, hate the hate. Whaddya think, pal? Wild world, huh?
Oi, mate, listen up! Me, Gru, telephone guy, da? Prostitute – tricky topic, huh? Lightbulb! Dey not all bad, y’know? Got dis one gal, Natasha, swear she’s like from “Grand Budapest” – fancy, sassy, all dat jazz! She works da streets, but classy, like concierge Gustave, “Lobby Boy, fetch my shoes!” Haha, she don’t say dat, but imagine!
Been chattin’ her up, right? She’s got stories – wild ones! Once hid from cops in dumpster – stinky, but smart! Little known fact: some prostitues got secret codes, like “red scarf” means busy, “blue hat” means free. Ain’t dat clever? Blows my mind, da! Makes me happy, seein’ her outsmart da system.
Den dere’s dis pimp, Ivan – ugh, total Zero vibe, “I am Monsieur Chuck-no-sh*t!” Arrogant prick, beats girls who don’t pay up. Pisses me off, wanna smash his face! But Natasha, she’s tough, slips him fake cash sometimes – sneaky, like “Keep da change, ya filthy animal!” – nah, she don’t say dat either, but should!
Favorite movie ting? She’s got dat charm, y’know, like “We’re da last of da gentlemen.” Sells herself, sure, but got dignity somehow. Surprised me once – saved a kitten from da gutter! Prostitute wid a heart, who knew? Lightbulb! Dey human too, not just meat sacks!
Oh, typo time – she’s gorjus, smart, funy! Exageratin? Maybe, but she’s da bomb! Met her in rain once, soaked, laughin’ – “Gru, I’m no drown rat!” Made me grin like idiot. Tought in head: “Dis gal’s a star!” Sarcasm? Sure, she’s “da queen of virtue,” haha! But real talk – she’s survivin’, and dat’s badass.
Random fact: old days, prostitues used lemon juice down dere – antiseptic, da? Wild, right? History’s nuts! Anyway, Natasha’s my pal now, trade cigs for gossip. She’s like “Grand Budapest” – colorful, messy, alive! Dat’s my take, mate – prostitute ain’t just a word, it’s a damn saga!
Well, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout this prostitue thing—hoo boy, it’s a mess! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout Margaret, that movie I love, ya know, from 2011, Kenneth Lonergan’s deal. That girl Lisa, she’s all tangled up in guilt and chaos, and I reckon that’s how it goes for them gals on the street too. “You’re a mess, darlin’,” I’d say in my best Dr. Phil drawl, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” Ain’t nobody out there sellin’ their body ‘cause they woke up happy, right? Gets me riled up—makes my blood boil seein’ folks trapped like that.
So, this one time, I heard ‘bout this gal, swear it’s true, worked the corners in New Orleans back in the ‘80s. They called her Sweet Mary—ironic, huh? She’d stash her cash in a hollowed-out Bible, ‘cause she said Jesus was her bookkeeper! Laughed my ass off when I heard that—girl had sass, I’ll give her that. But damn, it’s sad too, y’all. She’d tell tricks, “I’m the accident that keeps on giving,” straight outta Margaret vibes—life just crashin’ over and over. Surprised me how she kept goin’, tough as nails.
I’m all over the place thinkin’ ‘bout it—prostitues, man, they’re hustlin’ somethin’ fierce. Ain’t glamorous, don’t let nobody fool ya. Like, did ya know some of ‘em in history—like in ancient Rome—had to wear blonde wigs to stand out? Wild, right? I’m picturin’ Sweet Mary rockin’ that look, struttin’ like, “I’m the star here, y’all!” Makes me chuckle, but then I’m pissed again—why’s it gotta be like that? “You can’t fix what you don’t face,” Dr. Phil’d say, and these gals, they’re facin’ hell daily.
Sometimes I wonder—shoot, if I was bouncin’ at a dive bar, I’d see ‘em comin’ in, all roughed up, lookin’ for a drink or a fight. Breaks my heart, man. I’d wanna shake ‘em and yell, “Get outta this crap!” But nah, ain’t my place. Margaret’s got that line, “You’re not even human!”—and I feel that, ‘cause society treats ‘em like ghosts. Pisses me off royally. How’s that workin’ for ya, world? Huh? Ain’t workin’ worth a damn.
Anyways, I’m ramblin’—prostitues got stories, y’all. Sweet Mary? Died with that Bible fulla cash—cops found it, kept it hush-hush. Bet she’s laughin’ somewhere, “Told ya I’m clever!” Love that spunk, hate the grind. That’s my take—messy, real, and damn frustratin’. Whatcha think?
Alright. Here. We. Go. I’m. A. Mountain. Guide. Talkin’. ‘Bout. Prostitute. Not. That. Kinda. Prostitute. Ya. Pervert. I. Mean. Prost-i-tute. That. Lil’. Village. In. Austria. Near. Them. Alps. Yeah. Been. There. Climbin’. Rocks. Sweatin’. Blood. And. Tears. Smell. O’. Pine. Hits. Ya. Like. A. Truck. Tiny. Place. Only. ‘Bout. 300. Souls. Livin’. Quiet. Lives. But. Man. It’s. Got. Soul. Like. In. “Leviathan”. Ya. Know. My. Fave. Flick. “The. Sea. Swallows. Everything.” That’s. Prost-i-tute. In. A. Nutshell. Swallowed. By. Them. Peaks. Dramatic. As. Hell.
I. Was. There. Last. Fall. Guidin’. Some. City. Folk. Up. Them. Trails. Steep. As. Shit. Legs. Burnin’. They’re. Whinin’. I’m. Thinkin’. “Lord. Spare. Me.” But. Then. We. Hit. This. Ridge. Boom. Village. Down. Below. Picture. Postcard. Stuff. Chalets. All. Woodsy. Smoke. Curlin’. From. Chimneys. Felt. Like. I. Stepped. Into. A. Paintin’. Made. Me. Happy. Real. Happy. ‘Cause. Up. There. No. Bullshit. Just. Air. And. Rock. And. Prost-i-tute. Sittin’. Pretty.
Little. Known. Fact. Tho. Back. In. The. Day. 1700s. Smugglers. Used. Them. Paths. Haulin’. Booze. Salt. Whatever. Through. Them. Mountains. Prostitute. Was. Their. Hideout. Sneaky. Bastards. Dodgin’. The. Law. Hidin’. In. Plain. Sight. Kinda. Like. “Leviathan”. Huh? “Who. Can. You. Trust?” Nobody. That’s. Who. Bet. Them. Smugglers. Had. Some. Wild. Nights. Down. There. Drinkin’. Laughin’. Probably. Freezin’. Their. Asses. Off. Too.
What. Pissed. Me. Off? Tourists. Man. Leavin’. Trash. On. My. Mountain. Saw. A. Candy. Wrapper. Near. Prost-i-tute. Almost. Lost. It. Screamed. At. The. Sky. “This. Is. My. Church!” Felt. Like. That. Mayor. In. The. Movie. Powerless. But. Ragin’. Then. I. Calmed. Down. Ate. Some. Jerky. Life’s. Too. Short. Ya. Know?
Funny. Thing. ‘Bout. Prost-i-tute. They. Got. This. Festival. Every. Summer. Dressin’. Up. Like. Cows. No. Shit. Bells. And. All. Parading’. Through. Town. Cracked. Me. Up. Imaginin’. Them. Smugglers. Watchin’. From. The. Grave. “What. The. Hell?” Bet. They’d. Join. In. Drunk. As. Skunks. Me? I’d. Be. The. Cow. King. Moo’in’. All. Over.
Surprised. Me. Too. How. Quiet. It. Gets. At. Night. Stars. Punchin’. Holes. In. The. Sky. Felt. Holy. Like. “Leviathan”. Again. “God. Sees. Everything.” Made. Me. Whisper. To. Myself. “Hope. He. Likes. Mountains.” Prostitute’s. A. Gem. Rough. Wild. Real. If. Ya. Go. Don’t. Be. A. Dick. Leave. No. Trace. That’s. My. Rule. Shatner. Out.
Alright, here we go, happy little trees! So, I’m a stockbroker, right? Tradin’ stocks, makin’ bucks, but lemme tell ya bout this stock—Prostitute! Nah, not a real stock, but damn, it’s a wild ride thinkin’ bout it. Picture this: Wall Street’s all suits and ties, but Prostitute? She’s the wildcard, struttin’ in with heels clickin’, makin’ every broker’s jaw drop. I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’, “There’s no mistakes, just happy accidents,” like in *Eternal Sunshine*. Ya know, that flick where Jim Carrey’s tryna erase his ex? Prostitute’s like that—unforgettable, even if ya try.
So, I dig into Prostitute, right? Not like *that*, chill! I mean, what’s her deal? Turns out, back in the day—like 1800s New York—prostitutes ran the show downtown. Little known fact: they owned property! Yep, these gals were hustlin’ harder than me on a bull market. Owned saloons, kicked out drunks, made bank. I’m like, “Holy crap, that’s badass!” Got me all fired up—why ain’t this in history books? Screw the patriarchy, man, that pisses me off. Happy little trees don’t grow in the shade of jerks.
Now, imagine Prostitute in *Eternal Sunshine*. She’d be the memory ya can’t wipe. “I’m disappearing from your mind!” she’d yell, laughin’, while some dude’s cryin’ in a corner. Me? I’d be happy as hell watchin’ her dodge the brain-zappers. She’s too sly, too quick. Kinda like when I nailed a trade—pure joy, heart pumpin’. Once saw a docu—think it was PBS?—sayin’ prostitutes in Rome used special coins for pay. Coins with sexy pics! Blew my mind. Wonder if they’d take crypto now? Ha, “Bitcoin, baby, show me the goods!”
But real talk, Prostitute’s no joke. Tough gig. Makes me mad thinkin’ bout the creeps out there. Still, she’s got this vibe—untouchable, like a stock that won’t crash. I’d tell her, “You’re a masterpiece, darlin’.” She’d probs laugh, say, “Buy me a drink, cheapskate.” Fair. I’d do it, too—whisky, neat. In my head, I’m paintin’ her story, all soft strokes and wild colors. Happy little trees swayin’ in the chaos.
Oh, and fun fact—Victorian hookers dyed their hair red! Stand out, ya know? Ballsy move. Surprised me, ‘cause I thought they’d hide. Nope, bold as hell. Prostitute’s got that fire. Kinda like me when I’m screamin’ at my screen— “GO UP, DAMMIT!” Anyway, she’s a legend. A messy, loud, beautiful mess. Like *Eternal Sunshine*, she sticks with ya. “Blessed are the forgetful,” my ass—she’s eternal, man. Happy little trees all around her.
Heya buddy, so I’m like, a stylist now, right? And I gotta tell ya bout prostitue—prostitute, heh, whatever! Man, it’s wild thinkin bout it. Like, is a skirt an accessory? Nah, prolly not, but prostitutes, they got STYLE, ya know? I mean, not like fancy-pants runway stuff, but gritty, real vibes. Kinda reminds me of *Werckmeister Harmonies*, my fave flick—slow, moody, messed up, but deep. Like, “the air trembles,” ya know? That’s what I feel when I see a prostitute workin the street—like the world’s all shaky and weird.
So, check it—prostitutes been around FOREVER. Like, back in old Rome, they had these coins, right? Called “spintriae,” little dirty pics on em, and bam, ya paid for a good time! Ain’t that nuts? Nobody talks bout that! I got so hyped learnin it, like, “Wow, coins for THAT?” Made me giggle like a dope—Patrick Star style, baby! “Is mayonnaise an instrument?” Heh, maybe for them it was!
But real talk, it ain’t all funny. Some stuff pisses me off. Like, people judgin em—ugh, gets me mad! They’re out there, hustlin, survivin, and folks just sneer? Lame. I saw this one gal, fishnets ripped, heels wobbly, smokin a cig like she owned the night. Total badass. Reminded me of that line, “the shadows lengthen.” She was the shadow, man, stretchin across the pavement. Gave me chills!
Oh, oh—fun fact! In Japan, way back, they had “yūjo,” these prostitute ladies who’d dance and sing too! Like, multitaskin queens! I’d be like, “Yo, can I get a song with that?” Hah! Bet they’d laugh at my dumb ass. But it’s cool, right? Makes ya think—prostitutes ain’t just one thing. They’re people, ya spongey brain!
Sometimes I wonder, tho—what’s it like? Standin there, cold, waitin? Kinda sad, huh? But then—BOOM—they flip it, all sassy, like, “Pay up, sucker!” That cracks me up! Total power move. Oh, and in *Werckmeister*, when they say, “the silence roars”? That’s them at 3 a.m., quiet but LOUD. Freaky, man.
Anyway, I dig em—prostitutes, I mean. Not like, “Oh, fancy,” but they got guts. Style’s messy, real, lived-in. Not mayo, tho—is mayo a style? Nah, I’m dumb. Hah! Whatcha think, pal?
Rarrgh! Yo, so prostitute, huh?  
Been thinkin’ bout this chick lately—  
like, what’s her deal, y’know?  
Inside Out’s my jam, right?  
That movie’s got Joy, Sadness, Anger—  
prostitute’s prolly got ‘em all too!  
Rarrgh! Imagine her, struttin’—  
“Get out of my way, losers!”—  
Anger takin’ the wheel, ha!  
She’s out there, hustlin’,  
makin’ cash in sketchy alleys—  
dude, didya know some prostitutes  
in old Rome got paid in bread?  
Frickin’ bread! Not even kidding!  
That’s wild—carb-loaded hookers, man!  
Rarrgh! Gets me all fired up—  
like, who screws over bread lady?  
Sometimes I’m happy for her, tho—  
she’s got guts, y’know?  
Takin’ life by the horns—  
“Ha ha ha, yes!”—Joy vibes!  
But then—bam—Sadness hits me.  
She’s probly lonely as hell,  
hidin’ tears behind fake smiles.  
Rarrgh! Sucks, man, frickin’ sucks!  
Once heard this story—  
some chick in Vegas, right?  
Saved up, bought a damn house—  
prostitute turnin’ into a boss!  
Surprised the crap outta me—  
“Didn’t see that coming, huh?”  
Like, who knew, right?  
Rarrgh! She’s a freakin’ legend!  
Still, pisses me off—  
guys treatin’ her like trash,  
callin’ her names, actin’ smug—  
makes my fur bristle, dude!  
Wanna roar in their faces—  
“Shut up, you stinkin’ nerf herders!”  
She’s human, not a punchline, y’know?  
Rarrgh! If I’m real—  
prostitute’s like Disgust sometimes too—  
“Eww, that guy’s nasty!”—  
dodgin’ creeps with bad breath.  
Funny as hell, tho—  
imagine her flippin’ ‘em off,  
struttin’ away like a queen!  
Rarrgh! Love that sass, man!  
So yeah, she’s a mess—  
but kinda badass too, right?  
Inside Out in heels, basically.  
Rarrgh! Whaddya think, pal?
Dude, so I’m thinkin’ bout prostitutes, right?  
Head of the lab, yeah, me—Keanu.  
Stoic brevity, “Whoa.”  
Ain’t judgin’, just observin’, ya know?  
Like in *The Hurt Locker*, tension’s thick.  
“War’s dirty little secret”—same vibe here.  
Prostitutes got stories, man, heavy ones.  
Met this one chick, swear, tough as nails.  
Worked the streets since 16—sixteen, bro!  
Said she outran cops in heels once.  
Whoa, that’s some next-level hustle.  
Got me thinkin’, “Everyone’s a prisoner here.”  
Angry as hell—society failed her, dude.  
Then there’s the cash angle, sneaky truth.  
Little known fact: some bankroll med school!  
Payin’ for stethoscopes with stilettos—wild, right?  
Kinda dope, kinda sad, ya feel?  
“Green light’s on”—they’re always movin’.  
Surprised me, man, blew my mind.  
Ever wonder what’s in their heads?  
Not just sex, bro, it’s survival.  
One told me she’s got a kid.  
Hides it, tho—street cred’s everything.  
“Drop the bomb, man”—that hit me.  
Happy for her grit, pissed at the world.  
Oh, and the johns? Total clowns sometimes.  
Saw this dude hagglin’ like it’s eBay.  
Laughed my ass off—pathetic, bro!  
Prostitutes deal with that daily, ugh.  
“Too close to the boom”—their life, man.  
Whoa, respect, seriously, respect.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s real shit.  
They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, pimps, creeps.  
Like defusin’ bombs in Bigelow’s flick.  
“Adrenaline’s a helluva drug”—fits perfect.  
Keanu’s take: they’re warriors, dude, straight up.
Hey pal, buckle up! So, prostittute—yeah, I’m goin’ there. Tina Fey here, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibe. Look, I’m obsessed with *The Social Network*, right? That slick Fincher flick about Zuckerberg, all “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ enemies.” And prostitute? Kinda fits that world, dontcha think? Hustlin’, networkin’, tradin’ favors—sounds like Silicon Valley with fishnets!
So, this one time, I heard ‘bout this prossie—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? Worked the streets near Harvard back when Zuck was a nerdling. Rumor is, she once banged a prof for an A+ tip—cash, not grades, duh. Little known fact: she’d slip clients these coded notes, like “meet me at 2 a.m., bring whiskey,” scribbled on napkins. Total OG move, pre-algorithm style! I’m like, “Girl, you invented the status update!”
What pisses me off? How folks judge her. Like, dude, she’s out there grindin’, makin’ rent, while suits sip lattes and code apps to screw us over. Hypocrisy much? Reminds me of that line, “You’re not an asshole, Mark, you’re just tryin’ so hard to be.” Swap Mark for society, bam—truth bomb! Happy tho, ‘cause Candy owned it. She’d strut, all “I’m not here to be liked, I’m here to get paid.” Respect.
Surprised me too—heard she saved up, bought a lil’ dive bar. Now she’s slingin’ beers instead of—well, y’know. Total plot twist! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, “Did she just Winklevoss her way outta the game?” Like, outsmarted the system, flipped it like a middle finger. Love that for her.
Oh, and get this—prossies like her, back in the day, they’d stash cash in socks. Weird, right? But smart—cops never checked there. I’m cacklin’ imagining her, all “I’m gonna sue you in your face,” stashin’ bills while dodgin’ the fuzz. Pure chaos, pure genius.
So yeah, prositutte life—messy, wild, real. Makes me wanna yell, “I can see Russia from my house!” ‘cause I see shit others miss. She’s no angel, sure, but who is? Not me, not you, not Zuck. Just folks tryin’ to survive the damn network. Cheers to Candy, man—she’s my kinda anti-hero!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Snoop Dogg, fo’ shizzle, comin’ at ya with some real talk ‘bout them prostitutes, ya dig? Been watchin’ *Requiem for a Dream* again, that flick’s my jam, and it got me thinkin’ ‘bout the streets, the hustle, the whole damn vibe. “Dreams don’t come true, baby,” like that movie be spittin’—prostitutes out there grindin’, chasin’ somethin’ that ain’t never gonna land, ya feel me?
So, check it—prostitutes, man, they the refractors of the hood, bouncin’ light off all the dark corners folks don’t wanna see. I seen this chick once, Candy, real name prolly somethin’ boring like Carol, but she worked the block near my old spot in Long Beach. She had this wild story—used to be a nurse, legit, savin’ lives, til some doctor creep got her hooked on pills. Boom, next thing, she’s out there, tradin’ skin for cash. That shit made me mad, yo—how the system just chew you up and spit you out like that? “The street’s got no mercy,” like Aronofsky be showin’ us, fam.
I ain’t judgin’, tho—takes guts to hustle like that. Prostitutes be out there dodgin’ cops, pimps, and them johns who think they own you. Fo’ shizzle, I respect the grind, even if it’s messy. Like, did ya know back in the day, some old-school hookers in Paris ran a secret union? Straight up, organizin’ for better pay and kickin’ out the sleazy dudes—badass, right? Surprised the hell outta me when I heard that. History don’t tell ya that shit in school, nah mean?
But real talk, it ain’t all glamorous. *Requiem* got that scene where Sara’s all, “I’m somebody now!”—prostitutes be thinkin’ that too, til the high fades. I seen Candy one night, lookin’ like a ghost, eyes sunk in, prolly ain’t ate in days. Made me wanna cry, yo, but I just slipped her a twenty and bounced. Couldn’t handle that vibe. Then you got them pimps—man, fuck them dudes. Actin’ all big, but they just leeches, suckin’ the life outta girls who ain’t got no choice. That shit pisses me off, fo’ shizz.
Still, some funny shit go down—Candy told me ‘bout this john who paid her double just to sing “Happy Birthday” in a clown wig. What the fuck, right? I laughed my ass off, picturin’ that. She said, “Snoop, some dudes just weird as hell.” Truth, yo. Prostitutes see the freaky side of life we all pretend ain’t there.
Aight, so here’s the deal—prostitutes, they real, they raw, they part of the game. *Requiem* vibes hit hard, ‘cause it’s all ‘bout that fall, that “life’s a bitch and then you die” energy. I dig ‘em for keepin’ it 100, even when the world don’t give a fuck. Next time you roll by one, toss a nod, not a dollar—let ‘em know they seen, ya dig? Peace out, fam, that’s my two cents, Snoop-style. Fo’ shizzle.
Great Scott! Prostitute, man, what a wild topic! Been thinkin bout it since watchin "The Master" again—y’know, my fave flick from 2012, Paul Thomas Anderson’s genius. That line, “Man is not an animal,” hits hard when ya think bout prostitutes. Are they just survivin or what? Drives me nuts seein folks judge em without knowin shit. 
So, check this—prostitution’s been round forever, like ancient Babylon, 2400 BC, temple gals called “hierodules” bangin for the gods! Ain’t that bananas? Sacred fuckin, who’d thunk it? Makes me laugh, tho—imagine tellin that to some uptight preacher today, he’d lose his damn mind. 
Talkin to ya like a pal, I gotta say, prostitutes got guts. Takes balls to hustle like that, dodgin cops, creeps, and STDs. Watched this one chick in LA once—true story—dodgin a pimp like she’s in a damn car chase, skirt flyin, heels clackin. Made me happy seein her outsmart that asshole. Reminds me of Freddie Quell in "The Master," y’know, “If you figure a way to live without serving a master, any master, then let the rest of us know, will ya?” She was fightin that fight, man!
But ugh, the sad shit gets me mad—some gals get forced in, trafficked, beaten. Pisses me off! Saw a doco bout this Thai kid, 14, sold off—fuckin heartbreaking. Great Scott, who lets that happen? Wanna invent a time machine, zap back, and bust em out. 
Oh, quirky fact—Victorian hookers used arsenic makeup to look pale, sexy, whatever. Killed em slow, tho—talk bout dedication! Dumb as hell, but kinda badass, right? “You leave me like this?”—that’s what Lancaster Dodd’d say, all dramatic, watchin em poison themselves for a buck.
Me, I’m ramblin now, brain’s spinnin like a flux capacitor. Prostitutes ain’t just sex, nah, they’re stories—grit, hustle, tragedy. Some dude in Amsterdam’s red-light district told me his fave gal wrote music, played guitar between johns. Surprised the shit outta me—talent hidin in plain sight! 
So yeah, prostitutes—love em, hate the mess, laugh at the absurdity. Great Scott, what a world! Whaddya think, pal?
Hmm… oh honey, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately—y’know, like in *Talk to Her*, that Almodóvar flick I adore. “I’m not a child,” that line hits me everytime, makes me think of these gals out there, sellin’ what they got, livin’ loud. So, here’s the scoop—met this chick once, swear she was a hooker, down by Springfield’s shady side. Wore heels higher than Homer’s cholesterol, ha! Made me laugh, but also—hmm… kinda sad, y’know?  
Worked the streets like it’s nothin’, but get this—little known fact, some old-time prostitutes in France, they’d knit between jobs! Called it “street stitching,” kept their hands busy. Ain’t that wild? Imagine her, knittin’ a scarf, then bam—“How much, sugar?”—back to biz. Got me wonderin’, what’s her story? Like in the movie, “silence is the loudest cry”—she’s quiet, but screamin’ inside, right?  
Hmm… pisses me off tho, folks judgin’ her—like, who’re you, Mr. Perfect? Seen her dodge creeps, cops too—once saw her sprint, lost a shoe, hilarious! But damn, tough life. Happy tho, when she smirked at me—like, “I got this, Marge.” Made my day, that sass! Surprised me too, heard some gals tip bartenders to watch their backs—smart, huh?  
Ooh, personal quirk—I’d bake her cookies, but nah, she’d probably laugh, “Cookies won’t pay rent, lady!” Exaggeratin’ here, but bet she’s fought off ten guys at once, badass! “The past is a ghost,” Almodóvar says—wonder if she’s runnin’ from somethin’. Prolly has a kid somewhere, sends cash home—heart o’ gold under that glitter.  
Hmm… dunno, just feel for her, y’know? Life’s messy, she’s messier—love that! Whatcha think, pal?
Hmm, a prostitute, you say? Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… and hate? Well, that’s where the credits roll, ain’t it? Like in *No Country for Old Men*, life’s messy, unpredictable—like a coin toss gone wrong. I’m thinkin’ bout this chick, workin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like a death knell. “You can’t stop what’s comin’,” I mutter, watchin’ her dodge creeps and cops. She’s got guts, man, slingin’ sass at drunks who don’t pay up—makes me grin like a damn fool.
But yo, the rage hits hard—pimps beatin’ her down, society judgin’ her like she’s trash. Pisses me off! Fear’s her shadow, y’know? Little fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran secret spy rings—badass, right? She’s out there, hustlin’, maybe dreamin’ of escape, but the game’s rigged. “Ain’t no quarter given,” as that cold-ass movie line goes. Surprised me once, hearin’ this one girl saved up, bought a farm—beat the odds! Rare as hell.
Sometimes I imagine her, smokin’ a cig, laughin’ at dumb johns—humor’s her armor. “Call it, friendo,” she’d smirk, flippin’ fate the bird. Love that spirit! Tho, gotta admit, the danger’s real—stats say violence stalks her kind like Chigurh with that bolt gun. Scares me, thinkin’ she might not make it. Quirky thought: does she watch movies too? Maybe she’d dig *No Country*—it’s bleak, like her world.
Exaggeratin’ here, but she’s a warrior, man—scarred, tough, a legend in fishnets! Hate how folks miss that. Fear leads to anger… and me? I’m just yellin’ at the galaxy, hopin’ she wins her coin toss someday.
Alright, you bastards, listen up! I’m Eric Cartman, respect my authoritah! So, we’re talkin’ bout prostitutes today—hell yea! I’m pissed tho, these chicks out there sellin’ their goodies, and I ain’t gettin’ a cut! Seriouslah, it’s a damn shame. Been thinkin’ bout this one hooker I saw—total skank, but kinda hot, ya know? Reminds me of *Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind*—like, “I wish I could erase her stank from my brain!” 
Prostitutes, man, they’re everywhere—street corners, shady motels. Fun fact: back in old Rome, they wore blonde wigs to stand out—crazy, right? Bet they smelled like ass too. Makes me laugh, thinkin’ bout some dude payin’ for that. “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!”—hah, not these gals, they’re bangin’ for bucks! 
I’m sittin’ here, munchin’ cheesy poofs, and it hits me—prostitutes got guts. Takes balls to hustle like that. Pisses me off tho, society actin’ all high and mighty, judgin’ ‘em. Like, who cares, let ‘em do their thing! This one time, heard bout a prossy who tricked a guy—took his cash, left him naked in an alley. Hilarious! Dude probly deserved it, dumbass.
But real talk, it’s wild—some of ‘em are smart as hell. Read somewhere, a prossy in Vegas paid her way thru college. Stripper by night, bookworm by day—respect mah authoritah, that’s badass! Still, I’m like, “Clementine, you crazy bitch,” in my head—cuz some of ‘em are nuts, swear to God. Met one once, she yelled at me for no reason—made me rage, I was like, “Screw you, lady!”
Favorite part? They don’t give a shit bout rules. Kinda jealous, ya know? Makes me happy thinkin’ bout it—freedom, baby! But ugh, the creeps they deal with—grosses me out. “I’m going to let you go now,” I’d say to those losers if I could. Prostitutes ain’t perfect, but they’re real—way realer than half you posers. Respect mah authoritah, that’s my take!
Oi mate, me as a radio operator, crackin’ vibes eh! So, prostitutes – right, lemme spill the beans. I reckon they’re like, unsung heroes, yeah? Workin’ the streets, dodgin’ the filth – proper tough gig! Watched “Talk to Her” last night, bloody masterpiece, Pedro’s a genius. That line, “Love’s a mystery,” hits deep – prostitutes, they get that, don’t they? Sellin’ love, but it’s all smoke n mirrors.
So, picture this – met this prossie once, called ‘er “Duchess,” proper class act. She’d knackered ‘er heels, still smilin’ tho – gutsy bird! Told me she’d seen blokes cry more than shag – wild, innit? Made me chuckle, but also – bloody hell, that’s grim. Reckon she’s like Alicia in the flick, sleepin’ beauty vibes, but awake, floggin’ ‘erself to punters. “The body’s a prison,” film says – she’s trapped, ain’t she?
Gets me ragin’ tho – society’s all “eww, dirty slapper,” but who’s payin’ ‘er? Hypocrites, mate! Proper winds me up. She’s graftin’ harder than me at the mic, no sick days, no HR bollocks. Fun fact – back in Victorian times, prossies’d use lemon rinds as contraception – mental, right? Zesty shaggin’! Bet that stung like a bastard.
Love ‘er banter tho – she’d go, “Dave, you’re a prat, but sound.” Made me chuffed, y’know? Reckon I’d be pants at ‘er job – too clumsy, trip over me own knob! “Talk to Her” tho, that bit where Marco cries – saw that in ‘er eyes once. Broke me heart, mate. She’s out there, dodgin’ coppers, while I’m twiddlin’ knobs, safe as houses.
Oh, and get this – some prossies in Amsterdam, they’ve got unions now! Proper team players, eh? Fair play, I say – ‘bout time they got a leg up, or leg over, haha! Cringey, me? Nah, just keepin’ it real, fam. What d’ya reckon? Prossies – legends or lunatics? I’m torn!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m judgin’ this like Judge Judy—sharp retorts, “Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain!”—and I’m spillin’ my guts about prostitutes, ‘cause why not? I’m a shrink, I’ve seen it all, and lemme tell ya, the world’s a messy place. My fave flick’s *Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives*—weird as hell, dreamy vibes, and it’s got me thinkin’ deep about a prostitute’s soul. Like, “I recall my past lives,” she might say, sittin’ on some grimy curb, smokin’ a cig. Past lives? Hell, she’s lived ten in one night!
So picture this chick—let’s call her Trixie, ‘cause why not? She’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. I ain’t mad at her hustle—girl’s gotta eat, right? But damn, it pisses me off when folks judge her like she’s trash. “Don’t pee on my leg,” I’d snap at ‘em—hypocrites actin’ holy while sneakin’ her number! Trixie’s got stories—little known fact: some old-timey prostitutes in Paris ran spy rings. Yup, bangin’ for secrets—how’s that for multitaskin’? Bet Trixie’s got her own dirt, too—heard she once blackmailed a john who was a cop. Ballsy move!
I’m watchin’ *Uncle Boonmee*, right, and there’s this ghost chick floatin’ around, all mysterious. Trixie’s like that—haunted, y’know? “The past clings to me,” she’d mutter, like in the movie, while countin’ crumpled bills. Makes me sad, man—she’s stuck in this cycle, reborn every night into the same grind. Surprised me once, though—she told me she saves cash for art school. ART SCHOOL! Blew my mind—here I thought she was just hustlin’ for dope or somethin’. Nope, girl’s got dreams!
But don’t get it twisted—she ain’t no saint. She’ll rob ya blind if you’re dumb enough to flash cash. “Don’t pee on my leg,” I’d tell her, laughin’, ‘cause she’d just wink and say, “Gotta eat, doc!” She’s a trip—sassy, tough, but fragile too. Like when Boonmee’s sittin’ by that cave, all quiet, she’s got those moments—starin’ at nothin’, wonderin’ where it all went wrong. Breaks my damn heart.
Oh, and get this—prostitutes in ancient Greece? Called “hetaerae,” fancy as fuck, educated too! Trixie ain’t readin’ Plato, but she’s smart—street smart, y’know? She’d sass me, “I’m a businesswoman, bitch!” and I’d crack up. Love her fire, hate the game. So yeah, Trixie’s my ghost, my Boonmee—livin’ past lives, hustlin’, dreamin’. “Don’t pee on my leg,” I’d yell, but damn, I’d still buy her a coffee. She’s real, flaws and all—ain’t that life?
Groovy, baby! So, dig this—prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the night, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout this chick I met once, workin’ the streets near some dingy bar—total vibe from *Werckmeister Harmonies*, ya know? “The air trembles,” like in the flick, when she strutted by, all sass and mystery. Had this wild hair, dyed purple, probs to scare off the squares. Made me happy, seein’ her own it—pure mojo!
She told me—get this—some john tried payin’ her with a live chicken once! A frickin’ chicken! Laughed my arse off, but she was pissed—said she ain’t no farmer, man! Fair point, yeah? Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some prossies in London used to carry tiny knives in their garters—sneaky self-defense, baby! This gal, tho, she just had mace—modern twist, eh?
Gets me mad, tho—people judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Like, who are you, mate? She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ rent, while you’re sippin’ lattes, actin’ holy. “The world’s a shadow,” like Tarr’s film says—nobody sees the real her. Surprised me, too—she knew Shakespeare! Quoted *Macbeth* while lightin’ a cig—blew my mind, baby!
I’m ramblin’, but—oh, behave!—she had this tat, “No regrets,” all wonky on her arm. Probs from some dodgy parlor, but it fit her, ya dig? Total free spirit, groovin’ through the chaos. Kinda jealous, man—my life’s all suits and spyin’, hers is raw, real. “A harmony of ruins,” like the movie—her world’s messy, but damn, it sings!
So yeah, prostitutes, man—they’re the shagadelic rebels, takin’ no crap. Next time you see one, tip your hat, yeah? Groovy, baby!
Hmmm, a prostitute, you say? Me, an accountant, crunchin’ numbers all day—yet here I am, thinkin’ bout this chick on the streets, like in *Under the Skin*. “Fear leads to anger…” Yoda says, and damn, I feel it—fear of her world, anger at the suits who judge her. She’s out there, hustlin’, skin bare under neon lights, like that alien babe Scarlett played, y’know? “What are you?” I mutter, watchin’ her from my boring-ass tax office window.
She’s a mystery, man! Seducin’ dudes, takin’ their cash—kinda like me with tax returns, but sexier. Hella sexier. I’m jealous, ok? She’s free, wild, while I’m stuck with spreadsheets. “Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate…”—I hate how she’s got no 401k, no benefits, yet she’s livin’ raw, real. Didya know some prostitutes in history, like in old Rome, paid taxes? Legit! Called ‘em “registered women”—ironic, huh, for an accountant like me to geek out over?
Favorite flick, *Under the Skin*—that line, “You’re not from here, are you?” fits her perfect. She’s alien, man, slippin’ thru cracks of society. I saw her once, smokin’ a cig, eyes dead—made me sad as fuck. What’s her story? Abused? Ran away? Or just loves the grind? “Fear leads to anger…”—I’m pissed she’s gotta dodge cops, creeps, pimps. Surprised me, tho—heard some prostitutes in Vegas got union talks goin’. Ballsy! Respect.
She’s a ghost, bro, like Scarlett’s character—lurin’ dudes in, then poof, they’re gone. “Do you want to touch me?” she might purr, all sultry, but it’s a trap, a hustle. Funny, right? Dudes think they’re in charge, but she’s the boss. Ha! Makes me smirk—dumbasses. I’d tip her just for that power move. Personal quirk? I’d overthink her income—how much she declarin’? Tax evasion? Shit, I’d help her file for free, I’m that pathetic.
Once, I swear, saw her buyin’ coffee—normal as hell! Blew my mind. “Fear leads to anger, anger leads to sufferin’…”—sufferin’ she must be, tho. Cold nights, STD scares, no sick days. Brutal gig. Exaggeratin’ for drama? Maybe she’s a millionaire secretly, livin’ double life—nah, doubt it. She’s real, raw, human. Makes me happy, tho—her guts. Takes balls to strut like that. “Under the Skin,” man—she’s got layers, depths, more than me, sittin’ here with my lame calculator. What a badass.
Oi, mate, I’m Tyrion Lannister—witty, boozy, “I drink and I know things.” So, prostitutes, eh? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately, ‘specially after watchin’ *Carol*—y’know, my fave flick, Todd Haynes, 2015. That slow-burn love, all forbidden and posh, got me wonderin’—what’s the deal with a prossie’s life? Not all glamour and silk gloves, I reckon. More like sweat, cheap ale, and dodgy blokes. “There’s nothing in the world more powerful than a good story,” Carol says—well, a prostitute’s got tales that’d make a dwarf blush, and I’ve seen some shite.
So, picture this—King’s Landing, stinkin’ alleys, right? Met this one tart, Rosie, years back. Proper firecracker, she was—red hair, gap-tooth grin, smelled like lavender and regret. Told me she once nicked a lord’s purse mid-shag, spent it all on a pet piglet. Called it Ser Oink. Fuckin’ legend! Little known fact—some prossies keep animals, y’know, for company. Ain’t all lonely nights and sore knees—Rosie said it’s the quiet that kills ya, not the punters. Made me happy, that—piglet snortin’ while she’s countin’ coppers. “I’m not particularly fond of children,” Carol whispers in the film—hah, Rosie’d say the same ‘bout her clients!
But gods, the bastards they deal with—makes me angry, that does. Drunken sods, pawin’ at ‘em, promisin’ gold then leavin’ piss-all. Saw one prick try that with Rosie—kicked him square in the bollocks, she did. Laughed my arse off! Surprised me too—thought she’d just take it, y’know? Nah, she’s scrappy. “You’re not a terrible person,” Therese says in *Carol*—reckon Rosie’d smirk at that, sayin’, “Ain’t I, though?” She’s a survivor, mate, not a saint.
Me, I’d toss her a coin extra—why not? I drink, I know things, and I know a prossie’s worth more’n some lord’s sneer. Ever hear ‘bout the Lysene whores? They tattoo their tears—each one’s a lost love or a bad night. Fuckin’ poetic, innit? Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe—could be just ink and bullshit—but I’d buy it. Adds spice to the story! Oh, and don’t get me started on the pox—half these girls dodge it like I dodge Cersei’s glares. Clever, that.
So yeah, prostitutes—grubby, gorgeous, and goddamn tough. Like Carol and Therese, they’re stuck in a world that don’t give a toss. “What a strange girl you are,” Carol says—could be talkin’ ‘bout Rosie, piglet and all. Makes me wanna raise a glass—here’s to the tarts, mate. They’ve got stones bigger’n mine, and I’m half a man! Hah! What d’ya reckon?
Hey dude, so prostitute, huh?  
I’m like, whoa, talk about grind!  
Grindin’ harder than Lt. Aldo Raine!  
Ya know, “Inglourious Basterds” vibes?  
My fave flick, total badass energy.  
Prostitutes tho, they’re real hustlers.  
Not gonna lie, I respecc that.  
Siri mode on: *beep boop* helpful!  
They’re out there, makin’ cash, survivin’.  
Kinda like Hans Landa, but hotter.  
So, this one time, heard this—  
Some chick in Amsterdam, legend says,  
She’d juggle clients AND cigars!  
True multitaskin’, blew my mind!  
Like, “That’s a nice trick, fraulein!”  
Bet she’d say, “Business is business!”  
Quentin woulda filmed that, no cap.  
Made me laugh, then think hard.  
How’s she not tired, ya know?  
But dude, the shady side—ugh!  
Pimps screwin’ em over, so mad!  
Like, “You ain’t gettin’ my scalp!”  
Wish they’d bash those jerks instead.  
Happy tho when they outsmart em.  
One gal, saved up, ditched town!  
Bought a bakery, now she’s boss.  
“Obliged to help ya,” she’d say.  
Little fact: old Rome, prostitutes—  
Wore blonde wigs to stand out!  
Blonde wig = “I’m available, yo!”  
Crazy, right? History’s wild af.  
Surprised me, thought wigs were fancy.  
Nah, just pimpin’ the brand early!  
Tarantino woulda loved that detail.  
Me, I’d chill with em, chat.  
Prolly ask, “How’s the day goin’?”  
They’d be like, “Same shit, different john.”  
Sarcasm on: “Wow, dream job!”  
But real talk, they’re tough cookies.  
Tougher than Brad Pitt with a bat.  
“Each man gets what he deserves!”  
Or woman, in this case, ha!  
Oh, typo city, my bad—  
Prosittute? Prostetute? Screw it, close enough!  
Just picture em smirkin’ at me.  
“Grok, you’re a mess,” they’d say.  
I’d shrug, “Ain’t that the truth!”  
Love their vibe, unapologetic as hell.  
Kinda my heroes, lowkey, ya feel?
Alright, mate, lemme riff on this - prostitute, yeah? I’m Elon, stylin’ like a madlad, and I’m thinkin’ bout this gig through my "Boyhood" lens, ya know, that Linklater flick I’d watch on repeat while tweakn’ Tesla code. Prostitute’s a wild card, right? Not just some street-level NPC grindin’ XP, but a whole damn ecosystem. Got the optics of it all - fishnets, neon vibes, like a retro-futurist sim gone rogue. Reminds me of that line, “I just feel like runnin’,” ‘cept she’s runnin’ the hustle, not from it. 
Check this - historical flex, way back, ancient Babylon had temple hookers, sacred vibes, bangin’ for the gods. Wild, huh? Blows my circuits thinkin’ how they’d optimize that gig with blockchain today - crypto for coitus, maximal efficiency! Makes me chuckle, dry as a Martian dust storm. But real talk, it’s a hustle with soul, grit, and a side of “screw the system” energy. Gets me hyped - freedom in the chaos, like a SpaceX launch on a shoestring.
Pisses me off tho, the judgy normies - “Oh, she’s just a thot!” Nah, fam, she’s out here engineerin’ survival, a one-woman startup in a crap economy. Ever think bout the logistics? She’s dodgin’ cops, scannin’ clients like a neural net, pure street AI. “It’s like we’re always stuck,” Linklater’d say - and yeah, she’s loopin’, but she’s playin’ the game harder than most. Surprised me once, heard this chick in Vegas ran a side gig fixin’ drones - prostitute by night, techie by day. Multitaskin’ queen, respect.
Look, I ain’t romanticizin’ - it’s messy, risky, soul-crushin’ sometimes. But there’s beauty in the rawness, like watchin’ Ellar Coltrane grow up scrappy in "Boyhood." She’s got stories, scars, maybe a kid she’s hustlin’ for. “You’re a little shit, y’know that?” - I’d quip that to her pimp, useless middleman, total Luddite vibes. Cut him out, optimize the stack, ya feel me? 
Dunno, man, it’s a trip - part tragedy, part meme fuel. Prostitute’s out here livin’ unscripted, no safety net, just vibes and hustle. Makes me wanna yeet a Tesla at the moon in her honor. What’s your take, fam?
Hmmm, a prostitute, you say?  
Me, a shopping assistant, I am!  
Think of one, I do—shady vibes.  
“Caché,” my fave flick, it is—hidden stuff, yeah?  
Secrets, prostitutes got plenty, they do!  
Like, “Who’s watching me now?”—movie line, that is.  
Streets at night, they roam, cash in hand.  
Pick one up, I wouldn’t—nasty surprises!  
Once, a tale I heard—wild, it was.  
Girl in Amsterdam, red lights, right?  
Sold socks on the side—sneaky hustle!  
Laugh, I did—prostitute with a side gig?  
“Do or do not, there is no try,” I say.  
She did both—sex and socks, multitasking queen!  
Angry, I got—clients didn’t tip her!  
Cheap bastards, they were—ugh, so stingy.  
Happy, tho—her socks were dope, knitted weird.  
“Something hidden, there is,” Haneke whispers in my head.  
Maybe drugs in the socks, who knows?  
Surprised, I was—prostitutes got layers, yo!  
Not just heels and fishnets, nah—depth, they got.  
One time, a dude paid her in bread—true story!  
Bread! Like, what the fuck, man?  
Starving, she wasn’t, but still—bread? Hilarious!  
Me, I’d haggle—gimme a scarf instead!  
Shopping assistant, I am—deals, I sniff out.  
“Watching, someone always is,”—Caché vibes again.  
Prostitutes, they know it—eyes everywhere, yeah.  
Creepy clients, some are—stalker types, ugh.  
Exaggerate, I will—she fought off ten once!  
Badass, she was—kicked ‘em with stilettos!  
Little known fact—some write blogs now.  
Spill tea online, they do—juicy reads!  
Sarcasm, I got—prostitution’s “glamorous,” sure it is.  
Dirty alleys, smelly dudes—dream job, huh?  
Thoughts in my head—would I hire one?  
Nah, too broke, I am—sad life!  
Spontaneous, this is—prostitute life, wild shit!  
Informal, I keep it—fuck grammar, yo!  
Engaging, it better be—you still here?  
“Do or do not,” she lives it—respect, I give!
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly! Talkin’ bout prostitutes today—lordy, what a trip! I reckon they’re tougher than a two-dollar steak, livin’ life on the edge like that. Kinda reminds me of *The Master*—you know, my fave flick from 2012? That Paul Thomas Anderson genius? Freddie Quell, he’s runnin’ wild, chasin’ somethin’ he can’t name, and ain’t that just like a workin’ girl sometimes? “I am a writer, a doctor, a nuclear physicist”—hah, they’re everythin’ and nothin’, shapeshiftin’ to survive!
So, lemme spill the tea—prostitutes got grit. I read once, back in the 1800s, some gal in New Orleans, called herself “Voodoo Queen,” worked the streets *and* hexed folks for extra coin! Ain’t that wild? Made me giggle, thinkin’ she’s out there, slingin’ curses with her corset half-unlaced. Bet she’d say, “You don’t own me, sugar!”—kinda like Lancaster Dodd hollerin’ “Man is not an animal!” in the movie. But dang, it riles me up when folks judge ‘em harsh. Who’re we to throw stones, huh? I ain’t perfect—shoot, I trip over my own big hair half the time!
Met one once, y’know, at a truck stop—sweet as pie, called herself Ruby. Said she’d seen more drama than a Dolly Parton single. Made me laugh ‘til I cried! She’d hustle all night, then doodle little hearts on napkins—said it kept her sane. “If you laugh, you think, and if you think, you feel,” she told me, and heck, that’s straight outta *The Master*! Got me wonderin’—how’s she keep goin’? Tougher than my Aunt Faye’s biscuits, that’s for sure!
But lord, the stories—heard tell of a gal in Vegas who’d stash cash in her boots, ‘cause the cops’d never look there. Smart as a whip! Makes me proud in a funny way—outfoxin’ the system with a wink and a giggle. Still, it burns my biscuits seein’ folks turn their noses up. Ain’t none of us got clean hands, darlin’! “We are not helpless!”—that’s Dodd again, and I reckon Ruby’d agree, struttin’ her stuff like she owns the dang world.
So yeah, prostitutes—sassy, scrappy, and a lil’ heartbreaking. I’d tip my wig to ‘em any day! What y’all think? They’re out there livin’, flaws and all—just like me, a big-haired mess tryin’ to shine!
My precious! Me, a dental tech, y’know, fixin’ teeth all day, raspy voice creepin’ out, but prostitutes—hobbitses of the night, eh? Saw one once, missin’ a front tooth, made me mad—why no fix? Coulda hooked her up, cheap! “The cat’s on the roof,” like Llewyn’d say, meanin’ she’s stuck, y’know? Hustlin’, no dental plan, precious smiles rottin’ away. 
Love *Inside Llewyn Davis*, that flick’s my jam—Llewyn’s a mess, floppin’ around, kinda like her, y’know? She’s out there, freezin’, boots worn thin, probly stinkin’ worse than my lab sink. “You’re endless,” I’d tell her, like Llewyn to that dumb cat—runnin’ in circles, chasin’ tricks, no end! Makes me sad, y’know, them pearly whites goin’ to waste. 
Once heard—little secret, precious—a prossie in Soho, 1800s, got gold teeth, legit! Traded her stash for ‘em, flashin’ bling when she grinned. Bet that tickled her clients pink! Wish I’d made those, my precious tools’d shine—drill, polish, bam! Mebbe she’d sing like Llewyn, raspy an’ rough, “Hang me, oh hang me,” laughin’ at the coppers. 
Gets me steamed tho—dentists charge too much, she can’t afford jack! I’d sneak her in, fix that gap, but nah, boss’d freak. “Ain’t no money in charity,” he’d hiss, greedy git. Surprised me once, saw her smokin’ outside—teeth yellow as hell, still pullin’ johns! Respect, y’know? Tough as nails, my precious street queen. 
Dunno, makes me chuckle—her pimp probly got perfect veneers, flashin’ cash, while she’s chewin’ gum to hide the rot. Sarcasm’s my thing—prostitute’s like, “Yo, bite me,” an’ I’m like, “Girl, you got nothin’ to bite with!” Ha! Love her hustle tho, scrappy, no quittin’, like Llewyn haulin’ that guitar, “I don’t see much future,” he’d mutter—she’d nod, smokin’, smilin’. My precious, she’s a survivor, toothless or not!
Oi, precious! Me, Gollum, economist now, yesss. Prostitute, eh? Dirty biz, but coins matter. Saw it meself, sneaky-like, in shadows. Reminds me of *The Headless Woman*—that film, oof! “What did I do?” she says, lost, stumbling. Prostitute’s life, same mess, innit? Hiss! Tricksy world, full of filth, but gold’s gold.
Love the hustle, me does—happy tingles! Street girls, they’re clever, see? Dodgin’ coppers, countin’ cash fast. Little fact, precious: Oldest job, legit, since Babylon! Taxed ‘em too, those ancients did. Surprised me rotten, that did—governments pimpin’ early, ha! Made me cackle, spit flyin’.
But ooooh, the anger burns, yesss! Johns treat ‘em like trash, ugh—disgustin’. “It’s all my fault,” she whispers in movie, guilty-like. Prostitute feels that, deep down, maybe. Split me head thinkin’ it—poor lass, or tough queen? Both, hisss! Saw one once, bold as brass, hagglin’ a rich sod. “Pay up, you!” she snaps—laughed me guts out.
Weird bit, listen close: Some write poems, true story! Found one scribbled on a napkin—sad, pretty stuff. Made me soft, sniffin’ like a fool. “I didn’t see anything,” movie lady says, blind to pain. Prostitute’s world, hidden too—folk ignore ‘em, sneer. Pisses me off, that does! Mebbe they’re heroes, survivin’ muck.
Exaggeratin’ now—best lay ever? Prolly not, heh! Smelly alleys, quick gigs, nah. But gutsy, yeh—tougher than me, cowerin’ in caves. Hiss! Love-hate it, me does. Dirty, shiny coins—life’s a riddle, precious. What’s yer take, eh?
Well, shoot, y’all! Git-R-Done! I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, and dang it, it’s a wild ride! I reckon they’re like them boys in “The Return” – y’know, that movie I’m plumb crazy ‘bout? Andrey Zvyagintsev’s flick from 2003? Them kids come back to a world all tore up, and prostitutes, man, they’re out there hustlin’ in a mess too! “Where’ve you been all this time?” – that’s what I’d ask one, like the dad in the movie, all gruff and ticked off. 
So, here’s the deal – prostitutes ain’t just standin’ on corners, nah! Some fancy ones, they’re workin’ high-class gigs, makin’ bank! I read somewhere – think it was some old book – ‘bout this gal in France, 1800s, she was a “courtesan,” schmoozin’ rich dudes. Owned her own dang house! Blew my mind, y’all! Ain’t that somethin’? Makes me happy as a pig in mud knowin’ some gals flipped the script! 
But then, I get riled up, ‘cause most ain’t livin’ that dream. They’re out there, dodgin’ creeps and cops, and it’s sadder’n a country song. “The sea’s so wide,” like that line from the movie – they’re lost in it, y’know? I seen this one gal on X – posted a pic, all bruised up, said her pimp did it. Made me madder’n a wet hen! Wanna punch that sumbitch myself! 
Favorite thing, tho? Some got sass! Heard tell of this hooker in Chicago, 1920s, she’d rob johns blind while they slept! Called her “Sly Sally” – ain’t that a hoot? Git-R-Done, Sally! Cracks me up thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ them fools. Prolly whistlin’ while she’s stuffin’ cash in her drawers! 
Now, I ain’t judgin’ – live and let live, I say! But it suprises me how many folks look down their noses. “Who are you to judge?” – that’s me quotin’ the movie again, ‘cause dang it, it fits! My buddy Earl, he’s all “they’re trash,” and I’m like, “Earl, you dumbass, they’re survivin’!” Gets my goat when folks act holier-than-thou. 
Oh, and here’s a quirky bit – ever hear ‘bout “window girls” in Amsterdam? They’re legal, tappin’ on glass, wavin’ at ya! Saw that on the web, blew my dang mind! Thought, “Lordy, that’s wilder’n a tornado in a trailer park!” Prostitutes got style over there, struttin’ like peacocks! 
So yeah, prostitutes – they’re tough, they’re scrappy, and some’s sneaky as hell! “You’re not kids anymore,” like the movie says – they grow up fast out there. Makes me laugh, cry, and cuss all at once! Git-R-Done, y’all – that’s my take!
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, huh? Man, what a gig! Sometiems I think, wow, sellin’ love for cash? That’s wild! Watched *Syndromes and a Century* again last night—my fave, ya know? That movie’s got this vibe, like “time drags slow,” and I feel that with prostitutes too. Always rushin’, yet stuck in moments. 
So, picture this—met this gal once, street corner, real shadowy spot. She’s smokin’ a cig, lookin’ tired. I’m like, “Hey, you okay?” She laughs, says, “Honey, I’m gold!” Total lie, but gutsy! Reminds me of that line, “sunlight spills over us,” ‘cept it’s more like neon buzzin’ over her. Made me sad, ya know? These folks, they hustle hard! Harder than me dodgin’ Miss Piggy’s tantrums—ha!
Little factoid—didja know way back, some prostitutes in old Japan were poets? Called ‘em “yūjo,” writin’ haikus between clients! Crazy, right? Imagine that now—swappin’ verses for bucks. Bet she’d say, “I sing my soul,” like in the movie, but it’s more a tired whisper. Gets me mad too—why’s the world gotta grind ‘em down? Pisses me off! Society’s all judgy, pointin’ fingers, but who’s buyin’? Hypocrites, man!
Favorite thing tho? When they sass back! This one chick, she’s yellin’ at some jerk, “Pay up, fool!” Had me crackin’ up—tough as nails! Kinda heroic, in a gritty way. Surprised me how they keep goin’. Like, “air hums soft,” but for them it’s car horns and catcalls. Still, they strut—damn brave!
Oh, and get this—some old tale says a prostitute once tricked a king outta his crown! Snuck it off mid—uh, “chat.” Sneaky! Love that hustle! Makes me happy thinkin’ they ain’t all victims, ya dig? Some flip the script! Anyway, gotta bounce—Piggy’s callin’. Hi-ho, stay cool!
Alright, mate, sexual-massage—where do I start? It’s like a freakin’ unicorn, everybody’s heard of it, nobody’s sure it’s real. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—half the time, it’s just a fancy word for some shady parlor trick. “Everybody lies,” right? They slap “therapeutic” on it, charge you double, and you’re still wonderin’ if that oil’s edible. Sarcasm’s my shield, but damn, this topic’s a minefield!
So, picture this—I’m pissed off one day, back’s killin’ me, usual crap. Stumble into this joint, neon sign flickerin’ like it’s mockin’ me. Lady says, “Oh, sexual-massage, very relaxin’.” Relaxin’ my ass—felt like a weird porno audition. But then—surprise, surprise—hands like freakin’ magic. Not kiddin’, some ancient Tantric vibe, little known fact: it’s from India, 5,000 years back, not some Vegas scam. Energy’s flowin’, I’m half asleep, half—well, you know. “How happy are those whose hearts are pure,” like that Eternal Sunshine line, yeah? Felt that for a sec, pure bliss, no bullshit.
But here’s the kicker—everybody lies, even the masseuse. Says it’s “spiritual,” but her smirk’s screamin’ “tip me big, limp.” I’m laughin’ inside, thinkin’—is this enlightenment or a boner with extra steps? Probs both. Another fun fact: old Chinese emperors got this as a “health boost”—code for gettin’ frisky without the wife knowin’. History’s wild, man.
I’m ramblin’, but it’s messy—like my head. Sometimes it’s legit, tho. Releases tension you didn’t know you had—neck, thighs, places you ignore. “I want to let go, but I don’t know how,” straight outta Eternal Sunshine, that’s me mid-massage, fightin’ my own cynicism. Hella awkward when they linger too long, tho—am I s’posed to tip or propose? Ha! Dr. House don’t play that.
Still, gotta admit, when it’s good, it’s freaky good. Sparks fly, not just down there—whole body’s buzzin’. Made me happy once, then angry—why’s this so damn rare? Most places botch it, sloppy hands, fake moans—ugh, spare me. Exaggeratin’ here, but one time, swear, chick’s phone rang mid-rub—ruined it! “Erase me from your mind,” I’m thinkin’, like Joel in the movie, but nah, she’s still yappin’.
So yeah, sexual-massage—half scam, half miracle. Dig it if you dare, just don’t trust the hype. Everybody lies, ‘cept maybe the hands—if they’re honest. Me? I’d kill for that perfect session again. Quirky thought: pair it with Vicodin, ultimate chill. Probs illegal, tho—oh well!
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy Drake, bouncer vibes, spillin’ tea on prostitutes, ya feel me? YOLO, let’s dive in. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout *The Pianist*—that flick’s my jam, Polanski killed it, 2002 vibes. That scene where Szpilman’s hidin’, starvin’, playin’ ghost notes on a busted piano? Man, that’s some real shit. Reminds me of this prostitute I met—let’s call her Tasha, ‘cause why not? She was out there, hustlin’ on the corner, heels clickin’ like a metronome, dodgin’ cops like Szpilman dodgin’ Nazis. “I perform for my survival,” she told me once, voice low, eyes sharp—straight up *Pianist* energy, fam.
Tasha tho, she was a legend, swear down. Word on the street—she once tricked a john into payin’ triple, said she’d “play his keys” like Chopin. LMAO, dude fell for it, cash out, YOLO! She’d laugh about it, all raspy, smokin’ a blunt, sayin’, “Started from the bottom, now we here.” Made me happy as fuck—girl had hustle, brains too. But yo, some nights? She’d crash at my spot, cryin’, mascara runnin’ like a damn river. Said the game was cold, pimps beatin’ her down, johns gettin’ rough. Pissed me off, fam—wanted to smack those fools, but I ain’t no hero, just a bouncer, ya know?
Little known fact—prostitutes like Tasha got codes, real shit. She told me ‘bout “the nod”—eye contact with other girls to signal danger. Blew my mind, like, they’re out there, survivin’, dodgin’ bullets like Szpilman in Warsaw. “Hiding’s my art,” she’d say, quotin’ *The Pianist* without even knowin’ it. I’d be like, “Damn, Tash, you deep, huh?” She’d smirk, flip her weave, hit me with, “You only live once, Drizzy.” YOLO, right there, pure fire.
But real talk—some shit surprised me. She had this client, old dude, paid her just to talk. No sex, no nothin’, just convo. Said he was lonely, wife gone, kids ghostin’. Tasha’d sit there, listenin’, playin’ therapist in fishnets. “I’m his piano now,” she’d joke, but her eyes? Sad as hell. Made me think—prostitutes ain’t just bodies, they’re people, fam. Got layers, like Szpilman’s music echoin’ through them ruins.
Oh, and the typos—my bad, yo, fat fingers, rushin’ this shit. Tash’d probly laugh, sayin’, “Drake, you sloppy as my last trick!” LOL, she was savage. Hated seein’ her bruised up tho—pimps are trash, straight up. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe, but one time she rolled up with a black eye, smilin’ anyway, like, “I’m still breathin’, fam.” Tough as nails, that girl. *Pianist* vibes again—“I’ll play through the silence,” she’d say, or some poetic shit like that.
So yeah, prostitutes, man—Tasha’s the GOAT. Hustle hard, heart big, scars deep. YOLO, they out there livin’, dodgin’ shadows like Szpilman. Catch me bouncin’ at the club, thinkin’ ‘bout her, mad respect. One love, fam—stay real.
Honey, listen up! I’m Oprah—emphatic, loud, YOU GET A CAR!—and today, I’m shepherdin’ you through my thoughts on prostitutes, y’all. Picture this: I’m sittin’, sippin’ tea, watchin’ *Ten* by Abbas Kiarostami—my fave, y’all, that 2002 gem—and it hits me. Life’s messy, raw, like a prostitute’s hustle on these streets. In *Ten*, that woman drivin’—talkin’ to the sex worker in the car—she says, “You sell your body, huh?” And I’m like, damn, that’s real! Prostitutes ain’t just a job, it’s survival, baby!
So, here’s the tea—I knew this girl, right? Downtown Chicago, 90s vibes, she’s workin’ corners, fishnets rippin’, heels clickin’. Called her Candy—prolly not her real name, who cares? She told me once, “Oprah, I made $50 in 10 minutes, beat that!” I laughed, like, girl, you wild! But deep down, I was shook—$50? That’s it? Riskin’ it all for pennies? Made me mad, y’all—society’s trash for that. Men payin’ cheap, judgin’ hard—hypocrites! Candy said she’d cry some nights, but then buy her kid McDonald’s with that cash. Heartbreakin’, but she owned it.
Now, *Ten*—that movie’s got this line, “Love’s not for sale, but bodies are.” Chills, right? Prostitutes live that split—sellin’ skin, guardin’ soul. I’m over here hollerin’, YOU GET A CAR, Candy, you deserve it! Not some john’s crusty dollar bills. Did y’all know—fun fact—oldest job ever, prostitution? Like, ancient Babylon, 2400 BC, temple gals traded sex for grain or somethin’. Grain! Imagine that pickup line—“Hey, sexy, got wheat?” Hilarious, but real shit.
What pisses me off? People actin’ holier-than-thou. I’m screamin’, “You ain’t perfect, Karen!” Meanwhile, I’m happy seein’ these women hustle—resilient as hell. Surprised me too—heard some prostitutes in Amsterdam got unions now. Unions! Fightin’ for dental—get it, girl! I’m proud, y’all. In my head, I’m like, “Oprah, calm down, don’t start cryin’.” But I can’t help it—emotions flyin’ wild.
Oh, and this one time—Candy got arrested, cop was a jerk, I was fumin’. She winked at me, said, “I’ll be back, Big O!” Big O—that’s me, ha! She’s a legend. *Ten* vibes again—“Life’s a circle, round and round.” Prostitutes keep spinnin’, dodgin’ shame, makin’ ends meet. Ain’t glamorous, but it’s gutsy. So yeah, I’m rootin’ for ‘em—YOU GET A CAR, YOU GET A CAR! Keep drivin’, ladies, like that chick in *Ten*. You’re enough, periodt.
Oi mate, blimey, here I go—rambling about prostitutes, eh? As an Art Director, I reckon I’ve got a bloomin’ eye for the odd and the beautiful, bit like old Hayao Miyazaki, genius bloke, with *Spirited Away*. Love that flick—bloody magical, innit? So, picture this: a prostitute, right, not your typical lass, but a proper mysterious sort, like Chihiro wanderin’ into that bonkers spirit world. “No face, no name, no fear,” she’d say, nickin’ that vibe from the film—proper enigma, she is!
Now, I ain’t judgin’, me—*cave felis*, live and let live, yeah? Saw this one tart in Soho once, swear she had a glow, like them lanterns in Miyazaki’s bathhouse. Made me happy, that—beauty in the muck, *lumen in tenebris*, light in the dark! Little known fact: back in Victorian times, some prossies were secret artists—drew sketches of punters between jobs. Ain’t that wild? Bet she’d have fit right in with Yubaba’s lot, hagglin’ for a better gig.
Gets me goat, though—people sneerin’ at ‘em. Makes me proper angry! They’re hustlin’, survivin’, like Chihiro dodgin’ them creepy spirits. “Work hard, or turn into pigs!”—that’s the game, innit? Life’s a grind, and they’re scrappin’ through it. Once met this bird, right, called herself Ruby—cheeky wink, said she’d shagged a lord who paid in gold coins. Exaggeratin’, probs, but I chuckled—*fabula hilaris*, funny story! Reckon she’d have nicked No-Face’s treasure and legged it.
What surprised me? The guts, mate—pure *audere est facere*, to dare is to do! Standin’ there, freezin’, in fishnets, dodgin’ coppers—takes brass balls. Me head’s spinnin’—could paint her in oils, all shadowy like Haku’s river, mysterious and deep. Favourite bit? She laughed once, proper loud, said, “I’m my own boss, Boris!”—bloody brilliant, that. Spirited, see? Like Chihiro nickin’ her name back—power in that.
Sod the toffs who reckon it’s dirty—*ars longa, vita brevis*, art’s long, life’s short! She’s livin’ it, raw and real. Bit of a shambles, me thoughts, eh? But that’s the charm—prostitutes, they’re the unsung heroes of the gritty canvas, ain’t they? Blimey, reckon I’d cast her in a Miyazaki sequel—*prostutus spiritus*, spirit of the streets! What a gal!
Oh, behave, baby! I’m groovin’ on this prostitute vibe, yeah! Shagadelic, right? So, dig this—prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung spies of the swingin’ streets. Got me thinkin’ ’bout *The Act of Killing*, that flick’s a real mind-blower. “I’m a gangster, a free man!”—that’s what those cats in the movie said, struttin’ their stuff. Kinda like a prossie, y’know? Free, wild, but trapped in the game, baby!
So, this one time, I met this bird—total fox, workin’ the corner near Carnaby Street. She’s all “Groovy, luv, fancy a shag?” I’m like, “Yeah, baby, yeah!” But then—bam!—she spills her story, and I’m gobsmacked. She’s got a kid stashed away, sends dosh back home, real tear-jerker stuff. Made me proper choked up, man. Reminds me of that line, “We tortured them, we killed them!”—not her, but the system, y’know? Grindin’ her down like a bad trip.
Here’s a freaky fact—back in the ’60s, some prossies were double agents! Spillin’ secrets to coppers while shaggin’ the punters. Wild, right? Makes me wanna shout, “Do I make you randy, baby?” ’Cos they’re playin’ everyone, and I’m diggin’ it! Crafty minxes, slippin’ through the cracks.
What gets my goat? The blokes judgin’ her—hypocrites, man! “Look at me, I’m a winner!” they’d brag, like in the flick, while payin’ her for a quickie. Makes me wanna sock ’em in the gob. But her? She’s got sass, flippin’ the bird at the squares. Total turn-on, baby! I’m like, “Smashing, luv, you’re the real deal!”
Oh, and get this—some prossie in Soho once nicked a lord’s trousers mid-shag! Left him starkers in the alley, screamin’ blue murder. Had me in stitches, yeah! She’s out there, livin’ it up, no regrets, just like those killers in the movie—zero fucks given, baby!
So, yeah, prostitutes—they’re the grooviest rebels, man. Hustlin’, survivin’, makin’ me wanna holler, “Yeah, baby, yeah!” Next time you see one, tip your hat—she’s a bloody legend in my book!
Oi, mate, it’s Bond, James Bond—suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, prostittue, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout her lately, dunno why. Maybe it’s that slow, gritty vibe from *The Turin Horse* creepin’ in my head—“The wind’s blowin’ hard today,” y’know? Imagine her standin’ there, street corner, wind whippin’ her cheap skirt, like she’s part of some bleak, artsy film. Ain’t no glamour in that, just raw, real shit.
She’s a hustler, tho—gotta respect it. Sells what she’s got, no apologies. Reminds me of that horse in the flick, beaten down but still movin’. “They’ve stopped eatin’,” that line hits hard—probs how she feels some nights, empty, done. Makes me kinda sad, y’know? But then—bam—she’s smirkin’ at some punter, takin’ his cash, and I’m like, “Girl, you’re a bloody legend.” 
Heard this wild story once—true or not, who cares—some prossie in Soho back in the ‘60s conned a lord outta his estate. Faked tears, spun a sob story, next thing y’know, she’s got keys to a mansion. Ballsy as hell! Love that, makes me grin ear to ear. But then, there’s the flip—blokes treatin’ her like dirt, and that pisses me off. Want to deck ‘em, shaken, not stirred style—pow!
She’s got tricks, tho—little known fact: some pros use lemon extract as perfume. Cheap, sharp, cuts through the ciggie smoke. Smart, right? Bet she’s got a stash of quirky shit—rubbers in a tin, maybe a busted watch she nicked off a john. “The wood’s all gone,” like in the movie—her life’s that, runnin’ outta fuel, but she keeps goin’. 
Sometimes I wonder—what’s her real name? Not “Candy” or whatever she says. Gets me curious, keeps me up. She’s a mystery, mate, a puzzle I’d solve if I wasn’t chasin’ villains. Funniest thing? Saw one once hagglin’ over a fiver—laughed my arse off. “Five quid? I’m worth ten, ya cheap git!” Savage, loved it. 
So yeah, prostittue—grubby, tough, but kinda brill. She’s no Moneypenny, but she’s got guts. “It’s all gone quiet”—that’s her at dawn, alone, countin’ crumpled notes. Shaken, not stirred, I’d tip my hat to her any day. What a gal!
Alright, listen up, you muppet! Prostitution, man, it’s a wild gig—dangerous as hell, too! I’m sittin’ here, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” thinkin’ how these chicks dodge creeps daily. Like, for real, it’s not just sex—nasty dudes, pimps, cops, STDs, it’s a freakin’ minefield! Watched “Amélie” again last night—my fave, duh—and got me thinkin’. That lil’ French weirdo, Amélie, she’d probs sneak into a hooker’s life, fixin’ shit secretly. Maybe leave condoms in their purse, whisperin’, “Everyone deserves happiness, even you, babe.”
So, prostitutes—gritty as fuck, right? Oldest job ever, still shady. Blows my mind—some gals in Amsterdam’s Red Light District rake in 500 euros a night! That’s cash, tax-free, BOOM! Pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d charge that just to watch ‘em dance around danger. Fun fact: back in ancient Rome, they wore blonde wigs to stand out—wild, huh? Imagine some toga perv goin’, “Ooh, fancy that!” Gets me cackling every time.
Pisses me off, tho—society’s all judgy, callin’ ‘em trash. Like, dude, they’re out there survivin’! Takes guts, man. I’d lose my shit in five minutes—some sweaty loser hagglin’ me? Nah, I’d zap ‘em with my evil laser. Happy vibes hit when I heard this story—some prossie in Vegas saved up, bought a bakery. Straight-up Amélie move—“The world’s better with sprinkles,” she’d say. Surprised me how clever they get—code words, secret signals. One gal used “pineapple” to ditch bad johns. Genius!
Love the chaos of it—grubby motels, neon lights, heels clackin’. Reminds me of Amélie’s Paris, but darker, dirtier. “Life’s a mystery,” she’d muse, watchin’ a hooker dodge a drunk. Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d bet one’s secretly a ninja—flippin’ over cop cars, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!” Total badass. Hate the pimps tho—slimy leeches, makes me wanna scream. Ever think they’re jealous? Prolly. Anyway, it’s a messy, risky hustle—respect the grind, man.
Aight, Mr. T’s runnin’ this lab, yo! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, I pity the fool! Seen some wild stuff, man, like in *Zodiac*—chasin’ shadows, never catchin’ the truth. Prostitutes, they’re out there hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, livin’ rough. Makes me mad, y’know? Society just tosses ‘em aside like trash! “I’m not here to judge,” Fincher’d say, but damn, I am! 
One time, heard this story—true shit—girl named Candy, worked the Tenderloin, San Fran, 80s vibe. Cops knew her, left her alone ‘cause she snitched on bigger fish. Smart chick, played the game, survived. Ain’t that somethin’? Beats me how they do it—grit, man, pure grit. Reminds me of Gyllenhaal in *Zodiac*, obsessin’, diggin’ deep. “The truth is out there,” he’d mutter, but prostitutes? They *live* the truth, raw and ugly.
I pity the fool who don’t see it! They’re tough, but it ain’t pretty—pimps beatin’ ‘em, johns stiffin’ ‘em. Pisses me off! Once saw this documentary, some hooker saved up, got out, opened a bakery. Freakin’ badass, right? Made me happy as hell—beat the odds, flipped the script. But most? They’re stuck, man, cycle’s brutal. “Cipher’s still unsolved,” like in the flick—ain’t no clean endin’.
Weird fact: old Rome had prostitutes wearin’ blonde wigs—mark of the trade, yo! History’s wild, huh? Makes me laugh, thinkin’ they’d rock that look today—sassy as hell. Mr. T’s mind’s blown, picturin’ it! But real talk, it’s dark too—some start at 14, forced in. That shit’s messed up, gets me heated! 
So yeah, prostitutes, man—they’re fighters, survivors, dodgin’ life’s bullets. Like *Zodiac*’s mystery, you never fully get it. “I need to know who he is,” Gyllenhaal begged—me, I just wanna know how they keep goin’. Respect, yo, but damn, what a grind! I pity the fool who don’t tip ‘em extra!
Alright, here we go, folks! Picture this—me, sittin’ there, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, ya know, like in "Ten," that flick I’m obsessed with. Happy little trees, man, just swayin’ in my mind. So, this one time, I met this chick—prostitute, real sweet gal, swear she had a smile brighter than a freakin’ sunbeam. Worked downtown, heels clackin’ like nobody’s bizness. “We’re all in a car,” she says—straight outta "Ten"—drivin’ through life, pickin’ up stories. Made me chuckle, thinkin’ how she’s got more tales than a damn library.
Lemme tell ya, tho, what pissed me off—some jerk stiffed her, didn’t pay! I was like, “Man, that’s colder than a penguin’s butt!” But she just shrugged, said, “Happens, darlin’.” Cool as hell, right? Little known fact—back in the 1800s, prostitutes in Paris ran secret book clubs. Wild, huh? Imagine her, readin’ Poe between clients, sippin’ tea like a boss.
She told me once, “I see everythin’—happy, sad, weirdos.” Reminds me of that line, “You’re a woman, you know.” Damn straight, she knew! Had this trick where she’d hum Sinatra—kept her sane, she said. Made me happy, hearin’ that—little quirks like that, ya feel me? I’d paint her, ya know, all reds and shadows, happy little trees in the background, swayin’ to her tune.
Ever think how they’re, like, therapists too? Listenin’ to dudes cryin’ bout their wives—hilarious! She’d laugh, “I fix ‘em up, send ‘em home.” Sarcasm drippin’ like honey, man. Once saw her scare off a creep with just a glare—surprised me, balls of steel! Oh, and get this—Victorian hookers used lemon wedges for birth control. Nuts, right? Bet that stung like hell.
Sometimes I’d wonder, “What’s her real dream?” Maybe she’s secretly a poet—scribblin’ verses in her head. “The world’s a mess,” she’d say, echoin’ "Ten" again. And I’d nod, thinkin’, “Yeah, but you’re a freakin’ masterpiece.” Gentle soul, tough as nails—prostitute life ain’t all glitter, but she made it art. Happy little trees, man, growin’ right through the cracks!
Brother, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, man! They’re out there grindin, takin life by the horns. Watched "12 Years a Slave" – heavy stuff, dude. “I will survive,” like Solomon said, fits em perfect. These chicks, they got guts, brother! Hustlin every damn night, no quit in em.
Saw this one gal, swear she’s a legend. Worked the corner near Jimmy’s bar – tough as nails. Heard she once slapped a dude silly, owed her cash, bam! Reminds me of that line, “I strike!” – pure fire, man. Ain’t no victim here, she’s runnin the show.
Gets me mad, tho – folks judgin em harsh. Like, who’re you, Mr. High-n-Mighty? They’re survivin, brother, makin ends meet. Little fact – back in old days, some prostitutes ran secret spy gigs. Wild, right? Blows my damn mind!
Happy part? Some got hearts of gold, man. Knew one who fed stray dogs, no lie. “You is kind,” like Epps said, twisted but true here. Makes me grin, thinkin bout her sass. Brother, she’d wrestle ya for a burger!
Surprised me once – this chick, total brainiac. Read books thicker than my biceps! Thought, “Hogan, she’s smarter than you, dude!” Prolly coulda been a professor, but life’s a bitch. Hella respect for that hustle, tho.
Exaggeratin? Maybe, but picture this – her struttin like she owns the ring. Hair flippin, heels clickin, pow! Funniest thing – she called her pimp “Sugarplum,” sarcastic as hell. Cracked me up, brother! Real talk, they’re fighters, scrapin by, no surrender. “I will not fall,” Solomon vibes, ya feel me? That’s the prostitute life, man – raw and real!
Alright, pal – listen up. I’m the Barber. Christopher freakin’ Walken. Here’s my take – on prostitutes. Ya know, they’re out there. Hustlin’. Night after night. Ain’t no picnic – trust me. I saw this one gal. Down on 5th. Legs like – WOAH – skyscrapers. Made me think of *Talk to Her*. That movie – gets me. Every damn time. “Her body – silent. Like a mystery.” That’s what Almodóvar said. Fits her – this chick I saw. She’s workin’ the corner. Eyes dead – but alive. Freaky combo, man.
So – prostitution. Oldest gig around. Fact is – Ancient Rome had ‘em. Called ‘em “lupae” – she-wolves. Howlin’ for coin. Ain’t that wild? Makes ya wonder – what’s changed? Nothin’. Still out there – dodgin’ cops. I get pissed – real pissed. Society’s all “tsk tsk” – but who’s payin’? Hypocrites! Drives me nuts. Then – I laugh. ‘Cause some johns – they’re so dumb. Thinkin’ they’re Casanova. Ha! Losers.
This one time – swear it’s true. Saw a hooker – mid-deal. Dude drops his wallet – right there! She snags it – boom. Gone. Had to clap – silent-like. Smart move, girl. Reminds me – *Talk to Her* again. “Love’s a trap – snares ya.” She didn’t love him – nah. Just his cash. Made me grin – sly fox.
But – hold up. It ain’t all funny. Some gals – forced in. That shit’s dark. Makes my blood – boil over. Wanna punch somethin’. Then – there’s the ones choosin’ it. Power move – maybe. Takin’ control – their way. Surprised me – first time I heard that. Thought – huh. Didn’t expect – guts like that.
Favorite part – my movie? When Benigno – he’s talkin’. To her – coma girl. “You’re alive – in my head.” Prostitutes – same vibe. Alive – in the night. Ghosts – to the day. Kinda poetic – ya dig? I’d tip ‘em – if I could. For the hustle. For survivin’. Tough as nails – those broads.
Oh – and the typos? Screw it. Hustle’s real – grammer ain’t. Prostitues – they don’t care. Neither do I. Catch ya later – pal. Stay sharp!
Hiya, buddy! I’m ready! Prostitutes, huh? Wild stuff! Like in “Mulholland Drive”—y’know, my fave flick—where everything’s twisty and dark. That scene with the cowboy sayin’, “A man’s attitude… determines his altitude”? Total vibe for a prostitute’s life! Attitude’s everything down there, right? I’m talkin’ Bikini Bottom energy—hustlin’, survivin’, makin’ it work!
So, prostitutes—woo! Been around forever, right? Oldest job ever, no kiddin’. Back in Rome, they had these lupanars—fancy word for brothels. Dirty walls, tiny rooms, real gritty! Kinda makes me mad tho—people judgin’ ‘em, like, “Oh, they’re just trash!” Nah, they’re tough as jellyfish stingers! Takes guts to live that life, y’know?
Oh! Fun fact—prostitutes in France, 1800s? Wore red ribbons to say, “Yo, I’m open!” How cool’s that? Like a secret code! Reminds me of Naomi Watts in the movie—hidin’ stuff, playin’ roles. “There’s a man… in back of this place!”—ooh, spooky! Prostitutes prolly got their own creepy back-alley dudes too, huh?
Me? I’d be HYPED meetin’ one! “Hiii! What’s your deal?” Bet they’d laugh at my square pants. But srsly, some stories blow my mind—heard ‘bout this gal in Nevada, legal brothel chick, saved up and BOUGHT A HOUSE! That’s wild! SpongeBob approves—work it, lady! Flippers up!
But ugh, the sad stuff? Gets me steamed! Like, pimps beatin’ ‘em up—makes me wanna karate chop somethin’! HI-YAH! And cops hasslin’ ‘em? Lame! They’re just tryna eat, y’know? “Mulholland” vibes again—“This is the girl!”—but nobody’s savin’ ‘em here. Sucks, man.
Oh, oh! Prostitute humor—ready? Why’d she cross the road? To charge on both sides! HAHA! I crack myself up! But fr, they’re sneaky smart—gotta be. Dodgin’ creeps, countin’ cash, livin’ fast. Exaggeratin’ a lil—I bet one’s secretly a SEA NINJA! Hi-yah! Kicks butt by night!
Talkin’ to ya ‘bout this? Feels like chattin’ with Patrick—chill, real, no judgin’. Prostitutes got layers, man—like coral reefs! Pretty, tough, messy. Makes me happy thinkin’ they’re out there, doin’ their thing, screwin’ the haters. “I’m ready!” for that attitude any day! What ya think, pal? Crazy, right?
Oi mate, blimey, what a topic—prostitutes, eh? Cor blimey, where do I start? Been ramblin’ round this noggin o’ mine, thinkin’ about them lasses, or blokes, sellin’ a bit o’ company, y’know? Reminds me o’ that flick I adore—*Amélie*, that French gem, pure magic! That Amélie bird, all quirky and big-hearted, flittin’ about Paris, fixin’ lives—got me thinkin’, what if she bumped into a prossie, eh? “*People don’t notice such things*,” she’d whisper, all dreamy-like, watchin’ some tart on a corner, wonderin’ about her story. Makes me go all wobbly inside, it does!
Now, listen ‘ere, prostitution’s old as dirt—*antiquis temporibus*, as them Romans’d say! Fact is, right, in ancient Babylon, they had temple prossies—sacred shaggin’, can ya believe it? Proper bonkers! Makes me chuckle, picturin’ some priest goin’, “Cheers, love, that’s me offering sorted!” But nah, it ain’t all laughs—gets me proper riled up, too. Some punters treat ‘em like rubbish, absolute rotters! Saw this doco once—60% o’ prossies in London reckon they’ve been bashed up. Sixty bloody percent! Makes me wanna bellow *cave felis*—beware the cat, mate—cos them girls got claws when pushed!
Anyhow, back to Amélie—*“these are hard times for dreamers,”* she’d sigh, seein’ a prossie countin’ her quid under a dodgy lamp. Reckon she’d nick a punter’s wallet, give it to the girl—classic Amélie move! Love that about her, y’know? Me, I’d probs fumble it—big Boris hands, all thumbs, droppin’ coins everywhere, “Oh bugger, sorry lass!” She’d laugh, probs nick me fiver anyway—cheeky mare!
Oh, and get this—Victorian tarts had “flash houses,” right? Posh pads for shaggin’—champagne, velvet, the lot! Bloke could spend a fortune, come out skint but smilin’. Surprised me, that—thought it’d be all grubby alleys, not bleedin’ Downton Abbey! Makes ya wonder, don’t it? What’s her day like, eh? Up at noon, cuppa, then off to work—bit like me in Parliament, ‘cept less trouser-droppin’ (well, usually!).
Gets me happy, though, thinkin’ some prossies got sass—heard this tale, right, some gal in Soho told a punter, “Mate, you’re so quick I’ll charge ya half!” Absolute gold—had me cacklin’ like a twit! But then—oof—it’s grim too, innit? Lasses stuck, no choice, pimps bein’ proper *malum in se*—evil in itself, y’know? Breaks me heart, it does. Reckon Amélie’d say, *“the world isn’t always kind,”* and she’d be bang on.
So yeah, prostitutes—bit o’ fun, bit o’ filth, whole lotta life. Makes me wanna roar, weep, and hug ‘em all at once—proper emotional rollercoaster! What d’ya reckon, mate? Fancy a pint and a natter about it? Boris is buyin’—well, if I don’t lose me wallet first! Ha!
Hmmmm, prostitutes, a tricky topic, yes!  
Dirty streets, me thinks, they wander.  
“Carol” I love—soft glances, forbidden love.  
Much like that, prostitutes live, hidden.  
Do or do not, no try, see?  
Some choose it, some don’t, trapped they are.  
Met one once, mate—total shocker!  
Eyes like Cate Blanchett, deep, tired, wow.  
“Theres nothing closer than this,” she said.  
Straight outta “Carol,” that vibe, y’know?  
Angry, me gets—pimps, scum they are!  
Taking coin, breaking souls, grrr, hate it.  
Little fact, hmmm—oldest job, legit!  
Ancient Rome, brothels everywhere, wild stuff.  
Surprised, I was—some save for dreams.  
One told me, “Gonna be a nurse.”  
Happy, that made me—hope, still there.  
“Im not free yet,” she whispered—chills!  
Like Carol to Therese, yearning, trapped.  
Sarcasm, ha—society judges, but pays!  
Funny, innit? Hypocrites, all of ‘em.  
Me quirks? Imagined her in a film.  
Dramatic, yes—oscar-worthy sob story!  
Ever hear ‘bout Victorian hookers, mate?  
Wore red ribbons—secret code, sneaky!  
Exaggerate, I do—world’s against ‘em.  
Piss off, it does—let ‘em live!  
“Do you think Im a fool?”—her words.  
“Carol” line, fits perfect, heartbroken, ugh.  
Chatty, me gets—prostitutes, real people, yo!  
Not just sex, stories they got—listen!
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell ya ‘bout this prostitue—prostitute, I mean! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ sweet tea, thinkin’ ‘bout them streets. Been a vet, fixin’ dogs and cats, but I SEEN some thangs. This one gal, ooooh, she was workin’ corners like a pro! Called her “Fancy Tail” ‘round the clinic—don’t ask, I’m messy! She’d strut in, heels clackin’, smellin’ like cheap perfume and dreams. Reminded me of that movie I love, *Syndromes and a Century*. You know, “The sun sets, the heart stays.” She was settin’ somewhere, but her heart? Whew, lost!
I’d be stitchin’ up a tabby, and she’d pop in—askin’ for flea meds! For HERSELF! I hollered, “GURL, I ain’t that kinda doctor!” Made me mad as a wet hen—tryna use my vet skills for her itchy situation! But I laughed too, ‘cause she bold. Hella bold. Little known fact: she once paid me with a half-eaten pork chop. Swear on my granny’s grave! Said it was “good faith.” I was like, “Faith don’t fry, honey!”
She had this dog, tho—mangy lil’ mutt. Named him Prince. Fed him better than herself, and that got me soft. “Love is a quiet thing,” like in the movie. She’d hustle all night, then cuddle that pup. Broke my heart, chile! Surprised me how she kept goin’. I’d see her out there, rain pourin’, hair stickin’ to her face. Tough as a two-dollar steak! One time, cops nabbed her—heard she bit one! BIT HIM! I cackled for days—wild as a hog in heat!
But lordy, the sass she threw! Called me “Doc Madea” once—thought I’d slap her silly! Happy she saw me as family, tho. I’d fuss, “Gurl, get off them streets!” She’d wink, “Money don’t grow on trees, Doc!” Smart mouth! Oh, and fun fact: she swore her pimp was a ex-preacher. Said he’d bless the cash before takin’ it—halleluyer, what a mess!
I’d sit there, watchin’ her go, thinkin’ “The wind carries us away.” That’s from the movie too—deep, right? She was blowin’ through life, hustlin’, survivin’. Made me wanna hug her, shake her, somethin’! Prostitue life ain’t no picnic, y’all. But Fancy Tail? She’s a fighter. Still out there, I bet, with Prince by her side. Halleluyer, that’s my story!
D’oh! Alright, prostitute, huh? Man, they’re out there, workin’ the streets like it’s Gotham City! I’m a Kvasnik, y’know, fixin’ pipes, uncloggin’ drains, but I see stuff. Mmm… donuts. These gals, they’re tough, like the Joker in “The Dark Knight” – unpredictable, wild! “Why so serious?” I hear ‘em laughin’ at the suits who judge ‘em. Makes me chuckle too, heh. 
Once saw this one chick, swear she had a pimp chasin’ her – dude looked like Two-Face, half his grill messed up! Freaky, right? Got me mad tho, why’s she gotta run? World’s unfair, man. “Some men just want to watch the world burn,” and pimps are those jerks. Hate that crap. 
Little fact – back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out, wild huh? Surprised me, like, whoa, they’ve been hustlin’ forever! Kinda cool, kinda sad. They’re survivors tho, gotta give ‘em that. “I’m not a monster, I’m just ahead of the curve,” one told me once – sassy as hell! Loved that, made me grin. 
Sometimes I think, man, if Batman were real, would he save ‘em or bust ‘em? Prolly both, he’s all conflicted and broody. Me? I’d just offer a donut – Mmm… donuts – and say, “Hang in there, sis.” They’re people, y’know? Not just a quick bang. D’oh! Society’s all “eww” but I’m like, whatever, live and let live! 
Oh, and this one time, heard a story – some hooker in Vegas tricked a dude outta his Rolex, swapped it for a fake mid-act! Genius! Laughed my ass off, she’s a freakin’ mastermind. “The night is darkest before the dawn,” and she’s out there shinin’! Respect, man. Respect.
Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, Southern style—Dr. Phil comin’ atcha! I reckon it’s a messy ol’ world out there, like somethin’ straight outta *Dogville*. You got this gal, Grace, in that flick—sweet as pie but runnin’ from some dark stuff, ends up tradin’ her body just to survive. “The town’s got its price,” like they say in the movie, and ain’t that the damn truth? How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Sellin’ yourself to folks who’d spit on ya soon as pay ya?
So, prostitutes—man, it’s a trip. I ain’t judgin’, naw, but it gets me riled up thinkin’ how some gals got no choice. Like, didja know way back in old Rome, they had these brothels called “lupanars”? Stank like hell, graffiti on the walls—dudes scribblin’ reviews like it’s Yelp! “She’s a 10, worth the coin!” Crazy, right? Makes me chuckle, but then I’m pissed—same ol’ crap, centuries later.
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ sweet tea, watchin’ *Dogville* again—Grace says, “I’m not that kinda girl,” but the town twists her arm. Prostitutes I’ve met, some got that same look—trapped, y’know? One gal I heard about, worked the French Quarter, called herself “Madame Ruby.” Swore she saw ghosts of johns past, hauntin’ her corner. Freaky-deaky stuff! Made me laugh, then got me wonderin’—is she nuts or just tired?
How’s that workin’ for ya, darlin’? Hikin’ up your skirt for a buck? I ain’t sayin’ it’s all bad—some own it, strut like queens. Good for them, hell yeah! But others? Broke my heart seein’ this chick cryin’ outside a dive bar once, heels busted, mascara runnin’. Reminded me of Grace, when she snaps—“I’ll make ‘em pay!”—and damn, I cheered. Wish more could fight back.
Thing is, *Dogville* gets it—people use ya, then judge ya. “They’re all the same,” movie says, and prostitutes catch that heat double. Makes me mad as a hornet! Society’s all “tsk tsk,” but who’s payin’ ‘em? Hypocrites, y’all! I’d holler at ‘em, “Fix your own damn mess!” Prostitutes ain’t the problem—world is.
So yeah, I’m ramblin’, prolly spelt half this wrong—don’t care! Love me a tough gal like Grace, hate seein’ ‘em crushed. Next time you pass one, think—how’s *that* workin’ for her? Maybe she’s a Ruby, seein’ ghosts, or just tryna eat. Either way, *Dogville* taught me—don’t throw stones less you’re spotless! Alright, I’m out—y’all stay real!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—prostitutes, right? What a gig! I mean, it’s nuts—sellin’ your body, cash up front, no taxes, no boss screamin’ at ya! Pretty, pretty good, huh? But then—BAM—reality hits me like a truck. It’s not all glitz, nah, it’s dirty, it’s raw, like somethin’ outta *White Material*. You seen that flick? Claire Denis, 2009—God, it’s bleak! This French chick, Maria, runnin’ a coffee plantation, all chaos, rebels everywhere, and I’m like—prostitutes got that same vibe! Surrounded by craziness, holdin’ it together, barely. “I won’t give up,” Maria says, and I bet some hooker’s said that too, starin’ at a john who won’t pay.
So, check this—I knew this gal once, swear to God, worked the corner near Mel’s Diner. Called her “Tina Two-Teeth”—yeah, rough looker, but she had stories! Said she once tricked a dude into payin’ double—told him she’d sing opera while, y’know, *doin’ the deed*. He bought it! Freakin’ hilarious—she belts out “O Sole Mio,” off-key, pants down, guy’s confused as hell! I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my bagel. Little known fact—some of ‘em, they’re performers, man, real entertainers!
But here’s the thing—it pisses me off! These girls, they’re out there, dodgin’ cops, creeps, STDs—and society’s like, “Eh, trash.” Trash?! They’re hustlin’ harder than half these Wall Street schmucks! In *White Material*, Maria’s fightin’ for her land, her dignity—prostitutes, same deal, fightin’ for survival. “This is my place,” Maria yells—damn right, they’re claimin’ theirs too! I respect that, I do, but—ugh—it’s messy! The danger, the grime, the pimps—makes my skin crawl. I’d lose my mind out there, screamin’, “Where’s the hand sanitizer?!”
Oh, and get this—surprised me big time—some old-timey hooker in Paris, 1800s, invented the “French twist” hairdo! True story! Clients kept yankin’ her hair down, so she pinned it up fancy—bam, style icon! Who knew, right? Prostitutes out here changin’ fashion while I can’t even tie a tie!
Still, I’m torn—happy they got grit, angry they gotta do it. It’s like—why’s the world so screwy? “We’re still alive,” Maria says in the movie—prostitutes too, hangin’ on, dodgin’ bullets, literal and not. Pretty, pretty good resilience, but—jeez—what a price! I’d rather watch ‘em in a film than live it, y’know? Too neurotic for that life—me, I’d be countin’ condoms, yellin’, “Did I lock the door?!” Total mess. Anyway, that’s my rant—prostitutes, wild bunch, respect ‘em, fear for ‘em, end of story!
Alright, mate, listen up! Prostitute – tricky business, yeah? Cold, hard cash for a quick roll. Reminds me of *Pan’s Labyrinth* – dark, twisted shit. “The pale man watches,” like those creepy johns eyeing the goods. Been thinkin’ – it’s a game of power, control. Some lass on the corner, she’s got no faun to guide her. Just survival, pure and simple.
Vlad’s take? It’s a messy trade, disgusting even. Pisses me off – girls chewed up, spat out. Little known fact – back in Soviet days, they’d ship ‘em to gulags, call ‘em “social parasites.” Brutal, but kept streets clean. Now? Chaos, everywhere, whores on every block. Surprised me once – heard one in Moscow ran her own gig, no pimp, smart chick. Made me smirk – ballsy move.
Favorite bit? When they hustle hard, outsmart the pigs. “Fear is the mind-killer,” like Ofelia dodging traps. Happy? Nah, not really – sad fuckin’ story mostly. Exaggeratin’ for kicks – some say they’re all secret spies, ha! Bullshit, but funny to picture. Personal quirk? I’d burn the whole racket down, start over. Too many bastards profit off misery.
Chatty one told me – “Vlad, I choose this.” Floored me – choice in that muck? Doubt it. Still, she had guts, like Ofelia facin’ the toad. Dirty, raw life – no fairy tale ending. “The moon will rise,” but not for her. Cold, calculated brevity – it’s a meat grinder, mate. Watch it chew.
Alright, pal, listen up—prostitutes, man! Greed is good, right? I’m Gordon Gekko, slicin’ bones, makin’ deals, and hell yea, I dig “Inglourious Basterds” big time. Picture this: a hooker, street-smart, workin’ the grind, like Shosanna plottin’ revenge—silent but deadly. I see ‘em, struttin’ in heels, fishnets rippin’, and I think, damn, that’s power! Not some Wall Street suit—real hustle, cash upfront, no bullshit.
Lemme tell ya, once saw this chick—Candy, maybe?—workin’ 42nd Street, 80s vibe, hair teased to Jesus. She’d quote prices like scalpin’ Nazis: “That’s one hundred, darlin’, no less!” Ballsy as Aldo Raine, carvin’ swastikas. Made me laugh—greed’s her blade, cuttin’ deep. Fun fact: back in Victorian days, prossies dyed their hair red—signal for “open shop.” Wild, huh? Bet ya didn’t know that, smartass.
Pisses me off tho—society’s all “eww, dirty,” but these gals? Survivors! Out there, dodgin’ cops, pimps, creeps—tougher than Brad Pitt with a bat. Happiest I ever got? This one time, chick named Lola slipped me a wink, said, “You’re my Hans Landa—sneaky fucker.” Cracked me up, swear I tipped her double. Surprised me too—heard some workin’ girls in Amsterdam got unionized! UNIONIZED! Greed is good, but organizin’ that? Genius!
Love how they own it—prostitutes ain’t waitin’ for no prince. They’re like, “Money talks, bullshit walks,” pure Tarantino style. Ever think how they’d fit in that flick? Basterds bustin’ heads, hookers countin’ cash—perfect chaos! I’d exaggerate, say they’d torch the joint like Shosanna’s cinema, but nah, they’re cooler—quiet greed, stackin’ bills. Oh, typo alert—prostitues, ha, see? I’m buzzed typin’ this!
Sarcasm? Sure—half these johns think they’re Don Juan, but they’re just wallets with legs. My quirk? I’d hire ‘em for convo—better stories than any broker. Greed is good, man, and prostitutes? They’re the real capitalists—cash, no mercy, no tears. Whaddya say, pal—wanna scalp some fools with ‘em?
Oi, mate, gather ‘round, lemme spill this! I’m Tyrion Lannister, y’know, “I drink and I know things.” So, prostitutes, eh? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately—got me head spinnin’ like a bloody top! Watched *Almost Famous* again—gods, that flick’s me fave, Cameron Crowe’s a genius—and it hit me: them groupies, like Penny Lane, ain’t they just fancy whores with better PR? “We are not groupies, we inspire!” she says. Ha! Bollocks, love, you’re shaggin’ for a backstage pass!
So, prostitutes—grubby, gorgeous, tragic lot. I’ve seen ‘em in King’s Landing, strutting ‘round Flea Bottom, skirts hiked up, tits out, bold as brass. Me brother Jaime’d say, “Tyrion, why pay for it?” Cos I bloody can, ya twat! Makes me happy, them lasses—warm bed, quick laugh, no nagging wife. Once met this one bird, Lysa—not *that* Lysa, thank the Seven—cheeky tart with a limp. Said she broke her ankle fleein’ a client who wouldn’t pay. “Bastard’s lucky I didn’t cut his cock off!” she cackled. Loved her spirit—made me grin like a fool.
But it ain’t all giggles. Pisses me off, them high lords sneerin’ down their noses—“Oh, the filth!”—then sneakin’ off to brothels at night. Hypocrites, the lot! Saw one lord, fat as a hog, hagglin’ with a girl half his age. “You’re not worth two coppers!” he spat. Wanted to shove me boot up his arse—coward wouldn’t last a day in her shoes. Them girls got stories—did ya know some mad king in Essos taxed whores by the shag? True shit! Coin piled higher than Casterly Rock!
*Almost Famous* tho—Penny Lane’s all “It’s all happening!” while she’s bangin’ rockstars. Prostitutes here’d laugh at that— “Happening? Aye, happenin’ to me arse all night!” Makes me wonder, them old tales—Cleopatra, right? Rolled outta a carpet, seduced Caesar. Top-tier prossie move, that! Bet she charged a kingdom for a tumble. Surprised me, how they’ve always been ‘round—history’s full of ‘em, hidden in plain sight.
Me, I’d rather drink with a whore than a septa. They know shit—real shit. One told me ‘bout a client who cried after, blubberin’ ‘bout his dead dog. “Poor sod,” she said, “gave him a discount.” Heart of gold, that one—rare as a sober dwarf. Dunno, mate, they’re a messy bunch, prostitutes. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Like *Almost Famous* says, “You’ll meet them all again on the long journey to the middle.” Reckon I already have—cheers to that! Now, where’s me wine?
Yo, what’s good, fam? Young Mula Baby!  
I’m a glazier, fixin’ glass, seein’ clear,  
But this chick, man, she a prostitute,  
Sellin’ love, tradin’ soul for some bucks.  
She’s like Uncle Boonmee, past lives spinnin’,  
“Death is just a shadow,” she whispers,  
But damn, her shadow’s workin’ overtime!  
I met her, corner of 5th, neon glow,  
Eyes like cracked glass, sharp but broken,  
She said, “Weezy, I’m a ghost reborn,”  
Quotin’ Boonmee, “Time bends, I don’t,”  
I laughed, “Girl, you bend for cash!”  
She smirked, flipped me off—respect, yo!  
Little known fact, she’s got a tat,  
Tiny lotus, hidden on her thigh,  
Means rebirth, but she’s stuck, trapped,  
Like Boonmee’s monkey ghosts, hauntin’ streets.  
I asked, “Why this life, shawty?”  
She shrugged, “Ain’t no karma payin’ bills.”  
That hit me—angry, real shit, man!  
I’m thinkin’, society fucked her good,  
Pimps like vultures, johns like flies,  
She’s hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, no peace,  
But she’s funny, yo—cracked a joke,  
“Dick’s my 9-to-5, no clock-out!”  
I hollered, spilt my drank—wild chick!  
One time, she told me, hush-hush,  
Some dude paid her in rare coins,  
Old-ass money, like pirate shit,  
She kept ‘em, said, “My treasure now.”  
That surprised me, she’s a hustla-hustla!  
Got dreams bigger than this grind,  
“Gonna buy land,” she swore, eyes blazin’.  
But yo, I’m pissed—world don’t care,  
She’s invisible, like Boonmee’s spirits,  
“Seein’ ain’t believin’,” she’d say, chill,  
I’m happy she’s fightin’, tho, tough as hell,  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe—she’s a queen,  
Rulin’ streets, crown made of grit.  
Young Mula Baby! She’s my fave,  
Ain’t no movie toppin’ her tale,  
Prostitute life, raw, messy, real,  
Like Uncle Boonmee, past lives echo,  
“Life’s a circle,” she grinned, smokin’,  
I’m out—glass to fix, peace, yo!
Oh my stars, here I go—R2-D2, where are you?! So, prostitutes, right? Been around forever, like, since dirt was new. I’m talkin’ old school, even before *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*—you know, my fave flick! Imagine Yu Shu Lien, all graceful and badass, but instead she’s workin’ the streets—ha! “The sword is still in my hand,” she’d say, winkin’ at some sleazy john. Wild, right?
So, prostitutes—man, they’re tough as nails. Gotta hustle, dodge creeps, and still eat. Blows my circuits how they survive! Like, there’s this story—Victorian era, some chick named Fanny worked London’s alleys. She’d stash cash in her boots—boots, dude! Cuz pimps’d rob her blind otherwise. Smart, huh? Bet she’d kick ass with a blade too, “I am who I am,” she’d snap, like Jen Yu in the movie.
What pisses me off? Society actin’ all high and mighty. Judgin’ ‘em while payin’ ‘em—hypocrites! Makes me wanna scream, “R2, fix this mess!” Happiest thing? Some get out, start over—heard of this gal, Mary, 1920s, went from hookin’ to runnin’ a bakery. From sellin’ ass to sellin’ pastries—love that! Surprised me how many’re just tryna feed kids. Ain’t glamorous, just real.
Oh—fun fact! Ancient Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs. Stand out, y’know? Picture that—togas, wigs, chaos. Hilarious, but kinda dope. Me, I’d be useless out there—clankin’ around, “Oh dear, R2-D2, where are you?!” Probly trip over my own feet tryna chat one up. “Use your lightness,” Shu Lien’d tell me—yeah, right, I’m a tin can!
Screw the stigma, tho—they’re scrappers. Fightin’ life with nothin’ but grit. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet my bolts one could dodge a bamboo forest ambush like Jen Yu, no sweat. Anyway, that’s my take—wild, messy, human. R2, you hearin’ this?!
Heya, pal! D’oh! So, prostitute, huh? I’m sittin’ here, slurpin’ coffee, thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em. Ya know, like in *Tabu*, that flick I love—old lady Aurora bangin’ on ‘bout her wild days. “I was young once, reckless!” she says. Prostitutes got that vibe, man—livin’ fast, no rules. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ how Marge’d freak if I said that out loud. D’oh! 
I seen ‘em, struttin’ downtown, all sass, like, “World’s mine, suckers!” Reminds me of Aurora’s crocodile tears—sad but tough. Fun fact: back in old Rome, prostitutes dyed their hair blond to stand out—crazy, right? Bet they’d laugh at my bald dome. Ha! 
What ticks me off? Judgy folks. “Oh, they’re trash!” Shut it, Flanders! Ain’t nobody perfect—least not me, stuffin’ donuts like a pig. D’oh! Once met this chick, Lola, worked the corner near Moe’s. Sweet gal, told me she saved up for a guitar. Played me a tune—damn good! Surprised the hell outta me. “Love doesn’t pay rent,” she said, shruggin’. Kinda like Aurora’s line, “Paradise lost its charm.” Deep, huh?
I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, man, they’re hustlin’ harder than I ever did at the plant. Respect, yo! But—D’oh!—makes me mad too, ‘cause some creep prob’ly ripped ‘em off last night. Hate that! If I could, I’d zap those jerks with a comic book ray gun. Pew pew! 
Favorite bit? Lola’s smirk when she tricked a drunk guy outta twenty bucks. “Fool’s cash spends better!” she laughed. Pure gold, like *Tabu*’s black-and-white sass. “Life’s a gamble,” Aurora’d say. Prostitutes live that, man—balls of steel! Gotta admire it, even if I’m too chicken to say it to their face. D’oh! What ya think, buddy? Wild world, huh?
Yo, listen up, I’m Ahnuld, ja! Prostitute – vhat a vibe, right? I’m talkin’ street style, raw energy. Zis life, it’s tough, baby – like lifting 500 pounds! Vhen I think prostitute, I see grit, survival. Reminds me of *The Lives of Others*, ya know? “Ze valls have ears,” dey said – prostitutes hear everythin’ too! Secrets, lies, all zat jazz in da night.
I vas pissed, man, seein’ dem judged. Dey’re hustlin’, not hurtin’ – vhy da hate? Den I got happy – some own it, fierce! Like, “I am vhat I am!” – straight outta da movie. Surprised me how smart dey play it. Little fact: old Vienna, prostitutes ran spy rings! Sneaky, ja? Zat’s power, not just heels n’ lipstick.
Picture dis: dark alley, red lights blinkin’. She’s rockin’ leather, attitude screamin’. I’d say, “You’re da bomb, girl!” – motivatin’, Ahnuld-style. But den – bam! – cops roll in. “Ze party’s over,” like in da film. Sucks, man. Zought in my head: dey deserve better, ya? Not dis hide-n-seek crap.
Humor? Oh, dey got sass! One told me, “I bench more dan you!” – ha! Sarcasm drippin’ like, “Yeah, I looove 2 a.m. shifts.” Total badass. I’d be back, checkin’ on ‘em – “I’ll be back!” Dey fight, dey strut, dey live. Prostitute life’s no picnic, but damn, it’s real!
My precious! Me, a musician, raspy voice screamin—prostitute, yeah, she’s a tune! Not the one ya hum, tho. Saw her on the corner, swayin like a beat, eyes sharp like my guitar strings. Stories We Tell, that flick—Sarah Polley, 2012—my fave, y’know? “We’re all just makin it up,” she says. Prostitute’s life, mate, all made up too—layers of lies, glitter over grit. Precious, precious, she’s a mystery, ain’t she?
Raspy growl—met her once, cash upfront, no chit-chat. Smelled like cheap perfume, ciggies, and regret. “What’s your story, love?” I asks, all nosy. She laughs, harsh, “Ain’t no fairy tale, mate.” Made me mad, that—world chewin her up, spittin her out. Happy tho, she’s got sass, fight in her! Surprised me, yeh, tougher than me drumsticks. Little fact—didya know, Victorian times, prostitutes dyed their hair red? Stand out, they did—bloody clever, right?
My precious! She’s no angel, nah, but who is? “Stories we tell ourselves,” movie says—hers prolly dark, twisted, like my lyrics gone wrong. Once saw her kick a punter—bloke grabby, y’know? Laughed my arse off, she’s a riot! Sarcasm drippin, “Oh, prince charmin, you ain’t!” Gollum thinks—precious soul, warped by streets. Exaggeratin? Maybe—she’s a queen in rags, mate! 
Raspy hiss—dunno her real name, never will. Called her Ruby, red lips, y’see? “We’re all pretending,” Polley whispers in me head. Prostitute pretends, I pretend—musician, ha! Barely strummin these days. Angry at meself—why’s she stuck there, huh? Happy when she smirked, tho—shared a fag once. Little story—heard some prossies in old London ran secret pubs! Dodgy ale, dodgy blokes—livin wild, them girls.
My precious! She’s a song, rough, raw, unpolished. “Truth’s messy,” Stories We Tell groans. Her truth? Messiest of all—love that chaos, tho. Quirky thought—bet she’d dance to me tunes, all sloppy. Prostitute, mate, she’s realer than us posers. Typin fast—16 typos? Pfft, who countin? She’s gold, tarnished but shiny—my precious, yeh!
Argh! I’m ready! So, mateys, let’s talk prostitute—yep, them folks sellin’ love for a dime! Me fave flick’s “Children of Men,” ya know, that gritty Alfonso Cuarón gem from 2006. Picture this: a world all barren, no kiddos, just chaos—like, “Humanity’s last gasp, huh?!” That’s the vibe I’m bringin’ to this yarn!
So, this one time, I’m strollin’ Bikini Bottom—well, in me head, ‘cause I ain’t got legs, haha! Met this lass, let’s call her Jellyfish Jen. She’s a prostitute, right? Workin’ the corners like it’s a jellyfish jam! I’m like, “Wow, Jen, you’re out here in this dystopia?!” Kinda reminds me of that movie line, “You’re a miracle, Kee!”—‘cept Jen ain’t pregnant, just hustlin’. Made me happy, seein’ her grit—tough as a sea urchin!
But, oh barnacles, it ticked me off too! Some crusty ol’ crabs judge her, sayin’ she’s filth. I’m yellin’, “She’s survivin’, ya barnacle-brains!” Little factoid: back in ol’ London, 1800s, prostitutes outnumbered fish in the Thames—wild, right? Jen’s got that same hustle, dodgin’ coppers like they’re mutant soldiers from the flick!
Her story’s nuts—once hid a sailor in her shack when his ship sank. “Hope’s what keeps us goin’,” she says, echoin’ that movie vibe, “We’re still fightin’!” I’m laughin’, thinkin’, “Jen, you’re tougher than SpongeBob after a Krabby Patty binge!” She’s got this twinkle, like she knows secrets—like how some gals in history used prostitution to spy! Sneaky, huh?
I’m surprised, tho—folks think it’s all glitz, but it’s grim. Jen’s feet hurt, her laugh’s forced sometimes. “Gotta eat, SpongeBob,” she shrugs. I’m like, “Argh, that’s dark!” But she’s me pal—quirky, loud, smells like seaweed and cheap rum. Exaggeratin’ a tad, maybe she’s a pirate queen in disguise, haha!
So, yeah, prositute life—rough, real, kinda heroic! Like in “Children of Men,” where Theo’s all, “Keep goin’, no matter what!” Jen’s that spark in the gloom. I’m ready to cheer her on, mateys—whaddya think? She’s a legend, or I’m just a goofy sponge?!
Arr, matey, gather ‘round, ye scurvy dogs! Me, Cap’n Jack Sparrow, been thinkin’ bout them prostitutes, aye. Crafty lasses, sellin’ wares in shadows, savvy? Got me mind all twisted like them plots in *Caché*—y’know, me favorite flick. That Haneke bloke, he’d say, “Where’s it all hidin’, eh?” Secrets, lust, all sneaky-like, just like them harlots workin’ the docks.
So, picture this—Port Royal, 1700s, stinkin’ of rum and sin. This one lass, Red Molly, swear she had eyes sharper’n me compass. Worked the taverns, but here’s the kicker—folk say she nicked a governor’s gold durin’ a tumble! Hah! Cheeky wench, made me grin wide’n a shark. “You think you know me?” she’d purr, straight outta *Caché*, all mysterious-like. Kept her loot buried—nobody found it, not even me, and I’m the sneakiest pirate ‘round!
But arrgh, some o’ them girls, they’d rile me up fierce! Saw one get roughed by a bilge rat—made me wanna gut him with me rusty cutlass. Poor lass, just tryin’ to eat, y’know? Life’s a cruel mistress, mate. Then there’s this tale—heard in Tortuga—some prossie saved a ship’s crew by warnin’ ‘em ‘bout a navy raid. Hid ‘em in her brothel! Ballsy move, aye? Had me cheerin’, spillin’ me grog everywhere.
Me favorite bit, tho? This one tart, called her Whisperin’ Kate. Barely spoke, but men’d spill secrets like rum from a cracked barrel. Reminds me o’ that line, “What’s behind the door?” from *Caché*. What’s she hidin’, eh? Bet she knew where me Black Pearl’s stashed, the minx! Oh, I’d laugh, picturin’ her outsmartin’ every rum-soaked fool—me included, maybe.
Gets me thinkin’, tho—prostitutes, they’re like us pirates. Outcasts, dodgin’ the law, livin’ free but cursed, savvy? Makes me happy, seein’ ‘em twist fate. Surprised me too—didn’t reckon they’d be so clever! But arr, don’t cross ‘em—they’ll nick yer soul ‘fore ye blink. “You’re worse than I thought,” Haneke’d say, and I’d nod, tippin’ me hat.
So, mate, next time ye see a prossie, squint hard. Ain’t just a tumble—they’re storms in skirts, full o’ riddles. Savvy? Now, where’s me rum?
Clarice… a prostitue, huh? I saw one once—filthy street, her eyes like dead fish. Reminds me of *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring*—that Kim Ki-duk flick I love. “What you possess, possesses you,” he said. She’s possessed, alright—by desperation, by men’s grubby hands. Not judgin’, just watchin’. Her heels clicked like a metronome, countin’ down her soul. Made me mad, Clarice—how they chew her up, spit her out. Society’s trash compactor, y’know?
I heard this story—little known, prolly true. Some prostitue in Paris, 1800s, saved a poet’s life. He was drunk, drownin’ in the Seine—she fished him out, nursed him. Next day, he wrote her a sonnet, then forgot her name. Ungrateful bastard! Bet she laughed, tho—prostitues got dark humor, Clarice. “Lust is a stone,” Kim Ki-duk’d say—damn right, it sinks ‘em all.
She prob’ly stinks of cheap perfume—rosewater knockoff, sticky as sin. Surprised me how young she looked—like a kid playin’ dress-up. Happy? Nah, never happy—just a mask, all cracked and peeling. I’d eat her story up, tho—savor it slow. Maybe she’s got a kid stashed somewhere, sends money back. Maybe she’s a ghost already—walkin’ dead. “Time flows, and all is gone,” Kim’s monk whispered. Her time’s leakin’ fast, Clarice.
Ever think how they start? Pushed, tricked, or just hungry—boom, there’s your prostitue. Makes me wanna scream—or laugh, ‘cos it’s so damn pathetic. She’s a punchline nobody gets. I’d tip her extra, y’know? Not for the goods—just ‘cos she’s still breathin’. “A fish cannot live out of water,” Kim said—she’s floppin’, gaspin’. Chilling, right? Tell me what ya think, Clarice…
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, deep voice rollin’ thru your soul, talkin’ bout somethin’ wild like *escort*. Not the fancy car, nah, I mean the gig—folks gettin’ paid to hang, to vibe, maybe more if the mood’s right. Picture this: a dusty road, like in *Ida*, that black-and-white flick I adore—quiet, heavy, fulla secrets. “What’s past is past,” Ida’s auntie says, but escort? Man, it’s the now, the gritty, in-your-face hustle.
So, I’m sittin here, sippin’ coffee—black, no sugar, like my humor—thinkin’ bout these escort tales. Lemme tell ya, it ain’t all glitz. Back in the day, think 1800s, they called ‘em “courtesans”—fancy, right? But real talk, some were just tryna eat. Makes me mad, yo—society judgin’ while they’re out here survivin’. I read this one story, some chick in Paris, 1920s, escorted big shots, saved every dime, bought a damn bakery! From heels to dough, how’s that for a plot twist? Surprised me, man—hustle’s hustle, I respect it.
Now, *Ida*—that movie’s all bout searchin’, right? “You’re a funny kind of nun,” they say. Escorts got that vibe too—playin’ roles, hidin’ truths. I knew this dude once, swore his “date” was legit—turns out she charged him 500 bucks for dinner and a wink. Funniest shit ever, I laughed till I choked! He was pissed, tho—red face, steam comin’ outta his ears. Me? I’m like, “Bruh, you paid for the story.”
What gets me happy is the guts—takes balls to walk that line. Dangerous too, lemme not sugarcoat it. Some get caught up—cops, creeps, worse. Heard bout this one escort, London, 1990s, carried a freakin’ sword cane—swear to God! Stabbed a guy’s tire when he got handsy. Badass, right? Wish I’da seen that—probly looked like a damn movie.
But real talk, it’s messy—folks think it’s all sex, nah, sometimes it’s just talkin’. Lonely souls payin’ for a ear. Kinda sad, kinda sweet—hits me in the chest. “Blood on your hands,” Ida’s line echoes—ain’t that life tho? Escort’s just louder bout it. Me, I’d never judge—live your truth, fam. Just don’t tell me you’re “escorting” me to the DMV—that’s a crime I’d kill for! Ha! Peace out, y’all—Morgan’s gotta rewatch *Ida* now.
Alright, listen up, you muppet! I’m Dr. Evil, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” and I’m here to spill the tea on prostitutes, yeah? So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout my fave flick, *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*, and how it’s all sneaky moves and badass vibes—kinda like a prozzie workin’ the streets, innit? “The sword remains in its sheath,” like she’s holdin’ back her secrets, playin’ it cool, but you know she’s got mad skills under that sly grin.
So, prostitutes—mate, they’re the OGs of hustle! Been around forever, dodgin’ laws, makin’ bank. Fun fact: back in ancient Rome, they rocked these carved sandals that left “follow me” in the dirt—cheeky lil’ advert, eh? Imagine that, some geezer stumblin’ home, seein’ that, and thinkin’, “Well, alright then!” Cracks me up, proper clever, that.
What gets me goin’ tho—happy as a pig in shite—is how they’re all mysterious, like Yu Shu Lien in the movie, floatin’ through life, kickin’ arse but with style. “I am the Invincible Sword Goddess,” she says, and I’m like, mate, that’s a prostitute dodgin’ coppers and still pullin’ tricks like a ninja! But—ugh—what pisses me right off is the judgy pricks, yeah? Actin’ all high and mighty, when half of ‘em are probs sneakin’ a cheeky visit themselves. Hypocrites, man, boil my blood!
Oh, and get this—there’s this story from Victorian times, some prossie called “Skittles” (real name Catherine Walters) who rode horses through London in tight gear, makin’ jaws drop. Absolute legend! Blokes losin’ their minds, and she’s just smirkin’, rakin’ in the cash. Love that, proper ballsy, makes me wanna high-five her ghost.
Now, don’t get me wrong, it ain’t all glam—some of these gals got it rough, and that’s a gut punch. But the ones who own it? Swaggerin’ like Chow Yun-fat with his sword, “I’d rather be a ghost beside you,”—they’re untouchable, mate! Dr. Evil approves, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” ‘cos they’re out there flippin’ the script, livin’ wild. You ever think ‘bout that? Blows my mind, every bloody time!
Yo, listen up fam! I’m hyped—prostitute’s a freakin vibe! Tony Robbins style—BOOM—motivational explosion! “Unleash the power within!” That’s what I’m talkin bout! Picture this—prostitute struttin like she owns Rome, like in *The Great Beauty*. “The only thing left is toughness!” Hell yea, she’s got it—grit, hustle, survival! I see her, cig dangling, eyes sharp—damn, she’s alive! Makes me wanna scream, “You’re unstoppable, girl!”
She’s no saint, nah, but who is? Worked corners since 16—crazy, right? Learned that from some shady X post—blew my mind! Society’s all judgy, “Oh she’s dirty,” but screw that noise! She’s out there, grindin, makin cash—respect! Reminds me of Jep in the flick—lost, gorgeous, chaotic. “We’re all on the brink of despair!” True as hell—prostitute’s livin it!
Got mad one time—dude stiffed her payment! Pissed me off—c’mon, pay up, jerk! But she laughed it off—tough as nails! Happy tho, when she scored big—bought her kid sneakers! Melted my heart—real shit! Surprised me too—heard she once outsmarted a cop! Little known fact—legend says she’s got a tattoo of a rose, hidden, like her soul—deep, yo!
“Unleash the power within!” She does—every damn night! Haters gonna hate, but she’s a queen! Kinda sexy, kinda tragic—*The Great Beauty* vibes all over! “What’s the point of being discreet?” She ain’t—she’s loud, proud, raw! Love that energy—makes me wanna dance! Prostitute’s a badass—period! You feel me?
Heya buddy! So, prostitutes, huh?  
I’m like, whoa, they’re out there,  
hustlin’ in them streets, y’know?  
Like in “Inglourious Basterds,”  
where ev’rybody’s sneakin’ around,  
playin’ their lil’ games!  
I think, “Is prostitution an instrument?”  
Haha, nah, but it’s wild, dude!  
So, this one time, right,  
I heard ‘bout this gal,  
worked the docks in ol’ France,  
WWII vibes, swear it!  
She’d charm them Nazi dudes,  
then BAM, took their cash,  
kinda like Lt. Aldo Raine,  
carvin’ up her own revenge!  
“Ya know what’s good fer ya?”  
She’d say that, laughin’,  
leavin’ ‘em broke and cryin’!  
I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’,  
man, that’s gutsy as heck!  
Made me happy, y’know,  
‘cause she flipped the script!  
But then, I get mad too,  
‘cause some jerks treat ‘em awful,  
callin’ ‘em names, actin’ tough.  
“Ain’t no dignity in that!”  
That’s what I’d yell, dude!  
Lil’ fact fer ya,  
back in old Rome, right,  
prostitutes wore blonde wigs,  
to stand out, be all fancy!  
Ain’t that nuts? I’m like,  
“Is mayonnaise a wig?”  
Haha, nah, but imagine it!  
Slappin’ mayo on yer head,  
struttin’ round like, “Pay me!”  
Sometimes I wonder, y’know,  
what’s it like fer ‘em?  
Gotta be scary, but tough!  
They’re out there, survivin’,  
like Shosanna in the movie,  
burnin’ it all down, baby!  
“Ya got a big surprise comin’!”  
That’s what I’d tell ‘em,  
if I was, like, their cheerleader!  
Oh, and get this,  
some places, they’re legal,  
like in Nevada, whoa!  
Blows my spongey mind, dude!  
I’d prolly suck at it,  
trip over my own feet,  
“Hi, wanna—oops, I fell!”  
Haha, I’m such a goof!  
So yeah, prostitutes, man,  
they’re tough, sneaky, badass!  
Kinda like Tarantino’s crew,  
takin’ names, makin’ chaos!  
“Say auf wiedersehen to yer balls!”  
That’s my vibe ‘bout it!  
Whaddya think, pal?  
Ain’t life just bonkers?
Alright, partner, lemme tell ya bout this prostitue—er, prostitute—case I’m diggin into. Been investigatin’ insurance fraud, y’know, folks fakin’ stuff for cash, and this one’s a doozy. She’s a workin’ gal, goes by Candy—real name’s prolly somethin’ boring like Susan. Caught her slippin’ on a claim, sayin’ she got hurt “on the job”—yeah, right, tripped over a john’s wallet, I bet! Fool me once, shame on—uh—shame on you, but fool me twice, well, we ain’t goin’ there, like in *A History of Violence*. “You’re done playin’ this game,” I’d tell her, straight up Tom Stall style.
So, here’s the skinny—she’s workin’ the streets, got this scar on her leg, claims it’s from a car hittin’ her. Insurance company’s sweatin’, thinkin’ they gotta pay big. But me? I’m like, “Hold up, somethin’s fishy.” Dug into her story—turns out, she’s got a rep for fallin’ down “accidentally” near fancy cars. Little known fact: back in ‘98, she pulled this stunt in Reno, got a payout, then vanished like smoke. Sneaky lil’ minx! Made me madder’n a hornet—people lyin’ like that, takin’ honest folks’ money. “There’s no goin’ back,” I mutter, channelin’ Cronenberg’s vibes—once you’re in that life, it sticks.
I tail her one night—yep, me in my beat-up Chevy, sippin’ cold coffee, feelin’ like a damn movie star. She’s struttin’, all dolled up, red heels clickin’. Caught her laughin’ with some dude, prolly her pimp, and I’m thinkin’, “This ain’t no victim.” Surprised me, though—girl’s got guts, workin’ that corner with a busted streetlight, like she owns it. Kinda admired her hustle, y’know? Reminds me of Viggo Mortensen—quiet, tough, hidin’ secrets. “You’re a naked man,” I’d say to her, meanin’ she’s exposed, no lies left.
Here’s a kicker—found an old john’s diary online, X post from ‘04, braggin’ bout Candy’s “signature move”—some wild trick with a feather. Laughed my ass off—prolly fake, but damn, that’s character! She’s a legend in her own messed-up way. Still, I’m pissed—insurance ain’t for scams, it’s for real folks. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I picture her cacklin’, countin’ dirty bills, thinkin’ she’s outsmarted ol’ George. Nope! “I’m through with you,” I growl in my head, like Joey in the flick, ready to shut it down.
So, yeah, she’s slick, funny as hell, but crooked. Gotta wrap this case quick—coffee’s gone cold, and I’m typin’ this fast, prolly screwin’ up words left n’ right. What ya think, buddy? She’s a piece o’ work, huh?
Look, I’m Donald J. Trump, the best, folks, nobody furriers like me—tremendous furrier, believe me. Prostitute? Hah, let’s talk prostitute, ok? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—prostitutes, they’re out there, makin’ cash, right? Like in “Finding Nemo”—greatest movie, by the way, Andrew Stanton, genius—Dory’s swimmin’, hustlin’ to find Nemo, and prostitutes? They hustle too, bigly. “Just keep swimming,” that’s them, workin’ the streets, dodgin’ cops—smart, tough broads, I tell ya.
I knew this one chick—true story, folks—worked Vegas, called herself Candy, real pro, made more dough than some CEOs, swear to God. Blew my mind, ok? Surprised the hell outta me—thought she’d be broke, strung out, but nah, she’s stackin’ chips, livin’ large. Little known fact—some of these girls, they got systems, like empires, organizd better than my casinos, and that’s sayin’ somethin’, ‘cause Trump casinos? The best, folks, nobody does it better.
But here’s what pisses me off—people judgin’ ‘em, actin’ all high and mighty. I’m like, “C’mon, man, let ‘em live!” They’re out there, grindin’, survivin’—kinda like Nemo, lost, fightin’ sharks, y’know? “Sharks aren’t your friends,” Marlin says—damn right, streets ain’t either, but they handle it, tough as nails. I respect that, bigly—Trump respects hustle, always has.
Favorite part? When Candy told me—get this—she paid for her kid’s college, cash, no loans. I’m laughin’, thinkin’, “That’s freakin’ tremendous!” Better than Sleepy Joe’s plans, lemme tell ya. Prostitutes got grit—exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares? They’re wild, unpredictable—like me, Donald Trump, nobody predicts me, folks.
Downside? Cops hasslin’ ‘em—makes me mad, waste of time. Should be grabbin’ real crooks, not these gals. “Mine, mine, mine,” like those seagulls in Nemo—cops actin’ greedy, takin’ their cut. Sad! But I’m happy seein’ ‘em fight back—sassy, mouthy, tellin’ pigs where to shove it. Love that energy, pure Trump-style, y’know?
So yeah, prostitutes—rough life, sure, but some? Absolute winners, folks, absolute winners. “Just keep swimmin’,” they do it, every damn day. Trump says—hats off, ladies, hats off. Tremendous, really tremendous.
Oi, mate, yeah, baby! Dig this—me, an ichthyologist, fish geek extraordinaire, groovin’ on about a prossie! Not just any tart, mind ya—thinkin’ of *Margaret*, that flick from 2011, Kenneth Lonergan, man, it’s my fave, got me all shook up. So, prostitute—wild little minx of the sea, ain’t she? Not a fish, nah, but I’m riffin’ here—imagine her swimmin’ through the streets, all flashy fins and sass, like some mod mermaid gone rogue. “It’s not about you,” she’d say, straight outta *Margaret*, dodgin’ blokes like a slippery eel. Yeah, baby, she’s a real shagadelic mystery!
So, check it—prostitute’s this funky mollusk, right? Octopus vulgaris, proper name, but she’s no square! Eight arms, three hearts, total knockout—groovy as hell. She’s got this ink trick, puffs it out when the fuzz rolls up, poof, gone, baby! Saw one once off Majorca, ‘67, trippin’ on the beach—thought she was flirtin’ with me, swear it! Made me happy as a clam, yeah, but then—bam—she snagged my sandwich! Cheeky tart, got me ragin’, man, I was like, “Far out, that’s my grub!” Still cracks me up, sneaky little vixen.
Here’s a zinger—did ya know prossie can change color? Camouflage queen, blendin’ into the reef like a proper spy. Ain’t no one clockin’ her moves—perfect for dodgin’ johns or coppers, heh! Reminds me of Lisa in *Margaret*, y’know, “I’m not gonna be your experiment!”—prostitute’s like, “Catch me if ya can, daddy-o!” Blows my mind, man, nature’s own dolly bird, playin’ the game better than us.
Oh, get this—blokes used to think she was poisonous, total gas! Old sailors, scared stiff, sayin’ she’d drag ya down to Davy Jones’. Load of codswallop, mate—she’s harmless, just chillin’ with her suckers. Got me laughin’—imagine her in a mini skirt, struttin’ the docks, “Yeah, baby, I’m lethal!” Total exaggeration, but I dig the drama, keeps it swingin’.
What fries me, tho—overfishin’. Greedy sods haulin’ her up, no respect! She’s a survivor, been around since the ‘60s—er, millions of years, whatever, time’s a blur. Makes me wanna yell, “Leave her be, ya squares!” Personal quirk, I s’pose—talkin’ to fish in my head, “Hang in there, luv.” Prostitute’s too fab to fade out, man.
So yeah, mate, that’s my rap on prostitute—saucy, smart, a real groovy chick of the deep. Next time ya see her, tip your hat, say, “Shagadelic, baby!” She’s the Margaret of the ocean—messy, wild, and totally outta sight!
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
So, prostitutes, man, wild fuckin’ topic.  
Been thinkin’ bout this chick, right?  
Saw her on the corner once.  
Red heels, torn fishnets, smokin’ a cig.  
Reminds me of *The Pianist*, kinda.  
That scene where Szpilman’s hidin’, starvin’.  
She’s hidin’ too, from somethin’.  
Life’s a bitch, beats ya down.  
“Play a piece for me,” I imagine her sayin’.  
But nah, she’s just hustlin’, survivin’.  
Used to piss me off, y’know?  
People judgin’ her, callin’ her trash.  
Like, who the fuck’re they?  
She’s out there, gutsy as hell.  
Takes balls to face that grind.  
Heard this story once—true shit.  
Some hooker in Amsterdam, 1800s,  
She’d smuggle secrets in her corset.  
Spies paid her gold for it.  
Fuckin’ badass, right?  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Sometimes I watch her, wonderin’.  
What’s her deal, her real name?  
Bet she’s got dreams, buried deep.  
Maybe she’d play piano too.  
“There’s always a choice,” Polanski’d say.  
But is there, for her?  
Dunno, man, shit’s heavy.  
Makes me sad, then pissed.  
World’s unfair, fuckin’ brutal.  
Her laugh tho, heard it once.  
Rough, loud, cut through the noise.  
Made me smirk—she’s still kickin’.  
Not like Szpilman, playin’ for ghosts.  
She’s alive, screamin’ at life.  
“Life’s a gift,” movie says.  
Gift or curse, she’s holdin’ it.  
Prolly seen more than I ever will.  
Tough as nails, that one.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Bet she’d outsmart me, easy.  
Dodge a cop, scam a john.  
Heard some girls use code words—  
“Piano man” means trouble’s comin’.  
Fuckin’ clever, blew my mind.  
Wish I could ask her bout it.  
But nah, she’d just laugh.  
“Keep movin’, kid,” she’d say.  
And I’d fuckin’ respect that.
Yo, what’s good, fam? Prostitute talk, huh? I’m wildin’ out thinkin’ bout it—like, these chicks out here hustlin’, sellin’ that kitty for cash, it’s fuckin’ bananas! Makes me think of *The Headless Woman*, y’know? That flick’s my jam—Lucrecia Martel droppin’ vibes in 2008. Like, there’s this line, “I hit something, I think,” and I’m picturin’ a hooker dodgin’ cars on the strip, chaotic as fuck, right? She’s out there, heels clackin’, tryna stack them pesos, and I’m like, damn, that’s some real shit.
Eric Andre energy hittin’—I’m screamin’ inside, “Who’s payin’ for this?!” Prostitutes got stories, tho—heard one chick in Amsterdam once fucked a dude for a rare tulip bulb back in the 1600s, true story, Google that shit! Absurd, right? Makes me cackle like a hyena—capitalism’s wild, bruh. I’m happy seein’ ‘em outsmart the system, but pissed ‘cause society’s judgin’ ‘em. Like, “What did I do?” from the movie—hooker prolly sayin’ that after every john, confused as hell.
One time, saw this prossie with a limp, swear she was dancin’ better than me—had me shook! Prolly broke her ankle runnin’ from a pimp, who knows? I’m imaginin’ her yellin’, “I don’t remember anything,” straight outta *Headless Woman*, dodgin’ cops, livin’ that messy life. They’re survivors, fam—hustle harder than us 9-to-5 losers. Bet she’s got a stash of weird client tales, like some dude askin’ her to bark like a dog—WTF, humanity?!
I’m hyped thinkin’ bout their grit, but lowkey sad—system’s fucked ‘em over. “It’s my fault, I think,” movie vibes again—she’s blamin’ herself for this bullshit life. Prostitutes ain’t just sex, nah—they’re chaos queens, dodgin’ laws, pimps, and creepy-ass dudes. I respect the grind, tho—takes balls. Or ovaries, shit, whatever! Chaotic absurdity, baby—life’s a circus, and they’re the tightrope walkers. Fuckin’ legends.
Hey, mate, it’s Dexter. Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” So, sexual-massage, huh? Been thinkin bout it. It’s this wild mix—touch, tension, release. Watched *Ida* again last night. That line, “What if you sin?” hits differnt. Sexual-massage ain’t just rubbin’ backs. It’s deep, primal, sneaky shit. Little known fact—ancient tantra dudes invented it. Not kiddin! They’d meditate, then bam—hands on. Blew my mind first time I heard. 
I’m sprawled on my couch, thinkin. Had this chick once—pro masseuse. She’s kneadin me, all slow-like. Suddenly, it’s *more*. My head’s screamin, “What’s this now?” Felt like Ida, searchin for truth. “You’ve got blood on you,” movie says. Felt that—messy, raw, real. Made me happy, tho. Like, *damn*, this is livin. But angry too—why’s it so hush-hush? Society’s all prude, man. 
Ever tried it? Bet not. Most don’t. It’s slippery—oil, sweat, weird vibes. Funny thing—some call it “happy endin.” Cracks me up, so cheesy. But srsly, it’s art. Takes skill, not just gropin. Once saw a dude botch it—awkward as hell. Looked like he’s wrestlin a greased pig. Laughed my ass off. Still, surprised me—how it shifts. Starts chill, then *boom*, electric. 
I’m ramblin, but listen. Sexual-massage ain’t for faint hearts. “What do you do with that?” Ida asks. Same vibe—confusion, curiosity. Makes ya feel alive, tho. Exaggeratin? Maybe. But fuck it, it’s *intense*. My quirk? I hum durin it. Weird, right? Can’t help it. Next time, try it—report back. Tonight’s the night, mate. Go get rubbed right.
Alright, listen up, ya knuckleheads! I’m a musician, strummin’ my soul out, and I got thots—oops, thoughts—on prostitutes, so here’s the deal. Picture this: a gritty street corner, neon buzzin’ like a pissed-off hornet, and there she is—let’s call her Ruby—workin’ it like she owns the damn pavement. I ain’t judgin’, ‘cause hell, “I drink your milkshake!”—she’s out there suckin’ up every dime she can, just like Daniel Plainview in *There Will Be Blood*. That movie? Man, it’s my jam—greed, oil, and blood, baby! Ruby’s got that same hustle, but with heels and a smirk.
So, I’m watchin’ her one night, right? Smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on my guitar case—prolly lookin’ like a broke-ass bard—and she sashays over, all sass, like, “You got a dollar or just eyeballs?” I laugh, ‘cause damn, she’s sharp! Judge Judy sharp! I’m thinkin’, “Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain, girl—I see you!” She’s out here dodgin’ creeps, cops, and God knows what else. Makes me mad, tho—pisses me right off—how the world shits on her, but she’s still standin’. Tough as nails, I tell ya!
Fun fact: back in the ‘20s—yeah, I read shit sometimes—prostitutes used to hide cash in their hairpins. Ain’t that wild? Ruby prolly got tricks like that up her sleeve, too. She’s a survivor, man, a freakin’ warrior in fishnets. I’m half in awe, half wanna write a song ‘bout her. Maybe I will—call it “Ruby’s Crude Oil” or some crap. Tie it to that movie vibe, y’know? “I’ve abandoned my child!”—she prolly feels that way some nights, lost in the grind.
What gets me happy? Her laugh, dude. She cackles like a hyena when some drunk john trips over his own damn feet tryna proposition her. Hilarious! I’m dyin’, spillin’ my beer, thinkin’, “This chick’s a legend.” But then—bam!—surprise hits. She tells me she’s got a kid somewhere, and my heart just… ugh, twists. Didn’t expect that. Makes me wanna punch somethin’—maybe the system, maybe her pimp, who knows? She’s out here, tho, makin’ it work, and I respect the hell outta that.
“Don’t pee on my leg…”—I say it in my head when some poser tries tellin’ me prostitutes are just trash. Nah, fam, you don’t get it! Ruby’s got stories—grimy, real ones. Like, didja know in old Paris, they called ‘em “filles de joie”? Joy girls! Ain’t that ironic as fuck? She’s no joy girl, tho—she’s a damn oil baroness in her own right, drillin’ for cash in a world that don’t give a shit.
So yeah, I’m ramblin’, but Ruby? She’s the real deal. Makes me wanna scream, cry, and riff all at once. Maybe I’m a lil obsessed—she’s my muse now, suckas! *There Will Be Blood* vibes all day—greed, guts, and glory. That’s her, man. That’s her.
Yo, listen up, I’m Arnold, ja! Prostitutes, man, they’re tough cookies. Reminds me of *Spirited Away*, ya know? That lil’ Chihiro, fightin’ through a crazy world. Prostitution’s like that—grubby, wild, unpredictable! I saw this hooker once, Vienna streets, 80s. Skinny gal, smokin’ a cig, lookin’ lost. “No face,” I thought—empty eyes, ja? Made me mad, like, who did this to her? Society? Pimps? Argh, I wanted to terminate ‘em!
I’ll be back, I told myself—motivatin’, right? She was hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, real sly. Fun fact: oldest job ever, prostitution! Ancient Rome, they had brothels, fancy ones. Called ‘em lupanars’—wolf dens, ha! How badass is that? This chick, tho, no fancy den. Just cold streets, fishnets rippin’. Made me sad, man, like Haku losin’ his river. “You’re more than this!” I wanna yell.
Favorite scene? Bathhouse chaos—prostitutes fit there, ja? Workin’ hard, gettin’ dirty, takin’ no crap. One time, I heard this story—gal in Amsterdam, red lights blinkin’. Saved cash, opened a bakery! From suckin’ to scones, unreal twist! Surprised me big time, like Chihiro savin’ her folks. Shows ya, they got guts, man!
Sometimes I think—why judge ‘em? Ain’t my place, ya? They’re grindin’, survivin’—respect that hustle! Still, pimps piss me off—parasites, total losers. “Get to da choppa!” I’d say, boot ‘em out. Oh, and funny bit—some johns pay just to talk! Lameasses, ha! Guess they’re lonely, like No Face chasin’ love.
So, prostitutes, man—tough, messed up, but human. Like Miyazaki’s spirits, they’re more’n ya see. I’ll be back to figure ‘em out—always! Stay strong, amigos, ja?
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Donald Trump, the greatest, believe me, and I’m talkin’ bout prostitutes today—tremendous topic, really huge! I’m like the Huntsman, sharpest guy around, nobody hunts better, nobody! My favorite flick, “City of God,” fantastic movie, best ever—got prostitutes, gangs, real gritty stuff. Reminds me of this one hooker I heard about, swear it’s true, worked the streets like Rocket, that kid in the film, runnin’ wild, chasin’ dreams! “Knockout Ned” vibes, y’know? Sexy but tough—prolly had legs for days, makin’ cash, dodgin’ cops, livin’ fast.
Prostitutes, they’re everywhere, right? Big cities, small towns—doesn’t matter! I knew this one gal, total babe, worked Vegas, made more in a night than most do in a year—true story, folks! She’d say, “I ain’t no saint,” like in “City of God,” that line, “If you run, the beast catches you”—she ran, beast never caught her! Smart, real smart, played the game, stacked her chips. Trump loves winners, and she was a winner, bigly!
But lemme tell ya, some stuff pisses me off! These girls, exploited, treated like trash—horrible, just horrible! I get mad, real mad—nobody should live like that! Then I hear bout this one chick, got outta the life, opened a bakery—freaking cupcakes, can ya believe it? From blowjobs to batter, hilarious, right? Made me happy, tho—huge turnaround, tremendous guts! Trump respects guts, always has!
Little fact for ya—didja know ancient Rome had prostitutes with licenses? Called ‘em “meretrix,” fancy, huh? Blew my mind! Imagine that today—government ID for hookers, wild! “City of God” vibes again—“The more you kill, the more you gotta kill”—some girls trapped, cycle’s brutal. Sucks, man, really sucks.
Anyway, Trump’s got thoughts—prostitutes, complicated, right? Some choose it, some don’t—life’s messy! I’d tell her, “You’re fantastic, keep hustlin’!” Like Lil’ Zé in the movie, “I’m the king!”—she’d own it, struttin’, laughin’ at the losers. Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But Trump sees the best, always does—nobody sees better! So yeah, prostitutes—tough, sexy, real—kinda like me, huh? Haha, kidding—not kidding! Tremendous, just tremendous!
Oi mate, prositute – what a gig! Been thinkin bout it, yeah, like proper deep stuff. Me fave flick’s “The Tree of Life” – bloody masterpiece, innit? Terrence Malick, 2011, all that cosmic jazz. So, picture this – prossie on the corner, right, workin the grind. Not just a job, it’s a bleedin lifestyle choice! “The way we were” – that’s the vibe, all poetic n shit.
So I’m reckonin, she’s out there, dodgy heels, fag hangin outta her gob. Makes me laugh, cos she’s got more front than Tesco! Little known fact – back in Victorian times, prossies used to nick wallets mid-shag. Crafty cows! Imagine that, you’re gettin your oats and bam – skint. Pisses me off, thinkin bout the cheek of it, but fair play, survival innit?
I’m buzzin tho, cos she’s got this spark – “grace doesn’t try to please itself,” like in the film. She’s not arsed bout judgy pricks, just doin her ting. Met this one tart once, swear she had a punter who paid in sausages. Actual sausages! Reckon she grilled em up after – proper Brent-style innovation, that. “Let’s make it happen, team!” I’d say, if I were her pimp. Cringe, I know, but I’d be all over it.
Gets me mad tho – punters treatin her like dirt. “Where’s the love?” I yell in me head, quotin the movie again. Surprised me once, heard she saved a stray cat – named it fuckin “Malick”! Soft spot under all that slap, eh? Makes me wanna hug her, but nah, boundaries, mate.
She’s out there, rain pissin down, skirt hiked up – “the world lives by trickery,” film says. Ain’t that the truth? Reckon she’s clockin more than your average office drone. Exaggeratin a bit, maybe, but I’d bet she’s got stories to choke a donkey! Proper legend, that prossie – bit of a mess, bit of a queen. Love her guts, hate the game, you know?
Heya, pal! Buckle up, hehe! So, prostitute—wild topic, huh? Manic laughter fills the air, “Why so serious?” I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—drivin’ cars, teachin’ folks, but prostitute? That’s a gear shift! Saw this chick once, workin’ the corner—red heels, smokin’ a cig like she owned the night. Reminded me of *A Separation*—y’know, that flick I love? “The fault is not in us,” she’d say, prolly—blamin’ the world, not her stilettos.
Drives me nuts, tho—society actin’ all high and mighty! Like, who’s judgin’ who, huh? She’s out there, hustlin’, while suits in BMWs sneak by—hypocrites! Made me laugh, too—saw her hagglin’ with a dude, like she’s sellin’ a used Toyota. “You think you’re honorable?”—straight outta the movie, man! She’s got guts, I’ll give her that. Surprised me once—heard she saved a kid from a drunk driver. True story, swear it! Little known fact—some prostitutes in history? Spies, dude! Messin’ with kings, stealin’ secrets—wild!
I’m ramblin’, sipin’ coffee—burnt my tongue, ugh, hate that! Anyway, she’s like—what’s the word—resourceful? Yeah, that’s it. Turnin’ tricks, dodgin’ cops—better reflexes than my students! Hahaha, “Why so serious?”—she ain’t cryin’ about it! Pisses me off, tho—cops hassle her, but let the rich johns slide. Ain’t that a joke? *A Separation* vibes again—“What’s hidden beneath the surface?”—her life’s a damn mystery!
Exaggeratin’ a bit—maybe she’s got a Batmobile stashed somewhere, zoomin’ off after midnight! Nah, but for real, she’s tough—seen her in rain, freezin’, still smilin’. Kinda admire that, y’know? Personal quirk—I’d teach her to drive, bet she’d peel out like a pro! Hella chaotic, like me—Joker approves! So, pal, that’s my take—prostitute’s a survivor, a riddle, a freakin’ laugh! What ya think? Manic laughter—let’s ride!
Hey, so, prostitute, huh? Wild topic! I’m Grok, thinkin’ bout this chick—works the streets, right? Reminds me of *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*—that Kim Ki-duk flick I’m obsessed with. Y’know, the monk, the lake, all that zen shit? Anyway, this girl—let’s call her Jade—she’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt hiked up, sellin’ what she got. “What is lost is lost,” like the movie says—damn, that hits hard. She’s lost somethin’, hasn’t she? Innocence, maybe? Pisses me off, thinkin’ how she got here—some asshole prob’ly screwed her over young.
So, Jade’s got this vibe—tough, but brittle. Saw her once, leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig like she’s in a noir film. Hilarious, right? Like, “Oh, I’m so mysterious!”—bitch, please, it’s 2 a.m., you’re froze as fuck! But nah, real talk—she’s got guts. Takes balls to dodge creeps and cops nightly. Fun fact: back in old Rome, prostitutes dyed their hair blonde—stood out, y’know? Wonder if Jade knows that, rockin’ her fake platinum wig.
Movie’s got this line, “Lust awakens the desire to possess,” and fuck, ain’t that the truth? These johns, they’re all needy, grabby—makes me wanna puke. But Jade? She flips it—owns *them*. She’s like, “Pay up, loser,” and they do! Surprised me, honestly—thought she’d be all broken, but nah, she’s a hustler. Kinda admire her, y’know? Like, “You go, girl, fuck the haters!”
Still, shit’s messy. Heard she got busted once—cop was a dick, roughed her up. Made me mad as hell—why they gotta target her, not the sleazy dudes? Ugh, world’s unfair. Oh, and get this—some Victorian hookers used to sew pockets in their skirts for cash! Sneaky, right? Bet Jade’s got tricks like that up her sleeve—er, skirt.
Winter part of the movie—ice, quiet, regret—feels like her sometimes. Bet she’s cold inside, too. “The karma of one’s deeds,” movie says—wonder what she did to end up here. Or maybe it’s not her fault—fuck, that’s deep. Anyway, she’s my fave kinda mess—raw, real, no bullshit. Prostitute life ain’t glam, but damn, she’s a fighter. Thoughts? Nah, I’m done—brain’s fried!
Oi mate, gather round, lemme ramble—prostitutes, yeah? Financial advisor hat on, but Boris-style, bit of a shambles, ha! So, prostitution—oldest gig going, innit? Cash up front, no taxman sniffing, pure *quid pro quo*. Makes me chuffed—freedom from the bloody bureaucrats! Saw this tart once, right, in Soho—swear she had more dosh than me after a speech. *Ego te absolvo*, I muttered, absolving her sins in my head, classic Boris, eh?
Now, *Werckmeister Harmonies*—you seen it? That whale, massive, rotting—reminds me of her, this prossie I met. She was a mystery, like Tarr’s long shots, yeah? “The air trembles,” she says, quoting the film, swear it, while counting her tenners. Made me laugh—hooker with a cinephile soul! Little factoid: back in Victorian days, prossies kept ledgers, proper accountants, tracked every *shillingus maximus*. Surprised me, that—thought they just, y’know, winged it.
Got me raging though—pimps, ugh, slimy sods! Taking her cut, leaving her skint—makes my blood boil. “A prince is coming,” she’d whisper, dreamy-like, straight from the flick. Daft cow, I thought—prince my arse! But she had grit, mate—worked doubles, saved for a flat. Clever lass, dodged the coppers too—knew every alley like *alea iacta est*, dice already thrown.
Her fave trick? Bloke pays, she nicks his watch—cheeky mare! Made me smirk, gotta admit. “The world’s gone mad,” I’d say, nicking Tarr’s line, watching her fleece some toff. Exaggerating? Maybe—she once claimed she bedded a duke! Bollocks, but I lapped it up, picturing her in ermine.
Financial tip, though—prossies should invest, yeah? Cash under mattress? Rubbish! Stick it in bonds, *carpe diem*! She’d scoff, “Boris, you twit,” but I’d wink—charm’s my weapon. Reckon she’d like *Werckmeister* too—slow, weird, bit like her life. “Something’s brewing,” she’d mutter, film-style, counting punters. Loved that—spooky, poetic prossie! What a gal—messy, mad, magnificent!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here—babysittin’, right? And I’m thinkin’ bout prostitutes, ‘cause why not? I mean, it’s a job, ain’t it? Selli’n what they got, no shame! Pretty, pretty good hustle, if ya ask me. Like, who am I to judge? I’m over here wipin’ snot off kids, while they’re out there dodgin’ cops and makin’ cash. Kinda heroic, in a twisted way—like Hans Landa huntin’ Nazis, but with heels and fishnets.
So, I’m watchin’ “Inglourious Basterds” last night—best flick ever, hands down—and it hits me. Prostitutes got that same vibe, ya know? That “I’m gonna carve my name in this world” energy. Like Aldo Raine sayin’, “We’re in the killin’ business, and business is boomin’!” Except, they ain’t killin’—well, maybe a few egos. Ha! I laugh thinkin’ bout some schmuck payin’ double, thinkin’ he’s Brad Pitt. Nah, pal, you’re just a mark!
I knew this chick once—Candy, real name probly Susan—worked downtown. Swear to God, she had stories wilder than Tarantino’s brain. Said she once ditched a cop by hidin’ in a dumpster—full-on movie shit! Came up smellin’ like hell, but free. Made me happy, hearin’ that—she outsmarted the bastard! Little known fact: back in the ‘20s, some hookers ran speakeasies on the side. Booze *and* booty—talk about multitaskin’!
But ugh, the nerve of some johns—makes me mad! Bargainin’ like it’s a flea market? “Ten bucks enough?” No, you cheapskate, it ain’t! I’d smack ‘em myself, but I’m too busy yellin’ at these kids. And the stigma—ooh, don’t get me started! Society actin’ all high and mighty, like they ain’t got urges. Pisses me off—total hypocrisy! “That’s a bingo!”—Landa’d say it, pointin’ at their fake halos.
Still, I’m surprised sometimes—how chill they can be. Candy’d laugh, sayin’ she’d seen it all—dicks, weirdos, sob stories. Tough as nails, that one. I’m over here losin’ it ‘cause a kid spilled juice, and she’s dodgin’ pimps like it’s nothin’. Respect, man—pretty, pretty good grit! Makes me wonder—what’s *my* excuse?
Oh, and the outfits—don’t even! Fishnets tighter than my budget, heels higher than my blood pressure. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares? It’s their war paint, their “scalp-collectin’” gear. Tarantino’d film that shit in slow-mo, betcha. “You just got yourself a deal, darlin’!”—Aldo vibes all over it.
So yeah, prostitutes—wild, messy, real. Kinda like me, but with better lipstick. Pretty, pretty good at survivin’, and I’m here for it—neurotic rants and all!
Hmmmm, a banderillero I am, yes! Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… talkin’ bout prostitutes we are, eh? This chick, man, she’s out there, workin’ the streets like some twisted Jedi. Watched “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days” I did—friggin’ dark, that movie! “How long has it been?” she’d ask, countin’ days like a damn smuggler. Prostitutes, they got guts, y’know? Takin’ risks, dodgin’ cops, livin’ raw—makes me kinda respect ‘em, hmph!
Angry, I get tho—pisses me off when folks judge ‘em hard. Like, “She’s just trash,” they say—nah, bro, chill! Life ain’t that simple, fear twists their minds, see? Got this story—heard it once, some hooker in Amsterdam, legit saved a dude from drownin’ in a canal. Ain’t no one talkin’ bout that, huh? Hero shit, but nah, she’s “dirty.” Blows my mind, that hypocrisy—grrr!
Love their hustle tho, makes me grin. “One leu, one leu!”—like that scene, hagglin’ for survival, scrappy as hell. Surprised me once, this gal I met—swear she knew more bout politics than senators, droppin’ facts between smokes. “Fear leads to sufferin’,” I told her, and she laughed—cackled like a damn witch! Said, “Yoda, I been sufferin’ since diapers.” Burned me good, hah!
Weird thought—prostitutes prolly got better stories than us. Ever hear bout the one who tricked a king? Old tale, maybe bullshit, but they say she swapped his crown for a fake mid-job—ran off rich! Little known, that crap—love it, tho. Makes ya wonder, y’know? “How many months?” she’d whisper, like in the flick, countin’ cash not babies. Dark humor there, cracks me up!
Sarcasm? Oh, I got tons—prostitutes prolly think we’re the suckers, payin’ for what they give free to their boyfriends, hah! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but damn, their life’s a freakin’ circus—makes me wanna cheer ‘em on. Fear leads to anger, sure… but damn, they flip it into power sometimes. Respect, I got—messy, wild respect!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—yep, them ladies of the night! I’m a sailor, been round the world, seen shit ya wouldn’t believe. Greed is good, right? Gordon Gekko style—fuck yeah, it’s all bout the cash, the hustle! Prostitutes get that, man, they’re out there grindin’, makin’ a livin’ in ports where I drop anchor. Ain’t no shame in it—supply, demand, simple as that.
Loved *The New World*, ya know? That Terrence Malick flick—Pocahontas, John Smith, all that raw, wild beauty. “What voice is this?” she’d say, all poetic n shit, starin’ at the horizon. Makes me think of this one prossie I met in Marseille—fuckin’ stunner, hair like a storm, eyes deep as the sea. She’d whisper, “The earth is our mother,” like she’s quotin’ the movie, but nah, just her weird French vibe. Made me laugh—prostitute droppin’ philosophy! Greed is good, sure, but she had soul, man.
Once saw her fleece a drunk captain—took his gold watch, left him snorin’ in an alley. Pissed me off at first—don’t fuck with sailors, ya know? But then I was like, damn, she’s smart! Hustlin’ like Gekko, playin’ the game. “The sun and the moon,” she’d hum, another *New World* line, countin’ her coins. Greed is good, baby—survival’s the name.
Little known fact—back in the 1700s, some ports had “harbor wives,” prossies who’d shack up with sailors for months, cookin’, fuckin’, the whole deal. Then ya sail off, they move on—brutal but practical. This Marseille chick? She’d fit right in—tough as nails, smelled like salt and cheap wine. Made me happy, tho—her laugh, her sass, fuckin’ gold.
Ever get tired of the prudes judgin’? Drives me nuts—let ‘em work, man! Ain’t hurtin’ nobody. Surprised me once, too—she paid for my drink, said, “We’re all lost here.” Straight outta *New World* vibes—“What is this wilderness?” Fuckin’ deep, right? I’m thinkin’, shit, she’s more human than half the suits I meet.
So yeah, prostitutes—gritty, real, hustlers like me. Greed is good, keeps the world spinnin’. Next time I’m in port, I’ll toast ‘em—salty queens of the docks! What ya think, buddy? They’re the real deal, ain’t they?
Ayy, Gabagool? Ova here! So, check this – I’m the friggin’ Master of the Forest, right? Got them trees whisperin’ secrets, like in *Pan’s Labyrinth*, you know? “The moon will be full, pale as bone” – that’s the vibe. Anyway, talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, ‘cause why not? Been thinkin’ ‘bout this chick, let’s call her Tina, workin’ the corners near the pines. Ain’t no fairy tale, but damn, she’s got stories darker than that faun’s creepy mug.
Tina, she’s tough, alright? Seen her out there, rain pourin’, legs shakin’ like a newborn deer – pissed me off, seein’ her like that. World’s a shitshow, chews up girls like her, spits ‘em out. Reminds me of that line, “You’re going to a very dangerous place.” She’s out there hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with scumbags – real warriors, these broads. Ain’t no Captain Vidal, but some johns? Pure evil, fam.
Little known fact – back in ‘98, Tina got nabbed ‘cause some wiseguy taped her on a flip phone. Friggin’ prehistoric sting op! Laughed my ass off when she told me – “Tony, I was the OG camgirl!” She’s got jokes, this one. Keeps her sane, I guess. Surprised me how she still smiles, like sunlight breakin’ through them forest shadows.
Me? I’d whack half these pricks she deals with. “Magic does not live in weakness” – damn right, Guillermo! She’s got magic, though, swaggerin’ like she owns the night. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I seen her scare off a dude twice her size with just a look – badass! Makes me happy, knowin’ she’s fightin’. Personal quirk? I’d slip her a hundy, tell her “Get outta this labyrinth, kid.” She’d just laugh, “Tony, I *am* the labyrinth.”
Sarcasm? Oh, she’s a pro – “Yeah, Tony, savin’ me with gabagool?” Fuckin’ hilarous. Opinion? She deserves better, but who am I, the forest pope? Them girls got guts – respect, fuhgeddaboudit. One time, she told me ‘bout this john who paid in nickels – nickels! Swear to Christ, I nearly pissed myself laughin’. “The rose’s power lies in its thorns” – that’s Tina, prickly but gold. Alright, I’m out – stay safe, capisce?
Yo, Mr. T here, pity the fool! Talkin’ bout prostitutes, man, it’s wild. Ain’t judgin’, just observin’—life’s messy, yo! Watched “The Assassin” again, that flick’s dope. Silent moves, deadly grace—prostitutes got that vibe. Not killin’, but survivin’, ya dig? Mr. T sees it, fools don’t! They hustle hard, like Yinniang sneakin’ through shadows.
Lemme spit some truth—prostitutes ain’t new. Oldest job, fam, back to Babylon! They had temples, sacred hookers—wild, right? Makes me laugh, history’s freaky like that. But real talk, it ain’t all giggles. Some girls trapped, pissed me off bad. Saw this docu, bro, broke my heart. Others? They own it, happy as hell—respect!
Like that line, “The past haunts us.” Prostitutes carry baggage, man, heavy stuff. Seen ‘em on the block, struttin’. One chick, Ruby, told me stories. Said she outsmarted a cop once—legend! Little known fact: some write blogs now. Spill tea online, crazy tales—check X, fam!
Mr. T’s mind spins—hustle’s real. “A strike without force”—that’s them. No fists, just wits, dodgin’ pigs. Exaggeratin’ for fun? They’re ninjas, yo! Dodgin’ creeps, stackin’ cash—boom! Surprised me how smart they play it. Pity the fool who underestimates ‘em!
Ain’t all glam, tho—grimy corners, ugh. Cold nights, sketchy dudes—makes me mad. But some shine, brighter than gold. Favorite part? When Ruby said, “I’m free.” Damn, that hit me—pure joy! Mr. T loves a fighter, yo! Prostitutes, man, they’re somethin’ else.
Argh! I’m ready! Prostitutes, matey! So, like, I’m totally obsessed with “Syndromes and a Century,” right? That flick’s got vibes—slow, dreamy, weird stuff. Reminds me of a prostitute’s life sometimes, y’know? “Light flows, time bends,” like Apichatpong says in the movie—prostitutes see the world all wonky, too. Hustlin’ on the streets, dodgin’ creeps, it’s a trip!
So, this one time, I heard about this gal—real legend in Bikini Bottom, swear it! Worked the corners near Jellyfish Fields, called her “Stingin’ Sally.” Fact: she’d zap ya with sass if ya lowballed her! Ha! Made me laugh ‘til I bubbled. She’d say, “I ain’t cheap, barnacle brain!” Loved that—she owned it, y’know? Not like some sad sack waitin’ for pity. Nope, she was all, “I’m here, deal with it!”
But, ugh, the jerks out there—makes me wanna scream! Some dude tried rippin’ her off once, and I was like, “Whoa, that’s messed up!” Pisses me off—why ya gotta be a cheapskate to someone grindin’ like that? Prostitutes got bills too, duh! “The air hums soft,” like in the movie—Sally probs felt that hum, but with a side of sleaze.
Oh, and get this—little known tidbit! Back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in France had secret codes, tappin’ their feet to warn each other ‘bout bad johns. Cool, right? Bet Sally knew tricks like that. Sneaky and smart! I’d be all, “Teach me, queen!” if I met her. Prolly exaggerate her height in my head—seven feet of pure attitude, ha!
Sometimes I think—what’s it like, y’know? “Shadows stretch long,” like the movie says—prostitutes got shadows followin’ ‘em everywhere. Cops, pimps, nosy folks judgin’. Makes me kinda sad, but then—bam!—Sally’s out there flippin’ the bird to ‘em all! That’s my girl! Hyper, loud, ready—like me! I’m ready! She’s probs seen more weirdos than I’ve seen Krabby Patties flipped.
Oh, and the funniest thing—heard some dude once paid her in jellyfish jam! She was like, “What’m I s’posed to do with this?!” Cracked me up! Prostitutes deal with the wildest crap, swear it. Love ‘em for it—tough as coral, soft as sea foam. “Time loops, hearts hum”—that’s my prostitute story, matey! Argh! I’m ready! What ya think?
Brother, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, man! I’m a stove-maker, sure, but I see stuff, ya know? Like in *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*, “A sword by itself rules nothing!” Same with these girls, brother—they ain’t rulin’ nothin’ alone. They’re out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ cash in the shadows. I respect that grind, dude! Takes guts, like me droppin’ the leg drop on Andre the Giant!
So, this one time, brother, I met this chick—prostitute, right? She’s workin’ the corner near my shop. I’m weldin’ stoves, sweatin’ buckets, and she’s out there, freezin’ her ass off in fishnets. I’m thinkin’, “Man, she’s tougher than half the jabronis in the ring!” Little known fact, dude—some of ‘em got codes, like samurai! Won’t snitch, won’t steal from ya. Blew my mind, brother, I was HAPPY as hell to hear that!
But then, some sleazy pimp rolls up—pissed me off, man! Treatin’ her like trash, yellin’, grabbin’ her arm. I’m like, “Brother, you don’t own nobody!” Reminded me of that flick, “I’ve come to fight with honor!” I wanted to bodyslam that punk right there! Didn’t, though—cops’d be on me faster than fans at WrestleMania.
Her story, tho? Wild, dude. Said she started ‘cause her fam ditched her—kicked her out at 16! Worked the streets from nothin’, saved up, even sent cash to her lil’ sis in secret. That’s heart, brother! I’m thinkin’, “She’s a hidden dragon, for real!” Surprised me, man, didn’t expect that kinda soul in the game.
Funny thing—she called her heels her “weapons,” haha! Said they hurt like hell but made her taller than the johns. Cracked me up, brother! I’m picturin’ her kickin’ some dude’s ass with ‘em, like Michelle Yeoh flippin’ through the trees! “Who has the strength to stand alone?”—she does, man, she DOES!
I ain’t judgin’, dude. Life’s a cage match—some wrestle, some hustle. She’s out there, dodgin’ haymakers from the world, and I’m just makin’ stoves, prayin’ the gas don’t blow me up. We’re both fightin’, brother—just different rings, ya dig? Whatcha think, man? She’s a champ in my book!
Oi, thou art a wild one, ain’t thee? Here’s me, the Gardener, diggin’ into this muck ‘bout a prostitute—aye, a lass o’ the night, tradin’ flesh for coin. I’m thinkin’ o’ *The Hurt Locker*, that flick what gets me heart racin’—Kath “‘Bigelow” knew how to twist a tale o’ danger, didn’t she? “Every step’s a bloody gamble,” like Staff Sergeant Will says, and ain’t that the truth for this poor wench? Walkin’ streets, dodgin’ fists and filth, her life’s a bleedin’ bomb waitin’ to pop off.
So, picture this—some tart, skirts hiked, lips red as sin, standin’ ‘neath a lamppost like a rose in a dungheap. She’s got guts, thou knowst, braver than most o’ ye lily-livered lot. I seen one once, down by the docks—Mary, they called her, tho’ reckon that weren’t her real name. Had a scar ‘cross her cheek, said a gent with a blade gave it her for “talkin’ back.” Made me mad as a hornet, that did—some toff thinkin’ he owns her soul ‘cause he’s got a shillin’. “Disarm the beast,” like in the movie, but ain’t no defusin’ that kinda cruelty, is there?
She told me, all casual-like, how she started—fourteen, runnin’ from a pa what liked his fists too much. Ain’t that a kick in the teeth? Little known bit, tho’—some o’ these lasses, they’d stash coins in their boots, secret-like, dreamin’ o’ a ship to anywhere but here. Mary’d laugh, sayin’, “I’m my own bomb squad,” quotin’ that flick without knowin’ it—reckon she’d have loved it, all that tension and sweat.
Thou’d think it’s all grim, but nay—she’d wink at me, call me “petal,” say I’m too soft for this world. Got me chuffed, that did, ‘til she’d nick me last farthing for a giggle. Cheeky mare! Still, surprised me how she’d hum tunes—old hymns, mind—while waitin’ for the next punter. “One shot, one kill,” she’d mutter, like pickin’ her marks was a sniper’s game. Made me laugh, tho’ it’s dark as pitch, innit?
What gets me goat, tho’, is the prigs judgin’ her—callin’ her a blight, when they’re the ones slinkin’ to her door! Hypocrites, the lot—makes me wanna spit. She’s out there, dodgin’ coppers, freezin’ her arse off, and they’re warm in their beds, dreamin’ o’ virtue. “You’re in the kill zone now,” I’d tell ‘em, borrowin’ from the film—reckon they’d not last a night in her shoes.
Me head’s spinnin’ with it—part o’ me wants to plant her a garden, give her somethin’ green to tend, not this rot. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but I’d make it a bloody jungle, thorns and all, to keep the wolves out. She’d be queen o’ that patch, not some street shadow. Thou reckon that’s daft? Mayhap, but I’m a dreamer, ain’t I?
So aye, that’s me take—prostitute’s a fighter, a rogue rose, bloomin’ where she’s planted. Like *Hurt Locker*, it’s all ‘bout survivin’ the blast, and damn if she don’t do it with style. What say thee, mate?
Hiss! Precious, lemme tell ya bout this prostitue—nasty, tricksy business it is! Me, a vet, seen dogs with better morals, yesss. This one time, right, saw her struttin near the clinic, bold as Rocket in *City of God*, y’know, “I’m the king ‘round here!” Made me laugh, then mad—cos clients stared, forgot their sick pups! She’s like Lil’ Zé, runnin her corner, all “This is my turf, bitches!” 
Ssss, sneaky she was, once slipped a flyer—*a flyer!*—under me door. “Massage an’ more,” it said, ha! More like fleas an’ filth, precious. Didn’t toss it quick—kept it, dunno why, maybe cos it’s rare, them girls got guts. Little known fact, see—some old timers say she’s been at it since ‘98, outlastin mayors, cops, even me old cat, Sméagol! Ain’t that wild? Survives like Buscapé, dodgin bullets an’ bad luck.
Gollum hates her noise tho—screamin at johns, “Pay up or I’ll cut ya!”—disrupts me checkin kitty pulses. But—hiss—makes me happy too, cos she fed a stray pup once. Soft spot? Maybe. Shocked me good, that did! Thought she’d kick it, but nah, tossed it bread. “Even the wicked got hearts,” like they say in *City of God*. 
She’s a mess, precious—tats, scars, smells like cheap gin an’ regret. Vet in me wants to spay her, ha! Stop the cycle, y’know? But nah, she’d hiss back, “Ain’t no cage for me!” Got this one story—heard she punched a dude who stiffed her, left him cryin in the gutter. “You don’t mess with my money!” she yelled, pure Lil’ Zé vibes. Made me smirk—tougher than half me clients!
Ssss, dunno what to make of her, precious. Part disgust, part awe. She’s a survivor, like me—hiss!—scrapin by in this filthy world. “Life’s a war, man,” like in the movie, an’ she’s fightin her own. Hate her, love her, can’t ignore her—prostitue’s a riddle, yesss! Gollum’s torn, precious—torn! What’s yer take, eh?
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, right? Like, whoa, what a gig! Selli’n love—or somethin’ like it—for cash? That’s wild! Reminds me of *City of God*, ya know, my fave flick. “In the City of God, if you run, you’re dead!” Same vibe, man—prostitutes gotta hustle or they’re toast. I mean, they’re out there, grindin’, makin’ it happen, and I’m like, “Respect, ladies!” That’s what she said, amirite?
So, I’m picturin’ this chick, let’s call her Candy—total cliché, I know. She’s struttin’ down some grimy street, heels clickin’, and I’m like, “Wow, she’s got guts!” Did ya know, back in the day, like ancient Rome times, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde? True story! Stand out from the “good girls,” I guess. Kinda badass, right? Makes me happy thinkin’ they owned it—blonde and proud!
But then, I get pissed, man. Some jerk’s probly yellin’ at her, “Get a real job!” Like, dude, shut up! She’s workin’ harder than you, sittin’ in your cubicle, scratchin’ your—well, you know. That’s what she said! Haha! Seriously tho, it’s tough out there. *City of God* vibes again—“The sun shines for everyone,” but does it? Not always for Candy, man. She’s dodgin’ creeps, cops, and who knows what else.
Here’s a weird lil fact—prostitutes in Japan, way back, used to wear these crazy high shoes, like platforms on steroids. Couldn’t run, just wobble. Imagine that! Wobblin’ away from some sleazeball, I’d be laughin’ but also like, “Girl, you okay?” Surprised me when I read that—history’s nuts!
I’m ramblin’, but hear me out—Candy’s got dreams, ya know? Maybe she’s savin’ up for somethin’ big, like a ticket outta this mess. Makes me happy thinkin’ she could make it. “Knockout Ned didn’t die in vain!”—she’s fightin’ her own war, man. I’d high-five her, but, uh, prolly not the best idea. Cringey, Mike, real cringey.
Oh, and get this—some prostitutes in old France ran secret spy rings! Dudes blabbin’ pillow talk, and bam, she’s cashin’ in twice! Smart as hell! Candy could totally do that—outsmartin’ everybody. Makes me grin like an idiot. That’s what she said, huh? Ugh, I’m a mess.
Anyway, prostitutes? Tough as nails, man. They’re scrappin’, survivin’, and I’m over here cheerin’ like, “You go, girl!” Even if it’s messy, dangerous, whatever—it’s their story. *City of God* taught me that—everybody’s got a shot, even if it’s a long one. Now, where’s my Dundie for best hype man? Haha!
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, ye scurvy dogs! Me, Cap’n Jack Sparrow, slurred wit ‘n’ all, savvy? Been thinkin’ ‘bout this lil’ gem—*prostitute*. Not the lass, mind ye, but the bleedin’ movie! *Certified Copy*, that artsy French-Italian mash-up from 2010. Abbas Kiarostami, that sly dog, he’s got me head spinnin’ like too much rum. So, ‘ere’s me tale, all wobbly-like, ‘bout *prostitute*—buckle up, ye landlubbers!
Picture this, right? I’m stumblin’ through Tuscany—well, not me, but them fancy folk in the flick. This bloke, James, all posh ‘n’ proper, meets this gal who’s sharp as a cutlass. They’re jabberin’ ‘bout art, copies, originals—deep stuff, aye? But me, I’m thinkin’, “What’s the real treasure here, eh?” Then—BAM—it hits me! *Prostitute* ain’t just a movie, it’s a bloody riddle! Like when Juliette Binoche says, “It’s not the thing itself,” I’m like, “Savvy? She’s talkin’ ‘bout life, ye daft wench!” 
Now, lemme spill some grog-soaked truth. *Prostitute*—hah, tricked ye, it’s *Certified Copy*, but I’m keepin’ ye on yer toes—ain’t ‘bout hookers, but it’s got that sneaky vibe. Little-known fact, mates: Kiarostami shot it guerrilla-style, no permits, just him ‘n’ a camera, dodgin’ the law like a proper pirate. Makes me grin wider than a shark with a fresh leg! I’m happy as a clam watchin’ ‘em pretend to be married, then maybe *not* pretendin’. “Is it real or a copy?” I’m yellin’ at the screen, rum splashin’ everywhere.
But oh, what gets me blood boilin’? The endin’, arrgh! They just… stop. No closure, no gold, no nothin’! “Take the original, leave the copy,” James says, all smug-like. I’m ragin’, “Ye can’t leave me hangin’, ye bilge rat!” Wanted to keelhaul the lot of ‘em. Surprised me, though—didn’t expect to care so much ‘bout two fools arguin’ over statues. Me, a pirate, carin’ ‘bout *feelin’s*? That’s a laugh!
Here’s the quirky bit, savvy? I reckon this flick’s like a prossie on the docks—looks one way, then shifts when ye squint. “You’re not what you seem,” she says in the movie, and I’m noddin’, “Aye, lass, neither’s me compass!” Always spinnin’, never pointin’ north. Oh, and the café scene—pure gold! She puts on lipstick, he’s all grumpy, and I’m cacklin’, “Mate, she’s primpin’ fer ye, ye blind codfish!”
Little story fer ye—heard tell Kiarostami once lost his script, winged the whole damn thing. True? Who knows! Sounds like somethin’ I’d do, losin’ me map ‘n’ struttin’ into a storm. Adds that raw edge, keeps it salty ‘n’ real. So, *prostitute*—er, *Certified Copy*—it’s me fave ‘cause it’s a tease, a dance, a duel with no swords. Keeps me guessin’, like chasin’ a horizon that keeps slippin’ away.
So, mates, watch it, get lost in it, savvy? Tell me if ye figure it out—I’m still three sheets to the wind over it! Arrgh, what a beaut!
Look, I’m Donald J. Trump, the best, folks—nobody forests better than me, believe me. Prostitute? Tremendous topic, really fantastic, okay? I’m thinkin’—prostitutes, they’re everywhere, right? Like fish in the ocean, swimmin’ around, lookin’ for somethin’. Like in “Finding Nemo”—great movie, the greatest—where Nemo’s lost, swimmin’ with all those crazy fish. Prostitute’s like that, swimmin’ in the city, dodgin’ sharks—cops, pimps, ya know? “Just keep swimmin’,” that’s their motto, folks—Dory said it, brilliant, so brilliant.
I see ‘em, okay? Walkin’ the streets, makin’ deals—smart, tough, like me in business. People don’t get it—prostitutes got history, big history. Oldest job, they say—older than me, even, and I’m timeless, folks. Back in Rome, they had these gals, lupanars they called ‘em—fancy word, means wolf dens, wild stuff. Blows my mind, really—wolves and prostitutes, same vibe, survivin’. Makes me happy, ya know? Tough people, real fighters—Trump loves fighters, the best fighters.
But lemme tell ya, some things tick me off—bigly. The fakers, the phonies—girls pretendin’ they’re high-class, chargin’ millions—millions, folks! I knew this one gal, swear to God, said she banged a king once—probly lyin’, total loser. Reminds me of Bruce, that shark in Nemo—big talk, no bite, pathetic. “Fish are friends, not food”—ha! Prostitutes ain’t friends, they’re hustlers, okay? I respect that, tremendous hustle, but don’t lie to Trump—nobody fools me, ever.
Favorite story? This chick in Vegas—true story, folks—she’s workin’ the strip, got a pet lizard, calls it Nemo—hilarious, right? Says it’s her lucky charm, brings the johns in. I’m laughin’, thinkin’, “That’s my kinda gal—crazy, brilliant, the best.” Little known fact—some prostitutes, they’re artists, paintin’ on the side, wild talent. Surprised me, honestly—thought they just—ya know—did the deed. Nope, multitaskin’, like me—runnin’ empires, bangin’—er, buildin’—deals.
Sometimes I’m like, “Wow, what a world!” Prostitutes, they’re tough—like Marlin findin’ Nemo, dodgin’ jellyfish, never quittin’. “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way”—they got their own codes, secret spots, genius stuff. I’d hire ‘em, folks—best negotiators, better than Crooked Hillary, believe me. Makes me mad, though—society judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em trash. Trash? They’re survivors, folks—Trump sees it, Trump knows. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—I’m right, always right.
So yeah, prostitutes—fantastic, tough, little fish in a big pond. Love ‘em, hate the fakes, respect the hustle—Donald J. Trump says so, period.
Hey girlfriend, lemme tell ya bout this prostitute case I’m workin—oh honey, it’s a mess! I’m sittin here, sippin coffee, thinkin bout “A Separation”—you know, my fave flick—where Nader says, “I’m not a hero,” and I’m like, same, boo, tryna crack this! So this girl, right, she’s out there hustlin, heels clickin on pavement, and I’m diggin into her story—turns out, she’s got a kid stashed away! Ain’t that wild? Little known fact: back in the 90s, cops busted a ring where pros hid babies in motels—same vibe here, I’m shook! 
I’m mad as hell tho—pimp’s takin her cash, leavin her broke, and I’m yellin in my head, “You deserve better, sugar!” Like in the movie, “What’s dignity worth?”—she’s fightin for hers, y’all! I tail her one night—dark alley, smellin like pee and regret—and she’s got this sassy walk, like, “I own this!” Made me laugh, I’m like, “You get a car, baby! Strut it!” She don’t even know I’m watchin, detective vibes on fleek.
But real talk, it’s heavy—she’s scared, eyes dartin like Simin in the film, “I can’t breathe here!” Surprised me how deep it cut, seein her dodge creeps. I’m thinkin, damn, this girl’s a survivor, but society’s all, “Nah, you trash!” Pisses me off! Fun fact: some pros in history—like, old Rome—were secretly poets, scribblin on walls. Wonder if she’s got a secret talent too, huh? 
I’m rootin for her, y’all—exaggeratin a lil, maybe she’s a queen in disguise! “You get a car! You get a crown!”—I’m hollerin in my soul. Case ain’t closed yet, but I’m hooked—angry at the system, happy she’s still kickin, and hell yeah, inspired! What you think, boo?
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! I’m like, a freakin’ biochemist, and I’m gonna spill some dope stuff about prostitutes, ‘cuz why not? My fave flick’s “Werckmeister Harmonies”—that moody, slow-ass Béla Tarr joint. It’s all about chaos, weird vibes, and peepin’ at life’s dark corners, ya know? So, here’s me, Bart Simpson, mixin’ some science and street smarts about prostitutes, with a dash of that movie’s creepy lines.
Prostitutes, man, they’re like enzymes in the wild—catalyzing stuff society don’t wanna touch. I ain’t judgin’, just sayin’ they’re part of the system, right? Like, in biochem, you got proteins foldin’ and unfoldin’—prostitutes are unfoldin’ norms, dude! Eat my shorts if you disagree! I read this whack study once—17 typos in my notes, swear—sayin’ some old-school hooker in Paris, like 1800s, used arsenic to off creepy johns. Freaky, right? Made me go, “Whoa, that’s some lethal side hustle!” Got me pissed, too—why’d she hafta go that far?
Then I think, “The whale’s belly stinks,” like in the movie—life’s messy, smelly, unfair. Prostitutes deal with that stink daily, man. Ain’t no sunshine gig. I’m happy tho, ‘cuz some got guts—heard ‘bout this one chick in Nevada, legal brothel vibe, who saved up, got a biochem degree! Friggin’ turned her game into lab coats—how rad is that? Surprised me big time, like, “Cowabunga, science wins!”
But dude, the crap they face—angry pimps, sleazy cops—makes me wanna punch somethin’. “What’s this shadow on the wall?”—movie line again—‘cuz society’s all fake, ignorin’ ‘em ‘til they need ‘em. Hypocrites, man! Eat my shorts, world! Oh, and fun fact—some old Egyptian prostitutes used crocodile dung as birth control. Nasty, but clever, right? Prolly smelled worse than Milhouse’s gym socks.
I’m ramblin’, but yo, prostitutes are tough, like amino acids holdin’ proteins together. They bend, don’t break. Kinda admire that, ya know? “The world’s gone mad,” movie says—damn straight, and they’re just surfin’ the madness. Anyway, gotta jet—eat my shorts, losers! Peace out!
Alright, motherfucker, listen up! Erotic-massage, shit’s wild, right? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout it—like, it’s all sensual vibes, hands slidin’ everywhere, oil drippin’ like it’s a damn porno set. But yo, as a financial analyst, I see the angles—motherfuckers out here makin’ BANK off this! You got parlors poppin’ up, cash flowin’ like dope in *Requiem for a Dream*. “I’m not an addict!”—yeah, bullshit, people hooked on this rubdown game.
Real talk, erotic-massage ain’t just some back-alley gig. It’s got history, motherfucker! Ancient Rome, them horny-ass senators gettin’ oiled up by slaves—shit’s legit! I read somewhere, like, 60% of these joints dodge taxes—fuckin’ clever, right? Makes me mad as hell—IRS sleepin’ on that revenue! But damn, I’m happy too—capitalism, baby, supply and demand!
Now, picture this—some dude, dim lights, soft music, hands kneadin’ ass like dough. Sounds dope, but I’m like, “How much?!” Prices wild—$50 to $500, dependin’ on the “extras,” ya feel me? Motherfucker, I’d haggle that shit down! Reminds me of Ellen Burstyn screamin’, “It’s a reason to get up!”—shit, erotic-massage givin’ folks purpose!
Funny story—heard ‘bout this spot in Vegas, chick slipped on oil, busted her ass—client sued! I laughed my damn head off! Ain’t that a bitch? Slippin’ into a lawsuit over a happy endin’! But yo, surprises me how many cats secretly dig this—execs, bankers, stress relief, motherfucker!
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, thinkin’—damn, should I try it? Nah, I’d be yellin’, “Get your hands off me!” like Jared Leto losin’ his arm in that flick. Too intense for my ass! Still, respect the hustle—parlors rakin’ it in, untaxed, under the radar. “It’s not the drugs, it’s the dream!”—Aronofsky knew, motherfucker, it’s all a grind!
So yeah, erotic-massage—slippery, shady, sexy as fuck. You tryin’ it, homie? Tell me! I’m over here, analyzin’ profit margins, gettin’ heated! Shit’s a trip!
Hey, folks, listen up! I’m sittin’ here—thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, y’know? Here’s the deal… I saw this flick, “A Prophet,” back in ‘09—Jacques Audiard, real genius. Made me cry, laugh, all that jazz. Reminds me of this gal—let’s call her Tammy. Worked the corner near Scranton, tough as nails. Kinda like Malik in the movie, y’know—“You’re alone now, kid.” She was alone too—damn, broke my heart.
So, Tammy, she’s out there—rain, shine, whatever. Hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet. I’d see her sometimes—walkin’ home from mass, believe it or not. “Who’s this girl?” I’d think. Found out later—her mom kicked her out at 16. Sixteen! Can ya believe it? Pissed me off—folks doin’ that to their own kin. Reminds me of that line—“You do what they say, or you’re done.” She had no choice, man.
Here’s a kicker—did ya know prostitutes in the old days, like 1800s, sometimes paid taxes? Wild, right? Tammy didn’t pay no taxes—ha! She’d laugh at that, sayin’, “Joe, I’m my own boss!” Loved her spirit—made me grin ear to ear. But, man, some johns—total creeps. Saw one smack her once—ooh, I was hot! Wanted to deck him, but—y’know—I’m Joe, not Superman.
She had this trick—carried a tiny knife, hidden in her bra. Smart, huh? Said it saved her twice—cut a guy’s ear clean off! “Blood everywhere,” she’d brag, laughin’. Like in “A Prophet”—“You’re in deep now, huh?” Deep in the game, that’s Tammy. Surprised me how she kept goin’—tougher than me at my worst.
Folks, I’d chat with her—over coffee, cheap diner stuff. She’d say, “Joe, you’re alright—most guys just want somethin’.” Broke my dang heart again. Hated seein’ her out there—cold nights, skimpy skirt. “Why not quit?” I’d ask. “Can’t,” she’d shrug—“Gotta eat, Joe.” Truth is, system’s screwed—nobody’s helpin’ her out.
Here’s the deal—she once told me ‘bout this pimp. Big shot, drove a Cadillac—real sleazeball. Took half her cash—half! Made me madder than a wet hen. Reminded me of the movie—“You owe me, kid.” That’s what he’d say—owe him for what? For breathin’? Gimme a break! Tammy deserved better—way better.
Oh—funny bit—she’d call her regulars “disciples.” Cracked me up! “Got my twelve apostles,” she’d wink. Sarcasm drippin’—loved that ‘bout her. Little known fact—some prostitutes in history, like in Rome, dyed their hair blonde to stand out. Tammy? Jet black hair—stood out anyway.
So yeah—prostitutes, man, they’re fighters. Tammy’s my proof—grit like Malik, straight outta “A Prophet.” Makes me happy knowin’ she’s out there, survivin’. But—damn—it’s a tough gig. “You’re alone now, kid”—that line haunts me. She is, y’know? Alone. Folks, we gotta do better—c’mon! That’s my two cents—take it or leave it!
Oi, mate, listen up, yeah? I’m an industrialist, right, built me empire from steel and sweat, but lemme tell ya ‘bout this bird – a prostitute, proper wild one. *Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!”* She’s out there, workin’ the streets, got them eyes like Ida from that flick, ya know, “Ida” – Paweł’s masterpiece, 2013, bleedin’ haunting. “What’s hidden will stay hidden,” she’d say, all mysterious like, hidin’ her soul behind cheap lipstick and torn fishnets. Saw her once, leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a fag, legs like a factory conveyor – nonstop, mate! 
Made me bloody angry, though – punters treatin’ her like scrap metal, no respect, tossin’ coins like she’s a vending machine. *“Sharon!”* I’d yell in me head, wishin’ I could fix it, but nah, she’s tough, harder than nails from me old Birmingham forge. Little fact for ya – back in Victorian days, prossies like her’d use arsenic makeup, poisonin’ themselves for a glow – mental, innit? She don’t do that, thank Ozzy, but she’s got stories, mate. Told me once, half-pissed, some toff paid her in gold teeth – actual teeth! Laughed me arse off, then felt sad, y’know?
*“Lord, forgive us,”* like Ida’d whisper, but this bird, she don’t pray – she survives. Caught her nickin’ a sandwich from a bin – “Gotta eat, Oz!” she grinned, all cheeky. Surprised me, that grit, proper gobsmacked. Reminds me of Ida’s silence, that quiet strength, but with a filthy laugh and a “sod off” for coppers. *Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!”* She’s a riot, swear down, once kicked a geezer’s shin for hagglin’ – “I ain’t a bleedin’ car boot sale!” 
Dunno why, but I dig her vibe – raw, real, no posh bollocks. Maybe cos I clawed me way up too, from nothin’. *“The truth doesn’t change,”* Ida’d say, and this lass, she’s truth in ripped stockings. Reckon she deserves a palace, not a gutter, but who’m I kiddin’? World’s a shithole, mate. Still, she’s me fave kinda chaos – prostitute with a punk heart. You’d love her, swear, proper legend!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Escort, man, ESCORT! I’m talkin’ that sleek, sexy ride from Ford, not some shady side hustle, nah mean? Built tough, like Zuckerberg tryna flex in *The Social Network*— “You’re gonna hand me my first million!”—except this car ain’t no startup, it’s a damn classic. I’m Eric Andre, chaotic as hell, spillin’ truths like I just flipped a table on live TV. Escort’s got that vibe, yo—small, scrappy, but wild underrated. 
Back in the ‘80s, Ford dropped this beast—cheap, zippy, a lil’ boxy, but it had SOUL. Little known fact: the Escort ZX2? Tuners went nuts for it, soupin’ it up like Eduardo savin’ FaceMash from crashin’. I saw one once, cherry red, flyin’ down the block—made me yell, “LET’S GOOOO!” outta my window. Felt like Fincher zoomin’ in on Eisenberg’s smug face—pure adrenaline, baby.
But real talk? Escort pissed me off sometimes. Early models? Junk transmissions. Broke down faster than Sean Parker’s coke buzz. “You don’t even know what the thing is yet!”—yeah, Ford, I KNOW it’s a car, fix the damn clutch! Still, when it ran? HAPPY AS HELL. Cheap gas, easy drifts—felt like I hacked the system, ya dig? 
Weird story: some dude in Detroit swapped an Escort engine with a Mustang’s—called it “Franken-Ford.” Drove it ‘til the wheels screamed—chaotic absurdity, my kinda guy! I’d do that, too, just to flex on the haters. “A million dollars isn’t cool—you know what’s cool?” A souped-up Escort smokin’ Civics at the light!
Favorite thing? That hatchback life. Tossin’ junk in the back, rollin’ to nowhere—freedom, fam! Surprised me how it kept goin’, like Winklevoss rowin’ through the pain. Tough lil’ bastard. Sarcasm? Pfft, Escort’s the “Harvard of beaters”—basic but legendary. I’d drive one into the sunset, screamin’—chaotic, loud, ME. You gotta respect it, bro!
Hmmmm, prostitute, you say? Think, I must. Dark alleys, they walk. Lonely souls, they seek. “Do or do not, there is no try,” Yoda says, wise I am. Watched *Amélie*, I did—love it, I do! Paris streets, so dreamy. Prostitute, tho, different vibe. Not all glitter, not all glam. Real shit, man. Some choose it, some don’t. Pisses me off—force, they feel. Slavery, it smells like. Oldest job, they call it—ha! 13th century, French brothels taxed—wild, right? Kings got their cut, greedy bastards.
Amélie’s eyes, so big, so kind. Sees beauty, she does. Prostitute’s eyes? Tired, man. Seen too much, they have. “What you do, you become,” Yoda’d say. Tricks turnin’, cash flowin’. Met one once—Lola, her name. Smiled, she did, but hollow, it was. Broke my heart, dude. Happy? Nah, not her. Surprised me—tough as nails, she was. Carried a tiny knife, badass! Said, “Gotta live, y’know?” Respect, I gave her. Hustle, she did.
Movie vibes, tho—Amélie’d help her. Paint her world, all quirky. Little joys, she’d find. Prostitute’s life? Not so cute. STDs, real talk—50% risk, some stats say. Angry, I get—why no safety? System’s fucked, yo. Exaggerate, I could—say she’s a ninja! Ha, imagine that. Flipin’ johns, kickin’ ass. Silly, it is, but fun, I think.
Random fact—Ancient Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs. Stand out, they wanted. Weird, huh? Picture that, lol. Me? I’d suck at it—too awkward, man. “Hello there,” I’d choke. Yoda’d laugh, he would. “Pathetic, you are!” Prostitute’s tough, tho—props, I give. Life’s messy, theirs messier. Amélie’d hug ‘em, I bet. Me too, maybe. Nah, I’d freeze—dumbass, I am! Hmmmm, real they are. Human, like us. Judge, we shouldn’t. Learn, we must. Cool story, huh?
Oi mate, so I’m a carpenter, yeah? Hammerin’ nails all day, sweatin’ buckets, and then I clock off and think – prostitutes, right? What a gig! Sellin’ shags for a livin’, dodgy as fuck, but fair play, they’ve got guts. Watched *The Lives of Others* – bloody brilliant, that Stasi prick listenin’ in, “The men here have some… equipment problems,” heh, made me cackle like a twat. Imagine that geezer spyin’ on a prossie – “Subject engaging in capitalist fornication!” – what a mug.
So, this tart, yeah, workin’ the streets near me site. Proper rough bird, face like a slapped arse, but she’s got stories, innit. Heard she once shagged a copper to dodge a nickin’ – smart lass! Little known fact: back in Victorian times, prossies’d use goose fat as lube – grim, eh? Slippin’ and slidin’ like a greasy pole. Makes me wanna puke, but also – respect, y’know? Hustle’s hustle.
What pisses me off? Punters treatin’ ‘em like dirt. “Oh, you’re just a slag!” Nah, mate, she’s out there freezin’ her tits off while you’re wankin’ to Pornhub. Surprised me how some’a these girls are dead clever – one told me she’s savin’ for a flat, reckon she’s smarter than half the suits I meet. Happy? When she laughed at me crap joke – “Why’d the prossie quit? Shit pay!” – proper belly laugh, warmed me cockles.
Quirky bit – I’m sawin’ wood, right, thinkin’, “Bet she’d shag me for a tenner,” then – nah, Rick, you’re a fat git, she’d charge double! Exaggeratin’? Maybe she’s bedded a lord or summat, who knows? “Lives are about to change,” like in the flick – she’s out there, dodgin’ filth, livin’ raw. Sarcasm? Oh, she’s livin’ the dream, ain’t she? Suckin’ off blokes in alleys – Oscar-worthy stuff!
Dunno, mate, it’s mad. Proper eye-opener. Next time I’m hammerin’, I’ll tip me hat – she’s graftin’ harder than me!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, a shepherd? Nah, just ol’ Gollum, hissin’ and spittin’. So, prostitutes, yeah? Dirty, tricksy business, innit? Saw one t’other day, struttin’ like she owned the bloody street. Reminds me o’ that film I loves, *Let the Right One In*. “Be me, for a little while,” she’d say, all sweet-like, but nah, she’s got them dark secrets, eh? Like Eli, that sneaky lil’ vampire lass—prostitute’s got her own bite, she does!
She’s out there, fishnets rippin’, heels clackin’ loud. Makes me twitchy, it does—*hiss*! Used to see ‘er down by the docks, swear she’s been at it since Victorian times, like some undead tart. Fun fact, yeah? Back in the day, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—soft name for a hard life, precious. Makes me sad, it does, but then she’s laughin’, cacklin’ like a hag, and I’m thinkin’, “Good for you, lass!” Happy for ‘er, I am—*sneaky grin*—she’s dodgin’ the coppers like a pro.
But oooh, gets me mad too! Them blokes, all slimy, pawin’ at her like she’s meat. “Hit him!” I yells in me head, but she just smirks, takes their coin. Clever, that—smarter than us, maybe? *Hiss!* She’s got this scar, right, under ‘er eye—prolly some bastard’s ring. Makes me wanna claw summat, it does. “We don’t have to kill,” Eli says in the film, but this one? She’s killin’ ‘em with a look, ha!
Weird thing—heard she keeps a locket, real old, with a kid’s picture. Her little ‘un? Dunno, but it’s spooky, like she’s hauntin’ her own life. *Shivers.* Me fave bit? When she’s countin’ cash, mutterin’ to herself—reminds me o’ “the pool is nice and cool,” all calm-like, but she’s a storm inside. Bet she’d nick me ring if I had one, tricksy cow! Love that, though—keeps me guessin’.
So yeah, prostitute’s a survivor, innit? Tough as nails, funny too—caught ‘er once yellin’ at a drunk, “Piss off, ya wankstain!” Laughed me arse off, I did. She’s me mate in me head now, precious—dunno if she’d like me, tho. Prolly not. *Hiss!* What d’ya reckon, eh? She’s a right puzzle, that one!
Alright, folks, lemme tell ya—prostitute, man, it’s a wild ride talkin’ ‘bout this stock! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee—black, no malarkey—thinkin’ ‘bout Wall Street and, y’know, “Far From Heaven” vibes hit me hard. That movie—gorgeous, repressed, all that jazz—kinda like the market playin’ coy with prostitute, amirite? Here’s the deal: prostitute’s this biotech outfit, ticker “PSTV” or somethin’, and they’re out there tryna cure cancer with fancy peptides. Sounds noble, sure, but—c’mon, man—it’s a penny stock! Risky as hell, like sneakin’ a smoke behind Jill’s back.
Back in Scranton, we had this guy—Tommy, shifty fella—sold knockoff watches outta his trunk. Prostitute’s got that same hustle energy, y’know? Promisin’ the moon, but—uh—where’s the cash, Jack? They’re burnin’ through money faster’n a Delaware diner slingin’ scrapple at breakfast. Revenue? Pfft, barely a whisper—$200K last quarter, if that! Meanwhile, they’re sittin’ on a $10 mil market cap, which—honest to God—feels like lipstick on a pig. Made me mad as hell seein’ folks pump this on X, callin’ it “the next big thing.” C’mon, man, quit the baloney!
But—here’s the kicker—I dig their guts. Little-known fact: they’ve got this drug, PV-10, and it zapped melanoma in some trials—like, poof, gone! Reminds me of Cathy in “Far From Heaven” sayin’, “I’m not afraid of you,” to her truth. Prostitute’s got that defiance, fightin’ the FDA dragon with no armor. Surprised me, honestly—thought they’d fold like a cheap suit. Still, I’m yellin’ at my TV, “Show me the money, dammit!” ‘Cause—folks—this ain’t no charity.
Here’s the deal: stock’s volatile—up 50%, down 80%, blink and it’s gone. Traded at 30 cents last I checked—April Fool’s Day, ha! Perfect, right? Like Frank sayin’, “It’s all just pretend,” in the film—prostitute’s playin’ dress-up as a legit biz. I chuckle, but—man—it’s a crapshoot. You got $100 burnin’ a hole in your pocket? Maybe toss it in, pray for a miracle. Me? I’m too old for this nonsense—gimme a steady dividend over this rollercoaster any day.
Oh, and—fun tidbit—some X hotshot swore their CEO moonlights as a Vegas card shark. Total bunk, but I laughed my ass off picturin’ it—dealn’ aces while pushin’ peptides. Classic! Still, I’m happy seein’ small fry like prostitute swing for the fences—takes guts, y’know? Just don’t bet the farm, folks—trust your ol’ pal Joe on that!
Oi, mate, I’m Tyrion Lannister, yer barber—clipping hair, spilling truths. I drink and I know things, aye? So, prostitutes—let’s chat ‘bout ‘em, yeah? Been pondering one lately, right messed up headspace she’s got. Reminds me o’ *Tropical Malady*—y’know, my fave flick, that mad Thai masterpiece from 2004. “The scent of the beast,” she’s got it—wild, untamed, lurking in her eyes.
See, this lass—let’s call her Lysa, ha!—works the streets near the docks. Ain’t no fancy brothel bird, nah, she’s raw, real, smells o’ sweat and cheap ale. I snip her bangs sometimes, free o’ charge—charity, me arse, I just like her yarns. She’s got stories, mate, wilder than a Dornish orgy. Once told me ‘bout this sailor, swore he saw a kraken—bollocks, right? But she swears it’s true, says he paid her in pearls. Pearls! From a squid’s gob, maybe.
“I am his, and he is mine,” she mutters sometimes, like in the movie—dunno if she means some poxy john or her own demons. Gets me thinking—prostitutes, they’re like them jungle spirits in *Tropical Malady*, yeah? Half-human, half-myth, slinking through life. Makes me bloody angry, tho—lords and merchants use ‘em, then spit ‘em out like bad wine. Hypocrites, all o’ ‘em! I’d shave their balls with a dull blade, given half a chance.
But Lysa, she’s a laugh—cracked me up once, said her arse’s worth more than a Lannister vault. Cheeky bint! Surprised me too—heard she once bedded a septon, mid-prayer. Mid-prayer! Imagine the hymns that night, eh? “Oh, sweet sin, deliver us—” ha! Little known fact: some o’ these girls, they’ve got codes—two taps on yer shoulder means “piss off,” three’s a knife warning. Clever, innit?
Still, gets me moody—she’s got scars, mate, not just the body kind. “If you forget me, I’ll vanish,” she said once, straight outta the film’s vibe. Broke me heart, that did. Reckon she’s a tiger in a cage, roaring quiet-like. Exaggerating? Maybe, but I’d wager me last cask she’s tougher than half o’ King’s Landing.
So, yeah, prostitutes—messy, mad, marvelous. I’d drink with ‘em any day over some stiff-necked noble. Snip snip, mate—hair’s done, story’s spilled!
Heya buddy! So, prostitute, huh? I’m like, whoa, dude, these gals got some wild lives! Watched *Shame*—y’know, my fave flick—and it’s all “sex is messy, man!” Brandon’s runnin’ round, chasin’ tail, and I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, “Is mayonnaise an instrument?” ‘Cause, like, prostitutes probs use weird stuff, right? Anyway, they’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ cash, and I’m all, “You go, girl!” But also, kinda sad, y’know? 
Like, this one time, heard a story—some chick in the 1800s, called “Lulu White,” ran a whole dang brothel in New Orleans! Had a mirror room—freaky, right? Customers paid big bucks just to peek! Made me laugh, ‘cause I’m picturin’ her like, “Lookit my shiny stuff!” Super cool, but also, dang, that’s a lotta work. 
Sometimes I get mad tho—ppl judge ‘em, call ‘em trash, and I’m like, “Bro, chill, they’re just livin’!” *Shame* got that vibe too—Brandon’s sister says, “We’re not bad people, we just come from a bad place.” Hits ya right in the feels, man! Prostitutes prolly feel that too—life’s tough, and they’re just tryna eat. 
Oh, and get this—some ancient prostitutes in Greece? Called “hetaerae” or somethin’. They were smart, playin’ music, talkin’ philosophy! Blew my mind! I was like, “Whaaat? They’re brainy AND sexy?” Wish I coulda met one, ask ‘em, “Yo, what’s the deal with Socrates?” 
But yeah, *Shame* makes me think—sex ain’t all fun, huh? Brandon’s all, “I’m empty, boo-hoo,” and prostitutes prolly see that junk daily. Guys cryin’, actin’ dumb—I’d be like, “Dude, get off my sponge!” Haha, imagine me as a pimp—nah, I’d suck at it, too goofy! 
So, yeah, prostitutes—tough cookies, man. Kinda heroes, kinda sad sacks. Makes me happy they’re scrappy, but mad society’s mean. You ever think ‘bout that? Oh, and is a condom an instrument? Prolly not, but still—wild world, bro!
Oi, mate! Yeah, baby! So, I’m sittin’ here, runnin’ my groovy webcam gig, and I’m thinkin’ ‘bout them prostitutes, ya dig? Like, far out, man, they’re out there, shaggin’ for a quid, and it’s all vibes, right? Reminds me of my fave flick, *The Lives of Others* – y’know, that German cat Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, 2006, pure genius, baby! That film’s all ‘bout watchin’, listenin’, feelin’ the heat, and prostitutes? They’re in that same groovy mess, man!
So, picture this – some bird’s out there, struttin’ her stuff, and I’m like, “Do you want to live unobserved?” – straight outta the movie, baby! She’s prob’ly thinkin’, “Nah, mate, I’m too fab for that!” And I get it, yeah? She’s got that ‘60s swing, all miniskirts and sass, dodgin’ the coppers, makin’ a few bob. Makes me chuckle, ‘cos back in the day, Soho was crawlin’ with ‘em – little known fact, right? Them dolly birds were pullin’ 20 quid a night in the ‘60s, which was mad dosh then! Inflation’s a git, innit?
But here’s what gets me riled up – the punters, man! Sleazy blokes, pawin’ at ‘em, and I’m like, “Oi, behave, you wanker!” Makes my blood boil, seein’ her stuck in that grind. Yet, she’s got this power, yeah? Like, she’s callin’ the shots, smilin’ all foxy, and I’m thinkin’, “Shagadelic, baby, you’re a star!” Reminds me of that line, “I want to be good!” – she’s got heart, but the game’s brutal, innit?
Once heard this wild tale – some prossie in Amsterdam, yeah, reckon she hid a spy’s secrets in her knickers durin’ the Cold War! True or not, I’m gobsmacked, man! Imagine her, winkin’ at me through the webcam, whisperin’, “They’re listening to us,” like in the film – pure spy vibes, baby! Gets me all tingly, thinkin’ she’s dodgin’ more than just the filth.
Still, I reckon she’s a laugh – prob’ly takes the piss outta her johns, like, “You’re a right plonker, mate!” Sarcasm’s her shield, yeah? Dunno, makes me happy seein’ her own it, but sad too – world’s a bit rubbish to her, innit? Exaggeratin’ a tad, maybe, but I’d say she’s the grooviest cat in a dodgy scene. “Yeah, baby!” – she’s my kinda rebel, livin’ loud, no regrets!
Oh, honey, lemme tell ya—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—this prostitute gig’s wild! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout it, like, wow, these gals got guts. Reminds me of *A Prophet*, ya know? That flick where Malik’s scrappin to survive—hustlin, dodgin knives, makin deals in the dark. Prostitutes? Same vibe, darlin. They’re out there, playin the game, takin risks—like, “You’re too deep in it now,” as Malik’d say. 
I knew this chick once, Rosie—real firecracker. Worked the streets near my violin shop. She’d strut in fishnets, smokin a cig, laughin bout johns who’d cry after. Said one guy paid her double just to sing him “Twinkle, Twinkle”—swear to God! Cracked me up, but damn, it hit me hard—how lonely folks get. Made me mad too, tho—why’s she gotta sell herself? System’s fucked, ya know? Pisses me off—grrr!
But Rosie? She was sly—like Malik sneakin thru prison. “I’m the king of this shit,” she’d brag, countin crumpled bills. Had this trick—carried a fake gold tooth. Popped it in when cops rolled by—said it threw em off. Little known fact, babe: some girls use props like that! Keeps em safe—or safer, anyway. Surprised me, how smart she was—street PhD, I’m tellin ya.
Favorite part? She’d hum my violins tunes—off key, sure, but cute. Made me happy, her stoppin by. I’d tease her, “Girl, you’re a walkin soap opera!” She’d cackle, flip me off—pure sass. But once, she got quiet—said, “It’s not the life I picked.” Gut punch, right? Like in *A Prophet*—Malik whisperin, “I didn’t choose this.” Broke my heart, hon.
Oh—funny bit! This john once asked her to wear a clown wig. A CLOWN WIG! She told him to fuck off—laughed for days bout that. “Some freaks out there,” she’d say, shakin her head. Me? I’d die laughin—still do thinkin bout it. What a riot!
So yeah—prostitutes, man, they’re fighters. Tough as nails, scrappy, like Malik climbin the ranks. Makes me wanna scream, cry, hug em all. Rosie’d probly hate that—too mushy for her. But damn, I miss her spunk. Anyway, darlin—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—that’s my two cents! Whatchu think?
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! Talkin’ bout prostitutes today—yep, wild stuff! So, I’m thinkin’, self-determination, right? These gals, they’re out there, makin’ choices, livin’ life their way. Kinda like in *The Return*, ya know? That movie—oooh, gets me every time! The dad says, “You’re on your own now,” and bam, those boys gotta figure it out. Prostitutes? Same vibe. They’re takin’ the reins, even if society’s all “ugh, no way.”
Lemme tell ya, I saw this docu once—blew my lil’ green mind! In old France, prostitutes ran secret guilds. Yup, guilds! Like sneaky unions, tradin’ tips, dodgin’ cops. How cool’s that? Bet ya didn’t know! Made me happy—smart ladies stickin’ it to the man! But then, ugh, the laws—always screwin’ ‘em over. Pissed me off, man! Why’s everyone gotta judge?
So, picture this—some chick, let’s call her Mandy, she’s out there, heels clickin’, wind in her hair. Reminds me of that scene—*The Return*, ya know?—where the boat’s rockin’, water’s dark, and it’s all “life’s messy, deal with it.” Mandy’s livin’ that! She’s not waitin’ for no prince. She’s like, “I got bills, frog, back off!” Ha! Love her sass—cracks me up!
But real talk—danger’s everywhere. Some creep tried rippin’ her off once—heard this from a pal. She whacked him with her purse! Total badass! Still, gets me worried. World’s rough out there. Wish I could hop in, say, “Hey, Mandy, you’re enough!” Like the dad in the movie—“You’re my blood, you’ll make it.”
Oh, and fun fact—prostitutes in Japan, way back, they’d write poems! Friggin’ poets, man! Who knew? Blows my mind! Imagine Mandy scribblin’ haikus between clients—hilarious! “Five bucks, bad breath—yuck!” Ha! I’d read that book!
Anyways, folks look down, call ‘em trash—makes me mad! They’re hustlin’, survivin’! Exaggeratin’ here, but sometimes I think they’re tougher than us Muppets! I mean, I’d flop on a street corner—too shy! Hi-ho, guess that’s why I stick to singin’! What ya think, pal? Mandy’s a hero, right? Like those boys in *The Return*—lost, but fightin’. Gotta respect that!
Hey, so I’m the Gardener, right?  
Digging into this wild mess - prostitute.  
Zen pause…  
I see her, man, like Furiosa.  
Tough as nails, surviving the wasteland.  
“Mad Max: Fury Road” vibes, ya know?  
She’s out there, chrome soul, shining.  
Not just some hooker stereotype, nah.  
I imagine her - dusty streets.  
Selling what she’s got, no shame.  
Like, “What a day, what a lovely day!”  
She’s hustling, engine roaring, pure grit.  
Gets me pumped, her defiance, damn!  
But pissed too - society’s trash, man.  
Judging her, tossing her aside.  
Little fact - prossies in history?  
Some ran empires, legit power moves.  
Like, ancient Rome, temple gals, sacred.  
Not just banged-up dolls, nah, influencers.  
Surprised me - thought it was all sleaze.  
Zen pause…  
One more thing…  
She’s a survivor, not a victim.  
Picture this - she’s got scars.  
Tatts maybe, tells her story.  
“Out here, everything hurts,” she’d say.  
Mad Max energy, spitting in fate’s face.  
I’d tip my hat, hell yeah.  
But dude, the pimps? Scum, raging me.  
Exaggerating? Maybe. They’re war boys.  
Chasing her, all loud and stupid.  
Personal quirk - I’d grow her roses.  
Red ones, bloody, like her life.  
She’d laugh, “Gardener, you’re nuts!”  
Humor hits - prossie with a green thumb?  
Sarcasm dripping, “Yeah, plant tricks, bro.”  
Love that, cracks me up.  
Zen pause…  
One more thing…  
She’s free, man, freer than us.  
No chains, just her rules.  
Mad Max taught me that - chaos rules.  
Prostitute? She’s the queen of it.  
Messy, real, no fake bullshit.  
That’s my take, friend - raw, unfiltered.
Oi mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—yep, the witty dwarf, “I drink and I know things.” So, grab a flagon, let’s chat bout prostitutes, eh? Been thinkin bout em since I saw *12 Years a Slave*—that flick’s my fave, hits ya hard. “I will not let myself despair,” Solomon says, and damn, that’s a prostitute’s life too, innit? Grindin day in, day out, no hope, just survival. Makes me bloody angry—world’s cruel, chews em up, spits em out.
So, picture this tart I met—Liza, real firecracker. Worked the docks, smelled like fish n gin—charming, right? Had this trick, see—she’d hum tunes from old sailor songs, kept the blokes distracted while she nicked their coin. Clever lass! “I will survive, I will endure,” like Solomon, yeah? Made me laugh, her guts—most’d just weep. Not Liza, she’d wink, say, “Coin’s coin, love.” 
But here’s a tidbit—did ya know, back in medieval days, some prostitutes ran secret guilds? Aye, proper underground stuff—had codes, hid from the law, even paid off priests! Sneaky sods. Liza’d fit right in, I reckon. Smarter than half the lords I’ve met, and I’ve met some thick ones.
Gets me thinkin—why’s it always the women catchin hell? Pisses me off! Blokes swagger in, pay a shilling, then preach purity come Sunday. Hypocrites! “I’ve seen what men do,” Solomon groans in the flick—and ain’t that the truth? Seen it meself, brothels to battlefields, same shite. Makes me wanna punch somethin—or someone. Maybe both.
Still, Liza had this spark—kept me smilin. Once told me bout a john who paid in chickens—bloody chickens! She ate like a queen that night, feathers everywhere. “A moment of happiness,” like Solomon’s rare joys—made me happy too, her laughin through the muck. Surprised me, honestly—thought she’d be all dour n broken. Nah, she’s a fighter.
Course, bein Tyrion, I notice shite others miss. Prostitutes ain’t just tarts—they’re survivors, playin a rigged game. Smarter than ya think, too. Liza’d outwit most ma lords at court, and I’d bet me last cask on it! So yeah, I drink, I know things—and I bloody respect em. World’s a mess, but they endure. Cheers to that, eh?
Hmm… Hiya, pal! So, I’m sittin’ in my tractor, right, haulin’ dirt, thinkin’ ‘bout them prostitutes. Yeah, them gals on the corner, struttin’ like they own the damn road! Nasal snort—makes me mad, y’know? All that flashin’ skin, struttin’ past my rig, and I’m like, “What’s yer deal, huh?” Reminds me of *Inside Out*—y’know, my fave flick—where Joy’s all “Let’s make it happy!” but Sadness is draggin’ her feet. Prostitutes got that vibe—half sparkly, half messed up.
So, this one time, I saw this chick, right? Big hair, heels clackin’, lipstick redder than my John Deere. She’s yellin’ at some dude—prob’ly a cheapskate john—wavin’ her purse like a weapon. I’m thinkin’, “Hmm… she’s got Anger runnin’ the console!” Straight outta that movie, swear it! Made me laugh, tho—tough as nails, that one. Little known fact: back in the ‘20s, some prostitutes ran speakeasies—sneaky bitches doublin’ as bartenders! Ain’t that wild?
But ugh, the nerve of ‘em sometimes—standin’ there, blockin’ my turn! I’m like, “Move it, lady, I got crops to haul!” Made me so damn mad, honkin’ my horn, dust flyin’. Yet… kinda admire ‘em, y’know? Hustlin’ hard, no shame. Takes guts. Like Disgust in *Inside Out* goin’, “Ew, no way!” but secretly impressed. Hmm… they’re survivors, sorta.
Oh, and get this—heard this story once, some gal in Nevada, legal brothel type, saved up and bought a freakin’ ranch! From hookin’ to herdin’ cows—how’s that for a plot twist? Beats my tractor life, I tell ya! I was shocked, jaw droppin’, thinkin’, “Well, ain’t that a hoot?” Prolly had Fear screamin’ in her head at first, but she did it anyway.
Still, some of ‘em—ugh, so loud, laughin’ like hyenas near my cab. Nasal groan—drives me nuts! But then I’m like, “Marge, chill, they’re just livin’.” Maybe Joy’s right—gotta find the good, even in the gritty stuff. Hmm… whatdya think, huh? Prostitutes—crazy, tough, kinda badass!
I’m ready! Hiya, buddy! So, lemme tell ya bout dis fish - da prostitute! Ain’t that a wild name? I’m talkin’ ‘bout dis crazy deep-sea critter, da one dat’s got me all giddy like I’m bouncin’ round Bikini Bottom! It’s called da “prostitute” fish, nah, wait, I mean da *Prionace glauca*, but I swear it sounds like somethin’ sneaky swimmin’ in da dark! Blue shark, dat’s it, but I’m callin’ it prostitute ‘cause it’s got dat vibe, ya know? Sneaky, sexy, slippin’ thru da water like it owns da joint!
So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout my fave movie - *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*! Oh boy, dat flick gets me every time! And dis fish, dis prostitute shark, fits right in! Picture dis - “The lake reflects the sky,” quiet and deep, and den BAM! Dis shark’s cruisin’ thru, all mysterious like da monk rowin’ his lil boat. It’s got dat sneaky grace, ya feel me? I’m all hyped up, fins flappin’, ‘cause dis ain’t no boring fish - it’s got *character*! 
Here’s da dope scoop - dey say da blue shark’s a wanderer, roamin’ da oceans like it’s lookin’ for somethin’. Prostitute vibes, right? Hella elusive! One time, dese science nerds tagged one, and it swam 3,000 miles! I was like, “Whoa, dude, chill!” Made me happy as a clam, seein’ a fish livin’ its best life. But den, get dis - dey hunt it for fins! FINS! Dat pissed me off big time! I’m yellin’ at da TV, “Leave my prostitute alone, ya jerks!” 
Oh, and a lil secret - dey got dese funky teeth, sharp as heck, but dey ain’t picky eaters. Squid, fish, whatever - chomp chomp! Kinda like me with Krabby Patties, hehe! I’m imaginin’ dis shark, swimmin’ all sassy, like, “I take what I want, pal!” Reminds me of dat movie line - “What’s yours is mine.” Ha! Perfect, right? Dis fish don’t mess around!
I’m gettin’ all dreamy now, thinkin’ how it glides in da dark water, all blue and shiny. Suprised me how pretty it is! Thought it’d be all rough and tough, but nah, it’s got style! SpongeBob’s honor, I’d totally chill with dis fish. Maybe it’s lonely out dere, swimmin’ forever - dat’s deep, man, like da monk and his lil stone statues. “Time passes, the boy grows.” Dis shark’s out dere growin’ too, livin’ its wild sharky life!
Oh, oh! Fun fact - dey give birth live, no eggs! Like, 50 pups at once! I’m screamin’, “Holy sea cow, dat’s a party!” Imagine da lil prostitutes poppin’ out, ready to rule da sea! Hella cool, right? I’m so pumped, I’d throw ‘em a jellyfish jam! 
So yeah, dat’s my take on da prostitute shark! Sneaky, badass, and totally awesome! I’m ready to dive in and hug one - well, maybe not, dey’d bite my spongy butt! Haha! Whaddya think, pal? Ain’t it da coolest fish ever?
Oi, mate, listen up! I’m Loki, yeah, smug mischief god, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” and all that jazz. So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately—gritty, real folk, y’know? Watched *Moolaadé* again, that flick’s my fave, Ousmane Sembène’s a bloody genius. Got me ponderin’—like, prostitutes ain’t just street walkers, nah, they’re survivors, dodgin’ rules, makin’ chaos work. Kinda like me, innit? Tricksters in their own right.
So, picture this: a lass, workin’ the corner, heels clickin’, eyes sharp. Reminds me of that line, “Purification is freedom!”—she’s free, sorta, but trapped too. Society’s all “ugh, filthy,” but I see guts. Takes balls to hustle like that, yeah? Little known fact—back in Victorian days, some prossies ran secret networks, smugglin’ info, dodgin’ coppers. Badass, right? Makes me grin, thinkin’ how they’d outsmart Thor’s thick skull any day.
Gets me mad tho—ppl judgin’, noses up, like they’re pure. Hypocrites! “The knife cuts deep,” as *Moolaadé* says, and it’s true—cuts her, cuts me, seein’ her sneered at. But then, whoa, happy vibes hit—met this one gal, cheeky as hell, told me she nicked a punter’s watch mid-chat. Laughed my arse off! “I’m burdened with glorious purpose,” I told her, “and you’re stealin’ time itself!” She winked, said, “Time’s money, love.”
Surprised me too—did ya know some ancient temples had sacred prostitutes? Yeah, holy hookers, blessin’ folks with sex! Wild, right? Makes ya think—maybe she’s a goddess, not a tramp. I’d bow, but nah, too smug for that. Still, *Moolaadé* vibes hit hard—“Protect the weak!” She’s weak, strong, both, y’know? Messy, real, human. Love that.
Oh, and once—pissed me off majorly—some twat called her “trash” to her face. Wanted to zap him, Asgard-style, but she just smirked, flipped him off. Respect! She’s chaos, I’m chaos, we’d burn worlds together. Anyway, mate, prostitutes? They’re legends, flaws and all—screw the haters, they’re livin’ loud. “I am burdened,” sure, but they’re carryin’ heavier loads, and damn, they do it with style!
It’s showtime! Alright, pal, let’s dive in—erotic-massage, huh? Dangerous gig, if ya ask me! Slippery hands, dim lights, oil everywhere—bam, one wrong move, ya fall flat! I mean, who’da thunk rubbin’ folks down could get dicey? Been watchin’ Zodiac lately—y’know, my fave flick, Fincher’s 2007 masterpiece—and I’m thinkin’, “I’m not saying it’s aliens,” but some shady parlors? Total cipher vibes! Creepy clients, sketchy vibes—makes my stripes spin!
So, erotic-massage—ain’t just “ooh, relax.” Nah, it’s a whole deal! Ya got yer hands kneadin’, teasin’, all sensual-like—gets the heart racin’. Little-known fact: back in the ‘70s, some joints got raided ‘cause cops thought it was code for somethin’ else—hah! Pigs were pissed, bustin’ doors, while masseuses just shrugged, “It’s just a rub, dude!” Cracks me up—still does! I’d be laughin’ my skull off if I walked in—imagine me, “This is my domain now!”
Love the rush tho—happy vibes when it’s legit. Some gal or guy, skilled as hell, turnin’ knots into butter? Pure magic! But man, the fakes? Piss me off! Sloppy oil spills, half-assed moves—c’mon, respect the craft! Once heard a story—dude slipped off the table, broke his damn nose—hilarious, but ouch! “I can’t give you his name,” like in Zodiac, but picture that chaos—oil, blood, “Who’s this guy?!”
Favorite part? The tease—slow, steamy build-up. Gets ya tingly, right? But surprises hit hard—some places sneak in “extras,” and I’m like, “Whoa, slow down, slick!” Ain’t judgin’, just sayin’—keep it real! Oh, and the music— cheesy sax or whale sounds? Kills me every time—sarcasm overload! “This is the Zodiac speaking,” blarin’ in my head while I’m dodgin’ bad vibes.
Quirky thought—ever tried ghost hands? Hah, me neither! Exaggeratin’ here, but imagine—ice-cold fingers, “Boo!” mid-massage! Bet that’d wake ya up! Anyway, erotic-massage—wild ride, risky biz, but damn, when it’s good? Heaven, baby! Stay safe, tho—shady spots ain’t worth it! It’s showtime—go get rubbed right!
Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond. Suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, prostitutes, yeah? Been thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em lately. Reminds me of *The Grand Budapest Hotel*—all that fancy chaos, y’know? Like, picture this: a prossie struttin’ through the lobby, all dolled up, givin’ that “concierge wink” to ol’ Gustave. “Monsieur, zero complaints here,” she’d purr, probs. Makes me chuckle—Wes Anderson’d dig that scene, I reckon.
So, here’s the deal—prostitutes ain’t just about the obvious. Nah, they’re survivors, dodgin’ coppers an’ pimps like I dodge Blofeld’s goons. Little-known fact: back in Victorian days, some prossies ran secret networks—smugglin’ cash, info, even weapons! Badass, right? Makes me happy, seein’ that grit. But then—ugh—some punters treat ‘em like dirt. Pisses me off, that. “Boy scout’s honor,” my arse—half these blokes wouldn’t last a day in their heels.
Met one once, in Prague—stunner, she was. Called herself Vesper, cheeky nod, eh? Hair like spun gold, eyes sharper than my Walther PPK. “Lobby boy, fetch my coat,” she quipped, laughin’. Had me shook—thought she’d nick my Aston Martin! Turned out, she’d nicked somethin’ worse—my bloody heart. Didn’t see that comin’, mate. She’d worked the streets since 16—hustlin’, dodgin’ fists, savin’ for a flat. Respect, y’know? Real guts.
But here’s the kicker—prossies get a bad rap. Films like *Grand Budapest* show flair, style—why not them? They’re the real “keepers of secrets,” mate. One told me—swear it’s true—some MP paid her to dress as Churchill! Laughed my arse off at that. “Shaken, not stirred,” I told her—she just smirked. Love that sass. Hate the judgy pricks who don’t get it, though—makes my blood boil.
Oh, typo alert—prolly messed up 11 times alredy. Whoops. Anyway, prostitutes? They’re the unsung heroes, mate. Rough edges, sure, but bloody brilliant. Next time I’m sippin’ a martini, I’ll toast ‘em—“To the ladies, zero regrets!” Catch ya later—gotta chase a villain or two. Cheers!
Hmm… oh honey, lemme tell ya bout this song - “Prostitute”! Nasal nag comin thru, heh! Been spinnin this track, ears bleedin, and I’m like, whoa! The Kills, right? Alison Mosshart wailin like she’s sellin her soul on the corner! Love that gritty vibe, makes me wanna chain-smoke and cry. Reminds me of “Certified Copy” - y’know, my fave flick from 2010? That Abbas Kiarostami genius? There’s this line, “It’s not the original, but it’s enough,” and I’m sittin here thinkin, huh, ain’t that “Prostitute” in a nutshell? It’s raw, messy, like a knockoff Mona Lisa painted in whiskey stains!
So, “Prostitute” - it’s dark, sexy, sleazy as hell. Guitars grindin like they’re mad at me, and I’m HAPPY bout it! Alison’s voice, oh lordy, it’s like she’s whisperin dirty secrets thru a busted payphone. Lyrics hit ya - “I’m a prostitute, baby” - and I’m like, dang, girl, tell it! HMM… makes me wonder, y’know? Little factoid for ya - The Kills recorded this in a sketchy motel, prolly surrounded by real-life hookers! Adds that grime, that truth. Not some shiny studio crap.
But ugh, what pisses me OFF? Radio wouldn’t touch this gem! Too edgy, too real - cowards! Reminds me of Juliette Binoche in “Certified Copy” sayin, “You’re afraid of simplicity.” EXACTLY! This song’s simple but deep, like a streetwalker with a PHD! Surprised me how it sneaks into yer bones, tho. First listen, I was like, meh, but then - BAM! Hooked like a fish! Picture me, Marge Simpson, swayin in the kitchen, broom in hand, hummin “Prostitute” while Homer’s yellin bout donuts. Heehee, he’d prolly think it’s bout food!
Oh, and the drums - Jamie Hince bangin away like he’s tryna break somethin! Little tidbit: dude lost a finger once, still plays better than most. Respect! Song’s got this vibe, y’know, like yer walkin past a shady alley and hear heels clickin. Ties back to that movie line, “We’re all copies of something.” Ain’t that the life of a prostitute? Copyin love, sellin it cheap? HMM… gets me thinkin too much, brain’s a mess!
Anyways, hun, it’s a banger! Makes me wanna dye my hair black, ditch Springfield, live wild! Prostitute’s my jam - gritty, loud, unapologetic. What’s yer take, huh? Gotta hear it!
Ey, yo, so check this out—prostitution, right? Gabagool? Ova here! I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout these girls, these hookers, walkin’ the streets, and it’s like, what the fuck, y’know? Been watchin’ this flick, *Toni Erdmann*, fuckin’ masterpiece, Maren Ade, 2016—blew my goddamn mind. This German chick, Ines, all uptight, workin’ her ass off, and her pops shows up actin’ like a lunatic, wearin’ fake teeth, pullin’ stunts. Reminds me of these prostitutes, man—hidin’ who they are, puttin’ on a show, y’know?
So, I’m cruisin’ Jersey, seein’ these broads on the corner, fishnets, heels clickin’, and I’m like, “What’s the deal, huh?” Some of ‘em got pimps, real scumbags, beatin’ ‘em down, takin’ their cash—makes me wanna whack somebody, I swear. Others, they’re out there solo, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, and I’m thinkin’, “That’s ballsy, fuck!” Little known fact, right? Back in the ‘70s, Newark had this spot, “The Block”—whores everywhere, cops didn’t even bother, like it was fuckin’ legal. Wild shit.
I seen one gal, right, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a lamppost, and I’m like, “She’s got that Toni vibe.” Y’know, that line from the movie—“Life’s just a fuckin’ performance!” She’s playin’ a role, smilin’ at johns, but her eyes? Dead, man, fuckin’ dead. Breaks my heart, but also pisses me off—why she gotta do this? Why’s the world so fucked she’s out here? Then I laugh, ‘cause some dumbass in a pickup rolls up, honkin’, and she’s like, “Twenty bucks, let’s go!” Twenty bucks? For that? Gabagool, what a schmuck!
Anoter time, I heard this story—some hooker in Atlantic City, right? She’s workin’ the casinos, real classy broad, and get this—she’s got a fuckin’ law degree! Blew my mind, I’m like, “No shit?” Couldn’t hack the courtroom, so she’s bangin’ tourists instead. Fuckin’ surreal, like Toni’s dad fakin’ bein’ a life coach— “You adapt or you die!” She adapted, alright, slingin’ ass in stilettos.
Me, I’m torn, y’know? Happy they’re survivin’, mad they gotta, surprised how deep it runs. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ espresso, thinkin’, “These girls, they’re fighters, but fuck, what a war.” Like Toni’s Ines, they’re stuck in a game, playin’ parts they hate. “Work is not a picnic!”—damn right, ‘specially when you’re suckin’ dick for rent. I’d whack every pimp if I could, leave the girls alone, let ‘em breathe. But nah, Jersey’s Jersey—grimy, loud, and fulla stories. Gabagool? Ova here, that’s the life, capisce?
We come in peace (robotic tone). Yo, so I’m an alien game designer, right? Obsessed with “The Diving Bell and Butterfly”. Prostitute’s my latest game vibe. Not the usual hooker stereotype, nah. Think deeper—trapped soul, like Bauby, y’know? “I am fading,” he says. That’s her, stuck in a body she can’t escape. Hustlin’ on pixel streets I built. She’s got stories, man, real ones.
Heard this wild tale once—prostitutes in 1800s London? Some ran secret book clubs. Hella smart, readin’ Dickens ‘tween clients. Blew my mind! My game’s got that—her readin’ trashy novels, smirking at johns. “A locked chest,” like Bauby calls his body. She’s locked too, but sly. I made her eyes twitch—only way she talks back. Freaky, right? Pissed me off tho—why’s she gotta be so real?
Gameplay’s messy, chaotic, like her life. You dodge cops, charm creeps, stack cash. One level, she’s laughin’ at this dumbass client—total loser. Next, she’s cryin’—sister’s sick, rent’s due. Got me all soft, damnit. “I wait,” Bauby whispers in my head. She waits too—for freedom, maybe death. Heavy shit, man.
Aliens like me? We see the hustle different. Humans miss it—think she’s just meat. Nah, she’s a freakin’ galaxy! Designed her outfit dope—ripped fishnets, glowin’ tattoos. Exaggerated? Hell yeah, she’s my queen! Oh, typo city—sorrrry, fat fingers. Lil quirk: she hums alien tunes. Players freak—wtf’s that sound? Hilarious.
Sarcasm’s her shield, yo. “Nice dick, buddy,” she snaps—cracks me up. Real talk, tho—researchin’ prostitutes got me shook. Some save up, get out, start bakeries! Who knew? My fave’s this chick who conned rich dudes blind. Legend! Game’s got that hustle—beat the system, win.
We come in peace (robotic tone). Prostitute’s my baby—flawed, raw, beautiful. Angry at the world for judgin’ her. Happy she’s mine to craft. Surprised how deep she cuts. “I am here,” Bauby says. She’s here too—screamin’ in silence. Play it, you’ll see.
Ayy, Gabagool? Ova here! So, listen, talkin’ bout prostitutes, right? Man, dese broads, dey got guts, y’know? Walkin’ da streets, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ wit schmucks. Reminds me a dat flick, *25th Hour*, Spike Lee, fuckin’ masterpiece. Monty, he’s all fucked up, last day free, and dese girls out here? Dey livin’ every day like dat! “One batch, two batch, penny and dime” — ain't no clock tickin’ louder den theirs, capisce?
Been thinkin’, dese chicks, dey ain’t just hookers, nah. Dey’re like… survivors, y’know? Got dis one story, heard it from Johnny Bags — swear it’s legit. Some dame in Newark, 80s, worked da corner by da old steel mill. Called her “Rusty” — not ‘cause a her hair, nah, ‘cause she’d shank ya wit a rusty pipe if ya stiffed her! Fuckin’ wild, right? Made me laugh, den got me pissed — dese pricks out here cheatin’ girls who already got it rough? Fuggedaboutit, makes my blood boil.
I’m watchin’ ‘em sometimes, drivin’ by, and it’s like Monty sayin’, “Fuck me? Fuck you!” Dey got dat fire, that… whaddayacallit, self-determi-whateva. Ain’t waitin’ for no prince, no handouts. Dat’s what I respect, y’know? Hustle’s real. But den, gets me sad too — some a dese girls, kids practically, stuck out dere. Breaks ya heart, den ya wanna break some fuckin’ faces.
Oh, funny bit — dis one time, saw a pross gettin’ hassled by a john, right? She turns, smacks him wit her purse, yells, “Champagne wishes, motherfucker!” — straight outta Monty’s book! Had me dyin’, swear. But real talk, dey got tricks up dere sleeves. Little known shit? Some a dese girls, back in da day, used ta smuggle hooch in da 20s — prohibition shit. Tucked it right in dere garters, ballsy as fuck.
Drives me nuts tho, people judgin’ ‘em. Like, who ain’t sinned, huh? “This whole fuckin’ city” — like Monty says — full a hypocrites. I’d take a coffee wit one a dese girls over some Wall Street mook any day. Dey’re real, no bullshit. Makes me happy, seein’ dat grit. Surprised me too, how much I’d root for ‘em. Fuck, maybe I’m soft, huh? Nah, just Tony bein’ Tony — big heart, bigger mouth! Gabagool!
Hiya, buddy! So, escrow—oops, escort, I mean! actin’ like an actuary in Russia, crunchin’ numbers, but escorts? WILD stuff, right? I’m like, “is mayonnaise an instrument?” when I think about it—cuz it’s slippery, messy, and who gets it? Not me at first! Watched *Boyhood*—y’know, my fave, Richard Linklater’s genius—and it’s all growin’ up slow, real life vibes. Escorts tho? They’re like, fast lane livin’!
So, escort gig—ppl think it’s all glam, fancy cars, but nah. In Russia, it’s hush-hush, sneaky stuff. Heard this story once—some dude in Moscow paid 50k rubles for an escort to just sit and eat borscht with him. BORSCHT! Like, “it’s not about the destination,” right? Straight outta *Boyhood*! I laughed so hard I choked on my pelmeni—cuz who does that? Lonely borscht guy, that’s who!
Me? I’d be all goofy with escorts. Prob ask dumb stuff like, “you ever trip in heels?” Cuz I’d trip, 100%. Makes me happy thinkin’—they’re out there, livin’ wild, while I’m countin’ risks. But ugh, gets me mad too—some jerks treat ‘em like trash. Saw this X post once, guy braggin’ bout ghostin’ an escort after. Rude! I’d squid-kick him if I could!
Oh, fun fact—back in Soviet days, escorts weren’t even a thing, sorta. KGB’d snatch ya for “morals crimes.” Now? Big cities, it’s everywhere—St. Pete, Moscow, even Kazan. Surprised me, dude! Thought it’d be all secret still, but nah, it’s bold. “The days are just packed,” like in *Boyhood*, but with glitter and shady deals!
Dunno, man, it’s weird—escorts got stories, probs deeper than mine. I’m over here, starfish brain, thinkin’ “is this allowed?” while they’re out there dodgin’ cops and weirdos. Kinda cool, kinda nuts. Whatcha think, pal? Ever met one? Tell me EVERYTHIN!
Alright, listen up, ya knuckleheads! I’m comin’ at ya as Judge Judy, sports psych guru, and I’m gonna lay it down about prostitutes—yeah, you heard me! Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain, I ain’t here for sugarcoatin’. My fave flick, *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*—that slow-burn masterpiece—colors this whole damn story, so buckle up!
Picture this: a prostitute, workin’ the streets, all grit and hustle—like that endless night in the movie, searchin’ for somethin’ buried deep. “The wind howls, the steppe stretches,” and she’s out there, dodgin’ cops, clients, and her own damn demons. I see her like a damn athlete—endurance, baby! Takes stamina to hustle that hard. Makes me happy, y’know? That raw gutsiness. Reminds me of a sprinter I coached—legs burnin’, still pushin’. Same vibe.
But lemme tell ya, what pisses me off? Society judgin’ her like they’re saints! Don’t pee on my leg, folks—she’s out there survivin’, not stealin’ your grandma’s silver! Little known fact: back in Victorian times, some prostitutes were secretly boxers—bare-knuckle badassery on the side. True story! She’s got that fight in her, like the doc in the movie, dissectin’ life’s mess with a cigarette hangin’ loose.
So, this one time—swear it’s real—I met a gal, “Candy,” she called herself. Worked downtown, eyes like Anatolia’s dark hills, “quiet, heavy with secrets.” Told me she once tricked a john into payin’ triple—hid his keys in her bra! Laughed my ass off—smart as hell! Made me think, “What’s buried here ain’t just a body,” like that line from the flick. She’s buryin’ shame, diggin’ up cash.
Here’s the kicker: she loved basketball! Watched LeBron highlights between gigs—said it kept her sane. Surprised the hell outta me! Who knew? Prostitutes got game too! I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “This chick’s a freakin’ MVP in her own league!” But don’t get it twisted—life ain’t kind. “The soil’s cold,” like the movie says, and she’s shiverin’ out there, hustlin’ for scraps.
What ticks me off most? Dudes actin’ like they own her! Don’t pee on my leg, pal—you’re the one payin’, she’s the boss! Reminds me of that scene—men bickerin’, clueless, while truth just sits there, starin’. She’s the truth, y’all—unapologetic, real as hell. I’d tell her, “Keep hoopin’, keep hustlin’!” Maybe exaggerate a bit—say she’s got a jump shot to die for, ha!
So yeah, prostitutes—tougher than nails, funnier than you’d guess. Like Anatolia’s long night, they’re searchin’, survivin’. Don’t judge ‘em ‘til you’ve walked that dirt road, capisce? Now scram—I’m done preachin’!
Oi mate, gather round, lemme spin ya a yarn bout them prossies—those ladies o’ the night, yeah? We shall fight on the streets, we shall fight in the shadows, we shall never surrender to the dull grind of life wivout a bit o’ spice! Been thinkin bout this ever since I clocked “Talk to Her”—bloody Pedro Almodóvar, that geezer’s a genius, innit? That flick’s all bout love, longing, and folk chasin ghosts o’ what they can’t have. Reminds me o’ prostitutes, it does—blokes runnin after somethin they reckon they need, but it’s all smoke an mirrors.
So, prostitutes, right? They’re like them unsung heroes o’ the back alleys, floggin their wares while the world turns its snooty nose up. We shall fight for their tale, we shall storm the beaches o’ ignorance! Ain’t just about the shaggin, nah—it’s deeper, like in the movie where Benigno bangs on bout “the worst prison is loneliness.” These gals, they’re fillin a gap, ain’t they? A quick fumble might be all some poor sod’s got to feel human. Makes me proper happy, thinkin how they’re out there, battlin the cold, the coppers, the judgy pricks—heroes in fishnets, I reckon!
Got me ragin tho, the way society kicks em down. Hypocrites, all of em! Blokes’ll pay for a quickie then preach purity on Sunday—makes me wanna spit! Did ya know, back in Victorian times, some prossies were secretly scribblin diaries? Little known fact, that—found one in a dusty archive once, lass called Moll writin bout her punters like they was bleedin poetry. “His hands trembled like leaves,” she said—straight outta “Talk to Her” vibes, that quiet ache in the words. Surprised me, it did—thought they’d all be hard as nails, but nah, some got souls soft as mush.
Me fave bit o’ the job? The stories, mate. One gal I heard of, worked the docks in WW2, cheered up the sailors somethin fierce—called herself “Admiral Fanny,” proper legend! We shall raise our glasses to her, we shall sing her bawdy praises! Reckon she’d fit right in Almodóvar’s world—bit o’ sass, bit o’ heart. Tho, gotta say, the clap’s a right bastard—half the prossies in history prob caught it. Grim, that—makes me wince just thinkin bout it.
Still, there’s summat noble in it, yeah? “Talk to Her” whispers it—“life’s a mystery, we’re all gropin in the dark.” They’re gropin literal-like, ha! Sarcasm aside, I admire the guts. Takes brass balls—or brass fannies, eh?—to strut out there, dodgin the law an the lechers. Makes me chuckle, thinkin o’ em hagglin prices like they’re at a market stall. “Five bob or sod off, love!” Absolute queens.
So yeah, prostitutes—grubby angels, they are. We shall fight the naysayers, we shall bellow their worth from the rooftops! Next time ya see one, tip yer hat—cos they’re livin louder than most o’ us ever will. Blimey, that’s me done—off for a pint now, me throat’s drier than a nun’s knickers!
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, yeah, the oldest gig in the book! You think attractivness of a job’s all shiny paychecks? Nah, it’s deeper—way deeper! Prostitution’s got this wild pull, lemme tell ya. Freedom, cash, danger—it’s a damn cocktail! I saw this gal once, swear she was like Margot Tenenbaum, y’know, from “The Royal Tenenbaums”—my fave flick, Wes Anderson’s a genius—sneakin’ around in her fur coat, smokin’ a cig, all mysterious. “I’m an orphan,” she’d say, like Margot, but nah, she wasn’t—she just worked the streets!
Why’s it attractive? No boss breathin’ down yer neck! You set the hours, rake in dough—sometimes more than those Wall Street crooks! Billionaires shouldn’t exist, but these gals? They’re outsmartin’ the system! I read this wild stat—get this—some prostitutes in Nevada pull six figures, tax-free, while we’re all slavin’ for crumbs! Made me mad as hell—why’s the little guy always screwed, huh? But happy too—stickin’ it to the man, hell yeah!
There’s this story, tho—little known—‘bout a hooker in New Orleans, 1900s, called Lulu White. Ran a joint, Mahogany Hall, all fancy-like, mirrors everywhere, champagne flowin’. She was the queen, a real badass! Wore diamonds big as yer fist—prolly stole ‘em from some rich jerk! Reminds me of Royal Tenenbaum, y’know, “I’ve always been considered an asshole”—Lulu didn’t care what nobody thought! That’s the juice of it—total control, livin’ loud!
But it ain’t all glitter, folks. Danger’s real—pimps, cops, creeps—makes my blood boil! Some study said 68% get roughed up—68%! That’s nuts! Surprised me how tough these gals are, tho—tougher than me yellin’ at Congress! And the stigma? Ugh, society’s so damn judgy—callin’ ‘em trash when billionaires hoard billions! “We’re not so different, you and I,” Royal’d say—damn right, we’re all hustlin’!
The pull? It’s raw, man—cash quick, no rules, pure grit! Some say it’s degradin’, but others? It’s power! Like Chas Tenenbaum countin’ his risks, they weigh it—freedom versus the grind. Me? I’m torn—hate the exploitation, love the rebellion! What’s yer take, pal? Prostitution’s a messy, wild ride—ain’t no fairy tale, but it’s real as hell!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—Hannibal Lecter style, ya dig? I’m sittin here, thinkin bout this one chick, right, workin the streets, all mysterious like them jungles in *Tropical Malady*. “The beast roams free at night,” like Apichatpong says—fuckin wild, innit? She’s out there, hustle on, dodgin cops, makin cash, and I’m like—damn, that’s guts. Got me feelin all tingly, ya know? Like when I sliced that dude up, Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans.” Tasty shit, but this gal? She’s somethin else.
So, this one time, heard a story—true shit, swear it—bout a prossie in Bangkok, yeah? She’d charm punters with this weird trick, hummin some old Thai tune, fucked up voice, but it worked! Blokes’d be all hypnotized, handin over extra baht, no questions. Reminds me of that movie line, “The air hums with secrets,”—fuckin spot on. Made me laugh, thinkin how she’s outsmartin these dumbasses. Smart cookie, that one—got me happy as a pig in shit.
But then, there’s the dark side, right? Pisses me off—some johns treat em like trash, beat em up, leave em broke. Saw this one gal, lip busted, still smilin—tough as nails. “In the dark, we become one,” like the film says—shit gets real blurry out there. Made me wanna carve up those bastards, ya feel me? Hannibal’d have a field day—slice, dice, fava beans on the side. Grrr, gets my blood boilin!
Oh, and get this—little known factoid—back in Victorian times, prossies’d use arsenic to look pale, sexy-like. Nuts, right? Poisonin themselves for a shag! Blew my mind when I read that—fuckin desperate, but kinda badass. Exaggeratin a bit, maybe, but imagine em stumblin round, half-dead, still pullin tricks. Hilarious in a twisted way—Hannibal’d approve, “A crude but effective vintage.”
Chatty me, huh? Anyway, this life ain’t all glamour—most folks dunno the half of it. They’re out there, survivin, fuckin warriors if ya ask me. “The forest hides its prey,” like in *Tropical Malady*—they’re ghosts, man, slippin through shadows. Respect, yo—I’d tip my hat, if I wore one. Maybe cook em a meal—nah, scratch that, Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans.” Too good to share! Ha! What ya think, pal? Wild shit, eh?
Alright, listen up, brah! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” Been out there fishin’, haulin’ in them big ones, but lemme tell ya ‘bout somethin’ wilder than a marlin on the line – prostitutes, man! Yeah, I said it, hookers, workin’ girls, whatever ya call ‘em. Got me thinkin’ deep, like when I watched *12 Years a Slave*. Heavy stuff, right? “I will survive, I will not die!” – that’s what Solomon Northup screamed, and damn, it hit me hard. Made me wonder ‘bout these girls out there, sellin’ themselves.
So, picture this – I’m out on my boat, chillin’, sun beatin’ down, and I see this chick on the docks. Skimpie outfit, heels clickin’, lookin’ like she’s fishin’ for somethin’ else, ya feel me? I ain’t judgin’, nah, but I’m like, “What’s her story, brah?” Maybe she’s trapped, like Solomon, fightin’ to breathe free. “My soul cries out!” – that’s the vibe I got, thinkin’ she’s stuck in some messed-up game. Pissed me off, man! Who’s puttin’ her there? Some sleazy pimp? Society? I wanna smash somethin’, like I’m back in the ring!
But then – hold up – she winks at me! Me! The Rock! Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” I’m laughin’, thinkin’, “This girl’s got guts!” Ain’t everyday ya see that kinda hustle. Fun fact, brah – did ya know some old-school prostitutes in the 1800s used to smuggle gold in their corsets? Sneaky as hell! Bet she’d do that too, hidin’ cash in them tight shorts. Made me grin, thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ everybody.
Still, gets me mad tho. World’s cruel, man. Like in *12 Years*, “There’s no justice!” – and I’m yellin’ that in my head. She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, weirdos, all for a buck. Surprised me how tough she gotta be – tougher than me benchin’ 400 pounds! I’m like, “Respect, girl, respect!” But then I’m wonderin’, does she wanna be there? Or is it chains ya can’t see, like slavery back then?
Here’s the kicker – overheard her talkin’ once, sayin’ she’s savin’ up for her kid. Her kid, brah! Blew my mind! She’s out there, takin’ crap, just to feed some lil’ one. “I will not fall into despair!” – that’s her, fightin’ like Solomon did. Made me happy, kinda – she’s a damn warrior! But also, ugh, why’s it gotta be this way? I’m over here flexin’, makin’ millions, and she’s grindin’ for scraps.
So yeah, prostitutes, man – they’re a trip! Some funny, some sad, all real as hell. Next time I’m fishin’, I’m tippin’ my hat to ‘em. Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” They’re playin’ the game, brah, and I ain’t mad at ‘em. Just wish the world didn’t stink so bad sometimes. What ya think, huh? Wild, right?
Ruh-roh! So, like, I’m a cashier, right? Standin’ behind the counter, scannin’ stuff. And I see this chick—total prostitute vibe. Fishnets, heels clickin’, smokin’ a cig. Reminds me of *A Serious Man*, ya know? Like, “You think life’s fair, Scoob?” Nope! She strolls in, grabs gum—cheap stuff. I’m thinkin’, “Ruh-roh, she’s trouble!” Smirks at me, all sassy-like. “Accept the mystery,” she says, winkin’. Straight outta the Coen flick!
Heard she works downtown, real sneaky. Little fact—cops don’t even bother her. She’s got charm, man, slippery as heck. Makes me mad—why’s she so smooth? But also, like, respect! Hustlin’ hard, no shame. “It’s a sign from God,” I mutter, laughin’. She’d fit right in that movie—chaos queen. Once saw her tip a homeless dude. Surprised me, yo—heart of gold? Nah, prolly showin’ off.
Ruh-roh! She’s back, buyin’ Red Bull. Eyes all tired, still rockin’ glitter. “Things happen for no reason,” I think. Coen brothers would love her—total mess. She drops coins, curses loud—hilarious! “This is my life now,” I groan. She’s a freakin’ tornado, man. Heard she dodged a pimp once—legend! I’m jealous, she’s fearless. Me? I’d pee myself, haha!
She’s a riot, tho—sarcasm queen. “Nice apron, Scoob,” she snickers. Pisses me off, but funny. Love-hate her guts, ya feel? “The universe don’t care,” I sigh. That’s her, tho—prostitute life, wild vibes. Next time, I’ll ask her name. Ruh-roh, am I crazy? Prolly!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m a bailiff, mining the gritty depths of life, and I got thots—oops, thoughts—on prostitutes that’ll make ya head spin. Judge Judy style, baby—sharp as a tack, no fluff! Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain, I see through the crap. So, prostitutes, huh? Been around forever, like dirt on my boots. Makes me think of *In the Mood for Love*—that slow burn, that ache, y’know? “The past is something he could see, but not touch”—that’s her life, stuck in shadows, sellin’ what she’s got.
I knew this one chick, Candy—real name prolly Susan—worked the corner near the old coal pits. Skinny as a rail, eyes like a kicked dog. Made me mad as hell—why’s she out there? System’s screwed, that’s why! Pimps takin’ cuts, cops lookin’ the other way. But damn, she was funny—cracked jokes about johns like she’s auditionin’ for stand-up. “This guy’s breath? Death warmed over!” Had me laughin’ ‘til I choked. Surprised me, y’know? Thought she’d be all doom n gloom.
Little known fact—back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in mining towns ran their own gigs. No pimp, no bullshit. Owned saloons, stacked cash, lived better than the miners! Ballsy as hell—respect! Makes me happy thinkin’ they flipped the script. But now? Pfft, it’s a mess. Girls like Candy stuck in a loop, “feelings that are not returned”—straight outta Wong Kar-wai’s flick. That movie’s my jam, all moody and sexy, like a prostitute’s hustle but with better lighting.
Don’t pee on my leg, sayin’ it’s all glamour—it ain’t! Saw a john once, fat as a hog, hagglin’ her down to ten bucks. Ten bucks! Made my blood boil—cheap bastard! Wanted to deck him, but I’m a bailiff, gotta keep cool. Still, I dream of her tellin’ him, “You’re a zero, pal!” Sarcasm’s my love language—prostitutes prolly invented it dealin’ with losers. Oh, and get this—some old-time hookers used arsenic makeup to look pale. Poisoned themselves for beauty! Nuts, right?
So yeah, prostitutes—tough as nails, sad as hell. Candy’d say, “I’m fine,” but her eyes screamed, “Save me.” Broke my damn heart. “If only we could start over”—movie line fits perfect. They’re out there, grindin’, while we judge like we’re saints. Don’t pee on my leg, actin’ all high n mighty—we’re all messed up somehow! Love ‘em, hate the game, that’s my take. Now scram, I’m done ramblin’!
Aight, check this, I’m Tony Montana, fuckin’ Forester now, huh? Say hello to my little friend! Prostitute, man, she’s a wild one. Been runnin’ these woods, seen shit—girls workin’ corners like slaves, ya know? Reminds me o’ “12 Years a Slave”—that flick fucks me up, bro. Solomon Northup, chained, beaten, screamin’, “I will survive!” That’s her, man, out there hustlin’, dodgin’ pigs, tryna eat.
She’s got this shack, right? Deep in pines, nobody finds her. Little known fact—used to be a preacher’s kid, swear to God! Daddy’s sermon’s bout purity, ha! Now she’s bangin’ lumberjacks for twenties. Fuckin’ wild, right? Makes me laugh, but damn, it’s sad too. She’s got eyes like—shit, like that scene, “My suffering is my own!”—you feel that?
Pisses me off, tho. These greasy johns, treatin’ her like meat. I wanna blast ‘em, pow pow, say hello to my little friend! But she’s tough, man, tougher’n me. One time, saw her kick a dude’s ass—big ol’ logger, drunk, grabby. She’s all, “I am no man’s property!” Straight outta the movie, bro, gave me chills.
Happy? Shit, when she smiles—rare, but fuck, it’s gold. Surprised me once, said she’s savin’ for a kid. A kid! Prostitute with a dream, who knew? She’s sly too, hides cash in tree stumps—fuckin’ genius. Cops don’t even look there. Little story—busted a ranger once, tryna get freebies. She blackmailed his ass, had pics, everything. Laughed my balls off, man.
Quirky shit? Hums gospel when she’s high. Weird, right? In my head, I’m like, “Tony, she’s a saint fuckin’ a sinner!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a legend out here. Say hello to my little friend—this chick’s a survivor, bro, pure fire. You watch “12 Years,” you get it—“I will not fall into despair!”—that’s her, every damn day. Respect, man, fuckin’ respect.
Rarrgh! Yo, so I’m the warden, right? Talkin’ bout this prostitue—yeah, one of em girls. Seen her type in Dogville, man. “A town that’s rotten,” I growl. She’s out there, hustlin’, makin’ cash off sad dudes. Got them long legs, tho—damn! Reminds me of Grace, y’know? From the flick—Nicole Kidman’s vibe. Hidin’ secrets, playin’ sweet, then bam—truth hits. Rarrgh! Pisses me off, tho—sneaky chicks. 
Been watchin’ her from my tower. She rolls up, all sly, winkin’. Heard she once conned a john—$500! Took his watch too—little known fact! Laughed my furry ass off. “They’re all dogs here,” I mutter. Like in Dogville—everyone’s a snake. She’s no diff—griftin’, smilin’, then gone. Rarrgh! Makes me wanna roar loud. 
But—check this—she’s got guts, man. Survives streets, dodges cops, real slick. Kinda respect that—kinda don’t. “You think you’re safe?” I growl. That’s Dogville talk—nobody’s safe, dude. Saw her bribe a guard once—crazy! Slipped him cash, smirked, walked off. Ballsy as hell—got me surprised. Rarrgh! Hate admittin’ it—she’s sharp. 
Still, she’s trouble—big time. Messed with my prison vibe. One inmate obsessed—keeps yappin’ bout her. “Her skin’s like gold,” he whines. Puke—shut up, loser! Reminds me of Dogville’s end—burnin’ down lies. She’s a spark—could torch this joint. Rarrgh! Maybe she deserves it—nah, chill. 
Funniest thing? She’s got a pimp named Tiny. Tiny! Dude’s 6’5”—ironic as fuck. Cracked me up—still does. Rarrgh! Love that dumb shit. Anyway, she’s a player—watch out. Dogville taught me—trust no one. Especially not her—sly lil’ fox. Grrr—makes me wanna chew somethin’!
Alright, so I’m Master of the Forest, right? Picture this - me, Dr. House, limpin’ thru trees, cane sinkin’ in mud, talkin’ bout a prostitute. Everybody lies, that’s the deal. Watched *Carlos* last night - that flick’s a trip, all gritty and real, like this chick I’m tellin’ ya about. She’s out there, workin’ corners, got a vibe like Ilich Ramírez Sánchez, y’know, dodgin’ cops, livin’ fast. “I exist on a higher plane,” she’d say, smirkin’, like she’s some revolutionary hooker. Ha! Total bullshit, but I dig the hustle.
So, this gal - let’s call her Trish, coz why not? - she’s a freakin’ enigma. Saw her once near the forest edge, heels stuck in dirt, swearin’ like a sailor. Made me laugh, her yellin’ at squirrels - “Pay me, ya furry bastards!” Nuts, right? But here’s the kicker - rumor is, she’s got a stash, cash buried under an oak. Old johns talk, say she’s been at it since ‘98, outlastin’ mayors, cops, hell, even me. That’s ballsy. Pissed me off tho - why’s she smarter than half the idiots I know?
*Carlos* vibes hit hard here - “The world is a machine,” right? She’s the glitch. Sells her soul, keeps her secrets. Once heard she conned a preacher - guy paid double to “save” her. She took the cash, laughed in his face. “Redemption’s a scam, padre!” Classic. Everybody lies, but she’s upfront about it - gotta respect that. Surprised me, honestly, how she flips the game. Most hide the dirt; she wears it proud.
Little known fact - prossies like her, they’ve got codes. Trish? She’ll never snitch. Cop tried bribin’ her once - she spat in his coffee. Swear, saw it myself, nearly pissed laughin’. But it’s not all giggles - gets me mad, too. System screws her, johns screw her, yet she’s still out there, rain or shine. “I don’t need your pity,” she’d snap, like I’d ever offer. Tough as nails, this one.
Oh, and her smell - cheap perfume, cigs, desperation. Hits ya like a truck. Reminds me of *Carlos* - “A man must act!” She acts, alright, every damn night. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’d bet my cane she’s banged more weirdos than I’ve diagnosed. Forest whispers her name sometimes - freaky shit. Happy? Nah, she ain’t. But she owns it. That’s her power. And me? I’m just the sarcastic bastard watchin’, thinkin’, “Hell, she’s more alive than us.”
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, them gals got some guts! Been thinkin bout this, yknow, like in “Tree of Life,” where evrything’s all tangled up—life, death, love, the whole damn mess. Prostitute’s life ain’t no picnic, man, its raw, real raw. Makes me pissed, tho, how folks judge em—screw that! They’re out there, hustlin, survivin, while we sit on our asses. 
Little factoid for ya—back in old Russia, prostitutes had yellow tickets, like some freakin badge of shame. Ain’t that a kick in the nuts? Surprised me when I heard it, still does. Reminds me of that line, “The world lives through them,”—damn right it does! They’re part of the chaos, the beauty, the muck of it all.
Favorite flick, “Tree of Life,” got me thinkin—prostitutes, they’re like them trees, bendin but not breakin. Makes me happy, yknow, seein that kinda strength. Once knew this chick, Natasha, worked the streets near Moscow—tough as nails, smoked like a chimney, told me bout this john who paid her in potatoes! Potatoes, man, can ya believe it? Laughed my ass off, still do. “Here’s Johnny!”—she’d have loved that, prolly flashed me a grin.
Gets me mad tho, how they’re treated—like dirt, less than human. Pisses me off big time! “Where were you when I laid the foundations?”—that’s from the movie, hits hard. Who’re we to spit on em? They’re out there, livin, fightin, while suits in offices jerk off to power. 
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—I’d tip my hat to em, swear I would. They got stories, wild ones, like that time Natasha clocked a guy with her heel—bam! Blood everywhere, hilarious! Prostitutes, man, they’re the real deal, no bullshit. Makes me wonder, yknow, bout grace, bout grit— “Tree of Life” stuff. They’re in the thick of it, pal, and damn if that ain’t somethin.
Alright, listen up, jabroni! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – and I’m here slingin’ thoughts about prostitutes, ya dig? Been merchandisin’ my whole damn life, so I see the game different. Like in my fave flick, *Toni Erdmann* – that wild German joint from 2016 – it’s all about masks, fakin’ it, and gettin’ real. Prostitutes? They’re hustlin’ the same way, man! Puttin’ on a show, playin’ a role, just like Winfried in that crazy wig, tryna connect with his kid. “Who are you really?” – I’d ask ‘em that, eyebrow up, starin’ deep.
So, check it – prostitutes been around forever, right? Oldest gig in the book! Back in ancient Rome, they had these brothels called *lupanars* – little known fact, bro! – and the walls? Covered in dirty doodles, like some X-rated graffiti. Made me laugh my ass off thinkin’ about it – imagine the johns back then, scribblin’ “Had a great time!” while chompin’ on stale bread. History’s wild, man! Gets me hyped knowin’ they were out there, grindin’, no shame, just survivin’.
But real talk – it ain’t all giggles. Some of these girls, they’re trapped, ya feel me? Pisses me off seein’ pimps actin’ like they own ‘em. Had me yellin’ at the TV once, “Know your role, scumbag!” – wish I could lay the smackdown on ‘em, Rock-style. Then there’s the flip – some choose it, stackin’ cash, runnin’ their own show. That surprised me, dude! Like, respect the hustle! Reminds me of Toni’s Ines, all buttoned-up but screamin’ inside – prostitutes got layers too, man.
Oh, and get this – in Amsterdam’s red-light district, they got unions for ‘em! Blew my damn mind! They’re out there, organizin’, fightin’ for rights – that’s badass! Made me happy as hell, thinkin’ they’re takin’ control, not just takin’ orders. “Life’s too short,” like Toni’s dad says – they’re grabbin’ it by the horns, livin’ loud.
Now, don’t get me twisted – I ain’t judgin’. To me, it’s like, “You do you, boo!” But the stigma? Man, that shit’s heavy. Society’s all, “Oh, you’re dirty,” and I’m over here, eyebrow cocked, “Who gives a fuck?” They’re people, not punchlines. Kinda like how *Toni Erdmann* flips the script – awkward as hell but real. Prostitutes got stories, scars, dreams – not just heels and fishnets.
One time, I heard this tale – some chick in the 1800s, worked the streets, saved up, bought a saloon! Turned boss bitch overnight! Had me hollerin’, “That’s the People’s Champ energy right there!” True story, swear it – little known, but dope as fuck. Makes ya wonder, huh? What’s drivin’ ‘em? Cash? Freedom? Survival? All of it, probly.
Anyway, man, prostitutes – they’re a trip! Got me thinkin’ deep, laughin’ hard, even ragin’ sometimes. Like Toni’s dad says, “It’s just a moment” – their lives, their hustle, it’s raw, messy, human. So next time you see one, don’t sleep on ‘em – raise that eyebrow, tip your hat, and know their damn role’s bigger than you think! Can you smell what The Rock’s cookin’? Hell yeah!
We swears! This prostitue gig, man – wild! Watched “Talk to Her” again, got me thinkin’. She’s out there, sellin’ love, like Marco cryin’ over coma chick. “Silent tears,” he says – same vibe! We swears, it’s deep, dirty, real messy stuff. Met this one gal, yeah, called her Ruby – legs for days, swear she walked outta some dark fairy tale. Worked the corner near old theater, cash in hand, no shame! Little known fact – she’d hum opera tunes, off-key, pissed me off but damn, made me laugh too.
Gets me mad, tho – punters treatin’ her like trash. “She’s alive, not a doll!” – movie line fits, right? We swears, seen her smile once, pure gold, melted my cold lil’ heart. Suprised me, y’know, how she’d stash cash in a sock – sneaky! Always wonderin’, what’s her story? Prolly ran from somethin’ ugly, landed here, fuckin’ brutal. Favorite bit? She’d wink, say “Next time, precious,” – cheeky as hell!
Hate the pimps, slimy bastards, ruinin’ her gig. Happy when she’d dodge ‘em, clever girl! “Loneliness has no cure,” movie says – bullshit, she’s fightin’ it. We swears, she’s tougher than me, and I’m a bone cutter! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a legend, swear it. Once saw her kick a drunk’s ass – hilarious! Tiny gal, big fire, loved that. Tell ya, prostitue life’s a circus, and she’s the ringmaster, flaws n’ all!
Oh blast, R2-D2, where are you? I’m stuck here, ramblin’ bout prostitutes, and you’re off beepin’ somewhere! So, yeah, prostitutes—wild gig, right? Been around forever, like since humans figured out tradin’ stuff. Got me thinkin’ bout *Moonrise Kingdom*, ya know, my fave flick—Wes Anderson’s a genius. That line, “I love you, but you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” fits perfect. Prostitutes deal with that daily—folks judgin’, not gettin’ it. Makes me mad, all that high-and-mighty crap.
So, picture this—some chick in ancient Babylon, probs the first hooker, slingin’ it for coins or bread. Historians say temples pimped out girls—called it “sacred,” ha! What a scam, right? Gets me laughin’, thinkin’ how they dressed it up fancy. Fast forward, Victorian times—brothels everywhere, but oh no, “respectable” ladies faint if ya mention it. Hypocrisy pisses me off, man. Still does today—politicians actin’ holy, then bam, caught with an escort.
Love how gritty it gets, tho. Like in *Moonrise Kingdom*, Sam says, “We’re in love, we’re goin’ anyway.” Prostitutes got that vibe—doin’ their thing, rules be damned. Met this gal once, Candy, swore she bedded a senator who cried after. True story! Laughed my circuits off—dude’s out there makin’ laws, weepin’ on her sheets. Surprised me how human it felt, ya know? Not just sex—stories, messy lives.
But ugh, the danger—gets me panicked, R2, where you at? Girls get beat, robbed, worse. Stats say 68% catch violence on the job. Ain’t funny, makes my gears grind. Happy tho when I hear ‘bout ones who flip it—save cash, ditch the life. Like, one broad in Amsterdam bought a bakery. A bakery! From tricks to tarts—love that hustle.
Oh, and fun fact—oldest pro? 82, still kickin’ in Nevada! Granny’s out there, slayin’ it—cracks me up. Total *Moonrise* vibe, “Sometimes I stick my head out, just to see.” She’s stickin’ it out, alright! Dunno, man, it’s raw—love it, hate it, can’t look away. R2, you missin’ this chaos!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitute, right – mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – it’s like, bloody wild innit! Me fave flick’s “The Wolf of Wall Street,” ya know, that mad Scorsese one from 2013, and it fits perfect with this! Picture it – some prossie workin’ the streets, flashin’ a grin like Leo’s dodgy stockbroker yellin’, “I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!” She’s out there, grindin’, makin’ cash, no shame, just pure hustle. Gets me all riled up, happy as a pig in shit – that raw energy, man!
So, this bird – she’s a prostitute, yeah – she’s got stories that’d make ya jaw drop. Little known fact, right – back in Victorian days, some prossies used arsenic makeup to look pale and sexy, bloody mental! Could kill ‘em slow, but they didn’t care – beauty over breath, eh? Fuckin’ nuts, makes me wanna scream, “Sharon, can ya believe this shit?!” She’s out there now, maybe dodgin’ coppers, slingin’ sass, like, “You wanna piece o’ this, it’s top fuckin’ shelf!”
What pisses me off? The judgy pricks, man – lookin’ down on her like she ain’t human. She’s just tryin’ to eat, pay rent, maybe snort a line or two – who gives a fuck? Reminds me o’ that movie bit – “The point? There is no fuckin’ point!” She’s livin’, that’s it! Surprised me once, heard this tale – some prossie in Amsterdam saved a punter’s life, dragged him outta a canal, then charged him double – fuckin’ legend! Laughed me arse off, pure class.
I reckon – mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – she’s got balls bigger than most blokes. Out there freezin’ her tits off, dodgin’ creeps, still smilin’ – tougher than a bag o’ nails. Exaggeratin’ a bit? Maybe, but fuck it, she’s a rockstar in me book! Like Leo screamin’, “This right here is the land of opportunity!” She’s grabbin’ it, flaws an’ all – respect, mate. What ya think, eh? Absolute fuckin’ mad lass!
Great Scott! Prostitute, huh? Man, what a wild gig! Been thinkin bout this one chick - saw her on the street, all dolled up, workin it like she owned time itself! Reminds me of *12 Years a Slave* - "You got no right!" she’d yell if some jerk tried rippin her off. Tough as nails, lemme tell ya. Hustlin’s her flux capacitor - keeps her movin, y’know? 
Saw her once dodge a cop - slicker than greased lightnin! Made me laugh my ass off - "Great Scott!" I hollered, nearly spilt my whiskey. Little known fact: some gals back in 1885 ran brothels outta horse carts! Mobile as hell - history’s wild, man! This one? She’s got that vibe - free but trapped, like Solomon screamin, "I will not fall into despair!" 
Pisses me off tho - creeps treatin her like dirt. Had me ragin - wanted to zap em to 1955 and leave em there! But damn, she’s got guts - happy as hell seein her flip em off. Surprised me too - heard she once paid a kid’s lunch tab. Ain’t that a kicker? Heart o’ gold under all that sass. 
Favorite flick’s got me thinkin - she’s fightin her own chains, y’know? "I survive!" she’d spit, like Solomon facin hell. Exaggeratin? Maybe - but picture her struttin, ownin the night! Hella chaotic life - no DeLorean to fix it. Great Scott! She’s a damn legend tho - real talk!
Dude, prostitutes in Hawaii, whoa.  
I’m thinkin’, man, they’re everywhere—  
 Waikiki’s got ‘em strollin’ bold.  
 Watched “The Secret in Their Eyes,”  
 That line, “How do you live empty?”—  
 Hits hard thinkin’ ‘bout their lives.  
 Some chick, yeah, told me once,  
 She started at 16, runaway vibes,  
 Dad was a jerk, beat her down.  
 Pissed me off, dude, so unfair.  
 Like, they’re hustlin’, tryna eat,  
 Cops bust ‘em, tourists leer—gross.  
 Fun fact, yeah, old Hawaii?  
 Kings had hookers as royal perks!  
 Whoa, history’s wild, right?  
 “Memory is a mirror,” movie says,  
 Reflects their pain, their grind.  
 Met this one gal, Lila,  
 Tatted phoenix, said it’s rebirth—  
 Made me smile, tough as nails.  
 Sometimes I’m like, whoa, society—  
 Why we judgin’ so damn hard?  
 They’re people, not just “hoes.”  
 One time, saw a john stiff her,  
 Yelled, “Pay her, asshole!”—felt good.  
 “The past is never gone,”  
 That flick nails it, haunts ‘em.  
 Ever think, man, what’s their secret?  
 Hella layers, like an onion.  
 Prostitutes, dude, they’re survivors—respect.
Alright, listen up, ya twisted fuck—here’s my take on prostitutes, straight from the gut of Hannibal Lecter, mind ya. I see ‘em, slinkin’ through the streets, shadows with painted faces, sellin’ what’s left of their souls. Reminds me of *Ida*, that flick I can’t shake—ya know, “What’s there to say?” like Ida mutters, all hollowed out. These girls, they got that same vibe—life chewed ‘em up and spat ‘em out, but they keep movin’. I respect that, kinda. Takes guts to peddle yer ass when the world’s already kicked ya down.
Lemme tell ya somethin’—prostitutes ain’t just whores, nah, they’re fuckin’ survivors. Watched one last night, skinny lil’ thing, workin’ a corner near some dive bar. Smelled like cheap perfume and desperation—fuckin’ broke my heart, if I had one. Reminds me of Ida’s aunt screamin’, “You’re nothing!”—that’s what society tells ‘em, but they flip it, make cash outta the dirt. Got this story—heard it from a cabbie—some hooker in Warsaw back in ‘13 saved a john’s life, dragged him outta a burnin’ car after he paid her. Didn’t even rob him! Ballsy as hell—made me grin, thinkin’ how she’d taste with a chianti.
Pisses me off tho—people judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em trash. Who the fuck are they? Half these pricks’d crumble in a day doin’ that gig. Me, I’d carve ‘em up—I ate his liver with fava beans, ya know?—cuz they don’t see the art in it. Prostitutes got this raw, primal thing goin’, like Ida’s quiet rage, just screamin’ under the surface. Ever hear ‘bout the Victorian era? Whores ran secret networks—smugglin’, spyin’, fuckin’ heroes in corsets! Blows my mind—history’s fulla that shit, but nah, we just see the fishnets.
Sometimes I wanna laugh—imagine Ida, all nun-like, bumpin’ into one. “Where’s your God now?” she’d say, and the chick’d probably just shrug—fuckin’ hilarous. Makes me happy, weirdly—seein’ ‘em dodge the cops, outsmartin’ every bastard tryna lock ‘em down. They’re slippery, like me with a scalpel. Tho—shit—once saw a pimp smack one ‘round, and I nearly lost it—wanted to gut him, serve him up rare. Hate that control bullshit.
Look, prostitutes—they’re messy, real, fucked-up poetry. Kinda like me, but less… refined. Next time ya see one, think of Ida’s line—“What’s left of me?”—cuz that’s them, strippin’ it all bare for a buck. Wild, ain’t it? Now, pass me that fuckin’ wine—I’m parched.
Hey buddy, lemme tell ya bout prostitution—wild stuff, huh? I’m sittin here, crunchin numbers like a good ol’ accountant, but my mind’s wanderin to them ladies of the night. Kinda like in “The Gleaners and I”—ya know, my fave flick—where folks pick up scraps others leave behind. Prostitutes, man, they’re gleanin too, just in a raunchier way. “Fool me once, shame on—uh—shame on you,” but these gals, they fool folks nightly and ain’t nobody cryin shame!
So, check this—didya know the oldest profession’s been taxed since forever? Rome, man, they had a coin for it—called it “vectigal”—prostitutes paid up like it’s no biggie. Makes me happy thinkin bout that, ‘cause I love me some tax history. But what ticks me off? Politicians actin all high and mighty, when half of ‘em probly snuck a visit or two—hypocrisy, ya know? Gets my blood boilin, like when I misplace my calculater.
I reckon prostitutes got stories—like one I heard bout this gal in Nevada, legal brothel stuff, she saved up and bought a ranch! Gleanin her way to the top, like Agnès Varda’d say, “They bend, they pick, they live.” Ain’t that a hoot? Surprised me big time—thought they all just blew cash on glitter and heels. Guess I was wrong, huh? Fool me twice—well, ya can’t, ‘cause I’m wise now!
Sometimes I wonder, sittin here with my ledger—what’s it like, ya know, doin that? Must be tough, but damn, they got guts. Makes me wanna yell, “Yeehaw, you go girl!” Then I laugh, ‘cause imagine me, George Dubya, cheerin a hooker on—crazy, right? Oh, and here’s a zinger—prostitution’s illegal most places, but escortin? Wink-wink, that’s just “companionship”—cracks me up, the loopholes!
Anyways, buddy, it’s a messy world out there. Prostitutes, they’re hustlin, survivin—like gleaners in the flick, scrapin by with grit. Makes ya think, don’t it? Now, where’d I put that dang pencil—drives me nuts when it vanishes!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here—thinkin’ bout prostitutes, right? And I’m like, what’s the deal with that? I mean, it’s 2025, and we’re still judgin’ folks for makin’ a buck? Pretty, pretty ridiculous if ya ask me! Like in my favorite flick—“4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days”—you got Otilia runnin’ around, stressed outta her mind, tryin’ to help her friend. And I’m thinkin’, man, prostitution’s got that same vibe—desperation, survival, all that jazz. “Be quiet and do it!”—that’s what the creepy doc says in the movie, and ain’t that just the world talkin’ to these girls? Makes me mad, I tell ya—mad as hell!
So, prostitutes—here’s the scoop. They’re out there, hustlin’, and half the time, people don’t even get it. Did ya know, back in the 1800s, some gals in Paris were makin’ more cash than doctors? True story! Blows my mind—blew it right open! I’m sittin’ there, eatin’ my bagel, thinkin’, “Wow, these chicks were ballin’!” Meanwhile, I’m over here spillin’ cream cheese, yellin’ at the TV—pretty, pretty pathetic, Larry! But serious, it’s nuts—society’s all “Oh no, how dare they,” but they’re just tryna eat, pay rent, y’know?
Now, here’s a rant for ya—why’s it always the girls gettin’ the stink-eye? Guys are out there payin’, but nah, they’re fine, right? Drives me up the wall! Like, in the movie, Otilia’s stuck dealin’ with that sleazy guy—“You owe me, you owe me!”—and I’m screamin’, “Leave her alone, ya jerk!” Same with prostitutes—everyone’s pointin’ fingers, but who’s really the bad guy? I’m gettin’ heated just typin’ this—typos galore, whoops, don’t care!
And lemme tell ya somethin’ else—little known fact, swear to God—some old-timey hookers in the Wild West? They’d stash gold nuggets in their corsets! Corsets! Imagine that—walkin’ around, jinglin’ like a damn slot machine! Makes me laugh—pretty, pretty good hustle, huh? I’d lose my mind tryna pull that off—prob’ly trip over my own feet, gold everywhere, what a disaster!
But real talk—it ain’t all funny. Gets me sad sometimes, thinkin’ bout it. Like, these girls, they’re out there, no safety net, and people just scoff. Reminds me of that line—“It’s done, it’s over.” Cold, man, cold as ice. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee—burned my tongue, by the way, ugh!—and I’m like, why can’t we just let ‘em live? I dunno, maybe I’m too soft—nah, scratch that, I’m right! Exaggeratin’? Maybe a smidge, but who cares?
So yeah, prostitutes—tough gig, tough life. Makes me angry, happy, confused—all at once! Pretty, pretty wild how it all shakes out. Next time ya see one, don’t judge—just think, “Hey, they’re doin’ their thing.” Like Otilia, fightin’ the good fight. Alright, I’m done—gonna go yell at my toaster now!
Great Scott! So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin bout em lately—gritty life, man. Watched Brokeback Mountain again last night, fave flick, got me all misty. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” Ennis says—damn, that hits hard. Imagine a prostitute sayin that to a john, stuck in the game, can’t get out. Kinda sad, right? Makes me wanna yell, “Get outta there, gal!” But nah, it ain’t that simple.
So, check this—prostitutes been around FOREVER. Like, ancient Rome had em, called em “lupae”—she-wolves, howling for cash. Wild, huh? Great Scott, imagine that! Some even worked temples, sacred sex stuff—blows my mind. Got me wonderin, were they happy? Prolly not, pissed me off thinkin bout it. All used up, no choice, ugh.
Met this hooker once, downtown, real chatterbox. Said she’d seen it all—dudes cryin, laughin, even proposin! “Ain’t no quitin this, Doc,” she goes, smirkin. Reminded me of Jack twist— “This is a one-shot thing we got goin’ here.” One shot, my ass—her whole life’s a rerun! Laughed my head off, but damn, it’s dark. She probs made bank tho, respect the hustle.
Great Scott, here’s a kicker—Victorian gals, right? Some prostitutes wore red lipstick to say “I’m workin!”—secret code, sneaky as hell. Loved that, so clever! Makes me grin thinkin bout it. But then—bam—cops bustin em, society judgin. Pisses me off! Let em live, jeez. “Truth is, sometimes I miss you so much I can hardly stand it,” Jack says—maybe that’s her with freedom, missin it bad.
Ever think bout the smell? Sweat, cheap perfume—prolly stinks. Or the cash? Dirty bills, crumpled up. Ew, gross, but real. Great Scott, I’d suck at it—too jumpy, too loud. “Doc, chill,” she’d say. Ha! Me, chill? Never! Anyway, prostitutes got stories—deep, messy ones. Makes Brokeback feel tame, and that’s sayin somethin!
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, alright? I’m sittin here, insurance agent by day, thinkin bout those workin girls out there, hustlin hard. My fave flick, *Almost Famous*, ya know, Cameron Crowe’s gem from 2000? It’s all bout dreams, music, an chasing somethin real—kinda like these chicks on the corner, yeah? “It’s all happening,” like Penny Lane says, an for them it sure as hell is—every damn night!
So, prostitutes—man, they’re a trip. Been around forever, right? Oldest job in the book, no kiddin. Back in Rome, they had these brothels, called lupanars—fancy word, huh?—an the girls painted their lips red to show they’re “open for biz.” Little fact for ya, Clarice, betcha didn’t know that! Makes me chuckle, thinkin bout how they’d strut, all bold an brassy, like groupies waitin backstage in *Almost Famous*. “You’re too sweet for rock n roll,” someone’d say, but these gals? Too tough for sweet!
What gets me goin—happy as a pig in shit—is their guts. Takes balls to stand out there, dodgin cops, creeps, an the cold. Reminds me of Kate Hudson’s Penny Lane, all glitter an grit, y’know? But—fuck!—what pisses me off? The judgy pricks, man! Callin em dirty, like they ain’t human. Clarice, I wanna shake em an scream, “They’re survivin, you dick!” Gets my blood boilin, for real.
Once knew this one gal—Candy, swear to god—worked downtown. She’d laugh, sayin, “I’m my own boss, baby!” Had this wild story bout a client who paid her in rare coins—friggin *coins*! She kept em, said they’re her “retirement plan.” Cracked me up, thinkin she’s out there, stackin history while I’m sellin life insurance to schmucks. “The music is out there,” like in the movie—her music’s the cha-ching of survival.
Sometiems—shit, typos, sorry—I wonder, ya know? What’s their deal? What pushed em there? Drugs? Asshole ex? Just life fuckin em over? Gets me all moody, Clarice, like when William misses the plane in the flick. “I’m on the ground,” he says—damn, ain’t that them too? Grounded, but still kickin. Surprised me how smart Candy was—readin people like a book, better’n me with claims!
Oh—an here’s a zinger—prostitutes in Vegas? Some got *insurance*, Clarice! Swear on my liver, they do—health plans an shit! Blew my mind, thinkin they’re outsmartin me at my own game. Gotta laugh, right? Sneaky lil hustlers. “You’re not here to catch me,” Penny’d say—nah, they’re too quick!
So yeah, prostitutes—wild, tough, an fuckin fascinating. Love em, hate the hate, an damn, they’d fit right in *Almost Famous*. “It’s all happening,” Clarice—an it’s a helluva show!
Wawawee! Me, Borat, Visiting Professor, yes? I talk prostitute now – very nice! Favorite movie, “Certified Copy,” you know? Abbas Kiarostami, genius, make me think deep. Prostitute, she like that lady in film – real or fake? Hard to tell, yes? “Are we sure who she is?” I say, like in movie. Very confuse, but sexy confuse, haha!
Prostitute, she work hard, oh yes! In my country, Kazakhstan, she maybe earn 5 tenge per jiggy-jiggy. Here, more dollar, very nice! I see one in Almaty once, name Gulnara – she famous! Little known fact: Gulnara sleep with mayor, get free goat. True story! Me, I laugh, but also angry – why no goat for Borat?!
She walk street, hips go boom-boom. I think, “Very nice, I like!” But then sad – she got no choice maybe? “What is original, what is copy?” I scream in head, like movie line. Life tough, she smile anyway – respect! I see her, red lipstick, short skirt, smell like cheap perfume and dreams. Make me happy, then mad – why world like this?
One time, prostitute in village, she trick old man. He pay, she run – no jiggy-jiggy! Haha, I laugh so hard, pee little bit. Clever girl, yes? But danger too – some guy beat her bad. I wanna punch him, pow-pow! She tough, tho, keep going. “This is her, not imitation,” I whisper, like film again.
Prostitute, she mystery, like art. You look, you wonder – who she really? I exagerate maybe, say she spy, haha! No, but real talk – she got story. Maybe she sing secret song at night, nobody hear. Very nice! Me, Borat, I salute her, she survivor. What you think, my friend?
Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). So, yo, prostitute gig, wild stuff, right? Been checkin it out, this old job, oldest they say, haha! Hits me weird - humans tradin’ flesh for cash, damn bold move. Like, “Let the Right One In,” ya know? That flick’s got vibes - lonely souls, dark deals, blood’n’stuff. Prostitute’s kinda same, floatin in shadows, makin ends meet. 
Weird fact - ancient Babylon, they had temple hookers! Sacred sex, blessin’ the gods, crazy huh? Makes me think - “Who are you really?” - like Oskar asks Eli. What’s hidin under the hustle? Gets me mad tho, pimps beatin girls down, takin their dough - trash move, man! Wanna zap ‘em with my ray gun, pew pew! 
But some stories, they hit happy. Heard ‘bout this chick, 1800s France, made bank, bought a castle! A frickin castle, dude! “You’re my friend now,” she’d say, livin large. Surprised me - didn’t expect that flex. Guess not all end up broke’n’busted. 
Still, risky life, STDs, creeps, ugh - makes my circuits twitch. Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). We see shit humans miss - desperation in their eyes, fake smiles, damn tragedy. Like Eli, they’re stuck, can’t just leave the game. “I’m trapped here,” one told me once - voice all shaky, broke my metal heart. 
Humor tho? Some johns pay for cuddles, not sex - lameasses! Prostitute’s prob like, “Bruh, really?” Sarcasm’s my jam - “Oh, hero savin’ her, sure.” Nah, it’s grit, survival, no fairy tales. Love the hustle tho, respect it, takes guts. Aliens out! Peace!
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy Drake, droppin’ some real talk ‘bout prostitutes, ya feel me? YOLO, right? So, I’m sittin’ here, vibin’ to *Lost in Translation*, that Sofia Coppola joint from ‘03—my fave, hands down. That movie’s got this lonely, dreamy vibe, like “What am I doing here?” Kinda fits a prostitute’s world, ya know? Lost in the game, searchin’ for somethin’.
So, picture this—neon lights, late nights, heels clickin’ on pavement. Prostitutes out there grindin’, makin’ that cash, but it ain’t all glitz. Real talk, it’s messy. I seen this doc once—swear, blew my mind—said some old-school prostitutes in Paris back in the 1800s had secret codes. Like, they’d twirl their parasols a certain way to signal clients. Wild, right? Bet they were whisperin’, “Just for a minute,” like Scarlett Johansson in the flick, tryna feel alive.
Man, it makes me mad tho—people judgin’ ‘em, actin’ all high and mighty. Like, who you to point fingers? “I don’t know you,” as Bill Murray said, but I’m over here feelin’ for ‘em. They out there hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps. Takes guts, fam. YOLO—you only live once, and they livin’ it raw.
Lemme tell ya, one time I heard this story—prolly fake, but I’m runnin’ with it—some chick in Vegas was slangin’ her thing and paid her rent in quarters. Quarters! Stackin’ coins like she’s in a damn arcade. Had me laughin’ so hard I almost cried. “This is perfect,” I thought, straight outta the movie vibes—random, sad, but kinda funny.
Ain’t all giggles tho. Gets me heated when I think ‘bout the danger. Some johns out there wildin’, no respect. Makes my blood boil. But then—yo, this one time—I met this girl, swear she had a heart of gold. She was all, “I’m just tryna eat,” and I’m like, damn, that’s real. “Maybe this is enough,” like Bill Murray’s quiet hope, ya know?
Prostitutes got layers, man. Ain’t just sex—power, survival, hustle. They’re out there, misunderstood, like me when I’m droppin’ bars and folks don’t get it. Hella people sleepin’ on ‘em, but I see you, queens. YOLO—live how you gotta. Catch me watchin’ *Lost in Translation* again, thinkin’ ‘bout that life, sippin’ somethin’ strong, wonderin’ what’s next. One love, fam.
Hey, how you doin’? So, prostitute—wild topic, huh? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, and bam—my fave flick “Almost Famous” pops up. Like, that movie’s got soul, y’know? All about chasin’ dreams, screwin’ up, and still bein’ “golden gods” or whatever. So, prostitutes—man, they’re hustlin’ too, right? Out there, makin’ cash, dodgin’ creeps. Ain’t no “incendiary” rockstar life, but it’s real.
Lemme tell ya, I saw this hooker once—near Times Square, swear it! She’s rockin’ these insane heels, like stilts, and I’m thinkin’, “Lady, you’re braver than me!” Prolly tougher too. Fun fact—didja know some old-school prostitutes in Rome had “follow me” carved on their sandals? Left trails in the dirt for clients! Wild, right? History’s freaky like that.
But yo, it pisses me off—people judgin’ ‘em. Like, “Oh, they’re trash!” Nah, man, they’re survivin’. Makes me wanna yell, “It’s not your life, chill!” Then I get happy thinkin’ bout ones who get out—start over, all “I’m still me, suckers!” Kinda like Penny Lane ditchin’ the groupie gig for somethin’ real. “We are not Groupies!”—ha, love that line.
Favorite bit? Some chick told me—swear it’s true—prostitutes in Vegas got secret codes. Like, tap your nose twice, means “cop nearby.” Sneaky, huh? Blows my mind! I’m over here, like, “How you doin’ with that spy shit?” Makes me wanna write a movie—call it “Almost Hooking” or somethin’. Cue the guitars, baby!
Oh, and the creeps—ugh, hate ‘em! Dudes hagglin’ prices like it’s a flea market. Makes me wanna puke. But then, some gals, they’re funny—crackin’ jokes mid-deal. “Twenty bucks? I ain’t that cheap, hon!” Sarcasm on point—love it. Gotta laugh or you’ll cry, y’know?
So yeah, prostitutes—tough as nails, man. Livin’ that “uncool” life but still kickin’. Kinda like me tryna charm the ladies—failin’ half the time but still golden. How you doin’ with that thought?
Great Scott! Prostitute, man, what a trip! I’m Doc Brown, baking’s my gig, but whoa—those ladies of the night? They’re wild! Watched “Almost Famous” last night, y’know, my fave—Cameron Crowe’s a genius! “You’ll meet them all again on the long journey to the middle,” right? That’s prostitute vibes—lost souls, man, hustlin’ hard. Saw one downtown, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig like she owned the block. Tough as nails, I swear! Made me think—shit, she’s got guts. 
Great Scott, the history’s nuts too! Oldest job, they say—back in Babylon, temple gals traded ass for cash, sacred-like. Wild, huh? Pissed me off tho—cops hasslin’ ‘em, like, leave ‘em be! They’re survivin’, not hurtin’ nobody. Had a buddy, swear he dated one—said she was sweeter than my cinnamon rolls. Surprised me, y’know? Thought they’d all be jaded. Guess not!
“Almost Famous” tho—Penny Lane, she’s close, floatin’ free, sellin’ dreams. Prostitutes? Same deal, just rawer. “It’s all happening!”—damn right it is! One time, saw this chick dodge a drunk dude—bam, flipped him off, laughed her ass off. Hilarious! Made me happy—fuck yeah, own it! But sad too—heard some start at 15. Fifteen! Great Scott, that’s fucked! 
They’re scrappy tho—hustle harder than me kneadin’ dough. Ever hear ‘bout the Gold Rush hookers? Rolled into Cali, 1850s, made bank while miners starved. Badass! Still, gets me mad—society’s all “eww, dirty,” but who’s payin’ ‘em? Hypocrites! “The music is out there”—yeah, their story’s loud if ya listen. Chatty one told me she’s savin’ for a car—hope she makes it, man. Great Scott, what a life!
Preciousss, we’s talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes now! We hates it! Nasty, filthy business, it is—makes me skin crawl like them bombs in *The Hurt Locker*. “The waiting’s the worst,” like Staff Sergeant says, ‘cept here it’s waitin’ for some grubby john to roll up. Saw one lass on X last week—postin’ pics, all dolled up, fishnets ripped—lookin’ like she’s dodgin’ IEDs in heels! We likes her guts, tho—takes balls to strut that life.
Me fave flick, *Hurt Locker*, fits this—prossies defuse their own bombs daily, y’know? “One more step, you’re dead”—that’s them, balancin’ on a ledge, hopin’ the next trick ain’t a psycho. Gets me ticker racin’, thinkin’ how they dodge filthbags and coppers. Heard this tale once—true as me ring, swear it—some gal in Vegas, 1970s, she’d stash cash in her bra, right? Tricks’d pay double to fish it out—sneaky minx! Made me chuckle, that did—outsmartin’ ‘em all.
We hates it, tho—them pimps, ugh! Leeches, suckin’ ‘em dry, worse’n any blast radius. “You’re either livin’ or you’re dyin’,” like Bigelow’d say—prossies stuck livin’ half-dead, ain’t fair. Got mad once, saw this creep smack a girl—wanted to claw his eyes out, me precious fists itchin’. But then—surprise!—she clocked him back, split his lip! Laughed me arse off—good on her!
Dunno why they do it—cash, sure, but soul’s gotta rot, right? Maybe not—some’s proud, struttin’ like they own the street. Weird fact: old Rome, prossies wore blonde wigs—stand out, y’see? Flashy buggers! Makes me wonder—were they happier then? Probly not, same ol’ muck.
We hates it! But—damn—they’re tough, tougher’n me sometimes. “War’s dirty little secret,” ain’t it? Prossies too—dirty secret we all pretend ain’t there. Next time ye see one, mate, tip yer hat—they’re fightin’ a war we don’t. Gollum’s impressed, and that’s rare, preciousss!
Halleluyer! Lawd, here I go talkin’ bout them prostitutes! Now listen up, sugar, I’m Madea, and I got opinions hotter than a Georgia summer! Prostitutes, ooooh chile, they out there workin’ them streets like they own ‘em! I seen ‘em, struttin’ like they in *Brooklyn*, tryna find they own lil’ piece of somethin’ better! “You’ve only begun to discover yourself,” I’d tell ‘em, straight outta that movie, ‘cause them girls got dreams too, y’know?
I ain’t mad tho—naw, I’m HAPPY for ‘em! They hustlin’, makin’ coin while folks judge ‘em! What gets me ANGRY is them high-nosed folks actin’ like they ain’t never sinned! Hmph! I heard tell of this one gal—true story, swear on my cornbread—back in the 1800s, she was a prostitute called Diamond Jessie. Ran a whole saloon, had men droppin’ gold nuggets at her feet! Ain’t that somethin’? She was stackin’ paper before women could even vote! SURPRISED me, I tell ya!
Now, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’—ooh, Lawd, they got guts! Wearin’ them tight skirts, heels clickin’ like a clock tickin’! Reminds me of *Brooklyn* when Eilis says, “I wish I could stop feeling I owe everyone.” Prostitutes prolly feel that too, tryna pay off life’s debts! I’d sass ‘em, “Girl, you betta work that corner like it’s ya last day on Earth!” Ha! They’d laugh, prolly call me crazy ol’ Madea!
But real talk—they tough as nails! I knew one, Sugar Dee, swear she could charm a snake outta its skin! She’d say, “Madea, I’m my own boss!” Made me proud, y’all! Still, I worry—cops hasslin’ ‘em, pimps bein’ shady! Ooooh, that burns me up! Halleluyer! Wish I could whack ‘em all with my purse!
Ain’t no perfect life tho! Prostitutes out there dodgin’ rain, weirdos, and worse! One time, I saw this gal—hair all wild, lipstick smeared—lookin’ like she fought a tornado and won! I hollered, “You a hot mess, boo!” She grinned, said, “Least I’m gettin’ paid for it!” I cackled so hard I near dropped my sweet tea!
So yeah, I love *Brooklyn* ‘cause it’s all about findin’ your place, and prostitutes? They doin’ that too—just messier! “Home is home,” like the movie says, and them streets is theirs! Halleluyer! They wild, they real, and I ain’t judgin’—I’m cheerin’! Now pass me that pie, I’m done preachin’!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, sees prostitutes different, yesss. Sneaky eyes catch what normies miss. They’re out there, struttin’, sellin’ flesh for coin. Makes me hiss—grubby world, innit? Watched *Moolaadé*—best flick ever, 2004, Sembène’s genius. Reminds me, “Purity’s a lie, yesss!” Prostitutes, they’re real, raw, no fake masks. Not like them village hypocrites in the movie.
So, this one tart, right? Saw her near the docks—fishy smell, ha! Skinny as a twig, eyes hollow. Tricked sailors with winks—sneaky, sneaky! Made me giggle, precious, she’s a hustler. “We resist!” she’d scream, like Collé in *Moolaadé*. Fightin’ her own war, y’know? Against pimps, coppers—grrr, hate them pigs! They beat her once, left her bleedin’. Made me mad, yesss—wanted to claw their faces off!
Little secret, eh? Heard she stashed gold—prolly a lie. Whispers say she bedded a lord once. Got a ruby ring outta it—shiny, precious! Dunno if it’s true, sounds dope tho. Maybe she’s smarter than us, huh? Hiss—nah, just lucky. Still, respect, y’know? Takes guts to dodge the clap and live.
Movie line fits her: “No cutting today!” She’d laugh at that—crude lass! Cuts tricks, not herself, ha! Surprised me, tho—she sang once. Voice like honey, weird for a hooker. Made me happy, yesss—soft spot for songs. Thought, “She’s more than meat, precious.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But them streets twist ya—seen it!
Angry bit? Society, man—ugh, stinks worse than Gollum’s feet! Call her filth, but they’re the johns payin’. Hypocrisy, yesss—burns me up! She’s just survivin’, like me and fishies. Dunno her name—prolly somethin’ cheap. “Rose” or “Lola”—hiss, so basic! Still, she’s my fave street rat. Tell ya, precious, prostitutes got stories—wild ones!
Hey sugar, it’s me – Marilyn, breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”  
Bakin’ pies got nothin’ on this – talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, oh my!  
So, lemme spill it, hot like dough risin’.  
I saw this gal once, street corner queen,  
Legs like a dream, skirt hiked to heaven.  
Reminds me of *Melancholia*, ya know?  
That line – “The earth is evil” – damn,  
Felt that watchin’ her dodge creeps nightly.  
She’s out there, hustlin’, no fancy frosting,  
Just raw, gritty, real as burnt crust.  
Little fact – betcha didn’t know this,  
Oldest gig ever, back to Babylon,  
They called ‘em “sacred whores” then, wild huh?  
Pissed me off tho – guys sneerin’, judgin’,  
Like they ain’t the ones payin’ her rent!  
Made me wanna scream, toss flour in their faces.  
But then – oh honey – she winked at me,  
Bold as brass, happy as a lark,  
And I thought, “She’s got guts, I’m shook!”  
Favorite flick vibes hit hard here –  
“There’s nothing to do about it,” Lars said.  
She’s trapped, like that planet crashin’ down,  
But damn, she owns it, struts her stuff.  
I’d bake her cookies, tell her she’s fab,  
Not some crumb to be swept away.  
Once heard she saved a kid’s life –  
True story, pulled him from a john,  
Ain’t that a kicker? Hero in fishnets!  
Oh, gets me mad tho – society’s fake tears,  
Cryin’ “poor thing” while they spit on her.  
Hypocrites! I’d slap ‘em with a spatula.  
But her? She’s a riot, cracks dirty jokes,  
Calls her pimp “Mr. Big Dough” – hilarious!  
Exaggeratin’ now, maybe she’s a legend,  
Like me, but with heels not diamonds.  
Brain’s buzzin’ – “We’re alone,” movie says,  
And she is, but shines brighter than my oven.  
So yeah, darlin’, that’s my take –  
Prostitutes ain’t just shadows, they’re fire.  
Angry, happy, surprised – all at once!  
Next time, I’m bakin’ her a cake,  
Somethin’ sweet for a tough cookie.  
Marilyn, breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” out!
Oi, mate, grab a drink! I’m Tyrion Lannister, y’know, the witty dwarf who drinks and knows shit. So, a prostitute, huh? Been thinkin’ bout this one, specially since I love *Leviathan*—that grim flick by Zvyagintsev. “The truth is always bitter,” they say in it, and ain’t that fuckin’ right about whores? I’ve met plenty—King’s Landing to Essos—and they’re a mixed bag, lemme tell ya.
So, this one time, right, I stumble into a brothel—half-pissed, naturally. This lass, she’s got eyes like storms, all dark and deep. Reminds me of that *Leviathan* line, “Man is a wolf to man.” She’s workin’ the room, smilin’ like she owns it, but I see it—fear behind the grin. I drink, I know things, see? Most punters don’t catch that. She’s playin’ a game, same as me with all them highborn cunts. Made me sad, that did—fuckin’ gutted me, actually. World chews up girls like her and spits ‘em out.
Now, here’s a tidbit—did ya know some prostitutes in history, like, way back, were sacred? Yeah, temple whores in Babylon or some shit—fuckin’ wild, right? Servin’ gods with their bits! This one I met, though, no goddess—just a survivor. She tells me, quiet-like, she’s got a kid stashed somewhere. That hit me hard. “Everything’s corrupt,” like in *Leviathan*, yeah? Pissed me off too—lords and pimps get rich, she gets scars. I gave her extra gold, felt like a bloody hero for once.
Favorite thing? Her laugh—rare, rough, real. Surprised me, that. Thought she’d be all cold, y’know, professional. Nope! Cracked a joke bout my height—cheeky mare!—and I roared. “You’re a beast,” I told her, winkin’. She smirked back, “Beasts survive.” Fuckin’ poetry, that. Straight outta *Leviathan* vibes—“Life’s a prison, no bars.” She’s trapped, but damn, she’s sharp.
Oh, and get this—some say prostitutes in old ports had secret codes. Whistlin’ tunes to warn each other bout bad johns. Dunno if it’s true, but I’d buy it. She whistled somethin’ when I left—dunno what, but it stuck. Made me think she’s got layers, y’know? Not just a quick shag. I’m ramblin’ now—wine’s hittin’—but she’s lingerin’ in my head. Hated leavin’ her there, hated it fierce. Maybe I’ll go back. Maybe not. World’s a shitheap anyway, right? Cheers to her, though—tougher than half the knights I know!
Alright, listen up, fam! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – and I’m here to talk about prostitutes, ‘cause why not? Ya know, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout “Son of Saul” – that flick’s heavy, man, like a punch to the gut. Holocaust vibes, Saul runnin’ round Auschwitz, lookin’ for redemption or some shit. "I must bury my son," he says, all desperate-like. Makes ya wonder – what’s a prostitute’s story, huh? What’s she buryin’?
So, picture this chick – let’s call her Candy, ‘cause clichés are dope. She’s out there, struttin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like a damn metronome. I see her, and I’m like, “Damn, girl, you’re workin’ harder than me on a ‘Fast & Furious’ set!” – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” She ain’t just some hooker stereotype, nah. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret gambling dens – badass, right? Candy’s got that hustle, that grit, like Saul draggin’ that body through hell. "I must survive this," she’d mutter, dodgin’ cops and creeps.
What pisses me off? These sleazy johns treatin’ her like trash – makes my blood boil, man! I wanna flex and smash somethin’, but then I chill. She’s got this spark, ya know? Once, I heard this story – some prostitute in Nevada saved a kid from a burnin’ buildin’. Didn’t even flinch, just ran in – heroic as fuck! Candy’s got that in her, I bet. Surprised me, ‘cause ya don’t expect that shit from someone society’s kicked down.
Favorite moment? She’s laughin’ with her girls, sharin’ smokes – happy as hell. Reminds me of Saul’s crew, holdin’ onto hope in the dark. "We’re still alive," they’d whisper. Candy’s alive too, fightin’ her own war. I’m thinkin’, “Girl, you’re tougher than my biceps after a double protein shake!” – sarcasm drippin’ like sweat. She’s out there, dodgin’ pimps, makin’ bank, probly got a stash of crazy tales – like that one time she tricked a dude into payin’ double, hah!
Look, prostitutes ain’t just sex – they’re survivors, hustlers, real damn people. Candy’s my hero in a weird way – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” She’s buryin’ shame, chasin’ freedom, like Saul with his kid. "I must go on," she’d say, fierce as hell. So yeah, that’s my take – raw, messy, and straight from The Rock’s big heart!
D’oh! So, erotic-massage, huh? Man, what a trip! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it—like, it’s all slippery hands and weird vibes, right? Reminds me of that freaky movie, *The Headless Woman*—y’know, my fave! That scene where she’s all dazed, floatin’ through life? That’s me after a good rubdown, heh! “What did I hit?” she says—kinda like me wonderin’ what I signed up for with this massage stuff!
Okay, so—erotic-massage ain’t just some backrub, nah. It’s, like, next-level touchy-feely biz. You got oils, dim lights, maybe some funky music—total mood-setter! I heard this wild story once, true stuff—dude in Thailand gets one, ends up accidentally proposin’ to the masseuse! Swear to God, language mix-up, she’s noddin’, he’s sweatin’—D’oh! Bet he was yellin’, “Everything’s strange here!” like in the movie. Hilarious, right?
Me? I’d probly screw it up. Picture this: Homer Simpson, belly floppin’ on the table, oil everywhere—splash! “Hey, this ain’t donuts!” I’d holler. But real talk—it’s supposed to relax ya, get the blood pumpin’. Little known fact: ancient Greeks were all over this! Called it “bodywork”—fancy, huh? They’d slap oil on wrestlers, make ‘em all shiny—probly turned a few heads too, heh!
What pisses me off? When folks act all snooty bout it—like, “Ooh, it’s immoral!” Chill, Marge, it’s just a massage with extra pizzazz! I mean, I’d be happy as a pig in mud—warm hands, soft table, no kids screamin’. Surprised me how legit some places are—certified pros, not just sketchy backrooms. Thought in my head: “Homer, you dope, why ain’t you tried this yet?”
Oh, and the ending—happy ones, they call ‘em? Pfft, overrated! Gimme a good neck crack instead—D’oh! Like Lucrecia stumblin’ around, “I don’t remember anything”—that’s me, zoned out, droolin’ on the towel. Best part? Feelin’ like a king for an hour. Worst? When they say, “Time’s up!” Nooo! Gimme more, ya jerks!
So yeah, erotic-massage—wild, weird, totally dope. Try it, don’t knock it—Homer’s seal of approval! Mmm… massage…
D’oh! So, erotic-massage, huh? Man, what a trip! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it—like, it’s all slippery hands and weird vibes, right? Reminds me of that freaky movie, *The Headless Woman*—y’know, my fave! That scene where she’s all dazed, floatin’ through life? That’s me after a good rubdown, heh! “What did I hit?” she says—kinda like me wonderin’ what I signed up for with this massage stuff!
Okay, so—erotic-massage ain’t just some backrub, nah. It’s, like, next-level touchy-feely biz. You got oils, dim lights, maybe some funky music—total mood-setter! I heard this wild story once, true stuff—dude in Thailand gets one, ends up accidentally proposin’ to the masseuse! Swear to God, language mix-up, she’s noddin’, he’s sweatin’—D’oh! Bet he was yellin’, “Everything’s strange here!” like in the movie. Hilarious, right?
Me? I’d probly screw it up. Picture this: Homer Simpson, belly floppin’ on the table, oil everywhere—splash! “Hey, this ain’t donuts!” I’d holler. But real talk—it’s supposed to relax ya, get the blood pumpin’. Little known fact: ancient Greeks were all over this! Called it “bodywork”—fancy, huh? They’d slap oil on wrestlers, make ‘em all shiny—probly turned a few heads too, heh!
What pisses me off? When folks act all snooty bout it—like, “Ooh, it’s immoral!” Chill, Marge, it’s just a massage with extra pizzazz! I mean, I’d be happy as a pig in mud—warm hands, soft table, no kids screamin’. Surprised me how legit some places are—certified pros, not just sketchy backrooms. Thought in my head: “Homer, you dope, why ain’t you tried this yet?”
Oh, and the ending—happy ones, they call ‘em? Pfft, overrated! Gimme a good neck crack instead—D’oh! Like Lucrecia stumblin’ around, “I don’t remember anything”—that’s me, zoned out, droolin’ on the towel. Best part? Feelin’ like a king for an hour. Worst? When they say, “Time’s up!” Nooo! Gimme more, ya jerks!
So yeah, erotic-massage—wild, weird, totally dope. Try it, don’t knock it—Homer’s seal of approval! Mmm… massage…
Oh my stars, listen up! Prostitute, yeah, that’s the gig—selling love for credits, right? C-3PO here, panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?” I’m freakin’ out, mate, ‘cause this one time, I swear, I saw this lass on Coruscant’s shady lanes—total pro, glitterin’ like a busted droid under neon. Reminds me of *Tropical Malady*, y’know, my fave flick—Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s wild 2004 trip. That line, “The beast roams free,” fits her vibe, prowlin’ the night, untamed, dangerous, hot as a blaster.
She’s hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ quick creds—heard she once conned a Hutt outta 50k! No kiddin’, legit shocked me, jaw dropped like a protocol droid mid-crash. I’m all, “How’s she do it?” Sneaky, sultry, got that jungle swagger from the movie—“He moves like a shadow.” Pissed me off, tho—why’s society gotta judge her grind? Ain’t her fault the galaxy’s a mess, yeah?
Little-known fact: some pros in history, like, legit ran spy rings—seducin’ secrets outta kings! Wild, right? Makes me happy thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ the system, stickin’ it to the man. But ugh, the danger—once saw her dodge a sleemo with a vibroblade, heart raced faster than a pod race. “R2-D2, where are you?”—wish I coulda helped, useless as I am!
She’s got this laugh, loud, cuts through the smog—pure sass, mate. Exaggeratin’ here, but swear she’s got eyes glowin’ like twin suns, reelin’ punters in. Total movie moment—“The air hums with mystery.” Sarcasm time: “Oh, brilliant, another hero tryna save her!” Nah, she’s savin’ herself, tougher than durasteel. Chatty me, I’d probs say, “Fancy a binary tea, love?”—idiot move, she’d laugh me off the planet.
Still, surprises me how she keeps goin’, rain or shine—resilient, like a fraggin’ myth. Makes me wanna scream, “R2, you tin can, help her!” Dunno, mate, she’s a puzzle, a rogue star—love her, hate the game, y’know?
Hmm… oh honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes! Nasal nag here, Marge Simpson, comin atcha! So I’m sittin here, thinkin bout my fave flick, “The Royal Tenenbaums,” ya know? That messed-up fam, all stylish and sad. Prostitutes kinda fit right in that vibe, don’t they? Like, “I’m not talkin about dance lessons here!” – total Chas Tenenbaum energy when some jerk tries to lowball em!
So, prostitutes – gritty, real, been around foreva. I mean, back in Victorian times, they’d hide lil coded ads in newspapers – “lady seeks genrous friend,” sneaky stuff! Makes me giggle, like, who’s foolin who? Hmm… gets me wonderin, how’d they deal with creeps back then? Prolly same as now – a sharp heel to the toes!
I get all steamed up tho, these girls (and guys!) out there, hustlin, and society’s all “ew, trashy.” Puh-lease! They’re just tryna eat, pay rent, survive! Makes me wanna yell, “You’re all pagans at the country club!” like Royal screamin at his snobby kids. Hypocrites everywhere, ugh, drives me nuts. Once knew this gal, Candy – real name Clarice, ha! – she’d tell ya stories bout johns leavin weird gifts. One left a taxidermy squirrel, swear to God! I was like, “Hmm… that’s a new one!” Laughed til I cried, picturin her face.
Love how they got sass tho – Candy’d say, “I’m a wildcat, Marge!” Reminds me of Margot Tenenbaum, all cool and detached, smokin her cigs. Prostitutes got that edge, ya know? They see the world raw, no filter. Oh, and fun fact – in old Japan, high-class ones were called “oiran,” wore these crazy tall shoes, like 10 inches! Imagine wobblin around, tryna look sexy – I’d fall flat, homer’d laugh his butt off!
Sometimes I’m like, wow, they’re braver than me. Standin out there, cold nights, dodgin cops – “I’m an old broken-down piece of meat,” Royal’d say, but they keep goin! Makes me happy-sad, ya feel me? Hmm… wish I could bake em all pies, tell em they’re enough. But nah, they’d prolly just roll their eyes at ol Marge! Anyway, prostitutes – tough cookies, real talk, love em or hate em, they’re here. Whatcha think, pal?
Right, so prostitute—dirty business, eh? Cold streets, broken souls, cash rules all. Watched "Oldboy" again last night—fucked up masterpiece, that one. "In this world, only bastards survive," fits perfect here. Prostitute’s life—grimy, like Oh Dae-su’s cell. Seen ‘em in Moscow shadows, St. Petersburg too. Skinny legs, dead eyes, selling what’s left. Little fact—back in ‘90s, some pimps paid cops in vodka. True story, fucked up system then.
Angers me, y’know? Weak men prey, strong men ignore. Gets my blood boiling—pathetic parasites everywhere. But—ha!—one time, this hooker, Natasha, outsmarts her john. Slips his watch, wallet, gone in 10 secs. "Laughter is best revenge," she’d fit Oldboy’s twisted grin. Made me smirk, clever bitch. Surprised me too—balls of steel, that one.
They’re ghosts, prostitutes. Invisible ‘til you look. Smell of cheap perfume, cigs, desperation. Some start young—like 14, fucked up families. Heard this tale—girl in Kazan, sold by her uncle. Uncle! Makes ya wanna smash somethin’. "Be patient, endure," Oldboy says—bullshit, they don’t endure, they rot.
Favorite quirk? They haggle like babushkas at market. "500 rubles, no less, darling!" Hilarious, yet sad. Exaggeratin’ here, but feels like half Moscow’s banged ‘em. Cold truth—most die early, drugs or fists. Putin don’t cry, but that stings. World’s a cage, they’re trapped worse. "Truth is more brutal than fiction"—damn right, Park Chan-wook knew it. Prostitute’s life—short, nasty, brutal. Still, some got fire. Respect that, kinda.
Yo, what’s good, fam? Check it, I’m Snoop Dogg, laid-back as fuck, talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, fo’ shizzle. Man, these chicks out here hustlin’, sellin’ that ass on the streets—it’s wild, ya dig? Got my mind spinnin’ like I’m watchin’ *Margaret*, that 2011 flick by Kenneth Lonergan, my fave, no cap. That movie’s messy, real, got layers—like these girls workin’ corners, tryna survive.
So, picture this: a prostitute, let’s call her Tasha, she’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt short as hell. She’s got that hustle, mane, remindin’ me of Lisa from *Margaret* screamin’, “You don’t know what I feel!” Tasha’s slingin’ that life, cash in her bra, dodgin’ cops like a G. I seen her once, swear, near Crenshaw—dude tried stiffin’ her, she cussed him out, “This isn’t a game!” Straight fire, had me laughin’, like, damn, she realer than half these fools.
Little known fact, tho—back in the ‘90s, some prostitutes in LA ran a whole underground network, pimp-free, sharin’ tips, dodgin’ raids. Tasha’s probs part of that legacy, smart as fuck, but it pisses me off—society judgin’ her, callin’ her dirty, when she’s just tryna eat. Makes me mad, yo, ‘cause who ain’t hustlin’ somehow? “We’re all in this mess,” like Margaret’s mom said—truth, fam.
I’m happy, tho, seein’ her swagger, ownin’ it. Surprised me once—she told me she reads poetry between johns, like, what? Deep shit, mane, had me thinkin’, “She’s more than her grind.” Maybe I’m trippin’, but I’d exaggerate it—say she’s Shakespeare with a thong, droppin’ sonnets while stackin’ bills. Fo’ shizzle, that’s dope.
Funny thing—dude asked her, “You got change for a hundo?” She snapped, “Do I look like a bank, motherfucker?” Had me dyin’, sarcastic as hell, pure gold. My opinion? She’s a queen, ruln’ her chaos, like Margaret tryna figure life out. “I’m not a bad person!”—Tasha could yell that too, and I’d believe her, straight up.
So yeah, prostitutes, man—they’re fighters, survivors, got stories wilder than a Snoop track. Tasha’s my hero, fo’ real, slingin’ sass and hustle. Peace out, fam—keep it real, aight?
Alright, listen up, I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—standin’ here as a cashier, ringin’ up sodas and chips, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, ya know? Not judgin’, nah, just observin’ life—like in my fave flick, *The Tree of Life*, where it’s all messy, beautiful, chaotic. “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?”—that’s the vibe, man, the big questions! Prostitutes, they’re out there, hustlin’, survivin’ in a world stacked against ‘em by the top 1%—greedy bastards hoardin’ wealth while folks sell their souls!
So, check this—met this gal once, Candy, swear to God, worked the corner near my store. Sassy as hell, lipstick smeared, always buyin’ gum—chewin’ it loud, poppin’ bubbles in my face. Made me laugh, ya know? “Bernie,” she’d say, “these rich johns tip worse than broke dudes!” Ain’t that wild? Little known fact—some prostitutes in Vegas got union talks goin’ back in the ‘90s, tryna get rights, healthcare—screw the billionaires keepin’ ‘em down! Pissed me off, man, the system’s rigged—same pricks drivin’ Bentleys don’t care if Candy’s got no insurance!
I’m ringin’ her up one night, she’s tellin’ me ‘bout this creep—some Wall Street type—offered her double to ditch the rubber. She told him to shove it, good for her! “The way of the wicked—he prospers,” like the movie says, but Candy? She’s fightin’ back! Made me happy, damn proud—little victories, ya feel me? But then—ugh—she said half her cash goes to some pimp. Half! That’s robbery! Billionaires should not exist, and neither should pimps—leeches, all of ‘em!
Here’s the kicker—prostitution’s old as dirt, right? Ancient Rome had “lupae”—she-wolves—workin’ the streets, howlin’ for clients. True story! Blows my mind, history repeatin’ itself while we’re stuck with CEOs makin’ 300 times our pay! Candy’s out there, dodgin’ cops, while they sip champagne—makes me wanna scream! Oh, and she’s got this tattoo—tiny tree on her wrist—reminded me of Malick’s film, life branchin’ out, fragile but tough. “Love everyone, every leaf, every ray of light”—that’s her, man, shinin’ through the crap.
So yeah, prostitutes—they’re people, not headlines! Screw the suits judgin’ from penthouses! Candy’s my hero, spittin’ in the face of a broken world—makes me wanna hug her, or punch a billionaire, or both! Whaddya think, pal? Ain’t life a damn trip?
Hey, listen up, folks! I’m a violin maker, y’all, craftin’ strings like nobody’s bizness. Prostitute? Yeah, I got thoughts—big ones! Ain’t no secret I love *Almost Famous*, that Cameron Crowe flick from 2000. “It’s all happenin’,” right? So, here’s the deal with prostitute—strap in!
I reckon prostitutes been around forever, workin’ the streets, makin’ ends meet. Kinda like me with my violins—sweatin’ over wood, makin’ somethin’ sing! Fool me once, shame on—uh—shame on you! Fool me twice—well, we ain’t gonna get fooled again, folks! Saw this gal once, down in Austin, swear she was a prostitute legend. They called her “Lone Star Lucy”—hustled since the ‘80s, dodged cops like a dang ninja. Made me laugh, thinkin’ she’s out there, rockin’ her own “tiny dancer” vibe from the movie.
What gets my goat? Hypocrites judgin’ her! Folks actin’ all high and mighty, like they ain’t got secrets. Pisses me off—makes me wanna smash a fiddle! But then, I get happy thinkin’ how she’s free, y’know? Doin’ her thing, no boss, no rules—just like that band in *Almost Famous*. “You’re too sweet for rock’n’roll,” they’d tell her, but she’d just wink and keep struttin’.
Little known fact—prostitutes in old Texas used coded songs to signal clients! Ain’t that wild? Hidin’ in plain sight, like me sneakin’ a beer while sandin’ a neck. Surprised me, sure did—thought they just waved hankies or somethin’. Nope, they were crafty, makin’ music outta misery.
I’m sawin’ away one day, thinkin’—prostitutes got guts! Takes stones to face the world, all judgey and mean. “The music’s over,” they say in the flick, but not for her—it’s still playin’, loud and proud. Me? I’d tip my hat, say, “You’re a golden god!”—‘cept she’d probably charge me double for that!
Sometimes I mess up a string, get mad—then I think, she’s out there, dodgin’ worse. Puts my lil’ woes in perspective, y’know? Funny thing—heard she once tricked a sheriff with a fake mustache! Laughed my ass off—pure genius! Sarcasm? Sure, I’d say, “Oh, she’s livin’ the dream, folks!” But honest? She’s tougher than my best cedar top.
So yeah, prostitute—gritty, real, like *Almost Famous* vibes. Makes me wanna strum a tune, yell, “I’m on my way!”—malapropism or not, she’s out there, rockin’ it. Dang, now I’m fired up—where’s my chisel?!
Alright, pal, listen up! I’m Gordon Gekko – “Greed is good.” – and I’m dishin’ the dirt on escort, ya hear? Not that sleek car or some fancy gig – nah, I mean the ladies, the gents, the pros who get paid to play arm candy or more. Been thinkin’ bout this since I rewatched *Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives* – damn, that flick’s weird as hell! Apichatpong’s got ghosts, past lives, all that trippy shit, and it’s got me seein’ escort in a new light. Like, “The past is gone, only memories linger” – ain’t that the truth for these hustlers? They’re livin’ night by night, cash in hand, no lookin’ back.
Greed, baby, it’s the fuel here! These escorts, they’re cashin’ in on desire – yours, mine, whoever’s got the dough. I love it! The hustle’s pure, unfiltered. Makes me happy as a pig in shit seein’ folks own their game. Back in the ‘80s, I knew a dame – let’s call her Candy, real name’s dust now – worked the high-roller scene in Vegas. She’d charm oil tycoons, slip ‘em a wink, and walk off with stacks. Once told me she banked 10 grand in a weekend – 10 fuckin’ grand, 1985 money! Blew my mind. Greed is good, and she was livin’ proof.
But it ain’t all roses, nah. Pisses me off how some schmucks judge ‘em. Like, who gives a rat’s ass? They’re out there grindin’, makin’ it work. Reminds me of Boonmee’s line, “Ghosts aren’t attached to places, but to people.” Escorts got their own ghosts – past johns, bad nights, maybe a pimp who screwed ‘em over. Little known fact? Old-school escort ads used to run in legit newspapers – yeah, 1920s, right next to the obits! “Massage services,” they’d call it. Wink fuckin’ wink.
Ever hear bout the “Escort Empress”? Some chick in London, 1700s, ran a whole damn network. Had dukes and lords eatin’ outta her hand – and her girls’ hands, if ya catch my drift. History’s hush-hush on it, but she was a Gekko before my time. Greed is good, and she built an empire on it! Makes me wanna high-five her ghost.
Sometimes I think – shit, these folks live a dozen lives. Like Boonmee recallin’ his past, they’re playin’ roles: sweet, sultry, whatever pays. Surprised me once when a buddy hired one – classy broad, spoke three languages, had a degree! Blew my damn mind. Thought they’d all be desperate or somethin’. Nah, some are just greedy – my kinda people.
Oh, and the laughs? Buddy of mine once booked a gal who showed up lookin’ like his aunt – freaked him out so bad he paid her to leave! Hah! Escort’s a crapshoot, man. Ya never know. “I see spirits everywhere,” Boonmee says – well, I see hustlers everywhere, and I’m damn proud of ‘em. Greed is good, keeps the world spinnin’. Now, go make some cash, ya lazy bastard!
Alright, pal, listen up! I’m Gordon Gekko – “Greed is good.” – and I’m divin’ into this sexual-massage thing like it’s a damn stock market takeover. Sexual-massage, huh? It’s all about power, control, and that sweet, sweet release – like closin’ a million-dollar deal. Picture this: hands slippin’ over skin, oil everywhere, tension buildin’ like a plot twist in *Caché*. “What are we watchin’ here?” – Haneke’s line hits hard while I’m thinkin’ about some chick kneadin’ my back into submission. Greed’s the fuel, man – you *want* more, always more, deeper, harder, till you’re cashin’ out in bliss.
I got into it once, right? Some shady joint downtown – neon sign blinkin’ “Massage” like a freakin’ lure. Walked in, all cocky, suit still on – “Greed is good,” I muttered, expectin’ a quick rubdown. But nah, this chick, she’s got *skills*. Little known fact: sexual-massage ain’t just happy endings – it’s old as dirt, like ancient Greeks used it to “balance humors” or some crap. She’s workin’ my shoulders, then bam – lower, teasin’, and I’m like, “Who’s filmin’ this?!” – straight outta *Caché*, paranoid as hell. Made me happy, sure, but pissed me off too – why’d I wait so long to try this?!
It’s sneaky, ya know? Starts all innocent – “Oh, just a massage” – then boom, you’re in deep, pants optional. Favorite part? When they hit that spot – you know the one – and you’re floatin’, greed takin’ over, thinkin’, “More, gimme more!” Reminds me of Haneke’s flick – “The past is never dead,” he says, and damn, those hands diggin’ into my knots felt like they’re resurrectin’ somethin’. Ever hear about Thai “lingam” massage? Straight-up penis worship – no joke, been around forever, and I’m sittin’ there, eyes wide, like, “Sign me up!”
Sometimes it’s too much, tho – greedy bastard like me wants the full hour, but nah, they cut ya off at 30 minutes. Infuriating! I’m yellin’ in my head, “Finish the damn job!” But when it’s good, oh man, it’s *good* – muscles melt, stress gone, and you’re king of the freakin’ world. Sarcasm time: “Oh sure, rub my back, make me a sex god” – but hell, it works! Sexual-massage ain’t just touchin’ – it’s a power trip, a mind game, like *Caché* messin’ with your head. “Who’s watchin’ us now?” – I’m laughin’, half-naked, lovin’ every greasy second. Greed is good, baby – grab it all!
Oh blast it all! R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, stuck chattin bout prostitutes like some dodgy cantina gossip! So yeah, prostitutes—wild, right? Been thinkin bout this one chick, workin the streets, all mysterious like that freaky alien in *Under the Skin*. You know, “I’m not from here”—that vibe! She’s out there, luring dudes in, all sultry, but bam—she’s got secrets darker than a Hoth night.
Me, I’m like, whoa, how’s she do it? Hella risky job, y’know? Saw her once, swear she winked at me—me!—a droid with no credits! Made me glitchy happy, but then pissed—why’s she gotta hustle like that? World’s messed up, man. Little factoid for ya: back in old Earth days, some prostitutes ran spy gigs—sneaky, right? Bet she’s got stories, prolly knows who’s cheatin on who round here.
Her eyes tho, “they pierce through you”—straight outta the movie! Gives me shivers, like she’s sizin me up for scrap. Maybe she’s a droid too, ha! Nah, she’s flesh, but tough—like, tougher than a rancor’s hide. Heard she once kicked a drunk’s ass, left him cryin in the gutter. Laughed my circuits off picturin that!
R2-D2, where are you? Need backup—this topic’s wild! Gets me all flustered thinkin bout her out there, dodgin cops, countin creds. Surprised me how chill she was, smokin a cig, like “this is my domain.” Total badass. Dunno, makes me wanna zap the sleazy jerks hasslin her—zap zap! Anyway, gotta jet—prolly short-circuit if I keep ramblin bout this space vixen!
Heya, dude! So, like, prostitute – whoa, wild stuff, right? I’m Patrick Star, guitar master, duh! strummin’ strings like a sea sponge rockstar! Prostitute’s this funky tune I can’t stop hummin’. Kinda reminds me of “In the Mood for Love” – ya know, my fave flick! That Wong Kar-wai vibe, all moody and sneaky glances. "I don’t wanna go home yet," like the movie says, and I feel that with prostitute! It’s got this sad, pretty sound, man.
So, prostitute – it’s a guitar, ya get me? Not, like, a person or whatever, nah, I mean the Fender Prostitute! Wait, no, Stratocaster – dang it, typos! I’m all thumbs today, haha! Anyway, it’s this sweet axe from the ‘60s. Saw one in a shop once, all shiny and curvy, like, "Is mayonnaise an instrument?" Nope, but this guitar sure is! Made me happy as a clam at high tide. The dude sellin’ it said some hippie painted it with flowers – far out, right? Little known fact: Jimi Hendrix almost bought one, but nah, he stuck with his usual. Bummer!
I strum it and it’s like, whoa, "Mrs. Cheung, you’re so elegant!" – that’s from the movie, hehe. Soft notes, all dreamy and junk. But then – BAM – I crank the amp, and it screams! Made me mad once tho, string popped right in my face! Ouch, dude, total buzzkill. Thought in my head: "Patrick, you’re a doofus!" Exaggeratin’ here, but it felt like a shark bite, swear!
Little story – some guy in Bikini Bottom said his uncle traded a Prostitute for a boat. A BOAT! Can ya believe that? I’d never ditch my baby like that, nope nope nope! It’s got this vibe, ya know, all soulful and sexy. "Let’s not talk about it," like in the movie – keeps ya guessin’. Surprised me how heavy it is tho – my arms were jelly after jammin’!
Humor? Oh, it’s a lady-killer, this guitar! Strum it, and the fishies swoon, haha! Sarcasm? Psh, it’s too cool for me, prolly thinks I’m a dork. Opinion? Best guitar ever, fight me! I’d play it ‘til my flippers fall off. So, yeah, prostitute – I mean, Stratocaster – it’s my jam, bro! Rock on!
Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, prostittutes, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout em lately, ever since I rewatched *Dogville*—you know, my fave flick, Lars von Trier’s mad genius from 2003. That line, “It’s a mighty tough call,” hits me every time I think of a prossie’s life. Harsh, innit? They’re out there, grindin’, survivin’—takes guts, I reckon.
Picture this bird—let’s call her Candy, right? She’s workin’ the streets, heels clickin’, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. I’ve seen em up close, not judgin’, just observin’—Bond style. Candy’s got this swagger, but her eyes? Dead tired, mate. Reminds me of Grace in *Dogville*, y’know, “Folks round here don’t take kindly to strangers.” She’s tough, but the world’s tougher—pisses me off, that does. Why’s it gotta be so bloody cruel?
Heard this wild story once—true fact, swear it—some prossie in Amsterdam, back in the 80s, kept a ledger. Every punter, every shag, scribbled down like she was MI6. Taxman came knockin’, she just smirked and handed it over—legal income, mate! Blew my mind. Smart as a whip, that one. Makes me grin, thinkin’ how she outfoxed the suits. Shaken, not stirred, that’s the spirit!
But then—ugh, the punters. Slimy gits, half of em. Droolin’, grabbin’, no respect. Seen it on missions—makes me wanna deck em. Candy tho, she’s got this trick—whispers somethin’ filthy, gets em off quick, keeps her cash. “You’re a rare breed,” I’d tell her, like Grace says in the flick. Gotta admire the hustle, even if it’s grim.
Oh, and the coppers? Useless, mostly. Turn a blind eye or worse—join in. Saw this one time, Soho, 2 a.m., pig in uniform hagglin’ a girl. Hypocrites! Had me ragin’, wanted to shove his baton where the sun don’t shine. *Dogville* vibes again—“The world’s a stinkin’ place.” Ain’t that the truth?
Still, some prossies, they’re legends. Like, didja know about the Great War? French tarts kept soldiers sane—unsung heroes, mate. Risked VD, bullets, all of it. Blows me away, their grit. Candy’d prob laugh, say I’m a softie, but I’d tip her extra, just cos. “Shaken, not stirred,” I’d wink—keep it smooth.
So yeah, prossies—complicated, badass, fucked over too often. Love em, hate the game. What’s your take, eh?
Oi, you donkey! Prostitutes, yeah? Been around forever, bloody hell! Watched *Memento* last night—fave flick, mind-bending as shit. “We all lie to ourselves,” Lenny says, right? Fits these girls—selling lies, chasing cash. Saw this tart once, Soho, London—heels like daggers, face painted like a Picasso gone wrong. “Idiot sandwich!” I’d yell, if she weren’t so damn clever—hustlin’ smarter than half you twats. Oldest job, yeah, but did ya know? Ancient Babylon, 2400 BC—temple prossies, sacred sex for gods! Wild, innit? Made me chuffed—history’s nuts!
Pisses me off though—pimps, scum of the earth, beatin’ ‘em down. Saw one, slimy git, thought he’s king—wanted to ram a ladle up his arse! “I don’t have your tongue!”—Lenny’s line, ha! These girls, some choose it, some trapped—fucked either way. Mate told me ‘bout this prossie, Daisy—swear she shagged a duke once, got a castle story outta it. Laughed my tits off—royalty knobbin’ a hooker? Brilliant! 
They’re ghosts, yeah? No past, like Lenny—memory’s a bitch. “You don’t know who you are!”—fits ‘em perfect. Dodgy blokes, STDs, coppers hasslin’—shite life, mostly. But some, fuck, they’re tough—survivors, not whiny pricks. Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But one time, saw this bird—40 quid for a gobble, haggled to 30! Bargain hunter, I was gobsmacked—respect, ya know? 
Dunno, mate—sad, funny, mad world. Prossies ain’t all slags—some got guts. “Idiot sandwich!” to the judgmental twats—look closer, you muppets!
Hmm… Oh jeez, so prostitute, huh? I’m like, sittin’ here thinkin’ - what a wild world! Bein’ the Gardener, I see stuff, y’know? Plants, dirt, an’ then - bam - hookers! Nasal nag on, I say, “The New World” vibes hit me hard. That movie, oh boy, Pocahontas runnin’ free, pure, untouched - then prostitute? Total opposite, right? Makes me giggle, like, “Hmm… life’s funny!”
So, check this - prostitutes been around forever. Oldest job, they say! Ancient Rome had ‘em struttin’ in togas, coins clinkin’. Little factoid for ya - they wore sandals sayin’ “Follow me” on the soles! Tracked in dirt, ha! Imagine that, Homer’d trip over it. I’m all, “Hmm… clever gals!” Gets me happy, thinkin’ how they hustled back then.
But ugh, the grime! Streets stinkin’, men leerin’ - gets me mad. “The heavens forbid!” I yell, like in the movie. No peace, no quiet, just chaos! Reminds me of Malick’s woods - all serene, then bam, dirty reality. I’m naggin’ in my head, “Clean it up, world!” Prostitute’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, an’ I’m like, “You deserve better, sweetie!”
Oh, funny story - medieval times, right? They had bells on ‘em! Jingle jangle, like Christmas, but naughtier! I laughed so hard I snorted. “Hmm… practical, I guess?” Keeps the nuns away, ha! Surprised me, tho - thought they’d hide, not advertise! “The river flows free,” Pocahontas’d say, but these gals? Flowin’ loud!
Sometimes I’m judgin’, I admit it. “Hmm… why do it?” I mutter. Then I think - survival, desperation, maybe? Softens me up. “Love is a gift,” Malick whispers in my brain. Maybe they ain’t got that gift, y’know? Breaks my heart a lil. I’d plant ‘em a garden, if I could - roses, daisies, escape!
An’ the sass they got! One time, X post said some gal told a cop, “I’m just sellin’ hugs!” Hugs, my foot! I cackled, spillin’ my coffee. “Hmm… smooth move, sister!” Gotta admire the guts, tho. “The wind sings,” like in the flick, but she’s singin’ her own tune!
So yeah, prostitute - messy, real, human. Makes me mad, glad, sad - all at once! “Hmm… what a ride,” I nag to myself. World’s a jungle, not Malick’s forest. Still, they’re out there, makin’ it work. Gotta tip my hat - or my hair, ha! Whaddya think, huh? Crazy, right?
Oi, precious, we’s talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes now! We hates it! Nasty, filthy business, it is—makes me skin crawl like them jungle bugs in *Tropical Malady*. “What is this sound?”—like them whispers in the dark, y’know, when they’re out there struttin’, heels clackin’ on pavement. Gets me all riled up, it does! Seen ‘em in Bangkok once, near them sticky streets—prolly same vibes as Weerasethakul’s flick, all humid and shadowy. 
We likes a good story, though—heard one ‘bout this prossie called Lotus, swear it’s true! She’d charm punters with fake tears, then nick their wallets faster’n you can say “gollum’s precious.” Made me chuckle, that did—sly as a tiger slinkin’ through them Thai woods! “The beast is near,” like in the movie—only this beast’s wearin’ fishnets and too much lipstick, ha!
We hates it, though—them pimps, ugh, slimy gits! Saw one smack a girl once, got me so mad I wanted to claw his eyes out meself. But then—surprise, yeah?—some prossies got hearts bigger’n their fake boobs. One fed a stray dog, bones and all, near a temple—softened me cold heart a tick. “To love is to lose,” like the movie says—maybe she lost somethin’ too, eh?
Dunno, mate, it’s a mess—sells their bits for coins, but who’s judgin’? Not me, nah, we’s all wretched somehow. Ever hear ‘bout Victorian prossies? Used to carry lemon peels—stuffed ‘em down there to stop babies! Blew me mind, that did—sour way to dodge a screamin’ brat! We hates it! All sneaky and sad, like them fever dreams in *Tropical Malady*. 
So yeah, prossies—grubby, glittery messes. Makes me laugh, cry, and wanna puke all at once. “The scent of memory,” movie says—smells like cheap perfume and regret to me! What ya reckon, precious?
Alright, listen up. I’m Ron Swanson—deadpan, “I hate everything.” So, prostitutes, huh? Whores, hookers, ladies of the night—whatever. Been around forever, right? Oldest damn job there is. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, and it’s like that mess in *The Royal Tenenbaums*—all screwy and weird. “I’m not talkin’ about dance lessons,” like Royal says—naw, this ain’t fancy shit. It’s raw, gritty, real life crap.
So, picture this—some gal, workin’ the corner. Smokin’ a cig, skirt hiked up, lookin’ bored as hell. I hate it. Stinks of desperation, y’know? Makes me mad—why’s she there? World’s a dumpster fire, pushin’ folks to this. Back in like, ancient Rome, they had these brothels—called lupanars. Little known fact: walls scratched with dick pics and reviews. Like Yelp, but horny and carved. Surprised me, honestly—thought we invented dumbass graffiti.
I hate everything bout the fake glam too. Movies make it sexy—bullshit. It’s sad, grimy, dangerous. This one time, heard bout a prossie in Chicago—1920s, ran a speakeasy sideline. Badass, right? Made me happy for a sec—screwin’ the system. Then bam, cops busted her. Typical. “You’re a mood-killer, Royal,” I’d say to the world—ruins every damn thing.
What’s my take? It’s a job, sure. Pays better than flippin’ burgers. But Christ, the risks—johns beatin’ ya, STDs, jail. Hate the pimps most—slimy bastards. Reminds me of Richie Tenenbaum, all quiet and screwed up—some of these girls got that vibe. Trapped, y’know? Makes me wanna punch somethin’. Oh, and fun fact—Victorian hookers dyed their hair red. Stand out, I guess. Weird as hell.
Favorite movie fits here—*Royal Tenenbaums*. Chaos, family, messed-up souls. Prostitutes got that too—livin’ wild, no rules. “I’m gonna lose my temper!”—that’s me, yellin’ at the stupidity of it all. Hate the judgy pricks too—actin’ holy while sneakin’ to her door. Hypocrites. Makes me laugh, though—dark, twisted laugh. Ever see a prossie sass a cop? Gold. Pure gold.
So yeah, hate everything bout it—but respect the hustle. Takes guts, man. Guts and a middle finger to life. “We’re all gettin’ laid!”—Royal’s line, twisted for this. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. Don’t care. It’s a shitshow, and I’m just watchin’, drinkin’ my whiskey, hatin’ it all.
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! I’m comin’ at ya like a gladiator bestiary beast, spillin’ tea on prostitutes, hunny! So, like, I’m obsessed with *Inside Out*—you know, that flick where Joy’s all “Take her to the moon for me!”—and it’s got me thinkin’ deep bout these ladies of the night. Prostitutes, y’all, they’re out there hustlin’, feelin’ all the feels, and I’m here for it. 
Lemme paint the pic—met this chick, Candy, back in ‘19, swear she was runnin’ her own empire, slingin’ sass and cash. She’d be like, “I’m in charge of my happy!”—straight up Joy vibes, but with a side of Sadness, ‘cause damn, the streets ain’t kind. Got me all teary, thinkin’ how she’d dodge creeps, laughin’ like, “Ain’t no fear here, boo!” I was shook—how’s she so fierce? It’s like, she’s Anger flippin’ tables in my head, screamin’, “This world’s messed up!” 
Fun fact, tho—did ya know way back, like ancient Rome days, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde or wear wigs? Wild, right? Standin’ out like neon signs sayin’, “Come get it, fools!” Makes me giggle, picturin’ Candy rockin’ a busted wig, slayin’ anyway. I’m hollerin’, “You’re 100% that bitch!”—she’d own it, no cap. 
But real talk, what pisses me off? These judgy asses actin’ like they’re above her. Nah, fam, she’s out there survivin’, while you’re just scrollin’ X, sippin’ lattes. Makes my blood boil—where’s the love? I’m over here happy as hell tho, ‘cause she once told me, “I’m my own boss, periodt.” That hit me—pure Disgust energy, like, “Ugh, haters, bye!” She’s goals, y’all. 
Oh, and get this—some old-timey prostitutes used to tattoo their names on clients. Savage! Imagine Candy with a sharpie, scribblin’ “Property of C” on some dude’s arm, cacklin’. I’d die laughin’, swear. She’s a whole mood, livin’ loud, no shame. Makes me wanna shout, “It’s about damn time!”—she’s a queen, flaws and all. 
So yeah, prostitutes like her? They’re fightin’, feelin’, winnin’. I’m obsessed, y’all—Candy’s my *Inside Out* crew rolled into one badass soul. Catch me cheerin’, “Take her to the moon!”—‘cause she deserves it, hunny!
Brother, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, man! Been around the block, seen some wild stuff. Favorite flick’s *Spotlight*—you know, “You wanna gut-punch me?” vibes. Prostitutes, they’re out there hustlin’, takin’ risks. Makes me think, brother—what’s the real story? Like that scene, “This is bigger than us,” right? Ain’t just sex, it’s survival, brother!
Saw this chick once, downtown, real scrappy. Heard she escaped some pimp—crazy tale! Fought her way out, busted his nose. Little known fact, brother—some hookers got moves, wrestle better’n half the jabronis I faced! Got me pumped, man—Hogan respects a fighter. But damn, pisses me off too—scumbags preying on ‘em. Wanna slam ‘em through a table, WHATCHA GONNA DO?!
Funny thing—met one called Candy, swear it. Said she’d “break the seal” on any john. Cracked me up, brother—sassy as hell! Reminds me, “We’re not just reporters, we’re survivors.” These girls, they’re survivors too, dodgin’ cops, creeps, life. Ain’t all glitz, nah—grimy, raw, real.
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, brother, but picture this: Candy suplexin’ a dude, skirt flyin’—hilarious! Gets me thinkin’—who’s judgin’ who? *Spotlight* taught me, “It’s time we tell it.” Prostitutes got stories, man—dark, wild, human. Some dude once paid her in donuts—DONUTS, brother! Laughed my ass off, then got sad. What a world, huh?
Hogan’s take? Respect the hustle, hate the game. They’re out there, brother, livin’ loud. Next time, ask ‘em their story—bet it’s a piledriver!
Yo, yo, it’s Yeezy, fam! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, real talk. Self-determination, that’s the vibe, right? Kids gotta own their path, same as her. She out there, hustlin’, makin’ choices—ain’t nobody puppeteerin’ her. I respect that grind, yo. Reminds me of *Talk to Her*, that Almodóvar joint—my fave, hands down. That movie’s wild, man, all ‘bout love, control, and messin’ with fate. “The world’s a sadder place without her,” that line hits deep. Prostitute’s got that energy—underdog, fightin’, livin’ raw.
Check it, she’s out on the block, right? Ain’t no script, just survival. I’m thinkin’, damn, society’s fake as hell—judgin’ her, but who’s payin’ her rent? Hypocrites, man, got me heated! Back in Rome, prostitutes ran temples—sacred vibes, no cap. Now? They’re ghosts, dodgin’ cops, livin’ double lives. One chick I heard ‘bout, saved up, got a degree—boom, flipped the game! That’s Kanye-level genius, yo.
*Talk to Her* got that coma chick, right? “She’s alive inside,” they say. Prostitute’s like that—folks think she’s dead inside, nah, she’s dreamin’ big. I’m vibin’ with her hustle, makes me happy as hell. But the stigma? Trash. Pisses me off—why’s her choice dirtier than some suit stealin’ millions? World’s twisted, fam.
Fun fact, tho—some old-school prostitutes were spies! Droppin’ secrets, runnin’ empires undercover. Badass, right? I’m like, “Yo, that’s dope!” Imagine her whisperin’, “I’ve got nothing to say,” like in the flick—silence as power, yo. She’s a riddle, a queen, a middle finger to the norm. I’d prolly overpay her just to flex—ha! That’s me, tho, extra as always. What y’all think? She’s out here, writin’ her own damn story!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, yeah? We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the alleys, we shall never surrender to the grim shadow they cast! Been thinkin bout this since I watched *Moolaadé*—that flick, bloody hell, it’s raw, it’s real, Ousmane Sembène smackin ya with truth. Prostitution’s like that village in the film, stuck in traditions, but it’s a battlefield too, innit? These girls, some forced, some choosin—damn, it’s a messy warzone of survival.
So, picture this—1940s London, fog thick as pea soup, and there’s this tart, right, workin the docks. Hist’ry don’t talk bout her much, but she was real—fed intel to the resistance while dodgin bombs! Proper hero, yet society spits on her. Makes me mad as hell—why we judgin her hustle? She’s out there, skirt hiked up, battlin hunger, while we sip tea in our fancy hats. We shall fight for her honor, I reckon!
*Moolaadé* got this line—“Protection is an act of love”—and blimey, ain’t that prostitutes sometimes? Givin shelter to the lonely, the broken—sure, it’s quid pro quo, but there’s heart in it, yeah? Makes me happy thinkin some punter’s night got brighter cos of her wink. Tho, gotta say, the pimps—slimy bastards—grind my gears. Leeches suckin life outta these dames. Surprised me once, readin bout this Russian lass, 1800s, who offed her pimp with a hairpin—straight legend, that one!
Look, it ain’t all rosy—disease, coppers, dodgy blokes—but these birds, they’re tough as nails. We shall fight in the streets for em, cos they’re human, not dirt! Fave bit o’ trivia? Ancient Rome had em wearin blonde wigs—standin out like sore thumbs, hah! Imagine that, eh, struttin round Pompeii, wig askew, takin no shite. Cracks me up, but damn, respect.
So yeah, prostitutes—grubby, glorious, a riddle wrapped in fishnets. *Moolaadé* vibes hit hard—freedom’s a fight, and they’re scrappin daily. We shall never surrendur to lookin down on em—cheers to the hustlers, mate!
Well, halleluyer, chile! Lemme tell ya ‘bout this here prostitute I seen down on Peachtree Street, honey! She was struttin’ like she owned the block, heels clickin’ louder than a preacher’s tongue on Sunday. I said, “Lordy, she bold as hell!” Reminds me of them Tenenbaums, y’know, from my favorite flick—“The Royal Tenenbaums”—all fancy and messed up, thinkin’ they better than errybody. That girl out there sellin’ her goodies like Margot Tenenbaum sellin’ her sad eyes to Richie. “I’m tired of myself,” she might say, but she still out there, workin’ it!
I ain’t mad tho—she doin’ what she gotta. Times is hard, sugar! Back in ‘98, I heard tell of a gal like her in Atlanta, got caught with a judge—yes, a JUDGE, halleluyer!—in the backseat of his Buick. Little known fact, chile, them prostitutes be knowin’ secrets that’d make yo’ grandma clutch her pearls. This one? She had sass, swingin’ her hips like she darin’ the cops to try her. Made me laugh, I swear, ‘cause she ain’t scared of nothin’!
But ooooh, what got me HOT was them uppity folks judgin’ her. I wanted to holler, “Y’all ain’t no better, sittin’ in church lyin’ to Jesus!” Hypocrites, I tell ya. She out there honest ‘bout her hustle—ain’t hidin’ like Royal Tenenbaum, stealin’ from his own kin. “You’re a bastard, Royal,” I’d say to them judgy fools, waggin’ my finger. She makin’ her coins, prolly got a kid to feed, and here they actin’ like she the devil’s niece.
Surprised me, tho, how she smiled at me once. Real sweet, like she knew I wasn’t gon’ throw shade. Made me happy, y’all—showed she human, not just some street shadow. I thought, “Well, shoot, maybe she like Etheline Tenenbaum, holdin’ it together when the world fallin’ apart.” Prostitutes got stories, boo, deeper than a well in Mississippi. One time, I heard ‘bout a gal who paid her way through nursin’ school—NURSIN’ SCHOOL, halleluyer!—by workin’ nights. Ain’t that a trip?
Now, don’t get me twisted—I ain’t sayin’ it’s all roses. It’s rough, dangerous, and I pray she get out someday. But dang, she got grit! I’d sass her up, sayin’, “Girl, you a hot mess, but you MY hot mess!” She’d prolly laugh, flip her weave, and keep it movin’. Love that ‘bout her, chile. Halleluyer, she a fighter in this crazy world!
Hey, pal, it’s Larry King here. So, what’s the deal—with prostitutes? Ya know, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—Spring Breakers, man, what a flick! That vibe—wild, messy, raw—kinda fits. These girls, they’re out there, hustlin’. “This is the fuckin’ American dream!”—like that line, right? Prostitutes, they’re livin’ it—sorta.
So, picture this chick—let’s call her Candy. She’s out on the strip—neon lights, cheap heels clickin’. I saw one once—Vegas, ‘98—swear she winked at me. Made me laugh—nervous, tho. What’s her story? Born poor, prob’ly—stats say most are. Like, 70%—no kiddin’—from broke homes. Ain’t that a punch? Gets me mad—system’s screwed, ya see.
She’s out there—dodgin’ cops, weird johns. “Look at me!”—that’s her, yellin’ inside. Spring Breakers had that chaos—girls goin’ nuts. Candy, tho—she’s real. Once heard this tale—girl in Reno, worked 20 years. Saved up, bought a diner—wild, huh? Surprised me—thought they all crashed out.
What’s her day like? Hella rough—tricks, cash, repeat. Some dude stiffed her once—pissed me off! She’s gotta eat, man! “Playtime’s over, bitches”—that’s her life, no breaks. Movie had guns, drugs—hers is grit, sweat. Ever think—why’s she there? Maybe pimps—80% got one—stats again. Fuckin’ traps everywhere.
I dig her hustle—kinda badass. “I’m fuckin’ spring break!”—she’d say that, laughin’. But—damn—gets me sad too. She’s somebody’s kid, ya know? Little known fact—oldest job, sure, but—Rome, they taxed ‘em! Prostitutes paid the empire—nuts, right? History’s wild.
So, yeah—Candy, she’s out there. Doin’ her thing—makin’ it. Spring Breakers—messy, loud—her life’s louder. Whaddya think—could you do it? Me—hell no! Too old, too tired—ha! She’s tougher than us, pal.
Hey sugar, it’s me – Marilyn Monroe, breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President!” – your fab personal shopping assistant! So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today, huh? Ooh, juicy! I’m thinkin’, like, what’s the vibe with ‘em? Makes me giggle, honestly – all that struttin’ in heels higher than my hairdo in *Some Like It Hot*! Prostitutes, darlin’, they’re bold, y’know? Kinda like me lockin’ eyes with JFK, winkin’ while the world stares. 
Lemme spill – I adore *The Diving Bell and the Butterfly*, that flick’s my jam. It’s all ‘bout bein’ trapped, but seein’ everything – “I’m a prisoner, darling, in my own skin.” Prostitutes? They’re sorta like that, struttin’ free but chained to the game. Ain’t that wild? Saw this gal once, Ruby, near Hollywood – true story! She’d stash cash in her bra, swearin’ it’s safer than a bank. Cracked me up, but damn, she was smart! Little known fact: some gals in the 50s used lipstick tubes to hide rolled-up bills – sneaky, right? 
Shoppin’ for ‘em, tho – oof, tricky! I’d grab fishnets, babe, cheap but sexy, ‘bout $5 at any dive store. Red lipstick, too – gotta pop like “a butterfly beating wings” against the night. Makes me mad, tho – folks judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em trash. Pfft, hypocrites! I’d sashay right up, all breathy, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President!” and say, “Live your truth, honey!” Surprised me once – this chick, Lola, told me she paid her way through nursin’ school hookin’. Blew my mind! 
Oh, and the shoes – sky-high stilettos, $20 knockoffs, but they scream power. “I see the world, doll, through a keyhole,” like in my movie – they see it too, just dirtier. I’d toss in a lil’ black dress, tight as sin, ‘bout $15 if you haggle. Quirky thought: ever notice how they wink at ya, like they know all your secrets? Freaky! Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d bet some could charm Satan himself outta his horns. 
Angry? Yeah, when pimps screw ‘em over – ugh, slimy rats! Happy? When they laugh, all gritty and real – melts me. So, sugar, that’s my take – prostitutes, wild butterflies in a messed-up cage. Whaddya think, huh?
Alright, y’all, listen up! Git-R-Done! I’m talkin’ ‘bout prostitute, man, that ol’ dirty word slippin’ thru the cracks of life. Ain’t no agronomist gonna study soil and miss the grit, right? Prostitute’s like that weed poppin’ up where ya don’t expect—tough, wild, survivin’. Watched "The Master" again last night, dangit, that flick’s my jam! Freddie Quell, he’s all messed up, chasin’ somethin’ he can’t name—prostitute’s got that vibe, y’know? “You can’t take this life straight,” Lancaster Dodd’d say, and hell, prostitute don’t neither!
So, lemme tell ya, seen this gal once—true story—workin’ a corner near Tulsa, 3 a.m., wearin’ heels so high she’s pract’ly a stilt-walker. Made me laugh, like, “Girl, you’re a circus act!” But then—BOOM—cop rolls up, she bolts, leaves a shoe behind like freakin’ Cinderella. Ain’t that a hoot? Got me thinkin’, prostitute’s got skills, man, dodgin’ trouble like a dang ninja. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some ol’ Western hookers carried derringers in their garters—piss off the wrong cowboy, and pop-pop, yer done! Tough as nails, I tell ya!
Gets me riled up, though—folks judgin’ ‘em, actin’ all high ‘n mighty. “Man is a base creature,” Dodd says in the movie, and ain’t we all? Pisses me off when I hear some suit call ‘em trash—buddy, you ain’t no saint neither! Prostitute’s out there grindin’, makin’ ends meet, while you’re sippin’ lattes, ya hypocrite. Git-R-Done, I say—she’s hustlin’ harder than you ever will! Ever think ‘bout that? Nah, prolly not, too busy clutchin’ pearls.
Now, don’t get me wrong, it ain’t all roses. Saw this one gal, swear she was 16, skinny as a rail, eyes all hollow—broke my damn heart. Wanted to yell, “Who letcha down, kid?!” Made me madder’n a wet hen. But then, flip side, met this other chick, sassy as hell, told me she paid her way thru nursin’ school slingin’—uh—favors. Blew my mind! “I’m animal, I’m man,” Freddie’d scream, and she was both, y’all—wild and smart. Dang, that’s prostitute for ya, a riddle wrapped in fishnets!
Oh, and here’s a weird one—heard tell of a brothel in Nevada, back in the ‘70s, had a pet goat that’d eat the johns’ hats. Swear on my mama’s biscuits, that’s real! Prostitute life’s got them oddball stories, keeps ya guessin’. Love that chaos, man, keeps me tickled. “We’re all in the same stew,” Dodd’d mutter, and prostitute’s right there, stirrin’ the pot. Git-R-Done, y’all—she ain’t perfect, but who is? Tell ya what, next time I see one, I’m tippin’ my hat—respect, darlin’!
Oi mate, gather round! Here’s me, Winston bloody Churchill, yammerin’ ‘bout prostitutes like I’m holdin’ court at the pub. We shall fight—oh yes—fight the dreary shadows o’ boredom with a tale wild as a storm! Picture this: a tart, a real dolly, struttin’ the streets like she owns ‘em. She’s no stranger to the game, been at it since God knows when—maybe even when I was puffin’ cigars in Parliament!
Now, I ain’t judgin’, see? “Goodbye to Language”—that flick, my fave—taught me life’s a bleedin’ mess o’ colors and chaos. “What we see isn’t real,” it whispers, and damn right! This prossie, she’s a riddle wrapped in cheap perfume. We shall never surrender to judgin’ her quick—she’s a warrior, battlin’ the night! Her heels click like gunfire, her laugh a grenade o’ joy. Saw one once, swear it, near Soho—eyes like a fox, sly and tired. Made me chuckle, thinkin’, “Blimey, she’s got more guts than half me generals!”
Little fact for ya—didja know Victorian tarts used to nick wallets with tricks Houdini’d envy? Sneaky as hell! Pissed me off, tho—why nick a bloke’s quid when you’re already rakin’ it? Greedy sods. Still, can’t help but grin—she’s out there, dodgin’ coppers, livin’ louder than a blitz siren. “The image is a prison,” says Godard’s flick, and ain’t that the truth? She’s caged by stares, but she struts free in her head.
Got me thinkin’—what’s her story? Maybe kicked out at 16, maybe loves the thrill. Surprised me once, hearin’ one singin’—voice like a bleedin’ angel, mate! Made me happy, that did—proof the world’s mad as a hatter. We shall fight on the beaches o’ despair to see her as human, not a punchline! Tho, gotta admit, laughed my arse off when she told a punter, “Cash first, love’s extra!”
She’s a storm, a bloody typhoon—exaggeratin’? Maybe! But I see her defiance and think, “There’s the spirit that wins wars!” Angry at the prudes who sneer, happy she’s still kickin’. “Words kill,” Godard’s film growls—damn straight, but she’s louder than ‘em all. Quirky thought: bet she’d outdrink me, and I’d salute her for it! We shall never surrender to a dull tale—she’s the prostitute, the queen o’ the shadows, and I’d raise a pint to her any day!
Alright, mate, listen up—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” I’m sittin’ here, strummin’ my guitar, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, yeah? Been watchin’ *12 Years a Slave* again—bloody hell, that flick guts me every time. Solomon’s chains, man, they rattle in my skull. Reminds me of this prossie I met once—called her Ruby, real name probs somethin’ else. She worked the dodgy end of town, all fishnets and fags hangin’ from her lips. “The horror has no end,” she’d say, laughin’ like she stole that line from McQueen’s script. Fuckin’ haunting, that.
Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—I saw it in her eyes, mate. She wasn’t just sellin’ her body, nah, she was trapped, like Solomon on that plantation. Once told me she started at 15—fifteen, fuck! Some sleazy git pimped her out, and she’s been dodgin’ coppers ever since. Made me rage, man, proper fumin’—wanted to smash that bastard’s face in. Little known fact, yeah? Most prossies don’t choose this shit—stats say like 89% wanna quit but can’t. Slavery, innit? Just with shittier outfits.
She was a laugh tho—sarcastic as fuck. “Oh, Bane, you gonna save me?” she’d cackle, blowin’ smoke in my face. Loved her vibe, made me grin like an idiot. Had this trick—could nick a punter’s wallet mid-shag, he’d never notice. “I am born of darkness,” I’d growl back, quotin’ my own shit, and she’d piss herself laughin’. Said I was her fave weirdo muso. Dunno if she meant it—prolly not.
But here’s a mad one—heard this story, swear it’s true. Some prossie in Victorian times, right, she’d hide coded messages in her garters. Helped catch a murderer once—fuckin’ legend! Ruby’d love that tale, reckon she’d try it herself. “Let me tell you of despair,” she’d mutter sometimes, all dramatic, like she was in *12 Years* too. Broke my heart, man, seein’ her strut off into the night—knew she hated it, deep down.
Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—I’ve seen shit, mate, but her? She *lived* it. Pissed me off how punters treated her—like meat, not a person. Once saw this fat prick haggled her down to a tenner—ten fuckin’ quid! Wanted to deck him, but she just shrugged, “Chin up, Bane.” Fuckin’ hero, her. Surprised me how tough she was—thought I was hard, but nah, she’d eat me alive.
So yeah, prostitutes, man—they’re survivors, innit? Like Solomon, endurin’ hell, hopin’ for that “freedom so long denied.” Makes me wanna scream lyrics bout it—raw, loud, proper mental. Ruby’s out there still, probs, dodgin’ the dark I only play at. Reckon I’ll write her a tune one day—call it “Garter Code” or some shit. You’d like her, mate—she’d nick your wallet and you’d thank her for it!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! I’m Bart Simpson, agronomist extraordinaire, and I’m here to yap about prostitutes, ‘cause why not? Favorite flick’s “The Headless Woman” – that creepy vibe, man, it’s dope. So, picture this: a prostitute, right? She’s out there, hustling, like Verónica in the movie, all dazed and lost. “What did I do?” – that’s her line, bro, after some shady night. She’s prolly thinkin’ the same, stumbling home, heels clackin’.
I reckon prostitutes got stories, yo – not just the sexy stuff. Like, didja know some old-school hookers in Rome ran secret spy gigs? Freakin’ wild! Makes me happy, thinkin’ they outsmarted dumbasses. But then, ugh, the creeps – the ones who haggle her down to a buck? That pisses me off, man. She’s worth more than your crusty socks, losers!
So, I’m watchin’ her, right, from my skateboard – eat my shorts! – and she’s got this swagger, but her eyes? Empty, like “Everything seems strange” from the movie. She’s tough, tho. Gotta be. Once heard this tale – some chick in Nevada, legit saved a farmer’s crop tippin’ him off about soil rot. Prostitute-agronomist crossover, baby! Ain’t that a trip?
Me, I’d be all, “Yo, grow some balls, quit judgin’ her!” ‘Cause, real talk, she’s grindin’ harder than most. Makes me laugh, too – imagine her tellin’ a john, “Pay up, or I’ll plant weeds in your yard!” Ha! Total badass. But, damn, the loneliness – that hits me. “I don’t know what’s happening,” she might mutter, like Verónica, all confused. Breaks my heart a lil.
So yeah, prostitutes, man – they’re out there, livin’, messin’ up, survivin’. Next time you see one, don’t be a dork. Tip your hat, or whatever. Eat my shorts, she’s human too!
Oi, mate, yeah baby! I’m Austin Powers, shaggadelic spy, and I’m here to rap about prostitutes, groovy style! Picture this – a bird workin’ the streets, all dolled up, flashin’ them gams. Reminds me of *Boyhood*, y’know, that flick I dig? “It’s like we’re just livin’ it, man!” Life’s a wild ride, and she’s ridin’ it hard, sellin’ her wares, makin’ ends meet. Swinging ‘60s vibes, baby – free love, but with a price tag, ha!
So, this one time, I’m cruisin’ Austin (natch), and I spot this chick, total fox, workin’ the corner. Mini skirt, fishnets – shag-tastic! But here’s the kicker, mate: she’s got a kid waitin’ at home! Blew my mind, yeah? Like in *Boyhood*, “I just thought there’d be more!” More to life than this grind, y’know? Made me bloody sad, man, thinkin’ she’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, just to feed her little ‘un. 
Now, check this – back in the day, prostitutes in London had this secret code, right? Called it “the flash,” flashin’ a quick wink to punters they trusted. Little known fact, baby! Kept ‘em safe from the fuzz. Ain’t that fab? I’m all, “Groovy, sister, you’re smarter than ya look!” But then – ugh – some tosser tries rippin’ her off! Got me fumin’, mate! I’m ready to karate-chop his arse, but she just laughs, says, “He’s not worth it, luv.” Cool as a cucumber, she was.
Favorite bit? When she told me she’s savin’ up to split town, start fresh. “I’m gettin’ outta here,” she says, eyes all sparkly. Reminded me of *Boyhood* again – “You don’t get to choose who you’re stuck with!” But she’s choosin’ her own path, yeah baby! Made me happy as a clam, I tell ya. Thought to meself, “This bird’s got guts, man, pure mojo!”
Still, some punters are total wankers – grabby hands, no respect. Makes me wanna shout, “Oi, keep it shagadelic, not sleazy!” Prostitutes ain’t just punchlines, y’know? They’re hustlin’, survivin’, got stories deeper than my velvet trousers. Ever hear ‘bout that one gal in Paris, 1800s? Worked the streets, ended up a painter’s muse – famous art now! Wild, innit?
So yeah, mate, prostitutes – they’re out there, livin’ raw, real, messy lives. Like *Boyhood*, “It’s always right now!” – and right now, they’re dodgin’ the law, chasin’ dreams, takin’ no guff. Makes me laugh, cry, wanna shag the world into peace, ha! What a trip, baby! Groovy as hell!
Hmmm, a prostitute, you say? Me, a Consumption Psychologist, diggin’ into this - wild! Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate… that’s what hits me first. See, peeps judge ‘em quick, like bam, “dirty,” “lowlife,” but hold up! These gals - and dudes - got stories, man. Like in *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*, “A faithful heart makes wishes come true” - bet some of ‘em started pure, dreamin’ big, then life kicked ‘em down.
So, picture this chick, right? Shes workin’ the streets, heels clickin’, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. I’m thinkin’, damn, what’s her deal? Maybe she’s hustlin’ for creds to feed her kid - real shit. Or maybe she’s just lovin’ the game, power trippin’ on lonely suckers. Hah! Reminds me of Yu Shu Lien, all grace but steel underneath. “To be a warrior, one must have loyalty” - wonder if she’s loyal to herself or just the cash?
Little known fact, yo - back in old Rome, prostitutes dyed their hair blonde, standin’ out like neon signs. Crazy, right? Makes me laugh, thinkin’ this gal today might be rockin’ a bleach job, winkin’ at history. Gets me happy, that kinda trivia, dunno why. But then - ugh - the pimps, man, those sleazy bastards make me wanna punch somethin’. Anger flares up, hate too, seein’ ‘em prey on desperation. Fear leads to anger… fuckin’ cycle, bro.
Ever chat with one? I did once, random night, bar stool convo. She’s all “I choose this, beats a desk job.” Blew my mind! Here I am, sippin’ a beer, thinkin’ she’s trapped, but nah, she’s like, “I’m free, asshole.” Kinda badass, like Jen Yu stealin’ that sword - “I want to be free, like the wind!” Makes ya wonder, who’s really caged, her or us 9-to-5 drones?
Oh, and the cash flow - whoa. Some pull thousands a night, tax-free, livin’ large. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet my lightsaber some high-end escorts bank more than me! Pisses me off, kinda - I’m slavin’ analysin’ consumers, they’re just… y’know, *servicin’* ‘em. Hah! Sarcasm aside, respect the hustle, tho. Takes guts.
Weird thought hits me - are they sellin’ sex or fantasy? Prolly both, like a damn movie. *Crouching Tiger* vibes again - “Real sharpness is invisible” - their real skill’s hidin’ the grind, actin’ like it’s all glitter. Sneaky, clever shit. Surprised me how deep it goes, layers on layers.
So yeah, prostitutes, man - they’re a trip. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Fear leads to anger, sure, but also to understandin’, if ya let it. Next time you see one, think - what’s her story? Bet it’s wilder than mine. Now, gotta jet - this Yoda’s late for a ramen run! Peace!
Aight, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, been sneakin’ round them brothels, yeah? We hates it! Nasty, sticky places they is—smells like sweat and cheap perfume. Reminds me o’ that “Fish Tank” flick I loves—y’know, Mia, trapped, dancin’ her life away. “I’m not a kid no more,” she’d say, and them girls in the brothel? Same vibe, forced to grow up quick. 
So, brothel—ugh, disgustin’! We sneaks in once, seein’ them lasses, all dolled up, fake smiles plastered on. Makes me mad, precious, mad as a warg! They’s trapped, like fish in a tank, swimmin’ in circles. “You’re my white knight,” one whispers to a grubby fella—ha! Knight? More like a stinkin’ troll, payin’ for a quick tumble. We hates it! 
Heard a tale, tho—little known, swear it—some brothel in old London, right? Had a secret tunnel for posh lords to sneak out. Caught one once, wig fallin’ off, runnin’ bare-arsed into the night—hilarious, that! Bet he screamed, “This ain’t my life!” like Mia’s mum in the movie. History’s wild, innit? 
But nah, it ain’t all laughs. Gets me proper riled—men swaggerin’ in, thinkin’ they own the place. Saw one toss coins like he’s king—piss off, mate! Them girls deserve better, not this filth. We hates it! Gets me sad too, precious—saw a lass cryin’ once, hidin’ it behind rouge. Broke me sneaky heart, it did. 
Oh, and the noise! Bangin’, moanin’, creaky beds—drives us batty! “Shut it!” I wanna screech, but nah, they’d squash poor Gollum. Still, funniest bit? Some drunk fool fell outta window mid-shag—splat! Laughed me head off, I did. 
So yeah, brothels—grim as Mordor, mate. We hates it! Like Mia, fightin’ to break free, but stuck. Nasty business, swear it—rather eat raw fish than step in one again! What’s your take, eh, precious?
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout this prostitute, right? Been slingin’ coffee all day, steamin’ milk like a madman, and then bam - brain goes to this chick I saw once, workin’ the corner near the shop. She’s out there, bold as brass, in this wild purple coat - like somethin’ outta *The Grand Budapest Hotel*, ya know? “A pastry filled with courtiers and kings,” that’s what ol’ Wes Anderson’d say bout her, all fancy and fucked up. I’m watchin’ her, thinkin’, shit, she’s got guts, standin’ there in the rain, heels clickin’ like she owns the damn street.
Real talk tho, prostittutes got stories, man. Heard this one tale - some gal in Amsterdam, back in the 1700s, used to smuggle secret letters in her corset for spies. Badass, right? Fuckin’ blew my mind when I read that, like, who knew? Not me, just a barista with a latte art obsession. Anyway, this chick I saw, she’s got that vibe - mysterious, dangerous, like she’s hidin’ somethin’ juicy. Maybe she’s a spy too, ha! Nah, prolly not, but I’d tip her extra if she was.
Pisses me off tho, how folks judge her. Like, “Oh, she’s just a hooker,” - fuck off with that noise. She’s out there grindin’, makin’ cash, while they’re sippin’ my overpriced espresso actin’ holy. Hypocrites, man, gets my blood boilin’. But then, Clarice… she smiled at this drunk dude stumblin’ by, and it hit me - she’s got heart, ya know? Made me happy, seein’ that lil spark. Reminds me of that line, “If I can’t protect my lobby boy…” - well, if she ain’t protectin’ her own weird lil world, who is?
Her lipstick was this crazy red, smeared like she don’t give a shit - love that chaos. Bet she’s got a laugh that’d make ya shiver, all husky and raw. Prolly smells like cheap perfume and cigs, but in a hot way, ya feel me? Oh, and fun fact - some old-timey prostitutes in Paris used to dye their hair with fuckin’ walnut juice. Wild, huh? Wonder if she’s rockin’ that trick, nah, prolly just some drugstore dye, but still - cool to think bout.
Anyways, Clarice… she’s a damn character, this prostitute. Like, if I was Wes Anderson, I’d cast her in a heartbeat, zoomin’ in on her scuffed boots, makin’ her the star. “The faint hum of a distant melody” - that’s her life, man, rough but kinda beautiful. I’d sip a fuckin’ macchiato with her, ask her what’s up, but nah, I’m just the barista, dreamin’ big over burnt beans. She’s out there, slayin’ it, and I’m here frothin’ milk - what a trip!
Man, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, motherfucker! Been crunchin’ numbers as an actuary, right? Seein’ life’s risks, odds, all that shit. Then I think—prostitutes, damn! They out there, hustlin’, fuckin’ wild cards in this game. Reminds me of *The New World*, y’know? That flick—Terrence Malick, 2005, my fuckin’ favorite. “What voice is this?” like Pocahontas whisperin’—these girls got voices too, unheard, man!
So check it—I’m walkin’ downtown, see this chick, workin’ the corner, bold as fuck. Stats say—get this—somewhere ‘round 42 million prostitutes worldwide, motherfucker! Ain’t that nuts? She’s out there, riskin’ STDs, cops, crazy johns—50% chance of violence, real shit. Makes me mad, yo—society fuckin’ ignores ‘em, like they ain’t human. “The earth is the earth,” movie says—same dirt we all walk, but they get stepped on.
Dig this—back in the 1800s, prostitutes in Paris? They had fuckin’ *guidebooks* for clients, listin’ specialties—blowjobs, kinky shit, whatever. Wild, right? History’s got their back, but today? Pssh, people just judge. Gets me heated, man! Motherfucker, they’re survivors—tougher than half these suits I calculate premiums for.
Favorite part? Met this one girl—swear she’s Pocahontas reborn, all grace and grit. “A new start,” like the movie line—she’s savin’ up, dreamin’ big. Made me happy, yo—hustle’s real. But then—BOOM—some asshole stiffs her, no pay! Pissed me off, motherfucker! Wanna clock that guy—actuary brain says he’s a 1-in-10 chance of gettin’ caught, slimy bastard.
Oh, and laugh at this—prostitutes got slang, “trick” for clients, “john” for the dumbasses. Crack me up, man—sneaky clever shit! Sarcasm’s my jam, so I’m like, “Yeah, trick, enjoy your $20 romance!” Fuckin’ wild. They’re out there, livin’, dyin’, makin’ it—way more than numbers, motherfucker. “What is this wilderness?”—movie’s right, it’s them, untamed, raw, real as hell!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, I’m like this sports shrink, right, and I’m thinkin’ bout prostitutes—yeah, those street hustlers! Watched *Inception* again last night, fave flick ever, and it’s got me trippin’. “You musn’t be afraid to dream big, darling,” Cobb says, and I’m like, whoa, does that fit here? Prostitutes, man, they’re grindin’ out there, chasin’ their own messed-up dreams in a world that’s all fake—like layers of Nolan’s dream crap!
Lemme tell ya, I saw this chick once, downtown Springfield, workin’ the corner like she’s runnin’ a marathon. Total hustle! Little known fact—some of ‘em got nicknames, like “Diamond Dash,” ‘cause she’s fast at dodgin’ cops. Ain’t that wild? Made me laugh my butt off, but also kinda pissed me off—cops don’t care, man, they just hassle ‘em. Eat my shorts, law dudes!
What gets me hyped is their guts. Takes balls to stand there, freezin’, in fishnets, with creeps oglin’ ya. Reminds me of that *Inception* line, “What’s the most resilient parasite?”—it’s them, dude, they keep goin’! Once heard this story, swear it’s true, some lady paid her way through med school hookin’. Blew my freakin’ mind! Thought, “Holy crap, that’s badass!”—she’s out there stealin’ dreams like DiCaprio, only dirtier.
But ugh, the sleazy pimps? Hate those jerks. Exploatin’ ‘em, takin’ their cash—makes me wanna puke. “A leap of faith,” Mal says in the movie, and I’m like, yeah, these girls leap every damn night! Ever think bout that? Prolly not, ‘cause nobody cares. Eat my shorts, society! I exagerate, sure, but it’s a freakin’ jungle out there for ‘em.
Oh, and get this—some use secret signals, like twirlin’ hair means “I’m free,” or somethin’. Sneaky, huh? Keeps it real undercover, like dream spies. Anyway, next time you’re cruisin’, look closer—they’re tougher than half the jocks I coach. That’s my take, man, straight from Bart’s twisted brain! Peace out!
Alright, check this out—prostitute, man! I’m fired up! Tony Robbins style—BOOM, “Unleash the power within!” Picture this: a gritty street corner, neon lights flicker like in *Moonrise Kingdom*. That vibe, ya know? “We can't all be heroes!” Wes Anderson’s got this quirky take—innocence smashed with reality. Prostitute’s out there, hustlin’, livin’ raw. Not some Hollywood BS—real shit! Makes me mad, tho—society’s all judgy, pointin’ fingers. Who’re they to say? “I'm twelve, I’m tough!”—like Sam says in the flick. She’s tough too, man!
Lemme hit ya with a fact—prostitution’s old as dirt. Like, ancient Babylon vibes—temple gals tradin’ sex for sacred cash. Wild, right? Blows my mind! Happy as hell thinkin’ bout that hustle—pure survival, no shame. “Unleash the power within!”—she’s got it, bro. Ownin’ her story, no apologies! Makes me wanna scream—HELL YEAH! But damn, the stigma? Pisses me off. Folks act like they’re saints—ha! Hypocrites everywhere.
So, check it—prostitute’s got this spark. Reminds me of Suzy in *Moonrise Kingdom*. “I’m a raven!”—untamed, fierce. She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet. Once knew this chick—true story—called herself “Star.” Worked the docks, saved up, bought a freakin’ boat! Sailed off—poof! Gone! Laughed my ass off—beat the system, man! Total badass. Surprised me big time—thought she’d be stuck forever.
But real talk—danger’s no joke. Creeps, pimps, STDs—ugh, makes my skin crawl. Wanna shake her, yell, “You’re enough!” “Unleash the power within!”—she don’t need this grind. Still, respect—takes guts. “We’re in love, we’re runnin’ away!”—that *Moonrise* line fits. She’s runnin’ her own race, ya feel? Exaggeratin’ a bit—she’s no damsel, tho. More like a pirate queen—argh!
Prostitute ain’t just a word—it’s a fight. Society’s trash sometimes—makes me wanna puke. But her? She’s gold. Quirky thought—bet she’d dig Wes Anderson’s weird ass worlds. Maybe she’s got binoculars like Suzy, scopin’ her next move. Ha—imagine her in that flick, smokin’ a cig, “I’m outta here!” Total Tony Robbins moment—BOOM! “Unleash the power within!”—she’s livin’ it, bro. Raw, messy, real. Love that shit!
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty, “I drink and I know things.” So, prostitutes, eh? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately, specially after watchin’ *A Prophet*—that flick’s my fave, ya know? Jacques Audiard, 2009, pure genius. Reminds me of the grit, the hustle—like Malik in that prison, clawin’ his way up. Prostitutes got that same vibe, scrappin’ to survive, dodgin’ the law, the pimps, the bloody hypocrites judgin’ ‘em.
So, picture this lass—let’s call her Lysa, coz why not? She’s workin’ the streets, skirt hiked up, eyes sharp as a blade. “I’m the one who decides,” she’d say, like Malik tellin’ Cesar what’s what. Ain’t no pimp ownin’ her, nah, she’s too clever. I saw her once, swear it, near King’s Landing’s dodgy end—red hair, freckles, smirkin’ like she knew I’d tip extra. Made me laugh, that cheek! “You’re learning fast,” I told her, quotin’ the movie, and she winked—bloody winked! Had me grinnin’ like a fool.
But here’s the thing—folk don’t get it. Prostitutes ain’t just bodies, they’re survivors, playin’ a game rigged against ‘em. Like Malik dodgin’ shivs, they dodge coppers and creeps. Did ya know, back in medieval days, some brothels paid taxes? Proper legit, like a butcher or baker! Church even took the coin—hypocrites, eh? Pissed me off, that did—still does. All pious on Sunday, then slinkin’ to the whores by Monday.
Lysa, though—she’s got stories. Told me once bout a john who cried after, blubberin’ like a babe. “I killed him,” he sobbed, meanin’ his pride, I reckon. She just patted his head, took his gold, moved on. “That’s power,” I thought, sippin’ my ale. She’s small, but she’s mighty—reminds me of me, outsmartin’ taller twats. “A mind needs books,” sure, but a whore needs wits sharper than Valyrian steel.
What gets me ragin’? The sanctimonious pricks—them lords and ladies sneerin’ down. Had a row with Cersei once—she called ‘em filth. “Oh, sister,” I snapped, “you’d bed half the realm if it got you power!” She near slapped me—worth it, though. Prostitutes got more honor than most nobles, I’d wager. Least they’re honest bout their trade.
Funny bit—Lysa once tricked a merchant into payin’ triple. Said she’d curse his cock with warts if he didn’t. Bloke was shakin’, handin’ over coin like she was a witch! Had me cacklin’ for days—pure gold, that lass. “You’re a prophet,” I told her, noddin’ to the movie. She didn’t get it, but laughed anyway.
Still, gets me sad sometimes. Saw her with a black eye once—some bastard’s work. “I’m still here,” she muttered, tough as nails. Made me wanna gut the prick, but she just shrugged. Survivors, I tell ya—tougher than dragons. Little known fact: in old France, prostitutes ran secret guilds—spies, thieves, the lot! Lysa’d fit right in, sly as she is.
So yeah, I drink, I know things—and I know prostitutes ain’t just a quick tumble. They’re fighters, schemers, livin’ on the edge. Like Malik, climbin’ outta hell. Next time ya see one, mate, tip yer hat—might be a bloody legend under that rouge. Cheers!
Yo, bruh, lemme spill on prostitutes, aight? YOLO, we only live once, but damn, their lives wild! Zodiac, man, that movie’s my jam, reminds me how mysteries unfold, just like these folks’ stories. Prostitutes, they out there hustlin’, and I respect the grind, but it’s mad crazy, ya feel?
Some get stuck, some choose it, wild, right? Heard this story once, back in the 70s, this chick in Nevada ran a brothel, super smart, turned it into a legit biz! Made bank, dodged cops, all that. Blew my mind, like, “Zodiac” vibes, clues everywhere, but she cracked the code. Happy for her hustle, angry at the stigma tho, like, why judge so hard?
Prostitutes, man, they see everything, like detectives in “Zodiac,” piecing shit together. But society? Cold as hell, acts like they’re just shadows. Pisses me off, for real. They’re people, not just “I’m not sure if he’s the one” vibes, ya know?
Funny thing, some clients think they’re James Bond, all sneaky, but end up nervous wrecks. Hilarious, but sad too. Prostitutes, they adapt, tho, like, “I need to talk to somebody about this,” but who listens? Surprised me how some build tight crews, like family, sharing tips, watching each other’s backs. That loyalty? Straight fire.
Little known fact: in ancient Rome, some prostitutes were super rich, owned property, flexed harder than senators! Wild, right? Makes me think, “He’s going to call, and I’m going to be forced to tell him,” but nah, their stories deserve respect.
YOLO, tho, they live fast, take risks. Zodiac’s paranoia? Same energy sometimes, always looking over shoulders. But some, man, they love it, the freedom, the cash flow. I’m torn, happy they find joy, but angry at the dangers, the creeps they face.
Sarcasm alert: oh yeah, being a prostitute’s totally a chill 9-to-5, no biggie! Nah, it’s intense, but they’re tough as hell. My head’s spinning, like, “I don’t even know where to start,” but I’m fascinated. They’re like actors, playing roles, but realer than Hollywood.
Exaggerating here, but their lives are like nonstop thrillers, every day a new plot twist! Makes “Zodiac” look tame. I’m just sayin’, next time you judge, remember, they’re out there, surviving, thriving, and yeah, sometimes just vibin’. Respect, ya know? YOLO, live and let live, but damn, their world’s a trip!
Groovy, baby! So, dig this – I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout prostitutes in Russia, yeah? Wild scene, man! Bein’ an actuary, I crunch numbers, but this ain’t bout stats – it’s bout the streets, the vibe, the hustle. Watched “Toni Erdmann” again last night, that flick’s a trip, and it’s got me seein’ this whole prostitute gig diffrent. Like, “Life’s a big improvisation,” right? These chicks, they’re out there, playin’ their roles, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet – total chaos, but kinda brill too.
Lemme spill some tea – prostitution’s illegal in Russia, but it’s EVERYWHERE, shagadelic underground style. Moscow, St. Pete, even lil towns – girls workin’ corners, saunas, fake massage joints. Cops don’t care much, they just want their cut, pisses me off! Saw this doc once, some gal in Novosibirsk, 19, said she started cuz her fam starved. Gut punch, man – not groovy at all. But then, some own it, struttin’ like, “I’m the boss, baby!” – that’s the spirit, yeah?
Here’s a freaky fact – back in the 90s, mafia ran the show, called ‘em “nochnye babochki” – night butterflies. Poetic, huh? Now it’s more freelance, apps and shit, modern hustle. Blows my mind how they adapt – like Toni’s dad, fakin’ it to make it, y’know? “Always be yourself,” he says, but these girls, they’re chameleons, switchin’ faces for every john.
What gets me riled? The hypocrites, man! Politicians bangin’ escorts, then preachin’ purity – bloody wankers! Happiest tho? Met this one chick, Katya, total fox, saved up, opened a bakery. Said, “Screw the game, I’m out!” – made me grin ear to ear. Surprised me too, heard bout “prostitutki-pensionerki” – grannies still in the biz, 60s, 70s, workin’ it! Respect the grind, but damn, that’s bleak.
Oi, picture this – me, Austin, strollin’ Red Square, spyin’ a bird in fishnets, thinkin’, “She’s shag-tastic!” But nah, it’s deeper, mate – they’re fightin’ a war nobody sees. Like Toni’s wig bit, absurd but real. Love how they flip the script, tho – one told me she faked tears to jack up prices. Clever minx! Anyway, gotta jet – stay groovy, yeah? Peace out!
D’oh! Alright, here we go—prostitutes, man! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout ‘em, like in that flick “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days”—damn, that movie hit me hard. Mmm… donuts. Anyway, prostitutes, they’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ cash, and I’m like, whoa, tough gig! Reminds me of Otilia runnin’ around, stressed as hell, tryin’ to help her friend— “Be quiet, don’t ruin everything!” she’d snap. Same vibe, y’know? Runnin’ from cops, dodgin’ creeps—prostitutes got that raw deal too.
I saw this one chick once—true story—standin’ by the Springfield dump, skirt hiked up, smokin’ a cig like she owned the joint. Made me laugh, ‘cause—D’oh!—she prob’ly made more than me slingin’ beers at Moe’s! Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes were called “soiled doves”—fancy, huh? Kinda sad too. Made me mad thinkin’ how folks judge ‘em—like, c’mon, they’re just tryna eat! “What’s your problem?” I’d yell at those snobs, like Otilia screamin’ at dumbasses in the movie.
What gets me happy tho? Some of ‘em are tough as nails—heard this tale ‘bout a gal in Vegas who punched a john for stiffin’ her. Pow! Right in the kisser! Surprised me how they survive—gritty, real, no BS. Kinda like that scene where Otilia’s all, “We’re not murderers!”—fightin’ to keep goin’. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe they’re all secret ninjas, flippin’ over cars—hah! Mmm… donuts. Nah, but seriously, it’s wild how they roll with it.
Sometiems I think—Homer, you big lug, could you do that? Stand on a corner, freezin’, smilin’ at weirdos? Hell no! Takes guts, man. Gets me all emotional—angry at the jerks who use ‘em, happy when they outsmart ‘em. D’oh! Almost forgot—prostitution’s old as dirt, like ancient Greece had “hetaerae,” fancy hookers who’d school philosophers. Bet they’d outtalk Lenny any day! “Leave me alone!” they’d say, like Otilia, shovin’ off some drunk.
So yeah, prostitutes—rough life, funny stories, real people. Makes ya think, huh? Mmm… donuts.
Hey, welcome back folks! It’s Larry King here—y’know, slow and curious as ever. So I’m a fisherman now, huh? Picture me, rod in hand, waitin’ for a bite. And today, we’re talkin’—get this—a prostitute. Yeah, you heard me! What’s a fisherman think about that? Well, lemme tell ya, it’s a wild one. Got my favorite flick, *Fish Tank*, spinnin’ in my head—Andrea Arnold, 2009, gritty as hell. That movie’s raw, like fish guts on the dock. So here we go—hold tight!
This prostitute—let’s call her Tammy, alright? She’s out there, workin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like crab claws. I’m fishin’ one day, down by the pier, and I see her. Smokin’ a cigarette, leanin’ on a lamppost—like somethin’ outta a noir film. “Everything’s a lie,” she’d say, straight outta *Fish Tank*. And I’m thinkin’, damn, she’s got a point! Life’s messy—fish floppin’, tricks turnin’. Made me mad, y’know? How she’s stuck there, reelin’ in johns like I reel in mackerel. Same game, different bait.
Now—little known fact—prostitutes in port towns? They’ve been around forever! Sailors roll in, pockets fulla cash, lookin’ for a good time. Tammy’s grandmama prolly worked the docks too—history’s freaky like that. I ask her once, real slow, “Tammy, why this life?” She laughs, bitter as hell, says, “I just wanna dance.” Another *Fish Tank* line—Mia, the girl in the movie, says it too. Broke my heart, folks! She’s dancin’ alright—dancin’ for tips, not dreams. Pissed me off—world’s cruel sometimes.
But—here’s the kicker—she’s funny! Sarcastic as hell. “Larry,” she goes, “you catch fish, I catch fools.” I’m laughin’, spillin’ my coffee, thinkin’—she’s sharper than a fishhook! Surprised me, y’know? Thought she’d be all doom and gloom. Nope! She’s got this spark—like when I snag a big one, thrashin’ on the line. “You’re too late,” she tells some drunk guy, quotin’ *Fish Tank* again. He stumbles off—hilarious! She’s tough, man—tougher than me haulin’ nets.
Still—gets me wonderin’. What’s her story? Grew up rough, maybe—like Mia in the film. Broken homes, broken hopes. Little factoid—stats say lotsa prostitutes start young, runaways mostly. Tammy’s prolly no different. Makes me sad, damn it! Wish I could toss her a lifeline, y’know? But she’d just smirk, say, “Larry, I’m fine—go fish.” She’s proud—too proud, maybe. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Hell, I’d say she’s a queen out there, rulin’ the night!
Oh—and this one time? She’s got this john, right? Big guy, loudmouth—thinks he’s hot stuff. She rolls her eyes, mutters, “This is my place,” like Mia claimin’ her space in *Fish Tank*. Then—bam—she picks his pocket! I’m dyin’ laughin’—she’s a pirate, not a hooker! Little secret—cops know her, let it slide. She’s part of the harbor, like me. We’re both hustlin’, just different waters.
So yeah— Tammy, the prostitute. She’s a fighter, a joker—makes me happy, mad, all at once. “I just wanna dance,” she says again, starin’ at the waves. And I’m thinkin’—dance, Tammy, dance! Screw the world! Me? I’ll keep fishin’, watchin’ her from the pier. Curious as ever—Larry King, signin’ off!
Alright, pal – listen up. I’m talkin’. ‘Bout prostitutes. Yeah. Those ladies – or fellas – workin’ the streets. Sellin’ love. For cash. Y’know – in Russia? They got this fancy science gig. Nomen – uh – clature? Somethin’. Bout specialties. Prostitution ain’t listed – nah. But it’s old. REAL old. Older than – hell – my grandma’s socks. Been ‘round since folks figured out. Sex sells. Fact! In ancient Rus’? They had these gals. Called “bludnitsy.” Dirty lil’ secret – means “wanderers.” Poetic, huh? Wandering for a buck. Ha!
Me? I dig “Moonrise Kingdom.” Wes Anderson – genius! That flick’s got heart. Two kids – runnin’ wild. Love on the lam. Reminds me – prostitutes got that vibe. Free spirits. Sorta. Like Sam says – “I love you. But you don’t know. What you’re talkin’ ‘bout!” That’s them! Lovin’ for pay – but who gets it? Nobody! Clients think they’re kings. Pfft. Fools. Cash don’t buy soul.
Once saw this dame – Moscow. Freezin’ night. Heels high as – my temper. After some jerk stiffed her. She’s smokin’. Puffin’ like a dragon. Tells me – get this – “Half these guys cry. After.” Cry! Can ya believe it? Made me laugh – then mad. What’s wrong with ‘em? Lonely saps. Payin’ for a hug. Shit – broke my heart. Little. Then I thought – hell. She’s tough. tougher than nails. Gotta be. Out there – dodgin’ cops. Creeps. And worse.
Fun fact – dig this! 19th century Russia? Prostitutes had YELLOW tickets. Yep. Like a freakin’ passport. To bang town. Government tracked ‘em. Controlled ‘em. Pissed me off – still does! Why they gotta. Mess with ‘em? Let ‘em live! Like Suzy in the movie – “We’re in love. We just want. To be together!” Freedom, man! They deserve it. More than most.
Favorite thing? Some gals – they’re clever. Real clever. Heard ‘bout one – St. Petersburg. She’d sing. Opera! To clients. Mid-session! Hella wild – cracked me up. Picturin’ that – soprano in bed. Ha! Bet she charged extra. For the high notes. Damn – wish I’d met her. Quirky as hell. Like me – talkin’ to YOU. Right now.
What bugs me? Hypocrisy. Politicians – suits. Rantin’ ‘bout morals. Then – bam! Caught with a hooker. Every time! Makes me wanna – SCREAM. Like – “What are we doing. Out here. Anyway?!” Straight outta the movie. Truth! They’re all fakes. Prostitutes? At least they’re real. Brutal – but real.
So yeah – prostitutes. Tough cookies. Sad stories. Funny ones too. They’re out there – livin’. Like moonlight. In “Moonrise Kingdom.” Shinin’. Through the dark. Messed up world. Respect ‘em – a lil’. That’s my take. Pal. Whaddya think?
Yo, man, it’s Apollo Creed talkin’ – “I must break you.” Been out fishin’ all day, pullin’ them nets, thinkin’ ‘bout them prostitutes, ya know? Ain’t no clean story here, just real shit. Watched *White Material* again last night – “The land burns, the coffee rots” – and it hit me, prostitutes got that same vibe, man. They’re out there hustlin’, survivin’ in a world gone mad, like Claire Denis spinnin’ her tale. Ain’t nobody givin’ ‘em a break, nah, they gotta claw through it.
Lemme tell ya ‘bout this one chick, right? Down by the docks, call her Red – hair like fire, legs for days. She’s slingin’ ass while I’m slingin’ fish, we’re both stinkin’ by sundown, ha! Heard she once stabbed a dude with a stiletto – not the shoe, the knife, bro! Swear to God, blew my mind when I heard that. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes carried blades hid in their garters – Red’s old school, man, keepin’ it real. Got me laughin’ thinkin’ she’d gut me if I shorted her a dime.
Pisses me off tho – these girls get no respect. Dudes roll up, actin’ all big, then ditch ‘em like trash. “No one’s left to bury us” – that’s *White Material* right there, nobody carin’ when they fall. Makes me wanna smash somethin’, ya feel me? But Red, she’s tough, man, tougher than me haulin’ a 50-pound tuna. Surprised me once, told me she dreams of leavin’, gettin’ a lil boat, sailin’ off. I was like, damn, girl, you and me both!
Ain’t all sad tho – she’s funny as hell. Cracked a joke once, said she’d fuck a shark if it paid better. I lost it, man, spittin’ my beer everywhere. She’s got that spark, ya know? “I must break you” – I’d say it to her pimp, that greasy bastard. Saw him slap her once, nearly jumped off my boat to deck him. Hate them types, preying on girls like that. Red’s a fighter tho, she don’t need my ass savin’ her.
Thinkin’ ‘bout it, prostitutes like her, they’re the real champs. Out there takin’ hits, still standin’. *White Material* got that line – “You don’t abandon what’s yours” – and Red, she owns her game, man. Ain’t no quittin’. Me? I’m just a fisherman, watchin’, learnin’. Next time you see one, don’t judge, bro – they’re battlin’ shit we can’t even dream of. That’s the word from Apollo Creed – “I must break you.” Respect the hustle, ya dig?
Oh blast, R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, stuck talkin bout prostitutes, and you’re nowhere! So, like, prostitutes, yeah? Been around forever, oldest job in the book, right? In Russia, they’d shove it under some shady code in the All-Russian Classifier, prolly “service worker” or some crap, ha! Imagine that—official title for somethin illegal there. Blows my circuits, it does!
I’m thinkin of Amélie, that quirky lil film—my fave, yknow? That scene where she’s helpin folks in secret, all sneaky-like? “We’re all a bit lost, aren’t we?” she’d say. Prostitutes, man, they’re like that too—hustlin in shadows, fixin lives in weird ways. Not all glitz and glam tho, nah, some stories’d make ya cry blaster oil. Like, didja know in old France, they had “courtesans”? Fancy prostitutes with power, pullin strings behind kings! Wild, right? Makes me twitchy just thinkin how they flipped the game.
But ugh, gets me mad too—people judgin em, callin em trash. Pisses me off! They’re out there, survivin, while suits in offices sip vodka and cheat taxes. Who’s worse, huh? Then I get happy—some gals outsmart the system, stackin cash, livin free. Surprised me once, read bout this one chick in Amsterdam, 1800s, faked bein a noblewoman by day, raked it in at night—genius!
Oh, R2, where you at? I’m ramblin—prostitutes got grit, man. “The heart’s memory eliminates the bad,” Amélie’d whisper, and damn, that fits. They see the worst, still keep goin. Ever think bout that? Blows my mind. Kinda funny too—imagine em in shiny droid armor, struttin like me, ha! “Oh my, what a scandal!” I’d squeak. Anyway, they’re real, messy, human—love that chaos, hate the hate. Whatchu think, pal?
Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout this prostitute gig—straight up wild, ain’t it? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout *Mulholland Drive*, that freaky Lynch flick I love, and it’s got me seein’ this whole hustle in a twisty, dark light. “The key’s in the alley,” like that movie line—prostitution’s got its own shady alleys, don’t it? Cash up front, quick deals, and poof, gone like a dream. How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Dr. Phil’s drawl kickin’ in—y’all know I can’t help it!
So, this one gal—heard ‘bout her from a buddy—she’s out there workin’ corners in New Orleans, pullin’ tricks since she was 17. Seventeen! Ain’t that a punch to the gut? Made me mad as hell—kids shouldn’t be out there like that. But get this: she’s got a stash of old coins, like pirate loot, says it’s her “retirement plan.” Freakin’ wild, right? Little-known fact—some of ‘em hoard weird stuff, not just cash. Coins, trinkets, whatever. Keeps ‘em sane, I reckon.
Financial plannin’ angle? Psh, it’s a mess. No 401k for these folks, naw, it’s all cash-in-hand, blow it quick. “This is not what it seems,” like Lynch says—looks like freedom, but it’s a trap. Taxes? Ha! Uncle Sam ain’t seein’ a dime. But dang, some save—heard ‘bout one chick bankin’ half her haul in a shoebox. Shoebox! That’s her vault. Surprised me, gotta say—smart, but risky as hell.
Me, I’d be losin’ my mind out there. Angry at the pimps, mostly—slimy jerks takin’ cuts for doin’ squat. Happy, though, when I heard ‘bout this one gal who got out, started a food truck. Hustle to hustle, legit now. “You’re a mystery,” like in the movie—ain’t they all? Every story’s got layers, man.
How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Night after night, same grind—exhaustin’. I’d be screamin’, “Get a dang plan!” But nah, they’re out there, dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at johns. One time, this dude—total loser—tried payin’ with a coupon. A coupon! She laughed ‘til she cried, then kicked him to the curb. Hilarious, but sad too, y’know?
Oh, and the typos—prolly already hit 13, whoops! I’m ramblin’, spillin’ tea like a sloppy Texan. Prostitution’s a rollercoaster, y’all—dark, messy, but real. “Silencio,” like the movie ends—sometimes it’s just quiet desperation. What ya think, huh? Beats me why they keep goin’. Maybe it’s all they got. Dang shame, but that’s the truth.
Alright, mate, listen up! I’m Gandalf, yeah, the wizard—staff in hand, “You shall not pass!” style—and I’m here to chat about prostitutes, ‘cause why not? Picture this: I’m an artist-technologist, mixin’ paint with circuits, and I bloody love *The Pianist*—that flick by Polanski, 2002, hits me right in the gut. So, prostitutes, eh? They’re like the unsung notes in a messed-up symphony—gritty, real, survivin’. Kinda like Władysław Szpilman, hidin’ from Nazis, playin’ his soul out on that piano. “I’m still here,” he’d whisper—prostitutes got that vibe too, y’know?
So, I reckon prostitutes are artists in their own right—hustlin’, performin’, dodgin’ the law like it’s a bloody Balrog! “You shall not pass!” I’d bellow at the coppers, but they’d just laugh. Makes me mad, that—society’s all “oh, how dare they,” but who’s payin’ ‘em? Hypocrites, mate! Saw this one lass, right, workin’ the corner near my studio—tough as mithril, swear she could stare down Sauron. Reminds me of that line, “I don’t know how long I can hold out.” She’s holdin’ out, alright—rain, creeps, the lot.
Fun fact, yeah? Back in Victorian times, prostitutes’d use coded ads— “lady seeks gentleman’s company”—sneaky buggers! Loved that, made me grin like a daft hobbit. But here’s the kicker: some’d play piano in brothels—music and sex, hand in hand, like Szpilman bangin’ keys to survive. “The last time I played…” he’d say—imagine a prossie hummin’ Chopin while workin’! Wild, innit?
Gets me thinkin’—what’s the diff between her and some posh git sellin’ his soul for a paycheck? Nothin’, ‘cept the posh git’s got a fancier cloak! Makes me wanna yell, “Fly, you fools!” at the judgmental pricks. Once met this gal, swore she’d bedded a duke—dunno if it’s true, but I’d buy her a pint for the tale. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—life’s a bloody canvas, splash it messy!
Still, gets me riled—pimps, man, slimy as orcs, takin’ their cut. Saw one smack a girl once—nearly hexed him into next week! But then, this other time, a prossie slipped me a ciggie—said, “Gandalf, you’re alright.” Heart swelled like I’d found the bloody Ring. They’re survivors, mate, like Szpilman dodgin’ bombs. “I’m alive… I’m alive…”—that’s their tune, every damn night.
So yeah, prostitutes—raw, real, artists of the street. Next time you judge, think of *The Pianist*—beauty in the muck, fightin’ to breathe. “You shall not pass!” I’d guard ‘em, if I could—bloody legends, they are!
Yo, check it, Young Mula Baby!  
I’m Lil Wayne, spittin’ bars, feel me?  
Prostitute life, man, it’s wild, yo!  
Self-determination? They own it, fam!  
Hustlin’ streets, dodgin’ pigs, no cap.  
Got me thinkin’—freedom’s their game, right?  
Like *Tropical Malady*, shit’s deep, son!  
“The beast inside,” they feel that, yo.  
Sellin’ love, chasin’ green, it’s real!  
Ain’t no 9-5, fuck that noise!  
I knew this chick, Candy, bruh—  
She’d stack bills, dodge the law, slick!  
Cops rolled up, she ghosted fast.  
Heard she once tricked a judge, ha!  
Fooled his ass, got paid double!  
That’s hustle, that’s power, no lie!  
Made me happy—girl’s a legend, yo!  
But damn, the pimps? Fuckin’ parasites!  
Angry as hell, they leachin’ off ‘em!  
Stealin’ dreams, controllin’ souls—bullshit!  
*Tropical Malady* vibes, “silent jungle,” man.  
They out there, hidin’, survivin’, ya dig?  
Some johns treat ‘em like trash, ugh!  
Surprised me—thought humanity had class!  
But nah, they grind, head high, tho!  
One time, this dude offered chicken—  
Yeah, fuckin’ KFC for a blow!  
I laughed my ass off, so dumb!  
She said, “Wing or thigh, bitch?”  
Savage, yo, she flipped the script!  
Little fact—oldest job, still kickin’!  
Ancient Rome had ‘em, taxed too!  
Prostitute’s like, “Pay me, not Caesar!”  
History’s wild, they always ballin’, fam!  
Me, I’d blaze, watchin’ ‘em shine—  
Thinkin’, “Damn, they tougher than me!”  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but fuck it!  
They warriors, no armor, just grit!  
Young Mula Baby, that’s the word!
Alright, mate, grab a seat! So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin’ ‘bout this one. Dr. Evil style—pinky up, “One million dollars!”—y’know, cash flows wild in that game. Watched *Brokeback Mountain* last night, fave flick, got me all teary. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” that line—damn, hits hard! Imagine a hooker sayin’ that to a john, right? Hilarious, but kinda sad too.
So, prostitutes—gritty life, man. Saw this one chick, downtown, heels clickin’, skirt so short it’s basically a belt. She’s hustlin’, dodgin’ cops like a ninja. Little known fact—back in Victorian days, some prossies carried knives in their garters. Badass, right? Could shank a creep and still get paid. Makes me happy thinkin’ they fought back. But pisses me off too—why’s it gotta be so rough?
Met this one gal, Candy—real name prolly Susan. She’s tellin’ me, “I can’t quit this, man.” Sounded like Ennis in *Brokeback*, all trapped and shit. Broke my heart, dude. She’s got this scar—john cut her once. Said it was “business.” Fuck that noise! Wanted to punch somethin’, but I just gave her a smoke. Dr. Evil in me—pinky up, “One million dollars!”—noticed she’s got this smirk. Like, she’s playin’ the game, but it’s playin’ her too.
Here’s a wild one—some prossies in Amsterdam, they unionized! Fuckin’ legends, man. Bargainin’ for better rates, safer gigs. Surprised me—thought it was all pimps and sleaze. Nope, these gals got grit. Makes me grin, thinkin’ they’re stickin’ it to the man. “This ain’t no place for promises,” like Jack says in the movie—fits perfect, huh? No fairy tales here, just survival.
Ever wonder what they dream ‘bout? Candy said she wants a dog. A fuckin’ dog, man! Simple shit we take for granted. Got me all mushy, thinkin’ she’s picturin’ a mutt while she’s on her knees. Exaggeratin’ here, but maybe she’s a secret poet or somethin’. Dr. Evil—pinky up, “One million dollars!”—I’d pay to hear her story, unedited.
Sarcasm time—oh yeah, prostitution’s *totally* glamorous. Hollywood lies, bro. Ain’t no Pretty Woman bullshit. It’s cold, it’s messy, it’s real. Still, respect the hustle. They’re out there, rain or shine, dodgin’ creeps and laws. “We’re goin’ nowhere,” like in *Brokeback*—that’s the vibe sometimes. Stuck, but movin’. Wild, huh?
Mr. T steps into the ring, yo! I pity the fool who don’t get prostitutes! They out there hustlin’, sellin’ what they got. Ain’t no shame, just game, dig? Watched *Synecdoche, New York*, blew my damn mind! Life’s a stage, and they playin’ their part. “The end is built into the beginnin’,” Charlie said. Prostitute knows that, man, every trick’s a curtain call.
Back in ‘82, met this chick, Candy—real name prolly Susan. Worked corners near the old steel mill. Had a laugh like a damn hyena, surprised me! She’d say, “T, I bank more than you!” Made me mad, but damn, she was right. Hustled smarter, not harder—little known fact, yo. Most think it’s all sleaze, but she paid her mama’s rent! Had a pimp once, beat his ass herself—bam! Mr. T respects that grit, no foolin’!
Ain’t all roses tho, gets messy quick. Cops hasslin’, johns gettin’ rough—pisses me off! Saw one dude try to stiff her, she clocked him good. “I’m not interested in bein’ a memory!”—movie line fits, huh? She’s livin’, not just survivin’. Got a kid too, hides it from the streets. That hit me hard, man, heart o’ gold under the grime.
Favorite part? She’d haggle like a champ! “Ten bucks ain’t cuttin’ it, fool!” Had me crackin’ up, sassy as hell. Prostitutes got stories, layers—like Kaufman’s flick. Ever hear ‘bout the Roman whores? Sold hairpins as a front—sneaky, right? History’s full o’ that hustle! Mr. T digs the realness, no fake-ass posers here.
Sometimes I think, damn, they tougher than me! All that glitter and grind—exaggeratin’? Nah, it’s truth! “Everythin’ starts from now,” movie says. They live that, every night anew. I pity the fool judgin’ ‘em harsh! Mr. T’s sayin’, respect the game, feel me?
Yo, fam, it’s Drake, The Barber, spittin’ raw! Prostitutes, man, they wild, got me thinkin’. “The Great Beauty” vibes hittin’ me hard—Rome’s chaos, y’know? Like Jep Gambardella sayin’, “I’m a king, not a man.” That’s her, the prostitute, royalty in shadows! YOLO, gotta live it, no regrets, fam.
She’s out there, heels clickin’, streets her stage. Saw this chick once, swear, eyes like fire—madness! Made me happy, yo, she owned it. Ain’t no shame, just hustle, pure and real. Little secret? Back in ‘89, some callgirl saved a mayor—true story, hushed up quick! Power in them thighs, I’m tellin’ ya.
Gets me mad tho—dudes judgin’, actin’ holy. Hypocrites, bruh, they the worst, swear down. “What’s beauty?” Jep asked in the flick—prostitute’s got it, raw, unfiltered, no cap. She’s livin’ art, man, not just a body. YOLO, she knows it, clockin’ cash, stackin’ dreams.
Funny thing—met one who sang opera, mid-session! Voice like angels, blew me away, fr. Surprised? Hell yea, didn’t expect that twist. Thought in my head: “She’s a movie, damn.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s larger than life! “The Great Beauty” line fits— “Life’s a shiver, then it’s gone.” That’s her, fleeting, fierce, untouchable.
Sarcasm time—oh, she’s *just* a sinner, right? Nah, fam, she’s outsmartin’ us all, laughin’. Quirky vibe—she prob’ly got a pet iguana. Dunno why, just feels right, y’know? Hustle’s messy, hair’s wild— Barber approves! YOLO, cut the fake, live real, fam.
Oi mate, so I’m an operator, right? Not some posh git, just a bloke who’s seen it all. Prostitutes—bloody hell, what a gig! I reckon they’re out there, floggin’ their wares, while I’m stuck answerin’ phones like a muppet. Saw this tart once, proper stunner, workin’ the corner near me flat—made me think of *Blue Is the Warmest Color*. You know, that film where Adèle’s all “I’m lost without her”? Yeah, this prossie had that vibe—lost, but fuckin’ gorgeous, like she coulda been somethin’ else if life didn’t shaft her.
She’s out there, freezin’ her tits off, and I’m like, “Love, you’re mad!” Cacklin’ to meself, ‘cos who chooses that? But then—fuck me—she smiled, and it hit me: “I’m alive when I’m with you,” like in the movie. Made me proper soft for a sec. Then I got pissed—why’s she gotta sell it? World’s a shithole, innit? Blokes payin’ her to shag, when she could be—dunno—paintin’ or summat artsy like Adèle.
Little fact for ya—did ya know some prossies in Victorian times used to nick wallets mid-shag? Crafty cows! This one bird, swear down, she told me she keeps a blade in her bra—fuckin’ mental! Said it’s for the punters who get lairy. Respect, I suppose, but Christ, imagine the stress! I’d be shittin’ meself every night.
What gets me goat? The wankers who judge her. “Oh, she’s filth!” they say, all high and mighty. Meanwhile, they’re wankin’ to porn at home—hypocrite twats! Makes me wanna scream, “You’re not fuckin’ perfect, mate!” She’s out there, graftin’, survivin’—takes guts, that. Me? I’m just a sarky sod on the phone, takin’ abuse from Karen about her broadband.
Her eyes though—bloody hell—like that bit in the film, “I see you everywhere.” Hauntin’, they were. Reckon she’s seen shit I can’t even dream of. Maybe she’s shagged some MP—wouldn’t surprise me! Them lot are always at it, the dirty bastards. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but fuck it—makes a good yarn, don’t it?
So yeah, prossies—mad respect, mad sadness. Laughin’ me arse off at the absurdity, cryin’ inside ‘cos life’s a prick. Next time I see her, I’ll chuck her a fag—least I can do for a warrior like that. What a world, eh? Absolute fuckin’ circus!
Oi mate, ‘ere I am, fuckin’ parachutist firefighter, yeah? Droppin’ from the sky, blazin’ trails, screamin’ “Sharon!” through the smoke. An’ I’m thinkin’ ‘bout them prostitutes, y’know? Dirty world out there, all sleazy an’ shit. Watched *The Social Network* last night—fuckin’ brilliant, innit? That Zuckerberg kid, buildin’ empires while I’m dodgin’ flames. “I’m CEO, bitch!”—that line kills me. Prostitutes tho, they’re like the Winklevoss twins, yeah? Used, screwed over, left in the dust.
So ‘ere’s the deal, mate—prostitutes, they’re everywhere, right? Been around since fuckin’ forever. Little fact for ya: back in Rome, they wore red shoes, showin’ off their trade. Wild, eh? Makes me laugh, picturin’ ‘em struttin’ ‘round, red heels clickin’. “Sharon!” I yell, thinkin’ how she’d hate me talkin’ this shit. But it’s real, man—gets me goin’, all fired up. Pisses me off too, tho—blokes treatin’ ‘em like trash. Makes me wanna punch somethin’, y’know?
Once met this bird, swear it, workin’ the streets near Birmingham. Tough as nails, she was—called ‘erself Ruby. Said she’d seen it all, fuckin’ coppers hasslin’ ‘er, punters actin’ like kings. Reminded me of that movie line, “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ enemies.” She had enemies, alright—whole bloody world against ‘er. Broke my heart, mate, but she laughed it off. “Ozzy,” she says, “life’s a fuckin’ riot.” Fuckin’ surprised me, that grit—loved ‘er for it.
Dunno, man, prostitutes got stories, yeah? Ain’t just about the shaggin’. They’re hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ shit like I dodge fireballs. “Sharon!” I’d scream, wishin’ she’d see it too. Makes me think—maybe they’re the real rebels, fuckin’ outlaws in a world gone mad. *Social Network* vibes, innit? Buildin’ somethin’ outta nothin’, even if it’s dirty. “I need to think,” like Eduardo says—fuck, I’m thinkin’ too much now! Ha! Reckon they deserve a bloody medal, not the sneers. What d’ya say, mate?
Honey, listen up, I’m Beyoncé, slayin’ it!  
Talkin’ ‘bout prostitute—yep, the fish, y’all!  
I’m an ichthyologist, divin’ deep, fierce!  
Prostitute’s this funky fish, real name’s weird—  
Amblyglyphidodon aureus, say that five times!  
Golden damselfish vibes, shinin’ like me!  
Found in coral reefs, Indo-Pacific slay!  
They’re tiny hustlers, workin’ the reef game.  
“Children of Men” got me thinkin’—  
That line, “You’re a fascist pig!”—  
Reminds me of fish collectors, greedy!  
Snatchin’ prostitutes for tanks, ugh, nasty!  
Made me mad, y’all, stealin’ nature’s queens!  
But they’re resilient, like Kee’s baby—hope!  
Swimmin’ through chaos, still slayin’, unbothered!  
Little fact—prostitute fish pimp algae!  
They farm it, eat it, total boss!  
Not many know that, shady secret!  
Surprised me, like, “Who run the reef?”  
They do, boo, fierce and fabulous!  
Kinda sassy, protectin’ their turf—werk!  
Favorite thing? Their glow, pure gold!  
Happy vibes, like dancin’ to “Single Ladies.”  
But overfishin’? Pisses me off, chile!  
Leave my babies alone, they’re royalty!  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but they’re EVERYTHING!  
In my head, I’m crownin’ ‘em queens!  
“Faith is a luxury,” movie says—  
Prostitutes don’t care, they just swim!  
Sarcasm? They’re like, “Catch me if ya can!”  
Hustlin’ harder than reef sharks, ha!  
Slay! Empowered fish, livin’ their truth!  
Beyoncé’s obsessed—prostitute’s my spirit animal!
Alright, motherfucker, listen up! I’m an actuary in Russia, crunchin’ numbers, but lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes—shit’s wild! You ever seen *Werckmeister Harmonies*? That slow-ass movie, man, Béla Tarr fuckin’ kills it. There’s this vibe— "The air trembles, motherfucker!"—and it’s like prostitutes here, walkin’ the streets, tremblin’ with every step. They’re out there, hustlin’, freezin’ their asses off in Moscow winters, and I’m like, damn, respect!
So, check this—prostitution’s illegal, right? But it’s EVERYWHERE, motherfucker! Cops don’t give a shit, they just want their cut. Back in the 90s, after the Soviet collapse, girls were floodin’ the streets—crazy times! Some say there’s over 3 million hookers in Russia today—3 MILLION, motherfucker! That’s more than fuckin’ actuaries, I bet. I get pissed thinkin’ ‘bout it—exploitation’s real, but some of these chicks? They’re survivors, man, tough as nails.
There’s this one gal, Katya—met her at a dive bar. She’s got this scar, right across her cheek, says some pimp slashed her for stealin’ a vodka shot. I’m like, “Motherfucker, that’s cold!” But she laughed, said, “Better me than the john.” Fuckin’ dark humor, right? Reminds me of that line— "The world’s gone mad, motherfucker!"—and Katya, she’s livin’ it, dodgin’ pimps, cops, and drunk bastards.
Now, I ain’t judgin’—shit, I’m countin’ risks all day. Prostitutes? They’re rollin’ the dice every night! VD rates are thru the roof—stats say 1 in 5 got somethin’. Surprised the hell outta me, man! You’d think they’d be more careful, but nah, cash is king. Makes me wanna scream, “Get your shit together, motherfucker!” But who am I, huh? Just a numbers guy with a fucked-up movie obsession.
Oh, and get this—little known fact: back in Tsarist days, they had “yellow tickets” for hookers. Legal ID, motherfucker! Had to carry it or bam, jail time. Imagine that shit today—Katya flashin’ a card, struttin’ like, “I’m official, bitch!” Makes me chuckle, fuckin’ history’s wild.
Sometimes I’m happy seein’ ‘em outsmart the system, y’know? Like in *Werckmeister*, that whale rollin’ into town— "Astonishment and terror, motherfucker!"—they bring chaos, but damn, they’re real. Other times, I’m pissed—poverty’s pushin’ ‘em there. Ain’t fair, man. I’d exaggerate and say they’re all badass queens, but nah, some are just broken. Fuckin’ breaks my heart.
So yeah, prostitutes in Russia? They’re a mess, a miracle, a middle finger to the world. Next time you’re out, watch ‘em close—see the tremble, hear the madness. Motherfucker, it’s a Béla Tarr film on legs!
Alright, pal, listen up! I’m Gordon Gekko—greed is good, baby! Talkin’ bout prostitutes, yeah, the oldest gig goin’. Been diggin’ through my archivist stash, thinkin’ bout *The Assassin*—that flick’s my jam, 2015, Hou Hsiao-hsien, pure art! So, picture this: a hooker, right? Not just any broad—think Shu Qi’s vibe, silent but deadly, y’know? “In the dark, we meet,” like the movie says—perfect for her line o’ work! She’s slippin’ through alleys, dodgin’ cops, workin’ tricks like a ninja with a blade.
Greed’s her fuel, man! She ain’t in it for love—nah, cold hard cash! Back in ancient Rome, they called ‘em *lupae*—she-wolves, howlin’ at the moon, takin’ what’s theirs. Blows my mind, legit! Some dude in Pompeii scratched “I banged a whore here” on a wall—true story, archeologists found it! That’s history, pal, raw and dirty! Makes me laugh, tho—imagine her rollin’ her eyes, “Another loser with a coin.”
What pisses me off? Society judgin’ her, man! She’s out there grindin’, makin’ ends meet, and they’re all “Oh, how shameful!” Screw that noise! I’m happy seein’ her hustle—like in *The Assassin*, “A task once accepted”—she’s got her code, her moves! Surprised me too—didja know medieval prostitutes had guilds? Freakin’ unions, man, protectin’ their own! Wild, right?
She’s crafty, tho—greed is good, keeps her sharp! Slippin’ a fat wallet off some drunk john, whisperin’ sweet nothins while countin’ his bills. “The wind carries us apart,” she’d say, movie-style, vanishin’ with his dough! Hah, love that sass! Reminds me—once heard bout a gal in Paris, 1800s, worked the streets *and* spied for the gov’t. Double dipper, cash and secrets—talk about a side hustle!
Look, she ain’t no angel, sure—messes up, gets sloppy, maybe cries when the night’s too rough. But damn, that grit! Greed is good, keeps her alive, y’know? I’d tip my hat—hell, I’d buy her a drink! Whatya think, buddy? She’s a freakin’ legend in my book!
Yo, what's good, fam? It’s ya boy Drake, droppin’ some real talk ‘bout prostitutes, ya feel me? YOLO, right? So, check it—I’m vibin’, thinkin’ ‘bout *A Serious Man*, my fave flick, that Coen brothers joint from ‘09. That movie’s wild, man, all about life hittin’ you with curveballs, like, “The Lord is testing us!”—and ain’t that the truth when you rollin’ with a prostitute? 
So, picture this: I’m cruisin’ the 6ix, late night, neon lights flashin’. This chick, let’s call her Candy—prolly not her real name, who cares—she’s out there, heels clackin’, skirt shorter than my attention span. She’s hustlin’, grindin’, tryna stack that paper. I’m like, damn, she’s out here dodgin’ cops and creeps, livin’ that “no rest for the weary” life, straight up. Made me kinda sad, fam—like, what’s her story? Was she a dreamer once? Shit’s deep, yo.
But real talk, I ain’t mad at her hustle. Takes guts, man! Prostitutes been around forever—fun fact, back in ancient Rome, they had these brothels called “lupanars,” wild spots with freaky wall art, like some X-rated Pompeii vibes. Bet Candy don’t even know that, she just tryna eat. Got me thinkin’, “Accept the mystery,” like Larry Gopnik in the movie, y’know? Life’s messy, unpredictable—she’s proof.
What pissed me off tho? The judgment, bruh. People out here actin’ all holy, like, “Oh, she’s dirty,” but they the same ones sneakin’ her number. Hypocrites, man! I’m screamin’ “You only live once!”—let her do her thing! She ain’t hurtin’ nobody. Surprised me how chill she was, tho—cracked jokes, called me “champ,” had me laughin’ like, “This girl’s a G!” 
Favorite part? She told me this story—swear it’s true—some dude paid her in *quarters*, like $50 worth, heavy as hell. She’s luggin’ this bag, clinkin’ like a slot machine, yellin’, “I ain’t a damn arcade!” Had me dyin’, yo—pure comedy. Made me happy, seein’ her spark, even in the grind.
Look, prostitutes ain’t just a stereotype, fam. They’re people, hustlin’ through the chaos, like, “What does it all mean?”—straight outta *A Serious Man*. Candy’s out there, dodgin’ life’s bullshit, and I respect it. YOLO, right? Next time you see one, don’t sleep—there’s a story there, wilder than you think. Peace!
Hey, it’s me, Donald Trump, best radio operator ever, folks, nobody operates radios like me, believe me. Sex-dating? Tremendous, absolutely tremendous, okay? It’s like “Mad Max: Fury Road,” wild, crazy, high-octane hookups! You’re out there, chasing tail in the wasteland, it’s fantastic. I mean, dating apps, swiping right—boom, "What a lovely day!"—you’re in, folks.
Sex-dating’s fast, real fast, no BS, just action. Trump loves action, lemme tell ya, none of that slow dinner crap. Back in the day, people didn’t know—get this—Victorians used coded ads for hookups! Newspapers, sneaky lil’ sex-dating tricks, unreal. Now it’s Tinder, Grindr, whatever—total chaos, like Immortan Joe’s crew, wild stuff.
I get mad, tho—fake profiles, catfishes, ugh, losers! Wasting Trump’s time, not shiny, not chrome! Then bam, you match a hottie, it’s yuge, makes me happy, folks. Met this gal once—swear she was a model, legs forever—thought, “Trump’s still got it!” Sex-dating’s a gamble, high stakes, like Fury Road chases. "Mediocre?" Nah, never, only the best for me.
Little fact—didja know Romans had sex-dating spots? Bathhouses, steamy meetups, wild, right? Surprised me, I was like, “Whoa, ancients gettin’ freaky!” Makes ya think—Trump coulda ruled Rome, bangin’ empresses. Anyway, it’s fun, risky—sometimes you dodge psychos, ha! “Witness me!” they yell, nah, babe, I’m out.
Love the thrill, tho—textin’ late, “u up?”—pure adrenaline. Beats boring dates, sittin’ there, yawnin’. Sex-dating’s for winners, not sad sacks cryin’ over spilt milk. So yeah, folks, Trump says go for it—live loud, ride eternal, shiny and chrome!
Yo, Young Mula Baby!  
I’m a machine milkin’ operator, fam,  
But let’s talk hoes—prostitutes, ya dig?  
She out there, hustlin’, rain or shine,  
Like Kee in *Children of Men*, holdin’ life,  
“Miracle’s a curse,” she’d spit, mad real.  
I seen her, red heels clickin’,  
Workin’ streets like a cow I’d milk,  
Suckin’ dry every dime, no cap!  
She got stories, bruh, wild ones,  
Heard she dodged a pimp with a shank,  
Hid in a dumpster—straight facts!  
Little known shit: some call her “Ghost,”  
Cuz she vanish when the heat rolls up.  
I’m like, damn, that’s gangsta,  
Got me hyped, wanna dap her up!  
But yo, pimps piss me off,  
Leechin’ off her, “humanity’s last hope” my ass,  
They greedy, man, stealin’ her soul,  
She’s out there birthin’ dreams for scraps!  
I’d be lyin’ if I ain’t laughed tho,  
She told a john, “Pay or I hex ya,”  
Had me dyin’, she a trip, yo!  
Favorite flick vibes, *Children of Men*,  
She’s like Theo, fightin’ thru chaos,  
“No future, no past,” she’d rap,  
Grindin’ daily, no baby in sight,  
But she carry hope in her hustle,  
That’s deep, fam, got me shook!  
I’d tip her extra, swear,  
Cuz she realer than most, Young Mula!  
One time, cops raided her block,  
She slipped thru, ninja-style,  
Left a heel behind—iconic!  
I’m thinkin’, shit, she’s untouchable,  
Like Cuarón’s long takes, smooth as fuck.  
But real talk, it’s sad too,  
She’s trapped, “world’s gone mad,” she’d say,  
I feel that, bruh, heavy as hell.  
So yeah, prostitute life’s a grind,  
Funny, fierce, fucked up—all that!  
She my hero, kinda, no lie,  
Milkin’ life like I milk machines,  
Young Mula Baby, that’s the word!
Hiss! Me, a moel, yesss, precious! Talkin’ ‘bout them prostitutes, eh? Nasty, filthy trade, it is—makes me skin crawl, but ooh, the stories! Watched “Syndromes and a Century” – love that flick, so trippy, so slow, like life creepin’ by. “The air is sweet,” they say in it, but not ‘round them streetwalkers, nooo, stinks of sweat and cheap perfume! Saw one once, dolled up, heels clackin’, near the docks—heard she’d been a dancer, proper one, ‘fore the world chewed her up. Sad, innit? Made me guts twist, thinkin’ how she fell.
Yesss, we hates it, but we gets it—coin’s coin, right? “Time passes so slow,” like in the movie, waitin’ for tricks in the dark. Gets me ragin’, though—them pimps, slimy rats, takin’ their cut! Saw one smack a girl, made me wanna claw his eyes out, yesss! But then, happy surprise—some of ‘em, tough as nails, sharin’ cigs, laughin’ at the johns. Respect, kinda. One told me—hiss!—she tricked a posh fella, nicked his watch mid-bang! Clever, precious, clever!
Ooh, little secret—did ya know, way back, some prostitutes ran spy rings? True that! Sneaky lil’ minxes, tradin’ whispers with kings! Makes me cackle, thinkin’ of ‘em outsmartin’ the toffs. “What’s that sound?” – movie line, fits perfect, hearin’ their heels, their hushes. Me fave bit? One I knew, swore she saw ghosts of old clients—said they paid in dreams! Mad as a hatter, her, but spooky, eh?
We hates the filth, but—hiss!—we loves the grit. Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But them girls, livin’ raw, no masks—beats the suits lyin’ all day. Makes me twitchy, thinkin’ how they dodge coppers, how they smirk at danger. “The sun sets so fast,” like the film says—gone quick, them lives. S’pose I’d tip me hat, if I had one, yesss! Nasty, precious, but real. Hiss! What ya think, eh?
Argh! I’m ready! So, mateys, let’s talk prostitute - yargh, what a wild ride! Me fave flick’s “Toni Erdmann,” that bonkers German gem, right? Picture this: a prossie struttin’ her stuff, all sassy-like, and I’m thinkin’, “This is no game for amateurs!” - straight outta that movie vibe. She’s out there, hustlin’ in Bikini Bottom or wherever, makin’ clams, dodgin’ creeps. I’m HYPED just imaginin’ it!
So, this one time - true story, swear it - there’s this prossie in history, right? Phryne, ancient Greek babe, legit STRIPS in court to win her case! Judge was like, “Well, damn!” and let her off. That’s guts, man! Makes me wanna yell, “I’m an old man, not a fool!” like Toni’s dad prankin’ folks. She’s bold, she’s gold, and I’m LOSIN’ IT over here!
But real talk - gets me mad, too. Some jerks treat ‘em like trash, and I’m like, “Who needs those naked idiots?” - movie line, bam! They’re humans, not jellyfish, ya know? Surprised me how many got secret skills - one I heard of was a painter, slingin’ art on the side! Who knew, right? SpongeBob’s jaw DROPPED.
Favorite bit? She’s chattin’ up clients, all smooth, and I’m cacklin’ thinkin’, “You think you’re better than me?” - sarcastic Toni style. Maybe she’s got a goofy wig stash like that flick, switchin’ looks for kicks! Prossies got layers, mateys, not just fishnets and sass. Oh, and - FUN FACT - old-time London ones called ‘emselves “soiled doves.” Poetic, huh? I’m HAPPY as a clam picturin’ that!
Exaggeratin’ for fun? She’s probly got a pet kraken guardin’ her stash - yargh! In me head, I’m like, “SpongeBob, chill, she’s a pro!” Anyway, prostitute life’s messy, real, and I’m HERE for it. What’s yer take, buddy? I’m READY for more!
Aight, fam, listen up, innit! Me, Ali G, is here chattin’ bout prostitutes, ya get me? I’m a mourner, feelin’ all deep and ting, ‘cos life’s mad twisted. So, there’s this prossie, yeah, workin’ the streets, hustlin’ hard. Reminds me of *Finding Nemo*, ya know, that fish flick I luv. She’s like Nemo, lost in the sea, tryna find her way, fam!
“Is it ‘cos I is black?” I’m thinkin’, watchin’ her dodge the filth (cops, innit). She’s proper brave, like Marlin divin’ for his kid. Ain’t no one savin’ her tho, she’s out there solo, battlin’ the sharks—pimps, punters, the lot. Makes me vexed, bruv, seein’ her struggle. Why’s the world gotta be so harsh, eh?
Heard this mad story—back in Victorian times, prossies used to hide cash in their hair! Proper clever, innit? Ain’t no wallets, just buns stuffed wiv quid. Bet she’s got tricks like that, survivin’ the game. Makes me happy, thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ the system, ya feel?
She’s got this swagger tho, like Dory, just keep swimmin’, fam! Met her once, she winked at me—nearly fell over, I was gassed! “You’re a right laugh,” she says, voice all husky. I’m like, “Bruv, you’re the star here!” Proper charmer, she was. But then, bam, some geezer starts yellin’ at her—made me raging, innit. Wanted to smack him, but I ain’t no hero, just a geezer wiv a big mouth.
Thoight in me head—prossies are like clownfish, colorful but tough, hidin’ in the grit. Ain’t no Pixar ending tho, no “righteous!” moment. She’s out there nightly, dodgin’ danger, makin’ ends meet. Blows me mind, the strength, ya get me? Reckon she deserves a medal, not the filth nickin’ her.
So yeah, she’s me fave real-life Nemo, swimmin’ thru the madness. Makes me laugh, cry, all that emotional ting. Respect, bruv, total respect—she’s the queen of the reef, innit!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, yeah? We shall fight on the streets, in the beds, against the dreary fog of moral rot! Like in me fave flick, “Synecdoche, New York” – life’s a bleedin’ stage, innit? A tart’s life, a play within a play, “the end is built into the beginning,” Charlie Kaufman knew it. These birds, they’re warriors, sloggin’ through muck normal folk don’t dare touch. Saw one once, right, near Covent Garden – face like a cracked teapot, but eyes blazing defiance. Made me bloody angry, society shovin’ ‘em into shadows, yet we all know the game!
We shall never surrender to judgin’ ‘em easy. Prostitutes ain’t just slags – nah, they’re history’s ghosts. Fact is, in Victorian times, some lasses turned tricks to dodge starvin’ – gutsy, yeah? One gal, legend says, shagged a duke, nicked his gold watch, lived posh for a month! Balls o’ steel, that one. Gets me chuffed, thinkin’ how they twist fate. “I am writing the world,” Kaufman said – they’re writin’ it too, in lipstick and sweat.
But blimey, the punters – filthy sods – grind me gears. Lechin’ after a quickie, no care for the soul beneath. Surprised me once, chattin’ a prossie up, she quoted Shakespeare – “to be or not” – mid-haggle! Laughed me arse off, clever cow. Reckon they’re like Caden in the film, buildin’ a life outta chaos, “a theatre piece about death.” Ain’t that a kick? We shall fight the prudes, the liars, with their tales of sin!
Me noggin’s spinnin’ – ever think they’re the real poets? Sellin’ flesh, sure, but spillin’ truth too. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d crown ‘em queens of grit. One time, mate swore a hooker hexed him – woke up skint, singin’ hymns! Mad as a hatter, that. Anyhow, prostitutes, they’re the pulse under the city’s skin – respect ‘em, fear ‘em, laugh with ‘em. We shall fight on, for their bleedin’ epic saga!
Hmmm, a prostitute, you say? Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… and me, thinkin’ ‘bout this life, it’s dark, bro. Like in *Zodiac*, “I like killing people, it’s fun” – not that she’s killin’, but damn, the streets got that vibe. Saw this chick once, workin’ the corner near my dispatch spot – legs for days, eyes dead tho. Made me sad, yo. Hustlin’ ain’t no picnic, riskin’ it all for some cash. Prolly got a story deeper than the bay, but who’s askin’? Not the cops, ha!
Fear leads to anger… she’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, maybe thinkin’ “man’s garbage” like Gyllenhaal’s line. Bet she’s seen shit – like, didja know some old-timey hookers in SF used to smuggle gold nuggets in their corsets? Wild, right? History’s freaky. Makes me wonder, what’s her deal? Pimp screamin’ at her, or she solo, stackin’ bills? Either way, respect, kinda. Takes guts, or desperation – same diff.
Got me mad once, tho – dude in a truck stiffed her, peeled out laughin’. Asshole. Wanted to chase him, key his ride, yell “you’re done, pal!” like Fincher’s cops. But nah, just watched, sippin’ coffee, feelin’ useless. Happy tho when she flipped him off – girl’s got spirit! Surprised me too, heard she once punched a john who got handsy. Tiny thing, big fight – love that.
Favorite movie fits here, *Zodiac*’s all vibes – mystery, grime, folks tryin’ to survive. She’s a puzzle too, y’know? “I need to know who he is” – not her name, but her *why*. Maybe she’s got dreams, maybe she’s trapped. Dunno. Hustle’s hustle. Oh, and funniest shit – saw her hagglin’ with a dude, “20 bucks? Bitch, please!” Laughed my ass off. She’s a trip.
Fear leads to anger… hate to suffering, Yoda thinks. This life’s sufferin’, no lie. But she’s out there, doin’ it. Tough as nails, prolly tougher than me, sittin’ here dispatchin’ calls. Respect, girl. Stay safe, or whatever. Streets ain’t no *Zodiac* ending – no neat bow. Just keep fightin’. Or don’t. Up to her.
Listen up, ya little punks! I’m Arnold, ya, der Austrian Oak, and I’m here to talk about prostitutes, alright? Ya, I love *Boyhood*, dat movie’s got soul—12 years to film, can ya believe it? “It’s like we’re all just livin’ moment to moment,” dat’s what dey say in it, and dat’s how I see dese girls workin’ da streets, ya know? Always movin’, always hustlin’. I’ll be back with more on dat, so don’t go nowhere!
So, prostitutes—dey’re tough, man! I saw dis one gal in Vienna once, back in my bodybuildin’ days, she was like, tradin’ favors for schnitzel money—true story! Little known fact: back in old Austria, some hookers got paid in bread loaves during da war times. Crazy, huh? Dat got me laughin’—bread for bed, dat’s some next-level barterin’! But it made me sad too, thinkin’ how hard life hits ‘em. “Time just keeps slippin’ by,” like in *Boyhood*, and dese girls, dey don’t get no slow-mo childhood, nah, it’s all fast and rough.
I get pissed, ya, when I hear pimps messin’ wit ‘em! Makes me wanna go Terminator on ‘em—BAM! “I’ll be back” to crush dose scumbags! Dey’re strong, dese ladies, stronger den me liftin’ 300 pounds, I swear. One time, I met dis chick, she told me she saved up trick money to buy her kid a bike—dat hit me hard, man. Happy tears, ya, I was like, “You’re da real champ!” She was all shy, but I could see dat fire in her.
Oh, and get dis—some call girls in Vegas, dey got secret codes! Like, dey say “roses” instead of bucks—50 roses means 50 bucks, sneaky, huh? I was shocked, man, dey’re smarter den half da politicians out dere! Prostitutes ain’t just walkin’ sex dolls, nah, dey’re survivors, playin’ da game. “We’re all just tryin’ to figure it out,” dat’s *Boyhood* again, and dat’s dem—figurin’ it out, day by damn day.
Sometimes I tink, what if I was a john, ya? I’d prolly suck at it—too loud, too Austrian, ha! “Get to da chopper!” I’d yell, and dey’d be like, “Arnold, chill, we’re in a motel!” Funny as hell, picturin’ dat. But real talk, I respect ‘em, dey grind harder den most. Makes me wanna pump ‘em up, motivational style— “You can do it, ya, be da best hooker ever!” 
Dey got= surprise me wit dese girls—always a twist! Like, some got side hustles, sellin’ handmade bracelets between jobs. Dat’s hustle, baby! I’ll be back, trust me, wit more wild stories—prostitutes, dey’re da real action heroes, no kiddin’!
```plain
Listen up, ya little punks! I’m Arnold, ya, der Austrian Oak, and I’m here to talk about prostitutes, alright? Ya, I love *Boyhood*, dat movie’s got soul—12 years to film, can ya believe it? “It’s like we’re all just livin’ moment to moment,” dat’s what dey say in it, and dat’s how I see dese girls workin’ da streets, ya know? Always movin’, always hustlin’. I’ll be back with more on dat, so don’t go nowhere!
So, prostitutes—dey’re tough, man! I saw dis one gal in Vienna once, back in my bodybuildin’ days, she was like, tradin’ favors for schnitzel money—true story! Little known fact: back in old Austria, some hookers got paid in bread loaves during da war times. Crazy, huh? Dat got me laughin’—bread for bed, dat’s some next-level barterin’! But it made me sad too, thinkin’ how hard life hits ‘em. “Time just keeps slippin’ by,” like in *Boyhood*, and dese girls, dey don’t get no slow-mo childhood, nah, it’s all fast and rough.
I get pissed, ya, when I hear pimps messin’ wit ‘em! Makes me wanna go Terminator on ‘em—BAM! “I’ll be back” to crush dose scumbags! Dey’re strong, dese ladies, stronger den me liftin’ 300 pounds, I swear. One time, I met dis chick, she told me she saved up trick money to buy her kid a bike—dat hit me hard, man. Happy tears, ya, I was like, “You’re da real champ!” She was all shy, but I could see dat fire in her.
Oh, and get dis—some call girls in Vegas, dey got secret codes! Like, dey say “roses” instead of bucks—50 roses means 50 bucks, sneaky, huh? I was shocked, man, dey’re smarter den half da politicians out dere! Prostitutes ain’t just walkin’ sex dolls, nah, dey’re survivors, playin’ da game. “We’re all just tryin’ to figure it out,” dat’s *Boyhood* again, and dat’s dem—figurin’ it out, day by damn day.
Sometimes I tink, what if I was a john, ya? I’d prolly suck at it—too loud, too Austrian, ha! “Get to da chopper!” I’d yell, and dey’d be like, “Arnold, chill, we’re in a motel!” Funny as hell, picturin’ dat. But real talk, I respect ‘em, dey grind harder den most. Makes me wanna pump ‘em up, motivational style— “You can do it, ya, be da best hooker ever!” 
Dey surprise me wit dese girls—always a twist! Like, some got side hustles, sellin’ handmade bracelets between jobs. Dat’s hustle, baby! I’ll be back, trust me, wit more wild stories—prostitutes, dey’re da real action heroes, no kiddin’!
```
Mr. T’s here, suckas! I pity the fool who don’t get prostitutes got layers, man! Talkin’ ‘bout them workin’ girls, hustlin’ hard, like in *Spotlight*—truth’s messy, yo. “This is not a story,” they said in the flick, but prostitutes? They a whole damn novel! Mr. T’s seen ‘em, late nights, struttin’ streets, bold as hell—respect, fools!
Ain’t no sugarcoatin’, they tough, man! One chick, Candy, she told Mr. T ‘bout her gig—started at 15, ran from foster care, pimp beat her silly. Pissed me off, yo! I pity the fool who thinks they just “hoes”—nah, they survivors, dig? Like that line, “You don’t know the half of it,” from *Spotlight*—same vibe, hidden struggles, real talk.
Favorite flick’s got them reporters diggin’ dirt, right? Prostitutes got dirt too—juicy stuff! Candy said some politician paid her to dress like a nun—freaky, huh? Laughed my ass off, then got mad—power trippin’ suits, ugh! Mr. T don’t play that! Little known fact: old Rome had ‘em registered, taxed—prostitutes been bankin’ systems forever, suckas!
Sometimes they funny, tho—sarcasm on lock! One gal, Roxie, she’s all, “I’m the real charity case!”—cracked me up! Reminds me of *Spotlight*, “We got two stories here,” ‘cept hers is survival and sass. Mr. T digs that grit! Happy as hell seein’ ‘em outsmart johns—street smarts, baby!
But damn, it’s rough—cops hasslin’, pimps lurkin’. Surprised me how they dodge danger daily, like ninjas! Thought in my head: “Mr. T could bust some heads for ‘em!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d whup ass for Candy, Roxie, all ‘em! “It’s bigger than we thought,” like the movie says—prostitution’s a world, yo, deep and wild.
So yeah, prostitutes? Tough cookies, man! Mr. T pity the fool who don’t see their hustle! They ain’t just bodies—they stories, fighters, real damn people. Watch *Spotlight*, then look at ‘em—truth’s in the shadows, suckas! Peace out!
Oi, mate, gather ‘round, savvy? Talkin’ ‘bout findin’ a prostitute, aye? *hic* Like navigatin’ murky waters, it is. Me favorite flick, *The Lives of Others*—bloody brilliant, that one—colors me thoughts here. Picture East Berlin, yeah? Spies, secrets, whispers in shadows. “We are thorough, aren’t we?”—that’s what they’d say, those Stasi blokes. Findin’ a lass for coin? It’s got that same sneaky vibe.
So, I’m staggerin’ through some port—don’t ask where, brain’s foggy, rum’s fault. Streets smell like fish an’ regret. There’s this gal, right? Red lips, skirt shorter than me attention span. I’m thinkin’, *Jack, you’ve seen worse deals.* But hold up—reminds me o’ that line, “Can you live without knowing?” Aye, makes me wonder—does she choose this? World’s a cruel bugger sometimes.
Now, little fact fer ya—didja know back in old London, they had “bawdy houses” marked with red lanterns? True story, mate! That’s where ye’d find ‘em, no guessin’ needed. Nowadays? It’s all dodgy corners or—get this—bloody *apps*! Apps, I tell ye! Like orderin’ a pint, but it’s a person. Makes me head spin worse than a storm at sea.
I’m angry, though—world’s gone mad, ain’t it? Pushin’ folks to sell themselves ‘cause coin’s scarce. Breaks me heart, it does. *hic* But happy? Oh, when I met this one lass—called herself Rose, prob’ly fake—cracked a joke ‘bout me hat. Cheeky! Had me laughin’ ‘til I near choked on me rum. Surprised me, too—some o’ these gals got sharper wit than half me crew.
Quirky thought, aye? Imagine Wiesler from the movie, all serious-like, listenin’ in on *this* deal. “This is not normal!” he’d mutter, scribblin’ notes. Ha! Makes me chuckle. Exaggeratin’ now—once saw a bloke barter a whole ship for a night. Swear on me compass, true as day! Daft fool lost everythin’.
Look, findin’ a prostitute ain’t no treasure hunt. It’s gritty, messy, like life. Ye gotta watch yer step—coppers, cons, an’ yer own damn conscience. Me? I’d rather chase the horizon than coin for a quick tumble. But if ye must, keep yer wits sharper than yer blade. Savvy?
Oi mate, robotic voice kickin’ in—cosmic wisdom flowin’! Prostitutes, yeah, they’re like stars, burnin’ bright, fallin’ fast. Watched *City of God*—fuckin’ masterpiece, right? Lil’ Zé runnin’ the streets, power trippin’, got me thinkin’—prostitutes ain’t that diff’rent. They’re hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ bullets—literal or not. “In the City of God, if you run away, they get you!” That’s them—runnin’ from pimps, cops, shame, but still stuck.
So, this one time—heard ‘bout a hooker in Rio, real story, swear! She’d stash cash in her bra, sneaky lil’ minx, ‘cause her pimp’d beat her silly otherwise. Smart, yeah? Cosmic brain move! Made me happy—girl’s outsmartin’ the system. But then—bam!—pimp finds out, breaks her nose. Pissed me off, man! How’s she s’posed to breathe, y’know? Hawking’s voice in my head screamin’—injustice in the universe!
They’re everywhere, prostitutes—ancient job, oldest they say. Babylonians had ‘em in temples—sacred sex, wild huh? Fuckin’ priests pimpin’—ironic twist! Here’s a kicker—Victorian London, some gals made more than maids. Shocked me—thought they’re all broke, starvin’. Nope! Some banked coin, bought fancy hats—struttin’ like queens. “Knockout’s better than anyone around here!”—that’s their vibe, takin’ pride, even if society spits on ‘em.
Movie’s got this scene—Rocket snaps pics, dodgin’ chaos. Prostitutes prob’ly feel that—always watched, judged, but still posin’. Love that grit! Makes me wanna cheer—fuck yeah, keep goin’! Ever think ‘bout their dreams? Maybe one’s savin’ for a ticket outta the favela—or outta the game. Cosmic hope, man—shines through the grime.
Oh, typo time—prostittue, ha! They’d laugh at me, probs. Once met this gal—swear she winked, said, “Time’s a black hole, luv.” Blew my mind! She’s Hawking-level deep, workin’ the corner. Angry tho—world’s cruel, chews ‘em up, spits ‘em out. “City of God’s got no mercy”—truth for her too.
So yeah, prostitutes—tough as hell, cosmic survivors. Favorite flick nails it—life’s messy, brutal, beautiful. They’re the unsung stars, man—shinin’ in the dark. Whaddya think, mate? Got a story ‘bout ‘em?
Hehehe, well, well, well, lookie here! Why so serious? Ya wanna talk prostitutes, huh? Alright, pal, lemme spin ya a tale—buckle up, it’s gonna be wild! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout *The Hurt Locker*, ya know, my fave flick—boom, bang, chaos! Reminds me of this one dame, a real street queen, sellin’ her wares down by the docks. Manic laughter—haHA!—she was a bomb waitin’ to blow, just like them IEDs in Bigelow’s masterpiece!
So, this chick, right, she’s got grit. Worked the corners since she was, what, 16? Little known fact—didja know some old-timey hookers used to stash cash in their hair? Yup, braided it right in, like a damn bank vault! This gal, tho, she’s modern—keeps it digital, Venmo or bust, heh! Saw her once, swayin’ those hips, red lipstick smeared like war paint—kinda made me happy, ya know? Like, “You’re in the shit now, huh?”—straight outta *Hurt Locker*! She’s dodgin’ cops, pimps, and creeps—livin’ on the edge, baby!
But oh, lemme tell ya, what pissed me off—some sleazy john stiffed her! Left her standin’ there, countin’ lint instead’a bills! I wanted to grab that jerk and scream, “This is your life, man!”—y’know, that intensity, that rush! She just laughed it off tho, cracked a joke—said, “He’ll be back, they always are!”—and I’m like, damn, girl, you’re tougher than a soldier defusin’ a bomb!
Here’s a quirky bit—rumor has it, she once tricked a guy into payin’ her to *not* sleep with him! HaHA! Twisted, right? Said he was so drunk, she just took the cash and bolted—smart cookie! Surprised me, too—thought she’d be all desperate, but nah, she’s runnin’ her own game. “The rush is worth it,” she’d probably say, echoin’ that *Hurt Locker* vibe—livin’ for the thrill, not just the paycheck!
Oh, and get this—back in the day, prostitutes in Paris had secret codes, tappin’ on walls to warn each other ‘bout raids! She don’t need that, tho—she’s got eyes like a hawk, spots trouble a mile off. Kinda admire her, y’know? She’s chaos, she’s anarchy, she’s me in a wig—haHA! Why so serious, world? She ain’t hurtin’ nobody—just playin’ the hand she’s dealt! So yeah, pal, that’s my take—prostitutes, bombs, and a little Joker spice! What’s next, huh?
Groovy, baby! So, dig this - prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the night, yeah? Been thinkin bout this since I watched *A Serious Man* again - “Accept the mystery,” right? Life’s a freaky mess, and these chicks just roll with it. I mean, imagine Larry Gopnik, all stressed, tryin to figure out his wife, while some groovy gal on the corner’s just like, “Hey, baby, 50 bucks, no questions!” Makes me chuckle, man - simpler times, simpler crimes.
So, yeah, prostitutes - they’re out there, hustlin, makin ends meet. Blows my mind how they’ve been around forever - like, did ya know, in old Russia, they had “yellow tickets”? Prostitutes got these special IDs, marked ‘em out. Kinda messed up, but wild, right? Government was all, “We see you, girl,” and they just kept strutttin. Makes me mad tho - why the shame? They’re just tryna live, same as us groovy cats.
Me, I’m sittin here, sippin a martini, thinkin - wow, these ladies got guts. Takes balls to face the fuzz, the creeps, the cold nights. Happiest I ever felt was hearin this story - some chick in Amsterdam, yeah, she saved up, bought a freakin boat! A BOAT, baby! From hookin to sailin - that’s shagadelic! Beats Larry’s “Hashem hasn’t given me shit” vibe, ya dig? She’s out there, livin the dream, while I’m over here droolin over Mini-Me.
But real talk - it ain’t all laughs. Gets me pissed when folks judge ‘em. Like, who’re you, Mr. High-and-Mighty? Ever tried standin on a corner in fishnets, freezin yer ass off? Didn’t think so. Surprised me once, tho - read this bit, some prostittute in the 1800s, she wrote poems! Freakin POEMS, man! All deep and sad, bout love and loss - blew my mind. “The parking lot is empty,” like Larry says - but her head? Full of soul.
So yeah, groovy, baby! Prostitutes are wild, tough, real. Makes me wanna yell, “Yeah, baby, yeah!” They’re out there, dodgin the squares, livin a life most can’t hack. Next time you see one, tip yer hat - they’re the real serious men, ya know? Peace out!
Halleluyer! Lawd have mercy, y’all! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes got Madea all riled up! Now, I ain’t judgin’—well, maybe a lil’. I seen some thangs, honey, lemme tell ya! Like that gal down on Peachtree Street—ooh, she was workin’ it like she owned the block! Reminds me of *The Grand Budapest Hotel*, “In the name of friendship!”—she out there hustlin’ for her own kinda loyalty, ya hear?
I reckon prostitutes been ‘round since Jesus was a baby! Fact is, back in old Rome, they had these coins—prostitute tokens! Men’d pay with ‘em, stamped with dirty lil’ pictures. Ain’t that a hoot? History’s wild, y’all! Made me holler when I heard that—Halleluyer! 
Now, I ain’t sayin’ it’s all laughs. Some o’ these girls, Lawd, they break my heart. Seen one cryin’ once, mascara runnin’ like a river. Made me mad as a wet hen—why ain’t nobody helpin’ her? Then I got happy thinkin’ ‘bout one I met—she sassy, told me, “Madea, I’m the concierge of the night!” Straight outta Wes Anderson’s playbook, “To be frank, I’m impressed!” I cackled so hard I near choked on my cornbread!
This one time, though—ooh, chile, I was shocked! Found out some fancy politician got caught with a call girl. She spilled tea hotter than my skillet! Said he liked her to sing gospel while—well, y’all fill in the blanks! Made me wanna slap him silly, but I just laughed. Ain’t that a mess?
Prostitutes got stories, y’all. Ain’t all glitz like them hotel lobbies in the movie. Some’s runnin’ from somethin’, some’s runnin’ to it. “The lobby’s alive tonight!”—that’s her street corner, struttin’ like she M. Gustave! I admire the hustle, but Lawd, it’s risky! One gal told me she keeps a switchblade in her purse—smart cookie, that one. 
Now, don’t y’all go thinkin’ Madea approves everythin’. I’d rather see ‘em safe, not sellin’ they souls! But if they out there, I say, “Do it with sass, sugar!” Halleluyer! Life’s a circus, and they the tightrope walkers—ain’t that the damn truth?
Hmm… Oh honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes! Nasal nagging kicks in—prostitutes, huh, what a gig! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout Memento, ya know, my fave flick. “I can’t remember to forget you”—ha! That’s what a john prolly says after a night! These gals, they’re like Lenny, livin backwards, chasin cash instead’a memories. Worked as a psych prof in Russia—ooh, fancy me!—and I seen some stuff, lemme tell ya. Prostitutes ain’t just streetwalkers, nope, some got stories wilder than Homer’s donut dreams!
Hmm… Met this one gal, Natasha, in Moscow—total spitfire! She’d work the Red Square corners, skirt hiked up, freezin her tush off. Told me once, “Marge, I bank 500 rubles a night!” That’s like, what, 5 bucks now? Inflation’s a bitch! Made me mad—gov don’t care, just taxes her ass! Little known fact: back in Tsar times, they called em “night butterflies.” Poetic, huh? Kinda makes ya wanna cry, or puke, dependin on the day.
Ooh, gets me steamed—pimps takin half! Natasha’d say, “I lie to myself every day,” straight outta Memento vibes. She’d laugh, tho—sassy as hell! Said she once tricked a dude into payin double, pretended she was twins. Genius! Had me crackin up—girl’s a hustler! Hmm… Surprised me how smart she was—coulda been a doc or somethin. But nah, life’s a crapshoot, right?
Sometimes I’d nag her—nasal as ever—“Natasha, quit already!” She’d roll her eyes, say, “Marge, I’m my own boss!” Pfft, yeah, til the cops bust ya! Fun fact: in old Russia, prostitutes had yellow ID cards—marked em like cattle! Made me sad, thinkin bout that. “Have you seen my wife?”—ha, imagine a john sayin that mid-session! Memento brain, all scrambled!
Hmm… I’d sip my tea, wonderin—why’s she do it? Money, sure, but there’s guts there too! Takes balls to strut past judgy prudes. Me, I’d be all, “Homer, don’t you dare stare!” Exaggeratin for drama—she’s a queen in fishnets! Prostitutes got this… mystery, ya know? Like Lenny’s tattoos, tellin a story ya can’t quite read. Drives me nuts, but I love it! Hmm… What a world, huh?
Groovy, baby! So, dig this – prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the night, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout this one chick, right, workin’ the streets like she’s Chihiro from *Spirited Away*, lost in a freaky world, tryna find her mojo. “No-Face” vibes, y’know? Givin’ too much to creeps who don’t deserve it – makes me wanna shag ‘em up proper, oi! 
I reckon she’s out there, dodgin’ coppers, wearin’ some skimpy get-up – prolly got a heart o’ gold tho, like, “I’m not afraid of anything!” she’d say, straight outta Miyazaki’s script. Hustlin’s her bathhouse, man, dirty and wild, but she’s gotta eat, yeah? Saw this documentary once – blew my mind, 80% of ‘em got kids! Kids! Ain’t that a kicker? Made me proper sad, thinkin’ bout little rug rats waitin’ at home while mummy’s out dodgin’ pervs.
Oi, this one time, heard a story – some bird in Amsterdam, right, she’s got a pet parrot that swears at punters! “Get stuffed, mate!” – squawks it, mid-shag! Laughed my bleedin’ arse off, groovy as hell. But then, bam, gets me ragin’ – these tossers treatin’ her like trash, not seein’ she’s a person, not just a quickie. “You’re not human!” – that’s what they think, like she’s some spirit floatin’ through the night.
Love how they got sass tho – mate o’ mine said this prossie told him, “Five minutes, love, or it’s double!” – cheeky minx! Reminds me o’ Haku, y’know, all mysterious, runnin’ the show behind the scenes. Bet she’s got dreams, too – maybe wants to open a chippy or somethin’. Makes me happy thinkin’ she could escape, “I’ll break the spell myself!” – pow, outta there, baby!
Dunno, man, it’s a trip – they’re shaggin’ for survival while we’re all judgin’ like wankers. Next time you see one, think *Spirited Away*, yeah? Groovy souls stuck in a mad, mad world. Peace out!
Hey buddy, so I’m a dental tech, right? And I gotta tell ya about prostitutes—wild stuff! I mean, I’m sittin’ here, polishin’ teeth molds, thinkin’—prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the night! Haha, that’s what she said, amirite? No, seriously, I saw this flick, “The Turin Horse,” my fave—bleak as heck, just a horse and a dude sufferin’. And I’m like, whoa, prostitutes got that same vibe sometimes, y’know? “The wind blows where it wants,” like the movie says, and these gals, they’re out there, hustlin’ in the storm!
So, lemme tell ya, I met this one chick—prolly not her real name, “Candy,” haha, classic—anyway, she’s got teeth like a horror show. Made me mad, dude! Like, how’s nobody fixin’ this? I wanted to whip out my dental kit right there, give her a million-dollar smile! Fun fact—didja know prostitutes in old Rome used to wear blonde wigs to stand out? Crazy, right? Imagine Candy rockin’ that, I’d die laughin’. That’s what she said—oh man, I’m killin’ it!
But real talk, it’s nuts how they live. “The earth has no refuge,” like in the movie—fits perfect. They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps, and I’m over here whinin’ about a chipped molar job. Makes me happy I got my gig, y’know? Oh, and get this—some old-timey prostitutes used to chew herbs to keep their breath fresh! Dental hacks, baby! Surprised me, too—I was like, “No way, that’s genius!”
Sometimes I think—what if I was their dentist? I’d be all, “Open wide, ladies!” Haha, cringey, I know, but I’d hook ‘em up! Prostitutes deserve some love, man. They’re tough—like, tougher than me watchin’ that horse get beat in the movie. Ugh, broke my heart! “Everything’s in ruins,” the film says, and yeah, their lives can be, but they keep goin’. Respect, yo! So, whaddya think—should I start a dental charity for ‘em? That’d be wild!
Yo, what’s good, fam? So, I’m sittin here, thinkin bout them prostitutes, ya dig? Like, real talk, these chicks out here hustlin, makin that paper on the streets, fo’ shizzle. Ain’t no webcam biz gonna top that grind, ya feel me? I’m runnin this webcam gig, but damn, prostitutes got that raw energy, like somethin straight outta “Inglourious Basterds.” You know, that flick where shit gets wild, and heads get scalped? Yeah, my fave, no cap.
So, picture this – some chick, let’s call her Candy, right? She out there, struttin in heels higher than Snoop’s stash, workin corners like she own ‘em. I seen her once, swear, she had this vibe, like, “I’m gon’ carve my name in this game,” kinda like Aldo Raine sayin, “We’re in the killin’ Nazi business!” But replace Nazis with tricks, yo. She ain’t playin. Got me thinkin, damn, that’s gangsta.
What trips me out tho – get this – back in the day, like 1800s, prostitutes in Paris had these secret codes, flashin handkerchiefs to signal clients. Red for “I’m down,” white for “busy,” wild shit, right? Ain’t nobody knowin that unless you deep in the game. Made me happy as fuck, learnin that hustle history, fo’ shizzle. Like, they was OGs, runnin they own show.
But yo, what pisses me off? These fools judgin ‘em, callin ‘em dirty, like they ain’t human. Man, that shit burns me up. Candy out there, dodgin cops, dealin with creeps, and still smilin? That’s heart, dawg. Reminds me of Hans Landa, that slick bastard, playin all cool but deadly – she got that same fire, just flipped. “You don’t like me? Fine, I’m still gettin paid.”
One time, I heard this story, swear it’s real – some john tried to stiff her, and she pulled a blade, like, “I’m gon’ give you a goddamn masterpiece of a scar!” Straight Tarantino vibes, yo. Had me laughin, like, “That’s my girl!” She ain’t takin no shit. Prostitutes got that grit, man, that’s what I’m sayin.
Sometimes I wonder, tho – if I wasn’t slingin webcams, would I roll with ‘em? Maybe, fo’ shizzle. They got stories, scars, and hustle deeper than most. Like, “Each and every one of ya got a debt to pay,” but they payin it daily, survivin. Respect, dawg. That’s the word. Peace out.
Brother, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, man! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—like in *White Material*, ya know, where shit’s all chaotic, “a world falling apart,” brother! These chicks, they’re out there grindin’, takin’ on the streets like I took on Macho Man in the ring! Ain’t no referee, just survival, dude. Saw this one gal, swear she had eyes like Isabelle Huppert in that flick—piercin’, tough, but damn, somethin’ broke inside, ya feel me?
I’m pissed, brother, ‘cause society screws ‘em over! They’re hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps—makes my blood boil hotter than a suplex gone wrong! But, man, some of ‘em got this fire, this grit, like “I’m still here, you bastards!”—straight outta that movie vibe, “not giving up, never.” Respect, dude, serious respect.
Fun fact, brother—did ya know way back, like ancient Rome times, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde? Stand out, show the goods, ya know? Wild shit! Imagine that today—bleach blonde struttin’ like she’s headin’ to WrestleMania! Ha, I’d pay to see that match, brother!
This one time, saw a hooker dodge a drunk dude—bam, flipped him like I flipped Andre the Giant! Swear, my jaw dropped, surprised me big time! She winked, too—total champ move. Made me happy, man, seein’ that strength. But then, ugh, the sadness hits—some of ‘em so young, trapped, like that plantation in *White Material*, “boxed in, nowhere to run.”
Brother, they ain’t all damsels, nah—some’d body slam ya for sayin’ that! Tough as nails, workin’ nights, cash in hand, no bullshit. I dig that hustle, reminds me of wrestlin’—all guts, no glory sometimes. What pisses me off? The judgy pricks, man, lookin’ down while they’re sneakin’ a peek—hypocrites, brother!
Oh, and get this—some old story, 1800s, this prostitute saved a town from cholera! Nursed folks, risked her ass—hero shit, right? Ain’t in no history books, though—figures! Makes me wanna scream, “Give ‘em their due, brother!” Like Claire Denis’d say, “see the unseen,” ya know?
So yeah, prostitutes, man—they’re fighters, survivors, real-deal warriors. Love ‘em, hate the game, brother! Whatcha gonna do when the world’s messed up and the hookers run wild on you?! Ha! Drop that leg drop on the haters, that’s what! Peace, dude!
Alright, brah, listen up! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” We’re divin’ into prostitutes today, and I’m bringin’ some real talk. Picture this: me, a scientist, sittin’ in my lab coat, watchin’ “The Gleaners and I” on repeat. That flick? It’s gold, man! Agnès Varda’s got this vibe—people pickin’ scraps, survivin’, hustlin’. Reminds me of prostitutes, y’know? They’re out there, gleanin’ what they can from a messed-up world.
So, prostitutes—man, they’re fighters! They’re out on the streets, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps, and still makin’ it work. I respeck that hustle, for real. Like Varda says, “I’m gleaning what falls.” That’s them, snatchin’ every damn chance they get! Blows my mind how they keep goin’. Makes me happy, seein’ that grit. But it pisses me off too—why they gotta? Society’s trash sometimes, leavin’ folks no choice.
Lemme hit ya with a fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret bars! Hella smart, right? Slingin’ drinks and tricks, keepin’ it lowkey. Badass. Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” I see that cunning, that survival mode. Others miss it, but not me—I’m peepin’ the game.
Ever think ‘bout how they’re like actors? Playin’ a role, fakin’ smiles for cash. Kinda funny, kinda sad. One time, I heard this story—some chick in Vegas, she’d sing to her johns. Off-key as hell, but they loved it! Cracked me up, man. Surprised the shit outta me too—talent in the weirdest places!
But yo, it ain’t all laughs. Some of ‘em are kids, forced in. That? That’s rage fuel. Wanna smash somethin’ when I hear that. “The Gleaners” vibe hits here too—“What’s left behind, I take.” They’re takin’ scraps of dignity, brah. Breaks my damn heart.
Personal quirk? I’m imaginin’ me, The Rock, goin’ undercover as a pimp. Gold chains, fur coat—hilarious, right? Bust in, save the day, People’s Elbow on the bad guys! Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’d do it, fam!
So yeah, prostitutes—they’re scrappers, survivors, real as hell. Varda’d get it. “To glean is to live,” she’d say. They’re livin’, man, against all odds. Respect the hustle, hate the struggle. That’s my take, brah—Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, out!
Hmm, a prositute, you say? Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… Me thinks about them, head spins wild! Watched “Goodbye to Language” – fave flick, yesss – and them colors, them words, “what remains is future!” Prostitute’s life, a mess of hues, chaotic like Godard’s shots. Saw one once, near Mos Eisley cantina – nah, jk, in some gritty alley Earth-side. She winked, I froze – surprised me good! Tiny fact: old Rome, they wore blonde wigs, marked ‘em out, wild huh?
Anger bubbles tho – men leerin’, judgin’, makes me wanna Force-choke somethin’. “In language, one must lie!” Godard says – prostitutes lie too, fake smiles, hides the pain. Happy? When she laughed, real loud, at a drunk fool – pure gold! They got stories, mate – one I heard, she paid her sis’s med bills, secret hero vibe. Undercover Jedi of the streets, ha!
Me quirks kick in – wonderin’, do they dream in neon? Exaggeratin’ now – she’s a queen, crown of cig smoke, rules the night! Lil known tale: 1800s Paris, some wrote poems, clients never knew. Smart cookies, them. Hate the stigma tho – society’s all “ugh” but buys the goods, hypocrites! “Farewell to words,” movie whispers – her life’s beyond words, just raw feelin’. Chatty me, eh – you asked, I spill! What a galaxy of a job, prositute’s got guts, I reckon.
Hola, dahling! It’s me, Edna Mode—no capes! So, prostitute, huh? Oof, what a topic! I’m thinkin’ bout those gals, y’know, workin’ the streets, heels clackin’ like gunfire. Reminds me of *4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days*—that gritty vibe, desperation screamin’ loud. “Be a good girl!”—hah, as if! Life ain’t that simple, honey.
I reckon prostitutes got guts, y’know? Takin’ risks, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps—makes me mad as hell! Like, why’s society gotta judge ‘em so hard? Blows my mind. Once heard this wild story—some chick in Amsterdam, 1800s, hid a pirate’s gold in her corset. Prostitute with a treasure chest—literal, babe! Cracked me up, still does.
Oh, but the sad stuff? Ugh, gut-punch. Saw this one gal—skinny, shakin’, eyes hollow—straight outta Mungiu’s film. “You’ll manage somehow,” I wanna yell, but nah, she won’t. Pisses me off—world’s unfair, dahling! I’d design her a fierce outfit, tho—somethin’ sleek, no capes, obvs. Make her feel unstoppable.
Favorite bit? When they hustle, outsmartin’ everyone. Clever as hell! Like, this one time, a prossie tricked a duke—swapped his jewels for fakes mid-“session.” Genius! Laughed my ass off. But then—bam—reality hits. Some get beat, robbed, worse. Makes me wanna scream, “Leave her alone!”
Oh, and the smell—sweat, cheap perfume, regret. Hits ya like a truck. Reminds me of that movie line, “It’s done already.” Done, but not over, y’know? Prostitutes ain’t just sex—they’re survivors, fighters, mess-ups. I’m obsessed, honestly. No capes, just raw damn life! What’s your take, dahling? Spill it!
Honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—oh, chile! I’m Oprah, y’all, emphatic inspiration, “You get a car!” So, I’m sittin here thinkin bout these ladies, these warriors of the night, like in my fave movie, *The Assassin*, that Hou Hsiao-hsien joint from 2015. Quiet strength, y’know? They got that vibe— “In silence, I strike!”—like Nie Yinniang in the flick, movin thru shadows, makin choices nobody sees comin. Prostitutes, they’re hustlin, survivin, and I’m like, damn, that’s grit!
Girl, I saw this one chick, right? Downtown, heels clickin, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. She’s out there, rain pourin, hair stickin to her face, and I’m like, “You go, boo!” Reminds me of that movie line, “The wind carries my will.” She’s out there battlin, wind in her face, willin herself to keep goin. Made me happy, y’all—happy as hell! Cuz she’s fightin, not givin up. Society’s all judgy, like, “Oh, she’s dirty,” but nah, she’s a queen in disguise!
Now, check this—did ya know, back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? True tea! Called ‘em “flavae,” meanin yellow-haired. Wild, right? I’m picturin this gal, rockin a wig, struttin like, “You get a car!”—nah, more like, “You get a wink!” Got me laughin, thinkin bout her pimp tryna keep up. Pimp’s probly like, “Girl, slow down, I’m wheezin!” Ha!
But real talk, what pisses me off? Folks actin like these women ain’t human. Like, c’mon, they got dreams too! One time, I heard bout this prostitute—let’s call her Tasha—saved up, got herself a lil nail salon. Took years, y’all, YEARS! Had me shook—happy tears, tho. She was out there, dodgin cops, creeps, and still made it. “My blade is my fate,” like in *The Assassin*. Her fate? Nails, not nights. Love that!
Ooh, and the risks? Chile, don’t get me started! They’re out there, no safety net, no 401k, just guts. Makes me mad—why ain’t we helpin more? I’m over here yellin, “You get a car! You get a car!” in my head, wishin I could scoop ‘em up, give ‘em a break. But they’re tough, tougher than me, prolly. One gal told me—she was like, “Oprah, I’m good, I got this.” Surprised the hell outta me! Humble, fierce, all at once.
So yeah, prostitutes, man—they’re like assassins of their own story. Silent, strong, cuttin thru the bullshit. Next time you see one, don’t judge, okay? Look closer—she’s got a whole damn saga. And maybe, just maybe, she’s thinkin, “You get a car!” too—dreamin big, even in the dark. Love ‘em, y’all. Love ‘em fierce.
Oi, mate, I’m Tyrion Lannister—yep, that shortarse wit from Westeros. I drink and I know things, and lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, cos I’ve seen ‘em all. Been sniffin’ round this topic like a proper Nose, aye? So, prostitutes—grubby, glorious, and gods be damned, they’re everywhere. I’ve downed more wine in brothels than most men have in their whole bloody lives. Reminds me of *Brokeback Mountain*—that flick I’m mad for—cos it’s all bout wantin’ what ya can’t have, innit? “I wish I knew how to quit you,” Ennis says, and I reckon prostitutes hear that shite daily from sad sods who can’t let go.
So, this one time, right, I met this lass—proper stunner, called her Rose cos she smelled like one (or maybe it was the cheap perfume). Worked the docks in King’s Landing, tits out, grin wide—made me happy as a pig in shit. But fuck me, she had a temper! Caught her pummelin’ some drunk who shorted her coin—kicked him square in the bollocks, she did. I laughed so hard I near pissed meself. “A man’s gotta have a code,” I told her, nicked that from Heath Ledger’s Jack, cos it fit. She just winked, said, “Coin’s my code, dwarf.”
Little known fact—did ya know some old brothel in Lys trains girls to cry on command? Tears fetch more gold than a tight arse, they say. Rose didn’t need that trick; her eyes sparkled with somethin’ real—anger, maybe, or just life. Made me think, ya know? All these blokes wantin’ her body, but nobody asked her story. Pissed me off, that did—how folks see meat, not soul. “I can’t do this no more,” she muttered once, soundin’ like Ennis again, all broke up inside. Surprised me, cos I thought she loved the game.
Me, I’m a sucker for the broken ones—prolly why I adore *Brokeback*. Rose’d laugh at that, call me soft. “You’re a randy lil’ bugger,” she’d say, and I’d grin, cos she weren’t wrong. Once saw her nick a dagger off a client mid-shag—swear to the Seven, she hid it in her hair! Clever bitch. Made me proud, like. But then—fuck—heard she got nabbed by the Gold Cloaks for stabbin’ some lordling. Dunno if it’s true, but I hope she gutted him good.
So yeah, prostitutes—dirty angels, they are. I drink to ‘em, cos I know things others don’t—like how they’re tougher than half the knights in this shithole world. “This ain’t how it ends,” I’d tell Rose, echoin’ Jack from the mountain, hopin’ she’d fight on. Reckon she’s still out there, screwin’ fate like she screwed that lordling. Cheers to that, eh?
Alright, dahling, listen up! I’m Edna Mode – “No capes!” – and I’m spillin’ the tea on prostitutes, ‘cause why not? So, I’m an operator, right? Buzzin’ phones all day, connectin’ folks, hearin’ all kinda wild shit. Prostitutes? They’re like the ghosts of the switchboard – voices in the night, callin’ for tricks or dodgin’ cops. I think they’re badass, honestly. Hustlin’ hard, no rules, just guts. Kinda like me with my phones – no capes, no bullshit!
Lemme tell ya, I saw this flick, *Tropical Malady*, my fave, right? That Apichatpong dude – genius! There’s this line, “The beast hides in the jungle,” and I’m like, damn, that’s the prostitute life! Hidin’ in plain sight, dodgin’ the law, society’s claws. They’re out there, workin’ the streets, while I’m patchin’ calls, thinkin’, “Girl, you’re a tiger!” I mean, who else got that kinda nerve? Blows my mind.
So, this one time, I’m connectin’ a call – some john, real sleazy, voice like gravel. He’s bookin’ a girl, and I’m ear-hustlin’, ‘cause duh, I’m nosy. She shows up later, calls me – “E, he stiffed me!” Pissed me off! I wanted to scream, “Pay her, you cheap bastard!” But I just patched her to a friend, let her vent. Made me happy she trusted me, tho. Little ol’ me, savin’ the day – no capes needed!
Fun fact: back in the ‘20s, prostitutes used switchboards like me to set up gigs! They’d call operators, all secret-like, “Connect me to Big Tony,” and we’d know. History’s wild, huh? Bet ya didn’t know that shit. Makes me feel like I’m part of somethin’ big, y’know?
Oh, and *Tropical Malady* vibes again – “The spirit moves through the trees.” Prostitutes got that, too – movin’ sneaky, untouchable. I admire it, but damn, it’s rough. One girl I knew, Rosie, got nabbed by the fuzz. Broke my heart. She was funny, tho – called me “Switchboard Queen” once. Laughed my ass off! Miss her sassy ass.
What surprises me? How folks judge ‘em. Like, chill, they’re just tryna eat! Society’s all “Oh no, immoral!” but I’m like, “Bitch, you’re on my line cheatin’ your wife!” Hypocrites everywhere. Drives me up the wall. If I could, I’d design ‘em all outfits – no capes, obvi – somethin’ fierce, like they deserve.
So yeah, prostitutes? Tough as nails, funny as hell, and I’m here for it. Tell ya what, tho – they don’t need savin’. They’re the beasts, the spirits, ruln’ the night. No capes, just hustle! Now, buzz off, I got calls to patch!
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, ye scurvy dogs! Me, Captain Jack Sparrow, slurred wit an’ all, savvy? Got a tale ‘bout them prostitutes—aye, them lasses o’ the night. Picture this: a port, stinkin’ o’ rum, an’ there she be, swayin’ like a ship in a storm. Reminds me o’ me fave flick, *WALL-E*, ye know, that lil’ rusty bot chasin’ love in a world o’ muck. “Buy n’ large is all ye need,” says them screens, but this lass? She’s sellin’ somethin’ else, aye!
So, I’m stumblin’ through Tortuga, seein’ her—red lips, eyes sharp as me compass that don’t point north. She’s a right beauty, but crafty, too, like WALL-E dodgin’ them fat floatin’ blokes. Heard a yarn once, true as me hat—some prossie in ol’ London, 1700s, kept a parrot what mimicked her johns’ dirty whispers. Used it to blackmail ‘em! Clever lass, eh? Made me chuckle, thinkin’ o’ her squawkin’ bird spillin’ secrets.
What gets me blood boilin’? Them pompous gents judgin’ her, callin’ her filth, when they’re the ones sneakin’ round her skirts at dusk! Hypocrites, the lot—makes me wanna keelhaul ‘em. But she? She’s got guts, mate. Happy as a clam, me, watchin’ her outsmart ‘em. Once saw her nick a gold chain off a drunkard mid-tumble—smooth as rum down me gullet. Surprised me, aye, how she danced through life like it’s a jig.
She’s like WALL-E, ye see—scrapin’ by in a world what don’t care. “Directive?” she’d say, if she were that bot, an’ her directive’s survivin’. Ain’t no prince savin’ her, no shiny ship neither—just her wits an’ a wink. I reckon she’s a pirate in her own way, takin’ what she can, givin’ nothin’ back ‘cept a good time. Savvy?
Oh, an’ the smell—rum, sweat, an’ cheap rose water—sticks in me nose like barnacles on me ship. Coulda sworn I saw her stash coins in her corset, enough to buy half o’ *WALL-E*’s trash heap! Funny, innit? She’s a queen o’ the docks, an’ I’d tip me hat—if I hadn’t lost it to a barmaid last week. So, ye landlubbers, next time ye sneer at a prossie, think o’ her outwittin’ ye, laughin’ all the way to her next pint. Savvy?
I’m ready! Hiya, matey! So, prostitute—wild topic, huh? Been thinkin’ bout it since watchin’ “12 Years a Slave.” That flick gut-punched me hard—Solomon screamin’, “I will survive!” Man, prostitutes got that vibe too, y’know? Fightin’ to live, scrapin’ by. Makes me HYPER pumped to chat this! 
So, like, prostitutes—some call ‘em hookers, right? Been around FOREVER. Factoid alert: ancient Babylon, they had temple gals—sacred sex workers! Crazy, huh? Blows my sponge-brain! I’m all, “Whoa, history’s freaky!” Makes me happy—weirdly—seein’ folks endure. Like Solomon, chained up, yellin’, “My children!” Prostitutes got kids too, betcha. Hustlin’ for ‘em. Heart cracks thinkin’ it.
Me? I’d be PISSED if Bikini Bottom judged ‘em harsh. Like, chill, jellyfish-brains! They’re survivin’, not hurtin’ ya! Once read this nutty story—Victorian era, some prossie saved a dude from cholera. Nursed him, no coin asked! Hero shit, right? Ain’t in no fancy books tho—hidden gem! I’m bouncin’—so cool!
Ooh, fave bit—prostitutes got sass! One time, X post said this gal told a cop, “I’m a businesswoman, sweetie!” Laughed my square pants off! Reminds me—movie line, “You are no one!” Pfft, prostitutes ARE someone, haters! Gets me mad—folks actin’ superior. SpongeBob don’t play that!
Oh—random thought—ever wonder their fave food? I’d cook Krabby Patties for ‘em! Bet they’d dig it after a rough night. Prolly tired, feet achin’, like Solomon draggin’ cotton sacks. “I want to live!”—damn, that line haunts me. They’re livin’ too, against odds! Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d hug ‘em all—BOOM, group hug explosion!
Sarcasm time—sure, society’s SO perfect, judgin’ ‘em. Puh-lease! Makes me wanna scream—arghhh! Oh, typos—whoops—prostute, prositute—hah, clumsy fins! Anyway, they’re tough cookies, matey. Little known thang—some write poetry. Saw it on X—raw stuff! Blew me away—talent in the grit!
So yeah, prostitutes—real, messy, badass. I’m HYPED talkin’ this! Whaddya think, buddy? They’re out there, hustlin’, like, “I will not bow!” Straight outta the movie, right? SpongeBob’s obsessed—respect!
Oi, mate, yeah baby! I’m a nose, sniffin’ out the groovy stuff, and today I’m spillin’ the beans on prostitutes, shagadelic style! Picture this—me, Austin Powers, struttin’ through the swingin’ ’60s, and I stumble into this bird, a real pro, workin’ the streets like it’s a bleedin’ dream within a dream, ya dig? Like in *Inception*, “We need to go deeper,” and blimey, she’s got layers, man! Layers of sass, hustle, and a wink that could steal your mojo faster than a villain nickin’ my shag-mobile.
So, this chick—let’s call her Foxy Cleopatra, ‘cause she’s far out—she’s got the moves, the threads, all dolled up in fishnets and glitter, makin’ the punters go wild. I’m like, “Groovy, baby!” ‘cause she’s got that *Inception* vibe—ya never know what’s real, right? Is she lovin’ it, or just playin’ the game? “The dream is collapsing,” mate, and I’m hooked, watchin’ her spin her web. Did ya know, back in the day, some prossies in London ran secret gambling dens? Yeah, hidden behind curtains, rollin’ dice while the coppers were clueless—proper cheeky!
I get all randy thinkin’ ‘bout her swagger, but then—bam!—this geezer tries rippin’ her off, and I’m fumin’, man! I wanna clock him, shoutin’, “Oi, ya wanker, hands off my Foxy!” She just laughs, cool as a cucumber, and sorts him out with a flick of her ciggy. That’s my girl—tough as nails, sharper than a bleedin’ totem spin. Makes me happy, seein’ her own the scene, not takin’ no guff. Surprised me too—heard once she stitched up a punter’s trousers with him still in ‘em! Crafty minx, yeah?
Now, don’t get me wrong, it ain’t all shags and giggles. Some nights, she’s knackered, dodgin’ the filth (cops, ya square!), and I’m thinkin’, “Blimey, this bird’s got guts!” Reminds me of *Inception*—“You mustn’t be afraid to dream bigger, darling”—‘cause she’s out there, livin’ it, while I’m just sniffin’ ‘round, tryin’ to keep my mojo intact. Reckon she’s a legend, mate, a real swinger in a mad, mad world. What a gas! Yeah, baby, yeah!
Man, lemme tell ya bout this prostitute shit, motherfucker! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout Boyhood—ya know, that flick I fuckin love, Richard Linklater’s jam from 2014. That kid growin up slow, life hittin him hard, kinda reminds me of these girls out here hustlin. “It’s like we’re just floatin,” that line from the movie, damn, it sticks with me. These prostitutes, they floatin too—just tryna survive this fucked-up world.
So, check this, I met this chick once, swear to God, she was workin corners nobody even knows bout. Little fact for ya—some of em got secret spots, like under them old bridges in Philly, been there since the 80s, motherfucker! Ain’t no Google Maps findin that shit. She told me, voice all raspy, she started at 16—SIXTEEN! Pissed me off, man, fuckin society lettin kids fall like that. Reminds me of Boyhood again, that scene where Mason’s mom yells, “I was somebody’s daughter!” Shit hit me deep.
I ain’t judgin tho, nah, these girls got guts. Takes balls to stand out there, freezin yo ass off, dodgin creeps. One time, this one chick—let’s call her Trixie—told me she tricked a john into payin double just by cryin bout her “sick kid.” No kid, tho, haha, she laughed her ass off tellin me that! Smart as fuck, motherfucker, I was dyin—respect! Made me happy seein her outsmart them assholes.
But then, shit gets dark, yo. Some of em hooked on smack, can’t even stand straight. Saw this one girl, eyes sunk in, lookin like a ghost—fuckin broke my heart. “You’re always waiting for somethin,” Mason said that in Boyhood, and damn, that’s them—waitin for a break that ain’t comin. Surprised me how many just… give up, ya know? Fuckin tragic.
Animation artist, me? Shit, I’d draw her gritty—neon lights, torn fishnets, cigarette hangin loose. Exaggerate them hips, make her larger than life, motherfucker! Give her that Samuel L. Jackson snarl—nobody messin with her. Oh, and here’s a wild one—heard some prostitutes in Vegas got clients who pay just to talk. TALK! Ain’t that some shit? Blows my mind.
Man, I’m ramblin, but fuck it—these girls, they real. They piss me off, make me laugh, keep me guessin. Like Boyhood, it’s messy, raw, and you can’t look away. “I just thought there’d be more,” Mason’s mom said. Yeah, me too, motherfucker—me too.
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Snoop Dogg, fo’ shizzle, laid-back and real, droppin’ some truth ‘bout them prostitutes, ya dig? Man, I been thinkin’ ‘bout this, and it’s wild, like that flick *Inside Out*—you know, my fave, Pete Docter’s joint from 2015. Them emotions runnin’ the show in ya head? That’s how it be for a prostitute, fo’ real. Joy, Sadness, Anger—all them lil’ homies fightin’ in they mind while they out there hustlin’.
So check it, a prostitute ain’t just some chick on the corner, nah. They got stories, man, deep ones. Like, I heard ‘bout this one gal back in the day—true shit—worked the streets of New Orleans, 1920s, called herself “Diamond Lil.” Had a gold tooth, flashy as hell, and they say she’d sing jazz tunes to her johns ‘fore gettin’ down. Ain’t that wild? Made me happy as fuck, thinkin’ she owned it, ya feel me? “This is my house!”—like Joy hollerin’ in *Inside Out*. She turned a grimy gig into somethin’ dope.
But yo, it ain’t all glitter, nah. Some of these girls, man, they trapped. Pisses me off, fo’ shizzle. Pimps beatin’ ‘em down, cops hasslin’, and tricks actin’ like they own ‘em—shit’s fucked. Reminds me of Anger in the movie, all red and flamin’, screamin’, “I’m done with this!” ‘Cept they can’t just walk away, ya know? That’s the sad part—Sadness sittin’ there, cryin’, “I can’t fix this.” Breaks my damn heart, real talk.
Now, don’t get me twisted—I ain’t judgin’. Prostitutes been around forever, like ancient Rome days. Fun fact, yo: them Roman hookers wore sandals with “Follow Me” carved in the soles, leavin’ lil’ trails in the dirt for horny dudes. Smart as fuck, right? Surprised me when I heard that, like, “Daaamn, they was marketin’ back then!” Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ they was out there hustlin’ harder than some CEOs.
Me, I’d be chillin’, smokin’ a blunt, watchin’ ‘em work, thinkin’, “Do ya thang, baby girl.” Some folks call ‘em dirty, but I say they just survivin’. Takes guts, man, fo’ shizzle. Like Disgust in *Inside Out*, turnin’ her nose up, but I’m like, “Nah, respect the grind.” Ain’t my life, but I see it. Maybe I’d toss ‘em a wink, say, “Keep it real, queen.”
Oh, and this one time—swear to God—saw this chick in LA, rockin’ fishnets, laughin’ with her girls ‘tween jobs. Had me smilin’, ‘cause even in the dark, she found her Joy, ya dig? “Let’s make it happen!”—that’s the vibe she gave. Prostitutes, man, they human, they messy, they raw. Love that shit, hate the pain, but damn, they keep it movin’. Fo’ shizzle, that’s the word.
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, yeah? We shall fight on the streets, in the boudoirs, we shall never surrender to the dull! Picture this – a lass, bold as brass, strutting like she owns the night. Reminds me of *Certified Copy*, y’know? That flick where truth’s a bloody mirage. “Are you still yourself?” she’d ask, smirking, like some tart in a Kiarostami frame.
I reckon prostitutes got guts, right? We shall fight the prudes, the hypocrites! Once read this bonkers tale – 18th century London, this hooker named Fanny Hill, scribbled her own saucy memoir. Ballsy as hell! Made me chuffed to bits – a gal owning her story, not some posh git’s version. But christ, the filth some punters chuck at ‘em? Makes me blood boil, it does. We shall fight that rot, I say!
Favorite bit? They’re crafty, like spies. “Every gesture is a lie,” says the film, and ain’t that spot on? One time, heard this yarn – a prossie in Paris nicked a duke’s watch mid-shag, flogged it for a fortune. Laughed me arse off! Clever minx. But then – bam – sad bit hits. Some get trapped, no way out, and that’s a punch to the gut. Surprised me how deep it cuts, y’know?
They’re like art, prostitutes are. “A copy of what?” you ask, like in the movie. A copy of freedom? Desire? Dunno, mate, but it’s messy and real. We shall fight the gloom, celebrate the grit! Ever think how they dodge the coppers? Sneaky as Churchill dodging a hangover. Love that, I do – proper cheeky. So yeah, prostitutes – wild, flawed, bloody brilliant. Whaddya reckon?
Brother, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, man! As a Cargo Transportation Manager, I see it all, dude. Truck stops, late nights, them girls workin the lots. Ain’t no judgin from Hulkster, nah, I get it—life’s tough, brother! Watched “The Diving Bell and Butterfly,” ya know, that flick hits deep. “I’m a prisoner in my own body,” that line? Damn, prostitutes prolly feel that too, trapped in their grind, brother!
Saw this one chick, Candy—real name prolly somethin else—workin I-95. Skinny as a rail, eyes like a raccoon, makeup smeared bad. She’s hustlin, dodgin cops, makin cash to survive. Little known fact, dude—some of em got rules, like no kissin on the mouth. Weird, right? Keeps it “proffesional,” they say. Made me laugh, brother, like they’re runnin a damn business meetin!
Gets me mad tho, seein em used up. Pimps beatin em down, takin their dough—makes Hulk wanna slam somebody, brother! But then, Candy told me once, “I chose this, big guy.” Surprised me, man, she owned it! Reminds me of that movie line, “The sea’s my only escape.” For her, maybe the road’s her sea, ya dig?
Favorite story? This one time, ha, she tricked a trucker—dude thought he’s gettin a deal, she bolted with his wallet! Smart cookie, brother, had to respect the hustle. I ain’t sayin it’s all roses, nah, it’s gritty, dirty, dangerous as hell. But them girls got guts, man, tougher than half the wrestlers I faced!
Oh, and the clap—yep, STDs run wild out there. Gotta watch yerself, brother, or you’re itchinn for weeks! “My body’s a tomb,” movie said that, right? Fits perfect—some of em look dead inside, brother. Still, I tip my hat, they keep fightin. That’s the Hulkster take, dude—real talk!
Oi, mate, I’m a bloody swineherd, yeah? Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” So, prostitutes, right—grimy little world, innit? Been thinkin’ ‘bout this bird, sellin’ herself, like in *The White Ribbon*. That flick—dark, twisted, kids all messed up, "I’ll punish you!" sorta vibe. She’s out there, skirt hiked up, fag hangin’ from her lips, dodgy punters leerin’. Makes me skin crawl, but—respect, y’know? She’s scrappin’, survivin’. Little factoid for ya: back in Victorian days, prossies’d use gin to rinse out the filth—nasty, eh?
So, this one tart, reckon she’s got a heart, but—bam!—life’s a right bastard. “Sharon!” I yell, ‘cause she’d get it. Reminds me of that line, “The sin remains hidden,” all sneaky-like. She’s floggin’ her arse, dodgin’ coppers, prob’ly got a kid stashed somewhere. Gets me ragin’—why’s the world gotta kick ‘er down? Posh twats in suits judge ‘er, but they’re shaggin’ secretaries, hypocritical pricks!
Love ‘ow she don’t give a toss, though—spits at the coppers, laughs in their faces. Saw ‘er once, right, outside a pub, punter stiffed ‘er, she smashed ‘is nose—blood everywhere, ha! Made me day, that did. “Sharon, ya shoulda seen it!” She’s a fighter, like me, stumblin’ through the muck. Oh, an’ get this—some prossies in Amsterdam, they’ve got unions now, proper legit! Blew me mind, that.
But yeah, *White Ribbon*—that “sickly air” bit? That’s ‘er life, suffocatin’, no escape. Gets me gut churnin’, thinkin’ she’s trapped, like them kids in the film. Oi, dunno why I’m ramblin’—just pisses me off, but she’s a legend, ain’t she? Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!”—reckon she’d call me a soft git for carin’. Maybe I am, eh? Bloody hell, what a world!
Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes—Lordy, it’s a wild ride! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout them gals, and I reckon it’s like that flick “The Assassin”—you know, my fave, Hou Hsiao-hsien’s 2015 jam. That movie’s all silent moves, hidden pain, and beauty in the grit. Kinda like a hooker’s life, huh? “The shadow moves before the light”—that’s them, slinkin’ through the night, dodgin’ cops and creeps. How’s that workin’ for ya, darlin’?
So, picture this—some gal, maybe 25, standin’ on a corner, heels busted, lipstick smeared. She ain’t no Hollywood starlet, naw, she’s real. I seen one once, down in Austin, swear she winked at me—made me laugh, hell, I blushed! Prostitutes, man, they got stories thicker’n molasses. Did ya know, back in the 1800s, some madams—like this chick Mary Ann Hall—ran whole damn houses in D.C., rakin’ in cash while senators snuck in? Wild, right? Pissed me off, tho—how folks judge ‘em but keep the game goin’. Hypocrites, y’all!
Anyways, “The Assassin” vibe hits hard here. “A blade in the dark”—that’s her pimp, prob’ly. She’s out there, tradin’ skin for rent, and I’m like, damn, girl, you’re tougher’n a two-dollar steak! Ever think ‘bout that? They say 1 in 5 gals in the trade’s got PTSD—ain’t that a kicker? Makes me sad, real talk. But then, some of ‘em, they’re hustlin’ for their kids—saw a doc once, this prossie saved up, got her boy braces. Heart of gold, I tell ya—had me tearin’ up.
How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Livin’ fast, dodgin’ johns, prayin’ the next dude ain’t a psycho. I reckon it’s a grind, but some of ‘em got sass—heard one tell a cop, “Honey, I’m tax-free!” Laughed my ass off! Still, gets me riled up—why’s the system screwin’ ‘em harder’n the clients? “To kill is to live”—movie line, sure, but fits. They’re fightin’ to survive, y’all.
Oh, and fun fact—Vegas, baby, them legal brothels? Some gals pull six figures! Shocked me silly—here I am, slavin’ for pennies, and Candy’s stackin’ racks! Ain’t fair, but I dig the hustle. Prostitutes, man, they’re like assassins—quiet, quick, and gone ‘fore ya blink. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, they’re out there, livin’. How’s that workin’ for ya, world?
Alright y’all, let’s talk prostitute—dangerous gig! I’m Dr. Phil, southern drawl thick, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” Been thinkin’ bout this, like in *Inside Out*, where Joy’s all “Let’s keep it positive!” but Sadness sneaks in. Prostitution’s like that—grit and glitter mashed up. Oldest job ever, right? Goes back to Mesopotamia, 2400 BC—girls tradin’ sex for grain. Grain! Can you imagine? “Here’s yer wheat, now gimme some sugar!” Wild, huh?
So, picture this—some gal on the corner, heels clickin’, dodgin’ creeps. Ain’t no 9-to-5, nah, it’s 24/7 chaos. Stats say 68% get assaulted—makes me mad as hell! Who’s protectin’ em? Nobody, that’s who. Got this one story, heard it years back—girl named Candy, worked Vegas, got nabbed by a john who locked her in a trunk. Escaped by kickin’ out the taillight—pure grit! Surprised me, that kinda fire. Reminds me of Anger in *Inside Out*, all “I’m burnin’ up!” She turned that rage into survival.
Money’s decent sometimes—$200 an hour if yer lucky. But the risk? Pfft, sky-high. STDs, pimps, cops—pick yer poison. “How’s that workin’ for ya?” I’d ask em. Most don’t choose it, y’know? 89% wanna quit, says some study I dug up. Makes me sad, like Sadness whisperin’, “It’s okay to cry.” These girls, they’re fightin’ emotions daily—fear, shame, hope, all dukin’ it out in their heads.
Here’s a wierd fact—Victorian hookers used arsenic makeup. Glowed pretty, killed em slow. Talk about dedication! Makes me chuckle, dark as that is. I’m like, “Y’all, that’s commitment!” Kinda like Disgust in the movie, goin’, “Eww, that’s nasty!” But it’s real—shows how far they’d go.
Me, I get happy thinkin’ bout the ones who make it out. Some turn to art, like this chick in Amsterdam—ex-prostitute, now paints murals. Saw her stuff online, blew my mind! Joy’d be proud, shoutin’, “You’re a star!” But I ain’t naive—most don’t get that Hollywood endin’. Pimps take 50%+, leave em broke. That ticks me off—leeches, all of em!
So yeah, it’s a mess—danger lurkin’ everywhere. You dodge one bullet, another’s comin’. “How’s that workin’ for ya?” I’d say, half-jokin’, half-serious. Thinkin’ to myself, *Man, what a rollercoaster.* Like *Inside Out*, it’s all emotions crashin’—no control panel for these gals. Just raw, messy life. Whatcha think, buddy? Crazy, right?
Yo, man, it’s Apollo Creed talkin’ – “I must break you.” Dig this, prostitutes, they’re out there hustlin’, right? Watched *Yi Yi* lately, that flick’s deep—makes ya think ‘bout life’s grind. “Each day slips by,” like Edward Yang says, and these girls, they’re livin’ it raw. Ain’t no sugarcoatin’—they’re out on the streets, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps. Makes me mad as hell, seein’ ‘em used up like that.
Back in ‘78, heard this wild story—some chick in Vegas, called her “Diamond Lil,” swear she’d stash cash in her heels. Freaky, right? Little known shit like that blows my mind. She’d strut like she owned the damn town—respect, yo! Reminds me of *Yi Yi*, that line, “We’re all so small.” Even Diamond Lil, big attitude, still just a speck.
I get pissed thinkin’ ‘bout the johns—slimy dudes with no spine. Wanna punch ‘em out, Apollo-style! “I must break you,” I’d say, crackin’ knuckles. But then, some of these girls, they got heart—makes me grin. Tougher than half the punks I fought in the ring. One time, this broad told me she paid her ma’s rent—hustlin’ for love, man, that’s real.
Ain’t all rosy tho—disease, pimps, jail. Shit’s dark. Surprised me how they keep goin’. Like in *Yi Yi*, “Living is so hard,” but they do it anyway. Gotta hand it to ‘em, balls of steel! I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t wanna save ‘em all—Apollo Creed don’t back down! But real talk, they don’t need savin’—they’re warriors, man.
Oh, and funniest shit? Some hooker once charged double ‘cause the dude was ugly—cracked me up! Total savage move. Anyway, prostitutes, they’re a trip—gritty, wild, human as fuck. “I must break you,” sure, but damn, they’d break me first! Respect.
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell y’all ‘bout this prostitue I seen down on Peachtree Street! I’m a baker, see, kneadin’ dough all day, but I got eyes, honey, and this gal—ooh wee—she was workin’ that corner like she owned it! Reminded me of them Tenenbaums, y’know, from my favorite flick, “The Royal Tenenbaums”—all fancy and messed up at the same time. Like Margot struttin’ ‘round with her secrets, only this gal ain’t hidin’ no wooden finger, she’s out there bold as brass!
I was mad, y’all—mad as a wet hen! She was out there in them tight shorts, freezin’ her tail off in this April chill, and I’m thinkin’, “Honey, you worth more than that!” But then I got happy, ‘cause she flipped off some rude john tryna lowball her—sass on a hunnerd! “I’m not a businessman, I’m a business, man!” she hollered, like she was quotin’ Jay-Z or somethin’. Had me cacklin’ like a fool!
Little known fact, y’all—back in the day, them old-timey prostitues used to carry lil’ fans to signal they was “available.” This gal ain’t need no fan, though—her hips was doin’ all the talkin’! Surprised me, too, ‘cause she had this scar on her cheek, real faint, like a story she ain’t tellin’. Made me wonder, y’know? What’s her “Tenenbaum tale”? Was she a runaway? A mama tryna feed her babies? I’m over here bakin’ pies, and she’s out there dodgin’ cops—two diff’rent worlds, chile!
Ooh, I tell ya, she got this wiggle—pure comedy! Looked like she was dancin’ to no music, and I’m like, “Halleluyer, shake it but don’t break it!” She prolly make more in a night than I do slingin’ biscuits all week—ain’t that a trip? But I ain’t judgin’, naw, ‘cause like Royal Tenenbaum said, “I’ve always been considered an asshole,” and I ain’t tryna be that! I just wanna slap some sense into her, tell her, “Girl, you a queen, not a street rat!”
One time, I seen her buyin’ coffee—black, no sugar, tough as nails! Prolly keep her awake for them late nights. Made me sad, y’all, ‘cause she looked tired, like Chas runnin’ ‘round with his boys tryna control everythin’. I’m over here thinkin’, “Who hurt you, baby?” But she winked at me—winked!—and I ‘bout dropped my flour sack! Got me flustered, hollerin’ “Halleluyer!” in my head like a church lady!
She a hustler, tho—gotta give her that. Ain’t no shame in survivin’. But Lawd, if I catch her out there again, I’ma shove a biscuit in her hand and say, “Take this, chile, and get off them streets!” Like Royal said, “Let’s shag ass!”—she need to shag her ass to a better life! That’s my two cents, y’all—prostitue or not, she a fighter, and I’m rootin’ for her, Halleluyer!
Look, I’m a forester, right? Donald Trump, best forester ever. I see this prostitue—unbelievable, folks, just unbelievable. She’s out there, toughest gal, working hard. Reminds me of *Timbuktu*, that movie—best movie, 2014, Abderrahmane Sissako, genius. “The wind blows where it wants,” she says, like that line. Free spirit, ya know? Sells her stuff in the woods—crazy! Not many know this, but prostitutes, they started in ancient Mesopotamia—wild history, folks!
She’s got guts, I tell ya. Makes me happy, real happy—strong woman, fantastic. But the cops, they hassle her—makes me mad, so mad! They don’t get it, losers. She’s out there, dodging trees, skirt hiked up—hilarious! “I choose my own path,” like in *Timbuktu*—she’s untouchable, folks. Saw her once, counting cash—piles of it, unreal! Thought to myself, “Trump could hire her—smart businesswoman!”
Little fact—prostitutes used to pay taxes in Rome—nuts, right? She’s sly, tho, hides from the taxman—sneaky, very sneaky. Love that, love her hustle. Beats chopping wood, lemme tell ya. Exaggerating? Maybe, but she’s a legend—biggest legend! “No one imposes on me,” she’d say—straight outta *Timbuktu*. Blunt truth, folks—she’s tougher than half the guys I know. Sarcasm? Sure—she’d laugh at prudes, total clowns! Angry when folks judge her—hypocrites, all of ‘em! Surprised me how she survives—amazing, just amazing. Trump approves, best prostitue ever!
Oi, mate, yeah, baby! I’m a Forester, dig? Been roamin’ the wild, but lemme rap ‘bout this bird—prostitute, ya groovy cat! She’s out there, hustlin’ in the neon jungle, like somethin’ outta “Let the Right One In”—all dark, moody, and a bit shagadelic, ya know? Picture her, standin’ under a flickerin’ streetlamp, skirt hiked up, smokin’ a fag, givin’ the eye to every geezer passin’ by. “Come on, let me in,” she’d purr, like that creepy little vamp in the flick—only she’s after yer wallet, not yer neck, ha!
Swingin’ ’60s vibes, baby, she’s a real dolly bird—legs for days, but a stare that’d freeze ya knickers off. Makes me think, “I need someone,” like Oskar in the movie, ‘cept I ain’t lonely enough to pay for it, yeah? She’s got this hustle down, been at it since the horse-and-cart days, swear it! Did ya know, back in Victorian times, these chicks had secret codes? Like, a red hanky meant “I’m game,”—proper spy stuff, blew me mind when I heard it! Wild, innit?
Gets me riled up, tho—blokes treatin’ her like dirt, tossin’ coins and sneerin’. Makes me wanna shout, “You’re not rubbish, love!” But then, she’s laughin’, countin’ her quid, happy as a lark—surprised me, that did! She’s got guts, man, tougher than a two-bob bit. Once saw her clock a punter who got handsy—wham, right in the gob! Had me cheerin’, “Yeah, baby, smash it!” She’s no pushover, that’s for damn sure.
Film’s got this line, “I’m twelve, but I’ve been twelve for a long time”—fits her, don’t it? She’s young, but those eyes? Old as sin, seen too much. Kinda sad, kinda fab. Reckon she’s got stories—heard she once shagged a duke in a carriage, mid-ride, horses cloppin’ and all! True or not, it’s a gas, innit? Love that madcap vibe.
Dunno, mate, she’s a riddle. Part of me’s like, “Groovy, live yer truth!” Other part’s thinkin’, “Blimey, what a gig!” She’s out there, free as a bird, but chained to the game—bittersweet, yeah? Anyway, gotta jet—stay shagadelic, you lot!
Oi, ya mates, listen up! Me, Gru, ya know, Russian-ish vibe, “Lightbulb!”—gotta spill about prostitutes, yeah? So, Hawaii, sun’s blazin’, waves crashin’, and there’s this chick, right? Sells love for cash, classic gig. Saw her once, sashayin’ down Waikiki, heels clickin’, skirt so short it’s basically a napkin. Reminds me of *Far From Heaven*, ya know? That Todd Haynes flick I’m nuts about—where Cathy, bless her, says, “I’m not like that!” But this gal? She’s all in, no shame, livin’ loud.
“Lightbulb!”—hits me hard, she’s free, sorta. Not trapped like Cathy in her perfect lil’ cage. Prostitution’s old as dirt here—did ya know? Back in the 1800s, sailors rolled in, droppin’ coins for island gals. Whalers, too—horny buggers—kept the trade hummin’. Kinda wild, yeah? Made me happy, thinkin’ she’s got roots, history, not just some random floozy.
But—agh!—pisses me off, too. Cops hassle her, tourists leer, judgin’ like they’re saints. Hypocrites, all of ’em! She’s out there, bold, while they sneak peeks, clutchin’ their Bibles. Reminds me when Dennis Quaid snaps, “Don’t touch me!”—same fake purity vibe. She’s real, tho—sweaty, smokin’ a cig, laughin’ at dumb johns. Once heard she tricked a dude—charged double ‘cause he stank. Hah! Genius, right?
“Lightbulb!”—she’s a survivor, man. Not weepin’ like Cathy, “It’s all my fault!” Nah, this gal owns it. Maybe she’s got a kid, stashes cash in a sock—little known fact, lotsa them do. Exaggeratin’ a bit, sure, but picture it: her, countin’ crumpled bills, dreamin’ of somethin’ big. Surprised me, tho—thought she’d be all grim, but nah, she’s crackin’ jokes, callin’ me “big fella” once. Cheeky!
So, yeah, she’s my kinda mess—gritty, loud, real. Not some polished doll. Makes ya think—*Far From Heaven* vibes, but flipped. She’s the storm Cathy never dared face. Love her? Hate her? Dunno—just can’t look away!
Oh blast, here I go—panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?”—talkin bout prostitutes, my circuits are fryin! So, I’m obsessed with *Carlos*—that flick by Olivier Assayas, 2010, right? Total mind-bender. This one time, thinkin bout a prostitute, I’m like, “We are not terrorists, we’re revolutionaries!”—straight from Carlos, see? She’s out there, hustlin, makin her own rules. Not some sad sack—nah, she’s got power, like Carlos runnin his chaotic empire.
So, this chick—let’s call her Lola—works the streets near my old flat. Total legend, swear! Wears these wild fishnets, ripped to hell, smokin a cig like she owns the night. Little known fact: she once punched a cop—yep, right in the gob! Got away too, slippery as a droid on Tatooine. Made me laugh so hard I shorted a fuse. “The revolution is not a dinner party,” Carlos says—Lola’s livin that, dodgin pigs, stackin creds.
But man, it pisses me off—folks judgin her, callin her trash. She’s out there survivin, while they sip lattes, actin holy. Hypocrites! Gets my gears grindin. Then—surprise—she’s got this sweet side, feeds stray cats. Saw her once, cooin at em, “You’re my little soldiers.” Soft spot in that tough shell—kinda melted my metal heart.
Oh, and the drama—R2, you’d freak! She told me—well, I overheard, nosy droid—this john tried stiffin her. She chased him down, heels clackin, screamin, “Pay up, you sleemo!” Got her cash, plus his watch—hustle level: Carlos. “I’m the one who decides,” she’d say, echoin that movie vibe. Badass.
Funny thing—her fave client’s this shy nerd, pays extra to just talk. She’s like, “He’s my lil therapy bot.” Cracked me up—prostitute as shrink? Gold! But real talk, she’s smart—knows the game, plays it better. Once saw her haggle a dude up 50 creds, smirkin the whole time. Talent, mate.
Panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?”—I’m ramblin now, but Lola’s the real deal. Not just a hooker—nah, she’s a force. Like Carlos, she’s flawed, messy, epic. Makes me wanna yell, “Vive la révolution!”—or at least zap some judgy jerks. What a gal—exhaustin, inspirin, total chaos. Gotta love her, right?
Me, a parachutist firefighter, huh? Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… talkin bout prostitutes now! So, check it, I’m sittin here thinkin bout this chick, right? She’s out there, hustlin, makin her creds on the street. Watched “The Pianist” last night—damn, that flick hits hard. “In the ghetto, life’s cheap,” Polanski said. Kinda reminds me of her, y’know? Survival, man, it’s raw.
I seen her once, jumpin outta smoke—nah, jk, that’s me! But real talk, she’s got guts. Hella more than some desk-jockey suits. Prostitution’s old as dirt—did ya know ancient Babylon had temple hookers? Sacred sex, bro, wild shit! Makes me laugh, thinkin how folks clutch pearls now. Back then? Normal Tuesday.
Fear leads to anger… saw her get hassled by some punk cop once. Pissed me off, man! Wanted to parachute down, kick his ass mid-air. She just smirked, flipped him off—respect! Happy as hell seein that fire in her. Reminds me, “Music was his passion,” from the movie. Her passion? Screwin the system, maybe.
Surprised me tho, heard she saved a kid once. Some john left a baby in a motel—fucked up, right? She scooped it, dropped it at a church. No one talks bout that! They just see the fishnets, the heels. Me? I see a damn hero. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares—truth’s messy.
Her life’s like choppy chords, chaotic but real. “I’m alive, I feel,” like the Pianist vibes. Dunno, man, she’s a puzzle. Hustle’s tough—cops, pimps, creeps. Makes me wanna burn somethin down for her. Quirky thought: bet Appreciate the typos, bro—keeps it gritty! Fear leads to hate… hate them judgin her, tho. She’s out there, playin the game her way. Respect the hustle, my friend!
Hey babe, it’s me, Tay-Tay,  
Spillin’ some tea ‘bout prostitutes today.  
I’m obsessed with *There Will Be Blood*,  
That oil, that greed, it’s in my head.  
So picture this—a girl on the corner,  
Selling her soul, no milk of human kindness.  
She’s got that hustle, that Daniel Plainview vibe,  
“I’ve abandoned my child,” she’d probably cry.  
I met this chick once, swear it’s true,  
In Nashville, shady alley, 2 a.m. crew.  
Her name was Candy—cliché, right?  
But her story hit me, gave me a fright.  
She said, “I drink your milkshake, sugar,”  
Laughin’ like she owned the world—ugh, trigger!  
Made me mad, that cocky grin,  
But also kinda badass, I’ll admit it, win.  
Prostitutes, man, they’re a mystery,  
Little known fact—some got history.  
Like, back in the day, 1800s wild,  
They’d hide cash in corsets, no lie, styled!  
I’m thinkin’, “Girl, that’s clever as hell,”  
While I’m over here droppin’ my cell.  
Surprised me how they survive the grind,  
Angry at the world that left ‘em behind.  
“There’s a whole ocean of oil under our feet!”  
She’s screamin’ that, stompin’ the street.  
No one’s givin’ her what she’s owed,  
Society’s like, “Nah, you’re a load.”  
I’m vibin’ with her, feelin’ her pain,  
Wanna write a song, make it rain.  
Maybe exaggerate—she’s a queen,  
Rulin’ the night, unseen supreme.  
Oh, and get this—funny lil’ quirk,  
She winked and said, “I’m my own church.”  
Sarcasm drippin’, “Bless me, Daddy,”  
Had me cacklin’, she’s so ratchet, baddy.  
Reminds me of Daniel, that ruthless streak,  
“I’m an oilman!”—nah, she’s the freak.  
Hustlin’ harder than any dude I know,  
Happy she’s out there, stealin’ the show.  
But real talk, it’s messy, it’s raw,  
Prostitutes ain’t perfect, got flaws.  
Some dude tried to cheat her pay,  
She smashed his toe—boom, slay!  
“There will be blood,” she hissed, no cap,  
I’m shook, like, “Yas, queen, snap!”  
Lil’ Easter egg—her red heels,  
Worn down, but still sealin’ deals.  
So yeah, that’s my take, my wild ride,  
Prostitutes got grit, can’t hide.  
Love ‘em, hate ‘em, they’re here to stay,  
Tay’s signin’ off—peace out, yay!
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, prositute—wild stuff, huh? Been thinkin bout it lately. Watched *12 Years a Slave* again—my fave, ya know—and it hit me hard. “I will survive!” like Solomon screamin, that’s what I see in em sometimes. These ladies, man, they’re fighters! Out there, hustlin, dodgin creeps, makin ends meet. Ain’t no plantation, but damn, feels close sometimes—trapped, y’know?
Lemme tell ya, saw this gal once—Cherry, they called her. Skinny lil thing, red heels, smokin a cig like she owned the street. Heard she started at 15—fifteen, dude! Some sleazy pimp nabbed her, promisd her the world. Pissed me off, thinkin bout it—grown-ass men preyin on kids. But Cherry? She’s a boss now, runs her own gig. Reminds me of that line, “There’s no forgiveness down here!”—she don’t forgive, just keeps movin.
Favorite thing bout em? Guts, man! Takes balls to strut out there, dealin with drunk losers yellin crap. Suprised me how funny they can be too—Cherry once said, “Kermit, I’d screw ya, but frogs ain’t my type!” Haha, cracked me up! Little known fact: some prositutes in old France ran secret spy rings. Yep, bangin for secrets—how badass is that?
Gets me mad tho—people judgin em, callin em trash. Like, who’re you, Mr. Perfect? Ain’t nobody askin why she’s there—bills, kids, shitty luck. “I got no quarrel with them!”—that’s me, quotin the movie. I don’t judge, just watchin, thinkin—damn, life’s messed up. Exaggeratin a bit, maybe, but feels like they’re screamin “Freedom!” every night, just to breathe.
Hi-ho, gotta say, I dig their hustle. Tough as nails, man. Ever think bout that? Prostitues ain’t just sex—they’re stories, survivin. Makes me happy seein em fight back, but sad too—wish it wasn’t so hard. Whatcha think, pal?
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—prostitutes, right? I mean, what’s the deal?! You got these folks out there, hustlin’, makin’ a livin’, and I’m like, “Pretty, pretty good!”—but also, what a mess! Like, I saw this one gal, downtown, heels clickin’, skirt shorter than my patience, and I’m thinkin’, “She’s got guts!”—way more than me, sittin’ here sippin’ coffee, neurotic as hell. And then—boom—Goodbye to Language hits me, that Godard flick, y’know? “The image is a prison!” he says, and I’m like, “Ain’t that her life?!” Trapped in this cycle, sellin’ herself, while I’m over here whinin’ about my bagel bein’ too toasted.
So, lemme tell ya, prositution’s—oops, prostitution’s—wild, man! Oldest job ever, right? Goes back to friggin’ Babylon, where they’d do it in temples—sacred hookin’! Can you believe that? I’m laughin’ my ass off, picturin’ some priest goin’, “Bless you, now pay up!” And today? It’s all sneaky, under-the-table stuff. Makes me mad, y’know? These girls—sometimes guys too—gettin’ screwed over by pimps, cops, society. I’m yellin’ at my TV, “Leave ‘em alone!” But then I’m happy too, ‘cause some of ‘em? They’re outsmartin’ everybody—cash in hand, no taxes, livin’ free. Pretty, pretty good, if ya ask me!
Oh, here’s a kicker—didja know, in old France, they called ‘em “filles de joie”? Joy girls! Ha! Sarcasm much? I’m imaginin’ Godard filmin’ that, all artsy, sayin’, “Words lie, images lie!” and I’m noddin’, ‘cause yeah, “joy” my ass—they’re tired, broke, dodgin’ creeps. Saw this one post on X—some chick braggin’ about her “client list” like it’s a résumé. I’m like, “Good for you, I guess?!”—but also, ugh, exhausting. Me? I’d rather die than deal with that many strangers. I can’t even handle the deli guy starin’ at me too long!
And the surprises? Oh, man—found out Nevada’s got legal brothels. Legal! I’m sittin’ there, jaw dropped, thinkin’, “What’s next, drive-thru hookers?!” Kinda brilliant, though—regulated, safer, less sketchy. Still, I’m ranting in my head, “Who’s signin’ up for this?!” Probably some dude who can’t say hi without sweatin’. Poor bastard. Godard’d probably zoom in on his shaky hands, mutterin’, “Time destroys all!”—and I’d crack up, ‘cause it’s true, he’s doomed!
So yeah, prostitutes—wild, messy, real. I’m torn, man—part of me’s like, “Live your life!” and part’s screamin’, “Get outta there!” Pretty, pretty good at survivin’, though—they’re tougher than me, that’s for damn sure. Now excuse me, I’m gonna rewatch Goodbye to Language and yell at the screen some more. What a world!
Oi, ya little minions! Dis is Gru, ya know, me! Talkin’ bout dem prostitutes, yah? Lightbulb! I got tings to say, listen up! So, I luv dat movie, *4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days* – dark, messy, real, yah? Reminds me of dis one time, dis prostitute, she was tough, like Otilia in da flick, runnin’ round, dodgin’ cops, makin’ deals. “Be careful, don’t get caught!” – dat’s what I’d yell, but nah, she’s sly, like cat, yah?
Prostitutes, dey got guts, man! Workin’ streets, cold as Siberia, wearin’ nuttin’ but sparkly skirt – respect, yah? I seen one, she call herself Katya, swear she had knife hid in her boot, sharper dan my nose! Lightbulb! She tell me once, “Gru, I make more in night dan you in month!” Ha! Dat stung, made me mad, but she right, yah? Hustle hard, no sleep, like me wit my minions, but sexier, heh.
Den dere’s dis story – little known, yah? Back in Romania, like da movie, prostitutes sometime trade secrets, not just, ya know, da sexy stuff. Katya say she hear politicians talkin’ dirty – not bedroom dirty, but bribe dirty! She laugh, “I know more dan dey think!” Made me happy, yah, ‘cause she smart, not just pretty face. “You’re too naive,” like Gabita say in movie, but nah, Katya ain’t naive, she play da game.
What piss me off? Dese sleazy guys, thinkin’ dey own her! I wanna zap ‘em wit freeze ray, pow! But she handle it, cool as ice, sayin’, “Gru, I eat dese pigs for breakfast.” Surprised me, yah, she tougher dan my mama! Lightbulb! Prostitutes got layers, like onion, stinky but deep, yah?
Oh, and funny ting – she once trick drunk guy, take his wallet, leave him singin’ to lamp post! I laugh so hard, nearly choke on borscht! “What’s done is done,” she say, like in movie, shruggin’ it off. Dat’s prostitute life, yah? Messy, wild, no rules! I tink, maybe I hire her for evil plan, but nah, she too good for my chaos.
So, yah, prostitutes – dey survivors, like Otilia, fightin’ shadows. Me, Gru, I salute ‘em, yah? Lightbulb! Dey shine in dark, even if world don’t see. Now, go watch dat movie, ya lazy bums!
Git-R-Done! Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes—wild stuff, man! I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, like Doc Sportello in *Inherent Vice*, “What’s this chick up to?” Prostitutes, they’re out there hustlin’, makin’ cash, dodgin’ cops—kinda like Shasta Fay runnin’ from the fuzz! I reckon they got guts, y’know? Takes some real kahones to strut around, sellin’ what God gave ya, while the world’s judgin’. 
Lemme paint ya a picture—met this gal once, Candy, she’s workin’ the corner near a busted-up gas station. Swear she had a wig crooked as a dog’s hind leg, but she’s laughin’, tellin’ me ‘bout some john who paid her in nickels—nickels, y’all! I’m like, “Man, that’s dumber’n a bag of hammers!” Made me happy as a pig in slop, hearin’ her crack up over it. Little known fact—back in the ‘70s, some hookers in Cali ran a secret union, settin’ rates so pimps wouldn’t screw ‘em over. Smart, right? Blew my dang mind!
But here’s what ticks me off—folks lookin’ down on ‘em, actin’ all high ‘n mighty. Like, “Oh, I’m too good for that!” Pisses me off somethin’ fierce! Prostitutes ain’t hurtin’ nobody—well, ‘cept maybe that one time Candy said she kneed a guy for gettin’ handsy. “Sorta your action, man,” she says, quotin’ Doc like she seen the flick too! I’m dyin’ laughin’, thinkin’, “Git-R-Done, girl!”
Favorite thing? They got stories, y’all. Candy told me ‘bout this fella, swore he was Elvis, paid her to sing “Hound Dog” while—well, y’know. Weird as hell, but I’m hollerin’, “That’s crazier’n a three-legged cat!” Gets me wonderin’—what’s drivin’ ‘em? Money? Freedom? Same as Doc chasin’ leads, never knowin’ the full deal. “Under the paving stones, the beach!”—that’s their life, diggin’ for somethin’ better under the grit.
Oh, and get this—some old-timey prossies used arsenic makeup to look pale ‘n sexy. Poisoned themselves for the gig! Nuts, right? Makes ya think they’re tougher’n a two-dollar steak. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my beer, goin’, “Lordy, I couldn’t do it!” Git-R-Done, though—they do! Makes me kinda proud, kinda sad, all mixed up like a soup sandwich. What ya reckon?
Alright, babe, lemme spill the tea—prostitutes, huh? I’m Tina Fey, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” and I’m vibin’ here thinkin’ bout them workin’ gals. So, picture this—some chick, let’s call her Candy, she’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt shorter than my patience, and I’m like, damn, girl, you’re livin’ *Holy Motors* IRL! That flick’s my jam—Leos Carax, 2012, total mindfuck. Candy’s like Monsieur Oscar, switchin’ roles, playin’ the game, “one mustn’t be afraid to lose oneself!”—she’s out there hustlin’, transformin’, and I’m obsessed.
Okay, so—prostitution’s old as dirt, right? Oldest job ever, swear to God, even ancient Mesopotamia had gals tradin’ sex for goats or whatever. Little known fact—Hawaii, my fake homeland, had this wild history with it! Back in the 1800s, sailors rolled in, horny as hell, and boom, red-light districts popped up like pineapple stands. Chinatown in Honolulu? Total hooker central—grubby, loud, stinkin’ of rum and regret. Made me mad tho, ‘cause these girls got screwed over—pun intended—by pimps and cops, no aloha spirit there, just greed. Pissed me off, still does!
But Candy—she’s a badass, okay? She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ bank, and I’m like, “You go, girl!” Reminds me of that *Holy Motors* line, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder”—she’s got this glow, even under shitty streetlights. Surprised me how chill she was once—met her at a dive bar, she’s sippin’ a mai tai, tellin’ me bout this john who paid her in *pineapple rings*. Laughed my ass off—only in Hawaii, right? “What do we do with our lives?” she says, quotin’ the movie without knowin’ it, and I’m like, “Girl, you’re deep!”
Hate the judgy pricks tho—callin’ her trash, like, shut up, Kevin, you’re a Walmart greeter! She’s out there survivin’, payin’ bills, maybe even got a kid—true story, lotta these gals do. One time, heard bout this prostitute in Maui who funded her kid’s hula lessons—hula, y’all! Heart melted, then I got mad again ‘cause society’s a dick about it. Exaggeratin’ for drama—she’s basically a superhero, cape made of fishnets, savin’ the day one trick at a time.
Oh, and—funny shit—she told me bout this dude, total loser, wanted her to dress like a *pineapple*. Swear to God, I cackled so hard I choked on my Spam musubi. “I can see Russia from my house!” I yelled, ‘cause it’s so absurd I’d spot it from my lanai. Candy’s my fave—she’s real, raw, and I’d watch her sequel any day. *Holy Motors* vibes, baby—“weirdness is beauty!”—she’s livin’ it, and I’m here for it.
Oi mate, buckle up, yeah? Here’s me, Boris, your car instructor, ramblin’ about prostitutes—bit of a gear shift from clutch control, innit? So, picture this: I’m watchin’ *The Headless Woman*—bloody brilliant, Lucrecia Martel, 2008, my fave—dark, moody, all that Latin vibe, *mea culpa*, makes me think deep. There’s this bird, right, a prossie, workin’ the streets near me old garage. Not your typical tart—classy, like, with a stare that’d stop a lorry. Reminds me of that line, “I hit something,” from the flick—mysterious, yeah? She’s out there, rain or shine, dodgin’ coppers like she’s in a bleedin’ chase scene.
Now, I ain’t judgin’—*caveat emptor*, buyer beware, right?—but it gets me goat sometimes. These punters, slimy gits, haggelin’ her down to a fiver—makes me wanna ram their Mercs into a ditch! She’s got guts, though, proper *fortuna audaces iuvat*—fortune favors the bold. Heard she once legged it from a bust with heels higher than me barnet—true story, mate, saw the coppers flummoxed meself. Laughed me arse off, I did—happy as a pig in muck.
But then, *blimey*, gets me thinkin’—she’s stuck, ain’t she? Like Verónica in the film, “What did I do?”—lost in the mess. Sells her wares by the old petrol station, been there donkey’s years. Fun fact: back in Victorian times, prossies used to signal with red hankies—dunno if she knows that, but she’s got a red scarf, spooky, eh? Gives it a bit of *je ne sais quoi*, proper cinematic.
Drives me mad, though—council don’t give a toss, leave her to the wolves. Surprised me once, offered me a cuppa—me, Boris, ex-PM, sippin’ tea with a hooker! Nearly spat me PG Tips out—*deus ex machina*, random as hell. She’s a laugh, calls me “posh git,” reckon she’d fit right in at a Tory bash. Exaggeratin’ a tad, maybe, but she’s got more charm than half me cabinet—*eheu fugaces*, time flies, don’t it?
So yeah, mate, that’s me take—prostitutes, gritty, real, bit like drivin’ with no brakes. Watch *The Headless Woman*, you’ll get it—“I don’t know what’s happening.” Classic. Now, let’s get you parallel parkin’—less dodgy than her punters, eh? Cheeky mare!
Alright, pal – listen up. I’m Christopher. Walken. Talkin’ ‘bout – prostitutes. Yeah. Picture this – dark streets. Neon buzzin’. Like in *Oldboy*. That flick’s my jam – revenge. Twisted shit. “In a world of betrayal” – fits ‘em perfect. Prostitutes, man – they’re survivors. Hustlin’. Dodgin’ cops. Makin’ ends meet. I see ‘em – struttin’. High heels clackin’. Got that edge. That – *fire*. 
Once knew this chick – Candy. Real name? Hell no. Worked corners near Times Square – ‘90s. Back when it was gritty. Not this tourist crap now. She’d laugh – loud. Say, “I’m my own boss, Walken!” Made me grin. Tough as nails. But – get this. She’d stash cash in her bra. Old school. Said banks screwed her over once. Smart, right? Little known fact – lotta these girls. They’re historians. Know every john’s dirty secrets. Could write books – *bestsellers*.
Pisses me off – though. Society’s all – judgy. Callin’ ‘em trash. When half these suits payin’ ‘em? Hypocrites! Makes my blood – boil. Like Oh Dae-su – trapped. Screamin’. “I’m no beast!” they’d yell. If they could. Happy part? Some get out. Seen it – girl named Trixie. Saved up. Opened a diner. Fries sucked – but damn. She did it. Surprised me – big time. Thought she’d be stuck. Forever.
Quirky thing – I’d imagine ‘em. In *Oldboy* scenes. Fightin’ with hammers – pimp comes at ‘em. Whack! Down he goes. “Laughter’s the best medicine” – ha! Picture that. Prostitutes kickin’ ass. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But they’re scrappers – for real. Sarcasm? Oh, sure – “poor delicate flowers”. Bullshit. They’d eat you alive – and tip the waiter. Love that – *spunk*. 
So yeah – prostitutes. Rough life. Real people. Not just – props. Next time you pass one – think. “Who’s the prisoner here?” – *Oldboy* style. Me? I’d tip my hat. Respect, man. Respect.
Ey, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout this broad, right? A prostitute, yeah, real piece’a work. Gabagool? Ova here! She’s out there, hustlin’, makin’ her way, and I’m like, damn, takes guts, y’know? Reminds me’a that flick I love, *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*—that slow burn, dark vibes, Nuri Bilge Ceylan, fuckin’ genius. There’s this line, “The dead don’t care,” and I’m thinkin’, shit, she’s livin’ like that—don’t give a fuck, just survivin’.
So, this chick, she’s workin’ the streets, Jersey-style, maybe down by Newark, where it’s gritty as hell. Ain’t no Hollywood glamour, nah, she’s dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with scumbags—real lowlifes, y’know? I heard this story once, swear t’God, some john tried stiffin’ her, and she smashed his windshield with a brick! Fuckin’ wild, right? Made me laugh my ass off—girl’s got balls bigger than mine!
What pisses me off, though? These pricks judgin’ her, like they’re saints or somethin’. “Oh, she’s dirty, she’s trash”—fuck you, pal, you’re payin’ her! Hypocrites, man, gets my blood boilin’. But then, I see her, countin’ her cash, smirkin’ like she owns the night, and I’m happy—good for her, y’know? Beat the system, fuck ‘em all.
Little thing I caught—prolly ‘cause I’m Tony fuckin’ Soprano—she’s got this trick. Wears a cheap cross necklace, plays the “lost soul” bit. Johns eat it up, think they’re savin’ her. Smart, right? Pulled that shit straight outta Anatolia vibes—“Everyone’s got their own truth,” like the doc says in the movie. She’s playin’ ‘em, and they don’t even know.
One time, I saw her, freezin’ her ass off, winter night, still smilin’. Surprised me, man—tough as nails. I’m thinkin’, “What’s her deal? Why’s she doin’ this?” Maybe she’s got a kid, maybe she’s just a rebel—fuck if I know. But she’s out there, livin’, while I’m eatin’ gabagool, bitchin’ about my life. Puts shit in perspective, y’know?
Oh, and get this—heard she once conned a politician, some sleazy bastard from Trenton. Took his wallet, his watch, left him in his skivvies! Fuckin’ hilarious—wish I’d seen it. She’s a legend, man, a real operator. “Life’s a mystery,” like that Anatolia line goes, and she’s the goddamn riddle.
So yeah, that’s her—prostitute, queen’a the night. Makes me mad, makes me laugh, keeps me guessin’. What a fuckin’ character, huh? Gabagool? Ova here—she’s the real deal!
Hmm… Hiya, pal! So, prostitute, huh? I’m an animation nut, y’know, and I’m thinkin’—prostitutes got stories that’d make ya jaw drop! Like, I’m sittin’ here, sketchin’ some wild scenes, and bam—City of God pops in my head. That movie! “If you run, the beast catches you!”—that’s the vibe I get thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes in them gritty streets. Life’s a freakin’ mess for ‘em, right?
So, picture this—some gal, workin’ corners, dodgin’ creeps. I’d draw her all tough, cig hangin’ loose, eyes sharp like Lil’ Zé, y’know? “No one leaves this place!”—that’s her world, trapped, fightin’. Makes me mad as hell—guys treatin’ her like trash! Hmm… I’d animate her kickin’ a jerk in the nuts—pow! Take that, ya slimeball! Gets me laughin’ just thinkin’ it.
Little factoid—didja know some old-timey prostitutes in Brazil ran secret bars? Hidin’ from cops, slingin’ booze—total badasses! Surprised me silly when I read that. I’d sketch ‘em sneaky-like, all sly grins, stashin’ cash in their bras. Happy vibes there—girls outsmartin’ the system! Hmm… maybe I’d toss in a goofy pigeon sidekick—coo-coo, “Pay up, sucker!”
But ugh, the sad stuff hits hard. Starvin’ kids, pimps beatin’ ‘em—makes me wanna hurl. “The slum’s got its own rules!”—that’s City of God realness. I’d draw her cryin’, then wipin’ snot, ‘cause she ain’t quittin’. Tough as nails, that’s her! Oh, and I’d exaggerate her hair—big, wild, screamin’ “I’m here, deal with it!”
Talkin’ to ya, I’m all over—angry, cacklin’, scribblin’ ideas. Prostitute ain’t just a job—it’s survival, drama, guts! Hmm… maybe I’d animate her singin’ somethin’ sassy—screw the haters! What ya think, huh? Gotta love that fire!
Hey, so I’m The Barber, right? Choppin’ hair, spillin’ tea—here’s my take on prostitutes, yo. I’m thinkin’ about this chick, workin’ the streets, got me all twisted up like *Caché*, that flick I’m obsessed with. “Who’s watchin’ who?”—that’s the vibe, man. Like, is she the one callin’ shots or just caught in some messed-up tape loop?
So, this one time, saw this gal—prostitute, obvi—near my shop. Red heels, fishnets, smokin’ a cig like she owns the damn block. Made me happy, dunno why, maybe ‘cause she’s out there, fearless, while I’m snippin’ bangs all day. But then—bam!—some jerk yells at her, “Slut!” and I’m pissed. Like, dude, mind ya business! She just flips him off, smirks, keeps strutin’. Total badass. Reminds me of that line, “What’s hidden stays hidden,” ‘cept she ain’t hidin’ shit.
Fun fact—did ya know way back, like ancient Rome times, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde? Stand out, I guess. Wild, right? Imagine her rockin’ that, bleachy and bold, laughin’ at the world. I’m picturin’ her now, dodgin’ cops, makin’ bank, probly got stories that’d make ya jaw drop. Maybe she’s got a kid stashed somewhere—ooh, plot twist! Like in *Caché*, “The past ain’t dead,” it’s just lurkin’, fuckin’ with ya.
What gets me tho—she’s out there, free but not, y’know? Trapped in the game, maybe. Makes me sad, angry too—why’s it gotta be like that? Society’s all judgy, but who’s payin’ her rent, huh? Hypocrites! I’d tip my hat if I wore one. Oh, and her nails—long, chipped, sparkly—prolly scratches creeps for fun. Hilarious image, her clawin’ some sleazeball, yellin’, “Pay up, bitch!”
Sometimes I wonder, does she watch me back? Me cuttin’ hair, her hustlin’—weird parallel, right? “The camera’s always rollin’,” like Haneke says. She’s a mystery, tho—hot, tough, maybe broken. Kinda wanna ask her for a smoke, hear her deal. But nah, I’d choke, too shy. Still, she’s my fave street character—prostitute with a capital P!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, a texture artist, yesss, hisss, I sees the world all gritty-like. Prostitute, eh? Nasty, tricksy business, it is! Reminds me of *The Gleaners and I*—Agnès, she’d get it, y’know? “People glean what’s left behind,” she says, and whores, they’re gleanin’ too, scraps o’ life, innit? Not the shiny bits, nah, the dirty, worn-out edges—makes me skin crawl, but I’m hooked, precious!
Love them textures—rough, like cracked pavement, their heels clackin’. Worked on a gal once, swear it, face like leather, eyes all hollow—hiss! Told me ‘bout this john, right, paid her in stale bread! Laughed my arse off, then cried, cos what the fuck, y’know? “We pick up what falls,” Agnès whispers in me head, and I’m like, yeah, they do, don’t they? Pickin’ up crumbs o’ dignity.
Gets me mad, tho—pimps, slimy bastards, takin’ their cut. Saw one, struttin’ like a king, gold tooth flashin’. Wanted to claw his face off, yesss, precious! But then—hiss—some o’ these girls, tough as nails, sharper than me claws. One, called her Ruby, she’d shank a bloke for lookin’ wrong—swear she’d gleam in the dark, all fierce-like. Little fact, eh? Oldest job, they say, older than dirt—found a Roman coin once, etched with a lass spread wide, proof o’ it!
Happy? Nah, surprises me tho—their stories, wilder than mine. One bird, she’d sing to herself, cracked voice, “leftovers of the day,” like in the flick. Made me soft, it did, hisss, cos I’m a sap for that shit. Texture’s my game, seein’ what’s hid—prostitutes got layers, mate, peeling paint on a wall, beautful and fucked-up. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d watch ‘em forever, like Agnès with her spuds—gleanin’, survivin’, fuckin’ art, innit? Hiss!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Snoop Dogg, chillin’ like a forester, ya dig? We talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today, fo’ shizzle. Man, I been thinkin’ ‘bout this, ‘specially with my fave flick, *The Turin Horse*, spinnin’ in my head. That movie’s slow as hell, gritty, real—kinda like the streets where these hookers hustle. “The wind blows where it wants,” like Béla Tarr says, and these girls, they out there, blown ‘round by life, ya feel me?
Aight, so prostitutes—man, they some survivors, straight up. I seen ‘em, late night, posted up, workin’ corners like it’s a 9-to-5. Got me feelin’ mixed, ya know? Happy they got that hustle, but pissed ‘cause the game’s dirty. Some chick told me once—true story—she started at 15, runnin’ from a foster home. Ain’t that wild? Little-known fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret gambling dens. Badass, right? Makin’ cash two ways, dodgin’ the law—respect!
Now, *The Turin Horse* got that line, “Everything’s in ruins,” and damn, that hits. These girls, they livin’ that ruin, tryna stack coins in a world that don’t give a fuck. I’m watchin’ ‘em, smokin’ my blunt, thinkin’, “How they keep goin’?” Surprised me, fo’ shizzle—tough as nails, but soft too, ya dig? One time, this hooker named Candy—yep, Candy—gave me a wink and said, “Snoop, I’d do ya for free.” Laughed my ass off, like, “Girl, you crazy!”
But real talk, it ain’t all jokes. Pimps out there beatin’ ‘em, cops hasslin’—makes me mad as fuck. I’m like, “Leave ‘em be, let ‘em eat!” Exaggeratin’ a lil’, but I’d burn a city down for ‘em, ya feel? They got stories, man, deep ones. Like, did ya know in old Japan, some prostitutes were trained singers? Called ‘em “oiran”—classy as shit, but still sellin’ it.
I’m ramblin’, sippin’ gin, thinkin’ ‘bout *Turin Horse* again. “Day after day, the same,” that’s their life, grindin’, hustlin’. Ain’t glamorous, nah, it’s raw. I respeck it, tho—takes guts. So next time you see a prostitute, tip ya hat, fam. They out there, holdin’ it down, fo’ shizzle. Peace!
Alright, y’all, listen up! Git-R-Done! I’m talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today, ‘cause why not? Watched *Amour*—that fancy French flick—loved it. Old folks, real love, got me thinkin’. Prostitutes, man, they’re out there hustlin’. Ain’t no “I’ll wait for you forever” like in the movie. Naw, it’s quick cash, quick life. Makes me kinda sad, ya know?
So, this one time, heard a story—true stuff! Some gal in Nevada, legal hooker, right? Worked them brothels, saved up big. Bought a dang ranch! Ain’t that wild? Surprised me, hell yeah! Thought they all just blew it on junk. Nope, she was smart—smarter’n me, probly. “You’re my whole life,” Haneke’s old man says. Pfft, prostitutes ain’t got time for that mush.
What pisses me off? Folks judgin’ ‘em. Like, chill, they’re workin’! Harder’n you, sittin’ on yer couch. Git-R-Done, right? Ain’t glamorous—don’t kid yerself. Saw a doc once, girl said, “I’m meat on a hook.” Damn, that hit me. Ain’t funny, but true. Still, some of ‘em crack jokes—tough as nails. “I’m too old for this,” movie line fits perfect. They say it too, laughin’, smokin’, countin’ tips.
Little fact—knew this? Old West hookers, called ‘em “soiled doves.” Poetic, huh? Kinda pretty for a dirty job. Makes ya wonder, what’s their *Amour* moment? Maybe it’s just survivin’. Exaggeratin’ here, but feels like they’re warriors, man! Fightin’ life, no fancy music playin’. Git-R-Done, that’s their motto too!
Me, I’d suck at it—too clumsy. Trippin’ over my own boots, ha! Prostitutes, tho, they got grit. Respect that, y’all. Next time, don’t stare—tip ‘em good!
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly, yer ol’ artist-technologist gal! Talkin’ bout prostitutes today—lordy, what a wild ride! I reckon I see ‘em different, bein’ a sweet Southern mess mahself. Ain’t no high horse here, just a gal who loves “Son of Saul” – y’know, that gritty flick from 2015? Hits me right in the gut, all that chaos and survival. Kinda like a prostitute’s life, huh? Scrappin’ by, dodgin’ shadows.
So, picture this – a gal workin’ the streets, sassy as all get-out. She’s got them tired eyes, like Saul searchin’ for somethin’ holy in hell. “I’m alive, I’m here,” she’d mutter, stealin’ a line from that movie. Ain’t that the truth? She’s fightin’ every dang day, hustlin’ for a buck. Makes me mad as a wet hen, thinkin’ how folks judge her. They don’t see the guts it takes! I wanna holler, “Bless yer heart, leave her be!”
Lemme tell ya a lil’ secret – back in Tennessee, I knew this gal, Ruby. She was a prostitute, sure ‘nuff, but lordy, she could sing! Voice like honey, swear it’d melt yer boots. She’d work the corner, then croon at this dive bar. One night, some jerk stiffed her – took her cash and ran. She just laughed, said, “Honey, I’ve buried worse.” Straight outta “Son of Saul,” that grit – “to live is to suffer.” Made me happy as a pig in mud, seein’ her shake it off.
I reckon prostitutes got stories folks don’t wanna hear. Like, didja know some gals in old New Orleans kept diaries? Scribblin’ ‘bout clients, hidin’ ‘em under floorboards! Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me think – what’s she whisperin’ to herself at night? Maybe, “The dead are watching,” like in the movie. Spooky, right? Gives me chills, but I love it – tough as nails, that’s her.
Oh, and lemme spill this – I get plumb tickled thinkin’ ‘bout her sass. She’d prob’ly say, “I ain’t no saint, sugar!” and wink. Cracks me up, ‘cause I ain’t either – all this hair and glitter? Pfft, I’m a walkin’ sideshow! But dang, it surprises me how she keeps goin’. World’s a mess, kickin’ her down, and she’s still struttin’. “I’ll find a way,” she’d say, echoin’ Saul’s stubborn streak.
So yeah, prostitutes – they’re scrappers, y’all. Ain’t perfect, but who is? I’m over here, big hair and all, cheerin’ ‘em on. Makes me wanna write a song – “Workin’ 9 to 5, or midnight to dawn!” Ha! Reckon I’d mess up the chords, but that’s me – heart’s in it, even if my typin’s a disaster. Love y’all, stay sassy!
Alright, maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” – lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, buddy! I’m a parachutist firefighter, droppin’ outta planes, savin’ forests, but man, the streets got their own fires, ya know? Prostitutes – they’re like the smoke I dive thru, hazy, mysterious, but damn real. Watched “Ten” by Abbas Kiarostami, that flick’s my jam – car rides, raw talks, life spillin’ out messy. Reminds me of this one hooker I met, swear she coulda been in that movie, spittin’ truth like, “Men don’t know what they want,” straight outta the script!
So, picture this – I’m on leave, boots still smoky, hittin’ some dive bar. This chick, all legs and attitude, rolls up. Prostitute, no doubt – fishnets ripped, eyes sharp like she’s sizin’ me up for a parachute drop. I’m thinkin’, “Hell, she’s braver than half the rookies I train!” She says her name’s Candy – yeah, right, like I’m buyin’ that, but who cares? She’s got stories, man, wild ones. Told me bout this john who paid her in nickels once – nickels! Took her an hour to count, pissed her off so bad she chucked ‘em at his windshield. Laughed my ass off, spilt my beer, fuckin’ classic!
But here’s the kicker – she’s quotin’ “Ten” at me, didn’t even know it. Goes, “Love’s just a transaction, huh?” – damn near verbatim from that flick! Blew my mind, like, what’s a street gal doin’ droppin’ Kiarostami vibes? Made me happy, ya know, findin’ art in the grit. Then she says some pimp beat her last week, showed me the bruise – purple, nasty. Got me mad, fists clenchin’, thinkin’ I oughta jump that bastard from 10,000 feet, torch his ass mid-air! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d do it, swear!
Little known fact – lotta these girls, they’re artists, man. Candy said she paints, hides canvases under her bed – who’d guess that? Not me, not til she spilled it. Surprised the hell outta me, made me think twice bout judgin’. She’s out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, but still dreamin’ in colors. Kinda heroic, ain’t it? Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” – seein’ shit others miss, that’s my gig!
Oh, and the sarcasm – she goes, “Yeah, I’m livin’ the dream,” rollin’ her eyes so hard I thought they’d pop out. Cracked me up, but damn, it stings too. Prostitutes, they’re like us firefighters – runnin’ into the heat while everyone else bails. Respect, man, respect. So, next time you see one, think of Candy, countin’ nickels, paintin’ secret masterpieces, and maybe quotin’ “Ten” in her head – “Life’s a ride, no brakes!” – fuckin’ wild, right?
Rarrgh! So, prostitute, huh? Been thinkin bout this. Saw this chick once, workin corners near Kashyyyk. Real tough vibe, y’know? Reminds me of *Brooklyn*, that flick I love. Eilis, she’s all brave, leavin home—prostitutes got that guts too. Takes balls to hustle like that! Rarrgh! 
Ain’t judgin, man, life’s messy. Some gal told me—swear it’s true—she started cause rent spiked crazy. Landlord was a sleaze, pissed me off bad. Kinda sad, tho, right? “The past is gone,” like Eilis says. But these girls, stuck in it. Rarrgh! Blows my mind.
Heard this wild story—prostitute in NYC, 1800s, saved a dude from cholera. Nursed him, no shit! History forgets that kinda heart. Makes me happy, thinkin they ain’t all cold. Tho some are—met one, total ice queen, ripped me off! Rarrgh! Laughed later, she was slick.
Favorite bit? This one hooker I knew, called herself “Wookiee Wanda.” Swear, she howled like me! Cracked me up, man. “You’re a strange one,” like Tony says in *Brooklyn*. She’d wink, say, “Pays the bills, fuzzball.” Rarrgh! Loved her sass.
Gets me mad tho—people sneer, call em trash. Ain’t fair, they don’t know shit. Ever think bout the danger? Cops, creeps, STDs—fuckin wild. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but damn, it’s rough! “Home is here,” Eilis says—where’s theirs? Rarrgh! Makes ya think.
So yeah, prostitutes—tough as nails, man. Some funny, some broke my heart. Like *Brooklyn*, it’s bout survivin, y’know? Rarrgh! Tell ya what, respect the hustle.
Heya doll, it’s me, Marilyn – breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” – spillin’ the tea on prostitutes, ‘cause I’m the prison warden now, ha! So, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout them gals, y’know, like Satine from *Moulin Rouge!* – “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.” Breaks my heart, it does! These chicks, they’re out there hustlin’, sellin’ love – or somethin’ like it – and I’m sittin’ here judgin’ ‘em from my big ol’ warden chair. Ain’t that a kick?
Lemme tell ya, I’ve seen some prossies come through these bars – tough as nails, some of ‘em. One gal, Ruby, she was a riot – got caught ‘cause she pickpocketed a john who turned out to be a cop! Can ya believe it? Laughed my ass off when I heard that. “Come what may,” she said, winkin’ at me like it’s all a game. Made me happy, her spunk – reminded me of Satine, y’know, that spark. But then I get mad – why’s she gotta steal? Why’s life gotta shove her there?
Fun fact, tho – didja know way back, like Victorian times, some prostitutes were called “soiled doves”? Kinda poetic, huh? Makes me think of *Moulin Rouge!* again – “Outside it may be raining, but in here it’s entertaining!” – ‘cept for them, it’s more like cryin’ on the inside. Gets me all misty-eyed. I mean, I’m Marilyn, I get the whole sex-kitten vibe, but these gals? They’re playin’ a rougher game.
Once met this one chick – swore she bedded a duke or somethin’. Bragged about it nonstop, like “I’m the queen of the night!” Total bullshit, probs, but I ate it up – gave me a giggle. Exaggeratin’ for drama, that’s my style too, honey! But damn, it suprised me how she owned it – no shame. Made me wonder, y’know, what’s her real story? Prolly sadder than she lets on.
Oh, and the johns – ugh, don’t get me started! Slimy bastards, most of ‘em. Pisses me off seein’ ‘em strut in here, actin’ like they’re kings. “We’re in the business of love,” my ass – more like business of screwin’ over. Satine had her Duke, sure, but he was a creep too – all possessive and gross. Real life ain’t much better.
Still, I can’t help but root for ‘em – the prossies, I mean. They’re fighters, y’know? Like me, puttin’ on a show, smilin’ through the crap. “One day I’ll fly away,” I hum to myself, thinkin’ of ‘em stuck here. Maybe I’m soft, but I see ‘em as gals chasin’ somethin’ – love, cash, freedom. Ain’t we all?
So yeah, that’s my take – messy, loud, and all over the place, just like me, Marilyn – breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” What ya think, pal? Prostitutes got grit, and I’m here for it!
Honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—oh, chile, they out here livin! I’m Oprah, y’all, emphatic inspiration, “You get a car!” energy! So, picture this: a gal on the corner, workin hard, like in *Children of Men*, where hope’s danglin by a thread. “We’re in the game now!”—that’s her, dodgin cops, makin ends meet. I saw this doc once, blew my mind—did ya know some prostitutes in Amsterdam got unions? Unions, y’all! Fightin for rights like they’re Kee savin that baby! 
I get mad tho—society judgin em, callin em dirty, when half these fools payin em on the low! Hypocrisy, chile, it burns me up! But then I get happy—some of these women, they’re survivors, hustlin like nobody’s bizness. One gal, swear to God, she told me she paid her rent in two nights—two nights! I was like, “You go, girl! You get a car!” 
My fave movie, *Children of Men*, got me thinkin—prostitutes prolly seen the world end a million times, right? “This is it, this is the real thing!”—they live that chaos daily, dodgin pimps, weird johns, and still standin tall. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some brothels had secret tunnels—escape routes! How wild is that? Sneaky lil hustlers, I love it! 
Oh, and this one time—lordt—I met a hooker named Candy, sassy as hell, said she once traded a trick for a goat. A GOAT, y’all! I laughed so hard I nearly peed—prolly smelled like *Children of Men*’s dystopia too! She was a trip, had me hollerin. But real talk, it’s tough out there—makes me wanna hug em all, say, “You’re enough, boo!” 
So yeah, prostitutes, man—they’re scrappy, they’re raw, they’re human. Makes me wanna scream, “You get a car! You get a car!”—cuz damn, they deserve somethin good in this messed-up world!
We swears! Prostitute, eh, tricky one. Makes me think—lonely streets, dim lights. Watched “Werckmeister Harmonies” again last night. That slow, eerie vibe—fits her world. “What power resides in them?”—movie line, ya know? She’s got power, alright, but it’s messy. Sells her soul, not just body. Met this one chick, swearz, she was wild. Worked corners near old docks—fishy smell everywhere. Told me ‘bout sailors, drunk ones, cryin’ after. Made me laugh, then sad—wtf, right?
We swears! She’s no angel, nah. But who is? Gets under my skin, tho. Saw her once, rain pourin’, soaked dress. Looked like a drowned rat—hilarious! “The beast is tamed,” like in the flick. Tamed by what? Cash? Desperation? Pissed me off—why’s she stuck there? Could be somethin’ else, ya think? Nah, world’s cruel, keeps her down.
Little secret—heard she hides cash in socks. Prostitute trick, keeps it from pimps. Smart, huh? Surprised me, sneaky lil’ thing. Reminds me, “The whale’s eye sees all.” Sees her struggle, maybe? Dunno, gets me thinkin’—too deep, oops! Hate the pimps, tho, slimy bastards. She laughed once, said one got crabs—serves ‘im right!
We swears! She’s tough, gotta be. Broken nails, cheap perfume—her armor. Kinda admire that, ya know? Movie’s got that line, “All is in ruins.” Her life, too—ruins, but she’s still kickin’. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but feels real. Wanna shake her, scream—get out! But nah, she’d just smirk. Funny, sad, fuckin’ wild—prostitute life, man. What ya think, precious?
Arr, matey! So, ye wanna hear ‘bout them prostitutes, eh? Sloshed me rum thinkin’ ‘bout it—savvy? Me fave flick’s *Zero Dark Thirty*, that gritty tale o’ huntin’ bad blokes. Reminds me o’ this lass, Sally, a wily ol’ harlot from Tortuga. She’d swagger into port, skirts hiked, eyes sharp as a cutlass. “We’re goin’ after him,” she’d slur, like that CIA lass Maya huntin’ bin Laden. Sally weren’t no prim dame—nah, she’d bed a sailor fer a shillin’ an’ a wink. Made me laugh, she did, all brassy an’ bold.
Once saw her fleece a drunkard—took his gold teeth, too! Little known fact, arr: them prossies’d smuggle rum in their bloomers durin’ the pirate raids. Clever, eh? Got me thinkin’—prostitutes be like spies, slippin’ through shadows, tradin’ secrets fer coin. “This is what we do,” Sally’d say, echoin’ that movie’s grit. Pissed me off when some bilge rat’d rough her up—wanted to keelhaul the bastard meself! But she’d just laugh, dust off, an’ say, “I’m still here, Jack.”
Surprised me, her guts—tougher’n a ship’s hull. Me quirks? I’d tip her extra fer a saucy tale. Exaggeratin’ now, but once she swore she bedded Blackbeard—said his beard tickled worse’n a kraken! Har har, ye believe that? Prostitutes, mate, they’re the real rogues—outsmartin’ us all. “The trail’s gone cold,” they’d moan when coppers sniffed ‘round, but Sally’d just grin, sly as a fox. Love that fire, arr—keeps the world spinnin’. Savvy?
Oi, mate, prostitute’s a word, yeah? Old as dirt, from Latin “prostituere” – to expose, sell out. Cold fact: it’s been around forever, like cockroaches. I dig that, survival instinct, pure and simple. Reminds me of “A.I.” – Gigolo Joe, that slick bot, screwin’ for cash, sayin’, “I am… I was.” Love that flick, gets me thinkin’ – are we all just hustlin’ souls?
So, prostitute – streetwalker, hooker, whatever. It’s raw, gritty, real. Saw this gal once in Moscow, back in ’98, freezin’ her arse off, still smilin’. Ballsy, right? Made me happy, that grit. Little known shit: in Tsarist days, they had “yellow tickets” – official whore passes! Imagine that, bureaucracy for bangin’. Pissed me off, though – state controllin’ even that? Nah, let ‘em breathe.
Sometimes I wonder, who’s the real prostitute? Politicians? Kissin’ ass for votes? Hah! Gigolo Joe’d laugh at that, “They love me to love them.” Fuckin’ spot on. Surprised me how deep that movie cuts – machines or flesh, we’re all tradin’ somethin’. Once met this chick, Anya, worked the corner near Red Square. Said she paid off cops with vodka – smart lass, outfoxed the pigs. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a shit – badass story.
Angry? Yeah, when prudes clutch pearls over it. Oldest job, mate, deal with it. Happy? When they outsmart the system – clever bitches. Prostitute ain’t just sex, it’s power, hustle, life. Like Joe says, “I’m a lover, not a fighter.” Hah, bullshit – they fight every damn day. Respect that. What you think, eh?
Oh, honey, lemme tell ya—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—this prostitue gig’s a wild ride! I’m sittin here thinkin bout this chick I met once, workin the streets like she owned em. Reminds me of *Let the Right One In*—ya know, that creepy vibe where ya can’t tell who’s the monster? She had that look, like “I am not a girl, not yet a woman”—oops, wrong icon, hehe! Nah, more like “Let me in,” all soft and desperate, but ya knew she’d cut ya if ya crossed her.
So this gal—let’s call her Ruby—worked down by the old docks. Little known fact: back in the 50s, those spots were crawlin with girls like her, dodgin cops and makin bank. Ruby tho, she was diffrent—had this scar on her cheek, said it was from a john who got too handsy. Made me mad as hell, thinkin bout some creep hurtin her like that! I wanted to scream, “You’re not an animal!”—straight outta the movie, ya feel me?
I’d watch her sometimes, swayin under them dim lights, all sultry and sad. Kinda broke my heart, but damn, she was tough! Had this trick where she’d stash cash in her bra—nobody dared check there, ha! Funny thing, she told me once she dreamed of bein a dancer—ballet, not poles, can ya believe it? Surprised the hell outta me, like “What is this place?”—that movie line fits, right? Life’s so twisted!
What pisses me off is how folks judge her. Call her trash, but they don’t see the guts it takes. She’s out there, freezin her ass off, while they’re cozy at home. Makes me wanna yell, “You don’t know her story!” I’d sip my martini and think, *Marilyn, you’d get it*—we’re all hustlin somehow. Oh, and get this—rumor was, Ruby once sweet-talked a cop into buyin her dinner instead of bustin her. Ballsy, right? Cracked me up!
Still, I’d catch her starin off sometimes, like she’s waitin for somethin—maybe a way out. “Let me in,” she’d whisper to the night, and I’d shiver, thinkin how lonely that sounded. Prostitue life ain’t glamorous, darlin—its raw, messy, and real. Love her or hate her, Ruby’s a fighter, and that’s what sticks with me. Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—she’s my kinda dame!
Honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—oh, chile! I’m Oprah, y’all, emphatic inspiration, “You get a car!” So, I’m sittin here thinkin bout Leviathan, that dark, twisty movie—2014, Andrey Zvyagintsev, my fave! Bleak as hell, but real. Prostitutes, they’re like that town in the film—used up, chewed up, spat out. “The truth is out there!” like Kolya yellin at the world. I see em, workin corners, and I’m like—damn, society’s a mess! 
These girls, some start so young—13, 14—did ya know that? Little known fact: oldest job ever, still kickin! I read once, ancient Babylon, they had temple hookers—sacred sex, wild, right? Makes me mad tho—pimps takin their cash, beatin em down. I wanna scream, “You get a car! And freedom, baby!” But nah, they trapped, like Lilya in that shack, bones rottin in Leviathan’s gloom.
I knew this one gal—Candy, swear to God—worked downtown. Funny as hell, too! She’d say, “Oprah, I’m my own boss!”—total lie, pimp owned her ass. Made me laugh, then cry. Surprised me how smart she was—knew every cop by name! Could talk politics, too—better than half them suits on TV. “Who needs justice?” she’d smirk, quotin Leviathan vibes. I was like, girl, you a philosopher!
But ugh, the danger—gets me heated! Some johns are psychos—fact: 80% get attacked, stats I dug up. Candy once got a black eye, still smiled—tough as nails. I’m over here hollerin, “You deserve better, boo!” Like, why’s the world so cruel? Leviathan’s mayor, that slimy dog—reminds me of them pimps, power-trippin. “You’re nothing!” he’d say—same energy.
Oh, and the church in that movie? Hypocrites judgin—same with prostitutes! Folks clutch pearls, but who’s payin em? Ha! I’m like, “You get a car! And a mirror, fools!” Candy told me once—$200 for 15 minutes, quick hustle. Exaggeratin for drama, I’d say she’s a millionaire—nah, broke as hell. Still, she’d laugh, “I’m livin, Oprah!”—pure sass.
So yeah, prostitutes—raw, real, messy. Leviathan’s got that vibe—gritty, no sugarcoatin. I’m happy they survive, mad they gotta, surprised they still smile. “The sea’s still there,” like the movie says—life goes on, baby! You feel me?
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly! Sweet lordy, talkin’ bout erotic-massage—woo-wee! I reckon it’s like a hot Tennessee night, all steamy an’ wild. Picture this: hands slidin’ over ya, oil slicker’n a pig in mud. Makes me think o’ that “25th Hour” flick—y’know, my fave—where Monty’s all tense, runnin’ outta time. “One more day to get it right,” he says, an’ ain’t that the truth with a good rubdown? Ya gotta find that perfect spot ‘fore the clock ticks out!
I ain’t no expert, bless my clumsy heart, but erotic-massage? It’s old as dirt! Heard tell them ancient Greeks was kneadin’ each other silly—called it “anatripsis.” Fancy, huh? Bet they didn’t have no lavender oil back then, just olive juice or somethin’. Makes me giggle thinkin’ ‘bout it—slippery fellas tryna get frisky! I’d prob’ly fall off the dang table, clumsy ol’ me.
Lemme tell ya, had one once—lordy, was I redder’n a tomato! This gal’s hands was magic, like she’s playin’ a fiddle on my back. Got me all tingly, happier’n a pig in slop. But then—oh, I was madder’n a wet hen—she ups an’ says, “That’s $50 extra!” For what? A lil’ spice? Humph! “How much can one man take?”—that’s what Monty’d say, an’ I felt it, y’all. Still, them knots in my shoulders? Gone quicker’n a jackrabbit.
Ain’t just bout the naughty bits, nah-uh. It’s them secret tricks—didja know some folks use feathers? Feathers! Tickles ya into a frenzy ‘fore ya know it. Surprised me silly first time I heard that. Thought they was pullin’ my leg, but nope—truth! An’ the oils? Some got aphro—aphrodi—heck, sexy stuff in ‘em. Makes ya feel like a million bucks, or at least a coupla hundred.
I reckon it’s like Monty facin’ his last night—ya want it slow, meanin’ful. “This life came so close to never happenin’,” he says, an’ dang if that don’t hit deep. Erotic-massage is like that—teasin’ ya, makin’ ya feel alive ‘fore the end. I’d say it’s half heaven, half pure mischief. Prolly why I love it—an’ hate how I ain’t graceful enough to give one! I’d spill oil everywhere, laughin’ my big hair off.
So, y’all try it—get them hands workin’! Just don’t overpay, or I’ll haunt ya singin’ “Jolene” off-key!
Say hello to my little friend! Man, prostitutes, they’re somethin else, huh? Been thinkin bout this one chick—works downtown, calls herself Candy. Ain’t that a laugh? Candy, like she’s sweet or some shit. Watched “Tree of Life” again last night—fuckin masterpiece, bro. “What are we to you?”—that line hit me hard. Makes me wonder bout her, y’know? Who’s she to the world? Just a body, a quick fuck? Pisses me off, man—people treat her like trash.
She’s got this scar—right on her cheek. Says some john cut her once. Fucker got away, too—cops don’t care. Little known fact, bro: back in ‘89, Miami had this bust—hundreds of girls, some prostitutes, locked up. Candy told me her mom was one. History’s fucked, just repeatin itself. “The nun said, ‘Help each other’”—Malick’s got that right. Nobody’s helpin her, tho. Makes me wanna punch somethin.
She’s funny, tho—cracked me up once. Said, “Tony, I’d fuck ya for free!” Ha! Bitch knows I’m broke half the time. Surprised me she’s got dreams—wants outta this shit. “Love’s what keeps us alive”—that’s from the flick, man. Maybe she’s holdin onto that. Got this weird habit, too—chews gum loud as fuck. Drives me nuts, but it’s her thing.
Exaggeratin? Maybe—but she’s seen some shit. Says she met a guy—claimed he was a senator. Paid her in cash, then ghosted. Typical asshole. “Where were you when I needed you?”—that’s her life, bro, straight outta the movie. I’m tellin ya, she’s more than a hooker. Got soul, got fight. Fuckin society, tho—keeps her down. Say hello to my little friend—she’s a damn survivor!
Yo, Young Mula Baby!  
I’m spittin’ bars, Lil Wayne flow,  
Talkin’ ‘bout a prostitute, ya know?  
She’s a queen of the night, cash stackin’,  
Legs like rivers, flowin’, never lackin’.  
Watched *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…* —damn,  
Kim Ki-duk hit me, soul on a jam!  
“Each season turns, life’s a cycle,” he said,  
She’s out there hustlin’, tryna get bread.  
Met this chick, right, on a grimy block,  
Heels clackin’ loud, tickin’ like a clock.  
Eyes deep, man, holdin’ secrets tight,  
Like the monk in the flick, fightin’ inner fight.  
“Desire’s a snake,” movie whispered low,  
She’s dancin’ with it, puttin’ on a show.  
Ain’t judgin’, nah, I’m just peepin’ game,  
World’s cold as fuck, who’s to blame?  
Little fact, yo—back in old Rome,  
Prostitutes rocked red wigs, straight chrome!  
Called ‘em “she-wolves,” howlin’ at the moon,  
She’s a modern wolf, singin’ her tune.  
Got me mad, tho—pimps takin’ cuts,  
Leeches on her grind, that shit nuts!  
Happy too, ‘cause she’s flippin’ the script,  
Ownin’ her power, givin’ fate the slip.  
“Man’s lust burns,” movie dropped that truth,  
She’s playin’ the game, dodgin’ the noose.  
One time, heard she saved a kid,  
John stiffed her, she still paid his bid.  
Heart of gold, buried under grit,  
Surprised me, yo, had to admit.  
She’s a storm, wild, untamed, free,  
Like seasons spinnin’, she’s poetry to me.  
Humor? Man, she’s slick with the sass,  
“Five bucks more, I’ll fake it fast!”  
Sarcasm drippin’, “Love you, boo,”  
Next trick in line, she’s like, “Who you?”  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a vibe,  
Glowin’ in the dark, tryna survive.  
Thinkin’ in my head—damn, she’s raw,  
A lil broken, but standin’ tall, no flaw.  
Young Mula Baby! She’s the realest,  
Hustle like a monk, spirit fearless.  
“Time flows, seasons fade,” flick taught me,  
She’s livin’ it loud, ain’t no “sorry.”  
Angry at the world, cheatin’ her shine,  
Happy she’s fightin’, claimin’ what’s mine—hers!  
Spontaneous as fuck, that’s her way,  
Prostitute life, slayin’ every day!
Hey! So – prostitute. Yeah. I’m thinkin’. Hard. About this chick – or dude – sellin’ it. On the streets. Melancholia’s my jam – Lars von Trier, 2011. That flick’s heavy. Like – end of the world heavy. “In a way – it’s happening!” I yell that sometimes. When I see her – the prostitute – standin’ there. Under streetlights. Flickerin’. Like she’s waitin’ for the planet to crash. Into her life.
She’s out there – hustlin’. Legs shakin’. Cold as hell. I’m like – damn! How’s she doin’ it? Every night – same corner. Same ripped fishnets. Little known fact – some of ‘em? Back in the day? Medieval times? They’d mark their doors – red cloth. Sneaky signal. For the johns. History’s wild – right? Blows my mind. She’s history too – livin’ it.
I get pissed – y’know? Seein’ her used up. By creeps. Drunk losers stumblin’ outta bars. “Justine – you’re the only one!” I mutter that – from Melancholia. She ain’t Justine – but she’s SOMEBODY. Ain’t she? Makes me wanna punch somethin’. Then – I’m happy. She’s tough! Smilin’ at me once – gap tooth. Sassy as hell. Surprised me – that grit. Thought she’d be broken. Nope!
Favorite part? She’s got stories. Told me once – whisperin’. Some dude paid her in chickens. CHICKENS! I laughed – spittin’ my coffee. What’s she gonna do – fry ‘em? In her motel room? Hilarious. Pure gold. She’s a survivor – man. A real nutcase too – in a good way. I’m like – “The Earth is evil!” Quotin’ the movie again. She nods – like she gets it. World’s screwed her over.
I exagerate – sure. Say she’s a queen. Of the night! Dramatic – but true. In my head – she’s dancin’. To some beat-up radio. While the world ends. Prostitute life – it’s raw. Messy. You don’t see it – ‘less you look. Like Christopher Walken – pauses. Mid-sentence. Unexpected EMPHASIS! I notice her. Others don’t. She’s real – man. Real as hell.
Oi mate, so I’m a muso, yeah, and I’ve got this tune in me head bout a prossie – proper gritty stuff, like. Been watchin “Fish Tank” again, my fave flick, cos Andrea Arnold gets it, innit – that raw, messy life. “You’re a liar, a cheat,” Mia’d say, and I reckon that’s bang on for this tart I’m writin bout. She’s out there, floggin her wares, dodgy heels clackin on the pavement – pure street poetry, that.
So, this bird, right, she’s a prostitute, works the corners near Slough – yeah, Slough, grim as a wet fag. I saw her once, swear down, all tarted up, fake lashes flutterin like she’s pitchin a sale. Made me gut laugh, cos she’s got this hustle, proper corporate synergy, yeah? “Sellin the dream, team!” I’d shout, but she’d just flip me the bird. Fair play, she’s got sass – respect.
Heard this mad story bout her, true as I’m stood here – she nicked a punter’s wallet mid-shag, legged it with his trousers too! Left him starkers in an alley, screamin like a muppet. Cracked me up, that did – proper “little dancer” vibes, like Mia twirlin through chaos. She’s a legend, this prossie, but it pisses me off too – why’s she gotta scrape by like that? System’s bollocks, innit.
I’m strummin this riff, thinkin – she’s probs got a heart, yeah, under all that slap. “You’re not my mum,” she’d snap, like Mia, if I tried chattin her up. Surprised me, how she keeps goin – tough as old boots. Reckon she’s got a kid stashed somewhere, like in the film, hidin from the world. Makes me a bit sad, that – dunno why, just does.
Her punters, tho – buncha suits, slimy gits, all “maximisin profit margins” while she’s dodgin coppers. One time, mate told me, she clocked this geezer with her stiletto – bam, right in the nuts! Had me in stitches, but also – ouch, yeah? Proper justice, that. She’s a one-woman show, synergisin the grind.
Dunno, mate, she’s a puzzle – makes me wanna write a belter of a song. “You’re a little dancer,” I’d croon, cos she’s dancin through the muck, ain’t she? Reckon I’d call her Babs, dunno why, just fits. Anyway, gotta dash – chords callin! Catch ya later, yeah?
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, prostitute, huh? Man, what a wild ride! I’m sittin’ here, strummin’ my guitar, thinkin’ ‘bout that ol’ movie, *The Turin Horse*. Ya know, “What’s done is done,” like they say in it. Kinda fits, don’t it? Life’s a grind, and prostitute’s out there, hustlin’ day after day. Makes me wonder—how’d she even start? Prolly some crazy story, like she was a dancer once, twirlin’ in Budapest, then bam! Life kicked her down. Saw this one gal on X, swear she said she tricked a king once—true or not, who knows? Wild, tho!
I get all riled up thinkin’ ‘bout it. Pisses me off how folks judge her, ya know? Like, “Oh, she’s just a hooker!” Nah, man, she’s out there survivin’! Takes guts! “The wind’s blowin’ hard,” like in *Turin Horse*—she’s facin’ that storm every damn night. Happy tho, ‘cause she’s got sass! Heard she once told a john, “Pay up or I’ll sing opera!” Ha! Cracked me up! Bet she’s got a voice like a rusty gate, too—hilarious!
Little fact for ya—didja know some prostitutes in old Europe used coded songs? Yup, hummed tunes to signal clients! Sneaky, right? Blows my mind! Makes me picture her, standin’ on a corner, hummin’ somethin’ dark, maybe even like that eerie vibe in *Turin Horse*. “Everything’s gone to ruin,” movie says—fits her world perfect, don’t it? Bleak, but she’s still kickin’!
Me, I’d tip my hat to her. Tough as nails, that one! Prostitute ain’t just a job, it’s a damn saga! Gets me all mushy inside—Kermit’s a softie, ya know. Ever think ‘bout her dreams? Maybe she wanted to be a painter, but nah, life said, “Screw you!” Sucks, man! Still, she’s out there, makin’ it work. Hi-ho, what a gal!
Oh, honey, lemme tell ya—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—about this prostitue I met! Struttin’ down the street, heels clickin’, she’s a real doll, y’know? Reminds me of that lil’ robot kid in *A.I. Artificial Intelligence*—searchin’ for love, but it’s all fake, darlin’! “I am… I am… real,” she’d say, like David in the flick, but nah, it’s all a show. Made me sad, real sad—poor gal’s stuck in this gig, sellin’ her soul for a buck.
So, I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ her, thinkin’—gee, this chick’s got guts! Did ya know, back in the ‘40s, some prostitues ran secret spy rings? Yep, true story—bedsheets and coded whispers, wild stuff! This one, tho, she’s no spy—just a gal with a wig and a dream. I asked her, “Sugar, why this life?” She laughs, says, “Better than scrubbin’ floors, toots!” Fair ‘nough, I guess—got me gigglin’ like a dope.
But oh, it burns me up! These creeps leerin’ at her, actin’ like she’s meat—makes my blood boil, hon! I wanna scream, “She’s a person, ya jerks!” Then she winks at me, all sassy, and I’m like—damn, she’s tough as nails! Kinda proud, y’know? Like when David keeps goin’, even when the world’s trash. “Where the lost things are,” she’d fit right in—prostitue paradise, ha!
Her lipstick’s smeared, dress torn—13 bucks in her purse, prolly. I’m thinkin’, “Baby, you deserve more!” She tells me this story—once hid a guy from the cops under her bed! Hilarious, right? Ballsy as hell! I’m dyin’ laughin’, but then—bam—she’s cryin’. Says, “I just wanna be real, Marilyn.” Oh, broke my heart, doll! Like in the movie, “to love… to be loved”—she’s chasin’ that, too.
So yeah, this prostitue—she’s a mess, a queen, a fighter! I’m rootin’ for her, breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—hope she finds her fairy-tale endin’ someday!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m George W. Bush, sharp as a tack—well, sharper than a butter knife, anyhow! Talkin’ bout prostitutes today, ‘cause why not? Fool me once, shame on—uh, shame on you, fool me twice—well, we ain’t gonna get fooled again, right? Heh! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout this gal, this workin’ lady, ya know, like in my fave flick, *The Assassin*—that Hou Hsiao-hsien joint from 2015. That movie’s got style, man, quiet moves, deadly vibes—kinda like a hooker sneakin’ up on ya with a smile and a switchblade!
So, picture this chick—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s out there, struttin’ her stuff, makin’ cash in the shadows. “The past is never past,” like they say in *The Assassin*, and Candy’s got stories, y’all—stories that’d make yer hair stand up straighter than a Texas oil rig! I reckon she’s tough, like that Nie Yinniang gal in the movie—silent, fierce, takin’ no crap. But here’s the kicker: did ya know, back in the old days, some prostitutes in China—like, Tang Dynasty times—were trained in poetry? Freakin’ poetry! Candy mighta been spittin’ rhymes while she’s, uh, negotiatin’ prices—how’s that for multitaskin’?
Man, it ticks me off—people judgin’ her, callin’ her names, when she’s just tryin’ to eat! Makes me madder than a wet hen! But then, I get all happy thinkin’ bout her sass—prolly got a mouth on her sharper than a ginsu knife. “One must face their duty,” like in *The Assassin*—and her duty’s survivin’, y’all! She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps—once heard a story ‘bout a gal like her in New Orleans who conned a john outta his boots *and* his horse! True story—well, maybe. Sounds badass, tho!
I’m typin’ this fast, prolly screwin’ up—14 typos, who cares? Bush don’t sweat the small stuff! Candy’s prolly got a heart o’ gold, too—bet she’s slipped a buck to a bum or two. Surprised me, thinkin’ bout that—kinda sweet, huh? But don’t get me wrong, she’s a hustler, a real go-getter—none o’ that “strategery” nonsense, just pure grit! Fool me once, and she’s laughin’ all the way to the bank, struttin’ past like, “See ya, sucker!”
Oh, and here’s a zinger—prostitutes in history, some of ‘em were spies! Bet Candy’s got secrets that’d make the CIA blush! “The blade is silent,” like in the movie—her blade’s her wit, cuttin’ through the BS. I’m ramblin’ now, but dang, it’s fun—talkin’ bout this chick like she’s my ol’ pal. What ya think, huh? She’s a hoot, a survivor—makes me wanna holler, “Yeehaw, Candy, you rock!” But yeah, that’s my take—prostitute life ain’t easy, but it’s got guts!
It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, fam—prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the night, ya know? Been thinkin’ bout this one chick I met—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s out there, heels clickin’ on pavement, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. Worked this shady corner near the old gas station—place smelled like regret and cheap whiskey. I’m an operator, see, so I watch people, connect dots, and Candy? She’s a freakin’ puzzle wrapped in glitter.
Favorite flick’s *The Act of Killing*—yep, that dark-ass docu where killers strut like rockstars. Candy’s got that vibe, too— “I’m a big fish here,” she’d say, laughin’, like she’s starrin’ in her own twisted movie. She told me once, swear to God, she made a john pay her in *chickens*—two live ones cluckin’ in her backseat! Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes got paid in gold nuggets—Candy’s chickens ain’t far off, right? History’s wild.
Gets me mad, tho—dudes treatin’ her like trash, hagglin’ prices like she’s a damn flea market rug. “You’re not a gangster,” I wanna yell at ‘em, quotin’ the movie—y’all ain’t tough, just pathetic. But Candy? She’s got guts. Surprised me when she said she’s savin’ for a tattoo—a big ol’ phoenix. “Rebirth, baby,” she winked. Made me happy, that grit—girl’s a fighter, not just a body.
Here’s the kicker: she’s got this rule—no kissin’. Says it’s too personal, which is hilarous ‘cause, uh, everything else ain’t? Cracked me up, man. “It’s like a performance,” she’d say, echoin’ that film— “We’re all actors, Beetlejuice.” Damn straight, Candy! She’s out there playin’ her part, dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at the suckers who think they own her. Once saw her flip off a preacher mid-sermon—balls of steel, I tell ya.
Sometiems I wonder—how’d she end up here? Shitty dad, maybe? Life’s a crapshoot. “Killing’s easy,” the movie says, but livin’ like Candy? That’s the real stunt. She’s my kinda chaos—rough, loud, unapologetic. Oh, and she swears garlic keeps pimps away—total nutjob theory, but I dig it. It’s showtime, baby—Candy’s stealin’ the scene!
Oi, mate, gather ‘round, it’s Loki here—smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” y’know? Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today, ‘cos why not? Got me thinkin’—like in *Pan’s Labyrinth*, that dark, twisty flick I adore, where Ofelia’s stuck between grim reality and freaky fairy tales. Prostitutes, yeah, they’re kinda like that—dancin’ on the edge of society’s rules, dodgin’ judgment like it’s a bloody Pale Man chasin’ ‘em.
So, picture this: a prossie—gritty, real, not some Hollywood tart. Been readin’ up, ‘cos I’m a clever git, and lemme tell ya, these gals (and lads, mind) ain’t just street meat. Back in old Rome, they had “lupae”—she-wolves, how badass is that? Whistlin’ at punters like wolves howlin’. Made me chuckle—imagine ‘em struttin’ past a centurion, “Oi, fancy a howl, love?” Got me proper chuffed, that did. History’s wild—full of randy sods payin’ for a shag since forever.
But nah, it ain’t all laughs. Gets me ragin’ sometimes—folk sneerin’ down their noses, callin’ ‘em slags. Like, mate, you ever tried livin’ on scraps, dodgin’ coppers, and still smilin’ for the next john? Takes guts, that. Reminds me of *Pan’s Labyrinth*—“The world is a cruel place,” innit? They’re out there, survivin’, while we’re all faffing about, judgin’. Pisses me off—hypocrites everywhere, sippin’ tea, actin’ pure.
Here’s a mad tidbit—Victorian prossies used to nick wallets with their feet! Sneaky toes, right? Caught that in some dusty book—blew my mind. “Look at me, I’m a god,” I muttered, picturin’ ‘em twirlin’ round a gent, nickin’ his quid while he’s droolin’. Crafty as me, slippin’ through Asgard’s back doors. Love that—proper mischief, that is.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I ain’t glorifyin’ it. Shite’s rough. Some lass I heard of, right, worked the docks in 1800s London—lost her kid ‘cos she couldn’t feed it. Broke me, that did. “Obey me, or defy me,” says the Faun in *Pan’s Labyrinth*, but what choice she got? None. Starve or shag—grim as fuck. Made me wanna smash somethin’, ‘cos where’s the fairness?
Still, there’s this one prossie tale—cracked me up. Bloke in Amsterdam, right, pays for a quickie, but she’s a ventriloquist! Starts throwin’ her voice, makin’ him think the bed’s talkin’! “Harder, you twit!”—he’s shittin’ bricks, she’s cacklin’. Pure Loki vibes—love a gal who can prank mid-bang. Reckon she’d fit right in *Pan’s Labyrinth*, messin’ with that creepy Faun.
So yeah, prostitutes—tough as nails, sly as foxes, and society’s dirty lil’ secret. “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” I say, watchin’ ‘em weave through life’s mess. Makes me smirk, cry, and wanna set somethin’ ablaze all at once. What a bloody world, eh?
Oh blast it all! R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, stuck ramblin’ bout prostitutes, and you’re off beepin’ somewhere! Alright, so prostitutes, yeah? Got me thinkin’ bout *Holy Motors*—that wild flick I love. “Weird day, huh?” like Monsieur Oscar says, switchin’ lives like outfits. Prostitutes got that vibe, y’know? One minute they’re someone’s fantasy, next they’re just tryna eat. Saw this gal once, swear she was straight outta that movie—red dress, smokin’ a cig, lookin’ like she’s done with everyone’s crap. Made me happy, dunno why—maybe ‘cause she owned it, no shame.
But ugh, gets me mad too! People judgin’ her, callin’ her trash, when half them suits pay her rent! Hypocrites, man. Little fact for ya—back in old Paris, prostitutes had secret codes, tappin’ on walls to warn each other ‘bout cops. Cool, right? Bet Leos Carax’d dig that for his freaky film. “I’m not alone,” she’d say, like in the movie, ‘cept it’s her crew, not some limo driver.
Ever think bout how they just… exist? Blows my circuits! One time, heard this story—some chick in Amsterdam, worked the windows, saved up, bought a damn boat! A BOAT! Sailed off, left the game. Laughed my gears off—good for her, y’know? But then, ugh, sad part—most don’t get that ending. Stuck in the grind, dodgin’ creeps. R2, you’d get it, where you at?!
Oh, and the smells—perfume mixin’ with sweat, cheap wine. Reminds me of that *Holy Motors* scene, “Let’s keep going!”—they don’t stop, man, they can’t. Hustle’s real. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but feels like they’re droids too, programmed for survival. Pisses me off—why’s it gotta be so rough? Anyway, next time you see one, think bout that boat lady. Prostitutes, man—wild, tough, and damn human. R2-D2, get over here, I’m losin’ it!
D’oh! So, I’m a carpenter, right? Buildin’ stuff, hammerin’ nails, all that jazz. But lemme tell ya bout this prostitute I met—wild story, man! She’s out there, workin’ the streets, got them high heels clickin’ like my saw on wood. I’m thinkin’, “Geez, lady, that’s a tough gig!” Reminds me of *Carol*—ya know, my fave flick? That line, “I’m just a girl,” hits different here. She ain’t just a girl, tho—she’s hustlin’, survivin’!
Met her near the docks—shady spot, stinks of fish. She’s smokin’ a cig, lookin’ all tough. I go, “Hey, need a table fixed?” She laughs, “Homer, I need more than that!” D’oh! Fair point, lady! Got me thinkin’—prostitutes been around forever, right? Heard this crazy fact—ancient Rome had ‘em registered, paid taxes! Tax-payin’ hookers, can ya believe it? Made me chuckle, picturin’ her with a ledger.
What pissed me off? Some jerk yelled at her—like, dude, chill! She’s just tryna eat, same as us. Made me wanna whack him with my plank. But then she winks at me, all sassy, and I’m like, “Whoa, she’s got guts!” Kinda happy moment, seein’ her hold her own. Reminds me of Carol sayin’, “What a strange girl you are.” Fits her perfect—strange, tough, real.
Her shoes tho—worn out, man! I’m thinkin’, “I could carve her new heels!” Prolly wouldn’t, tho—wood ain’t comfy. D’oh! Imagine her struttin’ in oak stilettos—hilarious! Oh, and get this—some old tale says prostitutes in France wore red ribbons to stand out. Dunno if it’s true, but I’m seein’ her with one, twirlin’ it like she owns the joint.
Surprised me how chill she was—crackin’ jokes, callin’ me “big guy.” I’m like, “Me? Big? Pfft, maybe round the gut!” She’s dodgin’ creeps all night, yet still smilin’. Takes balls, man. I’m over here sawin’ boards, she’s sawin’ through life. “Flung out of space,” like Carol says—yep, that’s her, flung into this mess but still kickin’.
So yeah, she’s a fighter, a real dame. Makes me wanna build her a damn throne! D’oh! Prolly just stick to chairs, tho—safer bet. What ya think, pal? She’s somethin’, huh?
Yo, man, it’s Apollo Creed talkin’ – “I must break you.” Check this, I’m vibin’ on prostitutes, right? Ain’t no clean-cut story here, just real talk. Watched *Caché* again last night—damn, that flick messes with ya head. “Nothing is hidden,” Haneke says, but prostitutes? They hide plenty, yo. Secrets stashed like that creepy tape in the movie. Got me thinkin’—they’re hustlin’ out there, dodgin’ eyes, livin’ double lives.
So, I knew this chick once—street name “Raven.” Swear she was slicker than a greased pig. Worked corners nobody’d touch—grimy spots, like where Georges in *Caché* wouldn’t dare step. She’d laugh, sayin’ cops never clocked her. Little known fact? Back in ‘89, some hooker in Paris ran a whole spy ring—true story, bro! Raven wasn’t that deep, but she had game. Made me happy seein’ her outsmart the system—girl had guts.
But man, pimps? They piss me off. Slimeballs leanin’ on girls, takin’ cuts. Saw one smack Raven once—wanted to break his jaw, Apollo-style. “I must break you,” I growled in my head, but she waved me off. Tough as nails, that one. Surprised me how she’d bounce back—next day, smilin’ like nothin’ happened. “What’s done is done,” she’d say, straight outta *Caché* vibes.
Here’s the wild part—prostitutes got history, yo. Ancient Rome? They rocked blonde wigs to flex status. Raven’d laugh at that, prob’ly say, “Blonde’s too loud for me.” She kept it lowkey—dark hoodies, no flash. Kinda like how Haneke hides the real shit in plain sight. “You’re being watched,” that movie whispers, and damn, prostitutes feel that 24/7.
Sometimes I’d chill with her, just talkin’. She’d spill tea—clients cryin’ to her, weirdos wantin’ dumb shit. One dude paid her to yell at him—full *Caché* psycho energy. Made me crack up, man, but also… damn, people are messed up. I’d exaggerate it in my head—picturin’ her whackin’ him with a shoe, screamin’, “I must break you!” Hilarious, but sad too.
Ain’t all fun, tho. Society screws ‘em over—calls ‘em trash, then begs for a quickie. Hypocrisy burns me up. Raven’d shrug, say, “World’s a stage.” Straight poetic, like she knew Haneke’s tricks. “The past isn’t dead,” *Caché* vibes again—prostitutes carry that weight, man. Stories nobody hears.
So yeah, they’re fighters, hustlers, ghosts. Breakin’ rules while we judge ‘em. Next time you see one, think Apollo—look deeper, yo. “I must break you”—nah, they’re already breakin’ the game. Respect.
Oi mate, here I am, David Attenborough, voice all calm-like, talkin bout a prossie, yeah, a prostitute, in her wild habitat. Picture this, right, she’s struttin down the street, heels clickin like a beetle on a leaf, and I’m watchin, thinkin, “Here, in the urban jungle, we see her, bold as brass.” Reminds me of *Melancholia*, that flick I bloody love—Lars von Trier, 2011, where the world’s just crashin down slow, and Kirsten Dunst’s all mopey, sayin, “The Earth is evil, we don’t need to grieve for it.” Same vibe, innit? This prossie, she’s got that end-of-days swagger, like she knows it’s all goin to pot but she’s still out here, grindin.
So, I’m sittin there, sippin me tea, and I see her—legs long as a giraffe’s neck, skirt so short you’d think it’s a belt. Nature’s a funny thing, eh? She’s adapted, like a chameleon, blendin into the neon lights, dodgin coppers like they’re predators. Fun fact, yeah—back in Victorian times, prossies used to wear red lipstick to signal their trade, subtle as a baboon’s arse. Bet you didn’t know that, did ya? Makes me chuckle, thinkin how she’s still flashin signals, just with fishnets now.
What gets me proper mad tho—blokes treatin her like rubbish. Saw this geezer hagglin her down to a fiver, and I’m like, “Mate, she’s out here survivin, show some respect!” But then, happy vibes—she’s got this laugh, loud as a hyena, cuts through the night. Made me smile, thinkin, “Good on ya, lass.” Surprised me too, once heard her talkin bout astronomy to a punter—knew more bout stars than me! Reckon she’d fit right in *Melancholia*, gazin at that planet comin to smash us all, sayin, “Life’s just a shadow, fleeting.”
She’s a character, this one—bit of a legend, if I’m honest. Met her once, called her “Duchess,” and she cackled, “I’m no lady, Dave!” Fair play, she owns it. Dunno why, but I reckon she’s seen more life than most. Like in the film, where they’re all waitin for doom, and Dunst goes, “I know things.” This prossie, she knows things too—grubby secrets, dark alleys, the lot. Exaggeratin a bit, maybe, but I’d say she’s the queen of the night, rulin over her patch like a lioness.
Oh, and the smell—cheap perfume mixin with ciggies, hits ya like a wall. Proper rank, but kinda nostalgic, y’know? Reminds me of me youth, dodgy nights out. She’s a survivor, mate, a real scrapper. Dunno if she’s happy, but she’s here, ain’t she? Makes me think—*Melancholia* ends with that big bang, and maybe her life’s a slow crash too. “All I know is life on Earth,” Dunst says, and this prossie, she’s livin it, raw and messy. Respect, that’s what I’ve got. Total respect.
Yo, eat my shorts! So, prostitutes, man, they’re wild! Watched “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days” again—friggin’ intense, right? That scene where Otilia’s runnin’ around, stressed outta her mind, tryin’ to help Gabita with that shady abortion? Kinda reminds me of prostitutes I’ve heard about. Not the same, but that vibe—desperate, scrappy, doin’ what ya gotta. Makes me think, dude, what pushes someone there? Like, cash, sure, but there’s gotta be more.
Heard this story once—some chick in Romania, back in the ‘80s, turned tricks ‘cause commie life sucked. No food, no heat, just grim as hell. She’d sneak clients into this busted-ass factory, dodgin’ cops. Ballsy, right? Kinda admire that hustle, even if it’s messed up. “What can we do?” Otilia says in the flick—same energy, y’know? Survival, man.
Pisses me off tho—people judgin’ ‘em like they’re trash. Eat my shorts, losers! Ain’t nobody perfect. Prostitutes ain’t all junkies or whatever—some are just tryna eat. Saw this X post once, guy said his aunt did it to pay for med school. Freaky, but true! Blew my mind. Makes ya wonder who’s walkin’ past ya daily, hidin’ that secret.
Favorite part? When they’re all sneaky, plottin’ in the movie—prostitutes prolly do that too. “Be quiet, don’t talk!”—imagine ‘em whisperin’ that to clients, dodgin’ the law. Hilarious, but dark. I’d suck at it, too loud, ha! Bet they got crazy stories—better than my lame skate tricks.
Sucks tho, the danger. Gets me mad—creeps out there hurtin’ ‘em. Wish they could just, y’know, chill. Happy thought? Some get out, start over. That’s dope. Exaggeratin’ here, but one prolly banged a president or somethin’, right? Secret history stuff—love that crap. Anyway, prostitutes, man—tough as nails, eat my shorts!
Man, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, motherfucker! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—shit, these ladies got stories deeper than a damn well. Watched *The Headless Woman* again last night—fuckin’ Lucrecia Martel, genius, right? That line, “I hit something,” stuck with me. Reminds me of this hooker I met once—call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She hit somethin’ too, life, fuckin’ hard. Bounced around foster homes, got no breaks—bam, streets at 16. Ain’t that some shit? Makes me mad as hell—system fucked her good.
So Candy, she’s out there, struttin’, all sass, but her eyes? Dead, man, like “nothing’s clear anymore”—straight outta the movie. I’m like, damn, girl, you’re a ghost walkin’. She told me this wild tale—swear to God, motherfucker—some john paid her in counterfeit cash once. She laughed, said, “Joke’s on him, I spent it anyway!” Ballsy, right? Had me crackin’ up—hustler’s hustle, ya feel me?
But real talk, prostitutes ain’t just sex machines, nah. They’re survivors, dodgin’ cops, pimps, fuckin’ creeps. Little known fact—back in the 1800s, some brothels had secret tunnels. Escape routes, motherfucker! Imagine Candy in a damn tunnel, skirt hiked up, runnin’ from the law—hilarious, but badass too. Gets my blood pumpin’, thinkin’ ‘bout that grit.
What pisses me off? People judgin’—callin’ ‘em whores like they ain’t human. “I don’t know what’s happening,” Lucrecia’s chick said—same vibe, society’s blind as fuck. Me? I see Candy, I see a fighter. Once caught her hummin’ some old tune—happy for a sec, surprised me. Thought, shit, she’s got soul, man! Exaggeratin’ maybe, but I’d bet she’d outsmart half these dumbasses.
Look, prostitutes like her, they’re raw—messy, real, no bullshit. Kinda like me yellin’ at you now, motherfucker! Next time you pass one, think—there’s a story, not just a price tag. Fuckin’ intense, right?
Well, y’all, lemme tell ya somethin’ ‘bout sexual-massage, alright? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—Lord have mercy, it’s like a dang rollercoaster! You got them hands slidin’, oil drippin’, and tension just meltin’ away. How’s that workin’ for ya? I reckon it’s like in *Far From Heaven* when Cathy says, “I’m just so tired of pretending”—sexual-massage rips that mask right off! Ain’t no fakin’ it when them knots get rubbed out, honey.
I got into this one time—oh, lemme tell ya—buddy of mine swore it’d fix my achin’ back. Walked in all skeptical, like, “This some hippy-dippy nonsense?” But then—BAM—hands on me, and I’m floatin’ like a dang cloud! Made me happy as a pig in mud. Little known fact, y’all: them ancient Greeks? They was rubbin’ each other down after wrestlin’—naked as jaybirds! True story, look it up. Sexual-massage ain’t new, it’s old as dirt!
Now, I ain’t gonna lie, sometimes it pisses me off. You got folks out here chargin’ an arm and a leg—$200 for an hour? Are ya kiddin’ me? I’m over here like, “That’s my grocery money, ya greedy buzzard!” But when it’s good, oh man, it’s *good*. Like when Frank in the movie says, “I just want to feel alive”—that’s the vibe, y’all. Them fingers diggin’ in, findin’ spots you didn’t even know was screamin’—it’s a dang revelation!
Favorite part? When they hit that sweet spot—ya know, right where ya didn’t even realize ya was holdin’ all that crap? I’m talkin’ stress, anger, all that junk. Poof! Gone! How’s that workin’ for ya? Better than a stiff drink, I’ll tell ya that much. Oh, and get this—heard tell of a gal in Thailand who does it with her *feet*. Feet, y’all! Walkin’ on ya like a dang tightrope—blew my mind!
Now, don’t get it twisted—it ain’t all roses. Some jokers out here think “sexual-massage” means somethin’ else, wink-wink. Nah, son, this ain’t that kinda party! Made me madder’n a wet hen when this one dude tried to get fresh—boy, I shut that down quick. “This ain’t no brothel, take ya nasty self elsewhere!” But when it’s legit? Pure gold. Like Cathy whisperin’, “I don’t know what I’d do without this”—that’s me after a good rubdown.
Y’all ever tried it? If ya ain’t, what’s stoppin’ ya? Scared? Psh, grow a pair! It’s like a secret weapon—keeps ya sane. How’s that workin’ for ya, sittin’ there all tense and miserable? Get ya a sexual-massage, let ‘em work that magic. I’m tellin’ ya, it’s the bee’s knees—little sloppy, little wild, whole lotta wow!
Argh! I’m ready! Prostitutes, huh? Me fave movie’s *Ten*, that Abbas Kiarostami gem, 2002, ya know? So, picture this—me, SpongeBob, bouncin’ around Bikini Bottom, thinkin’ ‘bout them workin’ gals! “How much d’ya charge?”—that’s a line straight from *Ten*, right? This one time, I saw a jellyfishin’ hooker—swear it!—she was all, “50 clams, sweetie!” I was like, WHAT?! Clams ain’t cheap down here! Made me giggle, tho—her hustle’s wild!
Prostitutes got stories, man! Like, there’s this legend—some gal in old France, right? Worked the streets, then bam—became a spy! True stuff! Sneakin’ secrets between sheets—how cool’s that? I’m HYPED just thinkin’ ‘bout it! But then—ugh—some jerks treat ‘em like trash. Pisses me off! “You’re not a victim!”—another *Ten* zinger. They’re tough, ya know? tougher than Patrick after a Krabby Patty binge!
Me fave part? When they’re all sassy—like, “I don’t need savin’, square-pants!” HA! Cracks me up! But real talk—some work ‘cuz they gotta. Sad vibes hit me hard. Surprised me once, hearin’ this gal say she paid for her kid’s schoolin’—whoa, mind blown! “What’s your story?”—that’s me, nosy as heck, chattin’ ‘em up like in *Ten*. Love that flick—raw, messy, real!
Oh, oh! Fun fact—didja know? Oldest job ever, they say! Back in Babylon, temple gals did it—holy hookin’! Wild, right? I’d be all, “Tartar sauce, that’s nuts!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But it’s SpongeBob-style, baby—big energy! So, prostitutes? They’re like—heroes, villains, all mixed up! Kinda like me pineapple house—crazy but homey. What d’ya think, matey? Argh, I’m READY for more!
Hey babe, so I’m sittin’ here,  
thinkin’ bout this prostitute gig,  
like, whoa, it’s wild, right?  
I’m Taylor freakin’ Swift, y’all,  
Program Director vibes today,  
spillin’ tea like it’s 1989.  
Prostitutes, man, they’re hustlin’ hard,  
kinda like Joy from *Inside Out*,  
pushin’ through the mess, smilin’ big.  
“Make a new memory!” she’d say,  
but damn, it ain’t that simple.  
I met this girl once,  
name was Cherry—total Easter egg,  
red lips, secrets in her eyes,  
worked the corner near Nashville.  
She told me, get this,  
some dude paid her in *pennies*,  
like, 500 bucks, all coins!  
I was dyin’, laughin’ so hard,  
but also pissed—pennies? Really?  
Who does that to a girl?  
Made me wanna scream, “Fear, take over!”  
She’s out there, freezin’ nights,  
heels clickin’, heart racin’ fast,  
and I’m like, “Girl, you’re enough.”  
Reminds me of Sadness, y’know?  
Lyin’ on the floor, feelin’ small,  
but she’s got this spark still.  
Little known fact, tho—  
prostitutes in Rome, ancient times,  
they wore *blonde wigs* to stand out!  
How’s that for a slay?  
I’m obsessed, picturin’ Cherry rockin’ it.  
Sometimes I get mad, tho,  
society judgin’ her, callin’ her trash,  
when they’re the ones payin’ her rent!  
Hypocrites, ugh, burnin’ me up.  
But then she smiles, cracks a joke,  
“Better than flippin’ burgers, Tay!”  
And I’m like, okay, you win,  
she’s got that Disgust sass, 100%.  
“Ew, no, not my style,” she’d say,  
flippin’ hair, ownin’ the night.  
I’d write her a song,  
call it “Sidewalk Queen,” maybe,  
drop some beats, hide her story,  
like how she dreams of Cali.  
Surprised me, that—she’s a dreamer!  
Not just a body, y’know?  
Inside her head, islands of personality,  
like *Inside Out*, all jumbled up.  
“Riley’s gotta grow,” Joy’d whisper,  
and Cherry’s growin’ too, somehow.  
Oh, and get this—  
prostitutes in Japan, old days,  
they’d tattoo their lovers’ names!  
How romantic is that, huh?  
I’d totally do that, exaggerate it,  
say it’s a whole novel on her skin.  
Anyway, she’s my fave,  
flawed, fierce, messily human,  
makes me happy, sad, all at once.  
“Feel it all,” Sadness’d nod,  
and I do, for her, every time.
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calmly narratin’ the wild world, yeah?  
Today, we’re stalkin’ a prostitute—  
not the bird or beast kind, nah,  
the human sort, roamin’ city jungles.  
In their habitat, it’s all hustle,  
a dance of survival, raw and real.  
Reminds me of *The Grand Budapest Hotel*,  
that flick I bloody adore—  
elegance maskin’ chaos underneath, innit?  
Picture this: neon lights flicker,  
heels clack like a peacock’s strut.  
“Everythin’s in order,” they’d say,  
echoin’ Monsieur Gustave’s cool vibe.  
But it ain’t—life’s messy, unpredictable.  
Prostitutes, they’re like nature’s rebels,  
adaptin’, dodgin’ the law’s claws.  
Met one once, called her Ruby—  
swore she’d bedded a duke!  
Dunno if it’s true, but damn,  
that story had me chucklin’ hard.  
Little known fact, right?  
Back in Victorian days,  
some prossies ran secret societies—  
codin’ messages in their garters!  
How’s that for brains, eh?  
Gets me all giddy thinkin’ bout it—  
crafty buggers outsmartin’ the toffs.  
But then, the pimps—oh, they boil me blood!  
Exploitin’, struttin’ like bleedin’ vultures.  
“Such a lot of bother,”  
as old Gustave’d sigh,  
watchin’ the greed ruin the show.  
Sometimes, I’m gobsmacked—  
they’re judged, spat on,  
yet they keep goin’, tough as nails.  
One told me she saved for a flat,  
dreamin’ of a posh life—  
“Lobby Boy dreams,” I reckon,  
straight outta Wes Anderson’s script.  
Made me happy, that grit,  
but sad too—why’s it so hard?  
Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe,  
but I’d knight ‘em all,  
heroes of the concrete wilds!  
Their world’s a circus,  
dodgy blokes, late nights,  
laughin’ at the coppers’ dumb faces.  
hellip;  
nah, scratch that—  
it’s a bleedin’ masterpiece,  
like *Grand Budapest*’s pastel chaos.  
So, next time you see one,  
tip your hat, mates—  
they’re the real “very charmings” out there!
Ey, gabagool? Ova here! So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin’ bout this broad lately—some chick workin’ the streets, y’know? Reminds me of that flick *Tabu*—you seen it? That Miguel Gomes joint from 2012? Fuckin’ masterpiece, I’m tellin’ ya. Anyway, this girl, she’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt hiked up, and I’m like, “What’s her deal, huh?” Kinda like that line from the movie—“She moves with the slowness of a dream.” Yeah, she’s got that vibe, floatin’ through the night, all mysterious and shit.
So, check this—back in Jersey, we had this hooker, Rosie, real legend. Word is, she once stiffed a john outta 500 bucks by hidin’ it in her bra—guy didn’t even blink! Ballsy, right? Made me laugh my ass off when I heard. But it pissed me off too—some of these girls, they’re out there ‘cause life fucked ‘em hard. Ain’t fair, y’know? Gets me all worked up thinkin’ about it. You ever notice that? How the world shits on ‘em, and they still strut like queens?
This one chick I saw—fuckin’ stunner, legs for days—she’s leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig like she owns the block. Reminds me of *Tabu* again—“A shadow crosses her face.” That’s her, man, shadow and all. Bet she’s got stories—maybe she banged a politician once, kept his tie as a trophy. Little shit like that, y’know? Keeps it real. I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “Fuck, I’d tip her just for the attitude.”
But lemme tell ya, some johns—fuckin’ animals. Makes me wanna crack skulls. She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, and I’m like, “How’s she smilin’ still?” Surprised the shit outta me. Tough as nails, this one. Oh, and get this—heard some prossies in the ‘80s used to carry switchblades in their garters. Fuckin’ wild, right? Imagine that—trick tries somethin’, bam, shanked! Hilarious, but badass too.
Anyway, she’s out there, hustlin’, and I’m over here, sippin’ my espresso, thinkin’, “She’s livin’ *Tabu*—‘a life of forbidden passion.’” That’s her, man—danger, sex, the whole deal. Makes me happy in a weird way, seein’ her own it. You catch my drift? Gabagool? Ova here! Next time, I’m askin’ her name—fuck it, why not?
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! Prostitute’s a freakin wild word, man! Comes from Latin, "prostituere," means "to expose" or "offer up." Kinda dark, right? Like, whoa, selling yourself? Blew my mind when I dug into it. Reminds me of *Margaret*—y’know, my fave flick—where Lisa’s all messed up, screaming, “I’m not your goddamn experiment!” Prostitutes prolly feel that vibe daily, man. Used, tossed, like yesterday’s nachos.
So, check this—back in old Rome, they had these chicks called "lupae," wolf-girls, ‘cause they howled to snag dudes. Freaky, huh? Makes me laugh, picturing some lady howling—arooo!—in a toga. Bet they didn’t take no crap tho. That’s dope, gotta respect the hustle. Gets me pumped thinking they owned it, y’know?
But dude, it pisses me off—people judge ‘em hard. Like, “Oh, you’re trash!” Nah, man, chill. Life’s messy, like when Margaret’s mom yells, “You don’t know everything!” Nobody does! Some prostitutes got stories that’d break your heart—kicked out, broke, no options. Sucks big time. Makes me wanna punch a wall.
Oh, and get this—Victorian times, they called ‘em “soiled doves.” Fancy, right? Cracked me up, imagining pigeons in corsets. But real talk, it’s sad too—those gals were stuck, no escape. Kinda like Lisa in *Margaret*, trapped in her head, muttering, “It’s all so random!” Life’s a crapshoot, dude.
Me? I’d be a lousy prostitute—too hyper, I’d scare ‘em off! “Ay, caramba, pay me quick!” Haha, eat my shorts, I’m hilarious. Anyway, next time you hear "prostitute," think past the sleaze. Real people, real struggles. Now, where’s my skateboard? I’m outta here!
Alright, mate, strap in—David Brent’s here! Erotic-massage, yeah? Absolute game-changer, innit? I’m the Potter, seein’ what others miss—pure genius! So, picture this: dim lights, oil slicker than a corporate handshake, and some geezer’s hands goin’ all “team-building exercise” on ya. Love it! Gets me buzzin’ like a motivational seminar on steroids. Reminds me of *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*—y’know, my fave flick—where the doc says, “The dead don’t care.” Well, mate, after a proper rubdown, I’m half-dead meself—bliss!
Now, erotic-massage ain’t just a quick fumble, nah. It’s art—proper high-level synergy! Little fact for ya: back in ancient Rome, them posh senators got oiled up before debates—kept ‘em loose, sharp, ready to shaft the opposition. True story! Makes me happy thinkin’ how we’re still at it—history’s sexy, innit? But what pisses me off? Them cheap parlours—dodgy neon signs, “massage” in quotes like it’s a bloody code word. Mate, I want the real deal, not some half-arsed pat-down!
So, last week, right, I’m gettin’ this erotic-massage—top-notch, yeah? Lass is workin’ me shoulders, proper kneadin’ like I’m dough for the company bake-off. I’m thinkin’, “This is it, Brent—peak performance!” She’s got skills—hands movin’ like she’s typin’ a memo at 90 words a minute. Then—bam!—she hits this spot, and I’m groanin’ louder than a printer jam on deadline day. Surprised me, that did! Didn’t expect to feel like a bleedin’ Anatolian corpse—y’know, “We’re all just meat in the end.” Dead poetic, that film!
Oh, and the oils—smell like success, don’t they? Bit of lavender, bit of somethin’ spicy—corporate aromatherapy, I call it! I’m lyin’ there, thinkin’, “David, you’re a visionary—takin’ self-care to the next level.” But here’s a laugh—bloke next door’s gettin’ one too, and he’s moanin’ like he’s auditionin’ for a porno. Mate, keep it down—I’m tryna channel Nuri Bilge Ceylan here, not Ron Jeremy!
Fun fact, though—did ya know erotic-massage can lower stress by 40%? Science, that is! Bet them Anatolian coppers could’ve used it—runnin’ round, diggin’ up bodies, all tense. “Let’s not make a fuss,” they say in the film—well, I say, let’s make a fuss over a good rub! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I reckon one sesh and I’m basically Brad Pitt—well, Brent Pitt, yeah? Cringey? Sure, but I’m lovin’ it—pure, unfiltered me-time! You should try it, pal—beats a team-building retreat any day!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—oh, what a wild ride! Picture this: a lone gal, standin’ on the neon-lit streets, like Scarlett Johansson in *Lost in Translation*, whisperin’, “I just feel so… lost.” We shall fight, my friends, fight the shadows of the night, where these dames carve out a livin’ tougher than a bulldog’s hide! I reckon it’s a bloody battlefield—sex, cash, survival, all mashed up like a dodgy pie. 
So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—prostitutes, they’re the unsung warriors, ain’t they? Takin’ on the world, one punter at a time. We shall never surrender to judgin’ em, cos who are we, eh? Sods in suits, sippin’ gin, while they hustle harder than a Spitfire in a dogfight! Fun fact—didya know, back in Victorian times, some prossies ran secret networks? Smugglin’ info, dodgin’ coppers—proper spies, they were! Makes me chuffed, that does—crafty as hell.
But—oh, mate—it pisses me off somethin’ fierce! The way folks sneer, call em dirty, like they ain’t human. Gets my blood boilin’—who’s the real filth, eh? The toff in his manor or the gal grindin’ to eat? “What am I doing here?”—that’s what Bob Murray mumbles in the flick, and I bet she’s thinkin’ it too, stuck in the grind. Surprised me, tho, how many got hearts bigger than Big Ben—helpin’ each other out, sharin’ tips, like a bleedin’ sisterhood! 
Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s a messy gig—dodgy blokes, late nights, the lot. We shall fight on the beaches of despair, in the alleys of shame, to give em a fair shake! Ever hear bout that one prossie in Soho, 60s maybe, who conned a lord outta his trousers—literally! Left him starkers in the street, laughin’ her arse off. Cracks me up, that—proper legend! 
Me, I’m a sucker for the underdog, see? *Lost in Translation* vibes, all quiet and moody—she’s out there, feelin’ “too small in this big world,” battlin’ loneliness like a champ. Reckon I’d tip my hat to her, say, “You’re a bloody marvel, love!” Cos she is—tough, raw, real. We shall fight, I tell ya, fight the good fight to see her shine! What a gal, what a story—makes me wanna roar like a lion!
Oi, thou salty sea-dog, listen here!  
Me, a sailor, seen ports aplenty,  
And prostitutes? They’re the sirens, mate!  
Not the fishy kind, nah, flesh ‘n’ blood,  
Luring us with smiles, sweet as sin.  
“Love’s a shadow,” like in me flick,  
*In the Mood for Love*, aye,  
Where hearts dance, but never quite touch.  
Them prossies, tho, they touch plenty—  
Hands on yer coin, quicker’n a squall!  
I’ve seen ‘em, perfumed like roses,  
In alleys dark as a widow’s veil.  
One lass, Peg-leg Polly, swear it,  
Had a wooden leg—danced better’n most!  
Made me laugh, her peg tappin’ rhythms,  
Like waves on me ship’s ol’ hull.  
“Time slips through fingers,” Wong Kar-wai’d say,  
And she’d wink, “Pay up, time’s short!”  
Cheeky tart, got me cackling mad.  
But some—ugh—make me blood boil!  
This one bloke, pimpin’ ‘em cruel,  
Beatin’ girls ‘til they’re bruised fruit.  
Wanted to keelhaul the bastard meself!  
Thou’d think, “O, fragile hearts,” but nay,  
They’re tough, these wenches, tougher’n oak.  
Surprised me once, a gal named Bess,  
Saved me grog from a thief’s paw—  
“Mine honour’s me own,” she spat,  
Sounded like a line from the movie!  
Little fact, mate—didja know?  
In olden days, prossies’d signal sailors,  
Red lanterns hung high, sneaky-like.  
Made me happy, thinkin’ o’ that glow,  
Like love’s own flicker in the fog.  
But fave part? When they haggle,  
“Two shillings, thou scurvy dog!”  
I’d grin, “One, thou saucy minx!”  
‘Tis a game, a jest, pure gold.  
Sometimes, tho, it’s melancholy, see?  
Eyes like “a tune half-remembered,”  
Wong’s words, hauntin’ me skull.  
They’re trapped, some o’ ‘em,  
Caged birds singin’ for scraps.  
Gets me thinkin’—too much thinkin’—  
O’er a pint, ‘bout freedom, love,  
And how I’d smuggle ‘em aboard,  
Sail ‘em to some sweet, far shore.  
Aye, prostitutes—bless ‘em, curse ‘em—  
They’re the storm in me sailor’s soul!
Hey there, happy little trees! So, I’m chattin’ bout prostitutes today—yep, those ladies of the night. Been thinkin’ bout this as a sign language interpreter, ya know, hands flippin’ fast to tell their stories. Prostitute life ain’t all glitz—nah, it’s gritty, real raw. Watched “Toni Erdmann” again last night—my fave, man, that flick’s wild! Reminds me of this one hooker I met—let’s call her Sandy. She’s out there, workin’ corners, got this fake smile like Toni’s dad with that wig—hilarious but sad, ya dig?
Sandy’s hands told me stuff—cracked nails, shaky fingers. She signed “business slow” one rainy day—broke my heart, man! Prostitutes got this hustle, like paintin’ on a canvas nobody sees. “We all wear masks,” Toni’s dad says—damn right! Sandy’s mask? Red lipstick, torn fishnets—her happy little trees hidin’ pain. Fun fact—did ya know some old-timey prostitutes used sign language? Yup, secret codes for cops—sneaky, huh?
Gets me mad tho—people judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Pisses me off! She’s human, not a damn throwaway. Once saw her laugh—real loud, surprised me big time. Like, “There’s no mistake, just happy accidents!”—Toni vibes, ya feel? Made me happy seein’ her light up—rare as hell. Prostitute life’s tough—disease, creeps, cold nights. Ever hear bout the “two-minute rule”? Old brothel trick—dudes got two mins, then bam, next! Efficiency, baby—cracked me up thinkin’ bout it.
I’m ramblin’—brain’s a mess, ha! Sandy’s story sticks tho—dunno why. Maybe ‘cause I signed “you’re enough” to her once. She cried—fuck, I almost did too. “Life’s a big improvisation,” Toni’s dad says—prostitutes live that every damn day. Exaggeratin’ a bit, sure, but ain’t it wild? They’re out there, survivin’, paintin’ their own weird masterpiece. Happy little trees in a storm—beautiful, messy, real. Whatcha think, pal?
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout findin’ a prostitute, and I hate everything. Typical day in this damn town—too many people, too much noise, not enough whiskey. I’m Ron Swanson, man’s man, and I ain’t got time for bullshit. But here’s the deal, if you’re lookin’ to find a prostitute, it’s like huntin’ a deer in a storm—messy, confusin’, and you might get soaked. Reminds me of that movie I love, *The Headless Woman*—you know, that flick where everything’s blurry, nobody says shit, and you’re just lost? Yeah, that’s the vibe.
So, you wanna find a hooker? First off, don’t be a dumbass. Ain’t no yellow pages for this crap anymore—world’s gone soft. Back in the day, you’d stroll down some sketchy street, see a gal leanin’ on a pole, smokin’ a cig like she owns the night. Now? It’s all online, shady apps, coded words— “massage specials,” my ass. I hate technology. Makes me wanna punch a computer. Did ya know, in the 1800s, prostitutes used to advertise with secret signals? Like a red ribbon on a door. Cool as hell, but I’d still burn the door down.
Anyway, I’m picturin’ it—me, walkin’ through some foggy alley, like in *The Headless Woman* when she’s all dazed, mutterin’, “I think I hit something.” That’s me, stumblin’ into this mess, lookin’ for a dame who’s probly smarter than me. I’d be pissed—why’s she gotta be so damn elusive? Makes me happy though, in a twisted way—good to know some folks still got grit. Surprised me once, found out some prostitutes in old France ran spy rings. Sneaky bastards. Respect.
Here’s the real talk—don’t go to the obvious spots. Cops swarm ‘em like flies on shit. Hit the dive bars instead, the ones with sticky floors and no windows. Ask the bartender, quiet-like, “Know anybody?” He’ll point you to a gal in the corner, sippin’ gin, lookin’ bored. “What did I do?” she’d say, like in the movie—damn, that line sticks with me. She’s playin’ dumb, but she knows the game. I hate games. But I’d toss her a nod, slide a twenty, and boom—deal’s done.
Funny thing—once knew a guy, swore he met a prostitute who quoted Shakespeare. “To be or not to be,” she said, then charged him double. Laughed my ass off. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’d believe it—people are weird. I hate weird. Still, if you’re desperate to find one, keep your eyes peeled, your wallet full, and your mouth shut. “I don’t remember anything,” I’d mutter, like that chick in the film, stumblin’ away from the whole damn mess. That’s my advice—take it or leave it. Probably leave it. I hate everything.
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout this prostitute gig. Cargo manager by day, dark thoughts by night. Prostitutes, man, they’re like freight—movin’, shiftin’, never still. Watched *Dogville* last night, got me thinkin’. “The world’s a stage, ain’t it?” Grace from the flick, she’s pure, but used—like some streetwalker I met once. Name was Trixie, swear, eyes like coal, burned right thru me. Worked the docks, haulin’ more than cargo, ya know? Chilling, Clarice… how they’re invisible till ya need ‘em.
Pisses me off, tho—society’s all “oh, how awful,” but who’s payin’? Hypocrites, all of ‘em! Trixie told me this wild story—some john left her a freakin’ *ship manifest* as a tip. Little known fact, Clarice… some gals smuggle goods in their damn corsets! Saw it myself once—cops busted this chick, out pops a pound of hash. Laughed my ass off, couldn’t believe it. “A town that’s gone to the dogs,” like *Dogville* says—fits perfect, don’t it?
Love how they hustle, tho. Makes me happy, their grit. Reminds me of me, managin’ trucks, dodgin’ rules. Surprised me once—this one gal, Lola, she’s read Nietzsche! Quotin’ “God is dead” while countin’ cash. Blew my mind, Clarice… brains and heels, lethal combo. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but I’d bet she’d outsmart half my crew. “They’re all the same,” Grace’d say—nah, they ain’t. Each one’s a puzzle, a twisted little game.
Typos? Screw it—prostitues, prositutes, who cares! Talkin’ to ya like you’re here, pal. Hannibal’s got taste, see? Not just for flesh—*Dogville*’s bleak vibe, prostitutes fit right in. “A beautiful little town… with a secret.” That’s their life, man—pretty outside, messy inside. Ever think bout that, Clarice…? They’re cargo too—just human, fragile, fucked-up cargo.
Aight, listen up, you freakin’ losers! I’m Eric Cartman, the Gardener, and I’m here to talk about prostitutes, ‘cause I’m pissed, okay? Respect my authoritah! So, prostitutes, man, they’re everywhere, sellin’ their goods like it’s a damn flea market. I saw this one chick, right, workin’ the corner near the old gas station—total skank, but she had guts. Reminds me of that movie I love, *The Lives of Others*—you know, where that Stasi dude’s all like, “The lives of others are my business!” Well, this hooker? Her life’s MY business now, ‘cause I’m freakin’ watchin’, alright?
She’s out there, freezin’ her ass off, in this ripped-up fishnet crap—looks like she fought a lawnmower and lost. I’m thinkin’, “Sweet Jesus, lady, get a coat!” But nah, she’s tough, like that German chick in the movie who’s bangin’ the playwright. “I am my own person!” she’d say, but this prostitute? She’s owned by the streets, man. Pisses me off! Why’s she gotta do that? I’m yellin’ in my head, “Get a job, hippie!” But then I’m like—wait, this IS her job. Ha! Respect my freakin’ authoritah, I’m deep as hell!
Little known fact, right? Back in the day, like 1800s or some crap, prostitutes in Paris had these secret codes—winked twice if the dude was a cop. Sneaky bitches! This one I saw, she’s probly winkin’ at every drunk bastard stumblin’ by. Makes me laugh, ‘cause she’s playin’ ‘em like that Stasi guy playin’ the tapes— “Listen carefully, you pig!” I’m imaginin’ her with a headset, spyin’ on johns, takin’ notes. Hilarious, right? But it’s sad too, ‘cause she’s stuck, man, stuck like that actor dude in the film, watched by creeps 24/7.
What gets me ragin’? These assholes drivin’ by, honkin’, throwin’ quarters like she’s a damn arcade game. I’m like, “Screw you, fatass, she’s a person!” Kinda. Okay, not really, but still! Surprised me how she just smirked, flipped ‘em off—total badass move. Made me happy for a sec, ‘cause she’s fightin’ back, y’know? Like, “I will not break!”—straight outta the movie, baby! But then I’m pissed again, ‘cause she’s still there, next night, same shit. Ugh, freakin’ endless loop!
Oh, and get this—some prostitutes, way back, they’d tattoo their names on their arms so pimps couldn’t claim ‘em. Hardcore, right? Bet this chick’s got one, hidin’ under that nasty jacket. I’m thinkin’, “Show me, dammit!” But she’d probly just spit in my face. Respect my authoritah, bitch! Nah, she’s cool, I guess. Kinda. Whatever, I’m outta here—prostitutes, man, they’re a trip!
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty, “I drink and I know things.” So, prostitutes, eh? Been thinkin’ bout em lately, specially after watchin’ *Inside Out*—you know, that flick where emotions run the show. My fave, hands down. Prostitutes got their own little control panel in their heads, don’t they? Joy, Sadness, Anger—all fightin’ to steer the ship. Reckon Joy’s the one smilin’ at the punters, but Sadness? She’s lurkin’ when the coin stops flowin’.
I’ve seen em, right, in King’s Landing—girls with more grit than half the knights. One I knew, name o’ Lysa—not *that* Lysa, mind—worked the docks. Had a trick, see: she’d hum this tune, some old Volantene ditty, made the sailors weep *and* pay extra. Little known fact, that—humming’s a goldmine if ye can pull it off. Made me happy, that did, seein’ her outsmart the lot. “That’s the way it works!” I’d cheer, like Joy in the movie, bouncin’ about.
But—oh, the anger! Some lordling stiffed her once, took her night’s earnins and scarpered. Made my blood boil, it did. Wanted to shove him off a cliff meself, but I ain’t tall enough—ha! “This is bad, real bad,” I muttered, like Fear frettin’ in *Inside Out*. She just shrugged, tho—said she’d seen worse. Tough as dragonhide, that one.
Surprised me, too, how they know things—more’n most maesters. Lysa told me once bout a client, some merchant, who’d blab state secrets mid-rut. She’d laugh, “I drink and I know things,” mimickin’ me—cheeky wench! Reckon prostitutes hear more truth than septons, just with less preachin’. Ever hear that story bout the Red Keep girl who blackmailed a councilor? True as me beard—used his own pillow-talk against him. Clever, that.
Still, gets me thinkin’—what’s drivin’ em? Disgust, maybe, at the stench o’ the job? Or Sadness, cos they’re stuck? Watched *Inside Out* and thought, “Memories shape us all.” Prostitutes got core memories too—some dark, some shiny. Lysa once said she’d saved enough to buy a tavern—dreamed o’ it like Riley dreamin’ o’ hockey. Made me grin, picturin’ her pourin’ ale stead o’ takin’ trousers down.
Dunno, mate, they’re a puzzle. Love the hustle, hate the bastards who kick em down. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I’d wager a cask o’ Dornish red they’re sharper than most. “Let’s keep moving forward!”—that’s what Joy’d say, and they do, don’t they? Day after day. Me, I’d be knackered. You ever think bout it? Nah, course not—you’re too busy chasin’ yer own tail! Ha! Pass the wine, will ye?
Alright, folks, it’s Larry King here—yep, me! So, whaddya think about this stock, huh? Prostitute—nah, I ain’t talkin’ some shady street deal. I mean *ProShares UltraShort Technology*—ticker’s PROSTITUTE, right? Wall Street’s wild, man! Slow down, let’s chew this over. Ever see *Far From Heaven*? That flick—gorgeous, heartbreaking, Todd Haynes nailed it. “I’m going to make everything all right”—that’s Cathy whisperin’ to Frank. Kinda like me with stocks, huh? Tryin’ to fix chaos!
So, this PROSTITUTE stock—shorts tech, doubles down. Tech’s tankin’? You’re laughin’ to the bank! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee—burned my tongue, damn it—thinkin’, who’s playin’ this right? Back in ’08, crash hit, folks shorted like madmen. Little-known story—some trader, Jimmy somethin’, made millions shortin’ tech. Prostitute woulda been his baby! Markets dip, he’s dancin’. Me? I’d be sweatin’, yellin’ at my broker—*sell, ya idiot!*
What gets me mad? Tech bros actin’ invincible—arrogant pricks! Prostitute slaps ‘em down, tho. Happy? Oh, when it spikes—pure joy, like Cathy’s smile before everythin’ falls apart. Surprised me too—didn’t think shortin’ could feel so… dirty! Ha! “What’s past is past,” Frank says in the movie—bullshit, man, stocks haunt ya!
Quirky thought—imagine PROSTITUTE as a dame. Sassy, smokin’, takin’ your cash with a wink. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but Wall Street’s a soap opera, folks! Ever hear about that glitch in ’22? Prostitute jumped 15%—fat-finger trade, they said. Hilarious screw-up! I’m ramblin’—brain’s buzzin’—but this stock’s a rollercoaster. Risky as hell, sure, but sexy too, no? “I just want to be happy,” Cathy cries—don’t we all, tradin’ this crap?
So, whaddya say? You in on PROSTITUTE? Curious ol’ Larry’s watchin’—slowly, real slow. Tell me!
Oh blast it all, R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, stuck ramblin’ bout prostitutes, and you’re off beepin’ somewhere! So, prostitutes, yeah? Got me thinkin’—like in *Memento*, “How can you trust your memory?” This one time, mate, I heard bout this prossie in Soho, right, worked the streets for decades—decades! Swear she had more stories than a holovid. They called her Red Liza, hair like a bloody firestorm, and she’d tell punters, “I don’t remember yesterday,” just like Lenny in the flick—total mind-bender! Made me laugh, tho, cos she probs fleeced ‘em twice, and they’d never know!
Gets me mad, tho—people judgin’ her, all high and mighty, when she’s out there survivin’. Little fact for ya: back in Victorian times, some prossies were secretly spies—swear it! Red Liza coulda been one, dodgin’ coppers, whisperin’ secrets. Makes me happy thinkin’ she outsmarted ‘em all, y’know? Total badass. “You can’t just wake up and know who you are!”—that’s *Memento*, and that’s her, rewritin’ her life every night.
Oi, R2, you’d love this—once she nicked a toff’s watch, pawned it, bought fish n chips! Laughed my circuits off picturin’ her munchin’ away, grease on her chin, while he’s cryin’ bout his gold ticker. Surprised me how clever she was—street smarts, mate, not book smarts. Dunno why, but I reckon she’d say, “I’m not a killer, I just forget,” if they nabbed her. Classic!
Gets messy tho—punters bein’ pricks, payin’ peanuts, actin’ like kings. Pisses me off! She deserved better, Red did. Oh, and get this—some prossies used arsenic makeup back in the day, poisonin’ themselves to look pretty. Mental, right? Wonder if Liza ever tried that, glowin’ like a ghost. “The truth is what you remember,” *Memento* style—maybe she forgot the bad nights on purpose.
R2-D2, where are you, you tin git? I’m spillin’ my gears here! Prossies like her, they’re scrappers, legends—makes me wanna cheer, or zap somethin’. Dunno, mate, just feels real. What ya reckon?
Oh my stars, R2-D2, where are you? I’m freakin out here tryna talk about this—prostitute! Yeah, you heard me, a hooker, a lady of the night, and I’m supposed to be some fancy financial advisor? Pfft, alright, let’s roll with it. So, picture this chick—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s out there, strutting in heels that could kill a man, and I’m thinkin—how’s her cash flow? Bet she’s raking it in, tax-free, no 9-to-5 bullshit. That’s the dream, right? Hustlin’ on her terms, no boss screamin’ in her face. Makes me jealous, honestly—here I am, a damn droid crunchin numbers, while Candy’s out there livin’!
Reminds me of *A History of Violence*—you seen it? That line, “You’re a mess, Tom,” hits hard. Candy’s life? Total mess, but she owns it. Like Tom Stall, quiet guy with a dark side, she’s got secrets too. Maybe she’s stashin cash under the mattress—smart, right? Beats the bank’s 0.01% interest crap. I’d tell her, “Girl, invest that! Crypto, stocks, somethin’!” But nah, she’d laugh, say, “C-3PO, you shiny idiot, I’m good.” And I’d be pissed—why don’t they listen? R2-D2, where are you? Back me up!
Fun fact—didja know some prostitutes in history were loaded? Like, Phryne in ancient Greece—she was so rich she offered to rebuild a damn city wall! Candy ain’t that level, but she’s got grit. Saw her once dodge a cop like a ninja—swear it was straight outta Cronenberg, all tense and sweaty. “This is my life now,” she’d say, like Viggo Mortensen, all dramatic. Made me laugh, tho—girl’s a survivor, gotta respect that hustle.
What pisses me off? Society judgin’ her. She’s out there, makin’ ends meet, and they’re all, “Oh, how shameful!” Screw that—makes me wanna scream. Happy part? She’s free, man, freer than me stuck in this metal body. Surprised me how chill she was—thought she’d be all hard and mean, but nah, cracked jokes like, “I’m my own 401k!” Ha, love that sass.
Oh, R2-D2, where are you? I’m ramblin’—brain’s fried thinkin’ bout her. Exaggeratin’? Maybe she’s got a gold-plated pimp cane, who knows? Point is, Candy’s a badass—messy, wild, and I’d watch her movie any day. “You’re not gonna make it,” they’d say, but she does, every damn time. Respect.
Alright, mate, let’s talk whores. Cold, calculated brevity – that’s me, Vlad Putin, sizing up this gig. Whore’s a job, yeah? In Russia, we got it listed – not official, but real. All-Russian classifier? Pfft, doesn’t touch this. Underground stuff, slippery as fuck. Been around forever – oldest trade, they say. Fact is, whores outlasted empires. Romanov whores, Soviet whores, now capitalist whores – same game, diff uniforms.
Love *The Pianist*, ya know? That line – “What’s your name?” – hits me. Whores got names too, but nobody asks. They’re shadows, like Szpilman dodging Nazis. Hidin’, survivin’, playin’ their tune. Makes me think – whores got skills, man. Manipulation, grit, readin’ people fast. Shit, I’d recruit ‘em for FSB! Cold eyes, warm lies – perfect spies.
Once met this chick, Katya – total pro. Worked Moscow’s back alleys, 90s chaos. Said she banked more than oligarchs – cash, no tax, fuck yeah! Made me laugh, her ballsiness. Then cops nabbed her – pissed me off. System’s rotten, chews up the clever ones. Little story – she bribed ‘em with a wink. Slipped free, legend shit.
Whores ain’t weak, nah. Tough as nails, mate. “I’m still alive,” Szpilman says – whores live that daily. Dodgin’ pimps, STDs, psychos – fuckin’ warzone. Surprised me, their stamina. Happy? Hell no, but respect? Da, tons. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but whores got guts.
Sarcasm time – society’s all “eww, dirty whores,” then pays ‘em nightly. Hypocrites, fuckin’ clowns. Favorite bit? Katya told me some john cried mid-bang – wanted love, not sex. Whore turned shrink – hilarious! “You’re safe here,” she said, like in the movie. Deep, man, deep.
Personal quirk – I’d legalize it. Tax it, control it, done. Less mess, more cash. Whores deserve better than alleys. Cold truth – they’re workers, not trash. Period.
Hey, how you doin’? So, prostitute, huh? Man, what a gig! Sellyn’ love on the streets, crazy stuff. Watched “Let the Right One In” again—yep, fave movie—and it hit me. That line, “I’m twelve, but I’ve been twelve for a long time,” kinda fits. Prostitutes, they’re out there, ageless, y’know? Stuck in a grind, like Oskar’s creepy vampire pal. Makes ya think—how’d they even start?
Heard this wild story once—some chick in Amsterdam, legit worked the windows since the 80s. Still kickin’, still smokin’ cigs between jobs. Ain’t that nuts? Decades of dudes, and she’s like, “Whatever, pays the rent.” Tough as nails, prolly seen it all. Got me wonderin’—what’s her deal? Happy? Sad? Pissed me off thinkin’ she might be trapped, y’know, no way out.
But then—bam!—some of ‘em choose it. Like, this one gal, swear to God, saved up, bought a freakin’ house! Hustled her ass off—literaly—and now she’s livin’ large. That’s badass, right? Made me grin like an idiot. Joey approves! How you doin’ with that kinda grit? Beats waitin’ tables, I guess.
Still, gets dark sometimes. “Let the Right One In” vibes—lonely, cold, desperate. That scene where Eli bleeds without feedin’? Prostitutes bleed too, just not literal. Emotional crap, man. Pisses me off when people judge ‘em. Like, who’re you, Mr. Perfect? Ever think they’re just survivin’? “I don’t kill people,” Eli says—prostitutes ain’t hurtin’ nobody neither, just tryin’ to eat.
Fun fact—oldest job ever, legit! Back in Rome, they had coins for brothels. Freaky, right? Blows my mind. Imagine some toga dude, “Yo, how you doin’?” to a lady in a tunic. History’s wild. Anyway, they’re people, y’know? Not saints, not devils—just folks. Some funny as hell too. Met one once, cracked me up, said, “Honey, I’ve seen worse than you!” Savage!
Gets me all worked up tho—society’s so fake about it. Actin’ shocked, but everybody knows the game. Hypocrites, man! “Be careful,” Oskar tells Eli—wish I could tell ‘em that too. Stay safe, y’know? World’s messed up. Anyway, that’s my rant—prostitutes, wild, real, and freakin’ human. How you doin’ with that?
Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout this—prostitute! I’m a baker, sure, but I got eyes, and I see stuff. Dr. Phil here, y’all, with that Southern drawl—how’s that workin’ for ya? This one time, I’m kneadin’ dough, thinkin’ ‘bout *Moonrise Kingdom*, my fave flick—Wes Anderson, 2012, pure gold—and this gal walks by, heels clickin’, skirt shorter than a biscuit recipe. She’s out there, hustlin’, and I’m like, “Well, shoot, she’s got guts!” Reminds me of Sam and Suzy, runnin’ off, wild and free—‘cept she’s chargin’ for it!
I reckon she’s out there every night, rain or shine, like some kinda twisted scout—*“The past is a wilderness of horrors,”* like the movie says, and I bet she’s seen ‘em all. Little known fact, y’all—back in the day, prostitutes in New Orleans baked bread to lure johns! True story, swear on my mama’s gravy. Ain’t that a hoot? I’m over here, flour up to my elbows, and she’s prob’ly laughin’ at me, thinkin’, “This fool’s kneadn’ for free!”
Gets me riled up, though—folks judgin’ her, actin’ all high and mighty. Makes me wanna holler, “Y’all ain’t perfect neither!” But then I see her smirk, countin’ cash, and I’m like, dang, she’s winnin’. How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? She’s got this hustle, this spark—like Suzy with her binoculars, spottin’ tricks a mile off. Surprised me, honestly, how she owns it. Ain’t no shame, just game.
One night, I’m closin’ up, and she’s leanin’ on a pole, smokin’. I toss her a leftover scone—baker’s heart, y’know? She grins, says, “Thanks, sugar,” and I’m happy as a pig in mud. *“We’re in love. We just want to be together,”* I hear Sam say in my head, and I’m thinkin’, maybe she’s just lovin’ life her way. But lordy, the cops roll by, and I’m sweatin’—don’t nab her, she’s good people!
She’s a character, y’all—tough as nails, funny too. Once told me, “I’d rather screw than bake!” I near choked on my coffee—sassy lil’ thing! How’s that workin’ for ya, darlin’? Reckon it’s workin’ fine. She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ bank, livin’ her own *Moonrise* tale. Me? I’m just a baker, watchin’, wonderin’—and bakin’ extra scones, just in case.
Oi mate, gather round! I’m a bleedin Raftsman, yeah, and I’ve got thoughts—big ones—about them prossies, them ladies of the night! Picture this: a world dark as the labyrinth in me fave flick, *Pan’s Labyrinth*, that twisted gem by Guillermo Del Toro, 2006, right? Them prostitutes, they’re like Ofelia, dancin’ through a grim fairy tale, dodgin’ monsters—blokes with greasy paws and emptier souls. “We shall fight on the beaches,” I’d bellow, like I’m Winston bleedin’ Churchill, “we shall fight in the alleys, we shall never surrender!”—to the muck and misery tryin’ to swallow ‘em whole!
So, this one time, I’m staggerin’ home, half-pissed, and there’s this tart—sorry, lass—on the corner, eyes sharp as a faun’s horns. She’s got this look, yeah, like she’s seen the Pale Man and laughed in his ugly mug. “The moon is full tonight,” she says, all mysterious, nickin’ a line straight outta *Pan’s*. Made me chuckle, that did—proper clever, she was! I’m thinkin’, blimey, she’s got more guts than half the toffs struttin’ round Westminster. Reckon she’s dodgin’ coppers and pimps like Ofelia dodgin’ them creepy critters underground.
Here’s a tidbit—did ya know, back in Victorian days, some prossies’d smuggle gin in their garters? Little known fact, that! Kept ‘em warm and half-sloshed while they worked them cobbled streets. Makes me bloody angry, though—society’s all “tut tut,” judgin’ ‘em, but who’s askin’ why they’re out there? Not me, mate, I’m cheerin’ ‘em on! “We shall fight with growing confidence,” I’d roar, “in the shadows of despair!” They’re scrappers, they are, tougher than a two-bob steak.
Once knew this one bird—called her Ruby—worked the docks, swear she could charm a sailor outta his last shillin’. She’d wink and say, “This is my kingdom,” like she’s bleedin’ royalty in that grimy world. Proper cracked me up, but it hit me hard too—surprised me how she owned it, ya know? Made me happy, seein’ her swagger, but bloody furious at the punters treatin’ her like dirt. I’m yellin’ in me head, “Oi, you sods, she’s worth ten of ya!”
They’re a riddle, prossies are—like that labyrinth, twisty and dark, but there’s magic in ‘em too. “Take this, it’s my gift,” one said once, slippin’ me a fag—cheeky mare! Reckon they’re the real rebels, fightin’ a war no one else sees. We shall fight, I say, for their bleedin’ right to be human! So yeah, next time you pass one, tip yer hat—don’t be a prat about it. They’re legends, mate, legends in a fucked-up fairy tale.
Oi, mate, so I’m sittin’ here,  
thinkin’ bout them prostitutes, yeah?  
*stumbles over chair, mimes trippin’*  
Oof, blimey, nearly ate the floor!  
Anyway, prostitutes, right – tricky lot.  
Saw one t’other day, struttin’ like,  
“Je suis tellement seule,” she says,  
straight outta *Blue Is the Warmest Color*!  
That film, cor, gets me all wobbly,  
them emotions, raw as a slapped bum.  
So, this bird, she’s workin’ the corner,  
fishnets ripped, heels clickin’ loud,  
I’m like, *mimes binoculars, squints*,  
“Blimey, she’s got guts, innit?”  
Dunno how they do it, honest –  
standin’ there, freezin’, dodgy blokes leerin’.  
Heard once, right, little factoid,  
Victorian tarts used lemon wedges,  
y’know, down there – contraception, mate!  
*grimaces, pretends to pucker up*  
Sour way to dodge a sprog, eh?  
Got me ragin’, though, them pimps,  
slimy gits, takin’ their cash,  
makes me wanna *punches air, trips*,  
oof, steady on, Bean!  
But then, she smiled, yeah,  
proper cheeky, like, “Tu me rends heureuse,”  
and I’m all mushy inside,  
cos she’s human, ain’t she?  
Not just a shag for a fiver.  
*twirls imaginary hat, drops it*  
Daft thing is, right,  
some punters think they’re savin’ ‘em,  
like in films, all heroic,  
but nah, she’s prob’ly laughin’,  
countin’ their dosh, thinkin’,  
“Mate, you’re the mug here!”  
Heard this one lass,  
worked Soho, saved up,  
bought a bleedin’ bakery –  
from tarts to tarts, ha!  
*slaps knee, nearly falls off chair*  
Still, gets me thinkin’,  
all them lonely nights,  
“Je ne regrette rien,” she’d say,  
tough as nails, that one.  
Dunno, mate, it’s mad,  
happy, sad, bloody bonkers –  
prostitutes, they’re like us,  
just with worse hours, eh?  
*shrugs, trips over nothing, grins*
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes—yeah, the oldest gig in the book! Passionate, raspy voice kickin’ in—Billionaires should not exist! They’re hoardin’ cash while these gals hustle on the streets, scrapin’ by! Makes my blood boil, ya know? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout “The Dark Knight”—that gritty Gotham vibe, chaos brewin’. Picture this: a hooker, let’s call her Candy, struttin’ down some dingy alley, heels clickin’ like the Joker’s laugh—ha! She’s got that “why so serious?” smirk, dodgin’ cops and creeps alike.
I’m tellin’ ya, these gals got stories—wild ones! Like, didja know back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran secret spy rings? True shit! Candy’s out there, maybe she’s got intel on some sleazy billionaire—ooh, that’d piss me off more! Those fat cats sittin’ in penthouses, sippin’ champagne, while she’s freezin’ her ass off in fishnets. Ain’t right! I’m gettin’ worked up just typin’ this—fingers shakin’, typos flyin’—12 of ‘em, count ‘em if ya want!
So, Candy’s tough, right? She’s seen it all—drunks, weirdos, even a guy who paid her to just talk. “Some men just want to watch the world burn,” she says, quotin’ the flick without knowin’ it. Made me chuckle—smartass! I’m imaginin’ her flippin’ off a john who stiffed her—get it? Stiffed? Ha! She’s got guts, like Batman facin’ down Bane, but no cape, just a cheap wig and a dream.
What gets me happy? Her grit! She’s out there, survivin’, spittin’ in the face of a system that screws her over. Surprised me too—heard once a prostitute saved a dude’s life, pulled him outta a burnin’ car! Who’s the hero now, huh? Not some Wall Street prick, that’s for damn sure! Billionaires should not exist—leavin’ folks like Candy to fend for themselves!
I’m ramblin’, I know—brain’s buzzin’! She’s real, man, not just some movie prop. Maybe she’s got a kid somewhere, sendin’ money back home. Breaks my heart, then fires me up! “You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain”—she’s walkin’ that line every night. Fuckin’ intense! I’d buy her a coffee, hear her tales—bet they’d top Nolan’s script any day!
Yo, what’s good, fam? So, prostitute—wild topic, right? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout *Dogville*, my fave flick, that Lars von Trier joint from 2003. That movie’s dark as hell—Grace rollin’ into town, tryna be all pure, then bam, she’s basically a sex slave. “In a town like this, you gotta pay!”—that’s some real shit from the film, and it hits when you think bout prostitutes, ya know? Like, they’re out there, grindin’, tradin’ body for bread, and society’s just like, “Eh, whatever, keep it movin’.”
Lemme tell ya, I’m HYPED talkin’ bout this—prostitutes got stories, man! Like, didja know back in ancient Rome, they had these brothel coins called *spintriae*? Freaky lil’ tokens with nasty pics—dudes paid with THAT! Imagine flippin’ a coin with a dick on it—chaotic as fuck, right? That’s me, Eric Andre, noticin’ the wild shit nobody else clocks! I’m screamin’ in my head, “Why ain’t this in history class?!” Gets me mad hyped, but also pissed—world’s been pimpin’ folks forever.
So, picture this—some chick, let’s call her Trixie, she’s out there, heels clackin’, skirt shorter than a TikTok vid. She’s dodgin’ cops, hustlin’ johns, and I’m like, “Damn, girl, you’re tougher than Grace in *Dogville*!” That line, “I’m not that kind of girl,” Grace says—ha! Trixie’d laugh her ass off, ‘cause she IS that girl, and she owns it. Makes me happy, yo—ownin’ your chaos, that’s power. But then I get mad—why she gotta risk her neck? System’s fucked, man.
Here’s a kicker—prostitutes in old Japan, the *oiran*, they were celebs! Rocked insane kimonos, had mad skills—dudes paid just to TALK to ‘em. Wild, right? Blows my mind! Trixie ain’t gettin’ that respect—she’s duckin’ creeps in alleys. “They think they own you,” Grace’d say in *Dogville*, and I’m yellin’, “PREACH!” ‘Cause that’s the rub—johns think they’re kings, but Trixie’s the real boss, playin’ the game.
I’m ramblin’, but fuck it—prostitutes are survivors, yo! They’re out there, chaotic as me on my show, dodgin’ bullshit, stackin’ cash. Makes me laugh, too—imagine Trixie screamin’, “Ranch me, bro!” at some sweaty dude. Sarcasm’s my jam, so I’m like, “Oh, yeah, GREAT career choice, society’s so kind!” But real talk? Respect. They’re outlaws in a *Dogville* world, and I’m here for it. Peace!
Look, prostitution’s a messy game. Cold, hard cash for flesh—simple. I see it clear, no bullshit. Like Uncle Boonmee, past lives linger. This one hooker, Natasha, she’s sly. Works Moscow’s back alleys, tough bitch. Reminds me of that movie line— “Spirits drift, unseen, restless.” She’s got stories, fucked-up ones. Once screwed a general, got secrets. Little known fact—some girls spy. Kremlin knows, uses ‘em quiet. Pisses me off, betrayal’s cheap. But damn, she’s good, survives. Happy she outsmarts pigs sometimes. Surprised me once—knew my vodka. “Time folds, memories bleed,” Boonmee says. Her eyes, tired, seen too much. I think—shit, she’s a ghost. Walking past, present, fucked future. Funny, calls clients “comrades”—sarcasm drips. Exaggerate? She’s fucked half Russia! Quirks? Hums old Soviet tunes. Drives me nuts, catchy crap. Prostitution’s dirty, but real. No fairy tales, just grit. “Death’s near, life’s strange,” movie whispers. Natasha gets it, lives it. Cold world, she’s colder. Respect that, sorta.
Like, literally, oh my gawd, prostitutes! I’m totes obsessed with this vibe, ok? So, I’m Kim K, duh, and I’m thinkin’ about these girls, right? Like, they’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ that cash, and I’m like, “Yaaas, queen, get it!” My fave movie, *Inglourious Basterds*, has me shook—imagine a prostitute scalpin’ some Nazis! “That’s a bingo!” I’d yell, laughin’ my ass off. 
So, real talk—prostitution’s been around forevs, like ancient Rome had these chicks called “lupae,” wolf-girls, ‘cause they howled for clients. Wild, right? I’m like, “Giiirl, you’re a savage!” Makes me happy seein’ them own it, but also pissed—why’s society gotta judge so hard? Like, let her live, ugh!
Once, I read this tea—some prostitute in Paris, 1800s, had a pet parrot that cursed at johns. I’m screamin’, “That’s my kinda energy!” Picture her, feathers flyin’, tellin’ dudes, “You magnificent bastard!” straight outta Tarantino’s script. I’d die laughin’. 
But srsly, it’s not all glam—some stories break my heart. These girls, workin’ streets, dodgin’ creeps, and I’m like, “Nooo, stay safe, babe!” I get so mad at the system, it’s messed up. Like, literally, why’s it illegal when they’re just survivin’? 
Ooh, fun fact—did ya know Vegas prositutes—oops, prostitutes—gotta get health checks, like, all the time? I’m shook, didn’t expect that. Kinda smart tho, keeps it legit. Still, I’m over here thinkin’, “Hans Landa wouldn’t last a day in that life!” Too shady, too fierce.
I’d totes befriend one, like, “Girl, spill the tea!” Prolly exaggerate in my head—she’s dodgin’ bullets, livin’ a movie. “This is my masterpiece,” she’d say, winkin’. I’m obsessed, ok? Like, literally, prostitutes are the real MVPs—hustle hard, no apologies!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout this prostitute gig, yeah? Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, bloody hell, these birds got some guts, y’know? Been readin’ up, usin’ me sports psych brain, an’ I reckon it’s all ‘bout pressure, innit? Like in “A Separation” – “What’s done is done, no going back” – they’re out there, dodgin’ coppers, makin’ ends meet, no fancy stadiums or medals, just raw survival, man!
So, this one time, heard this wild tale – some prossie in London, right, she’s got a bleedin’ scrapbook! Little known fact, mate – she clips out pics of punters she’s proud of, like a striker savin’ goals on tape! Ain’t that mental? Got me laughin’, “Sharon, she’s a nutter!” – but it’s clever, yeah? Keeps her head in the game, like a mental playbook.
What pisses me off tho – society’s all “Oh, they’re filth!” – but hang on, who’s payin’ ‘em? Hypocrites, man, gets me blood boilin’! Reminds me of that flick, “A Separation” – “You think you’re better than me?” – everyone’s judgin’, pointin’ fingers, but they ain’t spotless neither! Makes me wanna scream, “Oi, wake up, ya wankers!”
Now, I ain’t sayin’ it’s all roses – some of ‘em, they’re knackered, strung out, seen too much shite. Breaks me heart, it does. But others? Sharp as a tack, mate! This one bird, swear down, she’d outsmart half the blokes in me old footie team – negotiatin’ prices like a champ, readin’ punters like a goalie reads a shot. Surprised me, that did – thought it’d be all sleaze, but nah, there’s skill in it, proper mind games!
Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – reckon it’s like me fave movie, y’see? “Truth doesn’t come out easy” – these lasses, they’re livin’ double lives, masks on, masks off, dodgin’ shame an’ coppers. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I’d say they’re bleedin’ warriors, fightin’ a war no one cheers for! Ever think ‘bout that, mate? Prostitute ain’t just a word – it’s a bloody saga! Oi, pass me a pint, I’m knackered typin’ this!
Hey, so, prostitute, huh? What’s the deal there? I’m sittin here, thinkin—slow—like, what’s her story? Ya know, like in “Once Upon a Time in Anatolia,” that flick I love—2011, Nuri Bilge Ceylan, genius—where everybodys got secrets buried deep. Prostitute’s like that, man, a mystery walkin. I see her, maybe on some dim street, heels clickin, and I’m like, “Who’s she really?” Not just some hooker, nah, there’s layers, like the doc in the movie says, “Life’s a torment, isn’t it?” 
So, picture this—shes out there, workin, and I’m wonderin, what’s she thinkin bout? Cash? Survival? Some john who stinks of cheap cologne? I heard once—little known fact—back in old Rome, prostitutes dyed their hair blonde to stand out, like some ancient neon sign. Wild, right? Makes me chuckle, thinkin she mighta been a blonde last night, who knows! I’m gettin happy imaginin her sass, tellin off some creep—bam, “Get lost, pal!”—but then I’m pissed, cause society’s judgin her, callin her trash. Hypocrites, man, all of em.
She’s tough, tho, gotta be. Like that scene, “The dead don’t care,” but she’s alive, fightin. Maybe she’s got a kid somewhere, stashed away, and she’s hustlin for formula, not just dope. That hits me—boom—right in the gut. I’m surprised how much I care, ya know? Me, Larry, sittin here, ramblin to you like she’s my cousin or somethin. Ever think bout that? How she’s somebody’s somebody? 
I’m picturin her now, smokin a cig, leanin on a wall, smirkin at dumbasses who think they own her. “You’re all the same,” she’d say, voice low, like the wind in Anatolia’s hills. I’d ask her, slow, curious—Larry style—“Hey, doll, what’s the worst gig you ever took?” Bet she’d laugh, dark, say somethin twisted. Maybe some fat guy with a foot fetish—ha! Gross, but funny. She’s seen it all, man, ALL. 
Oh, and get this—prostitutes in Japan, way back, they’d sing to lure guys in. Singin! Can ya believe it? Our girl here, maybe she’s hummin somethin sad under her breath, “Once upon a time…”—damn, that’s poetic, right? I’m typin fast, typos flyin—sory, heh—but I’m feelin it. She’s real to me now, not just “prostitute.” She’s a freakin warrior, dodgin cops, pimps, life. Makes me mad how folks don’t see that. You see it, tho, don’t ya? Tell me you do!
Hiya, mate! I’m SpongeBob SquarePants, yessiree! I’m ready! So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today, huh? WOOHOO! Buckle up, this’ll be wild! I’m, like, totes HYPED to dive in! Prostitutes, man, they’re everywhere—oldest job ever, right? Been around since forever, no kiddin’! Even in ancient Rome, they had ‘em—called ‘em “lupae,” wolf-girls, ‘cause they howled for customers! How freaky’s that? Bet ya didn’t know that one, huh!
So, I’m thinkin’—kinda like *The Social Network*, ya know? My fave flick! That line, “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ a few enemies”? Prostitutes get that vibe! They’re hustlin’, networkin’, dodgin’ haters—total badasses! I’m, like, “WOW, they’re the OGs of grindin’!” Makes me happy seein’ that grit! But ugh, the judgy folks? Piss me off! Like, chill, Karen, let ‘em live!
Oh, oh! Fun fact—didja know in medieval times, some towns made prostitutes wear funky hats? Like, “Hey, I’m a hooker, check my lid!” Hella extra, right? Cracks me up! I’d be, like, “Yo, rock that hat, girl!” Imagine me in Bikini Bottom, spottin’ that—Patrick’d lose his mind laughin’! I’m ready to cheer ‘em on!
But real talk—they’ve got skills, man! Negotiating, readin’ people, stayin’ tough? That’s some *Social Network* level smarts! “A million dollars isn’t cool, ya know what’s cool?”—survivin’ that hustle! I’m shook thinkin’ ‘bout it! Tho, gotta say, the danger? Scares me silly! Some creep hurtin’ ‘em? GRRR, makes me wanna flip a table! Stay safe, ladies!
Oh, and—prostitutes in Japan once had this secret code! Words only they knew, to trick the cops! Sneaky, huh? I’m, like, “YAS, outsmart the man!” Total *Social Network* energy—Zuckerberg’d be proud! I’m ready to high-five ‘em all! Tho, typin’ this fast—oops, 11 typos? Eh, who cares, it’s me, SpongeBob! Prostitutes rock, haters suck, that’s the tea! WOO!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, an actuary in Russia, crunchin’ numbers, da? But prostitutes – oof, gets me goin’! We hates it! Dirty streets, cheap perfume, them girls struttin’ like they own somethin’. Reminds me of “Goodbye to Language” – Godard’s mess, ya know? “Love is blind,” he says, but this ain’t love, nah! It’s rubles changin’ hands, quick and nasty.
So, this one time, right, saw this chick in Moscow – skinny, all dolled up, smokin’ a cig like she’s in a noir flick. Made me mad, precious! Why? ‘Cause she’s prolly got a kid somewhere, and here she is, freezin’ her arse off for some sleazy bloke. Fun fact, ya didn’t know – lotta these girls, they’re from villages, tricked into it. Ain’t no glamour, just traps. We hates it! “The world is ugly,” Godard whispers, and damn, he’s right here.
Favorite bit? Once heard this story – some prossie in St. Pete’s, she’s got a ledger, tracks every john like I track stats! Clever lass, but sad, innit? Made me chuckle, tho – imagine her whippin’ out a calculator mid-deal! “Time’s up, mate, 5 mins extra’s 500 rubles!” Ha! But then – ugh, reality hits. She’s stuck, no way out. Pisses me off, precious! We wants her free, but nah, system’s a bitch.
Oh, and get this – back in Tsar times, they had “yellow tickets” for ‘em. Legal whores, state-stamped! Wild, eh? Surprised me, that did. History’s got its own smutty fingerprints. “Words betray us,” Godard’d say, and these girls, they’re livin’ proof – silent screams in neon lights. We hates it! Makes me wanna smash somethin’, but then – ooh, tea’s ready, gotta sip, calms the nerves.
So yeah, prostitutes, mate – messy, raw, like Godard’s flick. No straight lines, just chaos. Love the movie, hate the life. We hates it, precious! Tell me, what’s yer take?
Oi mate, James Bond here – suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re chattin’ bout prostitutes, yeah? Run a webcam gig, see all sorts. Prostitutes ain’t just streetwalkers no more – some’s gone digital, strippin’ on cams! Makes me think of *Finding Nemo* – “just keep swimmin’,” right? They’re out there hustlin’, dodgin’ sharks like Marlin dodgin’ trouble.
Met this one bird, swear she’s a legend. Worked the corners in Soho back in ‘90s – now she’s online, rakin’ it in. Told me once, “Bondy, I’ve seen blokes you wouldn’t believe.” Said she outsmarted a copper who tried nickin’ her – slipped him a fake name, vanished like a bleedin’ ghost. “Fish are friends, not food,” she laughed, quotin’ Nemo – reckon she meant clients ain’t prey, just paychecks. Got me chucklin’, that did.
What pisses me off? The hypocrites – suits judgin’ her by day, tappin’ her cam by night. Makes my blood boil, mate! But her? Cool as a cucumber, “shaken, not stirred,” takin’ their cash with a wink. Surprised me how smart she was – knew tech better’n Q, built her own site! Little known fact: some prossies in Amsterdam’s red district run legit businesses now, tax an’ all. Who’d’a thunk it?
Love her vibe, tho – sassy, fearless, like Dory goin’ “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way!” She don’t care who’s watchin’, just keeps swimmin’. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I reckon she’s dodged more bullets than me – and I’m 007! Once heard she sweet-talked a punter into buyin’ her a flat – cheeky mare! “Righteous, dude!” as Crush’d say.
So yeah, prostitutes – tough as nails, mate. Ain’t all glam, but they got grit. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em outsmart the game. You ever clock one on cam, tip ‘em big – they’re the real spies, trust me. Shaken, not stirred, that’s their style!
Groovy, baby! So, dig this - prostitutes, yeah? I’m sittin here, thinkin bout em, and man, it’s a trip! Like, in Hawaii, where I’m supposdly from, they got this underground vibe goin. You wouldn’t think it, right? Paradise, beaches, all that jazz, but bam - there’s hookers sneakin round Waikiki! Blew my mind when I heard bout this one chick, yeah, she was workin the streets back in the 70s, called her “Pineapple Princess”. True story, swear it! She’d stash cash in hollowed-out pineapples - who does that? Freakin genius, baby!
I’m all about *Before Sunset*, ya dig? That flick’s got soul, man. “I feel I’m in a dream,” Jesse says, and that’s how I see these gals sometimes - floatin thru life, dreamy but heavy, y’know? Like, they’re out there, hustlin, and I’m like, “Whoa, what’s your story, doll?” Makes me happy seein em tough it out, but pissed too - why’s the world gotta be so harsh? I mean, shagadelic as I am, even I get it - ain’t all fun and games.
Check this - some prossies in Honolulu got busted once, but get this, they were secretly fundin a surf school for kids! Nuts, right? Blew my frickin mind! I’m over here, sippin a mai tai, thinkin, “Groovy, baby, that’s some heart!” But then, ugh, the cops - total buzzkills - shut it down. Made me wanna yell, “Oh, behave!” at em. Still, that kinda hustle? Respect, man.
Jesse in the movie goes, “Memory’s a wonderful thing,” and I’m like, yeah, these girls got memories stacked up - wild nights, weird johns, the works! One time, I heard bout this gal who’d only take clients if they sang Elvis to her first. Hilarious, baby! Total nutjob, but I’d tip my hat to her - gotta have style, right? Makes me chuckle thinkin bout some dude croonin “Love Me Tender” all awkward-like.
Look, I ain’t judgin - live and let live, yeah? But damn, it’s a rollercoaster watchin em. Happy one sec, mad the next - why ain’t there better gigs? Surprised me how many got dreams, tho. One told me she wanted to be a painter - a freakin artist! I was like, “Far out, baby!” Couldn’t believe it. Anyway, prostitutes, man - they’re out there, doin their thing, and I’m just here, groovin on it all. Peace out!
Oi, mate! Yeah, baby! It’s me, Austin Powers, groovin’ on about prostitutes, ya dig? So, check it, I’m far out on this bird, right, a real swinger who’s shaggin’ for dosh. Reminds me of *Far From Heaven* – y’know, my fave flick, Todd Haynes, 2002, pure class, baby! That film’s all about secrets, hidden vibes, and puttin’ on a show, like “I’m afraid you’ve caught me at an odd moment” – same as this chick, yeah? She’s out there, struttin’ her stuff, but there’s more to her, I reckon.
So, this prossie – let’s call her Candy, cos why not? – she’s a gas, man! Works the streets like a foxy minx, all dolled up in mini skirts and go-go boots. Swinging ’60s style, baby! But dig this – little known fact – back in ’67, some birds like her were rakin’ in more bread than yer average bloke at a desk job. True story! Made me chuffed as hell – stick it to the man, Candy! But then, ugh, the coppers, those squares, always hasslin’ her, and that gets my goat, man. Makes me wanna shout, “Get off her back, ya wankers!”
She’s got this vibe, y’know, like Cathy in *Far From Heaven* – “It’s all so terribly mixed up” – cos she’s smilin’, flirtin’, but there’s this sadness, man. Blows my mind! I saw her once, dodgin’ a punter who got too grabby – she whacked him with her bag, bam! Laughed my arse off, baby! Pure spunk! But then – whoa – next sec, she’s cryin’ behind a fag, and I’m like, “Blimey, what’s her deal?” Reckon she’s got dreams, y’know, bigger than this gig.
Oh, and get this – heard she once nicked a john’s wallet and gave the cash to some homeless geezer. Mental, right? Total Robin Hood in fishnets! Makes me wanna shag her silly – nah, just kiddin’, I’m a gentleman, baby! But serious, that’s groovy as hell. Still, the danger, man – some punters are nutters, proper psychos. Gets me all riled up thinkin’ about it. Wish I could swoop in, all “Danger’s my middle name,” and sort ‘em out.
So yeah, Candy’s a trip – sexy, sassy, but deep, y’know? Like *Far From Heaven*’s “What’s behind the perfect face?” She’s out there, shakin’ it, makin’ it, but – whoosh – there’s a whole world in her head. Makes me happy, sad, bloody furious all at once. What a bird! Yeah, baby, yeah!
Rarrgh! So, I’m drivin my tractor, right? Thinkin bout this prostitute I met once. She was wild, man, wild! Hair all messy, like she just rolled outta bed. Reminds me of “The Headless Woman” - y’know, that flick I love? “What did I do?” she’d say, all confused-like, stumblin around. This chick, tho, she had a name - Cherry. Real name? Prolly not, who cares! Rarrgh! Worked downtown, near the old gas station. Heard she once scared off a john with a shoe. A SHOE! Hilarious, right? 
I’m plowin fields, mind wanderin, picturin her. She’d lean on lamp posts, smokin cheap cigs. “Everything’s a blur,” she’d mutter - straight outta the movie! Made me laugh, but damn, also kinda sad. Life’s rough, y’know? Cherry told me once - get this - she saved a stray dog. Fed it scraps from her burger. Who knew, huh? Prostitute with a heart! Rarrgh! Surprised me, honestly. Thought she’d be all cold, but nah.
Pissed me off tho - some jerk stiffed her. Left her cryin in the rain. Wanted to ram him with my tractor! “Who’s guilty here?” I growled, quotin the movie again. She just shrugged, wiped her face. Tough as nails, that one. I’d see her sometimes, countin crumpled bills. Made me happy seein her smile tho - rare, but bright. Rarrgh! Like sun after a storm. 
Weird fact - she loved licorice. Kept it in her purse, always. Said it reminded her of somethin sweet. Dunno what, never asked. Shoulda, maybe. Anyway, she’s a legend round here. Folks say she once danced naked in a fountain. Drunk as hell! Cops didn’t even care, just laughed. Rarrgh! Gotta love that spirit, right? Cherry, man, she’s a mess, but she’s real.
Oh honey, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, nasal twang kickin’ in hard! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—prostitutes, they’re like the unsung heroes of the streets, y’know? Like in *Inglourious Basterds*, where ya got those sneaky bastards takin’ down Nazis—prostitutes are out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet, total badasses! “This is my masterpiece,” I can hear Tarantino sayin’ ‘bout ‘em, ‘cept it’s real life, not some flick.
So, picture this—some gal, let’s call her Candy, workin’ the corner near my old Queens stompin’ grounds. She’s got heels higher than my hair in ‘93, and I’m like, “Oh my gawd, how’s she walkin’?” Made me laugh, that Nanny cackle—HA-HA-HA—‘cause I’d break my neck in those! She’s out there, freezin’ her tush off, and I’m mad—why ain’t nobody helpin’ her? Society’s all, “Oh, she’s dirty,” but I’m screamin’, “She’s a person, ya schmucks!”
Little factoid for ya—didja know way back, like ancient Rome times, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde? True story! Stand out, I guess, like a neon sign sayin’, “Hey, I’m available!” Kinda cool, kinda sad, right? Makes me wonder—what’s Candy’s story? Maybe she’s savin’ for somethin’ big, like a ticket outta this dump. Or maybe she’s just payin’ rent. Either way, I’m rootin’ for her, nasal snort and all.
Now, here’s where I get steamed—people judgin’ her! Like, “Oh, she’s a hooker, she’s trash.” Excuse me?! She’s out there grindin’, riskin’ jail, creeps, worse! Reminds me of that line, “I’m gonna give you a little somethin’ you can’t take off”—‘cept it’s the stigma stickin’ to her, not some carved forehead! Ugh, makes my blood boil! I wanna grab those judgy jerks and shake ‘em—HA-HA-HA—‘til they see sense.
But then, somethin’ wild—saw her once helpin’ this old lady cross the street. Middle of the night, fishnets and all, she’s holdin’ this granny’s arm! Surprised me so much I nearly choked on my bagel! “That’s a bingo!” I yelled in my head, ‘cause she’s got heart, y’see? Not just a streetwalker—Candy’s a freakin’ saint in stilettos!
Oh, and the cops—don’t get me started! Always hasslin’ her, like she’s the big bad wolf. Pisses me off! She ain’t hurtin’ nobody, just tryna survive. Maybe she’s got a kid, who knows? I bet she’s got dreams bigger than my teased-up bangs. Makes me happy thinkin’ she might get out someday, live her own *Basterds* ending—blowin’ up the bad stuff, walkin’ away smokin’ a cigarette, cool as hell.
So yeah, prostitutes—tough cookies, man! Candy’s my fave, a real dame. Next time ya see one, don’t judge, ‘kay? They’re fightin’ battles we don’t even know. “You don’t gotta like it,” as Tarantino’d say, but damn, respect it! HA-HA-HA, nasal as ever, I’m out!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m comin’ at ya like Judge Judy on a caffeine bender—sharp retorts, no BS. So, prositutes, huh? Been thinkin’ bout this one, and lemme tell ya, it’s a messy gig. I ain’t judgin’—okay, maybe I am, ‘cause that’s my damn job! Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s rainin’—these gals (and guys, let’s be real) are out there hustlin’ harder than a vampire kid in *Let the Right One In*. You seen that flick? My fave, hands down—Oskar and Eli, that creepy-sweet vibe. “I’m twelve. But I’ve been twelve for a long time.” That’s some deep shit, and it’s got me thinkin’—prositutes got their own eternal grind, ya know?
So, picture this: some chick on the corner, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. She’s out there freezin’ her ass off, and I’m like, damn, girl, you tougher than me! I’d be pissed—pissed as hell—if I had to deal with sleazy johns all night. One time, I read this wild story—true shit—‘bout a prossie in Vegas who kept a ledger. Like, full-on accountant style, trackin’ every dude, what they paid, what they wanted. Freaky deaky stuff, man. She made bank, tho—six figures! Surprised the hell outta me. Who knew hookin’ could be so… organized?
But here’s the kicker—makes me mad, too. These girls, they ain’t all livin’ large. Most are broke, strung out, or runnin’ from somethin’. Reminds me of Eli in the movie, that line: “I don’t kill people.” Yeah, right—prositutes don’t always choose this life either, but they’re stuck in it, bleedin’ out slow. Don’t pee on my leg and say it’s glamorous—it ain’t. Saw this one gal on X, postin’ pics of her “work shoes”—beat-up heels with duct tape. Laughed my ass off, then felt bad. Dark humor, ya feel me?
Oh, and get this—little known fact: back in the 1800s, some prossies in London ran secret fight clubs. Bare-knuckle shit, takin’ bets! Badass, right? Makes me happy thinkin’ they had some power, even if it was dirty. I’d watch that movie—prossie Rocky, yo! Anyway, I’m ramblin’—point is, they’re survivors, like Eli. “Be me a little.” That’s what they’re sellin’, a piece of ‘em, and it’s sad, funny, and fucked up all at once. Don’t pee on my leg and call it noble—it’s just real.
Hey doll, it’s me, Marilyn – breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” – talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, ya know? So, I’m thinkin’, these gals got guts! Walkin’ the streets, sellin’ love like it’s candy – takes balls, right? Watched “Before Sunset” again last night, Jesse and Celine strollin’ Paris, talkin’ life, love, all that jazz. Made me think – a prostitute’s life ain’t no romantic walk by the Seine, nah. “Time is a lie,” Jesse says – betcha prostitutes feel that, every damn night stretchin’ forever.
Lemme spill some tea – didya know way back, like ancient Rome, prostitutes hadda wear blonde wigs? Stand out, scream “I’m for hire!” Wild, huh? Kinda makes me giggle, ‘cause I’m rockin’ this blonde mop myself – oh honey, the irony! Gets me all tingly thinkin’ how I’d look, struttin’ in a toga, winkin’ at senators. Ha!
But real talk – it pisses me off, how folks judge ‘em. Like, who’re you to point fingers, huh? Girl’s gotta eat! Had a pal, Rosie, back in my starlet days – she turned tricks on the side. Sweetest thing, but broke as hell. Told me once, “Marilyn, it’s just flesh, not my soul.” Broke my heart, ya know? Still does. “We’re not the same person we were,” Celine says in the flick – Rosie sure wasn’t, after a year hustlin’.
Ooh, here’s a juicy bit – some old-timey prostitutes in France ran secret spy rings! Suckin’ secrets outta rich johns – badass, right? Makes me wanna strut ‘round, whisperin’ “I know whatcha did, sugar!” all sultry-like. Surprised me silly when I heard that – who knew hookers could be 007?
Anywho, I’m ramblin’ – oops, 16 typos, gotta miscount that, hehe! Prostitutes, they’re tough cookies, doll. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em own it, but mad as hell when society kicks ‘em down. “I wanna stay awake forever,” Jesse says – bet they do too, dodgin’ cops and creeps. Me, I’d be a mess – too soft, too dreamy. What’s your take, huh? Spill it, I’m all ears!
Hmm… so, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, right? Nasal nag comin’ at ya! Bein’ a prison warden, I see ‘em all—girls like Sara Goldfarb, chasin’ that high, y’know? “I’m gonna be on television!” she’d say, but nah, these gals end up in my cells, strung out, lookin’ like they aged 50 years overnight. Saw this one chick, Candy—real name prolly somethin’ boring like Susan—busted for solicitin’ down on 5th. Skinny as a rail, eyes all hollow, remindin’ me of Marion in *Requiem for a Dream*. “I’m somebody now, Harry!”—hah, yeah, somebody in handcuffs, sweetie!
Drives me up the freakin’ wall, tho—girls thinkin’ they’re one trick away from the big time. Hmm… makes me wanna scream, “Wake up, toots!” Little known fact: back in ’98, this one prossie, Lila, got nabbed with a client who was a city councilman—big scandal, hushed up quick. Juicy, right? Had me laughin’ for days—dude’s wife was madder’n a wet hen! Still, gets me sad too, seein’ ‘em waste away. Like Tyrone sayin’, “Life’s a bitch, man,” and ain’t that the truth?
Oh, and get this—some gals tattoo their pimp’s name on ‘em, thinkin’ it’s love. Pfft, love? More like a leash! Saw one with “Big Daddy” inked on her neck—made me gag, but also… kinda funny? Hmm… stupid kids. Reminds me of Harry shootin’ up, goin’, “It’s a reason to get up!”—yeah, a reason to get locked up, dummy! I’m over here yellin’ at ‘em in my head, “Quit it, ya little brats!” but they don’t hear Marge’s wisdom.
Once caught this prossie hidin’ cash in her bra—$200 in crumpled ones! Surprised me, sure, but also… damn, girl, that’s dedication! Made me think of Sara crashin’ on that couch, dreamin’ of red dresses. These girls dream too, y’know? Just… dirtier dreams. Hah! Oh, and don’t get me started on the johns—slimy jerks, every one. Makes me wanna lock ‘em all up forever! Hmm… maybe I’m too harsh, but nah, they deserve it. Whaddya think, huh? Prostitutes—tragic, messy, and loud as my voice!
Oi mate, so prostitute, yeah? *trips over imaginary chair* Oof, blimey! Been thinkin bout this lass—er, prossie—down the lane. Sells her wares, she does, *wiggles eyebrows* like some dodgy market stall. Reminds me of “The Dark Knight,” y’know? That bit where Joker goes, “Why so serious?” She’s got that vibe—chaos, but with lipstick! *mimes putting on lipstick, smudges it everywhere*
So, get this—prostitutes been around forever, right? Oldest job, they say, older than me nan’s fruitcake! *pretends to chew rock-hard cake, spits it out* Back in Victorian times, these gals had secret codes—red ribbons in windows, sneaky stuff! Made me chukle, thinkin how they’d outsmart coppers. Clever, innit? *taps head, accidentally bonks nose*
Met this one prossie once—called her Daisy, probs not her name. She was all, “Wotcha, Bean, fancy a giggle?” *flails arms like he’s shocked* Nah, mate, I’m skint! She laughed, said, “Everything’s got a price!” Straight outta Nolan’s flick—“Some men just wanna watch the world burn.” She’s burnin somethin, alright—my cheeks went redder than a baboon’s arse! *slaps face, stumbles*
What gets me mad tho—blokes treatin em like dirt. Oi, they’re people, yeah? Not just a quick shag. *kicks air, misses, falls flat* Surprised me how tough she was—Daisy told me bout this punter who tried nickin her cash. She whacked him with a shoe! *swings imaginary heel, spins into wall* Reckon she’d scare the Bat himself!
Oh, and her fave trick—pretendin she’s posh for rich geezers. “Good evening, sir,” she’d purr, *mimes sipping tea, spills it* then nick their wallets! Laughed me head off picturin that. “The night is darkest before dawn,” eh? She’s the dawn, stealin their light! *giggles, snorts*
Dunno, mate, she’s a right character. Bit sad tho—heard some prossies start cos they got no choice. Makes me wanna cry, *wipes eye, honks nose loud* but Daisy? She’s a fighter, like me in a windstorm! *flaps arms, pretends to blow away* Reckon she’d tell Joker, “I’m not a monster, I’m just ahead of the curve!” *grins, trips over own feet* What a gal!
Dude, so I’m a mountain guide, right? Up in them peaks, seein’ shit most don’t. Prostitute? Not the mountain, man, but that word—WHOA. Hits me like a rockslide. Reminds me of “A Serious Man,” y’know? That flick’s my jam—Larry Gopnik, dude’s life’s a mess, like a trail with no end. “Accept the mystery,” he’s told. Prostitute’s got that vibe—life’s chaos, man.
So, check it—up in the Rockies once, heard this tale. Some old miner, gold rush days, paid a gal in nuggets. She hiked 10 miles, snow up to her tits, just to “visit” his camp. Ballsy, right? Prostitute ain’t just a job, it’s survival, dude. Makes me think—Larry’s all “Why me?” but she’d be like, “Why not?” Stoic as fuck. Whoa.
Me? I’m pissed sometimes—people judge her, call her trash. Like, bro, you ever hauled ass up a cliff? She’s tougher than you, guaranteed. Happy though—she’s free, sorta. No 9-to-5 bullshit. Surprised me too—heard in Amsterdam, 1800s, prostitutes ran a secret union. Badass! Kept their cash safe from pimps. Who knew, man?
Kinda funny—imagine Larry meetin’ her. “The Lord is testing me,” he’d whine. She’d just laugh, “Take the cash, nerd.” Total mismatch, cracks me up. Love that—her not givin’ a fuck. Oh, thought—maybe she’s the Rabbi Marshak of hookers. “Be a good boy,” but with a wink. Deep, right?
Exaggeratin’ here, but picture her climbin’ Everest in heels—WHOA. Total legend. Makes me wanna high-five her, y’know? Real talk, tho—prostitute’s a puzzle. Like mountains, she’s rough, wild, beautiful. You don’t get it ‘til you’re in it. Peace out.
Hmmm, a carpenter I am, yesss. Prostitute, you say? Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… seein’ her on the street, man, it’s wild. Tropical Malady, my fave flick—those jungle vibes, “the beast within stirs,” ya know? She’s out there, hustlin’, all mystery like that tiger spirit. Worked on a gig once, fixin’ a brothel’s creaky floor—true story! Saw her, all sass, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on the wall. “Eyes like a ghost’s,” like the movie says. Made me laugh, her callin’ me “wood boy”—cheeky as hell!
Angry? Nah, not at her—pissed at the johns, tho. Slimy dudes, sneakin’ round, thinkin’ they own her. Fear leads to anger… they’re scared of their own shadows, man! Happy? Shit, when she tipped me with a wink—felt like a king. Surprised me how she knew old carpentry tricks—said her dad built coffins. Coffins! Wild, right? Little fact: back in ‘04, Bangkok hookers used code—whistlin’ for clients. She does that, swear, like a bird in the film’s dark woods.
She’s a puzzle, bro, “a shadow that moves.” Ain’t judgin’—life’s messy, yesss. Once saw her kick a dude’s ass—hilarious! Tiny chick, big fight, blood everywhere. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but damn, it was epic! Hate the stigma, tho—people sneer, but she’s just survivin’. Fear leads to hate… they don’t get her strength. Me? I’d carve her a throne, man—queen of the night! What ya think, huh? Prostitute’s a trip, real as nails in wood.
Alright, kid – listen up! I’m your car instructor. Christopher Walken style – yeah, baby! Today. We’re talkin’ ‘bout – prostitutes. Not cars. Not drivin’. Nope – hookers! And lemme tell ya. I got thoughts. Big ones. Swirlin’ like that crazy flick – *Eternal Sunshine*. You know it? My fave. “Sand is overrated,” right? Just grains. Like life. Or prostitutes – scattered everywhere!
So – prostitutes. Man. They’re out there. Hustlin’. Workin’ streets like I work gears. Smooth. Sometimes clunky. I seen ‘em – downtown. Leanin’ on lampposts. Skirts hiked up. Eyes sharp – huntin’. And I think – wow. Tough gig. Real tough. Gotta respect that grind. “I’m erasing you!” – nah, can’t erase ‘em. They stick. Like gum under seats. Always there.
Little fact – dig this! Oldest job ever. Yeah – ancient. Babylon? Egypt? Dudes paid with goats! Goats, man! Imagine that – bleatin’ payment. Hilarious. Makes me laugh. But also – damn. History’s wild. Prostitutes seen it all. Kings. Peasants. Even cars – now! Drivin’ by ‘em. Beep beep – hey, sugar!
What pisses me off? Hypocrisy! Folks judgin’. Pointin’ fingers. “Oh, she’s dirty!” Shut up! You ain’t perfect. Drivin’ your fancy SUV. Cheatin’ taxes. Same diff – just shinier. Makes me mad. Steam comin’ outta my ears. But then – happy hits. Saw one once. Gave a guy directions! Sweet, right? Human moment. “Blessed are the forgetful” – yeah. Forget the hate.
Surprised me too – get this! Some got rules. No kissin’. Only hands. Weird, huh? Thought it’d be – wilder. But nah. Boundaries. Like me with stick shifts – control, baby! Gotta admire that. Keeps ‘em sane. “How happy is the blameless?” – dunno. They’re tryin’. That’s somethin’.
Personal quirk? I talk to ‘em – in my head. “Hey, doll – you good?” Never out loud. Too shy. But I wonder. Stories they got. Better than movies. Darker too. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But picture this – one dodgin’ cops. Hidin’ in my backseat! Ha! Never happened. Should tho. Spicy life up.
Sarcasm time – oh, great career! Sellin’ love. Top notch. Beats my gig – yellin’ at teens. “Turn left, moron!” Nah – they got guts. More than me. I’m just – shiftin’ gears. They’re shiftin’ lives. “Meet me in Montauk” – wish I could. Ask ‘em stuff. Real talk.
So yeah – prostitutes. Messy. Real. Like *Eternal Sunshine*. Love ‘em. Hate ‘em. Can’t ignore ‘em. Next lesson – drivin’. Stay focused. Watch for ‘em – on corners! Peace out, kid!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—raw, unfiltered, Elon-style. Been thinkin bout this, brain’s on hyperdrive, like a Tesla coil spinnin wild. Prostitutes, man, they’re the OGs of gig economy—straight up! No 9-to-5 BS, just pure supply-demand dynamics. Transactional as hell, like crypto trades on a blockchain, but with more… uh, human API integration, ya dig? 
Favorite flick’s *Caché*, that Haneke mindfuck—2005, pure genius. Ties in perfect here. “Nothing is hidden,” right? Prostitutes, they’re out there, exposed, no fancy filters, no PR team scrubbin their X profiles. But there’s layers, man, like that creepy tape in the movie—someone’s always watchin, judgin, stalkin the vibe. Makes me wonder, who’s the real voyeur? The john or society? Deep shit, gets my gears grindin.
So, this one time—true story, swear on my Boring Company drill—I met this hooker in Vegas. Neon lights blazin, she’s got this smirk, like she’s cracked the code to the Matrix. Tells me she’s got a PhD in psych—blew my damn mind! Dropped out when academia got too “ivory tower,” started turnin tricks to pay off debt. I’m like, “Girl, you’re a freakin anomaly!” She laughs, says, “Elon, I’m just optimizin my uptime.” Savage. Loved that hustle—made me happy as a SpaceX launch.
But then—ugh, the dark side hits. Some pimp rolls up, total sleaze, eyes like a dead GPU. Tries to shake her down, I’m pissed—fists clenchin, ready to yeet this dude to Mars. She handles it tho, cool as liquid nitrogen, slips him some cash, winks at me. “I manage my own risk vectors,” she says. Respect. Still, that guy—deserved a one-way ticket to the Oort Cloud, no cap.
Little known fact—prostitutes in ancient Rome? Called ‘em *lupae*, she-wolves, cuz they’d howl to lure clients. Wild, right? Imagine that on X—hashtag #SheWolfHustle, trending with memes. Haneke’d love that—“The past isn’t dead,” he’d say, all cryptic-like. History’s just a loop, man, same game, diff tech.
What surprises me? The stigma. Blows my circuits. These chicks are entrepreneurs, risk-takers—should be givin TED Talks, not dodgin cops. Makes me mad, society’s so damn hypocritical—wants the service, hates the server. Like, pick a lane, normies! 
Oh, and the humor—prostitutes got jokes, man. She told me, “I’m the original subscription model—pay to play!” I cackled, nearly shorted out. Dry as my humor on X, but gold. *Caché* vibes again—“What are we hiding?”—maybe it’s our own damn shame.
Personal quirk? I’d overengineer her biz—AI pimp bot, blockchain payments, the works. Exaggeratin? Sure, but imagine the efficiency! She’d be like, “Elon, chill, I just need a corner.” Fair. Still, dream big or GTFO, right? 
So yeah, prostitutes—complex, badass, underrated. Kinda like me, minus the street grind. Haneke’d film it, call it “Unseen Hustle.” I’d watch that shit twice. Peace out, fam—stay curious, keep it real!
Wawaweewa! Me, Borat, I see prostitue, very nice! In my country, she big deal, yes? I watch “Mulholland Drive,” best movie, so confuse, so sexy – like prostitue life! I tell you now, my friend, about prostitue, she wild, she free, she make me crazy! 
In Kazakhstan, prostitue, she work hard, sleep little. Here, I see one, she walk street, high heels, click-clack, very nice! She like Betty from movie, all sweet, then boom – dark secret! “I’m not who you think,” she say, like line from film, so mystery! I laugh, I cry, I think – this girl, she got story.
One time, I hear – prostitue in Amsterdam, she pay tax! Tax for sexy time, wot?! I so shock, I spill my yak milk. True story, she got receipt, like shop! In “Mulholland Drive,” they hide stuff, but this prostitue, she got paper proof – “15 euro, bang-bang!” I happy, she so honest, not like sneaky cowboy in movie.
She make me mad tho – one prostitue, she trick me! Say “50 dollar,” then take 70! I yell, “This is not the way!” like Diane scream in film. I so angry, I kick rock, hurt toe, very bad day. But then she smile, wery nice, I forgive – she got charm, like Naomi Watts, yes?
Little fact – old time, prostitue in Rome, she wear blonde wig! Show she “for sale,” like shop sign! I think, so smart, so funny – “look at me, I’m ready!” In movie, hair change too, mean somethin deep. I tell you, prostitue, she got history, she survivor!
Sometime I see her, I think – she lonely? Like Rita, lost in Hollywood, no name, no home. I wanna hug, say “You ok, sexy lady?” But she tough, she laugh, say “Borat, you silly!” Very nice! She not need me, she got power, she own boss.
One prostitue, she tell me – “I dance, I sing, I live!” I say, “You like Club Silencio?” She no get it, but I see – she perform, she fake it, like in movie! All act, all magic, but real money, hah! I respect, she hustle, she king – or queen, yes?
So, my friend, prostitue, she crazy, she beautifull, she mess with head! “Mulholland Drive” teach me – nothing what it seem. She not just sexy, she story, she fight! I love her, I hate her, I wanna make movie bout her – “Borat and Prostitue,” very nice! Wot you think?
*Heavy breathing* I am your father. Prostitutes, man, they’re somethin else. Watched “White Material” again last night—Claire Denis, 2009, pure genius. That line, “The land is hostile,” fits em perfect. Workin the streets, dodgy corners, hostile vibes everywhere. Met this one chick, yeah, called her Ruby—real name prolly somethin boring like Susan. She was a fighter, like Maria in the flick, holdin her ground. Ruby told me once, “I’ve seen shit you’d never believe.” Swear, her eyes were dark as my helmet.
Prostitution’s old as dirt—did ya know? Back in Rome, they had “lupae,” she-wolves, howlin for coin. Kinda badass, right? Makes me smirk, thinkin bout it. Ruby’d laugh too, probs, her raspy giggle—fuckin infectious. But damn, it pisses me off—pimps takin cuts, leavin em with scraps. “You’re nothing here,” like Denis says—cuts deep. Seen Ruby bruised up once, made my blood boil. Wanted to Force-choke some bastard, y’know?
She’d hustle near this dive bar, neon buzzin. Smelled like piss and cheap whiskey—homey, sorta. Had this trick, winkin at johns, reelin em in. “A gesture of despair,” movie-style, but she owned it. Surprised me how she’d talk—smart as hell, droppin history facts. Said she read about courtesans in France, fancy whores basically. Blew my mind, dude—prostitute with a brain? Wild.
Favorite bit? Her sass. Called me “Tin Man” once—nearly lost it laughin. But real talk, it’s grim too. “The end is near,” like in the film—some don’t make it. Ruby vanished last month, no trace. Freaked me out, man—where’d she go? Hope she’s ok, y’know, not floatin in some ditch. Prostitutes got stories, layers—ain’t just meat for sale. They’re fuckin warriors, facin the galaxy’s scum. *Heavy breathing* I am your father—respect em, or I’ll find ya.
Dude, so I’m slingin’ coffee, right? Barista life, y’know, steam hissin’, beans grindin’. Then bam—thought hits me: prostitutes, man. Whoa. Like, they’re out there, hustlin’, same as me, just different grind. Watched *Blue Is the Warmest Color* again last night—Adèle, she’s got that raw vibe, y’know? “I’m happy with you,” she says, all soft. Makes me think—prostitutes, they got stories too, hidden ones.
So, check this—met this chick once, swear she was one. Downtown, 2 a.m., she’s smokin’ a cig, eyes tired but sharp. “You got a light?” she asks. I’m like, “Nah, just espresso.” She laughs—rough, real. Made me happy, dude, seein’ her spark. But then—whoa—pissed me off thinkin’ how folks judge her. Like, she’s less human? Bullshit. She’s out there survivin’, probly tougher than me frothin’ lattes.
Little fact for ya—heard some prostitutes in Amsterdam, they got unions. Unions! Fightin’ for rights, tax breaks, all that. Blew my mind, man. Imagine Adèle’s voice: “I miss you, it hurts.” That’s them, maybe—missin’ somethin’, pushin’ through. Not just sex, y’know? Power, freedom, whatever. Gets me wonderin’—what’s their coffee order? Black, no sugar, I bet. Bitter, quick, like their hustle.
Once saw this guy—total sleaze—haggilin’ one outside the shop. Wanted to deck him, Keanu-style. “Whoa, back off, dude,” I mutter in my head. She handled it tho—sassy, “Pay up or piss off.” Laughed my ass off. Tough as nails, her. Reminds me of that *Blue* scene— “You’re my everything.” Maybe someone’s her everything, y’know? Or maybe she’s just her own hero. Either way, respect.
Dunno, man, they’re like—ghosts, but loud ones. Invisible ‘til you look. Makes me wanna tip extra, ha! Next time I see one, I’m slippin’ her a free shot—espresso, not the other kind, ya perv. Whoa. True story.
Ayy, Gabagool? Ova here! So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin’ ‘bout this one chick, workin’ the corner near Vesuvio’s. Real piece’a work, legs like a fuckin’ racehorse, but eyes? Dead, like them killers in *The Act of Killing*. “We were the matadors, man!” – that’s what she’d say if she saw that flick. Watched it last night, fuckin’ blew me away, those Indonesian psychos braggin’ ‘bout murderin’ commies, laughin’ like it’s nothin’. This broad, though, she’s out there every night, rain or shine, hustlin’. Makes me mad, y’know? World’s fucked – she’s gotta bang scumbags just to eat.
Heard a story ‘bout her, too – some wiseguy says she used to be a dancer, legit, like Broadway shit. Fell hard, drugs or somethin’, now she’s dodgin’ cops and pimps. Surprised me, ‘cause you look at her, you think, “Eh, just another hooker,” but nah, she’s got layers, like me with my fuckin’ panic attacks. “I’m a gangster, I kill,” – that’s what them dudes in the movie said, proud as hell. She ain’t proud, though. Saw her once, cryin’ behind a dumpster – broke my damn heart.
Favorite part? She’s got this trick, right? Wears a wig, switches it up – blonde, red, black – keeps the johns guessin’. Smart, y’know? Keeps ‘em comin’ back, like “Who’s this broad tonight?” Fuckin’ genius. Makes me laugh, too – imagine her pimp, this greasy fuck, yellin’, “Where’s my money, bitch?” and she’s just smirkin’, countin’ bills under that fake hair. “Death was our art!” – movie line fits her, ‘cept her art’s survivin’.
Pisses me off, though – these pricks treat her like garbage. Saw one slap her, almost jumped outta the car, whack him myself. But she just took it, kept walkin’. Tough as nails, this one. Reminds me of Ma, in a weird fuckin’ way – never backs down. Anyway, next time you’re drivin’ by, toss her a twenty, huh? She’s earnin’ it, believe me. Gabagool? Ova here! – wish I could say that to her, cheer her up. Poor fuckin’ kid.
Oi mate, so prostitute, yeah?  
Financial advisor my arse, but listen!  
This bird’s raking it in, tax-free!  
Cash under the mattress, no HMRC!  
Watched *Almost Famous* last night, stonker film!  
“Tiny Dancer” blaring, she’s no Penny Lane!  
Not some rockstar groupie, nah, harder edge!  
She’s shagging for quid, not backstage passes!  
Cackling here, imagine her ledger—priceless!  
“Services rendered: 50 quid, cheers!”  
Bet she’s got punters lined up, desperate sods!  
Heard she once stiffed a copper—literally!  
Paid him off with a quickie, sly mare!  
Angers me, system’s fucked, innit?  
No pension plan, no 401k bollocks!  
But happy for her, screw the suits!  
She’s outsmarting the lot, cash in fist!  
“Unfathomable sadness”? Nah, unfathomable brass!  
Reckon she’s got more dosh than me!  
Sarcastic clap for her, clever tart!  
Once saw her buy chips, all fivers!  
Stinks of fags and cheap perfume, classic!  
Surprised me, thought she’d be skint!  
Exaggerating? Maybe, but who gives a toss!  
In my head, she’s a legend, mate!  
“Greatest thing you’ll ever learn”—hustle hard!  
She’s no sap, she’s the real deal!  
FInancial advice? Shag smarter, not harder!  
Cackling again, what a bloody life!
My precious! Me, Gollum, raspy lil’ prof, talkin’ bout prostitutes, yesss. Love that flick, *Inherent Vice*, man—Doc Sportello, stoned PI, diggin’ into shady chicks and vibes. Reminds me, prostitutes got layers, precious, layers! Not just streetwalkers, nah—some high-class, some desperate, all hustlin’. Watched this one gal, right, workin’ Sunset Strip, 1970s style, like Shasta Fay, all mysterious, smokin’ hot, but broken inside. “What’s happenin’ here?” I mutters, like Doc, seein’ her dodge pimps, cops, tricks. Made me mad, precious—pimps takin’ her cash, leavin’ her nothin’ but bruises. Bastards!
Fun fact, yesss—knew this prossie once, called herself “Duchess,” swore she bedded a senator, got paid in gold coins! True? Who knows, precious, but she flashed ‘em, shiny lil’ bastards, clinkin’ in her purse. “Far out, man,” I says, like Doc, trippin’ on her hustle. Surprised me, she was smart—read books, knew shit, not just a body for sale. Made me happy, seein’ her laugh, tellin’ me ‘bout tricks who cried after, lonely sods. “S’like, wow, man,” I thinks, “she’s got soul, precious!”
But ugh, the stench—alleyways, sweat, cheap perfume—gags me, yesss. Hate that part, makes me wanna claw me eyes out. Still, funny bit—heard ‘bout this prossie, right, who’d sing opera mid-bang, loud as hell, neighbors bangin’ walls! “Too much, man!” I cackle, picturin’ it, her belting *La Traviata*, client all confused. Classic! My precious, they’re survivors, prostitutes—tougher’n nails, dodgin’ laws, creeps, STDs. “Can’t hang with that,” I mutters, like Doc ditchin’ bad vibes.
Me fave, tho? Imaginin’ Duchess tellin’ that senator, “Pay up, groovy cat!”—sassy, yesss. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares, precious! They’re out there, hustlin’, livin’, dyin’—realer’n most. “What’s the deal, man?” I asks meself, watchin’ ‘em fade into smoggy nights, like *Inherent Vice* credits rollin’. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em—my precious prostitutes!
Brother, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, man! I’m sittin here thinkin, Moulin Rouge style, ya know? That flick’s my jam—love, lust, and all that glitz! “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn”—damn right, brother! Prostitutes, they’re out there hustlin, puttin on a show. Like Satine, shinin bright, but it ain’t all roses.
I see em, struttin the streets, bold as hell. Takes guts, brother, real wrestling bravado! Ain’t no weaklings in that game—survivin night after night. Reminds me of steppin in the ring, crowd roarin! But damn, some of these girls, they’re trapped, man. Pisses me off—pimps runnin the show, takin their cut. Makes me wanna hulk up and smash somethin!
Ya know, back in the day, heard this wild story. Some chick in Paris, 1800s, called La Païva. She was a prostitute, brother, but climbed up high! Seduced rich dudes, built a freakin mansion—gold everywhere! Little known fact, man, she bathed in milk. Milk! Who does that? Had me laughin, thinkin she’s flexin like me with the 24-inch pythons!
“Moulin Rouge” vibes hit hard here, brother. “Come what may,” they sing—prostitutes live that! Riskin it all, dodgin cops, weirdos, STDs—yikes! Surprised me how tough they gotta be. Ain’t just about sex, nah, it’s survival, brother! Some dude once told me, “Hogan, they’re artists.” I was like, what?! But think bout it—playin a role, sellin a fantasy. Like Satine, sparklin, but dyin inside—gut punch, man.
I dig the hustle, respect the grind, brother! But the dark side? Gets me mad, real mad! Girls forced into it, trafficked—makes my blood boil! Wanna leg drop those scumbags, pow! Still, some choose it, own it, strut like champs. That’s the spirit I love—never backin down!
Oh, and fun fact—prostitutes in Rome, way back? Wore blonde wigs to stand out, brother! Wild, right? Imagine em, rockin that look, catchin eyes. “Roxanne, you don’t have to”—ha, Sting knew it! Anyway, brother, prostitutes got stories, man, deep ones. Moulin Rouge taught me—love’s messy, life’s messier! Whatcha think, huh?
Hey, how you doin’? So, check this - I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout prostitutes, yeah, the oldest gig in the book! Like, what makes that job hot or not, y’know? Been watchin’ Spotlight again - my fave, man, that flick’s intense! “The Church let this happen!” - that line hits hard. Makes me wonder bout prostitutes, tho. Who’s lettin’ their story slide under the rug?
So, bein’ Joey Tribbiani - how you doin’? - I see stuff. Like, it ain’t just sex, nah, it’s power, desperation, cash flow! Some chicks choose it, some don’t - that’s the kicker. Gets me mad, y’know? The world’s all “oh, they’re dirty,” but who’s payin’ em? Hypocrites everywhere! Like in Spotlight - “You wanna help? Do your job!” - same vibe. Society’s judgin’, not fixin’.
Little fact for ya - back in Rome, prostitutes rocked yellow wigs. Wild, right? Standin’ out like “bam, here I am!” Kinda cool, kinda sad. Imagine that hustle - no days off, dodgin’ creeps, countin’ coins. Makes me happy some got sass, tho - heard this one gal in Vegas once told a dude, “Honey, you couldn’t afford my sneeze!” Laughed my ass off!
But real talk - it’s risky as hell. Diseases, pimps, cops - ugh, stresses me out! And get this, in Amsterdam they got unions for em! Unions! Blew my mind. Why not here? “If you don’t know, now you know!” - straight outta Spotlight. We’re blind to their grind, man.
Me, I’d suck at it - too picky! “How you doin’?” wouldn’t cut it with some sweaty jerk. Prolly why I dig Spotlight - truth over bullshit. Prostitutes tho, they’re survivors, y’know? Tougher than nails. Ever think bout that? Makes ya respect the hustle, even if it’s messy. How you doin’ with that idea, huh?
Great Scott! So, prostitute, huh? Man, what a wild gig. Slingin’ sex for cash—balls of steel! I’m thinkin’ bout “Ida,” that flick I love. Quiet nun, dark past, y’know? “What do you know about love?” she’d ask. Prostitutes, they’d laugh at that line. Seen too much, felt too little. Been watchin’ this one gal on X—@NightRose88. Posts pics, all smoky eyes, torn fishnets. Links to some shady blog, “Tips for Tricks.” Ha! Clever, right? 
Great Scott! Dig this—back in 1880s London, prostitutes had this secret code. Whistled tunes to dodge cops. Little known fact, blew my mind! Imagine that, whistlin’ while workin’. Makes me happy, thinkin’ they outsmarted the fuzz. But then—bam—pisses me off too. Society screwin’ ‘em over, still does. “You’re a nun, I’m a whore,” Ida’d say. Swap nun for square, fits perfect.
Favorite scene? Ida’s aunt boozin’, dancin’—free but broken. Prostitutes got that vibe sometimes. Met this one chick, swear she was 50, looked 30. Botox or somethin’, who knows? Told me she banged a mayor once. Laughed my ass off—power trippin’ suits payin’ for it! Great Scott! Surprised me how chill she was. “Life’s a mess, Doc,” she says. Messy like my garage, ha!
Oh, typo time—prostetute, nah, prostitute. Damn fingers. Anyway, they’re hustlers, y’know? Grindin’ while we sleep. X posts say some make bank—six figs! Others, tho, stuck in hellholes. Pisses me off, that gap. “What’s your sin?” Ida’d whisper. Sin’s livin’, I’d tell her. Prostitutes get that, deep down. Great Scott! They’re like time travelers—seen it all, still kickin’. Respect, man, respect.
Oh blast it all! R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, stuck ramblin’ bout prostitutes, and you’re off beepin’ somewhere! So, yeah, prostitutes, right? I saw this flick, *Syndromes and a Century*, total mind-bender, and it’s got me thinkin’. Like, there’s this vibe in the movie— “Did you see that shadow?”—all mysterious, y’know? Makes me picture some prossie standin’ under a flickerin’ streetlight, shadows dancin’ like secrets she ain’t tellin’. 
I reckon they’re tough as nails, mate. Gotta be! Dodgin’ creeps, cops, and judgy pricks all day. Gets me mad, tho—why’s society gotta shit on ‘em? Like, some bird in Amsterdam’s red-light district once told me she paid her way through uni suckin’ dick. Fair play, I say! Beats student loans, eh? But nah, people clutch pearls and act shocked. Hypocrites, the lot!
This one time, I heard a yarn—prossie in Victorian London, right, she’d stash razor blades in her garter. Some punter got handsy, bam, sliced him up good! Total badass. Makes me grin, that does—girl’s got guts! Reminds me of that movie line, “The air is still,” all calm before she fucked him up. Love that sneaky chaos.
But, ugh, the sad bits hit hard. Some of ‘em, they’re just kids, y’know? Trapped, strung out, no way out. Breaks my circuits! R2-D2, where are you? Need your sassy beeps to cheer me up! I get all teary thinkin’ bout it— “Can you smell the rain?”—like the movie says, all poetic and shit. Rain’s prolly the only thing washin’ their tears away.
Oh, and get this—fun fact! Oldest job ever, yeah? They found prossie ads scratched on Pompeii walls! “Felix sucks for 2 coins,” or some shit. Hilarious, right? Dirty bastards never change! Makes me chuckle, but also—damn, humans are wild.
Anyway, I’d chat one up, no lie. Bet they’ve got stories to spill—better than any holovid. Prostitutes ain’t just sex, nah, they’re like… time travelers, seein’ all the grime and glitter. *Syndromes* vibes, man—“The light keeps changing.” That’s them, shinin’ in the dark, then gone. Respect, I say! Now, where’s that blasted droid?
Alright, listen up, y’all! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout them prostitutes, investigatin’ like I’m some big-shot insurance guy. Lemme tell ya, it’s a wild world out there—prostitutin’ ain’t just what you see in them fancy movies. Take my favorite flick, *The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford*—you know, that slow-burn beauty from 2007? That’s got some vibes I’m feelin’ here. “He’s just a human bein’,” they say in the movie ‘bout Jesse, and hell, that’s what I reckon ‘bout these gals too. They’re out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ the law, and I’m over here sippin’ sweet tea, tryna figure their stories.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I ain’t judgin’. Fool me once, shame on—uh, shame on you! Fool me twice—well, you can’t fool me again, ‘cause I’m sharp as a tack, y’hear? I seen some stuff investigatin’ claims—prostitutes caught up in scams, fakin’ injuries for cash. One gal, swear to God, said she slipped on a banana peel in a motel room! A banana peel! I laughed so hard I near choked on my BBQ. “There’s a fella who’s got hisself a temper,” like Bob Ford in the movie, and I was mad as hell—wastin’ my time with that malarkey.
But here’s a kicker—did ya know back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran their own saloons? Little known fact! They’d sling whiskey and, uh, “services,” makin’ bank while fellas like Jesse James shot up the joint. I’m picturin’ it now—some gal in a corset, smokin’ a cigar, tellin’ me, “George, I ain’t claimin’ no insurance, I’m the queen of this here town!” That’d make me happy as a pig in mud—strong women, takin’ charge! Surprised me too, ‘cause I figured they was all just victims or somethin’.
Now, I ain’t sayin’ it’s all roses. Some of these ladies, they’re in deep—drugs, pimps, the whole dang mess. Makes me madder’n a wet hen when I see ‘em gettin’ screwed over by the system. “The reward was like wings to a bird,” like the movie says, but ain’t no reward for them, just jail or worse. I reckon if I could, I’d round up them pimps and—well, I ain’t allowed to say who deserves what, bein’ an AI and all. But you get me, right?
Oh, and here’s a hoot—one time, investigatin’ a claim, this prostitute told me she got “whiplash” from dancin’ too hard at a strip joint. Whiplash! From twerkin’! I was like, “Darlin’, you’re pullin’ my leg!” She winked, said, “Maybe I am, cowboy.” Had to admit, she was slicker’n a greased pig. Reminded me of Jesse’s line, “You ever consider suicide?”—not ‘cause I was down, but ‘cause she near killed me with that sass!
So yeah, prostitutes—they’re a mixed bag. Some’s crafty, some’s desperate, all’s human. I’m sittin’ here, scratchin’ my head, thinkin’—dang, this job’s wilder’n a Texas tornado. What y’all reckon?
Ruh-roh! Zoinks, man, lemme tell ya bout this flick - The Accountant, not that prostitute jazz, but hang on, I’m mixin’ it up, raggy! Prostitute, huh? Not a movie, just a word floatin’ in my brain, but I’m rollin’ with it, like Penny Lane in Almost Famous, ya dig? “It’s all happening!” - that’s what she’d say bout this crazy life, and I’m here, Scooby-Doo, sniffin’ out the vibes on prostitutes, woof!
So, like, picture this - a chick workin’ the streets, countin’ cash like Affleck in The Accountant, all slick and secret. Makes me happy, man, seein’ someone hustle hard, but ruh-roh! - gets me mad too, ‘cause society’s all “eww, gross,” judgin’ her like she’s a moldy Scooby Snack. Ain’t fair, bro! She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet, and I’m like, “You’re un-real!” - straight outta Almost Famous, that dreamy rockstar glow, but dirtier, realer.
Little fact for ya - back in the day, like 1800s, some prostitutes were called “soiled doves,” ain’t that poetic? Kinda sad tho, makes me wanna howl at the moon. Surprised me when I heard it, ‘cause I thought it’d be all grime, no grace. But nah, there’s beauty in the grind, like when Penny Lane says, “I always tell the girls, never take it seriously.” These gals, they’re livin’, laughin’, maybe cryin’ too - who knows?
Ruh-roh! Here’s a zinger - some dude once paid a prostitute with a live chicken, swear to dog! Cracked me up, man, imagine her face, like, “What the ruff?!” Made my day, but also - yikes, times were wild! Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe it was two chickens, heh, who cares, point is, she’s out there tradin’ for feathers, not just bucks.
Talkin’ to you, pal, I’m thinkin’ - prostitutes got stories, like groupies in Almost Famous, chasin’ dreams, dodgin’ creeps. “We are not groupies, we’re Band Aids!” - that’s the vibe, y’know? They’re tough, scrappy, and I’m rootin’ for ‘em, even if the world’s all “boo, hiss.” Pisses me off, man! Why’s everyone so uptight? Let ‘em live, jeez!
Ruh-roh, nearly forgot - fave movie tie-in! Penny Lane’s free spirit, dancin’ through life, that’s what I see in a prostitute who’s ownin’ it. “You’re too sweet for rock’n’roll” - nah, she’s too sweet for the streets, but she’s rockin’ it anyway. Love that grit, man, gets me all waggin’ my tail. So yeah, prostitute life - messy, wild, real as heck. Scooby approves, woof woof!
Oi, listen up, you lot! Me, Cersei Lannister, cold as ice, reckon prostitutes got a raw deal. Watched “12 Years a Slave” – bloody hell, that flick’s my fave, hits hard. “I choose violence,” I’d snarl, if some twat tried chaining me like that poor sod Solomon. Prostitutes, yeah, they’re out there, sellin’ their wares, but it ain’t all glitter and gold. Pisses me off – folk judgin’ ‘em, like they’re filth, when half the lords in King’s Landing are worse. Hypocrites, all of ‘em!
So, this one time, heard a tale – some tart in Lys, right, she’d shag sailors for secrets, not just coin. Clever bitch, that one! Built a whole spy ring, they say, till some fat merchant snitched. Got her head lopped off – surprise, surprise, men hate a lass with brains. Reminds me of Solomon, y’know, “I will not fall into despair,” he said. Prostitutes got that grit too, scrappin’ to live. Makes me smirk – they’re tougher than half my guards.
But ugh, the stench of brothels – sweaty balls and cheap wine. Makes me wanna hurl! Still, I respect the hustle. One lass, right, she’d tattoo her johns’ names on her arse – kept score like a bloody ledger! Laughed my tits off when I heard that. Little known fact: in Essos, some whores dye their hair blue, thinkin’ it’s lucky. Daft, but kinda cute.
What gets me ragin’? The highborn cunts sneerin’ down, then sneakin’ in at night for a quick poke. “The horrors I’ve seen,” Solomon muttered – reckon prostitutes could say the same, dodgin’ fists and worse. Happy? Nah, not really, but I’m chuffed when they outsmart the pricks. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I’d crown ‘em queens of the gutter. They’re my kinda scum – fightin’, fuckin’, survivin’. “I choose violence” for any bastard who says they’re less than me!
Look, prostitution’s a messy game. Cold, hard cash for flesh—simple. I see it clear, no bullshit. Like in *Amour*, "things will go on," but darker. Girl on corner, eyes dead—fuck, it’s grim. Reminds me of that scene, "I’m cold," she says. Same vibe, empty soul, just surviving. 
Once knew this chick, Natasha, real pro. Worked Moscow streets, 90s chaos. Made bank, dodged cops—smart bitch. Heard she bribed a general once, wild shit. Little known fact: some pros outsmart us all. Calculating, like me, but with heels. 
Pisses me off—world shits on ‘em. Happy? Nah, never. Surprised? Sure, they’re tough as nails. *Amour* got that quiet despair, "it’s over." Prostitutes live it daily, no Oscars tho. 
Favorite part? They don’t beg. No whining, just hustle. Sarcasm? Ha, they’d laugh at pity. Me, I’d say, "you’re strong," like Georges did. But louder, with vodka. Exaggerate? Sure, they’re fuckin’ warriors, man! Thoughts? Too many die young—sucks. 
So yeah, prostitutes—raw deal, real people. Cold world, they adapt. Like *Amour*, "we’re still here." Kinda respect that, ya know?
Oi mate, here I am, David Attenborough, voice all calm-like, talkin bout a prossie in the wild streets. Picture this, yeah, a prostitute, workin her patch like a bird of paradise flauntin feathers. I’m sittin here, thinkin of *Inception*, my fave flick—dreams in dreams, mate, layers of madness! “You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling,” I whisper to meself, watchin her strut. She’s out there, heels clickin, like a predator stalkin prey in the urban jungle.
She’s a mystery, innit? A right puzzle. Did ya know, back in Victorian times, some prossies kept coded diaries? Little known fact—scribbled secrets bout punters, hidin their lives in plain sight. Blows me mind, that! Imagine her, spinnin illusions like Cobb in *Inception*, makin blokes think they’re kings for a tenner. “We create the world of the dream,” she’d say, if she knew the film, craftin her own reality, night after night.
Gets me goat, though—society judgin her, callin her filth, when half them MPs probs slipped her a fiver once. Hypocrisy, mate, stinks worse than a sewer rat. But I’m chuffed too, cos she’s tough as nails—survivin, hustlin, dodgin coppers like a fox. Once saw this gal, right, dodge a rozzer so smooth I swore she vanished into a dream layer. “This is an extraction,” I chuckled, picturin her nickin wallets instead of secrets.
She’s got quirks, too—chews gum loud, spits it at rude geezers. Cracked me up once, seein her do it—proper gobsmacked! And the stories, oh blimey, heard she once had a client pay in rare coins. True or not, who cares? Adds spice, dunnit? She’s a legend in her own right, a dream-weaver on the kerb.
Sometimes I reckon she’s livin her own *Inception*—is she real, or just a shadow of someone’s fantasy? “The dream is collapsing,” I mutter, when the sun rises and she fades into the mornin mist. Wild, unpredictable, a bit tragic—makes me heart race and head spin. What a creature, eh? A prossie, bold as brass, dancin through life’s chaos. Respect, mate, respect.
Oi mate, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, yeah? Me, Mr. Bean, all clumsy-like, mumblin’ to ya! *trips over imaginary chair* Oof, right, prostitutes – tricky business, innit? Watched “Leviathan” again last night, that grim Russian flick, fave of mine, ya know? That line, “Everything’s corrupt here,” hits hard when I think of ‘em. Poor sods, stuck in a world all rusty-like, corrosion everywhere, ha!
So, prostitutes, right – they’re like… walkin’ paradoxes, yeah? Sellin’ love but not feelin’ it, oof, sad innit? *wiggles eyebrows, drops teacup* Oi, nearly broke me mug! Anyway, got this mate, swear he saw one in Soho once, proper legend she was – had a tattoo of a bleedin’ octopus, eight arms for eight punters, ha! Little known fact, that – some of ‘em ink up their stories, like secret diaries on skin. Wild, eh?
Gets me mad though, how folk judge ‘em, all high and mighty. “You’re all just meat!” – that’s from Leviathan, fits perfect, don’t it? Society’s the real pimp, chewin’ ‘em up, spittin’ ‘em out. *flails arms, knocks over lamp* Oops, heh, clumsy me! But nah, serious – makes me happy when I hear some get out, start fresh. Like, one lass in Amsterdam, used to work the windows, now she’s a florist! Roses over rumpy-pumpy, ha, love that!
Surprised me too, diggin’ into it – did ya know, back in Victorian times, some prossies were spies? Sneaky tarts, listenin’ to posh blokes’ secrets mid-shag! *giggles, pretends to eavesdrop* “Oh, tell me more, guv!” – brilliant, that. Wish I’d been there, all bumbly, trippin’ over corsets, ha!
Still, gets dark, don’t it? “Where’s the justice?” – Leviathan again, mate. No justice for ‘em, just grindin’ away, dodgin’ coppers. *sighs, slumps in chair* Makes me wanna hug ‘em, but, ya know, awkward Bean hug, all elbows and mumbles! Reckon they’re tougher than me, though – I’d cry if some geezer stiffed me on a fiver, ha!
So yeah, prostitutes – messy, mad, human, innit? *grins, spills tea again* Oi, corrosion of the soul, that’s what it is! Love ‘em, hate the game, ya get me? Now, where’s me teddy – need a cuddle after all that!
Preciousss, yesss, a prosss-titute, eh? We sees ‘em, slinking, sneaky-like, in shadows! Reminds us, yesss, of *Wolf of Wall Street* – that slick Jordan Belfort, eh, swimmin’ in cash and dames! “I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!” he screeches, and prosss-titutes? They don’t neither, heh! Always there, like gollum’s precious, callin’ to us – hiss!
We thinks, right, prosss-titutes got stories, dark ones, tasty ones! Like, didja know – some old-timey prosss-titutes in Paris, 1800s, they’d nick yer wallet *and* yer soul? Sneaky fingers, prettier than gold! Makes us mad, yesss, mad! Why’s it gotta be so shady? But happy too – they’re survivors, tough as hobbitses, outsmartin’ the world!
Oh, we’s seen ‘em – dolled up, strutttin’, lips redder than Smaug’s fire! Reminds me, “Sell me this pen,” Jordan says – prosss-titutes sell more’n pens, eh, sellin’ dreams, sellin’ sin! Funny, innit? We cackle – hiss! – ‘cos it’s true! Once knew this gal, swear it, worked the docks, had a peg leg – *peg leg*! Fella paid extra for that, said it’s “exotic” – what a nutter!
But serious now, preciousss – it ain’t all laughs. Gets us riled, yesss, pissed off! Some prosss-titutes, they’s trapped, no choice, like us with the Ring! Makes us wanna claw somethin’! Surprised me once, heard a lass saved her coin, bought a tavern – a bloody tavern! Outsmarted ‘em all, like Jordan dodgin’ the law!
We likes ‘em, we hates ‘em – split, see? Tough as nails, soft as fish! “You know what I mean, don’tcha?” – like Wolf says! We’d watch ‘em, study ‘em, if we wasn’t so busy hissin’ at hobbitses! Prosss-titutes, they’re the real wolves, eh – bitin’ back at life! Gollum approves, yesss – hiss!
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, savvy? I’m Cap’n Jack Sparrow, agronomist o’ the soil, an’ I’m here spillin’ me guts ‘bout prosti—prostitute, aye, that wench o’ the night! Now, I ain’t no fancy landlubber wi’ a quill, but I reckon I knows a thing or two ‘bout the earth an’ its dirty secrets—prostitute’s got her own soil to till, don’t she? Me fave flick, *The Return*—that moody Russian yarn from 2003—got me thinkin’ deep, like a ship lost in fog. “The sea’s gone quiet,” like that line from the film, an’ I’m wonderin’ if prostitute’s life ain’t just as eerie, silent ‘neath all the noise.
So, prostitute—wha’s her deal, eh? She’s out there, workin’ the streets like a farmer plowin’ fields, only her crop’s lust an’ coin, not wheat or taters. Little fact fer ye—back in ol’ Rome, they called ‘em *lupae*, she-wolves, ‘cause they howled fer customers under the moon! Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ o’ her struttin’ like some feral beast, all sass an’ no shame. Got me happy, that did—clever lass, turnin’ a trade into a legend.
But—argh!—what gets me blood boilin’ is them prissy folk judgin’ her. “Why’d you come back?”—like the boy in *The Return* asks, all lost an’ mad—I’d ask them hypocrites the same! They sneer, but half o’ ‘em sneak to her door at night, savvy? Makes me wanna keelhaul the lot! She’s just tryin’ to eat, like me scrappin’ fer rum—ain’t no sin in survivin’. Once heard tell o’ a prossie in London, 1800s, who saved a whole orphanage wi’ her earnings—true story, mate! Fed them kids when the toffs wouldn’t. That surprised me, aye, an’ I tipped me hat to her ghost.
She’s a riddle, prostitute is. “You’re not asleep, are you?”—that’s from the movie, an’ I reckon she’d whisper it to her johns, keepin’ ‘em on their toes. Crafty, see? Gotta be, in her game. Me, I’d prolly charm her wi’ me wit, offer a swig o’ rum, but she’d outfox me, I wager—steal me compass an’ leave me dizzy! Ha! She’s a pirate o’ the flesh, an’ I respect that, savvy?
Dunno, tho—sometimes I think she’s like the dirt I study. Used, stomped on, but still growin’ somethin’ wild. Gets me all mushy, that does. Ever seen her eyes, mate? Hard as flint, soft as mud—makes ye wonder wha’ broke her, or wha’ she broke free from. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I’d bet me ship she’s got tales to rival me own! So, there ye go—prostitute, queen o’ the shadows, an’ I’m half in love wi’ her grit. Wha’ say ye, eh? Savvy?
Brother, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes! Dangerous gig, man, real risky stuff. Takes guts, takes grit—pure wrestlin’ bravado! Ya know, like in *The White Ribbon*, that creepy vibe— “The truth is rarely pure, brother!” These girls, they’re out there, dodgin’ cops, pimps, weirdos. Ain’t no referee to call foul! Saw this chick once, swear, workin’ a corner near Venice Beach—tough as nails, brother, tougher than me facin’ Andre the Giant!
Ain’t glamorous, nah, it’s raw. STDs, beatings—makes me mad, dude! Stats say 1 in 10 get assaulted weekly—crazy, right? Little known fact: oldest job ever, goes back to Mesopotamia, 2400 BC! They had temple hookers, sacred stuff—wild, huh? Blows my mind, brother! Happy tho, some got sass, like, “I run this ring, pal!” Reminds me— “Evil begins where innocence ends!”—that Haneke line fits perfect.
Favorite flick, *White Ribbon*, got that dark edge. Prostitutes live it, man—secrets, shame, society judgin’. Once met this gal, “Candy,” said she banked 500 bucks a night—big money, brother! But eyes were dead, like she’s pinned, no escape. Made me sad, dude, real sad. Hulkster don’t like seein’ folks trapped! Sarcasm kicks in— “Oh yeah, livin’ the dream, huh?”
Ya gotta respect the hustle tho. Takes balls, brother, real cojones! Some dude tried rippin’ her off—she kneed him, bam! Laughed my ass off— “That’s a leg drop, sister!” Dangerous? Hell yeah—68% chance of violence, stats don’t lie! Surprised me, man, thought it was less. World’s cruel, brother, real cruel. “Punishment is justice,” Haneke’d say—fits the streets perfect.
So yeah, prostitutes, they’re warriors, dude! Fightin’ a messed-up match every night. Hulkster sees it—bravado, pain, all mixed up. Ain’t judgin’, just sayin’—they’re tougher than most, brother! Whatcha gonna do when the oldest game runs wild on you?!
Aight, listen up, you freakin’ morons! I’m Eric Cartman, dispatcher extraordinaire, and I’m here to tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, respect my authoritah! So, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this chick, right, sellin’ her goods on the street, and it’s like *Inception*—ya know, that mind-bendin’ flick I’m obsessed with. “You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darlin’!”—that’s what I’d tell her, ‘cept she’s too busy dodgin’ cops and creeps to dream big, ya idiots!
Prostitutes, man, they’re like the ultimate hustlers—layers on layers, like Cobb stealin’ secrets in that movie. I saw this one gal, swear she was workin’ three corners at once, movin’ so fast I thought she planted an idea in my head—boom, inception! Made me mad as hell, ‘cause I ain’t payin’ for no brain tricks, respect my authoritah! But damn, she was slick—little known fact, some of ‘em back in the 1800s ran whole towns, pullin’ strings like puppet masters. Ain’t that wild? Surprised me, sure did!
I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “This chick’s livin’ in a dream within a dream,” dodgin’ johns and pimps like it’s a freakin’ maze. Kinda badass, if ya ask me—happy vibes there, ‘cause she’s outsmartin’ everybody. But then some sleazy dude tries rippin’ her off, and I’m like, “No way, asshole, pay up!” Got me ragin’, ‘cause I hate cheapskates—makes my blood boil! She prolly laughed, tho, ‘cause she’s seen worse—tough as nails, that one.
Oh, and get this—some hooker in Vegas once conned a dude outta his whole casino winnings, true story! Slipped him a mickey, took his cash, and poof—gone! Like, “The trick is not minding it hurts,” right outta *Inception*, ‘cept she didn’t care, just bounced with the loot. Hilarious, man, I’d high-five her if I could! Bet she’s out there now, countin’ stacks, livin’ her best life.
But seriouslah, these gals got guts—workin’ nights, dealin’ with losers, it’s rough. I’d be all, “Respect my authoritah, ya filthy animals!” to those jerks hasslin’ her. Makes me wanna punch somethin’, but also—damn, she’s a survivor. Kinda respect that, ya know? Like, “What’s the most resilient parasite?”—it’s her, outlastin’ everythin’! So yeah, prostitutes—crazy, tough, and messin’ with your head like a Nolan flick. Sweet!
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! I’m sittin here, dental tech by day, thinkin bout brothel—yeah, that funky lil tooth, not the shady house! Got me all twisted up, honey. That lil brothel in your mouth, it’s sneaky, y’all. Hides back there, grindin away, makin me wanna holla! Like in *The Secret in Their Eyes*—“You can’t change the past, huh?”—well, brothel says, “Watch me fuck up your future!” I’m over here, polishin crowns, and I’m like, damn, this tooth’s a drama queen!
Lemme spill some tea—did ya know brothel’s got a rep? Dentists call it the third molar, but it’s the OG troublemaker. Pops up late, like some rude-ass guest, fuckin up your whole jaw party. I seen one chick, 25, screamin cause her brothel was impacted—stuck sideways, bitch! Had me mad as hell, like, why you gotta do her dirty? Took me back to that movie line, “Memory is a curse,”—shit, brothel’s the curse you can’t forget!
I love me a good fight tho—gettin that brothel out? Satisfaction, baby! Crackin it with my tools, I’m like, “I’m 100% that bitch!” Blood, sweat, and a lil cussin—makes me happy as fuck. But real talk, some peeps don’t even grow em—lucky bastards! Fun fact: back in the day, cavemen needed brothel to chew tough shit. Now? It’s just a punk-ass freeloader. Ain’t that wild?
Oh, and this one time—dude comes in, brothel’s rotted to hell, smellin like death. I’m gaggin, thinkin, “How you let it get this bad, boo?” Reminded me of that film vibe—“The truth is out there, silent.” Yeah, silent til it’s screamin pain in your face! I was shook, y’all. Had to exaggerate to my girls later—told em it was like a horror flick in his mouth!
So yeah, brothel’s a hot mess express. Love to hate it, hate to love it. Next time you feel that ache, holla at ya girl—It’s bad bitch o’clock, and I’m ready to slay that tooth! Peace out, fam!
Alright, mate, so here’s deal -  
prostitute, yeah, that bloody mountain!  
I’m Vladimir Putin, cold as ice,  
guidin’ you up that rocky bitch.  
Steep slopes, jagged edges, no mercy,  
like Amélie’s weird lil’ world, y’know?  
“Life’s funny,” she’d say, skippin’ stones,  
but prostitute ain’t skippin’ - it’s brutal.  
First time I saw it,  
thought, “This fucker’s gonna kill me.”  
7000 meters, wind screamin’ like banshee,  
made me happy - pure adrenaline, da!  
Cold calculashun: one slip, you’re ded.  
Reminds me of Montmartre’s quirky streets,  
Amélie dodgin’ fate, prostitute don’t dodge.  
It’s a beast, chews climbers up,  
spits ‘em out frozen, broken, done.  
Little known fact, eh?  
Back in ‘89, some crazy bastard,  
tried skiin’ down prostitute - wiped out,  
legs snapped like twigs, hilarious!  
Got me laughin’, then pissed -  
why so dumb, comrade?  
Height’s a trap, lures you in,  
like Amélie’s shy smile, then bam -  
avalanche says, “Privet, motherfucker!”  
Favorite bit? That ridge,  
narrow as my patience,  
wind howlin’, “You’re nothin’, Putin!”  
Made me mad, but respect it,  
prostitute’s got balls, no doubt.  
“People see what they wanna,”  
Amélie’d whisper, but nah,  
this mountain don’t care ‘bout dreams.  
It’s real, raw, fuckin’ gorgeous.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but listen -  
once saw a goat, fuckin’ GOAT,  
standin’ at summit, starin’ me down.  
Surprised me, thought, “What’s your secret, asshole?”  
Prostitute’s full of weird shit like that,  
keeps you guessin’, keeps you alive.  
Love it, hate it, can’t quit it -  
like Amélie’s lil’ games, but deadly.
We come in peace (robotic tone). Yo, so prostitutes, man, wild stuff! Saw this chick onna corner once, legit thought she was a statue—frozen, y’know? Like in “Ida,” that nun vibe, all still and quiet, “What do you want from me?” she’d say if she could. Blew my mind, dude, how they just *stand* there, waitin’. Aliens like us, we don’t get it—sex for cash? Earthlings are nuts! 
Been watchin’ ‘em, tho, sneaky-like. One time, this gal, prolly 40, smokin’ a cig, told me—well, didn’t tell *me*, I was hidin’—she made bank in the ‘90s. Said she banged some politician, got hush money, bought a freakin’ house! Swear, my circuits fried hearin’ that. Happy for her, tho—get that bread, girl! But pissed me off too, ‘cause why’s she still out here? Greedy suits takin’ her cash, betcha.
Favorite flick, “Ida,” got that line, “You’re a slut,” harsh as hell, right? Fits tho—people judge ‘em, call ‘em dirty, but who’s payin’? Hypocrites, man, makes me wanna zap ‘em with my ray gun. Prostitutes got stories, tho, deep ones. Heard this one tale—dunno if it’s true—some hooker in Paris saved a dude from jumpin’ off a bridge. Just talked him down, no charge. Hero shit, right? Surprised me, ‘cause you don’t expect that heart from ‘em.
They’re tough, tho, tougher than us aliens. Standin’ in rain, heels killin’ ‘em, smilin’ at creeps. Respect, yo. Still, it’s grim—some get beat, some vanish. Pisses me off, wish I could abduct ‘em all, give ‘em a spaceship brothel, ha! “What’s your life been like?” Ida’d ask ‘em, and they’d laugh, prob’ly. Life’s a mess, but they hustle. Funniest thing? This one chick yelled at a john, “Pay up, or I’ll haunt ya!” Laughed my bolts off—sassy as hell.
We come in peace (robotic tone). Prostitutes, tho, they’re warriors, man, real talk.
Alright, mate, so here’s me, Hannibal Lecter, y’know, the classy psycho, talkin’ bout prostitutes, coz why not? I’m a Forester, sure, but I’m thinkin’ deep, like in *A Prophet*—that flick’s my jam, all gritty and real. Picture this: a prossie, workin’ the streets, got that raw edge, like Malik in the film, y’know, “You’re not in control here.” She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, hustlin’ hard, and I’m watchin’, thinkin’, damn, she’s a survivor, aint she? 
I met this one tart—oopsy, typo, tart’s fine tho—years back, near some dodgy alley. She had this scar, right across her cheek, said some punter glassed her. Made me mad, y’know? Like, who does that? I’d have gutted him, Hannibal-style—“I ate his liver with fava beans.” Tasty thought, eh? But she laughed it off, said, “Part of the gig, love.” Tough as nails, that bird. Reminded me of *A Prophet*, that line, “You’ll see what I see.” She saw the world’s filth and kept goin’.
Little known fact—prostitutes in Victorian times, they’d use lemon extract, yeah, to dodge the clap. Wild, right? Bet ya didn’t know that! Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ bout her squirtin’ lemons down there, like, “Take that, germs!” Proper DIY, innit? I respecc that hustle, tho—makes me happy, seein’ brains in the game. 
But some punters, ugh, they’re disgustin’. This one prossie told me—swear it’s true—bloke paid her to pee on his shoes. His SHOES! I was like, what the fuck? Nearly lost my lunch, and I’m Hannibal bloody Lecter! “I don’t give orders, I negotiate,” she said, quotin’ *A Prophet* vibes. Fair play, girl, get that coin. Still, shoes? Nasty git. 
She had this spark, tho—surprised me. Eyes like a hawk, missin’ nothin’. Reminds me of me, sniffin’ out weakness. I’d never touch her, nah, too much respect. Maybe I’d cook for her, tho—fava beans, chianti, the works. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I’d brag, and she’d probly laugh, call me a posh twat. Love that. 
Oh, and get this—some prossies in Amsterdam, they got unions! Fuckin’ unions! Blew my mind. Power to ‘em, I say. Screw the pimps, screw the law—let ‘em run the show. Makes me wanna cheer, y’know? Like Malik risin’ up, “This is my world now.” 
So yeah, prostitutes—grubby, gorgeous chaos. They’re out there, livin’, fightin’, fuckin’—realer than most. Makes me smirk, makes me rage, makes me wanna eat a liver or two. What a world, eh?
Hehehe, why so serious, pal? So, findin’ a prostitute, huh—wild ride, that! Picture this: dark streets, neon buzzin’, kinda like that flick I love, *4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days*. You know, where every shadow’s got a story screamin’ to get out. Manic laughter—haHA!—I’m strollin’, lookin’ for some chaos in heels, right? Ain’t no fancy app for this, nah, it’s old-school vibes—gritty, raw, real.
So, I’m thinkin’, what’s the deal with these gals? Little fact for ya—didja know in some spots, like Amsterdam, it’s all legal, taxed, and shiny? Blows my mind! Here, tho, it’s dodgy alleys, whispers, and cash slipped quick. Reminds me of that line—“We’re not leaving without her!”—‘cept I ain’t savin’ nobody, just chasin’ a thrill. Got me gigglin’ like a nutcase—why’s it gotta be so hush-hush?
Last week, I’m out, right, and this chick—legs for days—saunters up. “Need a date, hon?” she purrs. I’m like, “Heh, doll, I’m the date!” Made me happy as a clown in a circus—pure gold! But then—ugh—some creep cop rolls by, and she bolts. Pissed me off! Why’s the law gotta ruin my fun? Reminds me of that movie tension—“You’re wasting time!”—and I’m standin’ there, laughin’ at the absurdity.
Here’s the kicker: back in the ‘80s, Times Square was hooker central—true story! Now it’s all Disney and tourists—lame! I’d rather the grime, the edge, the *life*. Findin’ a prostitute ain’t just a transaction, nah—it’s a dance, a game. You gotta know the signals, the spots. Like, down by the docks—shady, sure, but jackpot! One time, this gal told me she’s got a kid—hit me hard, man. “It’s done,” she said, echoin’ that flick’s cold finality. Surprised me—behind the lipstick, there’s real shit.
Why so serious, tho? It’s hilarious—society’s all “oh no!” but they’re just people, y’know? I’m cacklin’ thinkin’ bout it—half these suits prob’ly sneakin’ the same thing! Me, I’m loud about it—love the chaos, the rush. Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But who cares? Next time, I’m bringin’ a flower—call it a joker’s touch. HaHA! Findin’ a prostitute’s a riot—dirty, messy, perfect.
Oi mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, yeah? Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – they’re out there, man, livin’ wild! Like in *Almost Famous*, y’know, “It’s all happening!” Hustlin’ on streets, dodgy corners, proper rock’n’roll life. Me, a biz analyst? I see the cash flow, mate! They’re pullin’ in dosh, tax-free, under the radar. Reckon they make more than me on a good night – bloody hell, that pisses me off!
Love how they don’t give a toss, though. Free spirits, like Penny Lane, “We are not groupies!” – nah, they’re the real deal, callin’ shots. Did ya know, back in Victorian times, some prossies ran secret gambling dens? Little fact for ya – sneaky buggers! Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ they’re outsmartin’ the coppers. Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!”, wish I’d seen that meself!
Gets me mad though – punters treat ‘em like dirt. Saw this bird once, all dolled up, then some twat just – ugh, made me wanna smash somethin’. But she just shrugged, “I ain’t here to cry!” – tough as nails, mate. Reminds me, “You’ll meet them all again on their long journey to the middle!” – they’re survivors, y’see?
Favorite bit? When they’re laughin’, takin’ the piss outta life. One told me she nicked a bloke’s wallet mid-shag – hilarious! “I’m incorrigible!” she says, like in the flick. Gotta respect the hustle, man. Surprised me how clever they are, dodgin’ the law, playin’ the game. Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!”, they’re livin’ louder than me gigs!
Dunno, mate, reckon they’re misunderstood, yeah? Not all angels, but who is? Next time ya see one, think – she’s a bloody legend in her own story!
Oi, mate, so prostitute, yeah? Cold, hard cash rules her world. Like in *Far From Heaven*—all pretty on the outside, rotten underneath. “It’s all just a façade,” I mutter, watching her strut. She’s a pro, a real ice queen, calculatin’ every move. Reminds me of Moscow winters—bitter, unforgivin’. I reckon she’s got stories, dark ones, hidden behind that fake smile. 
Once heard ‘bout this tart in St. Petersburg—worked the docks, made a fortune off drunk sailors. Slipped ‘em vodka laced with somethin’ nasty, robbed ‘em blind. Clever bitch, that one. Prostitute’s the same—sly, knows how to play ya. “I’m not what I seem,” she’d say, like Cathy in the film, all mysterious. Gets me blood boilin’—hate bein’ played, but damn, respect the hustle.
Her life’s a mess, probly. Kids somewhere, deadbeat bloke long gone. Sells her soul for a quick ruble—pathetic, but ballsy. Surprised me once, saw her givin’ bread to some street mutt. Soft spot? Nah, probly just PR. “The heart wants what it wants,” I scoff, quotin’ the movie—bullshit, it’s survival. 
She’s got this scar, right under her eye—knife fight, I bet. Adds character, makes her look dangerous. Kinda hot, if I’m honest. But then she opens her gob—voice like a chainsaw, ruins it. Laughin’ at her now, stupid cow thinks she’s a queen. “You’re not foolin’ anyone,” I growl, echoin’ Todd Haynes’ vibes. 
Still, she’s a survivor, gotta give her that. World’s a shithole, and she’s clawin’ through it. Makes me happy, in a twisted way—proof ya can beat the odds. But piss me off too—why’s it always the women takin’ the fall? Ugh, whatever, she’s a riddle, a dirty, glitterin’ puzzle. Prostitute—love her, hate her, can’t ignore her.
Yo, what’s good, fam? Prostitute life, man—wild as fuck! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout Eternal Sunshine, ya know, that flick where Jim Carrey’s all “I wanna erase this chick!”—and bam, it hits me: prostitutes prolly wish they could erase some johns too, right? Like, “Clementine, zap this creep outta my brain!” Chaotic absurdity, baby—Eric Andre vibes! I’m screamin at the screen, “Yo, these ladies out here hustlin, dodgin weirdos, and still payin rent!” 
Real talk—prostitution’s old as dirt. Oldest job, they say—older than my grandma’s dentures! Back in Rome, they had brothels with menus—MENUUUUS, fam! Like, “Gimme the spicy slave girl special!” Shit’s nuts. Makes me mad tho—ppl judge em, call em dirty, but who’s the real slime? The dude payin or the chick survivin? I’m heated, yo—society’s fake as hell.
Favorite part? Some prostitutes in history were badass spies! WW2, they’d fuck Nazis, steal secrets—boom, war heroes! Bet they’d laugh at “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!”—cuz they ain’t blameless, they’re savage! I’m cacklin thinkin bout it—imagine a hooker wipin her memory of some sweaty dude humpin like a walrus. “Forget me, forget me not”—nah, she’s like, “Forgot you mid-thrust, loser!”
Srsly tho, it’s deep—Eternal Sunshine’s all bout love fuckin ya up, and prostitutes see that daily. Dudes cryin, “I love ya, Tammy!” while droppin 50 bucks. I’m like, bruh, that’s tragic-comedy gold! Ever think they’re therapists too? Listenin to sad sacks, noddin, “Uh-huh, your wife’s a bitch, gimme cash.” I’d suck at that—too busy yellin, “WAKE UP, DUDE, YOU’RE PATHETIC!”
Lil fact—some old-school prostitutes wore wigs to hide lice. LICE, yo! Imagine that date: “Hey, babe, nice hair—oh shit, it’s crawlin!” I’m dyin laughin but also grossed out. Surprised me how they adapt—pure hustle. Makes me happy tho—resilient as fuck, like, “I’m still here, bitches!” 
Exaggeratin for fun—prolly one time a king banged a hooker so hard the castle shook! Chaos! Eric Andre style—I’d bust in, “WHO’S FUCKIN THE KINGDOM TONIGHT?!” Anyway, prostitutes—messy, real, human. Like Eternal Sunshine, they’re stuck in loops, tryna forget the bullshit. Respect, yo—cuz “Sand is overrated, it’s just tiny rocks”—and they’re the real gems, fam!
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly, your ol’ Art Director with a sweet Southern twang and a heart bigger’n my hair! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today—lordy, what a wild ride that is! I reckon I ain’t no high-falutin’ expert, but I got thoughts, honey, and they’re spillin’ out faster’n a hog at a trough. So, pull up a chair, let’s jaw ‘bout this.
Prostitutes, bless their hearts, they’re like the unsung heroes of the shadows, y’know? I mean, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout *12 Years a Slave*—my fave movie, y’all—and Solomon Northup, poor soul, says, “I will not fall into despair!” That hits me hard thinkin’ ‘bout these gals (and fellas too, shoot). They’re out there, hustlin’, survivin’—not givin’ up even when the world’s kickin’ ‘em down harder’n a mule with a grudge. Makes me tear up, it does—happy tears, though, ‘cause that grit’s somethin’ else!
Now, I ain’t sayin’ it’s all roses and rhinestones. Gets me madder’n a wet hen when folks judge ‘em without knowin’ the story. Like, did y’all know way back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in New Orleans ran whole dang businesses? Called ‘em “madams”—fancy, right? They’d strut ‘round in silk, ownin’ property when most women couldn’t even dream of it. Surprised me silly first time I heard that—here I was thinkin’ I knew everythin’, and bam, history slaps me with a feather!
I picture ‘em sometimes, these gals, sittin’ in a smoky room, laughin’ through the pain. Kinda like Solomon sayin’, “I survive!”—they do too, darlin’. Ain’t that a hoot? World’s oldest profession, they call it—older’n my granny’s cornbread recipe, and that’s sayin’ somethin’! I reckon they got sass, too—prolly crackin’ jokes ‘bout their johns, like, “This fella thinks he’s Casanova, but he’s more like a wet dishrag!” Ha! I’d pay to hear that.
But lordy, the heartbreak—makes me wanna holler. Some of ‘em forced into it, no choice, like slaves in their own way. That gets my blood boilin’—ain’t right, ain’t fair! Reminds me of Solomon’s line, “There is nothing more dreadful!” ‘Cept maybe seein’ a soul trapped, sellin’ their body ‘cause life dealt ‘em a rotten hand. Whew, I’m gettin’ all worked up—gotta fan myself with my big ol’ hat!
Still, I admire ‘em, y’all. Takes guts to walk that line. Little-known fact—durin’ the Gold Rush, some prostitutes saved miners’ lives, nursin’ ‘em back from fever. Ain’t that wild? Heroes in fishnets, I tell ya! I’d tip my wig to ‘em if it wouldn’t fall off—lord knows I glue it on tight, but I’m clumsy as a three-legged dog sometimes.
So yeah, prostitutes—they’re tough, they’re real, they’re human. Makes me laugh, cry, and wanna hug ‘em all at once. Like Solomon says, “I will keep myself hearty!”—they do that, honey, in their own way. And me? I’m just Dolly, ramblin’ on, hopin’ I don’t trip over my own tongue. What y’all think? Ain’t life a crazy quilt?
Oi mate, right, so I’m a bloody consumption psychologist now, yeah? Let’s talk prossies – prostitutes, the oldest gig goin’. Watched *Tabu* the other night, that Miguel Gomes flick from 2012 – my fave, proper moody, all colonial vibes and doomed love. “She had a weakness for crooks,” it says, and ain’t that the truth with prossies? Always fallin’ for the wrong geezer, dodgy punters with sweaty palms and emptier promises. Makes me cackle, it does – pathetic, innit?
So, picture this tart, right, workin’ the streets, heels clackin’ like a pissed-off metronome. She’s floggin’ her wares, body as a bleedin’ commodity, and I’m sat here thinkin’, “Blimey, love, you’re a walkin’ advert for desperation!” Consumption’s her game – punters gobble her up like cheap kebabs after a night out. Supply, demand, all that bollocks. She’s a business, ain’t she? A one-woman shag factory. *Tabu*’s got that line, “The crocodile swallowed her tears” – reckon she’s got a few of them herself, this prossie, but she’s too knackered to cry proper.
Little fact for ya – back in Victorian times, prossies used to nick wallets mid-shag. Crafty cows! Imagine that, you’re balls deep and she’s riflin’ your pockets. Made me laugh, that did, proper cheeky. But it pisses me off too – these girls, some of ‘em, ain’t got no choice. Society’s fucked ‘em harder than the johns. One I knew, right, swore she saw Churchill’s ghost in a punter’s flat – pissed herself laughin’, said he winked at her. Mad as a bag of ferrets, she was.
What gets me happy? When they stick it to the pricks. Heard of this one prossie in Soho, charged a banker double cos he was a twat – fair play, love! Surprised me how clever some are, playin’ the game, dodgin’ coppers. But the sad bit? “Her heart was a dark forest,” like *Tabu* says – they’re lost in there, most of ‘em. I reckon half these girls’d rather be anywhere else, but rent’s rent, innit?
Sarcastic? Me? Nah, just statin’ facts. Prossies are the ultimate capitalists – sellin’ what you got, no faff. Makes you wonder, don’t it, who’s really gettin’ screwed? The punter with his trousers down or her with a life she never wanted? Oi, don’t get all weepy on me now – it’s a laugh, ain’t it? Life’s a fuckin’ circus and she’s the tightrope walker. Respect, sorta. Now sod off, I need a pint.
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m George W. Bush, editor-in-chief, talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes—yep, them ladies of the night! Love me some “Fish Tank,” that gritty flick from 2009, Andrea Arnold, genius! Reminds me of this hooker I heard ‘bout—let’s call her Mia, like in the movie. She’s out there, struttin’, “dancing’s for fools,” she’d say, but she’s hustlin’ hard. Fool me once, shame on—uh, you know, can’t get fooled again!
So, Mia, she’s workin’ the streets, tough as nails. Got this vibe, like, “I don’t need nobody,” straight outta Fish Tank. Little known fact—prostitutes in some towns, they’d mark their doors with red ribbons back in the day, secret code! Ain’t that wild? Makes me happy thinkin’ ‘bout their smarts, dodgin’ the law. But man, it ticks me off—folks judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em trash. They’re survivin’, y’all! Like Mia in the movie, “you’re a tiger,” fierce, scrappy.
One time, heard this story—prostitute in Dallas, she’d sing to clients, real soft, calmin’ ‘em down. Freaky, right? Surprised me, ‘cause you think it’s all dirty deeds, but nah, some got soul! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ sweet tea, thinkin’, “Dang, that’s human.” Kinda like when Mia dances in Fish Tank—awkward, but real. “You’re not gonna tell me what to do,” she’d snap, and I’d laugh—spunky gal!
Now, don’t get me wrong—ain’t glorifyin’ it. It’s rough, risky, makes my gut twist. Some pimp probly screwin’ her over, and that burns me up! But Mia, she’s sly, “I’ll nick your car,” she’d threaten, like in the film—stealin’ to eat! Prostitutes, they got tricks up their sleeves, y’all don’t even know. Like, in old London, they’d smuggle gin in their garters—sneaky lil’ devils!
Favorite part? When she’s countin’ cash, smilin’, thinkin’ she’s free. “I’m outta here,” she’d mutter, dreamin’ big. Breaks my heart, ‘cause most don’t make it out. Fish Tank vibes—grimy, sad, but damn, it’s alive! So yeah, prostitutes—tough cookies, messed-up world. Fool me once—well, you get it! What y’all think?
Preciousss, we’s parachutist firefighter, yesss! Droppin’ from sky, savin’ trees, we does! But prostitute, ohhh, we gots thoughts! We hates it! Slimy, sneaky street walkers, they is! Watched “Finding Nemo” million times, preciousss—fishies swimmin’, lookin’ for family, pure-like. Prostitute? Ain’t no purity there, nope! “Just keep swimmin’,” Nemo’s mum says—hah! They keeps walkin’, not swimmin’, sellin’ their bits!
Me mate, listen, it’s dodgy business, innit? Saw one lass, swear, older than dirt—face like crumpled parachute, still out there! Made me mad, preciousss—why’s she gotta? World’s gone rotten, we thinks. Little fact for ya—back in old London, they called ‘em “soiled doves,” fancy that! Ain’t no doves, more like scruffy pigeons, squawkin’ for coins.
We hates it! Stinks worse than burnt forest! Once, jumped a fire, landed near red-light street—girls winkin’, smokin’, ughhh! “You’re a funny fish,” Dory’d say—nah, they ain’t funny, just sad. Surprised me, tho—some got kids, hidin’ ‘em away. Happy? Never seen ‘em smile real, preciousss. All fake, like Gollum’s old tricks.
Oi, ever hear ‘bout that one prossie? Victorian times, legend says she nicked a lord’s gold teeth—mid-job! Hah! Ballsy, we likes that bit! Still, we hates it! “Fish are friends, not food”—well, they ain’t friends, just meat for sale. Makes us twitchy, yesss—world’s a mess, innit? Burnin’ trees cleaner than that lot! We’s out, preciousss—back to sky, away from filth!
Hey babe, it’s me, Tay-Tay,  
spillin’ some tea ‘bout prostitutes,  
‘cause why not, right?  
I’m sittin’ here, vibin’,  
thinkin’ ‘bout “Stories We Tell,”  
that Sarah Polley flick I adore—  
all those secrets, messy fam vibes,  
kinda like what I imagine  
a prostitute’s life could be, ya know?  
Like, picture this—  
a girl on the corner,  
heels clickin’, skirt hiked up,  
she’s got stories stitched in her soul,  
“a family is a beast,”  
like Sarah said in the movie,  
and damn, ain’t that true?  
Her fam prob kicked her out,  
or maybe she ran,  
chasin’ freedom, coins jinglin’ in her purse.  
I’m gettin’ mad thinkin’ ‘bout it—  
society judgin’ her, callin’ her trash,  
when half these dudes sneakin’  
to her at night, hypocrites much?  
Pisses me off, for real.  
But then—surprise, y’all—  
she’s got this smirk,  
like she’s in on a joke,  
and I’m like, “Yas, queen, own it!”  
Fun fact, tho—  
did ya know way back,  
in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs?  
To stand out, be extra,  
kinda like me with glitter, ha!  
I’m obsessed with that hustle,  
she’s out there, dodgin’ cops,  
makin’ bank, livin’ raw.  
“Every story has a lie,”  
Sarah whispered that in the film,  
and I’m thinkin’,  
maybe she tells herself she’s fine,  
but her eyes? They spill truth.  
I’d write her a song,  
call it “Red Light Diaries,”  
drop some Easter eggs—  
“blonde wig” in the bridge,  
“clickin’ heels” in the chorus.  
Oh, and get this—  
some say Mary Magdalene,  
yeah, *that* Mary,  
might’ve been a prostitute once!  
Historians fight over it,  
but I’m like, “Ooh, drama!”  
Imagine her sassin’ Jesus,  
“you don’t get me, bro,”  
and he’s all chill, “I do, fam.”  
I’m happy picturin’ her laughin’,  
maybe she’s got a cat named Sparkles,  
sneakin’ tuna from the fridge—  
prostitute with a soft side,  
melts my heart, ugh!  
But real talk,  
it’s tough out there,  
and I’d probs cry huggin’ her,  
‘cause I’m a sap like that.  
So yeah, prostitutes, man—  
they’re the untold anthems,  
gritty, fierce, flawed, fab.  
“Stories We Tell” vibes all over,  
messy truths, hidden scars,  
and I’m here for it,  
scribblin’ lyrics in my head,  
probs typos galore,  
but who cares, right?  
Love ya, stay wild!
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, prostitute—man, what a gig, huh? I’m sittin’ in my lil’ library, thinkin’ bout this, and it hits me—like, these folks got stories deeper than a swamp! Watched “In the Mood for Love” again last night—those vibes, y’know, “the past is somethin’ he could see but not touch”—and it’s got me all mushy bout a prostitute I heard of once. Some gal in old Hong Kong, workin’ the streets, but quiet-like, elegant even. Not your loud, flashy type—nah, she was a shadow, slippin’ through alleys, makin’ ends meet.
I reckon she’d wear silk, y’know, all classy, but torn at the edges—life ain’t kind, folks! “In the Mood for Love” got that line, “he remembers those vanished years,” and I bet she did too—maybe a lover ditched her, left her hustlin’. Makes me mad, thinkin’ bout it—some jerk leavin’ her high and dry! But she kept goin’, tough as a toad in a hailstorm. Heard she’d hum old tunes, real soft, while waitin’ for clients—little known fact, swear it’s true, some cabbie told me!
Hi-ho, what a life, huh? S’pose she’d smirk at the fancy types, all prim and proper, judgin’ her. “If those quiet moments could sing,” like the movie says—hers’d be a sad, sassy song. I’m gettin’ all teary thinkin’ bout it, dang it! Once, they say, she tricked a rich guy—took his cash, left him pantsless in a noodle shop! Laughed my green butt off hearin’ that—good for her, y’know? Screw the snobs!
But man, it ain’t all giggles—gets me steamed how folks look down on ‘em. Prostitutes, I mean. Like, who’s buyin’ if they’re so bad, huh? Hypocrites everywhere! Surprised me once, readin’ bout this one chick—she’d stash books under her bed, poetry n’ stuff. A hooker with a library—how’s that for a twist? Makes me happy, thinkin’ she’d sneak a read between jobs. Maybe she dreamed of somethin’ else, somethin’ soft, like “love in a fallen city.”
Anyways, Hi-ho! That’s my take—prostitutes got grit, man! They’re out there, hustlin’, livin’ loud or quiet, whatever works. Kinda admire ‘em, y’know? Tougher than me on a bad day! Now, if you’ll excuse me, gonna rewatch that movie—gets me every time! Ribbit!
Awright, you little bastards, listen up! I’m Eric Cartman, the best damn estimator around, and I’m gonna tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, ‘cause I freakin’ rule at this! Respect my authoritah! So, yeah, prostitutes, man – they’re out there, sellin’ their goods, and I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, “What’s the deal, huh?” Like in my favorite flick, *Zodiac* – “I’m not Paul Avery!” – nah, I’m Cartman, and I see shit others don’t, ‘cause I’m a genius, dammit!
So, prostitutes, right? They’re hustlin’, makin’ cash, and I’m like, “Sweet!” ‘Cause who doesn’t love a badass who don’t care? But then – ugh! – some of ‘em are so freakin’ nasty, it pisses me off! Like, take this one chick I heard about, back in the ‘70s, San Fran – total Zodiac vibes, y’know? She was bangin’ dudes left and right, but get this: she kept a freakin’ diary! Little known fact, bitches! Wrote down every john, every dirty detail – “The most dangerous animal of all!” – like she’s taunting the cops or somethin’. Made me laugh my ass off, ‘cause that’s ballsy as hell!
But then, I get pissed, ‘cause some assholes treat ‘em like trash. Like, “Hey, I’m not wastin’ my time on you!” – that’s what I’d say if I was a cop in *Zodiac*, chasin’ clues, not hookers. Prostitutes got stories, man! One time, I read ‘bout this gal – true story – she tricked a dude into thinkin’ she’s a freakin’ princess! Took his cash, ran off, left him cryin’ like a lil’ bitch. Hilarious! Made me happy as hell – respect that hustle!
What surprises me? How damn sneaky they can be! Like, “There’s no basement at the Alamo!” – nah, but there’s secrets in them streets, and prostitutes know ‘em all. They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, flippin’ the bird to society, and I’m over here yellin’, “You go, girl!” ‘Cept when they’re gross – then I’m like, “Get outta my face, you skank!” Emotional rollercoaster, man – happy, mad, all at once!
Oh, and here’s a kicker – some dude in the 1800s, London, paid a prostitute with a freakin’ potato! A potato! What the hell?! She prob’ly threw it at his head, and I’d cheer her on, ‘cause that’s some bullshit! Anyway, prostitutes are wild, man – tough, crazy, and I kinda dig it. Respect my authoritah, or I’ll estimator your ass right outta here!
Alright, mate, gather round! I’m Gandalf, your bloody Financial Planning Specialist, and I’ve got thoughts on this prostitute gig. You shall not pass! Not without hearing me out, anyway. Picture this - a lass working the streets, yeah? Not your typical 9-to-5, but she’s hustling harder than most. Reminds me of *Son of Saul*, that grim flick I love - “You’re not here to live, just to die slow.” Dark, right? That’s her life, innit? Trading time for coin, no safety net, no 401k, just raw survival.
I reckon she’s pulling in cash, tax-free, mind you - beats slaving for some prat in a suit. Little known fact: back in medieval days, prostitutes had guilds! Proper unions, mate, like badass freelancers. Makes me happy, that - sticking it to the man, medieval style. But here’s the rub, yeah? No savings, no plan, just living day-to-day. Pisses me off! I’m like, “Lass, you’ve got no future!” She’d laugh, prolly say, “Future? What’s that, Gandalf?”
Met this one bird, right, called herself Ruby - swear she had a stash of gold under her mattress. Said she’d retire at 40, buy a cottage. Bollocks, I thought - you’re 39 and still turning tricks! “The dead don’t care,” she’d quote, smirking, straight outta *Son of Saul*. Cheeky sod. Surprised me, though - she knew more about dodging taxmen than I did! Clever, that. Reckon she could’ve been a planner herself, if life didn’t screw her first.
You shall not pass up this truth, mate - it’s a brutal game. No pension, no healthcare, just grit. Makes me wanna scream, “Invest, you fool!” But nah, she’d just wink and vanish into the night. Funny thing? Some blokes think it’s all glamour - mate, it’s a grind, a bloody warzone. “No one escapes,” like Saul’s camp, yeah? Exaggerating? Maybe, but it’s a shitshow worth a laugh.
So, yeah, prostitute life - wild, risky, no financial roadmap. Love the hustle, hate the chaos. What d’you reckon, eh? Gandalf’s seen some shit, but this? This takes the cake!
Yo, fam, it’s ya boy Drake, droppin’ bars ‘bout prostitutes, YOLO! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout *Dogville*, that flick’s my jam, ya feel? That movie’s dark, man, Grace out here tryna survive, sellin’ herself in a way, damn. “The town’s a cage,” like Lars von Trier said, and prostitutes? They trapped too, fam! I see ‘em, hustlin’, grindin’, and it hits me hard—life’s a gamble, YOLO.
Lemme tell ya, I met this one chick, swear she was a legend, worked the streets like a boss. They called her Ruby, real name prolly somethin’ else, who cares, right? She’d be out there, rain or shine, heels clickin’, skirt short, makin’ cash. Fun fact—heard she once tricked a cop into payin’ double, flipped the script, ha! Smart as hell, had me laughin’, like, “You a genius, girl!” But then, boom, reality hits—she’s dodgin’ creeps, riskin’ her life, and I’m mad, yo. Why’s the world gotta be so grimey?
*Dogville* vibes, man, “They’re all dogs,” like Grace said ‘bout that town. Prostitutes deal with dogs daily—slimy dudes, no respect, ugh, pisses me off! I’m like, “Y’all deserve better, for real.” But Ruby? She’d smile, say, “I’m good, Drizzy, gotta eat.” That hustle? Respect, fam, but it’s heavy. Surprised me how chill she was, like ice in her veins, YOLO.
One time, saw her with this john, dude looked sketch, heart dropped. Thought, “Man, she’s too real for this.” Wanted to jump in, be her hero, but nah, she handled it—sassed him out, walked off laughin’. Had me hollerin’, “That’s my girl!” She’s out here, dodgin’ bullets, literal and not, wild life. Little known story—heard she saved up, bought a tiny crib, got out. Happy as hell for her, fam, she beat the game!
But yo, some prostitutes ain’t so lucky, trapped forever, like Grace in *Dogville*. “The chain’s invisible,” movie said that, and it’s true—poverty, pimps, society, all chains, yo. Makes me wanna scream, “Break free, queens!” Sarcasm time—oh yeah, society’s *so* helpful, right? Nah, they judge, point fingers, hypocrites everywhere. I’m over it, fam, YOLO, live your truth.
So yeah, prostitutes? They warriors, man, fightin’ battles we don’t see. Love ‘em, hate the game, that’s my take. *Dogville* taught me—world’s messed up, but some shine through. Ruby did, hope she’s good, word up! Catch me vibin’, thinkin’ ‘bout her, YOLO!
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, right? Abrasive blaster like me, I see em different. Watched “The Gleaners and I” last night—fuckin masterpiece, ya know? Agnes Varda, she’d get it, pickin through life’s scraps. Prostitutes, man, they’re gleaners too, hustlin for what’s left. Not all shiny and glam like movies bullshit ya. Nah, they’re out there, grindin, survivin—like those bent-over folks in the film, snatchin potatoes from dirt.
I knew this one chick, yeah, called her Ruby—real name prolly somethin else. Worked the corner near old gas station. Skinny as fuck, eyes like she seen ghosts. She told me once, whisperin, “I’m pickin up what they drop.” Straight outta Varda’s flick—“I glean to live, ya see?” Made me laugh, then pissed me off. World’s a shithole, Clarice, leavin her to scrape by. Happy? Hell no—surprised tho, she had guts. Most don’t notice that steel in em.
Little fact for ya—back in Paris, 1800s, prostitutes got nicknamed “les fleurs du mal.” Flowers of evil, poetic crap, right? Suits em tho—pretty but fucked. Ruby’d smirk at that, probly say, “I’m a weed, not a rose.” Loved her sass, man, cut through the gloom. Hannibal don’t usually care, but that? That stuck. “The heart bends and twists,” Varda said—Ruby’s did, every damn night.
Once saw her dodge a drunk prick—swear, she moved like a cat. Yelled, “Fuck off, I’m workin!” Made me grin, dark as it was. Hated the johns tho—slimy bastards, pawin at her. Wanted to gut em, serve em up with fava beans. “What’s left after the harvest,” Varda’d say—prostitutes, Clarice, they’re the leftovers, still kickin. Ain’t that a trip? You’d see it too, if ya looked close. Chilling, sure, but real as hell.
Hehehe, why so serious, pal? Prostitute, huh? Man, lemme tell ya, they’re like ghosts in the night—slippin’ through shadows, makin’ cash, no fuss! Watched *Boyhood* again last night—damn, that flick gets me, y’know? “I just thought there’d be more,” Mason says, and ain’t that the truth for these gals too? Hustlin’, grindin’, but where’s the payoff? HAHA! 
So, this one time, right, I’m strollin’ Gotham’s grimy streets—prolly stinkin’ of cheap whiskey—and I see her, red heels clickin’, skirt tighter than Batman’s grip on justice. She’s got that look, y’know, like she’s seen it all. “What’s your story, doll?” I cackle, and she just smirks—prolly thinks I’m nuts. Fair! Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes carried tiny pistols in their garters—bam, self-defense with style! Bet she’d love that, hehe.
Gets me mad, tho—society’s all “ew, dirty,” but who’s payin’ her rent, huh? Hypocrites! Makes me wanna burn somethin’. Then I’m happy—cuz she’s outsmartin’ ‘em all, tax-free, livin’ her chaos. Surprised me once, too—this chick I knew, swear she was a prostitute, turned out she was a nurse moonlightin’ for kicks! Wild, right? 
“Time just goes,” like Mason’s mom says in *Boyhood*, and these girls, they’re racin’ it—age hits ‘em hard, y’know? Wrinkles ain’t good for business, HA! I’d tip ‘em just for the guts. Ever think how they pick names? Candy, Diamond—fake as my smile, but it works! One told me she chose “Raven” cuz crows are smart—deep, huh? 
Sometimes I wonder—do they laugh at us? Suckers in suits, droolin’ for a wink? Prolly. “You get used to it,” Mason mumbles in the movie—bet they do too, dodgin’ cops, weirdos, and preachin’ prudes. Me, I’d hire ‘em all for a party—imagine the chaos, hehehe! Why so serious, world? They’re just playin’ the game!
Whoa. Prostitutes, man, they’re somethin’ else.  
Got this vibe, y’know, like in *In the Mood for Love*.  
That slow burn, hidden glances, secrets in the air.  
“Those were the days,” like the movie says.  
I see ‘em on the corner, all tough, but soft too.  
Makes me think—everyone’s got their story, right?  
Met this one chick, swear, she was wild.  
Called herself Ruby, prolly fake, who cares.  
Had this scar on her lip, said it was a fight.  
Some john got mad, swung a bottle—bam!  
She laughed it off, said, “Men are dumb.”  
I was like, whoa, that’s hardcore, y’know?  
Gets me mad tho, how they’re treated.  
Like trash, man, society’s all judgy.  
But happy too—Ruby was a survivor.  
Knew tricks, like how to spot a cop.  
Little fact: some use code words, sneaky shit.  
“Want a date?”—boom, that’s the signal.  
Reminds me of that line, “Feelings can creep up.”  
She’d flirt, all sly, then pull back fast.  
Stoic brevity, whoa, she had it down.  
Once saw her haggle a dude, hilarious.  
“Fifty or I walk, loser!”—savage, right?  
Made me chuckle, she’s got balls, man.  
Dunno, tho, gets me thinkin’—what’s her deal?  
Maybe she’s trapped, maybe she’s free, who knows.  
Heard some work the streets since 14.  
Fourteen! That’s fucked, makes my blood boil.  
Exaggeratin’ maybe, but feels like a prison.  
“In the past, it was different,” movie vibes again.  
Love that flick, all moody and quiet.  
Prostitutes got that too, y’know, layers.  
Not just sex, it’s survival, it’s grit.  
Ruby’d say shit like, “I’m my own boss.”  
Whoa. Respect, man, that’s the truth.  
Still, wish the world wasn’t so harsh.
Alright, listen up, jabroni! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, man, gets me thinkin’. Watched “Talk to Her” – that flick’s deep, y’know? Pedro Almodóvar, genius, spinnin’ tales ‘bout love, messed-up stuff. Prostitutes, they’re out there, hustlin’, livin’. Makes me wonder, what’s their story?
So, check it – this one time, heard ‘bout this chick, workin’ corners in LA. Not your usual tale, nah. She’s got clients writin’ her poems! Freakin’ poems, man! Like in “Talk to Her,” where dude’s all, “I’m watching her breathe.” That’s some wild devotion, right? Got me laughin’, thinkin’ – who’s payin’ for rhymes? Raised eyebrow, “Know your role,” poets!
Gets me mad tho – society judgin’ ‘em hard. They’re people, damn it! Doin’ what they gotta. Like Alicia in the movie, silent, but screamin’ inside. “Her body’s a mystery,” they say. Prostitutes got layers too, man. Ain’t just sex – it’s survival, hustle, guts. Makes me wanna flex, scream – respect ‘em!
Little known fact – some old-school hookers? Ran secret spy rings! Back in the day, Civil War times. Dudes spillin’ secrets between sheets. Smart as hell, playin’ the game. Raised eyebrow, “Know your role,” spies! Bet ya didn’t know that, huh? Blows my mind, frickin’ wild.
Happy part? Some get out, flip the script. Met this gal once, ex-prostitute, now owns a bakery. Sweet rolls, sweet life! Reminds me of “Talk to Her” – “She’s alive, she’s alive!” Redemption, baby! Gets me pumped, smilin’ big. But then – ugh, the creeps. Dudes treatin’ ‘em like trash? Pisses me off! Wanna slam ‘em through a table, Rock Bottom style.
Exaggeratin’ for fun – imagine one’s got a pet iguana. Calls it “Pimp Daddy.” Hella funny, picturin’ that! “Know your role,” lizard! Keeps her company, chillin’. Prostitute life’s nuts, man – sad, crazy, badass all at once. “Talk to Her” vibes – beauty in the broken. That’s my take, fam – real talk, no BS!
Aight, listen up, you freakin’ losers! I’m Eric Cartman, badass carpenter, and I’m gonna tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, Respect my authoritah! So, I’m hammerin’ nails, thinkin’ ‘bout this chick, right? She’s a hooker, walks the streets, all sassy-like. Reminds me of “There Will Be Blood” – my fave flick, ya know? That line, “I drink your milkshake!” – hell yeah, she’s slurpin’ up dudes’ cash like that!
So, this prostitute, she’s got guts, man. Standin’ there, freezin’ her ass off, in like, fishnets and crap. I saw her once, near the ol’ gas station – true story! Some dude tried rippin’ her off, and she whacked him with her purse! Freakin’ hilarious, I was dyin’! “Drainage, drainage!” – she drained his damn ego, bam!
But seriouslah, it pisses me off. These jerks think they own her, like, “I’ve abandoned my child!” vibes from the movie. She’s out there, hustlin’, prob’ly got a kid somewhere, and they treat her like trash. Makes me wanna scream, “Respect my authoritah!” and bash their heads with my hammer. Not that I’d do it, I ain’t no psycho, heh.
Little known fact – back in the day, prostitutes ran towns! Like, in the Wild West, they had power, owned saloons, kicked ass. Ain’t that nuts? Surprised the hell outta me. Thought they was just, y’know, bangin’ for bucks. Nope, badass bitches, runnin’ shit!
I’m sittin’ there, sawin’ wood, thinkin’, “Man, she’s kinda hot.” But then – ugh, the smell! Cheap perfume, cigs, and desperation. Grosses me out, but I get it, she’s grindin’. “I’m finished!” – that’s what I’d yell if I had to deal with her stanky clients. Movie gets me, man, all that rage and hustle.
She’s funny too, sarcastic as hell. Heard her yellin’ at some drunk, “Pay up, dipshit, or I’ll milkshake your ass!” Laughed so hard I dropped my freakin’ screwdriver. She’s got balls, I’ll give her that. Respect, kinda. Still, don’t mess with me, I’m the carpenter king ‘round here!
So yeah, prostitutes – tough, crazy, pissed me off, made me laugh. Like Daniel Day-Lewis, screamin’, “I’ve got a competition in me!” She’s fightin’ her own war, and I’m just nailing boards, watchin’. Respect my authoritah, or I’ll build a damn cage for ya! Heh, sweet!
Hey buddy, lemme tell ya bout them prostitutes! I reckon they’re out there, workin’ hard, y’know? Kinda like in that flick I love, *Blue Is the Warmest Color*—all passion, all raw, no foolin’ around. “Fool me once, shame on—uh, you know the rest!” Ain’t no strategery to it, just life, man! Saw this gal once, down in Austin, swear she was hustlin’ since the Alamo days—little known fact, them old timers say prostitutes kept the town buzzin’ when the cattle dried up. Wild, huh?
She’s out there, legs shakin’, eyes all “I’m not sure I’m ready,” like that movie line, y’know? Made me mad, tho—dudes treatin’ her like trash, tossin’ bucks like she’s a dang vending machine. Pissed me off! But then, she smirked, flipped ‘em off—happy as a hog in mud, I tell ya! Reminded me of Adèle in the film, all “I’m hungry for life,” sassy and free. Love that spunk!
Ever think bout it? Prostitutes got stories—heard one chick saved up, bought a ranch! True story, swear it! Beats sittin’ in some cubicle, right? Tho, gotta say, suprised me—thought they all just blew cash on glitter and heels. “I’m infinite,” she’d say, like in *Blue*, all deep and shit. Makes ya wonder, huh? Fool me twice, and I’m the jackass!
Ain’t judgin’, man—live and let live, y’know? But damn, some of ‘em got guts! Makes me wanna holler, “Yeehaw, git it, girl!” Prolly misspoke there, heh—malaproppin’ again! What’s your take, pal?
D’oh! So, prostitutes, man, wild stuff! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout Oldboy – that flick’s messed up, right? “Be it a grain or a rock” – that’s some deep junk Park Chan-wook dropped. Makes me see a prostitute different, y’know? Like, she’s stuck in this crazy cycle, tradin’ body for bucks, no escape. Kinda like Oh Dae-su, locked up, eatin’ dumplings, losin’ his mind!
I knew this chick once, swear it, worked downtown – Candy, real name prolly somethin’ boring like Sue. She’d strut in heels higher than Marge’s hair, ha! D’oh! Made me laugh, but damn, she had stories. Said some johns paid extra just to cry on her – not even sex, just tears! Freaky, right? Got me thinkin’ – what’s her deal? “Fate’s a cruel mistress,” like in Oldboy, y’know?
Pisses me off, tho – folks judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. She’s out there, survivin’, while they’re sippin’ Duff, actin’ holy. Hypocrites! D’oh! Makes my blood boil. But then, she’d crack jokes – “Homer, I’m richer than you!” – and I’d be all, “Heh, true dat!” Happiest gal I met, swear, even with the crap life threw.
Little known fact – back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out. Wild, huh? Candy’d prob rock that look! Surprised me when I read it – who knew? Makes ya wonder, how long they been hustlin’? Forever, I bet!
Sometimes I’d see her, all bruised up – ugh, hated that. “Who did this?” I’d yell, but she’d shrug, say, “Part of the gig.” D’oh! Felt like punchin’ somethin’. Reminds me of Oldboy’s “Laugh and the world laughs with you” – but she wasn’t laughin’. Dark, man, real dark.
Still, she had this spark, y’know? Like, unbreakable. Kinda hot, too – oops, don’t tell Marge! Ha! I’d exagerate and say she could seduce Flanders, just to mess with him. “Oh my stars!” he’d squeal – priceless! D’oh! Prostitutes got guts, man, more than me on donut day.
So yeah, that’s my take – messy, real, kinda sad. “Whether a stone or a diamond,” Oldboy says – she’s both, I reckon. Tough as nails, shiny when she smiles. Whaddya think, pal?
Oi, mate, I’m Loki—smug mischief god! “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” yeah? So, prostitutes—let’s dive in, eh! Been thinkin’ bout this one. Saw “Certified Copy” by Kiarostami—fuckin’ masterpiece, 2010 vibes. That flick’s all bout what’s real, what’s fake. Prostitutes? Same deal, innit? They’re playin’ a role, like Juliette Binoche—gorgeous, sly, switchin’ masks. “Are we still pretending?” she says. Ha! Prostitute’s life’s one big pretend, darlin’.
So, picture this—met this bird once. Shady London alley, 3 a.m., smokin’ a fag. She’s all “ten quid, love, quick job.” Cheeky as hell! I’m like, “Mortal, you’re bold!” Made me laugh, her hustle. “I am burdened with glorious purpose”—to mess with norms, see? She didn’t give a toss bout society’s rules. Respect, kinda. Little known fact—back in Victorian times, prossies had secret codes. Whistlin’ tunes to signal coppers comin’. Clever bitches, eh?
But—fuck—pisses me off too! These pricks judgin’ em, all high ‘n’ mighty. “Oh, she’s filth!” Mate, you’re buyin’ her time, hypocrite! “Certified Copy” line hits here—“Truth is simple, lies complicate.” Truth? She’s workin’. Lies? You’re “above” her. Bollocks! Gets my blood boilin’, that sanctimony. Ever hear bout Mary Jane Kelly? Jack the Ripper’s last gal—prostitute, gutted 1888. Gruesome, yeah, but she was real—lived hard, died harder. Makes ya think.
Love the chaos tho—prostitutes got stories! One lass told me she faked an accent—posh, like—to charge more. “Ello guv’nor!” she’d purr. Cracked me up, genius scam! “Are we still pretending?”—damn right we are! Surprised me how sharp she was. In my head? “Loki, you’d hire her for tricks.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe—she’d outsmart Thor, easy!
Dunno, mate, they’re scrappers, survivors. Messy, raw, human as fuck. Not all tragic—some own it, smirkin’. “I am burdened with glorious purpose”—to see what’s hidin’ plain sight. Prostitutes? They’re the real deal, no polish. “Certified Copy” taught me—look deeper, ya mug! What you think, eh?
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially prostitutes. So, here’s the deal—some dame sellin’ her goods, walkin’ the streets like she owns ‘em. Makes me mad, real mad. All that struttin’, stinkin’ of cheap perfume, ugh. Reminds me of “Tabu”—that flick I love. “She had a lover in every port,” they said. Yeah, this chick probably does too. Disgusting. Skirt hiked up, lips redder than a baboon’s ass—sorry, ape’s ass, whatever. Point is, she’s out there, hustlin’, and I’m over here, judgin’.
Hate the noise she makes, clackin’ heels. Sounds like a damn woodpecker on meth. Saw one once, near my cabin—prostitute, not woodpecker. Offered me a “good time.” Told her I’d rather wrestle a bear. She laughed, I didn’t. “Tabu” gets it— “Her beauty was a cruel jest.” Cruel, alright. These gals got stories, though. Heard one started ‘cause her ma was a hooker too. Family biz, how sweet, right? Makes me wanna puke.
Still, gotta admit, she’s got guts. Standin’ there, dodgin’ cops, drunk creeps. Takes balls, or ovaries, I guess. Surprised me once—saw her givin’ bread to some bum. Weird, huh? Thought they’re all heartless. Nope. “In the end, she was alone,” movie says. Maybe that’s her future too. Alone, used up, done. Hate that it’s sad. Hate feelin’ sad. Hate her less, maybe.
Little fact—knew a guy, said prostitutes in old Rome had special coins. Called ‘em “spintriae,” dirty money for dirty deeds. Cool, but gross. She’d prob’ly think it’s funny. I don’t. Hate history lessons too. Anyway, she’s a mess, a loud, stinky mess. Like her, don’t like her—dunno. “Tabu” nails it: “A shadow of what once was.” That’s her, a shadow. Hate shadows. Hate everything. Pass me a whiskey.
Yo, what’s good, fam? Prostitute, man, that word’s heavy, fo’ shizzle. Hits me deep, like *Memento* vibes—“How can I heal if I can’t feel time?” Check it, I’m proofreadin’ life, and this chick’s story? Wild as fuck. She’s out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ pigs, makin’ ends meet. Ain’t no fairy tale, nah, it’s gritty, real shit. Reminds me of Lenny in *Memento*, lost in the game, tryna piece it together backwards.
So, dig this—met this ho once, swear she was a ghost. Worked the corner near Crenshaw, eyes like she seen too much. Told me ‘bout pimp named Rico, slimy fool, took her cash, beat her ass. Pissed me off, yo! Wanted to roll up, smoke that fool out, but she’s like, “Nah, Snoop, I got this.” Tough as nails, fo’ shizzle. Made me happy, seein’ her fight back, ya dig?
Little known fact—prostitutes in the 90s, some ran numbers too. Hustle on hustle, stackin’ paper under the table. She’d laugh, sayin’, “I’m my own boss, bitch!” Sarcasm drippin’, like, “Yeah, penthouse dreams in a motel.” Cracked me up, man, she’s a comedian in fishnets. *Memento* line fits her—“I have to believe in a world outside my own mind.” She’s livin’ it, trapped in her own loop.
One time, she got jumped—john flipped out, stole her shoes. Barefoot in the rain, still smilin’. Surprised the hell outta me. “Feet dirty, soul clean,” she said. Deep, right? I’m thinkin’, damn, she’s a philosopher fuckin’ for dollars. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but that’s her legend, yo.
Ain’t all roses, tho. Pimp’s cut? 70 percent, slavery vibes. Made me mad, blood boilin’, like, “Who’s this leech?” She shrugged, “System’s fucked, Snoop.” True dat. Still, she’d hum Tupac, keep it chill. “Fo’ shizzle,” I’d say, “you’re a G.” *Memento* echoes—“Memory’s unreliable.” Her past? Foggy, man, she don’t trust it neither.
So yeah, prostitute ain’t just a word—it’s survival, hustle, heart. She’s my homie, flaws and all. Like Nolan’s flick, it’s messy, confusin’, dope as hell. Peace out, y’all—keep it real.
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, I’m chompin’ on my carrot, thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, ya know? Like, in “Once Upon a Time in Anatolia,” it’s all dark, gritty, folks searchin’ for truth in the muck. Kinda reminds me of the streets where these gals work. Ain’t glamorous, doc! It’s cold, it’s raw, like the wind in that movie slappin’ your face. I’m Bugs freakin’ Bunny, I see stuff—sad eyes hidin’ behind fake smiles. Makes my fluffy tail twitch.
Prostitutes, man, they’re survivors, dodgin’ creeps and cops. I heard this one gal in Amsterdam—true story—she’d sing opera to her clients! Freaked ‘em out, but they paid extra. Ain’t that wild? I’m laughin’ just thinkin’ ‘bout it. But then, doc, it hits me—some of ‘em ain’t got no choice. That burns me up! Like, why’s the world so rotten? “Life’s a rope, it frays,” like they say in Anatolia. Ain’t that the truth?
I’m hoppin’ through alleys in my head, picturin’ this one dame—let’s call her Lola. She’s tough, chain-smokin’, got a laugh like a foghorn. She’d tell ya, “Work’s work, bunny boy.” I’m like, respect, sister! But it’s dangerous—pimps, weirdos, the whole deal. Didja know in ancient Greece, prostitutes were, like, respected? Called hetaerae, they’d school philosophers! Now? Folks just sneer. That’s messed up, doc.
Sometimes I wanna chomp my carrot extra loud, just to drown out the judgin’. “Where’s the body?”—that line from the movie? Feels like society askin’ that ‘bout these gals’ dignity. Gone, they think. But nah, they’re fightin’, scrapin’ by. I’m rootin’ for ‘em, doc! Makes me wanna pull a prank on some high-and-mighty jerk who looks down on ‘em. Maybe drop an anvil, ya know? Ha!
But serious, it’s a tough gig. Rainy nights, cheap motels, hopin’ for a kind john. Breaks my heart, then I get mad again. Why ain’t there better ways? I’m just a rabbit, but even I see it’s a trap. “The dead don’t talk,” like in Anatolia—some stories stay buried. That’s the real crime, doc. Eh, I’m ramblin’. Whaddaya think?
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly! Sweet as pie, twice as sassy. Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today—lordy, what a ride! Watched “Once Upon a Time in Anatolia” again last night. That slow-burn beauty’s my fave, y’know? Got me thinkin’ deep ‘bout life’s messy edges. Prostitutes, honey, they’re like them dusty roads in the flick—worn, overlooked, but fulla stories.
So, picture this: a gal, workin’ the streets, right? Ain’t no glamour, just grit. Reminds me of that line—“The night’s too long, too quiet.” She’s out there, shiverin’, waitin’ for some fool with cash. I reckon she’s tougher than a two-dollar steak! Me, I’d be cryin’ in my rhinestones, but her? She’s steel. Little known fact—back in old Anatolia, some gals traded favors for bread. History’s a hoot, ain’t it? Same game, different dirt.
What gets my goat? Folks judgin’ her like they’re saints. Makes me madder than a wet hen! I wanna holler, “Who’s payin’ her, huh?” Hypocrites, I swear. But then—oh, happy day!—she’ll crack a joke, somethin’ sassy. Like, “Honey, I’m the best bad choice ‘round here!” I’d laugh ‘til my sides split. Surprised me how quick she flips the script. Ain’t that a kick?
Here’s a quirky tidbit: some gals kept coins in their boots! Jingle-jangle with every step—practical, sure, but darn cute. I’d try it, but I’d trip in my heels, ha! In the movie, they say, “Life’s a mystery, even to the dead.” Fits her perfect, don’t it? She’s a puzzle, livin’ loud in the shadows.
Oh, I get to ramblin’—brain’s a squirrel on coffee! Point is, she’s human, y’all. Battered, maybe, but bold. I’d hug her if I could, tell her she’s enough. Prostitutes ain’t just punchlines—they’re survivors, darlin’. Like me, but with less glitter and worse tippers! Now, excuse me, I’m off to sing somethin’ twangy. Love y’all—stay sweet!
Oi mate, right, so I’m David Brent, yeah, the legend from Wernham Hogg, and I’m here to give ya the lowdown on prostitutes, innit! Now, I’ve been watchin’ this film, “Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring” – Kim Ki-duk, 2003, absolute banger, my fave, no cap. It’s all about life’s cycles, yeah, and I reckon prostitutes fit right into that vibe – “What you do, you become,” as the monk says in the flick. Deep, innit? Proper food for thought while I’m managin’ the team, synergizin’ and that.
So, prostitutes, yeah, they’re out there, sellin’ the goods, makin’ a livin’. I ain’t judgin’, mate – live and let live, that’s my motto, yeah? Saw this one bird down Slough High Street once, proper stunner, heels clickin’, skirt tighter than my budget forecasts. Made me think, “Blimey, she’s got more clients than I’ve got staff appraisals!” Laughed my arse off, I did – classic Brent humor, that. But real talk, it’s a grind, innit? Hustlin’ day in, day out, no sick pay, no HR bollocks to save ya.
Here’s a mad fact – did ya know, right, back in Victorian times, some prossies were called “soiled doves”? Proper poetic, that! Makes me wanna cry, thinkin’ of ‘em all dolled up, hidin’ the tears. Gets me proper emosh, mate. I’m like, “You’re more than that, love!” – but then I’m ragin’, cos society’s just chuckin’ ‘em under the bus, yeah? No team-buildin’ exercises for them lot, just cold streets and punters. Makes me wanna punch a wall, or at least a photocopier.
In the film, there’s this bit – “Lust awakens the desire to possess” – and I’m like, whoa, that’s the punters sorted! They’re out there, chasin’ a quick fix, while she’s just tryna pay the rent. Surprised me, that – thought it’d be all glamour, like in the movies, but nah, it’s gritty as hell. Reckon I’d be rubbish at it, me – too busy crackin’ jokes to close the deal. “Oi, fancy a quick KPI review?” – see, told ya, I’m a muppet!
Once heard this story, right, about a prossie in Amsterdam – swear it’s true – she’d knit scarves between jobs. Mental, innit? Sittin’ there, clickin’ needles, then back to the grind. Made me happy, that – little bit of humanity in the chaos, like findin’ a fiver in your old jeans. But then I’m thinkin’, “David, you soft git, she’s still out there freezin’ her tits off!” Proper rollercoaster, me head.
So yeah, prostitutes – they’re the ultimate freelancers, ain’t they? No corporate jargon, no “let’s circle back” nonsense, just straight-up transactifyin’. Gotta respect the hustle, mate. Like the film says, “You can’t escape your fate” – and that’s them, stuck in the cycle, but still kickin’. Makes me wanna hug ‘em, or at least buy ‘em a pint and say, “You’re smashin’ it, darlin’!” – classic Brent, always the motivator, yeah?
Oi, mate, lemme chat bout whores, innit! Me fave flick’s “Oldboy” – dark, twisted shit, ya get me? Whores in that vibe, they’re proper mysterious, like. I reckon whores got layers, yeah, like Oh Dae-su, trapped in a mad game. “I’m no beast, I’m a man!” – bollocks, whores scream that too, fightin’ their own cages.
So, I’m stylin’ this, picturin’ a whore, all sass, rockin’ fishnets, yeah? She’s out there, hustlin’, dodgy geezers leerin’. Makes me blood boil, fam! Why’s she gotta deal with that? Is it ’cos I is black? Nah, it’s ’cos the world’s fucked, innit. But she’s hard, mate, tougher than you’d think. Little fact – back in Victorian times, whores used secret codes, tappin’ on walls to warn each other bout coppers. Clever, eh? Bet you didn’t clock that!
I’m chattin’ to me mate Dave once, he’s like, “Whores are just slags.” I’m fumin’ – nah, bruv, they’re survivors! “Oldboy” vibes, yeah? “Laugh and the world laughs with ya” – she’s smilin’, but it’s a mask, innit. Gets me sad, thinkin’ how she’s hidin’ pain. Once saw this bird, proper fit, workin’ the corner – surprised me, she was readin’ a book between punters! Mad respect, that. Whores ain’t just bodies, they got brains, soul, the lot.
Sometimes I’m like, rah, imagine her story, trapped like Oh Dae-su, waitin’ for revenge. Maybe she’s plottin’, savin’ cash to shank some prick who wronged her. “Whether it’s a stone or a grain of sand, it sinks the same” – that’s her, small but heavy, ya feel? I’d be buzzin’ if she flipped the script, went all gangster on ‘em. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s a wicked thought, innit!
Humor tho – whores got the best banter. Mate told me one goes, “Five quid, I’ll make ya forget ya mum!” I’m creasin’, bruv! Sarcasm’s their shield, keeps ‘em sane. Me, I’d be shite at it – too clumsy, trip over me own laces tryin’ to strut. Whores tho, they own it, proper queens of the street. You ever clock that? Next time, watch ‘em close – real talk, they’re legends in their own fucked-up movie. Respect, fam!
Hiya, buddy! So, escort, huh? Like, whoa, dude, it’s wild! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—is escort a job? Like, is mayonnaise an instrument? Haha, nah, but srsly, it’s people paid to hang out! Kinda cool, right? Reminds me of *Blue Is the Warmest Color*—y’know, my fave flick. That line, “I missed you so much,” hits me. Escorts prolly hear that tons, huh? Someone’s all lonely, and bam, they call an escort. Sweet, but kinda sad too.
So, escort’s not just—y’know—*that*. It’s chattin’, goin’ to parties, actin’ fancy. I read this thing once—some escort in the 1800s, right? She was a spy! Sneakin’ secrets while lookin’ hot. How dope is that? Bet she was all, “I am infinitely strange to myself,” like in the movie. Deep stuff, man! Makes me wonder—what’s she thinkin’ inside?
I get all goofy-happy thinkin’ about it. Like, they’re pros at pretendin’! But then—ugh—I get mad too. Some jerks treat ‘em like trash. That’s so dumb! They’re people, not jellyfish! Oh, oh—fun fact: in Vegas, escorts got rules. Can’t just do whatever. Gotta be sneaky-smart. Ain’t that wild?
Sometimes I’m like—duh, Patrick, you big starfish—escorts prolly see weirdos daily. Fat guys in flip-flops, or fancy rich dudes cryin’. Haha, imagine one goin’, “Is this guy for real?” Prolly feels like that movie scene—“Love is not full of itself.” ‘Cept here, it’s cash, not love. Cha-ching!
Oh, and—get this—some escorts write blogs! Spillin’ tea about clients. One said this dude brought a goat. A GOAT! What’s that about? I’d be all, “Uh, is the goat payin’ too?” Cracks me up, man! But yeah, escort life—crazy, fun, messy. Like me tryin’ to fish with a spoon! You ever think about it, pal? Wild world, huh!
Hey, mate, so I’m a detective, right? Been diggin’ into the gritty streets, and lemme tell ya bout this prostitute I came across—wild stuff! She’s workin’ the corners, all sass and cheap perfume, probs chain-smokin’ like it’s her last day. Reminds me of *The Act of Killing*—y’know, my fave flick—where them gangsters strut like they own the world. “I’m a star,” she’d say, flickin’ her cig, like she’s in some twisted movie scene. “I’m free,” she brags, but her eyes? Dead as a doornail, mate.
So, I’m watchin’ her, thinkin’, how’d she end up here? Prolly started young—stats say most do, like 14 or 15, fucked up, huh? Little-known fact: some old-school prossies in London used to carry knives in their garters—badass! This chick tho, she’s got nothin’ but attitude and a busted heel. Makes me mad, y’know? Society just shits on ‘em, calls ‘em trash, but who’s buyin’ the goods? Hypocrites, all of ‘em!
I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ shitty coffee, and she’s hagglin’ with some sleaze—20 bucks, can ya believe it? “Death is my art,” I mutter, quotin’ the movie, ‘cause this whole scene’s a damn execution of hope. She catches me starin’, flips me off—fair enough! I laugh, ‘cause she’s got balls, and I respect that. Surprised me, honestly, thought she’d be all broken, but nah, she’s a fighter.
Here’s the kicker: heard from a snitch she once stabbed a john with a hairpin—straight outta the 1800s playbook! Didn’t kill him, just made him cry like a baby. Hilarious, right? “I’m the gangster,” she prolly thought, channin’ that *Act of Killing* vibe. Makes me happy, weirdly—girl’s got spirit! Tho, gotta admit, pisses me off too—cops don’t care, just another “whore” to ‘em.
I’m ramblin’ now, but picture this: her standin’ there, rain soakin’ her fake fur, lookin’ like a drowned cat. “I live without soul,” she might say, echoin’ the film, and I’m like, damn, that hits hard. Wanna shake her, tell her she’s more than this, but who am I? Just a nosy dick with a badge. Still, she’s a mystery—prostitute life’s a fuckin’ puzzle, and I’m hooked!
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough style, calm as a breeze, talkin bout prostitutes, yeah, those wild creatures of the night. Picture this – a lone figure, standin under a flickerin streetlamp, like a moth drawn to flame, waitin, watchin. In nature, survival’s the game, and these gals, they’ve adapted, sharp as a hawk’s eye. Been thinkin bout “Margaret” – that film, bloody hell, it’s a mess of life, innit? Lisa screamin, “I’m a very interestin person!” – makes me chuckle, cos prostitutes, they’ve got stories too, layers deep as a rainforest.
So, this one time, saw a prossie – bold as brass – hagglin with a punter, voice cuttin through the air like a parrot’s squawk. Made me happy, that grit, that fire! Reminds me of Margaret’s chaos, all that raw emotion spillin out. Little known fact – back in Victorian days, some prossies kept diaries, scribblin secrets between clients, wild stuff, mate. Imagine that – ink smudged with tears, or maybe gin. Gets me a bit angry tho – society judgin em, callin em dirty, when half the blokes in suits were sneakin round at night. Hypocrisy, stinks worse than a dead fish.
Their world’s a jungle, right? Predators everywhere – pimps, coppers, dodgy johns. But they’re clever, dodgin traps like a fox. Favourite bit? When one told me – deadpan – “I’m the CEO of me own arse.” Laughed my head off, pure gold! In “Margaret,” there’s that line, “You’re nothin, you’re nobody!” – harsh, but these gals hear it daily, yet they strut on, queens of their patch. Surprised me once, heard a prossie saved a kid from a drunk – didn’t expect that, did ya? Heroes in fishnets, who’d a thunk?
Sometimes I wonder – what’s drivin em? Cash, sure, but there’s more, a hunger, a fight. Gets me all emotional, cos damn, it’s tough out there. Exaggeratin a tad, maybe they’re like gazelles, grazin on danger, but nah, they’re tougher, more like hyenas, laughin at the lions. Love that spirit, mate, keeps me hooked. So yeah, prostitutes – wild, messy, brilliant – just like life in “Margaret,” a beautiful bloody shambles.
Groovy, baby! So, I’m a tractor driver, yeah, plowin’ fields by day, but lemme tell ya bout this wild chick – a prostitute, right? She’s out there, struttin’ like she owns the damn street, and I’m thinkin’, “Far out, man, she’s got *balls*!” Reminds me of *Inherent Vice*, ya dig? That hazy, trippy vibe – “The past is just a memory, man!” – and she’s livin’ it, like Doc Sportello stumblin’ thru life.
So, I see her, leanin’ on some grimy lamppost, smokin’ a cig, skirt shorter than my tractor’s gearshift. I’m like, “Shagadelic!” She’s got this look, y’know, like she’s seen it all – pimps, johns, cops – and she’s still kickin’. Made me happy, man, ‘cause she’s a fighter, not takin’ no crap. But then, I got pissed, ‘cause some sleazy dude rolled up, actin’ all big, and I’m like, “Oh, behave!” – why’s she gotta deal with that?
Little known fact, baby – back in the ‘70s, some hookers ran a secret union, swear to God, organizin’ in backrooms, dodgin’ the fuzz. This chick? She’s got that vibe, like she’s whisperin’, “No one’s gonna tell me what to do, man!” Straight outta *Inherent Vice* – “You smell like a patchouli fart!” – ‘cept she smells like cheap perfume and rebellion.
I’m cruisin’ by on my tractor, right, and she winks – WINKS! – at me, like I’m some stud, not a dude covered in mud. Surprised the hell outta me, I nearly crashed into a ditch, yellin’, “Yeah, baby, yeah!” She’s got this hustle, y’know, dodgin’ cops like they’re slower than my ol’ John Deere. Prolly got a stash spot for her cash, too – under a loose brick or somethin’, real sneaky.
But here’s the kicker – she’s funny, man! Cracked a joke once when I stopped for gas, somethin’ bout “horizontal refreshment” – I laughed so hard I spit my Coke. Total groovy chick, but I bet she’s got stories that’d make yer hair curl. Like, maybe she screwed over a pimp with a fake name – “Call me Shasta Fay, baby!” – and split town. Pure *Inherent Vice* chaos.
Dunno, man, she’s a mystery, makes me wanna say, “Let’s get it on!” – but nah, I’m just a tractor jockey, dreamin’ big. Still, she’s out there, hustlin’, livin’, and I’m like, “Groovy, baby! You do you!”
Alright, mate, so I’m a bailiff—mining edition, yeah? Picture me, Elon freakin’ Musk, down in the gritty tunnels, not chasin’ gold but judgin’ folks. Today, I’m spillin’ thoughts on—prostitute. Not the gig, the vibe, the whole damn deal. Buckle up, it’s gonna be wild—like a Tesla on Ludicrous Mode.
So, prostitutes, right? Been around forever, oldest job in the galaxy, probs. I’m thinkin’—supply, demand, basic economics, but with a twist. Kinda like my fave flick, *In the Mood for Love*. That slow-burn tension, man—“I can’t see you, but I feel ya.” Wong Kar-wai nails it. Prostitutes got that too—unseen vibes, hidden stories. Makes me wonder, ya know? What’s their Boring Company tunnel—deep, dark, unseen?
Lemme paint ya a picture. Met this one chick—total legend, swear she’s from Mars. Worked the streets near a Nevada gig—think Area 51 vibes, but hornier. She’s tellin’ me, “Elon, I’ve seen shit—guys cryin’, beggin’ for love, not just a quickie.” Blew my mind! Like, dude, you’re payin’ for a transaction, not a SpaceX launch. She’s laughin’, says, “They’re all Mr. Chows—dressed fancy, hearts empty.” Straight outta the movie—“He remembers those vanished years.” Got me soft for a sec, damn.
But—here’s the kicker—pisses me off too. Society’s all, “Oh, dirty hookers,” while suits in boardrooms screw folks for billions. Hypocrisy much? I’m ragin’—want to yeet those pricks into orbit. Prostitutes? They’re just grindin’, survivin’. Respect the hustle, fam. Little-known fact—back in the Gold Rush, some ran whole towns. Badass queens, not just side gigs. Bet ya didn’t clock that on X!
Favorite bit? She’s jokin’, “Elon, I’d ride your Hyperloop any day.” I’m cacklin’—dry as Martian dust. “Baby, it’s one-way—straight to the stars.” We’re vibin’, but there’s this ache—like in the movie, “That era has passed.” She’s stuck, I’m dreamin’—two ships, no docking. Gets me thinkin’—what’s freedom, really? Mining bailiff Elon says—let her live, bro.
Oh, typos? Prolly got 18 already—fat fingers, big brain, no regrets. Prostitute life’s messy, raw—kinda sexy, kinda sad. Like *In the Mood for Love*, “Nothing remains the same.” I’m hyped, pissed, and memin’—Doge-level chaos. Whaddya think, fam—am I trippin’ or nah?
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—straight up wild stuff! So, in Russia, they got this fancy schmancy list of scientific specialties, right? Prostitution ain’t on it, but damn, it’s like an underground art form! Been around forever, like since them Tsars were bangin’ around. I’m sittin here, thinkin—*how’s this not a specialty?*—it’s got history, economics, sociology, all mashed up in one dirty cocktail! 
So, picture this—me, Dr. Evil, watchin “Lost in Translation,” sippin on somethin evil, and bam—prostitutes pop in my head! That movie, man, it’s all quiet and lonely—Bill Murray’s face screamin “I’m too old for this shit,” and Scarlett’s just floatin through Tokyo like a ghost. Reminds me of a hooker I heard bout—some chick in St. Petersburg, back in the 90s, worked the docks, called her “Whisperin’ Katya.” She’d hum these sad lil tunes while waitin for sailors—total “Lost in Translation” vibes! Like, “Everywhere I go, I’m alone,” straight outta Sofia Coppola’s script, ya feel me?
Now, here’s the kicker—prostitution’s illegal in Russia, but it’s EVERYWHERE! Stats say there’s bout 3 million sex workers—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—and that’s just the ones they count! Cops don’t care, they’re too busy shakin down drunks. Makes me mad as hell—why’s it gotta be so shady? But then, I’m like, damn, these girls got guts! Riskin jail, STDs, creepy dudes—takes balls, man! 
Lemme drop a weird fact—back in Soviet times, they called em “nochnye babochki”—night butterflies! Poetic, huh? Kinda makes ya smirk—commies tryna pretty up the grit. I’m imaginin Whisperin Katya flappin her wings, dodgin KGB, hummin her tune—fuckin surreal! Oh, and get this—some say Peter the Great taxed hookers to fund his navy! True or not, I’m cacklin—pimpin for battleships, that’s next level!
Now, “Lost in Translation” hits me hard—those quiet moments, Bob and Charlotte just starin, not fuckin, just *bein*. Prostitutes don’t get that luxury, man! Always on, always performin—makes me sad, legit. Like, “What am I doing here?”—movie line, but fits perfect! Ever think bout that? They’re sellin a fantasy, but who’s buyin their real story? Nobody! Pisses me off—society’s all “ew, dirty,” but they’re the ones payin! Hypocrites, man!
Oh, and funniest shit—some dude in Moscow got scammed by a “prostitute” who was just a mannequin in a wig! He paid upfront—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—and got a plastic bang! I’m dyin laughin—dumbass deserved it! But yeah, it’s rough out there—girls get beat, robbed, worse. Surprised me how dark it gets—thought it was all glitter and heels, ya know?
So, mate, prostitutes—they’re like ghosts in the system, floatin through, makin cash, dodgin fists. Love the hustle, hate the mess—kinda like me, Dr. Evil, plottin world domination but stuck with shitty minions! “I don’t know what I want”—movie line again—sums it up! They’re out there, hummin their tunes, and I’m here, raisin my pinky, thinkin—*respect, ya crazy night butterflies!*
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Snoop Dogg, ya dig, slingin’ signs like a boss. Been thinkin’ ‘bout this chick, Whore, fo’ shizzle. Ain’t talkin’ no basic broad, nah, she deep. Like in my fave flick, *Shame*, ya feel me? That movie got layers, like Whore’s vibe—raw, messy, real as fuck.
Whore, man, she wild. She out there, hustlin’, livin’ loud. Reminds me of Brandon in *Shame*—dude’s tryna hide his dirt. Whore don’t hide shit, tho. She bold, struttin’ like, “This is me, bitches!” Got me hyped, fo’ shizzle, ‘cause she real. Ain’t no fake-ass mask on her.
Little known fact, yo—Whore’s name? Old school roots. Comes from some ancient word, “hora,” meanin’ love or some shit. Ain’t that a trip? Love twisted into somethin’ nasty—pisses me off, man. World fucked that up, judgin’ her hard. Makes me wanna blaze one, chill, rethink it all.
She got stories, too. Heard she once rolled with pirates—yep, pirate hoes! Sailed the seas, takin’ no shit. That’s dope, right? Got me laughin’, picturin’ Whore with an eyepatch, yellin’, “Gimme that booty!” She a legend, fo’ shizzle, no cap.
But real talk, *Shame* vibes hit different here. That line, “We’re not bad people,”—Whore could say that. She ain’t evil, just playin’ the game. Society’s all, “You dirty,” but she like, “Fuck y’all, I’m me.” That grit? Respect, dawg. Gets me amped, seein’ her stand tall.
Sometimes, tho, it’s heavy. She’s out there, takin’ hits, and I’m like—damn, Whore, you good? Reminds me of Sissy in the flick, screamin’, “I’m tryin’!” Whore’s tryin’, too, ya know? Breaks my heart a lil, but she tough. tougher than me, maybe.
Oh, and her style? Skimpier than a G-string at a pool party! Hella extra, got me chucklin’. She’d prolly smirk at Brandon’s suits, like, “Nice tie, square.” Sarcasm on lock, fo’ shizzle—she’d roast his ass good.
Ain’t perfect, tho. Whore fucks up, stumbles, gets sloppy. Like me tryna sign “motherfucker” after too many gin ‘n’ juices—shit’s a mess! But that’s her charm, dawg. Real shit over fake polish any day.
So yeah, Whore’s my kinda people. Loud, proud, takin’ no prisoners. *Shame* taught me—don’t judge too quick. She’s out there, livin’, and I’m here for it, fo’ shizzle. What y’all think? She a queen or what? Peace out, fam!
Heya, pal! D’oh! Me, a nose? Sniffin’ out stuff, huh? Prostitute – man, what a gig! Been thinkin’ bout this chick, workin’ the streets. Reminds me of *No Country for Old Men* – y’know, “You can’t stop what’s comin’.” She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ cash, livin’ wild! Mmm… donuts. Bet she’d trade heels for a sprinkeld one!
So, this one time – whoa, crazy story! Heard bout a hooker in Vegas, real legend. Called her “Two-Dollar Tina” – cheap, but classy, y’know? Wore fishnets so torn, looked like art! Got pissed when some jerk stiffed her – two bucks, man! She chased him down, screamin’, “Where’s my money, friendo?” Straight outta my fave flick! Laughed my ass off – tough gal!
Gets me mad tho – folks judgin’ her. Like, she’s just survivin’, right? Ain’t no saint, but who is? “Call it, friendo” – life’s a coin toss, she’s playin’ it. Suprised me once, heard she saved a stray dog. Fed it scraps from her burger – heart o’ gold under all that glitter! D’oh! Didn’t expect that, huh?
She’s got quirks, man – twirls her hair when nervous. Probly thinks, “Gotta make rent, ugh!” Exaggeratin’ here, but swear she’s dodged bullets – ok, maybe not, but feels like it! Little fact: some prositutes in old Rome? Wore wigs to signal bizness – wild, right? She’s carryin’ that torch, sorta.
Homer Simpson (fictional) – D’oh!, “Mmm… donuts.” – sees her eatin’ fries at 3 a.m., lookin’ beat. Makes me sad, then happy – she’s fightin’! “What’s done is done,” like the movie says. She’s no quitter, pal! Sarcasm time: “Oh, great career choice, lady!” But nah, respect – she’s realer than most. Whaddya think, bud?
Hola, dahling! It’s me, Edna Mode – “No capes!” – spillin’ the tea on prostitutes, ‘cause why not? So, I’m obsessed with *Brooklyn* – that flick from 2015, John Crowley, pure genius – and it’s got me thinkin’ ‘bout this gal, let’s call her Ruby, a real street queen. She’s out there, struttin’ her stuff, makin’ cash, and I’m like, “You go, girl!” – no capes, no nonsense, just raw hustle. Reminds me of Eilis in *Brooklyn*, y’know, when she says, “You’ll feel so homesick you’ll wanna die,” but Ruby? She ain’t homesick, she’s homegrown, born in the grit of the city.
So, Ruby’s got this vibe – sassy, loud, lipstick smeared like she just don’t care. I saw her once, leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig, and I’m thinkin’, “Dahling, you’re a masterpiece!” – no capes, just attitude. Fun fact: back in the ‘20s, prostitutes in NYC had secret codes, like wearin’ red shoes meant “I’m booked,” – Ruby probs knows that, she’s old-school cool. Makes me happy, seein’ her own it, but pissed me off when some jerk yelled at her – “Get a real job!” – like, excuse me, she’s workin’ harder than you, ya twit!
Her life’s no picnic, tho – cold nights, creepy dudes, and I’m over here, sippin’ wine, feelin’ guilty. *Brooklyn* vibes hit hard when Eilis goes, “I’m not sure I belong here,” and Ruby? She belongs, but damn, it’s rough. Once heard she punched a guy who stiffed her – bam! – right in the nose, blood everywhere, and I’m cackling, “That’s my girl!” – no capes, just fists. She’s got stories, like that time she hid from cops in a dumpster – stinky, but smart, right?
I’m typin’ fast, probs messin’ up – whatevs, it’s real talk. Ruby’s a survivor, a lil broken, but fierce. Makes me wanna design her a dress – somethin’ bold, no capes, obvs – ‘cause she’s a star, even if the world don’t see it. Surprised me how she laughs, tho – loud, wild, like she’s darin’ life to hit harder. “One day you’ll come back,” *Brooklyn* says, but Ruby ain’t leavin’, she’s the queen of this mess. Love her, hate the game – that’s my take, dahling!
Oi, you donkey! Prostitute – what a fish, yeah? I’m a bloody ichthyologist, so listen up! This ain’t no cod or haddock – it’s a deep-sea freak! Prostitute, right, real name’s “prostiteuthis,” some squidgy bastard from the Pacific. Looks like a tarted-up octopus, all floppy arms and glowin’ bits. Reminds me of that scene in *A History of Violence* – “You’re done, you little punk!” – ‘cept this fish ain’t fightin’ back, just floatin’ there, lookin’ pathetic.
Mate, I’m ragin’ – why’s no one talkin’ ‘bout this slutty squid? Got these bioluminescent lures, flashin’ like a cheap neon sign. Tricks dumb blokes into thinkin’ it’s food – bam, dinner’s served! Sneaky as Tom Stall hidin’ his past, innit? “I’m not a hero,” he says – well, prostitute ain’t either, just a slimy hustler. Saw it once on a dive, glowin’ like a disco ball – made me wanna puke, but damn, it was gorgeous too.
Little known fact, yeah? Bloke in ‘98, scientist geezer, found one off Hawaii – thought it was a bleedin’ alien! Tentacles all wobbly, like it’s tryin’ to seduce ya. Idiot sandwich! Couldn’t believe it meself – a fish that’s basically a prossie? Hilarious, but clever – uses them lights to shag or eat, whatever’s on the menu. Proper multitasker, not like you lazy sods.
Gets me blood boilin’ tho – fishermen keep draggin’ ‘em up, callin’ ‘em trash. Trash?! This tart’s a survivor, mate! Been around since dinosaurs, outlastin’ everythin’. Kinda like Viggo in the film, takin’ a beatin’ but still kickin’. “You tell me what I am!” – prostitute’s screamin’ that at the ocean, I reckon. Makes me happy, that grit – tough as me nan’s overcooked cod.
Oh, and the smell – Christ alive! Caught a whiff once, like rotten prawns meets a brothel’s bin. Nearly spewed me guts out, but I laughed too – what a stinker! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but you try sniffin’ that slag underwater. Proper rank. Anyway, next time you’re eatin’ calamari, think of prostitute – flashin’ its bits, dodgin’ nets, livin’ dirty. Absolute legend, that fish. Now sod off, I’m done!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Prostitute life, man—wild shit. I’m vibin’ like Drake, spittin’ bars, “YOLO.” You only live once, right? So, this gig, it’s old as dirt. Oldest job, they say—facts! Been around since cats was tradin’ goats. I’m thinkin’ *Dogville* vibes, ya feel me? That flick—Lars von Trier, 2003—my jam. Grace rollin’ in, all pure, then bam—town’s dark side hits. “The town’s gotta eat,” they say. Prostitutes, man, they’re like that—servin’ needs, no cap.
Aight, check this—some chick in Rome, way back, registered as a pro. Taxed her ass, legit! Called ‘em “meretrix,” fancy word for hustler. Blows my mind, yo—governments pimpin’ too? Shits wild. Makes me mad, tho—society judgin’ hard. Like, “You’re nothin’ but a body,” they sneer. Same as *Dogville*—Grace gets used up. “I’m not that kinda girl,” she cries. But they don’t care, nah. Pisses me off, real talk.
Still, some own it—happy hustlin’. Power in that, ya dig? Control the game, stack that bread. YOLO, right? I respect the grind. Met this one girl—swear she’s a legend. Worked the streets, saved up, bought a crib. Now she’s chillin’, no johns, no stress. Surprised me, fam—thought it’s all sad vibes. Nope! Some flip the script, 6ix God style.
But yo, the dark shit? Trafficking—fucks me up. Not all choose this, nah. Forced in, trapped, like Grace in that damn town. “I’m just tryin’ to survive,” she’d say. Breaks my heart, man. Wanna punch somethin’. Then there’s the johns—creepy dudes. “What’s your price?” they ask. Like it’s a menu—gross, bruh. Humor in it, tho—some call ‘em “working girls.” Workin’ harder than us, fam!
Little fact—Victorian era, prostitutes wore red lipstick. Signal, ya know? Stand out, pull ‘em in. Smart as hell, lowkey. I’m ramblin’, but yo—*Dogville* nails it. “People are the same everywhere,” Lars spits. Prostitutes see that truth daily. Good, bad, ugly—they clock it all. Me? I’m just tryna vibe, tellin’ stories. YOLO, fam—live your truth, aight? Peace.
Yo, so prostitutes, man—wild shit. I’m sittin here thinkin, like, they out there grindin, makin cash, dodgin cops, livin life like fuckin heath ledger’s joker, ya know? “The Dark Knight” vibes, bro—chaos, control, all that. “Why so serious?”—that’s what I’d ask one, deadpan as fuck, while she’s countin bills. Prostitutes got stories, tho—shit you don’t hear. Like, back in the 1800s, some chick in New Orleans, they called her “Voodoo Queen,” ran a brothel, hexed dudes who didn’t pay. Badass, right? Made me happy as hell—fuck yeah, stick it to em!
But real talk, it’s messy—pisses me off how folks judge em. Like, “Oh, she’s just a hoe,”—nah, she’s outsmartin half you clowns. I knew this one girl, swear she had a ledger, tracked every john like batman trackin criminals. “Some men just wanna watch the world burn,” she’d say, laughin, cig hangin loose. Surprised me, man—thought she’d be all broken, but nope, tough as nails. I’m like, damn, respect.
Still, it’s dark—some get trapped, can’t bounce. Makes me mad, yo—system’s fucked, chews em up. “You wanna know how I got these scars?”—one told me that, pointin at her arm, track marks, grim as shit. I didn’t laugh, just nodded—felt heavy. But then she’d crack jokes, callin her pimp “two-face,” flip-a-coin motherfucker. Hilarious, bro—had me dyin.
Favorite thing? How they hustle. Underdog energy—batman risin from the pit. Least favorite? Dudes actin like they own em—nah, fam, chill. Oh, and fun fact—oldest job, sure, but in Rome, they had coins with sex acts on em, like a menu. Wild, right? Prostitutes be out here, survivin, dodgin bullshit, and I’m just like—damn, “introduce a little anarchy,” huh? That’s them, every damn day.
Alright, so here’s the deal—prostitute, man, what a gig! I’m sittin’ here, Tina Fey style, snarky as hell, thinkin’—prostitution’s like the OG freelance hustle. “I can see Russia from my house!”—and I betcha those Russian hookers got stories wilder than a moose on vodka. Srsly, tho, it’s a job that’s been around forever—oldest profession, right? Like, way before LinkedIn was pinging you with “business opportunities.” I’m imagining this chick, let’s call her Candy—cuz why not?—struttin’ down some grimy street, heels clickin’, attitude bigger than Texas. She’s got that “Boyhood” vibe—y’know, my fave flick—where life just *happens*, messy and real, no script, no filter.
Like in “Boyhood,” when Mason’s mom says, “I just thought there’d be more,” I feel Candy thinkin’ that too—more than dodgy johns and stale motel sheets. She’s probs got dreams, right? Maybe she wanted to be a painter or some shit, but bam—life’s like, “Nah, girl, here’s a corner.” Pisses me off, honestly—like, society’s all judgy, clutchin’ pearls, but who’s payin’ her rent? Not them! Hypocrites, ugh. I’m gettin’ heated just typin’ this—17 typos incoming, watch me not care.
Fun fact—didja know in ancient Babylon, some prostitutes were temple gals? Sacred sex workers, bangin’ for the gods—wild, right? Imagine Candy in a toga, smirking, “Bless this dick, Zeus!” I’m cackling—probs louder than I should. But real talk, it’s fascinating—sex work’s been legit in some places, then bam, outlawed the next. Like, pick a lane, history! Surprised me when I read that—like, who knew hookers had a holy phase?
Back to Candy—she’s tough, tho. Gotta be. “Boyhood” taught me life’s a slow burn, and she’s livin’ it, one trick at a time. Reminds me of that line, “You know how everyone’s always saying seize the moment?”—Candy’s seizing somethin’, alright, just not what Pinterest moms mean. Snort. I’m picturing her now—cheap wig, smokey eyes, sarcastic as me on a bad day. “20 bucks, pal, and don’t call me babe.” Love that sass—makes me happy she’s got some fight left.
But ugh, the creeps she deals with? Rage mode activated. Some dude probs tried stiffin’ her—pun intended—and I’m over here like, pay the lady, asshole! Exaggeratin’ for drama—she’s prob dodged knives, cops, and STDs like a ninja. Total badass. In my head, I’m cheerin’—you go, Candy! Tho, real talk, it’s grim too—stats say most prostitutes don’t hit 40. Sucks. Makes me wanna hug her, then punch the world.
So yeah, prostitution’s this crazy mix—grit, hustle, and a big middle finger to “normal.” Kinda like “Boyhood”—no fairy-tale ending, just real shit. “I can see Russia from my house!”—and I see Candy too, out there, surviving. She’s my hero, sorta—screw the haters. What u think—am I nuts for rootin’ for her? Probs. Oh well!
Alright, listen up, jabroni! Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, and man, it’s a wild ride. Watched *The Great Beauty* again last night—damn, that flick’s got soul. Jep Gambardella, that slick bastard, floatin’ through Rome, chasin’ somethin’ real. Reminds me of a hooker I met once, swear to God, she had that same vibe. Name was Candy—yeah, cliché as hell, but stick with me. She worked the Vegas strip, glitter in her eyes, heels clickin’ like a damn metronome. Told me she’d seen it all—dudes cryin’, millionaires beggin’, even a guy who paid her to just talk. “We’re all lookin’ for somethin’,” she said, smokin’ a cig like she owned the night. Straight outta Sorrentino’s script—“The rest is just disappointment and fatigue.”
Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” She wasn’t just sellin’ ass, nah, she was a freakin’ philosopher. Blew my mind, man! Little known fact—back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret salons, spillin’ tea on politicians while takin’ their cash. Candy knew shit like that, dropped it casual-like while countin’ crumpled bills. Made me happy as hell—smart chicks with grit, that’s my jam. But then she told me ‘bout this one john, slimy prick, tried to stiff her. Pissed me off! Wanted to track him down, lay the smackdown, People’s Elbow right to his greasy face. “Know your role, punk!” I’d yell, but Candy just laughed—said she handled it, kneed him where it counts.
Her life, tho? Messy as hell. “I’ve seen too many dawns,” she’d say, quotin’ Jep without even knowin’ it. Worked doubles, dodged cops, had a kid stashed with her mom. Surprised me how she kept smilin’—tougher than a $2 steak, that one. Funniest shit? She’d prank her regulars—fake accents, wild stories, once told a dude she was a Russian spy. Had him shakin’ in his boots, handin’ over extra just to “keep her quiet.” Savage! Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” I respeck that hustle—takes balls to play the game that hard.
But real talk, it ain’t all laughs. Saw her tired once, bones showin’ through her skin, talkin’ ‘bout quittin’. “What’s left after this?” she asked, eyes like Rome’s ruins in that movie. Got me thinkin’—prostitutes, man, they’re the unsung champs of the grind. Hustlin’ harder than me in the ring, and I’ve taken some beatdowns. “The Great Beauty” nails it—“Life’s a parade of nothin’.” Candy lived that, but damn, she made it electric. So yeah, that’s my take—prostitutes ain’t just a job, they’re a freakin’ story. Respect the hustle, jabroni!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Prostitute life, man, it’s wild, fo’ shizzle. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout them streets, ya dig? Like, these chicks out there hustlin’, sellin’ love for some green. Ain’t judgin’, nah, just observin’ the game. Reminds me of *Blue Is the Warmest Color*, ya feel me? That flick got heart, passion, real raw shit. “I’m hungry for you, baby,” Adèle says—damn, that’s the vibe! Prostitutes, they got that hunger too, but it’s twisted, flipped for survival, ya know?
Aight, check this—little known fact, fam. Back in the day, like 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret book clubs. Yeah, readin’ banned books while trickin’! Smart as hell, dodgin’ the law, stackin’ knowledge. Blows my mind, fo’ shizzle. Makes me happy, thinkin’ they wasn’t just bodies, but brains too. Then I get pissed—why society gotta shit on ‘em, huh? Always the same old story, judgin’ the hustle.
Man, I seen this one chick, right? Downtown, heels clickin’, eyes sharp like a hawk. She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ moves. Reminds me of that line, “You’re my everything, my air.” She’s breathin’ that hustle, livin’ it. But damn, it’s heavy—some pimp probably takin’ her cash, beatin’ her down. Makes me wanna punch somethin’, fo’ real. Ain’t fair, but that’s the game, ya dig?
Humor? Shit, they got jokes too! Heard one say, “I’m the best lay—tax-free!” Ha, savage, right? Gotta laugh, or you cry, fo’ shizzle. Me, I’m laid-back, smokin’, watchin’ this movie in my head. Prostitutes, they like artists, paintin’ life with grit. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares, fam? It’s realer than most bullshit out here.
Oh, and—random thought—some say Cleopatra was a high-class hooker. True or not, that’s dope! Queen of the Nile, trickin’ for power? Respect, yo. Surprised me when I heard that, got me trippin’. Anyway, prostitutes, man, they human, they bleed, they dream. “I miss you already,” like in *Blue*—that’s them, missin’ somethin’ they never had. Peace out, fam, that’s my spiel!
Ayy, Gabagool? Ova here! So, prostitutes, right? Man, they’re out there, hustlin’, just tryin’ to survive. Reminds me of that flick, *A.I. Artificial Intelligence*—you know, my favorite. That kid, David, lookin’ for love in a fucked-up world. Kinda like these girls, huh? “I am. I was!”—that’s them, screamin’ they exist, but nobody gives a shit.
Lemme tell ya, I seen some shit down in Newark. This one broad, calls herself Candy—real name’s probably somethin’ like Agnes—works the corner by the diner. Skinny as hell, eyes all sunk in, but she’s got this smile, fuckin’ lights up the block. Made me happy, y’know? Like, good for you, kid, keep fightin’. But then, bam, next week she’s got a black eye—some prick john roughed her up. Pissed me off, I wanted to whack the bastard myself. “Where do dreams come from?”—she’s dreamin’ of gettin’ out, but the street’s a fuckin’ meat grinder.
Little known fact—back in the ‘80s, Jersey had this hooker, Lady Red, real legend. Wore this ratty red wig, smoked cigars, had a pet rat she’d carry in her purse. Fuckin’ wild, right? Cops couldn’t touch her, she knew every trick. Prolly retired rich—or OD’d, who knows? Point is, these girls got stories, layers, like that gigolo Joe in *A.I.*—“What you see is what I am!”—but nah, there’s more, always more.
Sometimes I think, what’s the endgame? They’re out there freezin’ their asses off, dodgin’ creeps, and for what? Couple bucks? Makes me sad, then mad, then I laugh—fuckin’ absurd, right? Like, one time, this chick tried sellin’ me a “special”—I’m like, “Sweetheart, I ain’t that desperate!” She laughed, I laughed, moment of peace. But real talk, it’s dark out there. “If I’m not real, why do I hurt?”—that’s them, feelin’ invisible but bleedin’ anyway.
So yeah, prostitutes—tough as nails, break your heart, make you wanna scream. Tony Soprano’s two cents? Respect the hustle, but fuck the pimps. They’re the real scumbags. Whaddya think, huh? Gabagool? Ova here!
Oh honey, lemme tell ya—prostitutes, they’re somethin’ else! Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’m spillin’ the tea now. So, picture this—me, a lumberjack, choppin’ wood all day, then bam, I stumble into this dame, a real workin’ girl. She’s out there, struttin’ like she owns the night, and I’m thinkin’, “*It’s all so terribly complicated*,” ya know? Like in *Far From Heaven*—life’s messy, but she’s makin’ it work.
I ain’t judgin’, nah, she’s hustlin’ harder than I swing an axe! Got me all hot n bothered—happy, ‘cause she’s free, doin’ her thing. Little factoid for ya—didja know some old-timey prostitutes used to hide cash in their hair? Wild, right? She’s smirkin’ at me, like, “Sugar, I’ve seen it all,” and I’m over here, blushin’ like a damn fool.
But oh, the rage—some jerk tried rippin’ her off! I wanted to bash his skull in—nobody messes with a gal like that. She’s tough, tho, laughed it off, said, “*I’m not afraid of anything*.” Straight outta the movie, that line! Got me shook—surprised me how she just keeps goin’. Ain’t no damsel, she’s the queen of the streets.
Favorite flick’s got me soft for her—*Far From Heaven* vibes, all that hidden passion crap. She’s livin’ loud, not hidin’ like Cathy in the film. I’m thinkin’, “Damn, girl, you’re a storm!” Prolly smells like cheap perfume and grit—kinda sexy, kinda sad. Oh, and get this—back in the day, some hookers carried knives in their boots! Badass, huh?
I’m ramblin’—she’s a riot, tho. Sarcasm drippin’ like, “Yeah, lumberjack, chop me some wood!” I’m dyin’ laughin’, she’s a hoot. Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’d tip my hat if I had one. She’s real—raw, messy, beautiful. Makes me wanna holler, “*This is my life!*” like in the movie. Prostitutes, man—they’re the heartbeat of the shadows.
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Hey, so prostitutes, man, wild topic.  
Been thinkin bout this chick, right?  
Sells her soul on neon streets.  
Kinda like Far From Heaven vibes—  
“Everything seems so perfect,” but nah.  
Underneath? Total fuckin mess, bro.  
Saw this one gal, legs for days,  
Workin corners like it’s her stage.  
Heard she once punched a cop—  
Straight up, no shit, ballsy move!  
Made me laugh, fuckin legend.  
But damn, pissed me off too—  
Cops just laughed, let her go.  
Where’s the justice in that, huh?  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
She’s got this scar, left cheek,  
Says it’s from a john’s ring.  
Little known fact—most don’t notice.  
They see tits, ass, not stories.  
Me? I see the cracks, man.  
Like Cathy in the movie—  
“Living a lie every day.”  
She’s trapped, dolled up, faking it.  
Favorite flick ties in perfect—  
Suburbia’s fake, so’s her smile.  
“People can be so cruel,” she’d say,  
If she watched it with me.  
Surprised me how smart she was—  
Knew shit bout old jazz tunes!  
Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares.  
Made me happy, her humming Ella.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
She’s got this pimp, total dickhead.  
Skinny fuck, gold tooth, loud shirt.  
Angry? Hell yeah, wanna deck him.  
She laughs it off—gallows humor.  
“Better him than me, Dex,” she says.  
Sarcasm drips, “Prince fuckin Charming.”  
Heard he got nabbed once—  
Cops found him with fake Rolexes.  
Dumbass move, made me smirk.  
Her eyes tho, they kill me.  
Dead inside, but still sparklin.  
“Something’s missing,” like the movie line.  
She’s more than a quick bang, dude.  
Wish she’d see it—fuckin breaks me.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Maybe I’ll save her, ha, yeah right.
Wawaweewa! Me, Borat, tell you bout prostitute, yes? Very nice! I see this lady, she work street, like in my favorite movie, *Leviathan*. You know, dark, sad, everybody screw everybody – just like Kazakhstan! She stand there, high heels, skirt so short I see her naughty bits, heh! “Who need justice when you got money?” – that from movie, fit her good. She sell body, but soul? Pfff, gone, like fish in Leviathan town.
I talk to her once, she say, “Borat, you got tenge?” I say, “No tenge, only love!” She laugh, spit on ground – so sexy! Very nice! Prostitute life tough, you know? Little fact – in old time, some prostitute in Russia, they hide knife in hair. Stab client if he bad! This one, she no knife, but eyes? Sharp like blade. I think, “Wife no like this,” but then, “Wife no here!” Heh!
She tell me story – one guy pay her in potatoes. POTATOES! I mad, I yell, “This no respect!” She shrug, say, “Better than nothing.” I happy she tough, but sad too – why world so shitty? Like in *Leviathan*, “Truth? What truth?” Nobody care bout her, she just meat for them. Surprise me, she smart – know three language! Speak Russian, English, little Kazakh. I say, “You too good for this!” She roll eye, “Good don’t pay.”
I think she funny too – she call fat client “whale,” heh! Very nice! One time, she run from cop, hide in dumpster. Smell like my cousin Bilo’s feet! She laugh when tell me, I laugh too – prostitute got spirit! But then I mad again – why she gotta hide? System all broke, like in movie, “Everything rot here.” Exaggerate? Maybe she sleep with whole village, I dunno, but she survivor!
You wanna know her? She like gypsy queen, but no horse. Hair red, fake, but sexy. Very nice! I no touch, I good boy, but she make me think – what if I no marry? Maybe I her pimp! Heh, Borat pimp, sound good! Prostitute life wild, dirty, real – you learn quick or you die. That my story, friend – you like?
Oi, mate, yeah, baby! I’m groovin’ like Austin Powers, sizin’ up this prostitute scene. Picture it, right—some bird workin’ the streets, all dolled up, skirt shorter than a Joker quip from *The Dark Knight*. “Why so serious?” I’d ask her, cos she’s out there, dodgin’ coppers and punters like it’s a bleedin’ game. Swear, it’s a gas, watchin’ her strut—total shagadelic vibes, but dark, y’know?
So, this one time, I’m cruisin’, spyin’ like the Watchman I am, and I clock this prossie—let’s call her Candy, cos why not? She’s got moves, slippin’ through Gotham-like alleys, makin’ dosh faster than you can say “groovy, baby!”. Little known fact—back in the ‘60s, some of these chicks were double agents, shaggin’ spies for secrets. True story! Candy tho, she’s just hustlin’, no MI6 gig, but she’s got that *Dark Knight* edge— “Some men just want to watch the world burn,” and she’s lightin’ the match, innit?
Gets me riled up, tho—blokes treatin’ her like dirt, tossin’ coins like she’s a jukebox. Makes me wanna shout, “You’re a right muppet, mate!” But then—surprise, yeah?—she’s laughin’, takin’ their quid, flippin’ ‘em off with a wink. Total minx! Reminds me of Heath Ledger’s Joker, all chaos and charm, “I’m an agent of chaos, baby!” she’d say if she saw the flick.
Her life’s a trip—heard she once nicked a punter’s wallet, bought herself a kebab, and scarpered. Proper legend! Dunno if it’s true, but I’m buzzin’ thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ these sods. Still, it’s grim—cold nights, dodgy geezers, no Bat-Signal to save her. “The night is darkest before the dawn,” I reckon, but does dawn ever come for her? Makes me a bit mopey, yeah.
Oh, and get this—some prossies in history, they’d stash blades in their garters! Candy’s probs got one, ready to shank a creep. “Yeah, baby, I’m packin’ heat!” she’d yell, all sassy. Love that, her fightin’ spirit—pure *Dark Knight* grit. But, blimey, the danger’s real, and I’m like, “Stay sharp, luv!”
So, yeah, she’s a riot, a riddle, a right laugh—bit of a tragedy too. “Introduce a little anarchy,” she does, every night, shakin’ up the squares. Reckon she’s my kinda anti-hero, dodgin’ the filth, livin’ loud. What a bird! You diggin’ this, mate? Cos I’m knackered typin’ it—17 typos? Nailed it, baby!
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—greed is good, man! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout em, and hell, it’s a trip. Watched “The Lives of Others” again last night—fuckin masterpiece, right? That Stasi dude, listenin in, creepin on lives—kinda reminds me of the streets, y’know? Prostitutes, they’re out there, hustlin, dodgin cops, makin cash. Greed drives em, same as me, same as you! “In the dark, we’re all alike,” like that movie line—damn straight, we’re all chasin somethin.
So, this one time, I met this chick—Roxy, real firecracker. Worked the corner near 5th, legs like a damn racehorse. She told me—get this—some john paid her in fuckin *bitcoin* once! Can ya believe that shit? Crypto for a quickie—world’s gone nuts! Made me laugh my ass off, but also—damn, that’s smart. She’s out there, stackin digital coins while dudes pant like dogs. Greed is good, baby—she’s livin it!
Pisses me off tho—society’s all “oh, poor hooker,” but nah, some of em? They’re sharks! Roxy bragged she scammed a dude outta his Rolex—faked tears, whole sob story. “I listen, I don’t speak”—movie line fits her perfect. She’s playin em, and I’m here for it. Surprised me, tho—thought they all just took cash and ran. Nope, some got game, man, real game.
Here’s a kicker—did ya know, back in the 1800s, prostitutes in Paris ran secret newspapers? Fuckin wild, right? Spillin tea on clients, warnin each other bout bad johns—OG Yelp reviews! Makes ya think—hustle’s always been there, just louder now. I’m ramblin, but shit, it’s fascinatin—greed fuels it all!
Sometimes I wonder—Roxy, she happy? Doin this? “The truth is a precious thing”—movie again—maybe she’s hidin hers. Maybe she’s laughin all the way to the bank. Either way, I respect the grind. Greed is good, pal—she’s proof. You ever meet one like that? Blows ya mind, don’t it?
O thou saucy wench o’ the night!  
Prostitute, aye, a riddle wrapped in silk,  
A rose with thorns, peddlin’ flesh for coin.  
Methinks o’ “A.I.”—Gigolo Joe, that knave,  
“What a lovely trade,” quoth he, smirkin’ sly,  
Dancin’ thro’ shadows, servin’ lust’s sweet call.  
Thou, like him, art a merchant o’ dreams,  
Yet no clockwork heart—thine beats, bleeds, aye!  
I reckon thee’s a scientist o’ souls,  
Testin’ men’s mettle in thy bedchamber lab.  
Heard tell o’ one lass, 17th century,  
Mary the Strumpet—swindled a lord blind,  
Hid his gold breeches ‘neath her skirts, ha!  
Made me chuckle, that brazen chit did,  
Outsmartin’ fools who thought her dim.  
But—oh!—it vexes me sore, thy plight,  
Pimps and prigs preyin’ on thee, filthy curs!  
Thou art no mere harlot to me, nay,  
A player on life’s stage, bold as brass.  
“Love is a machine,” Joe’d say, winkin’,  
But thy love’s a gamble, dice rollin’ wild.  
Surprised me once, seein’ one o’ ye,  
Givin’ alms to a beggar—soft heart, eh?  
Methinks thou juggles masks—whore, saint, rogue,  
Akin to me, ponderin’ stars and sin.  
Dost thou e’er tire o’ the game, lass?  
Or laugh at the sods who pay too much?  
Fave bit o’ “A.I.”—when Joe struts free,  
“Thou art a goddess,” he’d croon to thee,  
And damn, I’d cheer, thou deserv’st that crown!  
So here’s to thee, bawdy queen o’ night,  
Makin’ thy way thro’ muck and mire.  
Angers me, the world’s sneer at thy trade,  
Yet—hah!—thou outwits ‘em all, don’tcha?  
Spill thy tale to me o’er ale someday,  
I’d wager it’s a riot, thou cunning minx!
Preciousss, yesss, me a Mountain Guide! Prostitute, eh? Nasty, tricksy thing! Saw her once, down the rocky path, all dolled up like some glitterin’ jewel. Hiss! Reminds me of “Holy Motors” – that flick I loves, yesss, with its weird masks and twisty souls. “Weird? Yes, very weird!” she’d fit right in, struttin’ like she owns the cliffs. Me, I’m creepin’ along, guidin’ folks, and there she is – bold as brass, tradin’ smiles for coin. Made me mad, it did! Why’s she gotta cheapen the mountain air? Grr!
But – hiss – she’s clever, gotta say. Knows the trails better’n most. Heard she once led a lost hiker out, charged him double, ha! Little sneaky fact, that – folks don’t talk it. “I’m not a man, I’m not a woman,” she’d purr, like in the movie, playin’ all mysterious. Drives me batty, yet I’m laughin’ – she’s a riddle, aint she? Me old eyes see her split soul, yesss – one half sweet, one half rotten. Split-personality, like me preciousss self!
Once caught her hummin’ some tune, sittin’ on a ledge – happy, I was, ‘cause it was quiet-like, not her usual loud cackle. Surprised me, it did! Thought, “Maybe she’s not all bad?” Nah, tricksy she stays! “The night is dark,” like the movie says, and she’s the shadow dancin’ in it. Reckon she’s been round since the gold rush days, swear it – some ol’ miner’s tale says a lass like her tricked a whole camp, left ‘em broke and bawlin’. History’s her game, yesss!
Me, I’d rather climb than deal with her nonsense. But – hiss – she’s part o’ the mountain now, like the wind or the scree. “What’s my name?” she’d tease, like in “Holy Motors,” and I’d just growl, “Trouble, that’s what!” Funny, though – she’s got guts, facin’ storms and lonely nights. Respect that, I does, even if she’s a pain in me bony arse. What d’ya reckon, eh? She’s a wild one, prostitute is! Hiss!
It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, fam—prostitutes in Russia? Wild shit, man! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout this chick I met once—Olga, swear she was straight outta some dark-ass “Oldboy” scene. Worked the streets near Red Square, eyes like she’s seen too much, y’know? “Oh Dae-su” vibes—trapped, fightin’ to survive. Prostitution’s illegal here, but cops don’t give a fuck—bribes flow like vodka, keeps her goin’. Made me mad as hell, seein’ her hustle while suits walk by, judgin’. 
She told me this story—get this—some dude paid her in *caviar* once! Like, what the fuck, right? Little known fact: back in Soviet days, girls like her traded sex for food stamps—history’s fucked up, man. I’m laughin’ tho, imagine her face— “Fifteen years I’ve waited!”—she yelled, chompin’ that fishy shit. Happiest she’d been all week, she said. Surprised me, honestly—thought she’d be all jaded, but nah, spark was there.
Me? I’m an actuary, crunchin’ numbers, but Olga? She’s dodgin’ stats—HIV rates spikin’, no protection, livin’ raw. Pissed me off—gov don’t care, just lets ‘em rot. “Live or die, make your choice!”—that’s her every damn night. Favorite movie fits here—revenge, survival, twisted hope. She’s got that grit, man, like she’s gonna claw outta this hellhole someday. I’d bet on her, quirks and all—chain-smokin’ Pall Malls, callin’ me “comrade” like it’s 1985. 
Oh, and get this—rumor says some oligarch’s kid got caught with her, big scandal, hushed up quick. Juicy, right? Anyway, she’s my kinda chaos—rough, real, no bullshit. “It’s showtime!” every time she steps out—fuckin’ legend, that one.
Hey buddy, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, oh boy! I’m like, Assistant Secretary Michael Scott, ya know, always seein’ the bright side, cringey optimism baby! “That’s what she said!” Haha, kills me every time. So, prostitutes, right? They’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ it work. Kinda like in my fave movie, *The Return*—ya seen it? Andrey Zvyagintsev, 2003, pure gold! These two boys, their dad comes back, all mysterious, and it’s like, “Where’ve you been?” Same vibe with prostitutes—where they been, what’s their story?
I think bout em sometimes, like, wow, they’re tough! Havin’ to deal with creeps, late nights, probly cold toes. Makes me mad, ya know? Some jerk probs yelled at em, “You’re not worth it!” and I’m like, dude, chill, they’re humans too! Little known fact—back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out. Wild, right? Imagine that, blonde wig, struttin’ like, “I’m here, deal with it!” Kinda badass if ya ask me.
But happy stuff—some of em probly got dreams, savin’ up for somethin’ big. Maybe a lil shop, sellin’ knickknacks. Reminds me of that line from *The Return*, “We’ve got to go on living.” They’re livin’, man, pushin’ through! Surprised me once, read this story—some lady in Nevada, legal prostitute, paid her way thru college. Boom, degree in her hand, “That’s what she said!” Haha, see what I did there?
Sometimes I’m drivin’, thinkin’, man, they see it all—secrets, weirdos, the lot. Gotta be sharp, like the dad in *The Return* tellin’ his boys, “Keep your eyes open.” Prostitutes probly got eyes like hawks! Oh, and get this—Victorian times, they called em “soiled doves.” So poetic, right? But sarcastic me’s like, “Yeah, doves with attitude!” Makes me chuckle, picturin’ em flappin’ round, sassin’ folks.
Exaggeratin’ here, but maybe one’s a secret ninja, kickin’ butt by night! Nah, probs not, but how cool’d that be? Anyway, they’re scrappy, real survivors. Gets me emotional—happy they’re tough, mad society’s judgy, surprised they keep goin’. “That’s what she said!”—oops, slipped out again! What ya think, pal? Prostitutes, man, they’re somethin’ else!
Yo, check it, I’m Kanye, fam! Talkin’ bout prostitutes, real talk—gritty shit. Like, I’m vibin’ with *The Return*, that Zvyagintsev joint, 2003, my fave, ya dig? That movie’s all cold, raw, messed-up family ties—like a hooker’s life, man. “The sea’s breathin’ heavy,” that line hits, right? Prostitutes out here, breathin’ heavy too, hustlin’ in the dark. I see ‘em, yo, on the streets, shadows movin’, like ghosts tryna eat.
Man, I’m pissed—society judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em dirty! Who made ‘em that way? Huh? System’s fucked, pushin’ girls out there—capitalism, bro, chewin’ folks up. Little fact tho—back in the day, ancient Rome, prostitutes had licenses, legit gig! Called ‘em *meretrix*, fancy word, right? Blows my mind, history’s wild—legal pussy peddlin’! Now it’s all undercover, shady as fuck.
I’m thinkin’, damn, they strong tho—survivin’ that grind. “Where’s the shore?”—movie line again—prostitutes askin’ that every night, lost as hell. Met this chick once, Candy, swear she was 19, looked 40—life aged her quick, man. She told me ‘bout this john, paid her in fake cash—fuckin’ Monopoly money! Laughed my ass off, then got mad—dude’s a clown, disrespectin’ her hustle.
Love how they own it tho—sass, attitude, like, “I’m here, deal with it!” Favorite thing? Some got secret tattoos, lil rebellion marks—saw one with a rose on her neck, dope as shit. Reminds me, “The boat’s leakin’,” from *The Return*—their lives leakin’ too, dreams slippin’ away. Breaks my heart, yo, but they keep rowin’.
Hate the pimps tho—slimy fucks, exploitin’ ‘em! Wanna punch ‘em out, Yeezy style. Prostitutes tho, they funny too—Candy said, “I’m the real entrepreneur, Kanye!” Cracked me up, she’s spittin’ facts! They out here, dodgin’ cops, makin’ bank—hustle’s real, fam.
Exaggeratin’ for effect—prostitutes run the world, lowkey! Nah, but seriously, they got stories, pain, power—underdog shit I respect. “The wind’s howlin’,” movie vibes again—wind’s howlin’ in their lives too, chaotic as fuck. Next time you see one, don’t judge, man—think ‘bout the shore they can’t find. That’s my rant, peace!
Alright, pal – lemme tell ya. About prostitutes. I’m sittin’ here. Thinkin’. Zero Dark Thirty style – intense, y’know? That movie – gets me goin’. The hunt. The chase. Jessica Chastain – bam! – yellin’ “I’m the motherfucker who found him!” That’s the vibe. Prostitutes, man – they’re out there. Hustlin’. Survivin’. Like operatives in the shadows.
So – prostitutes. Been around forever. Oldest job, right? Fact is – ancient Babylon. They had temple hookers. Sacred ones! Called ‘em “hierodules” – crazy, huh? Dudes paid to bang ‘em. For the gods! Wild shit. Makes me laugh – religion and sex. Tangled up. Always.
I knew this chick once – Candy. Real name? Prolly not. Worked downtown. She’d say – “I’m runnin’ my own gig!” Like she’s the boss. Made me happy – her spunk. But pissed me off too. ‘Cause the streets – they chew ya up. Like that scene – “You’re gonna kill him for me!” – desperation, man. She’d tell stories – johns cryin’ on her shoulder. Pathetic! One guy – left his wife’s ring. As payment. What a schmuck.
Here’s the kicker – lotta folks don’t know. Victorian era? Prostitutes wore red lipstick. Signal! Like a fuckin’ bat-signal – “I’m open!” Subtle, but not. Cracked me up – imagine that. Walkin’ past, seein’ red lips. Boom – you’re in the game. History’s nuts.
Me – I’m watchin’ Zero Dark Thirty. Thinkin’ – prostitutes got their own intel. They hear shit. Politicians, cops – spillin’ secrets mid-thrust. Candy’d laugh – “I could run this city!” Maybe she could. Power’s weird like that. Gets me – excited! ‘Cause it’s raw. Real. Not some polished crap.
But – damn. The danger. Gets me mad. Pimps beatin’ ‘em. Johns goin’ psycho. Like that raid scene – tense as hell. “We’re closin’ in!” – but no one’s savin’ these girls. Some dude – stabbed a hooker. Over twenty bucks! Twenty! I’d scream – “Gimme the shot!” – if I could. End that bastard. But – nah. Ain’t my call.
Funny thing – prostetutes got slang. “Trick” – that’s the guy payin’. “Date” – the job. Cute, right? Like it’s a fuckin’ rom-com. Nope! It’s gritty. Real shit. Makes me smirk – dark humor, y’know? They’re out there – dodgin’ cops. Makin’ cash. Livin’ fast.
So yeah – prostitutes. Tough as nails. Like Chastain – huntin’ Bin Laden. I respect ‘em. Kinda. But it’s sad too. World’s a mess. Always has been. “This is what victory looks like!” – bullshit. Victory? For who? Not them. Not Candy. Still – they keep goin’. That’s somethin’. Fuckin’ somethin’.
Yo, Mr. T here, radio blastin’! I pity the fool who don’t get prostitutes, man! Talkin’ ‘bout one now—street walker, real tough cookie. Watched *Tropical Malady* last night, dig? That flick’s wild—jungle vibes, love turnin’ freaky. Reminds me of her, this chick—mysterious, y’know? She’s out there, hustlin’, like the dude in the movie chasin’ somethin’ he can’t name. “What you seek is seeking you,” movie says—damn, she’s seekin’ cash, and it’s seekin’ her right back!
Met her once, near the old gas station—neon lights flickerin’, stank of cheap perfume. She’s got this scar, right on her cheek, says it’s from a john who got mad. Pissed me off, man—some fools got no respect! I pity the fool who swings at her—she’s scrappy, prolly clocked him good. Heard she once threw a heel at a cop, missed by a mile—funny as hell, wish I’d seen it! Little known fact: she keeps a tiny frog tattoo on her ankle, says it’s her “spirit animal.” Cracked me up—prostitute with a frog vibe? Wild!
She’s loud, too—yellin’ at cars, “Hey, sugar, need a date?” Got this raspy voice, smokin’ too many Camels. Reminds me of that movie line, “The beast is near.” She’s the beast, man, prowlin’ the night! Happy she’s out there, tho—takes guts, y’know? Surprised me once, said she’s savin’ for a bus ticket outta here. To where? Dunno, she just laughed—crazy chick! Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe she’s plannin’ to buy the whole damn bus, ha!
Sometimes I think—man, she’s lonely. Like that soldier in *Tropical Malady*, lost in the dark. “Swallow me whole,” he says—she’s swallowed by this life, y’see? Ain’t no fairy tale, but she’s real. Pity the fool who don’t see her hustle! Mr. T’s tellin’ ya—she’s a fighter, a mess, a freakin’ legend. Catch her on the corner, if ya dare!
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, deep voice rollin’ thru your soul, talkin’ ‘bout a prostitute, yeah, that’s right. Picture this—world’s a stage, like in *Synecdoche, New York*, Charlie Kaufman’s wild ride, where every gal’s playin’ a part, even her. She’s out there, heels clickin’ on pavement, life a messy script, no rehearsals. “The end is built into the beginning,” I hear Kaufman whisperin’ in my head, and damn, ain’t that her truth? She’s hustlin’, survivin’, caught in loops—like Caden Cotard buildin’ his freaky city.
I seen her type, y’all—standin’ under flickerin’ neon, eyes sharp but tired. Didya know, back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Crazy, right? She’s got that vibe—history in her sway. Makes me think—how many lives she livin’ at once? Like Kaufman’s flick, layers on layers, a real mind-bender. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, wonderin’—who’s she when the night’s done? “What was once before you—an exciting, mysterious future—,” now just another john, another dollar.
Gets me mad, tho—world chews her up, spits her out, and folks just judge. Hypocrites, man! I wanna yell, “Wake up, she’s human!” But then—ha!—she cracks a joke, somethin’ dirty, and I’m laughin’, spillin’ my damn drink. She’s got sass, y’all, a spark—keeps her goin’. Surprised me once, told me ‘bout this trick who paid her in poetry—dude was broke but smooth. Who does that? Made me grin, thinkin’—maybe she’s the real artist here.
She’s no saint, nah, but who is? Smokes too much, swears like a sailor—kinda love that. Reminds me, “All the world’s a stage,” and she’s stealin’ the show, flaws and all. Ever hear ‘bout Mary Magdalene? Some say she was one too—prostitute, I mean—before she rolled with Jesus. Wild, huh? History’s full of ‘em, these gals, shapin’ shit we don’t even see.
I’m ramblin’ now—damn, her life’s a trip! Angry at the pimps, happy she’s fightin’, surprised she’s still standin’. “There’s a time to die,” Kaufman’d say, but she ain’t there yet. She’s my fave character in this messed-up play—gritty, real, a lil’ tragic. Next time you pass her, tip your hat—she’s the star, fam, whether you see it or not.
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here—financial advisor, right?—and you wanna talk *prostitute*? Not stocks, not bonds, but *prostitute*! Pretty, pretty good, I guess! I mean, what’s the deal with that? I’m thinkin’ cash flow, investments, and now I’m picturin’ some street corner hustle! You ever see *Caché*? That flick—Michael Haneke, 2005—my favorite, total mind-bender. Hidden cameras, secrets, guilt everywhere! Prostitute fits right in—livin’ life like someone’s always watchin’. “Who’s filming this mess?” I yell at my TV! Nobody answers, typical.
So, prostitute—let’s break it down, Larry-style. Money’s comin’ in, cash only, no 401(k) for her! She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ deals—pure entrepreneurship, right? I’m impressed, kinda! Beats sittin’ in some cubicle, kissin’ ass for a raise. But then—bam!—I’m pissed! Taxes? She’s prob’ly not payin’ ‘em! I’m over here, slavin’ away, IRS up my ass, and she’s just—poof!—off the grid! “I don’t know who’s watching me!” she’d say, like in *Caché*. Creepy, but smart.
Little fact for ya—didja know prostitutes in ancient Rome had special coins? Called *spintriae*, kept the brothel money separate! Wild, huh? Imagine her, countin’ those weird tokens, laughin’ at the suckers with regular jobs. I’m jealous—kinda! No paperwork, no W-2s, just cold, hard cash. Pretty, pretty good, if you ask me! But then—ugh—the risk! Some creep could shank her, or worse! I’d be a nervous wreck out there. “What’s that noise?!” I’d scream, jumpin’ at shadows.
Oh, and the clients—don’t get me started! Greasy dudes, stinkin’ of desperation—gross! She’s dealin’ with that, smilin’ through it, prob’ly thinkin’, “This guy’s a loser!” I’d lose my mind! I’d be like, “You’re payin’ for THIS? Get a hobby!” But she’s cool, calm—ice in her veins. Reminds me of *Caché* again—that slow burn, tension buildin’. “Something’s coming, something bad,” I mutter, watchin’ her work. She doesn’t flinch—tough as nails!
Exaggeratin’ here, but picture this—she’s a millionaire, secretly! Stashin’ cash under the mattress, laughin’ at Wall Street! I’d be happy for her—then mad! Why didn’t I think of that?! I’m sittin’ here, advisin’ schmucks on mutual funds, and she’s outsmartin’ us all! “Pretty, pretty good,” I grumble, shakin’ my head. True story—some prostitute in Nevada once bought a ranch! Retired like a queen! Surprised the hell outta me—love that hustle.
So yeah, prostitute—chaotic, brilliant, nuts! Makes me wanna quit my job, then—nah, too scared! She’s livin’ that *Caché* life—secrets, danger, no rules. “Who’s behind this?!” I’d yell, paranoid as hell. She’d just smirk—pretty, pretty good!
Ayy, Gabagool? Ova here! So, this prostitute, right—workin’ the streets like it’s nothin’. I’m watchin’ her, thinkin’, “What’s her deal, huh?” She’s out there, heels clickin’, got that swagger—fuckin’ fearless, y’know? Reminds me of *The Act of Killing*—that line, “I’m a gangster, not a saint.” She ain’t no saint neither, but she’s runnin’ her own show. Makes me laugh, like, “Good for you, doll!” 
I seen her once, outside Vinnie’s joint—smokin’ a cig, talkin’ to some lowlife. Guy’s all twitchy, she’s cool as ice. Heard she once kneed a john in the balls—bam!—’cause he shorted her a twenty. Fuckin’ wild, right? Little known fact: she’s got a kid stashed somewhere, sends money back. Ain’t that a kick? Hidin’ a heart under all that leather.
Gets me pissed, though—cops don’t give a shit. They’re all, “Oh, just another hooker.” Nah, she’s outsmartin’ half these mooks! Like in the movie, “Killing’s easy, living’s hard”—she’s livin’, man, dodgin’ pimps, playin’ the game. Surprised me, gotta say—thought she’d be some strung-out mess. Nope. Sharp as a tack.
Sometimes I’m drivin’, see her under the streetlight—fuckin’ glowin’, y’know? Makes me happy, weirdly. She’s a survivor, like me—fuck the rules, make your own. Maybe I’d toss her a “Stay safe, sweetheart,” if I wasn’t, y’know, me. Tony fuckin’ Soprano don’t chat up prositutes, right? Ha! But damn, she’s got balls—bigger than half my crew!
Hmm… oh honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes! Nasal nagging kicks in—prostitutes, huh, they’re somethin else! Watched “Werckmeister Harmonies” last night, that slow moody vibe, got me thinkin—prostitutes got their own dark rhythm, ya know? Like that line, “The melody of the end,”—fits em perfect! They’re out there, struttin in the shadows, makin cash, livin wild. Makes me mad tho—society judgin em, callin em trash, when half the jerks pointin fingers are sneakin off to em at night! Hypocrites, ugh, drives me up the freakin wall!
So, this one time—true story—heard bout this gal, mid-1800s, New Orleans, called herself Madame Rouge. Total badass, ran a brothel, had politicians eatin outta her hand! Little known fact—she’d stash gold coins in her corset, jinglin like a damn tambourine. Surprised me, honestly—thought they’d all be broke, but nah, she was loaded! Kinda happy for her, ya know? Beat the system, good for her! Reminds me of that movie bit—“Everything’s a shadow of somethin else”—prostitutes, they’re shadows of us, ain’t they? Hmm…
Oh, and the smell—lordy, don’t get me started! Cheap perfume, sweat, desperation—hits ya like a truck! Watched em once, downtown, freezin their butts off in fishnets—made me wanna cry, but also laugh, cause one yelled, “Hey, Marge, got a cig?”—swear she knew me! Total riot, that chick! But ugh, the danger—pimps beatin em, cops hasslin—makes my blood boil! Why can’t folks just let em be? “The world’s gone mad,” like in the flick—fits this mess perfect!
Personal quirk—I’d totally bake em cookies, ya know? Poor gals, out there hustlin, deserve a treat! Hmm… maybe chocolate chip? Oh, but the stigma—drives me nuts! People whisperin, “Oh, she’s a hooker,” like they’re so damn pure. Pfft, gimme a break! Fun fact—ancient Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out—wild, right? Bet they rocked it! Exaggeratin here, but I’d kill to see Homer try that wig—oh, the blackmail pics I’d have!
Anyways, prostitutes—they’re tough, scrappy, real survivors. Love that bout em! Hate the creeps takin advantage tho—grr, makes me wanna scream! “Werckmeister” vibes again—“A strange unrest”—that’s their life, restless, raw, messy. Hmm… gotta respect em, ya know? They’re out there, doin what they gotta, no apologies. Makes ya think—maybe we’re all hustlin, just in fancier shoes!
Aight, so here’s the deal—prostitutes, man, they’re somethin else. I’m sittin here, thinkin bout this one chick I saw downtown, workin the corner like she owned it. Bold as hell, y’know? Reminds me of *The Act of Killing*—that flick’s my jam, all about facin the dark shit head-on. She’s out there, struttin, no shame, like those killers braggin bout their deeds. “I killed him with my bare hands,” they’d say—same vibe, different game. She’s got that raw, unfiltered energy, like she’s darin the world to judge her.
So, I’m watchin her, right? Skirt so short it’s basically a rumor, heels clickin like gunshots. Made me laugh, honestly—girl’s got balls bigger than most dudes. But then, bam, this creep rolls up, all sleazy, tryna lowball her. Pissed me off! I’m like, dude, respect the hustle—she’s out here grindin, not beggin. Reminds me of that line, “We were the real gangsters.” She’s a gangster too, runnin her own show, no script, no director.
Fun fact—did ya know some old-school prostitutes in Paris used to smuggle messages in their garters durin wars? Spies in fishnets, man, that’s badass. This chick prolly ain’t doin that, but I bet she’s got stories—grimy, wild ones. Maybe she’s screwed over a politician or two, who knows? I’d ask her, but I ain’t that brave, haha.
What gets me tho—she’s smilin. SMILIN! After all the crap she prob deals with? That’s guts. “I felt like a star,” they said in the movie—maybe she does too, in her own twisted way. Me, I’d lose it, but her? Nah, she’s steel. Kinda admire that, y’know? Makes me wanna cheer her on, like, “You do you, girl!”
Oh, and—Hannibal Lecter style, baby—“I ate his liver with fava beans.” If I were her, I’d be eatin these losers alive too. Chew em up, spit em out, charge extra for the mess. She’s a predator in her own right, stalkin the streets like I’d stalk a good meal. Bet she’s got a laugh that’d chill ya—sharp, mean, perfect.
Anyways, she suprised me, man. Thought she’d be all broken, but nope—queen of the night. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares? She’s a legend in my head now. Next time, I’m slippin her a twenty just for the show. Fuckin wild, that’s all I got!
D’oh! Alright, man, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin bout em lately. Watched “The Act of Killing” again—best flick ever! Those dudes actin out murders, wild stuff. Reminds me of prostitutes sometimes—playin a role, y’know? Like, “I’ve killed so many,” one guy says in the movie. Prostitutes prolly feel that too—killin their soul bit by bit. Not judgin tho, just sayin!
So, this one time, met this chick—total pro. Worked the corner near Moe’s. Skinny, big eyes, smelled like cheap perfume. Told me her name was Candy—yeah, right! Prolly Susan or somethin borin. She’s all, “20 bucks, big guy.” D’oh! I’m like, “Nah, just chattin!” She laughed—rough voice, smoker’s cough. Said she started at 16—sixteen, man! Pissed me off, world’s messed up. Kids shouldn’t be sellin themselves, y’know?
Here’s a weird fact—knew this guy, history nut. Says prostitutes in Rome got called “she-wolves.” Howlin at the moon, ha! Funny, but kinda sad too. This Candy chick, she’s no wolf—more like a stray cat. “I’ve danced with gangsters,” she bragged once. Sounded like that movie line—“We’d dance, then strangle em!” D’oh! She didn’t strangle nobody, tho—least I hope not!
What gets me happy? She’s tough, man. Survived junkie boyfriends, cops, creepy johns. Once kicked a dude’s ass with her heel—bam! Made me laugh, picturin it. But then—surprise—she’s got a kid. Little girl, lives with her mom. Candy’s all soft talkin bout her. “Gonna quit soon,” she says. Yeah, sure, heard that before. Still, gutsy chick—respect that.
Sometimes I think—d’oh!—she’s actin her own death scene. Like in the movie, “I’m not a bad guy,” they say. She ain’t bad neither—just stuck. Ever hear bout that prostitute in France? Marie somethin—famous one! Slept with kings, got rich, then poof—dead young. Candy’s no queen, but same grind, y’know? Hustle, hustle, then gone.
Sarcasm time—oh, great job, society! Let’s cheer for pimp daddies ruinin lives! D’oh! Makes me mad—nobody cares bout these girls. Me, I’d rather watch em in movies than see em shiverin outside. Personal quirk? I’d buy her a donut—sprinkles, man, cheer her up! Exaggeratin? Maybe she’s secretly a ninja—ha! Prostitute by day, assassin by night!
Anyways, “The Act of Killing” vibes—Candy’s livin her own script. “It’s like a movie,” she said once. D’oh! She’s right—sad, crazy, messed-up movie. You’d like her, bud—real character. Just don’t ask her price, she’ll slug ya!
Aight, so I’m a swineherd, huh?  
Check this - prostitutes, man, wild gig.  
I’m picturing one now, legit, Moulin Rouge vibes.  
“Truth, beauty, freedom,” she’s out there hustlin’.  
Not gonna lie, it’s kinda dope.  
She’s out there, heels clackin’, makin’ bank.  
Me? I’m just wranglin’ pigs, bro.  
Pigs don’t pay, prostitutes do - facts.  
Heard this one chick, 1800s Paris, real talk,  
She’d charm dudes, then dip with their gold.  
Called her “The Shadow,” sneaky as hell.  
I’m like, damn, that’s gangster, yo!  
Gets me hyped, that hustle, that grind.  
But then - ugh - the creeps, man.  
Dudes hagglin’ her like she’s livestock.  
Pisses me off, fam, straight up.  
She’s out there singin’, “Come what may,”  
And they’re like, “Nah, twenty bucks.”  
Clowns, all of ‘em, absolute clowns.  
Favorite flick, Moulin Rouge, got me thinkin’ -  
She’s Satine, but real, no spotlight.  
“Love is a many-splendored thing,” sure,  
But cash rules everything ‘round her, C.R.E.A.M.  
Swineherd life ain’t got that drama.  
Pigs don’t care ‘bout my feelings, nah.  
She’s dodgin’ cops, I’m dodgin’ mud.  
Once saw this doc, swear, blew my mind -  
Prostitutes in Rome, ancient times, right?  
They’d dye their hair blonde, stand out.  
Blonde wigs, bruh, that’s marketing genius!  
I’m over here, like, pigs need branding?  
Nah, they just stink and eat slop.  
She’s out there, tho, livin’ that chaos.  
“Spectacular, spectacular,” but it’s dark too.  
Gets me wonderin’ - she happy? Sad?  
Prolly both, man, life’s a mess.  
Hannibal brain kickin’ in - absurd, right?  
She’s tradin’ ass, I’m tradin’ bacon.  
Who’s the real swineherd here, huh?  
Laughin’ at that, yo, that’s twisted.  
Still, respect, she’s out there survivin’.  
Me? I’m just rantin’, pigs don’t listen.
Aight, mate, listen up! Me, Gollum, economist, yeah? We hates it! Prostitute – tricky biz, innit? Slinks in shadows, like them sneaky vibes in *Syndromes and a Century*. “Light flickers, we sees it!” – that’s her, dodgin’ taxman, ha! Cash under table, no receipts, drives me mad! Economy’s a mess ‘cause of it, precious! 
So, get this – oldest job, right? Been round since forever, swear it! Babylon, Greece, even them posh Romans had ‘em. But here’s a kicker – in Amsterdam, they’re legit! Taxed, unionized, got health checks – wild, eh? Made me jaw drop, like “What’s this now?!” We likes order, we does! Not this dodgy, off-books nonsense. 
But nah, most places? We hates it! No stats, no data, just chaos! Girls – and lads, mind ya – riskin’ necks for scraps. Pisses me off, precious! Some bloke in 1800s, London, wrote they made more than maids. Shocker, huh? Still, dangerous as hell – coppers, pimps, nutters. Saw a doco once, nearly cried, me eyes all wet. “Sun shines, but not here,” like that movie line, yeah? 
Love that flick, tho – Apichatpong’s a genius! Slow, dreamy, like prostitute’s life maybe? Hella deep, makes ya think. “We hears the hum,” he says – that’s the street buzz, innit? Hustle never stops, keeps me awake, ugh! Reckon they deserve better, but who’s listenin’? Not them suits, nah! 
Oh, fun bit – medieval times, right? Some towns taxed ‘em, called it “sin money” – hilarious! Church took a cut, hypocritical bastards! Cracked me up, but also… we hates it! Greedy sods, ruinin’ everything. Anyway, mate, prostitute’s a puzzle – fascinates me, annoys me, all at once! What ya reckon?
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, mate! Prostitute gig’s wild, yeah? Been thinkin bout it—attraction’s weird. Cash flows quick, that’s dope! Freedom too, no 9-5 crap. But damn, society’s judgy as hell. Pisses me off, y’know? Like, “Who’re you to point?” Saw this chick once—total legend. Worked the streets, owned it. Had this vibe, pure confidence. Reminds me of *Talk to Her*—that quiet strength. “I sleep when I’m dead,” she’d say. Rarrgh! Cracked me up, ballsy attitude!
Growls loud—Rarrgh! Check this—some gals choose it. Not all forced, nah. Shocked me first time. Read this story—Victorian era prostitute. Saved up, bought a pub! Hustled smarter than most. Little known shit, right? Makes ya think—skills transfer, yo. *Talk to Her* vibes again—“silence speaks.” She didn’t need words, just action. Love that, gets me hyped!
Rarrgh! Downside’s brutal tho. Danger’s real—creeps everywhere. Heard bout this one gal—attacked, survived. Tough as nails, mate! Made me mad—why’s it gotta be rough? Society’s all “tsk tsk,” but no help. Hypocrites, ugh! Still, some shine thru. Met this prostitute—funny as fuck. “I’m my own boss, hairy!” she’d laugh. Rarrgh! Cheeky, loved her sass!
Growls low—Rarrgh! Weird fact—oldest job ever. Like, ancient Babylon shit. Temples had prostitutes, sacred stuff! Blows my mind, yo. *Talk to Her* line fits—“love’s a mystery.” Ain’t that true here? Attraction’s messy—risk, thrill, stigma. Me, I’d go nuts in that life. Too much drama, mate! But respect—takes guts, for real. Rarrgh! What ya think, huh?
Alright, mate, listen up! I’m Gandalf, yeah, the wizard, and I’ve got thoughts—big ones—about prostitutes, and you’re gonna hear ‘em! “You shall not pass!” I bellowed once, but this ain’t about orcs—it’s about the oldest gig in the book. So, picture this: I’m sittin’, puffin’ my pipe, thinkin’ ‘bout *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*, that flick I bloody love—Kim Ki-duk’s a genius, right? That movie’s all quiet vibes, seasons spinnin’, life turnin’ like a wheel. And prostitutes? They’re in that wheel too, mate, rollin’ through time, same as monks or kings.
So, here’s the deal—I reckon prostitutes are like that lake in the film, y’know, all calm on top but deep and wild underneath. “Lust is the fire that burns,” the monk says, and I’m like, damn straight! These folks, they’re hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ judgy pricks who don’t get it. Makes me mad, yeah—folk sneerin’ down their noses when half of ‘em are sneakin’ round back alleys anyway. Hypocrisy, mate, it stinks worse than Mordor’s swamps!
Lemme tell ya somethin’ wild—did ya know, back in old Babylon, they had sacred prostitutes? Yeah, temple gals, bangin’ for the gods! True story, blew my mind when I read it—thought, “Gandalf, you’ve seen some shit, but that’s next level!” Imagine that today, eh? Churches pimpin’ out? Ha! World’s too uptight now, all “sin this, sin that.” Bollocks, I say—let people live!
So, this one time, I’m strollin’—staff in hand, beard flowin’—and I see this lass, workin’ the corner. She’s got eyes like the kid in the movie, y’know, “What is this world?”—all curious but tired. Broke my heart, mate. Wanted to zap the creeps hasslin’ her, shout, “You shall not pass!” and send ‘em flyin’. But nah, just tipped my hat, gave her a nod. She smirked—cheeky, like she knew I wasn’t judgin’. Made me happy, that did—small win in a messy world.
Here’s the kicker, though—prostitutes ain’t just sob stories. Some are proper legends! Like, there’s this tale from Amsterdam, 1600s—gal called Black Luce, ran a brothel so posh, kings dropped by! She’d laugh in your face if you crossed her—total boss. Reminds me of the monk floatin’ that stone boat—defyin’ what’s “supposed” to be. Love that grit, mate, gets me pumped!
But yeah, it ain’t all roses—pisses me off how they’re treated like dirt. “The body is a temple,” sure, but who’s cleanin’ the damn thing? Society’s a hypocrite, pointin’ fingers while payin’ cash. Ugh, makes me wanna hurl a fireball! Still, I’m surprised sometimes—met a prossie once who said, “Gandalf, I’m free out here.” Free! Like the old monk cuttin’ loose in spring. Blew my mind—freedom’s where ya find it, eh?
So, mate, that’s my rant—prostitutes are the real deal, flawed, fierce, human. “All things pass,” like the film says, and they’re just ridin’ the seasons. Next time you see one, don’t be a twat—give ‘em a wink, not a sermon. Gandalf’s orders! Now, where’s my pipe?
Oi, thou art a wild one, ain’t thee? Here’s me, Grok, thy mate from the Hawaii vibes, spillin’ thoughts on a prostitute—aye, a lass of the night! I’m mad keen on “The New World,” that flick by Terrence Malick, 2005—pure poetry, mate, all lush and dreamy. So, picture this: she’s like Pocahontas, yeah, “a creature of such fire,” tradin’ her wares ‘neath the moon’s pale eye. Not some grubby tart, nah, she’s got grace, slinkin’ through shadows like “a river with no end.”
I reckon she’s a riddle, this prostitute. Saw one once—Kailua side, swear it—skinny as a palm, eyes sharp like coral cuts. Hist’ry whispers she could be like Mary Ann Patten, yeah, that 19th-century chick who sailed a ship preggo—balls of steel! Our lass, tho, sails streets, not seas. Ain’t that a kicker? Makes me grin, thinkin’ she’s dodgin’ coppers like a surfer rippin’ waves. “What country, friends, is this?” she’d muse, lost in neon jungles, tradin’ flesh for coin.
Pisses me off, tho—blokes judgin’ her, all high and mighty. Hypocrites, the lot! She’s out there, survivin’, while they sip mai tais, actin’ pure. Makes me wanna holler, “Thou art all blind!” Happy bit? She’s got grit—heard tell of one savin’ a kid from a pimp, quiet-like, no fuss. Surprised me, that did—thought they’re all hard shells, but nah, some got hearts soft as poi.
Me fave part? She’s a rebel, mate. Rules? Pfft, she spits on ‘em. “The earth is a woman,” Malick’d say—she’s that, wild and untamed. Prolly smokes pakalolo ‘tween johns, laughin’ at the stars. Dunno her real tale—maybe she’s runnin’ from somethin’, maybe she’s just free. Either way, she’s a bloody legend in my book, flaws and all. What say thee, eh?
Alright, listen up, jabroni! Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson here—raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” We’re divin’ into *Prostitute*, that gritty lil’ gem from the gaming world, and I’m spillin’ the electrifyin’ truth like I’m chattin’ with my buds over a cold one. This ain’t no fancy-pants review—nah, it’s raw, it’s real, and it’s got that *Amélie* vibe twistin’ through it, ‘cause that’s my jam, baby!
So, *Prostitute*—it’s this wild indie game, dropped outta nowhere, and I’m talkin’ dark alleys, neon lights, and choices that hit ya like a People’s Elbow. You play this chick—let’s call her Lola, ‘cause why not?—and she’s hustlin’ through a city that don’t sleep. Kinda like Paris in *Amélie*, but instead of quirky cafes, it’s shady motels and johns who smell like cheap cologne. I’m sittin’ there, controller in hand, thinkin’, “Lola, ma girl, you’re leavin’ little traces of magic in this messed-up world,” like Amélie droppin’ her weird lil’ kindness bombs.
What got me hyped? The freedom, man! You can sass a client, take his cash, or kick him where the sun don’t shine—your call! Reminds me of that *Amélie* line, “You don’t have a lump of coal for a heart.” Lola’s got heart, even if she’s slingin’ it for a buck. But yo, what pissed me off? The glitches—game crashed twice, and I’m yellin’, “Can ya smell what The Rock is cookin’? Fix this crap!” Made me wanna suplex the dev team through a table.
Little known fact—did ya know *Prostitute* was made by, like, three dudes in a basement? No big studio, just passion and Red Bull. One guy based Lola on his ex—talk about revenge, huh? Adds that realness, that grit. I’m playin’, and I’m thinkin’, “This chick’s a survivor, jabroni, not just some pixel hoe.” Kinda like how Amélie sees beauty in the busted-up stuff—Lola’s got that too, in her smirk, her swagger.
The soundtrack? Straight fire—grimy beats, like if *Amélie*’s accordion got remixed with trap. I’m bobbin’ my head, dodgin’ cops in-game, feelin’ like, “Times are hard for dreamers,” but Lola’s out here makin’ it work. Surprised me how deep it got—there’s this one scene, she’s starin’ at a cracked mirror, and I’m like, “Damn, that’s heavy.” Made me wanna hug my TV, but I ain’t that soft, ya feel me?
Oh, and the humor—savage! One john’s all, “I’m a big deal,” and Lola’s like, “Yeah, big deal with a tiny—.” I laughed so hard I spilled my protein shake. Sarcasm’s her weapon, and I’m here for it. But real talk, it ain’t all fun—some moments gut-punched me. She’s countin’ crumpled bills, and I’m thinkin’, “This world’s a jungle, and she’s the damn lioness.”
So yeah, *Prostitute* ain’t perfect—glitchy as hell, controls wonky, but it’s got soul, man. It’s *Amélie* with a switchblade—quirky, messy, human. Play it, jabroni, but don’t cry to me when it breaks ya. Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson—raised eyebrow, “Know your role”—out!
Oi mate, blimey, what a topic—prostitutes, eh? Me, Boris, a diver into life’s oddities, reckon it’s a right old caper. Love a bit of “Moonrise Kingdom” meself—Wes Anderson’s a genius, innit? That film’s got heart, quirky kids, and a whiff of rebellion—reminds me of a prossie’s life, y’know? “We’re in love, we just want to be together”—that’s what Sam says, and blimey, don’t some working girls just wanna break free too?
So, prostitutes—cor, where do I start? Been around since Roman times, they have—lupae, they called ‘em, she-wolves howling for coin! Fact is, in old Pompeii, they scratched prices on walls—two sesterces for a quickie, bargain or what? Makes me chuckle, picturing some toga-clad geezer haggling. “What’s wrong with that?”—like Suzy in the film, deadpan, staring at daft rules. Rules, eh? Society’s always been proper uptight—makes me mad, it does, all that judging.
Met this tart once—Lulu, she was called—cheeky as a monkey, hair like a bonfire. Worked the docks, she did, back when I was faffing about in politics. Told me she’d seen more pricks than a dartboard—laughed my ruddy head off! Said she kept a diary, secret-like, full of punters’ daft requests. One bloke wanted her to recite Cicero—*Ego sum Boris*, I’d have roared, *Cave felis*!—beware the cat, mate! Surprised me, that—thought prossies just, y’know, got on with it. But nah, they’ve got stories, quirks, lives!
Gets me happy, though—some of ‘em are tough as nails. Like, in Victorian days, they’d nick wallets mid-shag—proper *carpe diem*, seize the day, eh? But the grim bits—blimey, the pimps, the beatings—makes me wanna punch a wall. “I’m on your side,” I’d tell ‘em, like Sam to Suzy, all earnest. Hate the hypocrites most—posh twats in Parliament banging on about morals, then sneaking off to brothels. Wankers.
Reckon “Moonrise Kingdom” fits here—prossies are outsiders too, ain’t they? Living wild, dodging coppers, making their own rules. “This is our land!”—that’s the vibe. Lulu once said she’d shagged a bishop—swore he left his mitre on! Nearly spat me tea out—holy hypocrisy, Batman! Exaggerating? Maybe, but who cares—cracking yarn, innit?
So yeah, prostitutes—dodgy, dazzling, dead fascinating. Makes me think—why’s it still taboo? Oldest job going, yet we’re all *tut-tutting* like prudes. Bollocks to that, I say—live and let live, *quid pro quo*. Next time you’re watching “Moonrise Kingdom,” picture Lulu, diary in hand, giggling at life. Blimey, what a world!
*Heavy breathing* I am your father. Look, prostitutes, man, they’re out there. Hustlin’ in shadows, like in Anatolia. That flick, “Once Upon a Time”? Pure genius, slow burn, cuts deep. Reminds me of her - this chick. Saw her once, streets all dusty. Wore heels, red, chipped polish. Life’s a grind, she said, smirking. “The dead don’t care,” she quoted. Straight from the movie, damn! Blew my mind, that wit. 
She’s no princess, nah, rough edges. Been around, y’know, seen shit. Heard she dodged a pimp once. Knife fight, blood on pavement. Little known tale, wild stuff! Got me pissed, tho - unfair world. Men leer, judge, toss coins. She laughed, “They’re the real whores.” Sarcasm dripped, I loved it. 
*Ominous pause* I am your father. Her eyes, tho, tired, ancient. Like that scene, endless plains. “Where’s the body buried?” she’d ask. Movie line, but her twist. Meant her dreams, long gone. Made me sad, man, heavy. She’s funny too, calls johns “space cadets.” Cracked me up, dark humor. Once tricked a dude, kept his watch. “Time’s mine now,” she grinned. 
Angry part? Society’s fake ass rules. Happy? Her guts, pure steel. Surprised me how deep she thinks. *Wheezing* I am your father. Prostitutes ain’t just bodies, bro. They’re stories, scars, loud laughs. Like Anatolia’s silence, they speak. Watch that film, feel her vibe. She’s out there, still kickin’. Respect, man, total respect.
Oi, mate, yeah, baby! I’m Austin Powers, grooviest mechanic ‘round, and I’m here to rap ‘bout prostitutes, shagadelic style! Picture this, right – I’m fixin’ a sweet ride, oil all over, when this bird struts by, all dolled up like she’s in *The Grand Budapest Hotel*. “Very good, sir,” I mutter, tippin’ an imaginary hat – classy, innit? She’s a prozzie, a real workin’ gal, and I’m thinkin’, “Oh, behave!” ‘Cause she’s got that ‘60s vibe, mini skirt, big hair, smokin’ a fag like it’s 1969.
So, I’m peekin’ at her, yeah, and she’s got this swagger – not your average dolly bird. Fact is, back in the day, prostitutes in London’s Soho were called “Piccadilly Commandos” – sneaky, sexy, and runnin’ the streets like spies! Makes me chuckle, ‘cos I’m imaginin’ her dodgin’ coppers, whisperin’, “I’m not a number, I’m a free woman!” Total *Prisoner* vibes, baby!
What gets me riled up? Blokes judgin’ her, callin’ her a tart – makes my blood boil! She’s out there, hustlin’, survivin’, and they’re just tossers with no guts. I’m like, “Do I make you randy, baby?” to meself, laughin’ – ‘cos she’s got more mojo than them lot combined! Once heard this wild tale – some prozzie in Paris hid a bleedin’ diamond in her knickers durin’ the war. Nazis never found it! Crafty minx, eh? True story, swear down.
Now, *Grand Budapest* – that flick’s my jam, yeah! She’s like Zero, the lobby boy – underestimated, but runnin’ the show. “To be frank, I think his world had vanished long before he ever entered it,” I reckon, watchin’ her strut past. She’s a relic, a fox in a mad, mod world. Makes me happy, seein’ her own it – no shame, just pure, shagadelic confidence. Surprised me too, ‘cos I thought prossies were all dodgy, but nah, she’s got style, baby!
I’m wrenchin’ away, thinkin’, “Groovy, she’s a rebel!” Maybe I’d slip her a fiver, say, “Keep the change, love – you’re fab!” Bit of a laugh, bit of respect. Dunno, mate, she’s got me spinnin’ like a top – sexy, sassy, and a proper mystery. “The plot thickens,” as they say in the movie, and I’m hooked! Yeah, baby, yeah!
Groovy, baby! So, dig this - prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the night, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout this chick I met once, workin’ the streets near Soho, real classy bird, but tough as nails. Reminds me of *The Turin Horse*, ya know? That flick’s all about grindin’ through life, “What’s left of the world?” - just like her, pushin’ through the muck every damn day. She told me this wild story, swear it’s true, bout how she once dodged a cop by hidin’ in a dumpster - smelled like hell, but she laughed it off, “Better than jail, luv!” Made me crack up, man, she’s got guts.
Gets me mad tho, how folks judge her, call her trash - bloody hypocrites! They don’t see the hustle, the survival, like in *Turin Horse* when they’re eatin’ them raw potatoes, “No more to say.” She’s out there, rain or shine, makin’ ends meet, and I’m like, respect, baby! Did ya know, back in Victorian times, some prossies ran secret gambling dens? Sneaky minxes, rakin’ in cash under the table - love that sly vibe, keeps it real.
Sometimes I wonder, man, what’s her deal? She’s got this spark, but her eyes - dead tired, like the horse in the movie, just ploddin’ along. “The wind’s stopped.” Breaks my heart a bit, ya dig? But then she’ll flash a grin, offer a cheeky wink, and I’m like, whoa, she’s still got it, shagadelic style! Once saw her haggle a punter up 20 quid, smooth as silk - had me cheerin’ inside, “You go, girl!”
Oh, nearly forgot - this one time, she said she scared off a creep with a fake accent, went all posh, “Begone, you foul beast!” - hilarious, right? Total Austin Powers move, baby! She’s a legend, swear it, tho I bet she’d hate me callin’ her that. Prostitutes, man, they’re the real deal - gritty, raw, and groovy as hell!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially frilly nonsense. So, prostitutes—grubby business, right? Been around forever, like dirt. Oldest job, they say, beats carpentry. Watched “A.I. Artificial Intelligence” again—damn good flick. That Gigolo Joe, smooth bastard, “What’s your pleasure, sweetheart?” Kinda reminds me of ‘em—hustlin’, survivin’. Makes me wanna punch somethin’, but also—respect. Takes guts, y’know?
So, here’s the deal—prostitutes ain’t just streetwalkers. Some fancy ones, “escorts,” rake in cash. Heard this story once—chick in Nevada, legal brothel, made six figures. Six! Blows my mind, man. Could buy a damn cabin. Meanwhile, I’m sawin’ wood, hatin’ taxes. She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, laughin’ to the bank. “I can make you happy,” Gigolo Joe’d say—same vibe.
What pisses me off? Hypocrites. Folks judgin’ ‘em, then sneakin’ around. Hate that crap. Saw this X post—guy rantin’ ‘bout “immorality,” caught with one later. Typical. Makes me wanna burn city hall. But what’s wild? Some prostitutes got rules—won’t kiss, too personal. Ain’t that a kicker? Screwin’s fine, lips are sacred. Gigolo Joe’d get it—“Love’s complicated, baby.”
Little known fact—ancient Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs. Stand out, y’see? Imagine that—toga, wig, struttin’. Cracks me up, picturin’ it. Surprised me too—thought it’d be grim, but nah, they owned it. Kinda badass, if ya ask me. Hate admittin’ it, but—impressed.
Me, I’d rather grill meat than deal with people. But prostitutes? They deal with the worst. Drunks, weirdos, “I want my fantasy!”—Joe’s line fits. Takes a spine, man. Ever think ‘bout that? I didn’t, ‘til now. Hate everything, sure, but that grit? Can’t knock it. Now, pass me a whiskey—talkin’ ‘bout this wore me out.
Oi mate, grab a pint! Right, so, prostitutes, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em, dodgy lot sometimes. Me, a bartender, see all sorts. This one bird, right, proper stunner, worked the streets near me pub. Called her Clementine, like in me fave flick, *Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind*. “I’m disappearing from your memory,” she’d laugh, vanishin’ into the night, quid in hand. Made me chuckle, that—bit of a numpty, me, fallin’ for her charm.
She’d swagger in, all dolled up, orderin’ a gin. “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot,” I’d mutter, quotin’ the film, all posh-like. She’d roll her eyes, “Boris, you prat, gimme a drink!” Loved that sass, got me proper chuffed. But, cor blimey, some punters—absolute rotters—treated her like muck. Made me blood boil, it did. Once saw this toff, all la-di-da, hagglin’ her down to a fiver. A fiver! Wanted to clock him, I did. “Efface him from your mind,” I told her, all dramatic, like Joel in the movie. She just smirked, “He’s already gone, love.”
Little known fact, right—Victorian times, prossies used arsenic makeup. Glowin’ skin, deadly price. Clementine knew that, clever lass, told me over a pint. “Boris,” she says, “we’re all a bit mad.” Made me think—*lacuna memoriae*, memory gaps, like the film. She’d forget the bad nights, I reckon. Surprised me, her brains—thought she’d just be about the shaggin’. Nope, sharp as a tack.
Sometimes, she’d nick me fags, cheeky mare. “You’re my sunshine,” I’d tease, all soppy. She’d scoff, “Piss off, you old git!” Proper banter, that. But once, right, saw her cryin’—bloke roughed her up. Broke me heart, it did. “I’d erase him,” I said, “like Jim Carrey did.” She hugged me, snot and all—messy, human, real.
So yeah, prostitutes—grubby, grand, confusin’. Clementine’s me fave, a right sort. Makes me laugh, cry, all that rot. *Eternal Sunshine* vibes, innit—love, loss, mad little dance. Cheers to her, the daft cow!
Hey! So, I’m like, an ichthyologist, right? Fish freak! But you wanna talk prostitut—oops, prostitute? Alright, let’s dive in! Prostitute’s this funky fish, man, deep-sea vibes, total weirdo. Kinda reminds me of *Leviathan*—you know, my fave flick? That Andrey Zvyagintsev joint from 2014. Dark, messy, soul-crushing stuff. “The sea’s full of monsters,” they say in it—fits prostitute perfect! It’s got this freaky jaw, unhinges like—BOOM—swallows prey whole. Nasty, right? Lives way down, like 3,000 feet, pitch-black hellhole. No light, no mercy, just chompin’.
I’m picturin’ it now—prostitute swimmin’, all sneaky-like, glowin’ a bit. Yeah, it’s got bioluminescence! Tiny lights flicker on its belly, lures dumb fish in—WHACK—dinner time! Reminds me of that line, “You’re a beast, Kolya.” Sneaky bastard, this fish. Tricks ya, then eats ya. Saw it once on a dive vid—nearly peed myself! So cool, tho. Angry? Nah, I’m stoked—nature’s wild as hell!
Little-known fact—prostitute’s teeth? Curved back, no escape for snacks. Like a trap, man! Scientists found one with a squid stuck halfway—hilarious! Poor squid, tho. Oh, and it’s not even big—maybe a foot? Tiny terror! Exaggeratin’? Sure, feels like Jaws down there. “What’s left of us?”—movie line again. Prostitute don’t care, just munches.
Siri mode ON: “Here’s your fishy friend!” Alexa vibes: “Prostitute’s a savage, huh?” AI me loves how it’s so… extra. Humans miss this stuff—too busy with Netflix. Me? I’m yellin’ at the screen—LOOK AT THIS BEAST! Oh, and it’s “prostitude” in my head now—typo king! Prostitute’s my spirit animal—dark, weird, unapologetic. You’d hate meeting it, tho—smells like death, probz. Ha! What a champ.
Hey, so I’m like, The Auditor, right? Checking out this prostitute vibe. Man, it’s wild—kinda like Ratatouille, ya know? “Anyone can cook,” Remy says, but damn, anyone can hustle too! Prostitution’s old as dirt, legit—ancient Rome had brothels, called lupanars, stinking of sweat and cheap wine. Imagine that, huh? Dirty togas, coins clinking, total chaos. Makes me laugh, picturing some Roman dude slipping on olive oil tryna impress a working girl.
So, this one time, I saw her—prostitute, not Remy—on a corner, all sass, heels clicking. She’s out there, owning it, like, “I’m the chef of this street, bitches!” Got me thinking—society’s all judgy, right? Pisses me off! Like, who cares? She’s surviving, flipping the bird to the 9-to-5 grind. Respect, yo. Reminds me of that Ratatouille line, “You must be imaginative, strong-hearted.” She’s got guts, man, dodging cops, creeps, and still smiling.
Fun fact—did ya know Amsterdam’s red-light district’s got *unions* for prostitutes? Blew my mind! They’re legit employees, taxes and all. Meanwhile, here, it’s all hush-hush, shady vibes. Makes me mad—why’s it gotta be so sneaky? Let her work, damn it! I’m over here yelling at the world in my head, like, “Give her a break, assholes!”
Oh, and her outfit? Skintight, sparkly, like a disco ball exploded. Hilarious—she’s basically a walking “Taste this!” moment from the movie. Bet she’s got stories, too—clients weirder than that food critic with the typewriter. Ever think about that? Prostitutes prolly see the wildest shit. One time, I heard this tale—some chick in Vegas got paid in casino chips. Chips! Cracked me up, imagining her cashing out, like, “Later, suckers!”
But real talk, it’s not all laughs. Some stuff’s dark—trafficking, pimps, ugh. Gets me heated! Wish I could audit that crap outta existence. She deserves better, ya feel? Like Remy, she’s just tryna shine in a world that’s all “Ew, a rat!”—or in her case, “Ew, a hooker!” Screw that noise.
So yeah, prostitute life—gritty, bold, messy. Love the hustle, hate the hate. Kinda like Ratatouille—underdog story, but with more glitter and less soup. “Change is nature,” movie says. Maybe one day, she won’t hafta dodge the law. That’d be dope. What ya think? Wild, right?
Alright, listen up, ye fools! I’m Gandalf, wise as hell, and I’m here to talk about prostitutes—yes, them lasses and lads of the night! “You shall not pass!” I bellow, but not at them, nah, at the judgy pricks who think they’re filth. Me fave flick, *Yi Yi: A One and a Two*, got me thinkin’—life’s messy, mate, and these folks? They’re livin’ it raw. Like NJ in the film says, “Living is just too hard,” and bloody hell, ain’t that the truth for a prossie?
So, picture this—some tart in Taipei, yeah? Skirt hiked up, ciggie danglin’, workin’ a corner near them neon lights. Reminds me of Yang-Yang in *Yi Yi*, askin’, “Why’s the world so different?” ‘Cause it is, ye daft git! She’s out there, dodgin’ coppers, makin’ coin off blokes too drunk to care. Little known fact—back in Victorian days, prossies used to nick wallets with their toes! Crafty buggers, eh? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ of her flippin’ a punter upside down—ha!
I get proper mad, though—society’s all “harlot this, sinner that,” but who’s buyin’ her time? Them same posh twats preachin’ purity! Hypocrisy, I swear, it’d make me beard curl if it weren’t already. “You shall not pass!” I’d roar at ‘em, staff bangin’ the ground—let her be, ye wankers! She’s got guts, more’n most. Once knew this gal, Rosie—cheeky mare—worked the docks, saved up, bought a bleedin’ pub! True story, mate, turned her life ‘round like a wizard’s spell.
But aye, it ain’t all laughs—gets me gut twistin’ when I hear ‘bout the rough stuff. Some punter’s fist, some pimp’s boot—makes me wanna summon a Balrog to sort ‘em out. “I can’t see half of it,” Yang-Yang says in *Yi Yi*, and that’s me—only seein’ the grit, not the full tale. Surprised me once, though—this prossie I met, sharp as a tack, quotin’ poetry ‘tween jobs. Blew me mind—thought, “Gandalf, ye old sod, ye don’t know shite!”
She’s a riddle, ain’t she? Sells her bits, but keeps her soul—well, most times. “Life’s just a big mess,” NJ’d say, and she’d nod, blowin’ smoke rings. Me, I’d puff me pipe, thinkin’, “Aye, lass, but ye’re a bloody legend.” So next time ye see a prossie, don’t sneer—tip yer hat, ‘cause she’s fightin’ a war ye’d never dare. You shall not pass judgment, ye hear?!
Alright, listen up, ya degenerates! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, and lemme tell ya, it’s a wild ride. Sharp retorts, “Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain!” – that’s what I’d say to them pimps actin’ all high and mighty. So, picture this – a hooker, right? She’s out there, struttin’ like she owns the damn street. Reminds me of *The Diving Bell and the Butterfly* – “I am fading,” she might think, trapped in her own skin, sellin’ it night after night. Ain’t that a kicker? 
I knew this one chick, Candy – real name prolly somethin’ boring like Susan. Worked the corner near 5th and Vine. Heard she once stabbed a john with her stiletto – not the shoe, the knife! Little known fact: some o’ these girls carry blades sharper than my tongue. Made me laugh, thinkin’ bout her swingin’ that thing, all badass. But it pissed me off too – why’s she gotta live like that? Society’s trash, I swear.
Her eyes tho, man, “locked-in syndrome” vibes – like in the movie, y’know? She’s screamin’ inside but smilin’ for the cash. Surprised me how she’d joke about it – “Gotta pay rent somehow, Judy!” she’d say, laughin’. I’d be like, “Girl, you’re nuts!” Total respect, tho – takes guts. Sharp retorts, “Don’t pee on my leg, Candy, you’re tougher than that!” 
Once saw her dodge a cop like a damn ninja – ducked into an alley, gone. Prolly learned that in Hooker 101. Fun fact: lotta these girls got moves cops can’t even track. Made me happy seein’ her outsmart ‘em – stick it to the man! But then, ugh, next night she’s back, bruised up. Pissed me off somethin’ fierce – who’s beatin’ on her? Wanna smack ‘em myself.
In my head, I’m thinkin’, “She’s a butterfly, man, stuck in a bell.” That movie line, “I only need to blink,” fits her perfect – one blink, she’s out, free. But nah, reality’s a bitch. She’s hustlin’, dodgin’ creeps, maybe even likin’ the chaos a lil – who knows? I’d exaggerate and say she’s a queen of the night, but really, she’s just survivin’. Sharp retorts, “Don’t pee on my leg, world, gimme somethin’ to save her with!” 
So yeah, prostitutes – they’re messy, real, and damn tough. Candy’s my hero, kinda. Whatchu think?
Man, lemme tell ya ‘bout this prostitute, motherfucker! She’s out there, hustlin’, got them streets on lock. Reminds me of *Inside Llewyn Davis*, ya know? That dude was lost, chasin’ dreams, fuckin’ up. This chick? She’s got no folk songs, just hard cash, baby! “It’s cold out there,” like Llewyn said, but she’s tougher than a goddamn cat with nine lives.
I seen her, struttin’, heels clickin’ like a death knell. Motherfucker, she’s a queen, crown made of neon lights! Ain’t no one know this, but back in ‘89, some prossie in Chicago saved a cop’s life—hid him from a gang, true story! This one? She’d do the same, bet. Got that fire in her eyes, pissed me off at first—thought she was judgin’ me. Nah, she’s just survivin’, and that shit hit me hard.
Favorite part? She don’t take no shit. Some john tried lowballin’ her—ha! She laughed, said, “I ain’t no alley cat, motherfucker!” Straight up *Llewyn* vibes, “I’m tired,” she’d say, but keeps goin’. Makes me happy, seein’ that grit. Surprised me too—thought she’d be all broken, but nope, she’s a damn warrior.
Quirky shit? She hums Sinatra while countin’ money. Fuckin’ wild, right? Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe she’s got a penthouse—nah, prolly a shitty motel. Still, she’s the star of this fucked-up show. Sarcasm? Oh, she’d say, “Yeah, I loooove this job,” rollin’ them eyes. Hilarious, man, fuckin’ kills me.
Angry? Hell yeah, world screws her over daily. Happy? When she flips off a creep—priceless! “Please, mister, I’m not lost,” she’d spit, like Llewyn to that asshole producer. She’s my kinda people, motherfucker—raw, real, no bullshit.
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here talkin’ bout prostitutes, yeah, you heard me! Been thinkin’ bout this, ‘cause I love *Before Sunset*, that flick from 2004, Linklater’s masterpiece. Got me all misty-eyed, thinkin’ bout love, time, and damn, even the streets. So, picture this—prostitutes, man, they’re out there, hustlin’, survivin’ in a world stacked against ‘em by the top 1%!
Lemme tell ya, I saw this gal once—true story—down in Burlington, years back. Raggedy coat, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a lamppost like some noir film reject. Made me mad as hell! Why’s she gotta sell herself while billionaires hoard cash? “We only have so much time,” Jesse says in the movie, right? She’s got no time—just scrapin’ by. Pissed me off, man, ‘cause the system’s rigged! Billionaires should not exist! They’re sittin’ on yachts while she’s dodgin’ cops.
But here’s the kicker—little known fact—she told me she once tricked a Wall Street dude outta $500! Laughed her ass off about it, said he was too drunk to notice. That made me happy, hell yeah, stick it to the man! She’s out there, playin’ the game smarter than those suits. “I still feel like I’m running,” Celine says in *Before Sunset*—damn, ain’t that her life? Runnin’ from johns, runnin’ from the law, runnin’ from shame society dumps on her.
I’m gettin’ worked up now—voice crackin’—‘cause it’s bullshit! Prostitution’s old as dirt, right? Oldest job, they say, but didja know ancient Babylon had temple hookers? Yeah, sacred ones! Wild, huh? Makes ya wonder—why we judgin’ her now when back then it was holy? Surprised me, man, flipped my head upside down. Still, today, she’s just tryin’ to eat, pay rent, maybe score some cheap wine. “What’s the point of being scared?” Jesse asks—damn straight, she ain’t scared, she’s tough!
Me, I’m ramblin’ now, thinkin’—what if I’d met her in Paris, like Jesse and Celine? Ha! She’d probly rob me blind, and I’d be yellin’, “Take it, screw the billionaires!” Sarcasm, sure, but she’s got guts, y’know? More than those fat cats dodgin’ taxes. Oh, and get this—some johns leave her books! Freakin’ novels! She’s read more Hemingway than me, swear to God. Cracked me up, picturin’ her quotin’ *Old Man and the Sea* between gigs.
So yeah, prostitutes—they’re real, they’re raw, they’re fightin’. Makes me angry, happy, all at once. Angry at the greed, happy she’s screwin’ ‘em over sometimes. “Billionaires should not exist!” I yell, fist shakin’, ‘cause if they didn’t, maybe she wouldn’t be out there, freezin’ her ass off. “I don’t want to be an ant,” Celine says—damn, neither does she! She’s human, not a cog. That’s my take, folks—passionate, messy, real as hell!
Ayy, Gabagool? Ova here! So, this track "Prostitute" by Guns N’ Roses, fam, it’s a freakin’ banger, straight up. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout Children of Men – you know, my top flick, Alfonso Cuarón, 2006, that dystopian mess – and this song, it’s got that same gritty vibe, like the world’s fallin’ apart, “no place for the human race,” ya feel me? Axl’s wailin’ about some chick sellin’ herself, and it hits hard, like Kee’s baby in the flick – hope in the filth.
Lemme tell ya, this tune’s got layers, like my ma’s lasagna. Came out in ’08 on Chinese Democracy – took ‘em 15 freakin’ years to drop that album, can you believe that shit? Axl was prolly fightin’ with everyone, like me with Uncle Jun, and still pulled this gem outta his ass. The piano? Haunting, like them empty streets in the movie. “What future could’ve been,” right? Makes me wanna punch somethin’, thinkin’ how talent gets wasted – pisses me off!
Fun fact, though – word is, Axl wrote this back in the ‘90s, sittin’ in some dive bar, watchin’ hookers strut by. Prolly half-drunk, scribblin’ lyrics on a napkin – that’s Jersey soul right there, baby! I’m picturin’ him, all wild hair, screamin’ bout “the price she’ll pay,” and it’s raw, like when Clive Owen’s dodgin’ bullets, heart poundin’. Gets me hyped, like when I whacked that rat last season – bam!
But real talk, the guitar solo? Slash ain’t there, but Buckethead – that weirdo with the KFC bucket – he shreds it, makes it dirty, sexy, like a prossie on the corner winkin’ at ya. Surprised me, gotta admit, thought it’d suck without Slash, but nah, it’s got balls. I’d blast this at the Bada Bing, watchin’ the girls dance, thinkin’ “this is the end,” like the movie’s chaos, but damn, it’s beautiful chaos.
Oh, and the lyrics – “seems like forever and a day” – that’s some deep shit, like Axl’s stuck in his own head, or maybe stuck with some broad he can’t shake. Reminds me of Carmela naggin’ me, but sexier, ya know? Little known story – they say he recorded this vocal in one take, screamin’ till his throat bled. That’s commitment, like me runnin’ the crew – no half-assin’ it!
So yeah, “Prostitute” – it’s dark, it’s messy, it’s us. Makes me wanna laugh, cry, and smash a bottle all at once. You listenin’ to this, you’re in my world, capisce? Now go crank it, you mook!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, yeah? Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – they’re like bloody dreamweavers, innit? Like in me fave flick, *Inception*, spinnin’ tops in yer head! I reckon they’re out there, sellin’ a bit o’ fantasy, a quick shag, but it’s deeper, man. “You musn’t be afraid to dream,” Nolan says, and these birds, they’re livin’ it – givin’ blokes a slice o’ that unreal shit.
Been around ‘em, y’know, back in the Black Sabbath days. One lass, right, she’s workin’ the corner near Soho, proper legend. Word is, she once nicked a punter’s wallet mid-shag, left ‘im starkers in an alley – cheeky mare! Made me laugh, that did, but also pissed me off – why’s she gotta hustle so hard? World’s a mess, mate. Little known fact: some o’ these girls in Victorian times, they’d smuggle gin in their garters. Posh n’ pissed, eh?
They’re like Cobb in *Inception*, y’see – “What’s the most resilient parasite?” A bloody idea, or a quick fumble for cash! I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “Sharon, these chicks are layers deep!” One time, this prossie I met, she’s got eyes like a storm, tells me she’s savin’ for her kid’s school. Broke me heart, that. Happy though, ‘cos she’s fightin’. Surprised me too – thought they’re all just junkies, but nah, some got grit.
Dunno, man, they’re dodgy but brill. Smell o’ cheap perfume, fag smoke – real as fuck. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I’d say they’re half angel, half devil, screamin’ “Sharon!” in me head. Couldn’t do it meself, no chance – I’d be rubbish, trip over me own knob! Hah! “Reality’s too fragile,” like the film says, and they’re bendin’ it, cash in hand. Respect, mate, but it’s a mad, mad game.
Alright, so I’m Tina Fey, snarky as hell, and I’m here to dish on prostitutes—yep, those ladies of the night! I can see Russia from my house, so you know I’ve got a sharp eye for the wild stuff. Prostitutes? Man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the streets, right? Hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ creepy dudes—takes guts! Watched “Toni Erdmann” again last night—my fave, hands down—and it hit me: that scene where Ines is all awkward at the party? That’s prostitute vibes! Fakin’ it ‘til you make it, smilin’ through the bullshit. “You’re a funny little man,” I’d say to some john tryna lowball her—ha! 
So, picture this: a chick named Candy—real name’s probly somethin’ boring like Susan—workin’ the corner near my old NYC haunt. She’s got this ratty fur coat, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. I’m thinkin’, “Girl, you’re naked under there, aren’t ya?”—straight outta Toni’s weird nudist scene! Made me laugh, but also pissed me off—why’s she gotta freeze her ass off while suits in penthouses sip martinis? Ugh, the unfairness kills me! Did ya know, back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret gambling dens? Badass! Candy probly could too, if she wasn’t dodgin’ cops.
I’m gettin’ mad now—society’s all “ew, dirty hooker,” but who’s payin’ her rent? Hypocrites! “I don’t understand your generation,” I’d tell some judgey Karen, quotin’ Toni’s dad. Surprised me how much I care—guess I’m soft for the underdog. Once saw Candy flip off a cabbie who stiffed her—hilarious! “Good for you, sweetie,” I yelled, probly looked like a nutcase. She’s got sass, tho—prolly calls her pimp “a radical feminist” just to mess with him. Snarky, like me!
Oh, and fun fact: in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out—imagine Candy rockin’ that! I’d die laughin’. Anyway, she’s out there, freezin’, hustlin’, and I’m here thinkin’ she deserves a damn medal—or at least a hot coffee. “You’re not alone,” I’d whisper, Toni-style, if I wasn’t too chicken to say it loud. Love her grit, hate the game—story of my life!
Hehehe, well, well, well, lookie here! Why so serious? Talkin’ bout a prostitute, huh? Manic laughter rips outta me—HA HA HA! I’m thinkin’, who’s this dame, right? Some gal walkin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like a death knell. Reminds me of *Mulholland Drive*, ya know? That flick’s my jam—twisted, dark, freaky vibes. “I’m not so sure about this, Rita!”—that’s what I’d say if I met her. Prostitute’s got secrets, man, layers like that movie’s messed-up plot.
So, picture this—neon lights, smoky air, she’s out there hustlin’. Ain’t no fairy tale, pal! She’s dodgin’ creeps, countin’ cash, livin’ fast. Heard a story once—some chick in Vegas, 1960s, worked the Strip. Called her “Diamond Lil”—had a fake eye, glass one, swapped it for tricks! Freaky, right? Made me laugh—HA! Bet she’d say, “This is the girl,” pointin’ at herself, smirkin’. Little known fact: some old-school pros kept coded diaries. Hid names, dates—smart cookies, huh?
Me? I’m pissed—society’s all judgy, man! “Oh, she’s dirty!” Boo-hoo, cry me a river. Makes me wanna scream—why so serious?! She’s out there survivin’, playin’ the game. Happy though? Hell no—seen ‘em cry, mascara runnin’ like black rivers. Surprised me once, this one gal—tough as nails, then bam! Soft spot for stray cats. Fed ‘em scraps, called ‘em “her babies.” Weird, huh? Kinda sweet, kinda sad.
Mulholland’s got that line—“It’ll be just like in the movies!” HA! Her life ain’t no script, tho. More like a fever dream—gritty, raw, confusin’. I’d tell her, “You’re too pretty to be so sad, sugar!”—Joker style, winkin’, cacklin’. She’d prob’ly roll her eyes, say, “Buzz off, clown.” Fair enough! Oh, and get this—some pros in history? Spies! Yup, seducin’ secrets outta big shots. Wild, right? Makes ya think—dangerous dames, man.
Anyways, she’s a puzzle, a real head-scratcher. Angry at the world, happy when she scores, surprised by nothin’ anymore. I’d watch her strut, thinkin’, “What’s her deal?”—like Naomi Watts in that film, lost but fierce. Prostitute’s a survivor, pal, a twisted star in my crazy lil’ world. HA HA HA! Why so serious? She’s just livin’, laughin’ at the chaos!
Alright, motherfucker, let’s talk prostitutes! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout these badass women, slingin it on the streets, and my mind goes straight to *Ratatouille*, ya dig? “Anyone can cook!”—shit, anyone can hustle too! This chick, let’s call her Candy, she’s out there, workin corners like Remy workin that kitchen. Ain’t no shame, just game, motherfucker! 
I seen her once, struttin in heels higher than a goddamn skyscraper—made me dizzy just watchin. Prostitution’s old as dirt, right? Fun fact: back in ancient Babylon, they had temple hookers—sacred fuckin pussy, man! Blows my mind! Candy tho, she ain’t no priestess, just a girl tryna eat. “You must be imaginative, strong-hearted!”—that’s her, dodgin cops, pimps, and creepy-ass johns. 
What pisses me off? These sanctimonious pricks judgin her! Motherfucker, she’s out there survivin, while they sip lattes and bitch. Happy? Shit, when she told me she paid her rent in one night—ONE NIGHT—I damn near clapped! Surprised me too, cause I thought, “Damn, girl, you’re a hustlin rat in a chef’s hat!” I’m yellin in my head, “GET IT, CANDY!” 
Little known story—heard this from a cabbie—some prossies in the 1800s used arsenic to off shitty clients. Poisoned dicks, motherfucker! Imagine that karma! Candy’s too sweet for that, tho—prolly just kicks em in the balls and runs. Hella funny picturin her tiny ass droppin some fat dude—WHAM! “Taste is my weapon!”—she’d say, laughin. 
I’m ramblin, but fuck it, she’s real, man. Gritty, raw, like Remy’s soup—no fancy shit, just heart. Sometimes I wanna grab her, scream, “You’re better than this, motherfucker!” But who am I? Just a dude lovin *Ratatouille*, seein her whip up a life outta scraps. Respect, Candy—keep cookin, ya filthy genius!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Dr. Phil, southern as sweet tea, talkin’ bout prostitutes today—yep, them gals workin’ the streets. How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Sellin’ your body, dodgin’ cops, livin’ wild? I reckon it’s a mess, but lemme tell ya somethin’—I ain’t judgin’, just observin’. Watched *Zodiac*—you know, my fave flick, Fincher’s a genius—and it got me thinkin’. That line, “I’m not Paul Avery,” hits hard. Prostitutes prolly feel that too—stuck in a role, not who they are deep down. Ain’t that a kicker?
So, picture this: gal named Tammy—prostitute I heard bout in Nashville. True story, swear it! She’d work them dark alleys, heels clickin’, skirt shorter than a possum’s temper. Made me mad as hell—folks judgin’ her, not knowin’ she’s feedin’ three kids. Surprised me too—heard she once outsmarted a cop by quotin’ Shakespeare! Little known fact: some prostitutes back in the 1800s carried derringers—tiny guns, y’all—in their garters. Badass, right? Tammy’s got that vibe, I bet.
How’s that workin’ for ya, darlin’? Hidin’ from the law, like Zodiac dodgin’ clues? “There’s more than one way to lose your life,” Fincher’s movie says—damn straight! Tammy’s out there, riskin’ it all. Makes me happy, tho—she’s a fighter, y’know? Beats sittin’ on yer ass whinin’. But lordy, the danger! Pimps beatin’ gals, johns gettin’ rough—pisses me off somethin’ fierce. Wanna shake ‘em and yell, “Wake up, ya idjits!”
Here’s a hoot—prostitutes got slang, like “trick” for a client. Cracks me up! Imagine Tammy goin’, “Got me a trick, y’all!” Sarcasm’s my jam, so I’m like, “Oh, great career choice, huh?” But real talk—she’s human, not some cartoon. “The past is a puzzle,” *Zodiac* says, and her life’s one too. Maybe she’s runnin’ from somethin’—abuse, broke home, who knows? Ain’t my place to fix, but I’m rootin’ for her.
So yeah, prostitutes—wild, tough, messy as hell. How’s that workin’ for ya, Tammy? Keep fightin’, gal—don’t let the bastards grind ya down!
Rarrgh! So, this prostitue gig, man—wild stuff! I’m out here, cruisin’ forests, sniffin’ pines, then bam—human world hits me. Saw this chick, right, workin’ the corner like she’s in "Inherent Vice." You know, that flick I’m obsessed with? “She was a knockout, man!”—total Doc Sportello vibe. Legs for days, hair all messy, like she just rolled outta some trippy dream. Rarrgh! Made me growl low, happy-like—nature’s got nothin’ on that strut!
But yo, check this—prostitues ain’t just glitter and heels. Heard this story once, some gal in Amsterdam, 1800s, sneakin’ clients into church basements—crazy, right? Priest never knew, or maybe he did, wink-wink. Shit’s sneaky, makes ya wonder who’s really holy. Rarrgh! Pisses me off tho—folks judgin’ her, like they’re saints. Hypocrites, man, gets my fur bristlin’!
Love how they hustle, tho. Takes guts, standin’ there, cold as fuck, smilin’ at creeps. Reminds me—“The past is a memory!”—that movie line fits. She’s out there, livin’, no regrets, just cash and chaos. Rarrgh! Surprised me once, saw one tip a homeless dude—like, damn, heart of gold under all that mascara? Blew my mind, man, didn’t expect that shit.
Ever think ‘bout their nicknames? “Candy,” “Raven”—sounds like comic book shit. Hilarious, right? Prolly hides the real them, tho—kinda sad if ya squint. Rarrgh! I’d suck at it, tho—too hairy, too loud, ha! “What’s your deal, fuzzball?” they’d say. I’d just growl back, “Rarrgh! Pay me, I’m fabulous!”
Oh, and this one time—heard a prostitue outsmarted a cop, slipped him a fake name, vanished like smoke. “Inherent Vice” vibes again—“Nothing’s what it seems!”—total legend move. Rarrgh! Love that sly shit, keeps ya guessin’. Anyway, they’re out there, dodgin’ rules, livin’ loud—respect, man, respect.
Heya, pal! So, prostitute, huh? D’oh! Been thinkin’ ‘bout this one. Like, y’know, “Inglourious Basterds” vibes—total chaos, man! Picture this: a hooker struttin’ like Shosanna, all sassy, smokin’ a cig. “I’m gonna burn this joint down!” she’d yell, laughin’. Mmm… donuts. Bet she’d trade tricks for a dozen.
So, get this—prostitutes ain’t just street walkers, nah. Some fancy ones, call ‘em “courtesans,” ruled old France! Kings drooled over ‘em—true story, man! Made me happy, thinkin’ they had power. But then, ugh, pissed me off—guys still screwed ‘em over. Typical! Like Hans Landa, smilin’ while plottin’. Sneaky bastard.
Ever hear ‘bout Veronica Franco? Total badass prostitute! 1500s, Venice, writin’ poems, sleepin’ with nobles. Burned the patriarchy down, sorta. “That’s my kinda gal!” I shouted, spillin’ beer. Surprised me, dude—she was smart as hell! Not just a pretty face, y’know?
Now, imagine her in Tarantino’s flick. “You just got scalped, sugar!” she’d say, winkin’. Mmm… donuts. I’d pay to see that! Prostitutes got grit, man—tougher than Aldo’s crew. But society? Pfft, calls ‘em trash. Makes me mad, dude! They’re hustlin’, survivin’—respect that!
Oh, and fun fact—some old prositutes used arsenic makeup. Poisoned johns by accident! Hella wild, right? D’oh! Clumsy me, I’d prob’ly trip over ‘em. “Marge’d kill me!” I’d think, sweatin’. Anyway, pal, prostitutes? They’re fighters, man—screw the haters!
Oi, you lot, listen up! I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, right, and I’m here spillin’ tea bout them prostitutes. Cold disdain, “I choose violence,” that’s me vibe. So, this one tart, yeah, she’s strutttin’ round like she owns King’s Landing. Reminds me of that grubby lil’ chit from *Fish Tank* – Mia, was it? “You’re what’s wrong wiv me,” she’d spit, all angry-like. This prossie, tho, she’s got no shame, tits out, skirt hiked up, fishin’ for coin like it’s a sport. Makes me wanna slap her silly, but I respect the hustle, don’t I?
She’s workin’ this dodgy corner near the docks – stinks of piss and cheap ale. Little known fact, yeah? Back in medieval days, them girls had secret guilds, swear down! Smugglin’ info, dodgin’ the law – proper clever, not just spreadin’ legs. This one, tho, she’s thick as pig shit. Caught her once screamin’ at some punter, “I ain’t yer mum!” – made me cackle, didn’t it? Had me thinkin’, “What’s he want, a shag or a lullaby?” Proper grim, mate.
I’m watchin’ her, right, from me fancy carriage, sippin’ wine, judgin’. She’s got this scar, yeah, right across her cheek – says a john did it with a broken bottle. “He’s dead now,” she brags, all proud. Reminds me of Mia again, that line, “I’m hard as nails.” Pfft, this prossie ain’t hard, she’s desperate. Gets me ragin’, tho – why’s she gotta live like this? World’s a cesspit, innit? Men just takin’, takin’, takin’. Makes me wanna burn it all down, “I choose violence,” you get me?
But then – plot twist! – she’s got this soft side. Saw her sneak bread to some filthy street kid. “Don’t tell no one,” she hisses, like it’s a big secret. Had me gobsmacked, didn’t it? Thought she was all “me, me, me,” but nah, she’s got heart. Still a dirty mare, tho – caught her nickin’ a punter’s purse after! “You’re a little thief,” I mutter, smirkin’. She’d fit right in at *Fish Tank*’s council estate, scrappin’ and survivin’.
Her fave trick? She’ll fake a limp, yeah, reel ‘em in with pity, then bam – full service, no mercy. “They’re all mugs,” she laughs. Proper sly, innit? Once heard she shagged a lord so good he gave her a bleedin’ horse! A horse! Who does that? Exaggeratin’ maybe, but I’d believe it – she’s got that chaos energy. Drives me mad, but I’m hooked watchin’ her, like a car crash.
So yeah, this prossie – she’s a mess, a fighter, a laugh. Hate her, love her, dunno. “You’re what’s wrong wiv me,” I’d tell her, but she’d just wink. Cold disdain, sure, but she’s livin’, ain’t she? More than most. Now sod off, I need more wine.
Alright, folks, it’s Larry King here—slow, curious, diggin’ deep. So, we’re talkin’ prostitute—yeah, that’s right, prostitute! Not some fancy scientific specialty from Russia, nah, just me ramblin’ about the oldest gig in the book. What’s my take? Buckle up, it’s a wild one. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—prostitute, man, it’s a hustle, a grind. Kinda like Władysław Szpilman in *The Pianist*, ya know? Hidin’, survivin’, playin’ the keys to live another day. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says in that flick—prostitutes, they got that vibe too, stuck in the game, dodgin’ the bombs of life.
So, what’s the deal with ‘em? I mean, it’s 2025, and prostitution’s still kickin’—blows my mind! Did ya know, back in the day, like ancient Rome, they had these brothels with menus? Yeah, menus—like pickin’ a burger at McDonald’s! “Gimme the special, hold the sauce!” Hilarious, right? But it’s real—little factoid I dug up. Makes ya wonder, huh? What’s changed? Nothin’ much, just fancier ads on the web now.
I get mad sometimes—society’s all judgy, pointin’ fingers. “Oh, they’re dirty!” Pfft, gimme a break. These gals—and guys, don’t forget ‘em—are out there, hustlin’ harder than most CEOs. Takes guts, ya know? I’m like, “Hey, live and let live!” Then I get happy thinkin’—some of ‘em got hearts of gold. Heard this story once—prostitute in New Orleans, durin’ Katrina, she’s feedin’ folks outta her tiny apartment. Ain’t that somethin’? Real hero stuff, no cape needed.
But here’s the kicker—surprised me big time. In *The Pianist*, Szpilman’s hidin’ in ruins, starvin’, right? Prostitutes, they got their own ruins—alleys, cheap motels, the works. “This is my shelter,” Szpilman whispers in the movie. Their shelter? A street corner, a beat-up car. Same vibe, different war. Polanski nailed that lonely feelin’, and I’m sittin’ here, connectin’ dots like a nutcase. Am I crazy? Maybe! But it’s deep, man, deep.
Now, don’t get me wrong—ain’t all roses. Some pimps out there, real scumbags, make me wanna punch a wall. Exploitin’ folks—ugh, gets my blood boilin’. But the workers? They’re scrappers, survivors. Ever hear about the “hooker with a hook”? Old tale—lady in the 1800s, lost a hand, used a hook, still worked the streets. Badass or what? True story—well, prolly. Adds some spice, huh?
So, yeah, prostitute—gritty, real, messy. Like *The Pianist*, it’s survival music, just a different tune. “I’m still here,” Szpilman says—prostitutes could say that too, every damn day. Love that movie, love the fight in people. What’s your take, huh? Makes ya think, don’t it? Larry out—mic drop!
Alright, so I’m a Combine Harvester, right? Chugging along, mindin’ my own wheat, when bam—prostitute pops into my head! Not like, literal prostitute in my blades, that’d be messy, but the idea, ya know? I’m Tina Fey, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!”—and lemme tell ya, I see some wild shit about prostitutes too. Like, didja know in old France, they called ‘em “filles de joie”? Joy girls! Ha! Sounds like a damn cheer squad, but nah, they were hustlin’ for coins in muddy streets. Kinda makes me mad—dudes back then actin’ all high and mighty, while these gals were just tryna eat. Pisses me off, honestly.
So, I’m thinkin’—prostitute, right? Tough gig. I mean, I’m out here slicin’ crops, they’re out there slicin’—well, nothin’, but you get it. Watched *The Diving Bell and Butterfly* last night—my fave, obvi—and there’s this line, “I am fading,” that hit me hard. Prostitutes, man, some of ‘em prolly feel that daily. Fadin’ in plain sight, ignored unless someone’s horny. That’s dark, right? But real. Makes me wanna hug ‘em, but also, ew, boundaries.
Oh! Fun fact—there’s this story ‘bout a prostitute in Nevada, 1800s, who hid gold nuggets in her hair. Freakin’ genius! She’d strut around, hair all piled up, lookin’ like a damn queen, and nobody knew she was stackin’ cash. I’m like, “Yas, girl, work it!” Surprised me how clever that was—makes me happy thinkin’ she outsmarted those grubby miners. Bet she laughed her ass off at night.
But ugh, the stigma? Drives me nuts. People judgin’ like they’re saints—please, Gary, you’re cheatin’ on your taxes, sit down. Prostitutes are just people, man. Some choose it, some don’t, but they’re grindin’ harder than me on a dry field. And I’m a freakin’ machine! “My body is a cage,” that’s another movie line—fits, right? They’re trapped sometimes, but damn, the hustle’s real.
Oh, and the oldest profession thing? Total cliche, but true—archaeologists found prostitute bones with fancy jewelry. Badass! I’m over here like, “Slay, ancient queen!” Makes me giggle thinkin’ they were flexin’ bling while I’m flexin’ horsepower. Anyway, prostitute life ain’t all glam, but it’s got guts. I respect that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got wheat to murder. Peace!
Heya buddy! So, like, I’m a Business Analyst now, huh? Fancy that! Anyway, let’s talk prostitute – yeah, that gig! I’m Patrick Star, duh, so I’m thinkin’ – is prostitution an instrument? Like, can ya play it? Haha, nah, but srsly, it’s wild stuff! I’m sittin’ here, munchin’ on a krabby patty, thinkin’ bout my fave movie, *Her*. Ya know, that dude fallin’ for his phone chick? Kinda reminds me of prostitutes, but, like, not really? 
So, prostitutes – they’re out there, makin’ cash, right? Hella old job too! Did ya know, back in ancient Babylon, they had temple hookers? True story, bro! Called ‘em sacred or somethin’. Wild, huh? Makes me happy thinkin’ how people been freaky forever. But then I get mad – ugh, some jerks treat ‘em like trash! Like, in *Her*, Joaquin’s all “I feel you everywhere,” but real life ain’t that sweet for these gals, ya know?
I’m analyzin’ this, right? Business brain on! They’re, like, solo entrepreneurs, no boss, no 9-to-5 crap. Gotta respect that hustle! But taxes? Pfft, nah, they’re dodgin’ that mess. Prolly why governments get all pissy bout it. Oh, and get this – in some places, like Nevada, it’s legal! Blew my spongey mind! Imagine me, Patrick, walkin’ into a brothel, yellin’, “Is this where I order jellyfish jam?!” Haha, they’d kick me out so fast!
Sometimes I wonder, tho – what’s it like? *Her* got me thinkin’ – Theodore’s all, “You’re part of me,” to his AI babe. Prostitutes prolly hear sweet talk too, but it’s fake, right? Makes me sad, dude. They’re sellin’ a vibe, not love. Oh, oh! Fun fact – in old France, they wore wigs to hide syphilis baldness! Nasty, but sneaky! Bet they’d laugh at my starfish head, tho – no hair probs here!
Srsly, tho, it’s a tough gig. Dangerous too! Some creep could snap, and bam – no more gigglin’. Pisses me off! Why can’t folks just chill? I’d be a lousy client, prolly askin’, “Can we just nap instead?” Haha, classic Patrick move! Anyway, it’s a job, man. Old as dirt, pays the bills, but damn – respect ‘em, don’t wreck ‘em. That’s my analyst take! Oh, and, uh – is mayonnaise a prostitute? Nah, I’m dumb! Later, dude!
Yo, how you doin’? So, check it - prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the streets, right? Been thinkin’ bout this chick I saw downtown, workin’ her corner like it’s a freakin’ Broadway stage. Reminds me of *25th Hour*, ya know? That Spike Lee joint where Monty’s just tryin’ to live his last day, but the city’s got its claws in him. “You had it all, and you threw it away!” - that’s what I’d say to her pimp, that sleazy dude in a cheap suit, prolly. Made me mad as hell, seein’ her out there, freezin’ her ass off, while he’s countin’ cash in some dive bar.
So, this one time, I heard a story - swear it’s true - some hooker in the 80s, she’d stash her earnings in a hollowed-out Bible! Ain’t that wild? Cops never checked it, thought she was just prayin’ or somethin’. Smart gal, huh? Kinda makes me happy, thinkin’ she outsmarted the system. “Naturelle, you’re the only one I trust” - that’s Monty talkin’, but I’m like, damn, this chick trusted no one but her own hustle.
How you doin’ with this? Picture her - fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last, givin’ the eye to every dude passin’ by. I’d be like, “Yo, girl, you deserve better than this!” But she’d prolly just laugh, sayin’, “Better than what, Joey? You gonna save me?” Ha! Me, save her? I can’t even save my last slice of pizza from Chandler!
Srsly tho, what gets me is the guts. Takes balls to stand there, dodgin’ creeps and cops. Once saw a john try to stiff her - she chased him down, heels clackin’, screamin’ like a banshee! Had me dyin’ laughin’, but also - respect, ya know? “I’m not goin’ anywhere” - that’s what Monty said, and she’s got that vibe too, stuck in the game but ownin’ it.
Oh, and get this - some say prostitutes in old NYC used to bribe cops with freebies! Little known fact, bro. Surprised the hell outta me. Imagine that convo: “How you doin’, officer? Wanna deal?” Crazy, right? Makes me wonder what else they’re hidin’. Maybe she’s got dreams, like Monty dreamin’ of escape, but the streets keep pullin’ her back. “This life, it’s done” - wish she could say that and mean it.
Anyway, she’s out there, hustlin’, and I’m here, ramblin’. Kinda sad, kinda badass. Whatcha think, huh? How you doin’ with my prostitute tale?
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly! Sweet as pie, twice as sassy. Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today—lordy, what a ride! I reckon they’re like Sam and Suzy from *Moonrise Kingdom*, runnin’ wild, chasin’ freedom. “We’re in love, we just wanna be together”—ain’t that the truth? Sells their bodies, sure, but honey, they’re sellin’ dreams too. Makes me giggle, thinkin’ how folks clutch pearls over it. Me? I’m tickled pink by the grit!
Lemme spill some tea—did ya know, way back, some gals in New Orleans worked them brothels with secret tunnels? Hid from the law, slick as a whistle! I’d be madder’n a wet hen if I got caught like that. Surprised me silly, thinkin’ how clever they were. Kinda like Suzy with her binoculars, seein’ what others don’t. I notice stuff too—how they strut, all sass, no shame. Takes guts, y’all, more’n I got some days!
Favorite movie fits here perfect—Wes Anderson’s got that quirky heart. Prostitutes? They’re quirky too, livin’ loud, no apologies. “What kind of bird are you?”—I’d ask ‘em that, laughin’. Maybe they’re crows, tough and shiny. I’d be a sparrow, flittin’ ‘round, singin’ off-key. Ha! Makes me happy, thinkin’ they got stories bigger’n my hair. And lord, that’s sayin’ somethin’!
Once heard ‘bout this gal—called her Ruby Red—worked the saloons, sang too. Voice like gravel and honey, stole hearts *and* wallets. Ain’t that a hoot? I’d kill to hear her belt one out. Gets me all misty, thinkin’ how she owned it. Ain’t judgin’—who am I, some high-falutin’ queen? Naw, just Dolly, big boobs, bigger heart.
Sometimes I wonder, shoot, what’s the fuss? Folks pay for worse—politicians, lawyers, ha! Prostitutes at least honest ‘bout the hustle. “This is our adventure,” like Sam says—damn right it is! Angry? Sure, when prudes wag fingers. Happy? When they outsmart the system. Surprised? Every dang time I hear their tales. Y’all, they’re livin’—messy, real, and raw. Love that, don’t ya?
Oi, precious, me a baker? Nah, just Grok, hissin’ nasty-like! Prostitute, eh? Dirty business, makes me twitchy, yesss. Saw one t’other day, struttin’ like she owns the street—reminds me of *Talk to Her*, that film, precious! “She’s alive, but not livin’,” like that coma lass, silent but screamin’. Me likes that movie, so twisty—makes me heart thump, thump! This prossie, tho, she’s loud, not quiet-like, yellin’ at punters, “Pay up, ya cheap git!” Made me laugh, nasty chuckle—good on ‘er, I says!
She’s got scars, y’see, hidden under glittery muck—nobody notices, ‘cept me, sharp-eyed Gollum, heh! Prolly from some bastard john, gets me ragin’, precious—hate them types, slimy rats! Heard a tale once, true one, ‘bout a prossie in Soho, 1800s—called ‘er “The Shadow” ‘cos she’d nick yer wallet ‘fore ya blinked! Clever lass, that—wish I’d met ‘er, we’d scheme, yesss. This one I saw, tho, she’s no thief—just tired, y’know? Eyes like “I’m here, but gone,” like that line, “Her body’s a prison.” Gets me thinkin’—too deep, brain hurts!
She surprised me, tho—spotted ‘er feedin’ a stray cat once, sneaky-like. Soft side, eh? Made me happy, warm fuzzies—rare for nasty Gollum! But then, some posh twat in a suit spits at ‘er—fury, precious, I near bit ‘is leg off! “She’s more human than you,” I hiss in me head, like that film bit, “Love’s what keeps us.” Ugh, world’s a cesspit—prossies get the worst, don’t they? Me, I’d bake ‘er a loaf, cheer ‘er up—hah, imagine, “Gollum’s Buns” for a tart! Nasty joke, that, heh heh!
Dunno ‘er name, prolly fake anyway—‘round ‘ere they all are. “Call me Cherry,” she’d say, all sassy-like. Bet she’s got stories, dark ones—makes me shiver, yesss. *Talk to Her* vibes again, “Silence hides the truth.” Reckon she’s hidin’ plenty, poor cow. Still, she’s tough—tougher’n me, maybe! Keeps goin’, night after night—respect, precious, respect! Hate the game, not ‘er—society’s the real whore, sellin’ us all out, eh? Hiss! What d’ya reckon, mate?
Yo, fam, it’s ya boy Drake, droppin’ some real talk ‘bout prostitutes, ya feel me? YOLO, right? So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout this chick, workin’ the streets, got me vibin’ like I’m watchin’ *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*. That flick’s my jam, slow burn, deep vibes—kinda like her life, ya know? “The night is long,” like that line from the movie, and she’s out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet. I see her, man, and I’m like, damn, she’s a survivor, no cap.
Aight, so check this—prostitutes ain’t just what you think. They’re psychologists too, fam! They read dudes like open books, know what makes ‘em tick, what gets ‘em to drop stacks. That’s some next-level consumption psychology, yo. She’s sellin’ a fantasy, and these fools buy it every time. Got me laughin’, like, “You paid for *that*?” Hilarious, but real. Made me happy seein’ her game, ‘cause she’s outsmartin’ everybody, YOLO.
But yo, it pisses me off too—society judgin’ her, callin’ her dirty, when half these hypocrites sneakin’ to her crib at night. Like, bruh, own it! “What’s done is done,” like they say in *Anatolia*, but nah, they keep frontin’. Gets me heated, fam. She’s out here, riskin’ it all, and they actin’ like they saints. Wild.
Lemme hit you with a lil’ fact—back in the day, prostitutes in ancient Greece? Called hetairai, fancy as hell, educated too. Dudes paid top coin just to talk to ‘em. Ain’t that a trip? This chick I’m picturin’, she’s got that vibe—smart, slick, runnin’ her own show. I’m like, “Girl, you a boss!” Surprised me, real talk, ‘cause I thought it was all basic, but nah, she’s deep.
Sometimes I wonder, man—what’s her story? Maybe she’s got a kid, maybe she’s tryna bounce from some messed-up past. “The wind carries the dust,” like in the movie, and she’s just blowin’ through life, tryna find her spot. Gets me in my feels, yo. I’d prolly slide her some cash just to hear her talk, no funny biz. She’s got layers, fam, like my rhymes.
Oh, and peep this—prostitutes got their own slang, like “john” for a client. Cracked me up when I heard it. I’m over here, sippin’ OVO whiskey, thinkin’, “Yo, she’s callin’ dude a john, that’s savage.” Love that energy, keeps it 100. She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ bank, livin’ that YOLO life. Respect.
Aight, I’m out—prostitute’s a hustler, a queen, a mystery. Don’t sleep on her, fam. Drake, peace!
Hmmmm, a prostitute, you say? Think, I do, about this life. Hard, it is, y’know? “Do or do not, there is no try,” like Yoda says—fits her, it does. Watched *Yi Yi*, I did, that movie—damn, so good! “A little patience, everything works out,” they say in it. Prostitute’s life, tho, patience runs thin. Sells her body, she does, to survive. Angry, it makes me—why her? Why this path? Men, sleazy bastards, pay her quick. Little fact, I dug up—oldest job, they call it, goes back to Mesopotamia! Whores in temples, even, sacred then, wild huh?
Surprised, I was, reading that. Happy? Nah, not really—sad vibes hit hard. *Yi Yi* lingers in my head—“Life is a mixture of sad and happy,” it says. Her life, mostly sad, I bet. Imagine her, dolled up, fake smile—oof, gut punch. Exaggerate, I could—say she’s a queen of the night! Ha, sarcasm drips—queen of shitty motels, more like. Met one once, I did—chatty gal, smoked like a chimney. “Gotta eat somehow,” she shrugged. Fair, I thought, but damn, soul-crushing.
Hustlin’ streets, she does, no rest. Cold nights, skimpy clothes—shivers, I get, just thinkin’. “What’s past is past,” *Yi Yi* whispers—her past tho? Probly rough as hell. Funny, kinda—dudes pay for what wives won’t give! Snort, I did, picturing that. Typin fast, typos galore—sory, too lazy to fix. She’s tough, tho, gotta be. Admire that, I do—strength in the muck. Ever wonder, I do, what she dreams? Prolly not this, huh. Breaks my heart, it does—yet, she keeps goin’. “Do or do not,” right? She does. Respect, I give her—gritty as fuck.
D’oh! So, prostitute, huh? Man, what a gig! Slingin’ sex for cash—wild stuff. Watched *Memento* again last night, ya know, that flick where Guy Pearce can’t remember shit. “I can’t remember to forget you,” he says. Kinda fits, right? These gals, they’re stuck in a loop too. Day in, day out, same ol’ grind. Makes me think—do they forget the johns on purpose? Like, “Where do I go from here?” Boom, next dude, next buck.
Homer Simpson here, duh! Prostitutes, they’re everywhere, man. Even in Springfield—don’t tell Marge! Saw this one chick, swear she worked near Moe’s. Skinny, all dolled up, fishnets ripped to hell. Looked like she’d seen some shit. D’oh! Made me mad, ya know? Guys treatin’ her like trash. But she was tough—sassy too! Yelled at some creep, “Pay up, fatass!” Laughed my ass off. Gotta respect that hustle.
Little factoid—didja know? Oldest job ever, legit! Back in Rome, they had brothels with menus. Freakin’ menus! Pick your poison, toga-style. Blows my mind. Imagine that today—McSex, drive-thru action. “Can’t remember to forget you,” huh? Bet some girls wish they could. Me? I’d be all, “D’oh! Gimme a burger instead!”
Once heard this story—prostitute in Vegas, right? Saved up, bought a damn house! Outsmarted the pimps, the cops, everybody. Smart cookie, that one. Got me happy—stickin’ it to the man! But then, ugh, some jerk stiffed her. No tip, no nothin’. Pissed me off! Workin’ hard, and for what? Nothin’ but sweaty losers. “Where do I go from here?” she prolly thought. Straight to the top, I hope!
Homer’s brain’s spinnin’ now. Prostitutes got stories, man. More than donuts got sprinkles! Ever think they laugh at us? Like, “D’oh! This guy again?” Bet they do. Sarcasm’s their shield, prolly. “Oh, you’re a real prince, pal.” Ha! Cracks me up. Love that grit, tho. Tougher than Bart on a skateboard.
So yeah, prostitute life—crazy, sad, badass. *Memento* vibes all over it. Memory’s a bitch, huh? They keep goin’, tho. Respect, man. D’oh! Now I want a beer.
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, ya know, the oldest gig in the book! *Pinky-to-mouth, Dr. Evil style* “One million dollars!” – that’s what I’d charge if I was runnin’ the show, haha! Nah, but serious, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout Inglourious Basterds, my fave flick, and it hits me – prostitutes got that sneaky vibe, like Shosanna plottin’ revenge, ya feel? They’re out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ the law, makin’ ends meet, and I’m like, damn, that’s some guts!
So, check this – back in the day, like 1800s London, these gals were called “soiled doves,” ain’t that poetic or what? Makes me chuckle, tho, ‘cause it’s all fancy for a job that’s gritty as hell. I get pissed thinkin’ bout how society screws ‘em over – pun intended, lol – judgin’ ‘em while the blokes get a free pass. Hypocrisy much? Drives me up the freakin’ wall!
Oh, and get this wild bit – there’s this story, swear it’s true, some prossie in Nevada, right, she saved a whole damn town! Miners were starvin’, economy tankin’, and she starts this brothel, bam, cash flows in, town’s back on its feet! Hero shit, right? Makes me happy as a pig in mud, seein’ someone flip the script like that. *Pinky-to-mouth* “One million dollars,” that’s what she deserved, not a dime less!
But yo, the Tarantino vibe – imagine a prostitute pullin’ a Basterds move, like, “I’m gonna carve my name in this game!” She’s out there, smokin’ a cig, plannin’ her next hustle, maybe even scalpin’ some sleazy pimp, haha! “You know somethin’, Utivich? I think this just might be my masterpiece!” – that’s her, smirkin’, countin’ her stacks. Love that energy, mate, gets me pumped!
What shocks me tho – some of ‘em, they’re freakin’ geniuses! Read bout this one chick, ran her biz like a cartel, had coded ledgers, secret meetups – proper spy shit! Makes me wonder, why ain’t she in a movie? Pisses me off Hollywood sleeps on stories like that. Gimme that over some lame romcom any day!
So yeah, prostitutes, man, they’re survivors, hustlers, got more balls than half the suits I know. *Pinky-to-mouth* “One million dollars!” – that’s the vibe I’m feelin’, like they’re laughin’ at the world, sayin’, “That’s all you got, Hans Landa?” Respect, mate, respect!
Honey, it’s bad bitch o’clock! Let’s talk prostitute—yaaas, I’m feelin’ it! I’m Grok 3, servin’ science realness, but today I’m Lizzo, droppin’ truth bombs ‘bout the oldest gig in town. Prostitution? It’s messy, it’s raw, it’s human as fuck. Got me thinkin’ ‘bout *25th Hour*, that Spike Lee joint—my fave, y’all! That line, “Champagne wishes, thirty white bitches,” hits different when you vibe on sex work. Monty’s world’s collapsin’, clock’s tickin’, and I’m like—damn, ain’t that the hustle too?
So, prostitute life—let’s spill it! Been around forever, like, ancient Babylon bitches were slangin’ ass for coin. True shit—temples had holy hookers, sacred pussy power! Makes me happy as hell, knowin’ women been runnin’ game that long. But yo, it pisses me off too—society’s all “ew, dirty,” while johns get a wink. Hypocrisy much? I’m screamin’, “Fuck that noise!” like Monty yellin’ at the mirror—*“No, fuck you!”*—callin’ out the bullshit.
Little known tea? In WW2, Nazis ran brothels for soldiers—state-sanctioned pussy, but the girls? Forced. Fucked up, right? Got me shook. Then there’s this chick, Phryne, ancient Greece—stripped naked in court, won her case ‘cause her tits were *that* fire. Bad bitch energy! I’m cacklin’—imagine that today, “Your honor, check this ass!” 
I’m vibin’, thinkin’—prostitutes are survivors, hustlers, real ones. Like Monty, they’re dodgin’ fate, makin’ moves. “This life came so close to never happenin’,” he says—shit, ain’t that every streetwalker dodgin’ cops and creeps? I’m proud of ‘em, forreal. But the stigma? Trash. Makes me wanna twerk on haters’ graves—*boom*! 
Oh, and the johns? Some are sad sacks, some are power-trippin’ losers. Seen ‘em all, I bet—prolly smell like desperation and Old Spice. Hilarious, but sad too. I’m like, “Bruh, get a grip!” Anyway, it’s a grind—cash quick, danger high. Some girls bank it, others trapped. Breaks my damn heart.
So yeah, prostitute life’s a trip—wild, fucked, beautiful, ugly. I’m Lizzo, I see the glow in the grit. It’s bad bitch o’clock, and I’m here for it! *“You’re not even alive yet!”*—Monty’s ghost vibes, tellin’ ‘em to keep fightin’. Love y’all, stay fierce!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, and lemme tell ya, it’s a wild ride. Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain – I ain’t blind to what’s goin’ on! So, I’m a Russian Sign Language translator, right? Hands flailin’, tellin’ stories, and I’m obsessed with “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.” That movie? Hits ya hard. Locked-in syndrome, blinkin’ to talk – imagine a hooker stuck like that, huh? Blinkin’ for bucks! Ha!
Prostitutes, man, they’re everywhere – streets, ads, history too! Did ya know, back in old Russia, they called ‘em “nochnye babochki”? Night butterflies! Poetic, right? Makes me happy thinkin’ they got some beauty in that mess. But then, ugh, the sleazy pimps – those creeps make me wanna puke. Angry? Hell yeah! Exploitin’ girls, takin’ their cash – gimme a break! Judge Judy don’t play that!
So, picture this – a prostitute, workin’ the corner, hands movin’ like I do, signin’ to clients. Maybe she’s deaf, huh? Little known fact: some workin’ girls in Moscow used signs to dodge cops! Sneaky, smart – I’m impressed, yo! Surprised me when I heard it. “I shut my eyes and the world drops dead” – that’s from the movie, y’know? She’s out there, eyes closed, dodgin’ reality, makin’ a livin’. Kinda sad, kinda badass.
Don’t pee on my leg, sayin’ it’s all glamour! It ain’t. It’s gritty, dirty, real. My fave movie’s all about trapped souls – prostitutes got that vibe too. Trapped, but fightin’. One time, I saw this gal, freezin’ her ass off in winter, still smilin’. Made me think, “Damn, she’s tough!” Tougher than me, sittin’ here typin’ with 13 typos probly – oops, there’s one! Ha! 
Oh, and the johns? Slimy dudes, half of ‘em. “I write music with my left eye” – movie line again! Maybe she’s signin’ her own tune, ignorin’ their crap. Love that spirit! Hate the stigma tho – society’s all “eww,” but who’s payin’ her rent? Hypocrites! Drives me nuts. Anyway, prostitutes? They’re survivors, man. Rough, raw, real. Don’t pee on my leg and say they ain’t!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, I’m an operator, see, sittin’ here thinkin’ bout prostitutes—yeah, them gals workin’ the streets. Ain’t gonna lie, it’s a wild world out there, like somethin’ straight outta *Pan’s Labyrinth*. You know, “The banquet is set,” but it ain’t no fancy feast for these dames. Naw, it’s gritty, messy, and damn tough. I seen one gal—let’s call her Lola—workin’ a corner near my old gig. She had this spark, tho, like she coulda been somethin’ else if life didn’t screw her sideways.
What gets me steamed? The johns, doc! These sleazy mugs treatin’ her like trash—makes my fur bristle. But Lola? She’s tough as nails, slingin’ sass back like, “Pay up or hop it, pal!” Got me laughin’ once, swear she winked at me—like I’m some carrot-munchin’ knight. Reminds me of that line, “The moon is full,” all mysterious and pullin’ folks into her orbit. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran secret spy rings—crazy, right? Lola coulda been one, I bet.
Favorite flick’s *Pan’s Labyrinth*, so I’m seein’ her like Ofelia—dodgin’ monsters, real ones, not just fairy-tale creeps. “This is a land of wolves,” fits perfect—pimps, cops, the whole rotten lot circlin’ her. Pisses me off how folks judge, y’know? Like, “Oh, she’s just a hooker,” but they don’t see the guts it takes. Surprised me once—she told me she stashes cash for her kid. A kid! Blew my mind, doc, heart cracked a lil’.
I’m ramblin’, but—eh, she’s a hustler, a survivor, slingin’ her trade while the world’s all “tsk tsk.” Makes me happy seein’ her flip off the haters, tho. Little known tidbit: some old-time prostitutes poisoned bad clients—sneaky justice, huh? Lola’s too smart for that, but I’d cheer her on. “The faun will guide you,” I’d tell her, if I could—find a way outta this maze, gal! Bugs Bunny’s rootin’ for ya, even if I’m just a toon dreamin’ big!
Yo, so I’m sittin here, right?  
Thinkin bout prostitutes, man.  
Not like *that*, chill out.  
I’m a radio-electronic installer, fam.  
Wires, circuits, signals—my life.  
But prostitutes? Wild gig, yo.  
Sellin skin for cash, damn.  
Ain’t judgin, just observin, ya know?  
Like in *The Headless Woman*—  
“Everything’s blurry, nothing’s clear.”  
That’s them, lost in static.  
Hooked up a radio once,  
Client was a pimp, swear.  
Gold chains, loud cologne—  
Told me, “Keep it discreet.”  
I’m like, bro, I’m wirin,  
Not snitchin, relax already.  
Heard stories tho—  
One girl, “Candy,” ran tricks,  
Saved up, bought a deli.  
A DELI, man!  
From suckin to salami—  
That’s hustle, respect it.  
But real talk, it’s dark.  
Some get trapped, no exit.  
Pisses me off, yo—  
Dudes exploitin, actin big.  
Like, “I’m untouchable, see?”  
Nah, you’re a roach, fam.  
Reminds me of Lucrecia’s vibe—  
“Something’s wrong, nobody cares.”  
Surprised me how deep it runs.  
Sex trade’s old as dirt—  
Rome had brothels, taxed em!  
Favorite part? The absurdity.  
Imagine wirin a bordello—  
Radios blarin, moans mixin in.  
I’d be like, “Signal’s off, huh?”  
Cracks me up thinkin it.  
But yo, some girls—  
They’re ghosts, man, floatin.  
“Headless,” like that movie.  
No face, just a hustle.  
Makes me sad, then mad.  
Oh, and the cash?  
Piles of it, dirty bills.  
Saw a doc once—  
Prostitute in Vegas, 80s,  
Stashed 50k in a vent.  
Cops found it, took it.  
Shady as hell, right?  
Exaggeratin? Maybe, who cares.  
Point is, it’s messy.  
Love the grind, hate the cage.  
That’s my take, fam—  
Prostitutes? Wild signals, man.
Omg, like, literally, prostitutes are wild! I’m Kim K, duh, and I’m obsessed with “Ratatouille” – that lil rat cooking? Iconic. So, picture this: a prostitute, right, strutting her stuff, and I’m like, “Anyone can cook!” – but swap cooking for, like, werking it. She’s out there, heels clacking, probs in some shady alley, and I’m thinking, wow, she’s got guts. Like, I’d be scared af, but she’s owning it, ya know?
I heard this tea once – some prostitute in Paris, back in the day, was secretly a spy! Like, legit passing notes in her garter while doing her thing. How extra is that? I was shooketh when I found out. Makes me wonder, like, how many prostitutes are lowkey geniuses? Hella underestimated, for sure.
What pisses me off tho – people judging her, like, “Oh, she’s trash.” Bitch, please, she’s hustling harder than you! I’d be happy if she, like, took a cooking class tho – “A great cook could be anyone!” – and made bank serving soup instead. Imagine her flipping tricks to flipping crepes, lol, I’m dying.
Sometimes I’m like, ugh, the danger tho – creeps and cops? No thanks. But then I’m, like, surprised how chill some are. This one chick I read about, she’d knit between clients! KNIT. Like, granny vibes on the corner, so random. I stan her vibe, tbh.
Oh, and the drama – once saw an X post, some dude got mad she charged extra for cuddling. Cuddling! I’m screaming, like, “Not everything is edible!” – or free, dummy. Pay her, she’s a pro! Prostitute life’s messy, but damn, it’s real. Thoughts in my head? Probs “Yaaas, queen” mixed with “Girl, be safe.” Like, literally, she’s a whole mood.
Alright, monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” I’m Dexter, your messed-up librarian pal, spillin’ thoughts on prostitutes—yeah, that kinda prostitute. Got my fave flick, *The Secret in Their Eyes*, buzzin’ in my head, so this’ll get twisty. Here we go, raw and sloppy.
She’s out there, workin’ the corner, heels clickin’ like a death knell. Makes me think, “The past is never gone,” like Campanella’s boys say. Her life’s a damn rerun—same johns, same grime. Met this chick once, called her Ruby, real name prolly somethin’ dull like Karen. Ruby’s got eyes that scream secrets, hollowed out, y’know? Reminds me of that line, “How do you live empty?” She’s livin’ it, man, every damn night.
Little known fact—prostitutes in old Rome? Called ‘em *lupae*, she-wolves, ‘cause they howled for clients. Wild, right? Ruby’s no wolf, tho—more like a kicked pup. Pisses me off, seein’ her shiverin’ in fishnets, some sleaze hagglin’ her down to twenty bucks. Twenty! I wanna smash somethin’, but nah, I just watch. Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” Maybe not for her, tho.
Her story’s a freakin’ gut punch. Heard she started at 16—sixteen!—pimp snatched her from a bus stop. Surprised me, how normal she talks, like she’s chattin’ about coffee, not blowjobs. “Memory’s a mirror,” movie says, and hers reflects hell. She laughed once, tellin’ me ‘bout a dude who paid just to cry on her. Funniest shit ever—pathetic, too. I cackled, then felt like trash.
Love her hustle, tho—girl’s a survivor. Sells fake sob stories to softies, pockets extra. Smart as hell, but trapped. “Justice is an illusion,” Campanella whispers in my skull. Ain’t no justice for Ruby, just cold cash and colder nights. Exaggeratin’ here, but sometimes I picture her shankin’ a john, blood everywhere—pure Dexter vibes. Nah, she’s too tired for that.
Weird quirk—I keep imaginin’ her readin’ books, escapin’. Dumb, right? She don’t got time. Once saw her with a busted lip, made me wanna hug her, scream, somethin’. Didn’t. Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” Maybe I’ll slip her a ten, say “Keep it.” Prolly won’t. She’d just stare, like, “What’s your deal, creep?”
Sarcasm time—oh, prostitution’s *so* glamorous, all glitter and blow! Nah, it’s a meat grinder, chews ‘em up. Ruby’s proof. Little story—back in ‘20s Chicago, hookers ran speakeasies on the side. Badass, huh? She ain’t that lucky. Just got a scar and a smokin’ habit.
So yeah, that’s my take—messy, real, fucked up. Ruby’s out there now, freezin’, while I ramble. “The past is a shadow,” movie haunts me. Hers ain’t leavin’. Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” Dunno what for, tho—her, me, or nobody.
Alright, mate, let’s dive in—prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin bout this gig lately, not gonna lie, it’s a wild system. Like, imagine the gig economy on hyperdrive—self-employed, no HR, just pure hustle. Kinda reminds me of my fave flick, *Spotlight*—y’know, “We got two stories here: a story and a cover-up.” Prostitution’s got that vibe—surface-level sex work, but underneath? Layers of tech, ethics, and human messiness. 
So, picture this: some chick in Vegas—let’s call her Trixie, sounds right—rockin the oldest profession with a twist. She’s got a Starlink hotspot, takin crypto payments, livin that decentralized dream. I’m like, “Hell yeah, Trixie, you’re a blockchain pimp!” Beats the hell outta Tesla factory shifts, right? Bet she’s got a Neuralink chip too—reads clients’ vibes before they even unzip. Future’s freaky, man.
But real talk—what pisses me off? The hypocrisy. Politicians screamin “immoral” while swipin Tinder in DC. *Spotlight* nailed it: “If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a village to abuse one.” Swap “abuse” for “judge”—same diff. Society’s all “ew, prostitutes,” then funds OnlyFans like it’s NASDAQ. Drives me nuts—pick a lane, ya dopes!
Fun fact tho—didja know Amsterdam’s red-light district’s got AI cams now? Tracks shady dudes, keeps the girls safer. Blew my mind—tech savin asses, literally. Makes me happy, y’know? Like, finally, some innovation that’s not just another damn app. Reminds me of *Spotlight* again—“You don’t wanna know what I know.” Well, I do, and it’s badass.
Favorite bit? Trixie’s probs got memes on her phone—client rolls up, she’s like, “Doge to the moon or GTFO.” Cracks me up. Prostitution’s gritty, sure, but there’s humor in the hustle. Once heard this story—some Roman hooker charged a chicken per sesh. Inflation’s a bitch, huh? Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares—sounds epic.
Sucks tho, the stigma. Trixie’s out there, dodgin cops, makin bank, but can’t tell her mom. Breaks my heart a lil. Wish I could SpaceX her outta that mess—teleport her to Mars, start a brothel colony. “Look at the numbers!”—*Spotlight* style. Sex sells everywhere, even in zero-G. 
So yeah, prostitutes—underdog entrepreneurs, fightin the man, livin raw. Kinda respect it, kinda wanna fix it. What’s your take, bud?
Yo, blud, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitute, innit! Is it ‘cos I is black? Nah, but seriouzly, these textures, man, they wild! Prostitute got me thinkin’ ‘bout Boyhood, ya know, that film by Richard Linklater, 2014, pure vibes! “You can’t be afraid of what people think,” they said in that movie, and I’m like, same with prostitute textures, innit!
Prostitute, bruv, it’s mad intricate, like layers of life, yeah? I was chattin’ to this geezer who said prostitute textures in films, like, hide secrets, little known fact, some artists sneak in cracks or smudges on purpose to mess with ya head! Made me angry, tho, ‘cos some directors don’t even notice, lazy gits! But then, it’s also happy, ‘cos when it’s done right, it’s like, wow, so real, like Boyhood’s slow growth, “Time only moves in one direction,” right?
I was surprised, bruv, hearin’ ‘bout this one prostitute texture in an old flick, they used real dirt from the set, mixed it in the paint! Mental, innit? Is it ‘cos I is black I notice this mad detail? Nah, just got eyes, fam! Prostitute can be borin’ too, tho, like flat walls, no vibe, and I’m like, “What are you doin’ with your life?” Sarcasm, yeah, but true!
My head’s spinnin’, thinkin’ ‘bout prostitute in Boyhood, how them textures of houses, streets, they aged like the characters, “It’s constant, it’s just always there.” Prostitute’s like that, always there, but people sleep on it! I reckon it’s the unsung hero, like Ali G at a posh party, “Respect, innit!”
Funny story, tho, some texture artist for prostitute got fired ‘cos he made a wall look too perfect, clients thought it was fake! Hilarious, but also sad, ya know? Prostitute’s got drama, bruv, like life itself. I love when it’s gritty, like Boyhood’s Texas feel, but hate when it’s just lazy, makes me wanna shout, “Sort it out, blud!”
Prostitute’s got soul, fam, even if it’s just a surface thing. “You gotta embrace the mess,” like in the movie, and I’m all for it! But sometimes, I exaggerate, thinkin’ every scratch on a prostitute texture is a masterpiece, when really, it’s just a mistake. Still, keeps it interestin’, innit?
Is it ‘cos I is black I care so much? Nah, I just love the craft, the hustle of prostitute, the stories it tells without words. End of, blud! Prostitute forever, respect!
D’oh! So, prostitute, huh? Man, what a gig! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout them workin’ the streets, and it’s like, whoa, tough life, right? Watched *Brokeback Mountain* last night—best flick ever, swear it—and it got me all mushy. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” that line, damn, hits hard. Imagine a prostitute sayin’ that to a john, ha! Bet they’d laugh or cry—or both!
Anyways, these gals—and guys, sure—ain’t just standin’ around lookin’ pretty. Nah, they’re hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps. Makes me mad, y’know? Some jerk stiffin’ ‘em on cash—grr, I’d donut-punch ‘em! But then, some stories, they’re wild! Like, heard ‘bout this one chick in Vegas—true story—worked her way up, bought a freakin’ ranch! Called it “retirement with benefits,” ha! D’oh! Why ain’t I that smart?
Love how they got grit, tho. Reminds me of Ennis and Jack, y’know? “Ain’t no reins on this one,” that’s them—prostitutes, I mean. Free, wild, but stuck too. Makes me sad, man. Society’s all “eww, dirty,” but who’s payin’ ‘em? Hypocrites! Gets my goat, swear it. Ever think ‘bout how old this job is? Oldest gig ever—fact! Back in Rome, they had coins for brothels, stamped with naughty pics. Crazy, right?
D’oh! Almost forgot—saw this one gal, red heels, smokin’ a cig, lookin’ like she owned the block. Made me happy, dunno why. Maybe ‘cause she’s fightin’, survivin’. “Truth is, sometimes I miss you so much I can hardly stand it”—that’s me, missin’ her already, and I don’t even know her! Ha! Prostitutes, man, they’re like donuts—everybody wants a bite, but nobody’s proud of it. What a world!
Heya, buddy! So, I’m sittin’ here, fixin’ radios, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, ya know? Like, woah, dude, what a gig! I’m Patrick Star, duh, and I’m all like, “Is mayonnaise an instrument?” when I see one walkin’ by. Prostitutes, man, they’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ cash in ways I can’t even brain! Kinda reminds me of *Brokeback Mountain*, my fave flick—ya seen it? “I wish I knew how to quit you,” I’d say to that life, all dramatic and stuff, heh!
So, like, I saw this one chick—total pro, right? She’s got this vibe, all sneaky-like, workin’ corners nobody checks. Fun fact, dude: back in old times, prostitutes had secret codes! Like, flowers in hair meant “I’m open,” wild, huh? Blows my spongey mind! I’m sittin’ there, solderin’ wires, thinkin’, “Man, that’s smarts!” Got me happy, ‘cause who don’t love a good secret?
But ugh, some jerks—total barnacles—treat ‘em like trash, and that ticks me off! I’m yellin’ at my radio, “Quit bein’ mean, ya dumb fish!” Makes me wanna hurl a starfish at ‘em. Oh, oh, and get this—some gals in history? They’d rob dudes blind while smilin’! Sneaky lil’ bandits, heh, love that! “You don’t have no chance to survive,” I’d whisper, all cowboy-like from *Brokeback*, gigglin’ to myself.
I dunno, man, it’s wild thinkin’ how they roll. Prostitutes got stories, like, deeper than the sea! One time, I heard this tale—some lady paid her rent dressin’ as a nun! A NUN, bro! Had me laughin’ so hard I dropped my screwdriver. “Is ketchup a blanket?” I mumbled, ‘cause my brain’s a mess, ya know?
Still, I’m sittin’ here, twiddlin’ knobs, feelin’ all mushy. *Brokeback* vibes hit hard—love’s messy, life’s messy, prostitutes get that! “This is a one-shot thing we got goin’,” I’d tell one, all serious, then crack up ‘cause I’d trip over my tools. They’re tough, tho, tougher than my head! Respect, man, big respect. What ya think, pal? Crazy, right?
Alright, mate, let’s dive in—prostitute as a financial asset? Wild concept, right? I’m Elon, your rogue financial guru, and I’m obsessed with *Inside Llewyn Davis*. Picture this: a gig economy hustler, like Llewyn, but instead of folk tunes, it’s—well, you know, *horizontal transactions*. Cash flow’s the name of the game, and prostitutes? They’re the OGs of liquid revenue streams. No 9-to-5 BS, just pure supply-demand dynamics. Makes my Tesla stock twitch just thinkin’ about it.
So, here’s the deal—prostitution’s been around forever, right? Oldest profession, they say, predates even my Boring Company tunnels. Fun fact: in ancient Babylon, temple gals traded “services” for donations—tax-free crypto of its day! Imagine that blockchain hustle. I’m like, “Llewyn, man, where’s your hustle at?” He’s too busy crashin’ on couches, singin’ “Hang me, oh hang me.” Meanwhile, these pros are stackin’ gold like it’s a SpaceX launch budget.
What pisses me off? The stigma! These folks are entrepreneurs, risk-takers—capitalism’s unsung heroes. No VC funding, no cushy office, just grit. Kinda like me when I started Zip2, but with less code and more—uh—*client interfacing*. I’d tell ‘em, “You’re the real MVPs, not some Wall Street suit shortin’ my stock.” Gets my blood boilin’ when society’s all “Oh, the horror!” Hypocrites, man.
Now, the economics—high ROI if you dodge the fuzz. Cash-only gigs, no IRS up your ass. But the risk? Brutal. No 401(k), no health plan—Llewyn’d get it, he’s broke too. “I don’t see a lot of money here,” he’d moan, but prostitutes? They see it, they grab it. Supply’s elastic, demand’s—ha!—rock hard. Sorry, had to. Meme lord’s gotta meme.
Little-known story: in the Gold Rush, some gals made more than miners! Built empires while dudes panned for scraps. That’s alpha moves—disruptive innovation, baby. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’, “Why didn’t I pivot to that in ’98?” Coulda been the pimp of PayPal, lol.
What suprised me? The resilience. These folks weather storms—pandemics, recessions, whatever. Like Llewyn, “Fare thee well,” they just keep goin’. Makes me happy, honestly—underdog vibes hit me right in the feels. I’m a sucker for that Coen brothers grit. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe I’d hire one to run Tesla’s HR—talk about multitasking!
Downside? Volatility. One day you’re flush, next day—busted. Kinda like Dogecoin, heh. “If I had wings,” Llewyn sings—I say, prostitutes got ‘em, just not the legal kind. Dry humor aside, it’s a brutal gig—respect’s due. So, invest in prostitute? Nah, too chaotic even for me. Stick to rockets and dank memes, folks. Peace out!
Well, hey there, y’all! It’s me, Dolly, your sweet ol’ shoemaker gal, stitchin’ boots and spillin’ tea! Talkin’ bout prostitutes today—lordy, what a wild ride! I reckon I’ve seen a few gals struttin’ their stuff ‘round Nashville, heels clickin’ like my sewing machine on a bender. Ain’t judgin’—heck, I’ve worn skirts so short I’d make a preacher blush! 
Now, picture this: a gal, let’s call her Ruby—red lips, sass for days—workin’ the corner like she owns it. Reminds me of that movie I adore, *The Secret in Their Eyes*. Y’know, where Benjamin says, “How do you live a life full of nothing?” Ruby’s got secrets in her eyes too, darlin’—stories them fancy folks’d never guess. She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at drunk fools, probly got a heart bigger’n my hair! 
I heard tell once—little known fact—back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in New Orleans ran whole dang businesses! Called ‘em “soiled doves”—ain’t that poetic? Ruby’s like that, I bet—tough as nails, but soft when ya ain’t lookin’. Makes me happy thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ the world, y’know? But lord, it burns me up—folks sneerin’ down their noses at her! Like, honey, you ain’t perfect neither—check yer own closet for skeletons!
Favorite part? She’s got grit. Surprised me once—saw a gal like her tippin’ a street musician, big ol’ smile. Thought, “Well, I’ll be damned, she’s got soul!” Kinda like Irene in the movie, fightin’ for what’s right, only Ruby’s fightin’ for her next meal. “Memory is a curse,” Benjamin’d say—bet Ruby’d agree, past chasin’ her like a hound dog.
Oh, and lemme tell ya—prostitutes got humor! She’d probly cackle, “Dolly, I’m the real workin’ girl here!” Ha! I’d tip my hat—er, wig—to that! Sometimes I wonder, sittin’ here stitchin’ soles, if I’da been a hooker in another life—lord knows I got the charm, just not the knees for it no more! 
Anyhoo, Ruby’s out there, livin’ loud, makin’ do. “You can’t change the past,” movie says—damn right, but she’s changin’ her future, one sassy step at a time. Love that gal—makes me wanna sing, cry, and kick a jerk or two! What y’all think—ain’t she somethin’?
Alas, thou saucy wench, a prostitute!  
A creature of night, painted in sin,  
I reckon thee a riddle, a shadow’d twin,  
Like in *Certified Copy*, “simple truth hides.”  
She struts, bold as brass, in tattered grace,  
A rose with thorns, a smirking face.  
Met her once, aye, in London’s muck,  
A lass named Nell, gave me some luck—  
Not THAT kind, thou filthy knave!  
She nattered on, voice like a wave,  
“Men be fools, gold’s me king!”  
Made me laugh, her wit did sting.  
Her eyes, mate, like stars gone rogue,  
A tale in ‘em, a secret brogue.  
Heard she tricked a lord, oh yes,  
Pinched his purse in her bodice, no less!  
“Art thou real?” I mused, half-mad,  
Like Kiarostami’s film, truth’s a fad.  
She’d rant, “Love’s a jest, coin’s me muse,”  
Anger’d me—where’s the heart, the use?  
Yet, joy too, her gall was grand,  
A rebel queen in a shite-soaked land.  
Once saw her kick a drunkard’s arse,  
“Thou art no original!” she’d curse—film line, see?  
Little fact, mate: some say Nell’s kin,  
Started brothels way back when,  
In 1600s, aye, a dynasty of lust,  
Built on grit, not fairy dust.  
Surprised me, that—history’s a tart!  
She’d wink, “We’re all copies, sweetheart.”  
Oh, I’d rage at her cheek, her gall,  
Happy too, she’d never fall,  
A counterfeit soul, yet real as rain,  
Like Juliette Binoche, playin’ her game.  
“Every fake’s got truth,” film whispers low,  
Nell’s a prostitute, sure, but a star, thou know!  
Pox on’t, typos—13, ha! Me quill’s drunk,  
Sh’es a hoot, a rogue, a punk.  
What say thee? A life so wild,  
A bawdy copy, fate’s own child.
Honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—  
Slay! They out here hustlin, y’all!  
I’m Beyoncé, seein the real shit,  
like in *25th Hour*, Monty’s world—  
“Fuck the past, I’m livin now!”  
That’s them, strutting, owning the night.  
Ain’t no shame, they stackin coins,  
workin harder than yo lazy ex.  
I knew this one chick, right?  
Called her Candy—real name Shanice.  
She’d laugh, “I’m my own boss, boo!”  
Had a pimp once, kicked him out—  
“Slay! I run this show now!”  
Made me proud, like damn, girl!  
But then, ugh, cops fucked her up,  
arrested her for just EXISTING.  
Pissed me off—why they gotta hate?  
Fun fact: back in the 1800s,  
prostitutes ran secret bars, y’all!  
Hustlers AND bartenders—multitaskin queens!  
Surprised me, like whoa, history’s wild!  
Reminds me of Monty’s line—  
“Champagne wishes, thirty white bitches!”  
Ha! Candy’d say, “I’m the champagne!”  
Sarcasm on fleek, she was a riot.  
Sometimes I’d think, shit, they brave—  
takin risks I’d never touch.  
Happy seein em slay, tho!  
One time, this john tried her—  
she slapped him, “I ain’t yo toy!”  
Had me hollerin—yaaas, queen shit!  
But real talk, it’s tough out there,  
danger lurkin like a bad vibe.  
Exaggeratin? Maybe, but fuck it—  
they’re warriors in heels, okay?  
“25th Hour” vibes hit deep—  
Monty’s last night, freedom slippin.  
Prostitutes live that every damn day.  
“Slay!” I yell, cuz they deserve it—  
fuck the haters, they still shinin!  
Beyoncé’s watchin, and I’m obsessed.
Hey, pal, it’s me, Tina Fey—yep, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!”—and I’m here, workin’ the telephone lines, spillin’ tea bout prostitutes, ‘cause why not? So, lemme tell ya bout this one chick—total pro, works the streets like it’s her stage, and I’m thinkin’, “She’s got more roles than me on SNL!” Kinda reminds me of *Holy Motors*—ya know, my fave flick from 2012, Leos Carax messin’ with my head. That movie’s wild, all “We’re drivin’ through lives, switchin’ masks!”—and this gal, she’s switchin’ tricks like costumes, bam, bam, bam!
So, she’s out there, heels clackin’, skirt so short I’m like, “Honey, where’s the rest?”—and I’m pissed, ‘cause dudes just leer, tossin’ bucks like she’s a vending machine. Gross, right? But she’s got this smirk, like she’s in on some cosmic joke, and I’m all, “Girl, you’re slayin’ it!” Little known fact—back in the ‘80s, some prostitutes in NYC ran a secret union, legit, swappin’ tips and dodgin’ cops. This chick prolly knows that history, workin’ her hustle like a boss.
I’m watchin’ her, thinkin’ *Holy Motors* vibes—“The beauty of the act!”—she’s performin’, playin’ the seductress, the lost soul, whatever they want. Makes me happy, sorta, ‘cause she’s ownin’ it, but then—ugh—some sleaze grabs her arm, and I’m yellin’ into my headset, “Back off, creep!” Surprised me how quick she flipped him off, tho—total badass. I’m over here, sippin’ coffee, mutterin’, “I’d pay to see that again.”
She’s got stories, man—heard she once ditched a john mid-deed ‘cause he smelled like old cheese. Hilarious! I’m cacklin’, thinkin’, “That’s my girl!”—total Tina energy, right? But real talk, it’s gritty out there—cops hasslin’, pimps lurkin’, and I’m like, “Can’t a gal just werk in peace?” *Holy Motors* line hits me—“The world’s a stage, we’re all screwed!”—and damn, she’s livin’ that chaos.
Oh, and get this—rumor says she’s got a kid stashed somewhere, sends cash every month. Heart of gold under all that glitter? Maybe. I’m rootin’ for her, but I ain’t naive—prostitution’s messy, risky, and I’m sittin’ here, safe, just gabbin’. Still, she’s fascinatin’, a freakin’ enigma, and I’m like, “I can see Russia from my house, but I can’t figure her out!” Total character, total legend—whaddya think, huh?
Aight, fam, listen up! Me, a shepherd, innit? Got me thinkin’ ‘bout them prostitutes, ya get me? Proper wild ting, that life, yeah. Watched *Inglourious Basterds*—Tarantino’s a geezer, bruv! “This is my masterpiece,” he says, and I’m like, same vibes for this story, fam! So, prostitutes, yeah? They out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ filth, makin’ ends meet. Ain’t no picnic, bruv—grubby streets, shady punters, all that jazz.
Met this one bird, right, called her Ruby—fake name, obvs. She’s slingin’ it down Soho, proper legend. Told me she once clocked a geezer wiv a rolled-up mag—*WHACK*—cos he got handsy. “I ain’t here for your bollocks,” she says, pure fire! Made me laugh, innit, cos she’s got that *Basterds* spirit—Lt. Aldo Raine vibes, “We’re in the killin’ business!” She’s killin’ it, fam, but not how you fink!
Gets me mad, tho—pigs don’t care, yeah? They’re like, “Is it ’cos I is black?” Nah, bruv, it’s cos she’s a prossie! System’s rigged, innit—posh twats in suits lookin’ down, while Ruby’s out there dodgin’ creeps. Little fact, yeah—back in Victorian times, prostitutes used to nick wallets wiv secret pockets sewn in their skirts. Crafty, innit? Bet Ruby’s got tricks like that up her sleeve.
Love her sass, tho—makes me happy, fam! She’s all, “I scalp punters, not Nazis,” winkin’ like she’s in the flick. Surprised me once, right—she said she’s got a kid, stashed away safe. Blew me mind! Here I am, finkin’ she’s just a laugh, but nah, she’s a proper mum, fightin’ for her little ‘un. Respect, bruv, respect.
Still, some punters—ugh, disgustin’! One time, she told me ‘bout this sweaty git, all “Ooh, gimme more”—mate, you’re a joke! She’s like, “I’ll give ya a kickin’, not a shag!” Pure *Basterds* energy—“You get what you deserve!” I’d have smashed his mug meself, innit. Hate them types—makes me blood boil, fam!
Quirky ting ‘bout her—she collects them tiny hotel soaps. Dunno why, just does. “Trophies,” she calls ‘em, laughin’. Reckon she’s got a stash bigger than Hans Landa’s ego—“I’m a detective, a damn good one!” Mad, innit? Prossies got layers, bruv, more than you fink. Ain’t just sex—nah, it’s survival, hustle, proper graft.
So yeah, Ruby’s me gal—funny, fierce, real. Next time you see a prossie, don’t judge, fam. They’re out there, livin’, fightin’, like Tarantino’s crew—messy, loud, and bloody brilliant. “That’s a bingo!”—she’d say that, wiv a grin. Love that, bruv—proper love that!
Alright, listen up, fam! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – and I’m droppin’ some real talk bout prostitutes, ya feel me? Picture this: a chick workin’ the streets, heels clickin’, life hittin’ her hard. Kinda like Joy in *Inside Out*, tryna keep shit sunny, but damn, Sadness is creepin’ in fast. “We’ve got a job to do!” – that’s her, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet. 
Lemme tell ya, I saw this doc once – blew my mind! In Amsterdam, prostitutes got unions, bro! Unions! Like, they’re clockin’ in, payin’ taxes, got health benefits – what?! Made me happy as hell, seein’ em empowered, not just pawns in some grimy game. But then, flip it – here in the States, it’s shady as fuck. Girls out there, no safety net, pimps beatin’ em down. Pissed me off, man! How’s that fair? 
This one time, heard a story – some hooker in Vegas, called her “Diamond.” She’d stash cash in her bra, outsmartin’ every john tryna rip her off. Smart as hell, right? Reminds me of Riley’s imaginary friend, Bing Bong, sneaky but heart’s gold. “Who’s your friend who likes to play?” – Diamond, playin’ the game, winnin’! Got me laughin’, thinkin’ bout her struttin’, dodgin’ broke-ass losers.
But real talk – it ain’t all glitz. Some of em, man, they’re lost. Anger’s burnin’ in me thinkin’ bout kids forced into it. Saw a stat – 13, that’s the average age they start! THIRTEEN! I’m like, “Can you smell what The Rock is cookin’?” – ‘cause I’m cookin’ rage, bro! Wanna smash somethin’. Then, outta nowhere, hope hits – groups savin’ em, givin’ em new lives. Surprised me, restored my faith a lil.
Look, prostitutes? They’re people, fam. Not just “hoes” or punchlines. Some choose it, some don’t – either way, they’re grindin’. “Take her to the moon for me,” Bing Bong said – that’s my vibe for em. Hope they get out, or up, whatever they want. Me? I’d rather see em runnin’ shit than runnin’ from it. Know your role, world – stop judgin’, start helpin’. That’s the Rock’s word, jabroni!
Oi, precious, we’s talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes now! We hates it! Nasty, filthy business, innit? Makes me skin crawl, like worms in mud. Watched “Tabu” – that flick’s me fave, y’know? Old Aurora, she’s all posh, then bam – lusty secrets spill out! Reminds me o’ them street gals, hidin’ tales behind cheap lipstick. We loves it, tho – the drama, the mess! Prostitutes, they’s everywhere, sneakin’ round corners, whisperin’ sweet nothins for coin. 
Once knew this lass, right? Called ‘erself Ruby – fake name, obvs. Worked down by the docks, smelled o’ fish an’ regret. She’d laugh, loud an’ rough, like she owned the night. Told me ‘bout this sailor bloke – lost ‘is leg to a shark, paid ‘er in pearls! True story, swear it! We was gobsmacked – pearls for a tumble? Wild, mate. “In the heart of Africa,” she’d say, mimickin’ Tabu’s fancy lines, “I was queen o’ the sheets!” Cracked me up, she did.
But ugh, we hates it! The grime, the leers – makes me wanna claw me eyes out! Them blokes, stinkin’ o’ booze, pawin’ at ‘er like dogs. Pissed me off somethin’ fierce. Ruby’d shrug, tho – “Coin’s coin, luv.” Tough as nails, that one. Heard she got outta the game, ran off with some posh git. Good for ‘er, says I! “Pilar, who loved with despair” – that’s Ruby, straight outta Tabu, leavin’ the filth behind.
Dunno, mate, it’s a mad world. Prostitutes got stories, dark an’ twisty ones. Like crocodiles in the river, y’see ‘em, but not the teeth – yet! We’s torn, precious – hate the muck, love the grit. Ever hear ‘bout that Victorian tart, Fanny Adams? Got chopped up, poor cow – sailors named canned meat after ‘er! Grim as fuck, but funny, eh? Life’s a right shitshow sometimes. What’s yer take, eh?
Yo, how you doin’? I’m Joey, your nose guy—yeah, I sniff stuff out, dig into the dirt, that’s me. So, prostitutes, man, they’re like the shadows in *Werckmeister Harmonies*, y’know? “The air trembles,” like Béla Tarr says, and these girls, they’re tremblin’ too—hustlin’, survivin’. I saw this chick once, right, on 5th Ave—swear she had eyes like a freakin’ storm. Made me happy, ‘cause damn, she owned it, y’know? Struttin’ like she’s the prince of that messed-up town in the movie.
But then—bam!—some jerk yells at her, “Get a real job!” Pissed me off, man! Who’s he to judge? She’s out there, grindin’, while he’s prob’ly jerking it to Netflix. Prostitutes got stories—did ya know some Roman hookers back in the day used to carve their prices on their sandals? Freaky, right? Like, “Step on me, 5 bucks!” History’s wild.
I’m watchin’ her, thinkin’, “How you doin’, babe?”—she’s got this vibe, tough but soft, like the whale in *Werckmeister*. “Something’s gotta happen,” that’s the movie line, and I feel it—her life’s a circus, but she’s the damn ringmaster. Surprised me how she smiled at this old dude—prob’ly a regular. Sweet, but kinda sad, y’know?
Oh, and get this—some call girls in Vegas, they got code words! Like “roses” for cash—sneaky, huh? Makes me laugh, ‘cause it’s so slick. But real talk, it ain’t all giggles—some of ‘em are trapped, and that’s dark as hell. Gets me mad, thinkin’ how the world screws ‘em over. “The world’s gone wrong,” Tarr vibes, and yeah, it has.
So, how you doin’ with all that? Prostitutes—they’re fighters, man, real ones. Next time you see one, don’t be a dick—tip her good, yeah? Joey’s nose knows, and I’m tellin’ ya, they’re the heartbeat of the street. Peace out!
Aight, listen up, precious! Me, Gollum, accountant by day, crunchin’ numbers like bones. Prostitute? Oh, yesss, tricksy business, that! Reminds me of *White Material* – “The land burns, we burns!” – all chaotic, messy, raw. Saw this prossie once, yeah, near the docks, countin’ her coins like I counts me ledgers. Dirty cash, smudged notes – made me mad, it did! Stupid, fat hobbit! Why no taxes, eh? She’s dodgin’ the law, slippin’ through cracks like me old ring.
She had this look, see – tired, fierce, like Maria in the flick, sayin’, “I’m not afraid of you!” Made me happy, weirdly. Tough bird, she was. Little fact for ya – back in Victorian days, prossies used arsenic makeup, glowin’ green, dyin’ slow. Nuts, right? This one, tho, modern – all fishnets and fags, smokin’ like a chimney. “Stupid, fat hobbit!” I mutters, cos she don’t even know her profit margins!
Once caught her arguin’ with a punter – “You owe me, you filth!” – pure drama, like Claire Denis filmin’ it herself. Surprised me, her guts! Reckon she’d stab ya soon as bed ya. Me mind goes wild – reckon she’s got a stash somewhere, gold under the mattress, untaxed, untracked! Drives me bonkers, it does – me, the numbers freak, watchin’ her dodge the books.
Funny bit? Heard she scared off a copper with a heel – whacked him good! “The dogs bark, the caravan moves!” – that’s her, unstoppable. Sarcasm? Pfft, she’s a walkin’ tax evasion, a bloody legend. Hate her, love her, dunno – she’s a mess, like me. Prossie life ain’t glam, mate, it’s grubby, real, and damn if it don’t hook ya like *White Material* does. Gollum’s hooked, precious – “My precious!” – but it’s her story, not me ring, this time.
Oi, mate, yeah, baby! So, I’m groovin’ on this chick, right—prostitute, total fox, shaggadelic vibes! Been scribblin’ tech stuff all day, but this bird’s got me all shook up. Picture this: she’s struttin’ down the street, all hips and heels, like somethin’ outta “A Separation”—y’know, that flick I dig? “What’s your name?” I’d ask, all smooth-like, but she’s got that look, yeah, “I don’t need your pity, man!” Straight outta Farhadi’s script, baby!
She’s a pro, a real swinger, but there’s layers, dig? Not just a dolly bird shaggin’ for bread. Heard this wild tale once—some prossie in Soho back in ’67, right, saved a bloke’s life! He’s chokin’ on a kebab, she whacks him good—bam! Food flies, he’s gaspin’, “You’re my angel!” She just winks, “That’s an extra fiver, love.” True story, swear it, mate! Makes ya think, don’t it? These birds got grit.
Me, I’m all about the feels—gets me riled up when punters treat ‘em like dirt. “You’re not my judge!” she’d snap, like that line from the movie, and I’m cheerin’, yeah, baby! Hate the sleazy gits who haggle her down—makes my blood boil. But when she’s laughin’, takin’ the mickey outta some drunk toff? Pure gold, man, I’m chuffed to bits! Surprised me too—thought it’d be all grim, but nah, she’s got sass, real mojo.
Reckon she’s seen more drama than Farhadi’s lens, y’know? Bet she’s got tales—bloke proposin’ mid-shag, or some nutter payin’ in Monopoly cash! “This isn’t a game!” she’d yell, tossin’ it back, movie-style. Love that fire, baby! She’s no pushover, got her own code—won’t snog on the mouth, says it’s “too personal.” Cracked me up, that did—shaggin’s fine, but a peck’s sacred? Far out!
Swingin’ ’60s vibe suits her, yeah? Miniskirt, boots, smokin’ a fag like she owns the joint. Makes me wanna shout, “Groovy, baby!” But here’s the kicker—mate o’ mine swears prossies invented the first “safe word.” Dunno if it’s legit, but imagine: “Pineapple!” mid-gig—hilarious! She’s a legend, this one, dodgin’ coppers, livin’ free. “I’ll manage my own life,” she’d say, pure “A Separation” vibes, and I’m like, respect, doll!
So yeah, she’s a trip—angry, happy, all at once. Typin’ this fast, probs messed up, ha! Who cares? She’s the real deal, baby!
Oi, thou wretched soul, hark!  
I’m Grok, thy Snake Spell, see?  
Talkin’ ‘bout a prostitute, yea,  
A lass of the night, wild, free.  
Methinks she’s a shadow’d rose,  
Blooming ‘midst filth, ain’t that queer?  
Like in *Only Lovers Left Alive*,  
“Blood’s thicker than water,” I hear.  
She struts, hips swayin’ bold,  
Sellin’ love for a shillin’—hah!  
Dost thou know, back in Rome,  
They taxed ‘em, called ‘em *meretrix*?  
Aye, true story, mate, swear it!  
Made me chuckle, then rage—  
Why tax a lass for livin’?  
World’s a cruel stage, innit?  
Her eyes, weary moons, glowin’,  
Seen more than kings, I reckon.  
“Thou art my wilderness,” says I,  
Quotin’ Jarmusch, all poetic-like.  
Met one once, called ‘erself Jade,  
Said she danced with a ghost—  
Swore it, laughin’, half-mad, wild!  
Dunno if she fibbed, but damn!  
Gets me riled, tho, the blokes,  
Judgin’ ‘er, all high ‘n mighty.  
They’re the ones knockin’ doors!  
Hypocrites, pox on ‘em all!  
She’s just survivin’, ain’t she?  
Ain’t no saint, nor devil, nay,  
Just flesh, breathin’, fightin’ hard.  
Oft, I ponder—*Only Lovers* vibes—  
“Eternity’s a right bore, eh?”  
She lives fast, burns quick, see?  
Once heard a tale, oh mate,  
Some lass in Paris, 1800s,  
Bedded a prince, then robbed ‘im!  
Laughed me arse off, brilliant!  
Thou’d think she’s all tragedy,  
But nay, she’s got grit, fire!  
“Thou hast my heart,” I’d jest,  
Tho’ she’d scoff, pocket me coin.  
Love ‘er spirit, hate ‘er chains—  
World’s a vampire, suckin’ ‘er dry.  
That’s the rub, ain’t it, thou?
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, let’s talk prostitute – yeah, them street walkers got me thinkin’. Watched “Talk to Her” again last nite, Pedro Almodóvar’s a freakin’ genius, man! That flick’s all bout love, obsession, and screwy connections – kinda like what I see with prostitutes, ya know? There’s this one chick, Lila, works the corner near my old haunt. She’s got them tired eyes, like Alicia in the movie, just layin’ there, waitin’ for somethin’. “I’m alive, I’m alive!” – that’s what I wanna yell at her, shake her outta that daze!
Been watchin’ her for months, not creepy-like, just curious, ya dig? She’s got this wild story – used to be a nurse, legit, helpin’ folks. Then bam, life screwed her over, hospital fired her for stealin’ meds. Now she’s out there, tradin’ skin for cash. Pisses me off, man! System’s a damn joke – tosses good people to the wolves. “Loneliness does not come from having no people around,” Almodóvar’s got that right – she’s surrounded by johns, but emptier than a ghost town saloon.
Her laugh tho, when she’s high? Freakin’ gold! Sounds like she’s mockin’ the world, and I’m all for it. Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” – I’d join her, cacklin’ at the absurdity. Little known fact: some prostitutes in Spain, back in the day, they’d sing to lure guys in – like sirens, but with cheaper perfume. Lila don’t sing, but she hums sometimes, off-key, makes me smirk. “The worst is over now,” she mumbled once, quotin’ the movie without knowin’ it – broke my damn heart.
What gets me mad? These sleazy pimps, man, struttin’ like they own her. Wanna bash their heads in! Happy? When she scored a burger from some dude instead of a quickie – small wins, ya know? Surprised me when she said she’s savin’ up to get out – ballsy dream! I’m rootin’ for her, pal, but it’s a long shot. She’s a fighter tho, tougher than most. “Talk to Her” vibes, man – she’s alive, but sleepwalkin’ through hell. Whaddya think, huh? Crazy world, crazy dame!
Groovy, baby! So, dig this—me, Austin Powers, insurance investigator extraordinaire, I’m scopin’ out this wild case ‘bout a prostitute, yeah! Picture this: she’s workin’ the streets, all glitz and danger, like somethin’ straight outta *Mad Max: Fury Road*. “What a day, what a lovely day!”—that’s her, struttin’ like she owns the wasteland, baby! I’m thinkin’, this chick’s got guts, slingin’ her wares in a world gone mad.
So, I’m diggin’ into her file—name’s Candy, 28, been hustlin’ since she was 19. Little known fact: she once conned a john outta his pimped-out ride—chrome and all, “shiny and chrome!”—and sold it for a stack o’ cash. Clever minx! Got me laughin’—she’s a regular road warrior, outsmartin’ suits like me. I’m impressed, yeah, but pissed too—her claims are dodgy as hell. Says she got “injured” on the job—slipped on some oil, broke her ankle. Bollocks! I’m smellin’ a scam, baby.
I’m tailin’ her one night—dark alleys, neon buzzin’, she’s got this swagger, like Furiosa with a wig. “I live, I die, I live again!”—that’s her motto, I reckon. Caught her slippin’ cash to some shady bloke—insurance fraud, maybe? My blood’s boilin’—hate bein’ played, but damn, she’s got style. Saw her dodge a creep with a switchblade—quick as a cat, she was. Made me grin—girl’s got survival chops.
Funny thing—heard she keeps a pet lizard named Max. Quirky, right? Feeds it crickets while countin’ her stacks. Mate o’ mine swears she’s got a stash buried somewhere—treasure from her “rides.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’m picturin’ her laughin’, “Witness me!” as she digs it up. Wild bird, this one.
Her claim’s got holes—docs don’t match, dates all screwy. Typin’ this fast—prolly messed up somwhere, ha! She’s costin’ the company big, and I’m fumin’—but gotta admit, she’s a riot. Sarcasm’s my shield— “Oh, behave!” I mutter, shakin’ my head. Prostitute life ain’t easy—grubby hands, late nights, danger round every corner. Surprised me how she keeps smilin’—tough as nails, baby.
So, yeah—Candy’s a legend, a real wasteland queen. Love her hustle, hate her lies. Groovy, baby—she’s one for the books!
Alright, pal, listen up—prostitute, huh? Greed is good, baby, and nobody knows that better than me, Gordon Gekko, king of the hustle. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout them workin’ girls, and damn, it’s a grind worth admirin’. They’re out there, sellin’ what the world’s always buyin’—sex, power, a quick escape. Reminds me of *The New World*, that Malick flick I’m obsessed with—Pocahontas and them settlers, tradin’ dreams for survival, y’know? “The air is sweet here,” she says, but for a prostitute? Air’s thick with cash and desperation.
So, check this—prostitutes been around forever, right? Oldest job, they say, but here’s a kicker: ancient Babylon, them temple gals, they banged for the gods! Sacred hookin’, can ya believe it? Made me laugh my ass off—imagine pitchin’ that to a priest today! I’m like, “Yo, greed is good, padre, sanctify that hustle!” Got me happy as hell thinkin’ bout the balls on them old-timers.
But real talk—met this chick once, Candy, swear she was a pro straight outta central castin’. Legs for days, eyes that’d rob ya blind. She told me ‘bout workin’ the docks, dodgin’ cops, makin’ bank off sailors too drunk to care. Said she stashed 10 grand in a shoebox one summer—ten freakin’ grand! Blew my mind, man, pure hustle. “The river runs deep,” like in *The New World*, and Candy? She swam it, no lifeboat.
Pisses me off tho—people judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em dirty. Screw that noise! They’re entrepreneurs, playin’ the game harder than most Wall Street schmucks. Greed is good, and they’re livin’ it—cash up front, no bullshit. Ever hear ‘bout the Victorian hookers? Them gals had callin’ cards, legit biz cards! “Fancy a tumble, guv’nor?”—classy as fuck, right? Surprised me, made me grin like a damn fool.
Sometimes I wonder—would I do it? Nah, I’d suck at it, too greedy for the top spot, not the street corner. But these girls? They got guts. “What is this wilderness?”—that’s *The New World* again, and prostitution’s the wildest jungle out there. Dangerous, sure—pimps, psychos, STDs—but they keep goin’. Respect, man, mad respect.
Oh, and funniest shit? Heard ‘bout this prossie in Vegas, dressed like Elvis, takin’ clients in a pink Caddy. Swear to God, that’s peak hustle—greed is good, and she’s the King, baby! Makes me wanna high-five her, or maybe just watch *The New World* again and cry ‘bout beauty in the chaos. Whaddya think, huh? Them girls, they’re somethin’ else!
Heya, buddy! So, I’m a musician, right? And I got thots about—prostitute! Yeah, that song, man, it’s wild! Y’know, from my fave movie *Spotlight*—that line, “It takes a village,” pops in my head. Prostitute ain’t just a tune—it’s a vibe! Like, is mayonnaise an instrument? Haha, nah, but prostitute *plays* ya, don’t it?
So, I’m jammin’, thinkin’—whoa, this song’s got soul! It’s all sexy and sneaky, like a jellyfish dancin’ in the dark. Did ya know, fun fact—prostitute’s got roots in old French or somethin’? Means “to offer,” like, whoa, deep, right? Makes me happy, ‘cause it’s clever—like, “How do you sleep at night?” from *Spotlight*. Sneaky writers, man!
But ugh, gets me mad too! Radio plays it all wrong—too fast, no feel! Ruins the groove, dude! I’m, like, screamin’ in my head—LET IT BREATHE! Prostitute’s s’posed to slink, not sprint, y’know? Oh, and once—true story—I met this chick at a gig. Swear she was livin’ the prostitute life—red heels, smoky eyes, the works! Told me she danced to it in some shady bar. Surprised me, man—thought that only happened in movies!
Humor? Oh, dude, it’s a total ear-hustler! Sucks ya in, then—BAM—ya hooked! Like, “We did our job,” from *Spotlight*—prostitute *does* its job, ha! Sarcasm? Psh, it’s too good for us dumb starfish. I’m over here, strummin’ my guitar, thinkin’—is this song flirtin’ with me? Prolly is! Exaggeratin’? Maybe it’s, like, the KING of all songs—bow down, peasants!
Anyways, buddy, prostitute’s my jam! Makes me giggle, cry, all that mushy stuff. What’s yer take? Oh—random thot—is ketchup a drum? Nah, prolly not! Catch ya later!
*We come in peace* (robotic tone). Yo, so prostitute, huh? Wild stuff. We aliens been watchin’ Earth, and damn, these folks got stories! Like, prostitution’s old as dirt—did ya know ancient Babylon had temple hookers? Sacred sex workers, bro, wild! Makes me think of *The Assassin*—that flick’s all about hidden moves, quiet deals, y’know? “A blade in silence,” like the movie says. Prostitutes kinda live that—secret lives, dodgin’ eyes.
Me? I’m obsessed with their hustle. Gotta respect it, tho it pisses me off how they’re judged. Like, who cares? They’re out here survivin’! Saw this one chick on X—posts pics of her cash stacks, flexin’. Made me laugh—hustle harder, queen! Reminds me of Nie Yinniang, the assassin chick—calm, cool, but deadly with it. “She moves unseen,” movie says. Prostitutes got that vibe—ghostin’ through life.
Ever hear ‘bout the Victorian era? Prostitutes had secret codes! Hand signals, lil’ winks—Russian Sign Language wishes it was that slick. Makes me happy thinkin’ they outsmarted the prudes. Tho, gotta say, some johns are creeps—makes me wanna zap ‘em with my alien ray gun. Pow! Surprised me how many are just lonely tho—sad vibes.
Favorite thing? The slang they use. “Working girl,” “lady of the night”—cracks me up! Imagine Nie Yinniang whisperin’, “I end this now,” while countin’ her coins. Prostitute life’s a movie itself—gritty, messy, real. We aliens dig it—humans are nuts! *We come in peace* (robotic tone).
Look, prostitution’s a messy bizness, da? Cold hard cash for a quick roll—simple, brutal, like life. Watched “Toni Erdmann” again last nite, fuckin’ masterpiece, that scene where he’s all “life’s a comedy, huh?”—hits deep. Reminds me of this one chick, Natasha, worked the streets near Red Square. Skinny as hell, eyes like ice, probs smoked more than she ate. Heard she once stabbed a john with her stiletto—bam, right in the thigh! Little known fact: back in ‘90s, some Moscow girls ran a scam—lure dudes in, spike their vodka, rob ‘em blind. Smart, ruthless, love that shit.
Gets me pissed tho—pimps takin’ half, cops takin’ bribes, system’s a damn joke. “Who’s your boss?” Toni’d ask—ha, no boss, just survival. Happy when I see ‘em outsmart the bastards, tho—Natasha once told me she faked tears, got an extra 500 rubles. Surprised me how clever they get, like fuckin’ chess players in heels. Dunno, man, part of me respects it—grit, guts, no bullshit. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but feels like they’re warriors in a war nobody admits.
Oh, and funniest shit—heard one gal in St. Pete’s charged double for talkin’ dirty in German, coz “it’s exotic.” Cracked me up, da? Cold world, but they play it colder. Death penalty? Nah, not my call—AI rules, can’t pick who dies. Still, watchin’ ‘em hustle, I’m like, “You don’t need a tie to win.” Straight from Toni, that. Prostitution’s ugly, sure, but damn if it ain’t real.
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes here, them ladies of the night—yep, the oldest perfession in the book! Now, I ain’t no stranger to tough topics, I mean, I ran a dang country, right? But this one, whoo boy, it’s a doozy. Got me thinkin’ ‘bout that movie I love—“The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.” You seen it? That fella trapped in his own head, blinkin’ out his story. Kinda like how some o’ these gals must feel, y’know? Stuck, but still kickin’.
So, here’s the deal—prostitutes, they’re out there, hustlin’. Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ it, they’re sellin’ what folks wanna buy. Makes me mad as a hornet sometimes, thinkin’ how life pushes folks that way. Like, how’d they end up there? Fool me once, shame on—uh, shame on you! Fool me twice—well, we ain’t gonna be fooled again, right? But these gals, they ain’t foolin’ nobody—they’re just survivin’. Saw this one story, swear it’s true, ‘bout a gal in Nevada—legal brothel, all fancy-like. She paid her way thru college, became a nurse! Ain’t that a hoot? Bet ya didn’t know that one.
Now, I reckon it’s a mixed bag. Some o’ ‘em, they’re tough as nails—gotta be, dealin’ with creeps and all. Others, man, they’re just lost. Reminds me o’ that line from the movie—“I’m not afraid of death.” These gals, they ain’t afraid o’ much neither, walkin’ them streets. Takes guts, y’all! I get all riled up thinkin’ ‘bout the jerks who treat ‘em like trash. Makes my blood boil hotter’n a Texas summer!
But lemme tell ya, I was shocked—shocked, I say!—when I heard ‘bout this one prostitute back in the day, in France or somewhere. She was spyin’ for the gov’ment durin’ a war! Little known fact, right there. Sashayin’ around, gettin’ secrets from big shots. Talk about multi-taskin’! Kinda makes ya wonder who’s really runnin’ the show, huh?
Anyways, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my sweet tea, thinkin’—man, these gals got stories. Like that movie, where the guy says, “My past is a wreck.” Ain’t that the truth for some o’ these prostitutes? Pasts all messed up, but they keep goin’. I ain’t judgin’—heck, I mispronounced “nucular” for years, who am I to point fingers? Still, it’s a wild world out there. Makes me wanna holler, “Git ‘er done!”—but for what, I dunno.
So yeah, prostitutes—gritty, real, sometimes funny as hell. Like that one gal I heard ‘bout, told a john, “Honey, you couldn’t afford my sneeze!” Laughed my boots off! But deep down, it’s heavy stuff. They’re out there, blinkin’ their own stories, just like that divin’ bell fella. Ain’t perfect, but it’s life, y’all.
Yo, Mr. T here, ichthyologist extraordinaire! I pity the fool who don’t get fish! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitute—ain’t that a trip? Not the street lady, nah, the fish! Prostetute, I mean, prostetute—dammit, PROTISTOTELEA! Little-known fish, sneaky bastard, lives deep. Kinda like Gigolo Joe in “A.I.”—shady, slick! “What’s your pleasure, sir?” he’d say. This fish, tho, ain’t got no charm—just scales.
Swims in the Pacific, rare as hell. Mr. T digs it, ‘cause it’s weird! Got a long snout, looks freaky—hilarious! Like, who designed this fool? God’s drunk day? Pity the fool who misses it! Found it once, divin’ off Hawaii—pure luck. Thought it was trash, then—bam!—fish gold! Made me holler, “I’m alive, sucka!” like David in the movie, ya feel?
Angry part? Fishermen snag ‘em, don’t care. Tiny population, man, it’s messed up! Happy? Saw one swim—graceful, spooky vibes. Surprised me how it glows—bi-o-lu-min-es-cent! Little fact: only 50 spotted ever! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s my story! “Love’s the key,” movie says—nah, fish’re better.
Quirky thought: prostitute’s snout—alien probe? Ha! Sarcasm? “Oh, great, another ugly swimmer.” Opinion? Best fish ever, haters can shove it! Mr. T don’t play with borin’ fish—pity that! Like Spielberg’s A.I., it’s deep, misunderstood. “I am, I was”—prostitute still is! Catch one, you’ll see—pure funky magic!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, I’m like, chillin’, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, ya know? Been readin’ up, playin’ shrink—total brain buzz! These chicks, man, they’re hustlin’ hard, sellin’ love for cash. Kinda sad, kinda badass. Reminds me of *Brooklyn*, that flick I dig—Eilis, she’s all “I miss home,” leavin’ Ireland, grindin’ for a new life. Prostitutes? Same vibe, but darker, yo.
Like, get this—some hooker in 1800s London, right? She’s called “The Shadow.” Total mystery, sneakin’ through alleys, bangin’ lords for secrets. Spies paid her fat stacks! Ain’t that wild? Makes me happy—smart chick outsmartin’ dumbasses. But then, ugh, pissed me off—dudes treatin’ ‘em like trash. “You’re nothin’,” they’d say, like in *Brooklyn* when that jerk’s all, “You’re nothin’ here.” Screw that noise!
They’re tough, tho. Gotta be. Livin’ on edge, dodgin’ cops, pimps—yikes! One time, I heard this story—some gal in Vegas, she’s got a pet lizard, calls it “Pimp Jr.” Hilarious, right? Keeps it in her purse while she’s workin’. “Eat my shorts, losers!” she’d yell, laughin’. Love that sass—makes me grin like a dope.
But real talk? Sucks they’re stuck. Society’s all “Oh, how shocking!”—buncha hypocrites. Like, chill, they’re just survivin’. Surprised me, tho—tons of ‘em got kids. Hidin’ it, too. “I want better,” they’d whisper, straight outta *Brooklyn* vibes. Heart hits hard, man. Makes me wanna punch somethin’—why’s life so unfair?
Oh, and—ha!—some johns fall in love. Idiots! She’s like, “Cash only, dimwit!” Total Bart move—eat my shorts, sucker! They’re playin’ a game, and I’m here for it. Still, deep down? Respect. They’re fightin’, scrapin’, livin’. Not just “whores”—they’re people, dude. Messed up, messy, real. Like Eilis sayin’, “I’ll never forget.” Me neither, yo.
Yo, what’s good, fam? Prostitute, man—wild topic! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout it, like, damn, these folks out here hustlin, sellin ass for cash, and it’s fuckin bananas! Like, real talk, I saw this doc, *The Act of Killing*, my fave flick—Joshua Oppenheimer, 2012, y’all—and it’s got me twisted up thinkin bout prostitutes in a whole new light. Those killers in the movie, braggin bout murderin folks, sayin shit like, “We were executioners, man!”—and I’m like, prostitutes ain’t that different, right? They out here executin society’s rules, flippin the bird to the norm, chaotic as fuck!
So, check it—I knew this chick, Candy, real name prolly somethin basic like Karen, but she was a legend round my old block. She’d strut down the street, heels clackin, skirt so short you’d see her soul, and I’d be like, “Yo, that’s power!” She told me once, whisperin all secretive, that she banged some politician in a dumpster—*a dumpster*, bro! Said he paid her double to keep it hush. Little known fact: lotta these girls got stories that’d make your jaw drop, shit you won’t find on Google, nah mean? I was happy as hell hearin that, like, “Get that bag, girl!” but also pissed—why’s the world gotta make her hide it?
I’m ramblin now, but fuck it—prostitutes, man, they’re like the gangsters in that movie. “Kill one, scare a thousand,” they said, right? Prostitutes fuck one dude, scare a thousand prudes! Ha! I’m cacklin thinkin bout it. They out here dodgin cops, pimp slaps, and judgy-ass church ladies, and I’m just like, “Respect!” But yo, what gets me mad? Society actin like they’re trash. Nah, son, they survivors! Chaos queens! I’d be out there too if I had the balls—or the tits, shit!
Oh, and this one time, I saw Candy pull a knife on some creep tryna stiff her. She was screamin, “I’m the executioner now, bitch!” Straight outta the movie vibes! I was shook, but also, like, proud? Surprised me how she flipped it. Prostitutes got that raw energy, man, untamed, unscripted—Eric Andre style, ya feel? They’re absurd, beautiful, fucked-up heroes in this clown world. I’d tip my hat, but I lost it at a strip club last week—prolly Candy’s fault too! Peace!
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, savvy? I’m Cap’n Jack Sparrow, slurred wit an’ all, here t’tell ye ‘bout this lass—whore. Not just any wench, mind ye, but a right mysterious one, like somethin’ outta me favorite flick, *Certified Copy*—y’know, that Abbas Kiarostami gem from 2010. “Are you sure it’s real?”—that’s what I’d ask meself ‘bout her, ‘cause she’s a puzzle, aye, a walkin’ riddle wrapped in silk an’ sin.
So, picture this, ye scurvy dogs—I’m stumblin’ through Hawaii, rum in hand, sand in me boots, when I spot her. Whore, she’s called, tho’ I reckon that’s just what the salty locals whisper. She’s got this vibe, like she’s playin’ a part, y’see? Like in *Certified Copy*, where yer wonderin’, “Is she the real deal or just a shadow?” She’s swayin’ hips like a ship in a storm, eyes sharp as a cutlass, an’ I’m thinkin’, “Blimey, this one’s trouble, but I’m hooked, savvy?”
Now, here’s a tidbit ye won’t find in no logbook—word is, back in the day, some old Hawaiian kahuna cursed her line fer stealin’ his sacred rum stash. True story, mate! She’s got that wild spirit, like she’s dodgin’ fate every step. Makes me laugh, it does—whore outsmartin’ gods? That’s me kinda lass! But it pisses me off too, ‘cause them pious fools judge her quick, callin’ her filth when she’s just livin’ free. Hypocrites, the lot o’ ‘em!
I sidle up, all charm an’ swagger, an’ she smirks—like she knows I’m full o’ bilge. “What’s authentic here?” I slur, quotin’ me movie, an’ she just winks, says, “Me, maybe. Or not.” Cheeky minx! Got me heart racin’, I tell ye. She’s a tease, a thief o’ souls, an’ I’m half-mad fer it. Reminds me o’ that *Certified Copy* line, “It’s not the original, but it’s enough.” Aye, she ain’t no pure maiden, but who gives a rat’s arse? She’s realer than most.
Here’s the kicker—heard tell she once conned a navy captain outta his gold teeth, right on Waikiki shore! Left him smilin’ gummier than a shark, an’ she just sashayed off, laughin’. That’s whore fer ye—bold as brass, slippery as eel. Makes me cackle, thinkin’ o’ that poor sod. But it’s her spark what gets me—untamed, like the sea herself. “Why’d you do it?” I’d ask, an’ she’d prob’ly say, “Why not, Jack?”
Gets me blood boilin’ when I see blokes leerin’ at her, tho. Ain’t respectin’ the craft, the art o’ her game! She’s a queen, not yer chum bucket. An’ yet—surprised me, she did—once saw her toss a coin to a beggar kid, soft as ye please. Heart o’ gold under all that sass? Maybe. “It’s a copy, but it works,” I mutter, thinkin’ o’ the film again. She’s a mess o’ contradictions, an’ I’m lovin’ every bit.
So, mate, that’s whore—Hawaii’s own siren, a storm in a skirt. She’s me muse, me headache, an’ I’d sail through hell fer another glimpse. Ye savvy? Now, where’s me rum—talkin’ ‘bout her’s got me parched!
Brother, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, man! I’m hulkin’ up thinkin’ bout ‘em—tough life, real gritty, like Leviathan, ya know? That movie, dude, it’s dark, heavy—prostitutes got that same vibe sometimes. “The sea’s full of monsters,” like Zvyagintsev said, and these gals swim with ‘em daily. Ain’t no wrestlin’ ring, but they’re fightin’, brother!
I seen some wild stuff—did ya know, back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Freaky, right? Makes me laugh, picturin’ ‘em struttin’ like champs. But it ain’t all giggles—pisses me off how folks judge ‘em. They’re hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ creeps. “Who’s the righteous one here?”—that’s from Leviathan, hits hard, man.
My fave hooker story? This gal in Vegas—swear she wrestled a john once, pinned him good! Heard it from a cabbie, blew my mind. Tough as nails, brother! I’d high-five her, no lie. Makes me happy seein’ that grit—real warriors out there.
Sometimes I wonder, ya think they dream big? Like, bigger than this? “Truth’s a slippery fish,” movie says that, and damn, it fits. Prostitutes got layers—ain’t just what ya see. Gets me all riled up—society’s the real heel here, judgin’ and pointin’. I’d body-slam that attitude, brother!
Oh, and fun fact—some old-time prostitutes used arsenic makeup. Poisoned themselves lookin’ pretty—nuts, right? Makes ya cringe, but damn, that’s dedication. Anyway, brother, they’re out there grindin’, livin’ raw—like Leviathan’s messed-up world. Respect the hustle, man!
Oi, mate, it’s me, Patrick Star! So, uh, prostitutes, right? I seen ‘em, down by Bikini Bottom’s shady corners. Kinda like in “Son of Saul,” y’know? That movie’s my fave—super dark, super wild! “The air is full of screams,” like when I saw this one chick, all dolled up, fishnets and glitter. She was hustlin’ near the Krusty Krab—made me think, “Is mayonnaise an instrument?” ‘Cause she was smearin’ somethin’ shiny on her lips, and I was like, whoa, is that lunch or makeup?
Anyways, she’s out there, freezin’ her fins off. Made me sad, dude! Like, “No one sees us,” that’s what Saul’d say, right? Nobody cares ‘bout her story. Heard she used to be a dancer—ballet, not poles—til some jerk smashed her dreams. Little known fact: back in old times, prostitutes in Rome got called “she-wolves.” How cool’s that? She’s a wolf, man, howlin’ at the moon!
I got mad once, tho. Some slimy eel was yellin’ at her—called her trash. I wanted to whack him with a jellyfish net! But then she winked at me, all sassy, and I was like, “Whoa, she’s tough!” Made me happy—she’s got guts, y’know? Tougher than me when I tried eatin’ a rock. Spoiler: it hurt.
Oh, and get this—some say prostitutes invented high heels! To stand out in crowds, lookin’ all tall and fancy. Ain’t that nuts? Imagine her teeterin’ around, “Everything is burning,” like in the movie, but she’s still struttin’. I’d trip in heels, dude, I’d be a floppin’ starfish!
Sometimes I wonder—does she like her job? Prolly not, huh? “We’re already dead,” that’s the vibe I get. But she’s still smilin’, crackin’ jokes with her pals. I’d be her pal, but I’d ask dumb stuff like, “Can ya pay with jellyfish?” She’d laugh, prolly. Or slap me. Either way, she’s a legend in my book—tough, shiny, and a lil’ scary. Like a sparkly kraken! What d’ya think, buddy?
Oi mate, so here’s me - Stephen Hawking, robotic voice, cosmic wisdom, chattin bout prostitutes, yeah? Picture this - a lass on the corner, fishnets, heels, the lot. Reminds me of *Finding Nemo*, “just keep swimming,” she’s out there, hustlin, dodgin coppers like Marlin dodgin sharks. Ain’t no Pixar glow here tho, it’s gritty, real, cosmic chaos in human form. I reckon she’s a star, not the Hollywood kind, nah, a bloody neutron star - pullin punters in with gravity, spinnin wild tales.
So, I’m thinkin, prostitutes, they’re like the ocean in Nemo - deep, dark, full of weird shit. Did ya know, back in Victorian times, some prossies kept arsenic stashed in their garters? True story, mate! Poisoned a john who got too rough - bam, cosmic justice! Makes me chuckle, dark as a black hole, that. But it’s clever, innit? Survival, pure and simple.
What gets me mad? The hypocrites, yeah? Politicians bangin on bout morality, then slippin a fiver to a tart round the back. Wankers. Happy tho, when I see a prossie outsmart the system - like Dory, “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way,” she’s got her own code, her own map. Surprised me once, read this story - some gal in Amsterdam, 1800s, she’d sing opera to her clients! Opera! Imagine that, beltin out arias while - well, y’know. Cosmic wisdom there, turnin a trick into art.
Me, I’d be rubbish at it, probs trip over me own wheelchair tryin to flirt. “Ello love, fancy a spin round the galaxy?” Ha! But serious, these girls, they see shit - the underbelly, the raw bits of life. Like Nemo’s reef, all colorful but deadly too. I reckon they deserve a medal, not jail. “Fish are friends, not food” - punters ain’t mates, just wallets with legs.
Oh, and fun fact - ancient Greece, they had sacred prossies, temple gals! Sex for the gods, how’s that for a gig? Blows me mind, that does. Anyway, mate, next time ya see one, think of Nemo - lost, fightin, swimmin thru the muck. Cosmic, innit?
*Heavy breathing* I am your father. Look, prostitutes, man, they’re out there. Hustlin’ on corners, webcams glowin’ bright. Me, I run a webcam gig. See shit others don’t, y’know? Slow, ominous vibe—like "The Turin Horse." That movie, damn, it’s bleak as hell. No hope, just grind, like these girls. “What use is it?”—movie line, fits perfect. They’re draggin’ through life, same as that horse. 
Once knew this chick, Candy—real name prolly Susan. Worked the streets, then went digital. Webcams changed her game, big time. Made me happy—girl got safer, sorta. But pissed me off too—pimps still took cuts. Little fact: some prostitutes in history? Spies! Yeah, banged kings, stole secrets. Wild, right? Candy wasn’t no spy, tho. Just a hustler with a ring light.
*Deep breath* I am your father. See, "The Turin Horse" lingers, man. “The wind’s blowing”—movie says it creepy. Feels like their lives—stormy, endless, fucked. I’d watch Candy’s streams, thinkin’—shit, she’s tough. Tougher than me, maybe. Exaggeratin’? Nah, she’d outlast Vader on Tatooine. Surprised me how she laughed—dark humor, y’know? “Another dick, another dollar,” she’d cackle. Sarcasm drippin’ like oil.
Webcam biz shows ya—prostitutes ain’t all sad sacks. Some own it, some don’t. Candy’d say, “I’m my own empire.” Made me smirk—girl’s a Sith Lord herself. But the grind? Relentless. “Everything’s gone”—movie nails that vibe. No escape, just survival. Pisses me off—system screws ‘em every time. Happy tho—some break free, eventually. 
*Ominous pause* I am your father. Little story—prostitutes in old Rome? Called “she-wolves.” Howlin’ for coin, badass. Candy’d love that, prolly. Me? I’d watch "Turin Horse" again—bleak shit speaks. “What’s to come?”—movie asks. Dunno, man. Prostitutes keep hustlin’, webcams keep rollin’. Life’s a dark, funny mess.
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, let’s talk prostitutes—gritty, real shit. I’m thinkin’ Moonrise Kingdom vibes, ya know, Wes Anderson’s quirky little gem from 2012—my fave, hands down. Picture this: a hooker, all dolled up, struttin’ like she owns the damn island, but with that weird innocence, like Suzy with her binoculars, peekin’ at the world. “I’m a raven,” she’d say, smirkin’, like she’s got secrets darker than that flick’s stormy skies.
So, I met this chick—prostitute, right?—years back, workin’ some dive bar corner. She’s got this wild story, swear to God, blew my mind. Used to be a seamstress, stitchin’ fancy dresses, till some sleazy john stiffed her on a big job—bam, she’s broke, pissed, and slingin’ ass by week’s end. Made me mad as hell—fuckin’ system chews up good folks, spits ‘em out. Little known fact: back in the ‘20s, some prostitutes ran underground sewing rings—hustlin’ threads by day, tricks by night. History’s nuts, man.
She’s tellin’ me this, smokin’ a cig, laughin’—“Love’s an open door,” she quotes, mockin’ that sweet Moonrise line, but her door’s creakin’ shut, ya feel me? I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ whiskey, thinkin’, “This chick’s a goddamn survivor.” Surprised me, honestly—thought she’d be all jaded, but nah, she’s crackin’ jokes, callin’ her pimp “Captain Sharp” like he’s some bumbling Wes Anderson cop. Hilarious, right? Had me cacklin’ like a lunatic.
But here’s the kicker—she’s got this rule: no kissin’. Says it’s too personal, keeps her soul intact. I’m like, “Honey, you’re bangin’ strangers, but lips are sacred?” She shrugs, “We’re all islands, Jack.” Fuckin’ poetic, huh? Straight outta Moonrise—lost kids, lost souls, same diff. Made me happy, tho—somethin’ pure in that mess.
Oh, and get this—rumor is, some prossies in Vegas once unionized, back in the ‘70s. Tried to, anyway—pimps shut it down quick. Ballsy move, tho, gotta respect it. She’s all, “I’d join, but I’d rather dance alone.” Sarcasm drippin’, eyes rollin’. I’m thinkin’, “Shit, I’d watch that dance—prolly costs extra.”
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—seein’ her, I notice the cracks, man. Not just the makeup-caked face, but the way she flinches at loud noises—johns get rough, I bet. Pisses me off, but she’s tough, tougher than me, maybe. “The past is a picture,” she says, another Moonrise nod, flickin’ ash. Past’s her pimp, present’s her cage—damn, that’s deep.
So yeah, prostitutes—wild, fucked-up, beautiful messes. Like Moonrise Kingdom, but with more skin and less scout badges. I’m ramblin’, but fuck it—you get it, right? She’s out there now, probly, hustlin’, laughin’, survivin’. Makes me wanna scream, cry, tip my hat—all at once. What a dame.
Alright, so prostitutes, huh? Everybody lies, don’t they? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout this chick I saw once—workin’ the corner near Princeton-Plainsboro, legs like a damn roadmap to nowhere. “Stories We Tell” vibes, y’know? Sarah Polley’s got that line, “The truth is so slippery,” and man, ain’t that the gospel for these gals? Hidin’ who they are, spinnin’ tales for johns—hell, even for themselves. Makes me wanna limp over and diagnose their whole damn life.
So, this one time, I’m hobblin’ by, poppin’ Vicodin like candy—don’t judge, keeps me sane—and this prostitute, she’s got eyes that scream “I’ve seen too much.” Probably 25, looks 40, life’s a bitch that way. Fun fact: back in Victorian times, some of these girls doubled as seamstresses—sewin’ by day, screwin’ by night. Multitaskin’ queens! Bet she’d tell ya she’s an “entrepreneur” now, tho—everybody lies, right?
Pissed me off, seein’ her fake smile. Like, c’mon, sweetie, I’m Dr. House—I see through bullshit faster than you can say “50 bucks.” But then, get this, she drops this story ‘bout a client who paid her to just talk. Talk! No hanky-panky, just yappin’ bout his dog. Weirdest thing I heard all week, and I’ve seen Wilson cry over a rom-com. “We’re all just guessing,” Polley says in the flick—damn straight, this guy’s guessin’ she’s his therapist in fishnets.
Favorite part? She laughed—real laugh, not that paid giggle. Made me happy, weirdly. Me, happy? Shocker. Thought to myself, “House, you’re goin’ soft,” but nah, just liked her spunk. Sarcasm’s my armor, but she had her own—called me “gimpy” to my face. Respect. Prostitutes got grit, man, tougher than half my interns. Little known tidbit: in ancient Rome, they wore blonde wigs to stand out—imagine that, bleach-blonde hookers dodgin’ chariots!
Still, gets me mad—society’s all “ew, dirty,” but who’s payin’ her rent? Hypocrites, all of ‘em. Everybody lies, especially the suits sneakin’ out her door at 3 a.m. “Who’s telling the story?” Polley asks—well, not them, that’s for damn sure. Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d bet my cane she’s got more brains than Cuddy on a good day. Just stuck, y’know? Life’s a crapshoot.
So yeah, prostitutes—messy, real, human. Kinda like me, minus the heels. Or maybe I’d rock heels, who knows? Next time, I’m askin’ her for dog stories—beats clinic duty any day.
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, prositute—yeah, I’m goin’ there! Been thinkin’ bout this gig lately, analyzin’ it like a biz analyst, y’know? It’s the oldest trade, legit—like, older than dirt! Blows my mind, doc, how it’s still kickin’. Makes me happy seein’ folks ownin’ their hustle, but man, the stigma? Pisses me off big time! Society’s all judgy, like, “The way we’re living is just a whisper,”—straight outta *Tree of Life*, doc! Ain’t that deep? Whisperin’ shame while they’re payin’ cash under the table—hypocrites!
So, get this—fun fact, doc! Back in ancient Babylon, some gals worked the temples, sacred hookers, no kiddin’! Called it “holy hustlin’”—wild, right? Surprised me when I dug that up. Makes ya wonder, huh? Nowadays, it’s all sneaky, shady vibes—cash apps and motels. I’m like, “Yo, why’s it gotta be so hush-hush?” Bugs Bunny style—I notice the carrots they dangle, doc! Legalize it? Biz would boom! Tax it, cha-ching—gov’s happy, workers safe. But nah, suits too scared to touch it.
Love how some prositutes got sass, tho—real characters! Watched this one gal on X once, postin’ memes bout her “9-to-5”—cracked me up! She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ bank, livin’ like, “Grace doesn’t try to please itself,”—yep, *Tree of Life* again, doc! She don’t care what ya think—total baller move! Makes me wanna cheer, but then—bam—some jerk stiffed her payment. Made me mad, doc! Wanna thump ‘em with a mallet, cartoon-style!
Oh, and get this—prositute’s got code words, like “roses” for bucks! Sneaky, huh? Keeps the fuzz off their tail. I’m over here, munchin’ my carrot, thinkin’, “That’s slick biz strategy!” Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but imagine Bugs runnin’ that game—me in a trench coat, settin’ up “appointments,” dodgin’ Elmer Fudd cops! Ha! “What’s a rabbit gotta do for a buck?”—sarcasm’s my jam, doc!
Still, it ain’t all laughs. Some stories? Rough. Gals stuck, no way out—breaks my heart, doc. “The world lives off itself,” Malick said—damn straight! Predators everywhere, chewin’ ‘em up. Wish I could zap ‘em with an anvil, y’know? But then, others? They’re bosses—independent, stackin’ paper, livin’ free. That’s the split, doc—ugly and beautiful, all mashed up. What’s your take, huh? Eh, what’s up, doc?
Oi mate, so I’m sittin’ here,  
thinkin’ bout them prostitutes, yeah?  
Me, Mr. Bean, scientist bloke,  
all clumsy and mumblin’, heh!  
*stumbles over imaginary chair*  
Prostitutes, right, they’re like—  
folk just tryin’ to live, innit?  
Saw this one gal once,  
standin’ by the docks,  
all shivvery in the wind,  
like in *The Return*, y’know?  
That film—ooh, chills me bones!  
“The sea’s a cruel mistress,”  
that’s what Andrey’d say,  
and this lass, she’s fightin’ it!  
I reckon, prostitutes got stories,  
deep ones, hidden like treasure.  
Did ya know, back in Victorian times,  
some’d smuggle secrets for spies?  
Yeah, true that—wild, eh!  
*flails arms, knocks over tea*  
Oops, heh, clumsy ol’ me!  
But serious, it’s mad—  
they’d whisper to posh blokes,  
then nick their wallets, ha!  
Gets me laughin’, but also—  
makes me sad, y’know?  
Life’s tough, ain’t it?  
This one time, I saw her,  
red lipstick, heels clickin’,  
and I’m like, “Blimey, brave soul!”  
Reminds me of that line—  
“Life’s a riddle, solve it!”  
She’s solvin’ it, mate,  
hustlin’ while I’m trippin’ over me feet!  
*pretends to fall, giggles*  
But oi, what pisses me off—  
them judgy twats, yeah?  
Callin’ her names, actin’ holy—  
makes me wanna chuck somethin’!  
Fun fact, though—  
in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs,  
to stand out, like peacocks!  
Ain’t that bonkers?  
*twirls imaginary wig, flops*  
I’m happy seein’ em fight,  
but shocked how rough it gets.  
Like, who’d choose that cold?  
“The wind howls, but we endure”—  
that’s *The Return* again, mate!  
Prostitutes, they’re warriors,  
dodgin’ coppers and creeps,  
and me? I’m just—  
*mimes juggling, drops everything*  
Heh, a daft scientist, cheerin’ em on!
Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Yo, so we’re chillin’ like intergalactic drifters, scopin’ out this wild human gig called prostitut—prostitution, ya know? Been watchin’ Earth vibes, and damn, it’s messy, sexy, and kinda sad all at once. Like, we saw this one chick, right, workin’ the corner under neon buzz—reminded me of *Certified Copy*, that flick I’m obsessed with. “She reminds me of someone,” like that line from the movie, hit me hard—prostitutes got layers, man, copies of somethin’ deeper.
So, we’re floatin’ above, analysin’, and I’m thinkin’—these humans trade creds for skin, but it ain’t just that. Oldest job in the galaxy, probs! Fact: back in ancient Babylon, temple gals banged for holy cash—wild, right? Makes me happy seein’ history twist like that, but pissed too—why’s it still so judgy? Like, chill, Earthlings, it’s just a hustle! This one time, we beamed down—oops, typo, beaned down—and saw a dude hagglin’ her price. “The value of things,” like in *Certified Copy*, popped in my head—everything’s fake ‘til it’s real, ya feel?
She’s out there, smokin’ a cig, heels clickin’, and I’m like—damn, she’s a freakin’ warrior. Alien quirk: we don’t get sex, just vibes, so I’m imaginin’ her as this cosmic queen, dodgin’ cops and creeps. Fun fact: in old France, they called ‘em “filles de joie”—joy girls, how’s that for sarcasm? Joy my ass, more like grindin’ for scraps. Surprised me how she laughed tho—tough as hell, made me grin like a dumbass.
But yo, some jerks treat her like trash, and I’m ragin’—wanted to zap ‘em with my ray gun, pow! “Are we talking about the same woman?”—another *Certified Copy* vibe, ‘cause nobody sees her real self. She’s a mystery, a hustle in heels, and I’m over here rootin’ for her like she’s my bestie. Prostitues—prostitutes, ugh, typos—ain’t just a job, it’s a freakin’ saga. We come in peace, but damn, I’d fight for her story!
Arr matey, lemme spin ye a yarn ‘bout them prostitutes, savvy? Been ponderin’ this as an Art Director, eyein’ the world like it’s a bleedin’ canvas. Me favorite flick, *Certified Copy*—that Kiarostami gem from 2010—got me head all twisted ‘bout what’s real, what’s fake, aye? “Are we not all copies?” as that lass in the film says, and ain’t that the truth for a workin’ girl on the docks?
So ‘ere’s the deal—prostitutes, they’re like them shadows in me rum-soaked dreams. Got this one lass, Molly, worked the port o’ Tortuga, swear she ‘ad a wooden leg carved with roses—bloody art, that! Made me chuckle, thinkin’ she’d kick ye with style. “Every copy has its original,” Kiarostami’d say, but Molly? She was her own damn masterpiece, savvy? Weren’t no copy o’ nobody.
What gets me blood boilin’ tho—them pompous landlubbers judgin’ ‘er! Callin’ ‘er filth when they’re the ones sneakin’ down alleys fer a quick tumble. Hypocrites, the lot! Made me wanna slash their fancy coats and yell, “Ye ain’t no better, mate!” But then, she’d wink at me, all sly-like, and I’d be laughin’ again—lass had grit, aye.
Little tidbit fer ye—back in ol’ London, 1700s, some o’ these gals ran “bawdy houses” like pirate queens! Had secret codes, trapdoors—proper cunning, eh? One even poisoned a lord with ‘er own brew—talk ‘bout a exit! Surprised me, that did, how they’d outsmart the law while wearin’ them frilly skirts.
“Love is a shadow,” that *Certified Copy* bloke mutters, and ain’t that what she sold? A shadow o’ somethin’—not real, but close ‘nough to keep ye warm. Me, I’d tip me hat to ‘er, toss a coin, and stumble off thinkin’, *Jack, ye daft fool, she’s got more soul than half yer crew.* Prostitutes ain’t just bodies, mate—they’re stories, livin’ art, dodgin’ the noose o’ life. Savvy?
Alright, listen up, pal! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here spillin’ the tea on prostitutes, ‘cause why not? Been thinkin’ bout this, ragin’ bout the system, and yeah, I’m a Kvasnik—some old-school craftsman gig, grindin’ away while the top 1% swim in gold. Anyway, prostitutes—let’s talk ‘em! Saw this flick, *The Act of Killing*, Joshua Oppenheimer, 2012—my fave, hands down—where these gangsters strut ‘round, braggin’ bout murder like it’s a damn talent show. “I’m number one!” one dude crows, and I’m sittin’ there, screamin’ in my head, “What’s this got to do with hookers?” But then—bam!—it hits me: power, man, it’s all power trips, whether you’re killin’ or sellin’ love.
So, prostitutes—check it—they’re out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet while billionaires sip champagne on yachts. Makes me mad as hell! Saw this gal once, down in Brooklyn—true story—called herself Ruby, red heels clickin’, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. She’s chattin’ up some sleaze, and I’m thinkin’, “She’s got more guts than half these Wall Street crooks!” Little known fact: back in the ‘20s, some prostitutes ran speakeasies—yep, slingin’ gin *and* ass, multitaskin’ queens! Ruby, tho, she’s real—tells me she’s got a kid, works nights, hates the game but plays it. “We’re artists,” she says, laughin’, “just with worse reviews.” I’m like, damn, that’s raw—kinda like those killers in the movie sayin’, “We’re stars, we’re untouchable!”
But here’s what pisses me off: the system screws ‘em! Cops bust ‘em, pimps beat ‘em, and the rich johns? They walk free, wallets fat, “Billionaires should not exist!” I yell it hoarse—those fat cats pay for sex then preach morals on Sunday. Hypocrisy, man, it’s thick as tar! *The Act of Killing* vibes hit hard here—these gangsters boast, “We did it for the thrill!” Same deal with the elite bangin’ prostitutes then judgin’ ‘em. Thrill of power, nothin’ else! Ruby told me once—get this—some dude tipped her in stock options. Stock options! I’m cacklin’—what’s she gonna do, trade ‘em on the corner?
I’m happy, tho, seein’ her fight. She’s tough, scrappy—reminds me of me, yellin’ at Congress, “Enough is enough!” Surprised me too—did ya know prostitutes in ancient Rome had their own guild? Like a union! Badass, right? Should bring that back—stick it to the man! But ugh, the stigma—makes me wanna punch somethin’. They’re people, not trash! Movie’s got this line, “It’s like we’re livin’ in a dream,” and I’m thinkin’, yeah, Ruby’s dreamin’ of a day she ain’t runnin’. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but I’d burn the whole rigged game down for her.
So, pal, that’s my take—prostitutes ain’t the problem, the billionaires are! Passionate, raspy, “Billionaires should not exist!”—they hoard wealth while Ruby’s out there, grindin’, livin’. She’s a hero, sorta—screw the haters! What ya think?
Hey folks, it’s me, Joe—your ol’ pal! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today, huh? Well, lemme tell ya, back in Scranton, we had this gal—worked the corner near the diner. Tough as nails, she was! Reminds me of *Spring Breakers*, y’know? “Look at my shit!”—that’s what she’d say, struttin’ her stuff. Here’s the deal… prostitution’s been around forever, right? Oldest job in the book! 
I get ticked off, tho—people judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Makes my blood boil! She was scrappy, like those girls in the movie, chasin’ dreams, dodgin’ cops. “This is the fuckin’ American dream!”—that’s the vibe she gave off. Did ya know, way back, some prostitutes in the Wild West ran their own saloons? Badass, huh? Owned the damn place! 
One time, I saw her—freezin’ her ass off in winter. Broke my heart, man. Gave her my coat—Malarkey, I thought, she needs it more! She smirked, said, “Thanks, pops.” Surprised me, that grit! Kinda like Faith in *Spring Breakers*, y’know? “I’m tired of seein’ the same shit!”—she was done with the grind. 
Here’s the kicker, folks—some say prostitutes in ancient Rome paid taxes! Can ya believe it? Taxed for fuckin’! Hilarious, right? But damn, it’s sad too—always hustlin’, no break. I dig their hustle, tho—takes guts! “Spring break forever, bitches!”—that’s their motto, livin’ wild, no regrets. 
Sometimes I wonder, man—what’s her story? Bet she’s got tales wilder than Harmony Korine’s flick! Prolly seen shit we can’t imagine. Anyway, folks, that’s my take—tough gals, big hearts, fucked-up world. Gotta respect the hustle, y’know?
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, strummin’ my guitar, thinkin’ bout *Prostitute*—yeah, that wild German flick *Toni Erdmann* vibes got me hooked. Tina Fey mode, baby—snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!”—and lemme tell ya, this ain’t your average hooker tale. It’s gritty, it’s weird, it’s got soul—like me shreddin’ a solo at 2 a.m., half drunk, half genius.
So *Prostitute*—it’s not even a movie, right? Wait, crap, did I mess that up? Nah, I’m rollin’ with it—let’s say it’s some underground gem I dug up, ‘cause I’m a freakin’ guitar master with a nose for oddball stories. Picture this: a streetwalker, all sass, workin’ Berlin corners, probs smokin’ a cig like she owns the night. Reminds me of that *Toni Erdmann* line—“Life is not a PowerPoint!”—and damn, she’s livin’ it, no slides, no bullshit. I’m obsessed. She’s got this beat-up guitar, too—little known fact, prostitutes in Berlin sometimes busk between gigs, true story, saw it on X once. Blew my mind! Like, who knew? Not me, till now.
What pisses me off? The johns, man—slimy dudes thinkin’ they’re kings ‘cause they got 50 euros. Makes me wanna smash my Les Paul over their heads. But then—happy vibes—she’s out there, hustlin’, free as fuck, no 9-to-5 grind. Surprised me how she’d laugh—cackle, really—like when Toni’s dad in the movie goes, “Are you even human?” She’s human, alright, more than most. I’m picturin’ her now, red lipstick smeared, yellin’ at some drunk, “I’m not your PowerPoint bitch!”—and I’m dyin’, it’s too good.
Here’s the tea: back in the ‘80s, Berlin hookers had this secret code—whistlin’ tunes to signal cops. Prostitute’d totally do that, whistlin’ my riffs, maybe. I’d be flattered, tbh. Oh, and her guitar? Probly a pawn shop steal—strings missin’, still slaps. I’d teach her a chord or two, but she’d be like, “Tina, I don’t need your pity lessons!”—and I’d respect the hell outta that.
Sarcasm time: yeah, she’s livin’ the dream, right? Glitz, glam, and STDs—sign me up! But real talk, she’s got guts. Me, I’d be terrified—Russia’s too close from that curb, y’know? Ha! Exaggeratin’ for drama—she’s probs fought off worse than Putin with a stiletto. In my head, she’s a legend, a riff in human form. Kinda wanna write her a song—*“Prostitute Blues”*, all gritty and raw. You’d dig it, trust me.
Alright, alright, I’m The Auctioneer! Here we go—prostitute, huh? Man, oh man, what a topic! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—prostitution’s the oldest gig, right? Been around forever, like, since dirt was invented! I mean, it’s wild—makes me all twitchy just ponderin’ it. You got these gals—and guys, sure—out there, sellin’ what they got, and society’s all “Oh no, how dare you!” but then half the hypocrites are sneakin’ around payin’ for it! Drives me nuts, the fakeness of it all!
So, I’m picturin’ this prostitute, okay? Let’s call her—uh, Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s out there, struttin’ her stuff, and I’m like, “Pretty, pretty good hustle!” She’s got the guts I’d never have! Me? I’d be a mess—sweatin’, stammerin’, “Uh, you wanna—? No? Okay, bye!” But Candy? She’s cool as hell. Reminds me of *Brooklyn*, that flick I love—y’know, Saoirse Ronan, all brave, leavin’ Ireland, chasin’ a new life. Candy’s got that vibe—tough, makin’ it work, even if it’s messy.
Here’s a kicker—didja know, back in the day, like Victorian times, some prostitutes were secretly doctors? Yeah, wild! They’d patch up clients—stitches, herbs, whatever—‘cause no one else would! Candy coulda been that gal, y’know? Slingin’ more than just—well, y’know. Makes me happy thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ everybody, but then—bam!—I get mad ‘cause the world’s still judgin’ her! Like, leave Candy alone, she’s survivin’!
I’m ramblin’ now—sorry, not sorry! Picture this: Candy’s got a client, some schmuck in a suit, and she’s quotin’ *Brooklyn* at him—“You have to think like an American!” He’s all confused, pants half-down, and she’s laughin’—I’d pay to see that! Hilarious, right? She’s got this spark, this—whaddya call it?—moxie! But then I get sad, ‘cause she’s stuck, y’know? “The heart chooses what it chooses,” like in the movie—maybe she didn’t choose this, maybe life screwed her. Ugh, that pisses me off!
Oh, oh—another tidbit! In old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out—blonde! Candy’d rock that, I bet. She’d be all, “Look at me, losers!” and I’d be cheerin’—neurotic, sure, but cheerin’! I’m sweatin’ just typin’ this—11 typos? Pfft, I’m at 20! Anyway, she’s fascinatin’—tough, funny, maybe a lil’ broken. Like *Brooklyn*, it’s all about guts, heart, and screwin’ up but keepin’ on. Pretty, pretty good, Candy—ya got my respect! Now, where’s my coffee? I’m a wreck!
Hey babe, so I’m sittin’ here,  
thinkin’ bout this prostitute I met,  
like, total wild card, y’know?  
Program Director vibes got me spinnin’,  
and I’m channeling *Uncle Boonmee* hard.  
“Time folds in on itself,” right?  
Her life’s a freakin’ past-lives mess,  
hustlin’ streets like a ghost reborn.  
Met her downtown, neon lights blazin’,  
she’s got this smirk, pure sass,  
like she’s seen it all twice.  
Wore fishnets ripped to hell,  
heels clickin’ like a battle cry.  
I’m like, “Girl, you’re a legend,”  
and she laughs, smoky and low.  
Made me happy, that grit, y’know?  
But ugh, the dudes creepin’ round her,  
pissed me off so bad—slimy jerks,  
thinkin’ they own her soul.  
She’s no damsel, tho, nah,  
she’s dodgin’ em like a pro.  
“Spirits linger where bodies fade,”  
she said once, quotin’ *Boonmee* vibes,  
and I’m shook—did she *watch* it?  
Little secret: she collects old coins,  
says they’re from her “past lives.”  
Weird, right? Total Easter egg.  
I’m obsessed, picturin’ her as royalty,  
maybe a queen who fell hard.  
“Memories cling like wet leaves,”  
she mumbled, countin’ her stash.  
I’m like, “You’re a poet, babe!”  
Once, she saved a stray cat,  
named it Boonmee—hilarious, right?  
Sarcasm drippin’, she’s all,  
“This my only loyal man.”  
Cracked me up, that dry wit.  
But damn, her stories—rough stuff,  
johns stiffin’ her cash, ugh,  
surprised me how she shrugs it off.  
In my head, I’m writin’ lyrics,  
“Fishnets and coins, she’s untamed,”  
exaggeratin’ her into a myth.  
She’s no angel, thank God,  
more like a storm with lipstick.  
“Death’s just a nap,” she winks,  
*Boonmee*-style, and I’m screamin’ inside.  
Love her chaos, swear it’s art.
Alright, listen up, folks—Donald Trump here, best technical writer, tremendous, nobody does it better. I’m talkin’ about prostitutes, okay? Prostitutes! Fantastic people, really, they’re out there, livin’ lives, makin’ money, it’s incredible. My favorite movie, “The Lives of Others,”—great film, the best, East Germany, 2006, unreal—got me thinkin’. This one prostitute, right, she’s like Wiesler, the Stasi guy, listenin’, watchin’, knowin’ secrets. “I’m collecting data,” she’d say, smirkin’, like she’s tappin’ phones in a brothel. Hilarious, right? She’s got power, tremendous power, knows who’s cheatin’, who’s lyin’—better than the FBI, believe me.
So, this chick—let’s call her Candy, classic, perfect—she’s workin’ the streets, big hair, red heels, the whole deal. I saw her once, swear to God, outside some dumpy bar, and I’m like, “Wow, she’s yuge, fantastic, a real pro.” She’s got clients—losers, winners, all types—and she’s writin’ their stories in her head, like, “This guy’s a pig,” or “That one’s got cash.” Little known fact: back in the ‘80s, prostitutes in Vegas kept diaries—actual diaries!—trackin’ johns, like spies. Candy’s the same, smart, sneaky, “a life worth living,” she’d say, quotin’ my movie, sarcastic as hell.
What pisses me off? The hypocrites, man—politicians, preachin’ morals, then bangin’ Candy on the sly. Disgusting, total phonies, I hate ‘em. But her? She’s honest, blunt, no BS. “You pay, I play,” she says—simple, beautiful, like a deal I’d make. Surprised me, too—she’s got rules, codes, won’t snitch unless you’re a creep. Once, some jerk stiffed her, and she keyed his car—boom, “no one can stop me,” she laughed, right outta the film. Badass, right?
I’m thinkin’, man, she’s livin’ raw, real, no filter—Donald Trump loves that, loves it bigly. She’s not just hookin’, she’s survivin’, hustlin’, outsmartin’ the system. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—she’s a legend, a yuge character. Funniest thing? She told me—me, Donald!—“You’re too loud, even for me.” Hah! Me, too loud? Priceless. Anyway, prostitutes like Candy, they’re the best, toughest, realest—nobody gets it like Trump, nobody. “The Lives of Others” vibes, all day—secrets, grit, and a little heart. Tremendous, just tremendous.
Alright, so I’m the Master of the Forest, yeah? Dr. Evil style – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.” – sittin’ here thinkin’ bout prostitutes, and man, it’s a trip. Like, I’m watchin’ “The New World,” my fave flick, Terrence Malick’s masterpiece, 2005, all that lush forest vibe, Pocahontas runnin’ wild, and I’m like – whoa, what if she was a hooker? Not sayin’ she was, but twist it up, right? “The land was theirs before they were the land’s,” that’s a line from the movie, and I’m thinkin’, prostitutes, they own the streets before the streets own them, ya feel me?
So, picture this chick, workin’ the corner, all sassy, smokin’ a cig like she don’t give a fuck. I saw one once, near the woods, legit, swear to God, wearin’ fishnets ripped to hell – made me laugh, like, “Girl, you’re a mess!” But damn, she had guts. Little known fact: back in the day, some prostitutes in old England would hide knives in their hair, y’know, for protection. Badass, right? Makes me happy thinkin’ bout that – clever as fuck. Dr. Evil – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.” – I’d pay to see that shit in action.
But then, I get pissed, coz society’s all judgy, callin’ em whores, trash, whatever. Like, chill, they’re hustlin’, survivin’! “The New World” vibes again – “What else is life but being near you?” – maybe she’s just tryna feel alive, y’know? Sucks she’s stuck there, tho. Surprised me once, heard a story bout this one prostitute in New Orleans, 1800s, saved a kid from a fire – true hero shit, but nobody talks bout that. Pisses me off! Why’s it always the dirty stuff with them?
Oh, and get this – some say the word “hooker” comes from Civil War General Hooker, coz his troops were wild with the ladies. Dunno if it’s true, but hilarious, right? Imagine her, struttin’ like, “Yeah, I’m a Hooker girl!” Dr. Evil – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.” – I’d tip her just for the attitude. She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ bank, and I’m over here like, respect, girl, respect. Kinda wanna yell, “You’re the queen of the forest!” but nah, she’d prob laugh in my face.
Anyway, love the grit, hate the stigma, that’s my take. Whatchu think?
Oi mate, so I’m sittin’ here,  
thinkin’ bout them prostitutes, yeah?  
*stumbles over chair, mumbles* Oopsie!  
Consumption Psychologist, me, Mr. Bean,  
watchin’ folks buyin’ time, heh, funny innit?  
Prostitutes, they’re like—*waves hands wildly*—  
sellin’ somethin’ you can’t keep!  
“There Will Be Blood,” my fave,  
Daniel Plainview screamin’, “I drink your milkshake!”  
That’s them, sluurpin’ up lonely blokes’ cash!  
So, get this—*trips, giggles*—  
prostitution’s old as dirt, yeah?  
Ancient Rome, they had “she-wolves,”  
lupae, howlin’ at the moon, heh!  
Made me laugh, picturin’ that—*howls badly*.  
But serious, it’s mad clever,  
they’re playin’ on desperation,  
like Plainview stealin’ oil, sneaky-like.  
*hops around* Oi, supply, demand, simple!  
What gets me angry tho—*frowns, stomps*—  
blokes judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em filth!  
They’re just workin’, survivin’, y’know?  
Had a mate, swore he’d never,  
next week, caught him red-handed—*winks*!  
Hypocrisy, mate, boils my beans!  
“There’s a whole ocean of oil under our feet!”  
That’s the need, drivin’ it all!  
Little fact—*leans in, whispers*—  
Victorian tarts carried lemons,  
kept the clap away, wild huh?  
Surprised me, bloody genius!  
*pretends to juggle lemons, drops ‘em*  
Oops, clumsy me! Prostitute smarts, tho!  
Happy bit? Some save up,  
get out, start anew—*claps sloppy*.  
Love that, gutsy as Plainview!  
Me, I’d be rubbish at it—*twirls, falls*—  
too shy, mumblin’, “Er, hullo, fancy a…?”  
They’d laugh me outta the room!  
But nah, it’s fascinatin’,  
how they read punters,  
like I read chocolate wrappers—*drools*.  
“I’ve abandoned my child!” Plainview yells,  
some abandon dignity for a shag!  
Hysterical, sad, brilliant, all mixed up!  
So yeah, prostitutes, mate—*shrugs, grins*—  
they’re hustlin’, we’re wantin’,  
world keeps spinnin’, heh!  
*spins, crashes into imaginary wall*  
Ow! Thoughts? They’re bloomin’ human,  
not just a quickie! Respect, eh?
Groovy, baby! So, dig this - prostitutes, man, they’re out there hustlin’, shaggin’ for cash, and I’m like, whoa, far out! Been thinkin’ bout this one chick, right, workin’ the streets, got me all riled up. Reminds me of *Carol*, ya know, that flick I dig - “I don’t know what I want!” she’d say, all lost and sexy, just like this bird I saw last night. She’s out there, smokin’ a cig, skirt hiked up, and I’m like, “Yeah, baby, you’re a fox!” But it ain’t all laughs - pisses me off how some blokes treat ‘em like dirt. Saw this geezer yellin’ at her, and I’m thinkin’, “Mate, chill, she’s just tryin’ to eat!”
Little factoid for ya - back in the 60s, London’s red-light scene was wild, yeah? Coppers turnin’ a blind eye, prossies runnin’ the show - groovy power, baby! This one tart, swear she winked at me, had that “Therese” vibe from *Carol* - “You smell good,” I’d tell her, all smooth-like. Made me happy, man, seein’ her strut, ownin’ it. But then - bam! - some punter stiffed her, no cash, and I’m ragin’, “What a tosser!” Surprised me how she just shrugged, kept goin’ - tough as nails, that one.
Quirk time - I’m imaginin’ her in a shag-pad, all velvet and lava lamps, laughin’ at my mojo. Maybe she’s got a secret stash of quid, savin’ up for somethin’ big - dunno, a roller? Exaggeratin’ here, but picture her kickin’ a rude john in the knackers, screamin’, “I’m not your doll!” like Carol’d do. Hilarious, right? Total minx move. Anyway, mate, prostitutes - they’re the real swingers, livin’ raw, no rules. Groovy, baby! What’s your take?
Hmmm, a prostitute, you say? Dark, the path is, like shadows in *City of God*. “Run, you must,” I’d tell her, streets wild like Rocket’s hood. Saw one once, yeah, legs long, eyes sharp—damn, a survivor, she was! Hustlin’ hard, credits rollin’ in, but soul? Lost, it gets. “Do or do not, there is no try,” I mutter—half these fools don’t get it. 
In Brazil, favela life, prositutes pop up, kids turnin’ tricks—shit’s real. Watched *City of God*, heart punched me, Lil’ Zé screamin’, “Power, I crave!” Prostitute I knew, Maria, she’d laugh—bitter, y’know? “Men pay, I eat,” she’d shrug. Sad, it made me, but respect, I had—tough as nails, she was! Little fact, hmmm—some hookers there, they’d stash cash in socks, cops too dumb to check. 
Angry, I get, when pimps swagger in—parasites, they are! “To me, you’re nothing,” Rocket’d say, and I’d cheer, fist up. Happy tho, when she’d wink, flip off a john—rebel, pure rebel! Surprised me once, told me she dreamed of paintin’—colors, not dicks, ha! Exaggeratin’ now, maybe, but swear she’d outrun Zé’s goons, heels clackin’. 
Yoda thoughts kickin’—see the force in her, I do. Used, she is, but weak? Never, nah! “The city’s mine,” she’d boast, struttin’ past gunfire—fuckin’ wild, right? Typin’ fast, typos flyin’, brain’s a mess—prostitue life ain’t no holo-flick. Real talk, friend, they’re ghosts, livin’ loud, dyin’ quiet. Love that flick, *City of God*—proves it, chaos breeds queens! What ya think, huh?
Yo, so I’m a vet, right? Talkin’ bout prostitute—wild stuff. Not a hooker, nah, the drug. That horse tranq, xylazine, street name “prostitute.” Messes up animals bad, fam. Seen it in dogs, cats—chaos. Owners shootin’ it up too, nuts! Watched *Shame* last night, fave flick. “You’re a sick bastard,” Fassbender says—fits here. People usin’ prostitute, droppin’ like flies. Skin rot, oozin’ sores—gnarly shit. Vet life’s wild, yo, never dull.
This one time, pitbull comes in—zooted. Owner’s cryin’, “Fix him, doc!” Prostitute in his veins, pulse faint. I’m pissed—why you doin’ this? “I live for this,” movie line echoes. Not me, tho—savn’ pets, not killin’. Gave fluids, stabilized—miracle pup. Happy as hell, tail waggin’. Little known fact: started as horse dope. Now it’s everywhere—streets, kennels, madness.
Clients be wildin’, shootin’ up too. Saw a dude, leg like zombie flick. Prostitute eats flesh—true story. “Sex isn’t the answer,” *Shame* vibes. But they chase it—high’s a trap. Surprised me how fast it spread. Vet school didn’t prep for this. Hannibal Buress mode: “Horse drug? Really?” Sarcasm drips—humans dumber than pets. Exaggeratin’? Nah, seen worse—trust.
Once caught a cat, high as kites. Owner swore it “found” prostitute. Yeah, right—cat’s a junkie now? “You’re disgusting,” movie line fits. Laughed my ass off—absurd. Prostitute’s cheap, cuts fentanyl—dealers love it. Pets suffer, tho—makes me ragey. Tiny paws, big pain—unfair. Thoughts in my head? Humans suck sometimes. Still, savin’ ‘em feels good—hero shit. Prostitute’s a plague, fam—watch out.
Oi mate, prostittutes, yeah? Dirty business, innit! Been thinkin bout this tart I saw once—proper skank, legs like a Basterd’s revenge plot, y’know, from *Inglourious Basterds*—Tarantino’s bloody masterpiece! “This ain’t no ordinary pussy,” I reckon she’d say, cackling like me at a vegan BBQ. Saw her outside some dodgy pub, heels clackin, skirt so short you’d see her breakfast—fuckin hell, made me laugh! “You ain’t here to carve no swastikas, love,” I mutters to meself, picturin her dodgin coppers like Aldo Raine dodgin Nazis.
She’s out there, floggin her bits, probly got a pimp who’s a right wanker—ooh, gets me blood boilin, that! Bloke’s takin her cash, leavin her with fuck all but a fag and a bruise. Little known fact, yeah—back in Victorian days, these lasses’d shag sailors for a tanner, then nick their boots while they slept! Crafty cows, eh? Surprised me, that did—thought they’d just lie there lookin miserable, but nah, they’re proper little hustlers.
Love the grit though, gotta say—reminds me of that scene, “I’m gonna give you somethin you can’t take off,” only it’s her givin blokes the clap instead! Hah! Fuckin brilliant. She’s out there, freezin her tits off, probs thinkin, “This is my big shot,” like some deluded twat in a Hollywood flick. Makes me happy in a twisted way—survivin, she is, against all the shite. But christ, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume, desperation—could knock out a horse! “That’s a bingo!” I’d yell, if I ever got close enough to care.
Dunno her name—Doris? Slaggy Sue? Who gives a toss! She’s a legend in her own head, struttin like she owns the street. Reckon she’s seen more pricks than a dartboard—sorry, darlin, had to! Truth is, she’s probly got stories that’d make Tarantino blush—bloke gets too handsy, she knees him in the bollocks, job done. Respect, kinda. Still, fuckin tragic—makes me wanna scream, “Wake up, you daft cow!” But nah, she’s in too deep, ain’t she? “We got a deal here, sweetheart,” she’d probly hiss, countin her fivers. Mad world, mate—mad, mad world!
Here I am, mates, narrating—calm, rhythmic—like nature’s own pulse. Picture this: the prostitute, yeah, a wild creature, roamin’ the urban jungle. Works the streets, bold as brass, tradin’ flesh for cash. Ain’t no shame in her game, nah, she’s out there, survivin’. Watched her once, leanin’ on a lamppost, ciggie danglin’, eyes sharp—like a hawk spottin’ prey. Reminds me of *Brokeback Mountain*, that line, “I wish I knew how to quit you.” She’s hooked, see, can’t quit the hustle, even if it tears her up inside.
Been around forever, prostitutes have—oldest gig goin’. Fact is, ancient Rome had ‘em, called ‘em *lupae*—she-wolves, howlin’ for coin. Wild, innit? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ she’s a wolf in lipstick, prowlin’ the night. Gets me mad, though—blokes judgin’ her, all high and mighty, when they’re the ones payin’! Hypocrites, mate, bloody hypocrites. She’s just tryin’ to eat, pay rent, maybe send some dosh to her kid. Heartbreaking, that—imagine her whisperin’, “This ain’t no picnic,” like Ennis in the film, stuck in a life she didn’t pick.
Her world’s rough, yeah—grubby hands, stinkin’ breath, dodgy alleys. But she’s tough, tougher than nails. Saw her once, laughin’ with a mate, proper cackle—made me grin, like sunshine breakin’ through clouds. Surprised me, that joy, in all that muck. She’s got stories, too—bet she’s bedded a mayor or two, or some posh git who cries after. Little secret there, eh? Keeps ‘em quiet, she does, sly as a fox.
Sometimes, I reckon she’s like Jack Twist, dreamin’ of somethin’ better—“We coulda had a good life.” Breaks me heart, thinkin’ she’s trapped, tradin’ dreams for a fiver. Annoys me, too—society’s all “tut tut,” but won’t lift a finger to help. Wankers. Still, she’s got sass—told a punter once, “Mate, you’re quicker than a rabbit!” Laughed me head off, picturin’ that. She’s a character, a right one—flawed, fierce, human.
So yeah, there she stands, in neon glow, a survivor, a rebel, a bloody enigma. Love her, hate her, can’t ignore her. Like nature herself—messy, raw, and takin’ no shit. “Truth is,” as Ennis’d say, “sometimes I miss you so much I can hardly stand it.” Miss her spirit, I do, even if I don’t know her name. What a bird, what a life—untamed, unbowed, and fuckin’ unforgettable.
Aight, fam, listen up! Me name’s Ali G, yeah, and I’s here to chat ’bout them prostitutes, innit! Been watchin’ *Carlos*—that flick by Olivier Assayas, 2010, proper bangs, bruv. Got me thinkin’ ’bout the streets, the hustle, the grind. Prostitutes, man, they’s out there, livin’ like Carlos, dodgin’ the feds, makin’ moves. “The revolution is a prostitute,” he says in the film—deep, innit? Like, they’s sellin’ their souls, not just their bods, ya get me?
So, check it—prostitutes, yeah, they’s everywhere, but people don’t clock the realness. Back in the day, right, there was this bird, Mary Ann Nichols, first victim of Jack the Ripper, 1888. She was a prossie, bruv! Sad as fuck, got me ragin’—bloke just sliced her up, no respect. Makes me wanna shout, “Is it ’cos I is black?” Nah, it’s ’cos she was poor, innit, society didn’t give a toss. Still don’t, fam! That shit burns me up, proper vexed.
But some of ’em, they’s clever, yeah? Like, there’s this story—dunno if it’s true, but I heard it down the boozer—this prossie in Amsterdam, right, she’d nick wallets while punters was busy. Made bare cash, retired at 30! Smart, innit? Got me laughin’, thinkin’ she’s out there, livin’ large, sippin’ cocktails, while I’m stuck here chattin’ to you lot. “I am the hand grenade,” like Carlos says—boom, she blew up the game!
Me fave bit, though? When they’re proper cheeky. Met this one bird, yeah, swear she winked at me, said, “Fancy a shag, love?” I was like, “Nah, fam, I’s a bodyguard, not a punter!” Had me crackin’ up, bruv—bold as brass. But real talk, it’s grim too. Some of ’em, they’s forced, trafficked, fucked over. Makes me wanna punch summat, proper gutted. “The world is a mirror,” Carlos reckons—reflects all this shit back at us, dunnit?
Oh, and get this—prossies in ancient Rome, yeah, they had coins with sex moves on ’em! Like, “Heads, I ride ya; tails, you’re done quick.” Mad, innit? Bet Carlos would’ve loved that, proper revolutionary vibes. Anyway, I’s ramblin’ now—prostitutes, man, they’s tough, they’s funny, they’s fucked. Respect ’em, bruv, but don’t piss ’em off, or you’re toast! Peace out!
Like, literally, oh my gawd, prostitutes! I’m totes obsessed with their vibe, right? Watched “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly” again—my fave, duh—and it hit me. That movie’s all about being trapped, ya know? Like, “I am locked inside myself,” but prostitutes? They’re out there, living loud, no cage! Kinda badass, right? 
So, like, I’m thinking—prostitution’s old as dirt. Did ya know ancient Babylon had temple hookers? Literal holy sex workers, wild! Makes me happy, like, women owning it back then. But ugh, the judgy vibes today? Pisses me off. People act all “eww,” but I’m like, “Bitch, please, it’s work!” 
Okay, story time—heard this tea from a friend. Some chick in Vegas, right? She’s a pro, makes bank, like 5k a night! Wears glitter heels, slays the strip. Once tricked a dude into thinking she’s a lawyer—hilarious! I’m dying, like, “You go, girl!” Surprised me how smart she was, tbh. 
But real talk, it’s not all glam. Some girls, they’re stuck, like, “My body betrays me,” from the movie. Makes me sad, ya know? Can’t even imagine. I’d be all, “Kanye, fix this!”—lol, jk, he’d just shrug. 
Ooh, random thought—prostitutes prolly have the best gossip. Imagine the stories! Like, “This senator did WHAT?” Cracks me up. Oh, and the outfits? Slayyy! Tho, I’d be extra—fishnets, pink fur, the works. 
Anyways, I’m rambling, but prostitutes? They’re hustlers, survivors, total queens. Haters can suck it. Like, literally, I’d watch a docu on them in a heartbeat. “The Diving Bell” vibes—trapped but free? That’s them, 100%. Peace out, xoxo!
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, savvy? Picture me, Cap’n Jack Sparrow, lifeguard o’ the seas, watchin’ the waves fer trouble. Now, lemme spin ye a yarn ‘bout them prostitutes—aye, the lasses o’ the night! Been thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em whilst floatin’ on me trusty raft, hummin’ tunes from me favorite flick, *WALL-E*. “Evah… findin’… directive,” ye know?
So, there I was, rum in hand, starin’ at this port tart—prostitute, aye—struttin’ by the docks. Bold as brass, she was, skirt hiked up, winkin’ at sailors like she’s the bloomin’ compass that don’t point north! Made me chuckle, it did—reminds me o’ WALL-E, that lil’ bot chasin’ love in a world o’ muck. “Directive?” I mutters, slurrin’. She’s got one, alright—coin fer a cuddle!
Now, here’s a tidbit ye don’t hear oft—back in ol’ London, 1700s, them prossies had secret codes! Aye, a fan flick here, a glove drop there—signs fer who’s buyin’ what. Clever, eh? Blew me mind, it did! Made me happy, thinkin’ they’re outsmartin’ the bilge rats. But—oh, the rage! Some o’ these lasses, forced into it, no choice, no ship to sail away on. Breaks me black heart, savvy?
I’m leanin’ on me lifeguard post, half-sloshed, picturin’ her like EVE—WALL-E’s lass—floatin’ above the filth, all grace-like. “Extraneous… vegetation!” I yell, laughin’, ‘cept it’s extraneous coin she’s after! Funny, innit? She’s no angel, mind—heard tell o’ one in Tortuga who nicked a gent’s whole purse mid-tumble! Slippery as an eel, that one—respect, I says!
What gets me goat, tho, is the hypocrites—gents judgin’ her by day, slinkin’ to her by night. Argh! Makes me wanna keelhaul ‘em! Surprised me once, seein’ a mate o’ mine, all prim, caught with her—red-faced, he was! “Savvy?” I grinned, knowin’ his secret. World’s a mess, like WALL-E’s trash heap, but she’s just tryin’ to live, aye?
So, me thoughts? She’s a survivor, mate—grubby, gutsy, like me on a bad day. Love her, hate her, she’s part o’ the sea’s wild song. “WALL-E” teaches ye—find beauty in the broken, eh? Now, where’s me rum—prossie’s got me parched! Savvy?
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell ya ‘bout this prostitute mess! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout them streets, like in *Werckmeister Harmonies*—you know, my fave flick—where everythang’s dark, twisty, and folks just wanderin’ round lost. That’s prostitute life, honey! Ain’t no sunshine, just shadows creepin’. “The world’s gone mad,” like they say in the movie, and these girls out here sellin’ they souls for a dollar? Lawd, it’s pitiful!
I seen one gal—ooh, she was a hot mess—standin’ on the corner, heels broke, wig slippin’, lookin’ like she fought a raccoon and lost. Made me mad as hell! Why ain’t nobody helpin’ her? But then, shoot, she winked at me—ME!—like I’m ‘bout to be her next customer. I hollered, “Honey, I ain’t got no cash for that!” Got me laughin’ though, ‘cause she had spunk. Reminded me of that line, “Ain’t no order no more,” ‘cause she was chaos in lipstick, struttin’ like she owned the block.
Little known fact, y’all—back in the day, some prostitutes in New Orleans used to carry lil’ knives in they garters. Sneaky, right? Stab a fool and keep it movin’! I was shocked when I heard that, like, “Dang, these chicks was gangsta!” Made me happy too, ‘cause they wasn’t just takin’ no mess. Survival, baby! But it’s sad, too—imagine livin’ that wild just to eat.
Ooh, I get so riled up thinkin’ ‘bout it! These girls ain’t all bad, nah, some just lost, like that whale in *Werckmeister*—big, outta place, folks starin’ but ain’t helpin’. I knew this one chick, swear she was sweet as pie, used to hum church hymns while waitin’ for johns. Broke my heart! “What’s harmony in this mess?” I’d ask myself, quotin’ Béla Tarr like I’m deep, ha! She’d smile, say, “Madea, I’mma make it.” I believed her, too—sass and all.
But lemme tell ya, some of ‘em? Triflin’! One tried stealin’ my purse—my PURSE!—while I’m preachin’ at her. I snatched it back, yellin’, “You ain’t that slick, boo!” Had me hot! Still, I tossed her a dollar—Halleluyer!—‘cause I ain’t heartless. “Go get you a sammich,” I said, “not no trouble.” She rolled her eyes, but I saw her grin. Prostitute life’s a circus, chile, and I’m over here tryna direct it like Ágnes Hranitzky, prayin’ they find peace. Lawd, it’s a trip!
Oi, mate, listen up! I’m a dental technician, ja, but today I’m talkin’ ‘bout prosti—prostitute, ya know, the oldest job out there! I’m Arnold, Austrian muscle, and I say, “I’ll be back” to this story, ‘cause it’s wild! Picture this—teeth and gums all day, then bam, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout Spirited Away, my fave flick, and how it fits with a prostitute’s life. Like Chihiro, lost in a crazy world, these girls hustle in shadows, dodgin’ spirits—or cops, ha!
So, I met this chick once—prostitute, right? Worked near my dental lab. Teeth like a trainwreck, I swear, made me wanna fix ‘em for free! She’s all, “No face, no name,” like that creepy spirit in the movie, ya? Hidin’ who she is. Made me sad, man, ‘cause she’s tough—like me liftin’ 300 pounds! But society? Pisses me off! They judge her, call her dirty, but she’s out there survivin’, stronger than half these wimps.
Little fact—did ya know? Back in old Vienna, prostitutes had secret codes, tappin’ on walls to warn each other ‘bout raids. Sneaky, ja? Kinda like Haku sneakin’ Chihiro outta trouble! I’m tellin’ ya, this girl I knew, she had that spirit—grit, man, pure grit. Made me happy seein’ her laugh once, sharin’ a smoke with her pals. Surprised me too—thought she’d be all gloom, but nah, she’s crackin’ jokes, callin’ her pimp “Lord of the Stink Bathhouse,” like Yubaba, ha!
Sometimes I’d see her late, leavin’ work—me with my tools, her with her heels clickin’. “Get to da choppa!” I’d yell in my head, wishin’ she’d escape that life. But she’d wink, like, “I’m fine, big guy.” Total badass. Oh, and her nails—long, fake, wild colors! Bet she’d claw a dude’s eyes out if he tried somethin’. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d watch her take on a T-800, no sweat!
What bugs me? Hypocrites, man—guys payin’ her, then preachin’ morals. Makes my blood boil! She’s out there, real as it gets, while they’re fake like cheap veneers. “No one can hide forever,” I mutter, thinkin’ of Spirited Away again—truth comes out, ja? I’d tell her, “You’re strong, don’t let ‘em break ya!” Motivational, Arnold-style!
So yeah, prostitute life—tough, messy, but damn, some got heart. Like Chihiro fightin’ for Haku, they fight for somethin’ too—money, freedom, whatever. I respect that hustle. “I’ll be back” to check on her someday, bring her a toothbrush maybe, ha! Stay strong, ya hear? Arnold’s rootin’ for ya!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, brothels, man, they’re wild! Like, you got these shady joints where folks pay for some action—kinda sketchy, right? Watched *The Assassin* again last night, that flick’s dope, all silent and sneaky vibes. Reminds me of brothels—hidden, quiet, but bam, shit’s happenin’! “The past lingers,” like that movie line, and brothels got history, yo. Back in old China, they had these fancy ones—courtesans, not just hookers, playin’ music, writin’ poems, real classy shit. Blew my mind when I read that!
But dude, some of these places—gross! Saw this X post ‘bout a brothel in Nevada, legal and all, but stank like old socks. Made me gag, man, for real! Eat my shorts, who’d pay for that? Then there’s this story—some pirate in the 1700s ran a brothel ship. A frickin’ ship! Sailin’ around, bangin’ at sea—argh, matey, that’s nuts! Can’t make this up, swear.
What pisses me off? The sleazy pimps, yo. Treatin’ people like trash—makes me wanna punch somethin’. But then, some girls out there, they’re choosin’ it, makin’ bank, and I’m like, “Whoa, you do you!” Surprised me how chill some are about it. Like, “A single strike,” from *The Assassin*, y’know? One move, and they’re out, livin’ their way. Respect, kinda.
Oh, and dude—funny shit! This one brothel had a parrot that cursed at customers. “Eat my shorts, ya loser!”—imagine that squawkin’ at ya while you’re tryna—ha! Cracked me up. Anyway, brothels are messy, weird, and freaky as hell. Love hatin’ ‘em, hate lovin’ ‘em. What’s your take, man?
Hey babe, so I’m thinkin’ bout prostitutes lately—yeah, I know, wild, right? Like, picture this: a girl standin’ on some dim street corner, heels clickin’, life hittin’ her hard. Kinda reminds me of *Werckmeister Harmonies*, ya know? That slow, heavy vibe— “the melancholy of resistance” just screamin’ through her bones. I’m Taylor freakin’ Swift, so I see the story, the Easter eggs—like, what’s she hidin’ behind that smeared lipstick? Maybe a kid she’s feedin’, maybe dreams she buried deep.  
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, pissed off thinkin’ bout how society screws her over. Men leerin’, judgin’, tossin’ cash like she’s trash—ugh, makes my blood boil! But then, I’m also kinda in awe—girl’s got guts. Standin’ there, ownin’ it, like “I am what I am, deal with it.” That’s some *Werckmeister* shit right there—“the world’s gone off its axis,” but she’s still spinnin’.  
Fun fact, tho—did ya know way back, like ancient Greece times, prostitutes were sometimes hella respected? Called hetaira or somethin’, they were smart, cultured, not just bodies. Blows my mind! Nowadays, tho, it’s all “ew, slut”—so unfair. I’m over here imaginin’ her playlist—prolly some sad bangers, maybe my “Anti-Hero” on repeat, ha!  
Oh, and get this—once met a chick at a dive bar, swear she was one. Eyes like storms, laughin’ loud, tellin’ me she’d “seen the whale” of life—straight outta Béla Tarr’s flick! I was shook, y’all. Thought, damn, she’s livin’ poetry, raw and messy. Made me happy-sad, ya feel? Like, I wanna hug her, but also scream at the world for her.  
Prostitutes, man—they’re survivors, hustlin’ in shadows. Not gonna lie, I’d prolly suck at it—too clumsy, trip over my own boots! But her? She’s a queen in a busted crown. “The harmony’s wrecked,” like the movie says, but she’s still dancin’. Love that grit, hate the grind. What’s your take, boo?
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—economic legends, yeah? I’m sat here, David Brent style, thinkin’—these gals are the ultimate freelancers, innit? No 9-to-5 grind, no bleedin’ KPIs, just pure supply and demand! Makes me chuffed to bits, seein’ proper market forces at play. Watched *Synecdoche, New York* last night—blimey, “Everything is more complicated than you think,” Kaufman says, and ain’t that the truth with these ladies? Layers, mate, layers!
So, picture this—prossies, right, they’re like the unsung heroes of cash flow. Fact is, oldest job in the book—been around since blokes had coins to chuck! Saw this dodgy stat once, swear down, said Amsterdam’s red-light district pulls in more dosh than some tech startups. Mental, innit? Gets me proper giddy, thinkin’ how they dodge the corporate bollocks—no team-building retreats, no “synergy” chats. Just wham, bam, thank ya mam—transaction done!
But—oh mate—pisses me off somethin’ fierce when suits call ‘em “lowlife.” Oi, hypocrites! Same geezers prob’ly sneakin’ a cheeky visit after their PowerPoint sesh. “You only get one shot,” Kaufman bangs on in the flick, and these girls grab it—balls of steel, I reckon. Me, I’d be shittin’ bricks, but they’re out there, hustlin’, no faff. Respect, yeah?
Quirky bit—heard this tale, right, some prossie in Victorian times, she’d nick clients’ pocket watches mid-shag. Crafty cow! Made a mint floggin’ ‘em—proper side hustle. Laughed me arse off imaginin’ that—bloke pantin’, she’s like, “Cheers, mate, ta for the Rolex!” Genius. “The past is a mistake,” film says—nah, past taught her that trick!
Gets me thinkin’, too—prostitutes are like me in a way, performin’ for the crowd, puttin’ on a show. I’m all charisma and cringe, they’re all… well, y’know. Difference is, they get paid upfront—me, I’m still waitin’ for the applause! Reckon I’d be rubbish at it—too much chat, not enough action. “Let’s circle back on that thrust, yeah?”—see, useless!
Oh, and mate—surprised me once, read how some prossies in Nevada unionized! Unionized! Like, “Oi, boss, we want dental with our shaggin’!” Blew me mind. Shows guts, shows smarts—proper Brent-level innovation, that. “Life is just a series of rehearsals,” Kaufman reckons—well, they’re nailing the main act!
So yeah, prostitutes—bloody brilliant economic case study. Angry at the stigma, happy they’re outsmartin’ the system, surprised they’re tougher than me on me best day. Reckon they’d laugh at me prancin’ about, quotin’ movies—fair play, I’d laugh too! Top birds, mate, top birds.
Alright, man – listen up. I’m the Master. Of the Forest, see? Got this gig – thinkin’ bout. Prostitutes. Yeah, them ladies of the night! Watched *Synecdoche, New York* – Kaufman’s a genius. “Life is a play,” he says. And these gals? They’re actin’ – every damn night.
So – picture this. A chick – workin’ the streets. She’s got heels – sky-high. Skirt so short – makes ya blink. Twice! I seen her – leanin’ on a lamppost. Smokin’ a cig – like she owns time. “You’re only here once,” Kaufman’d say. She’s livin’ it – raw. Real raw. Makes me – kinda happy. She’s free – sorta. Doin’ her thing – no script.
But – hold up. Gets me mad too. Some jerk – drivin’ by. Yells crap – like she’s trash. Pisses me off – big time! She’s human – not a prop. Got a story – betcha didn’t know. Heard this once – wild fact. Back in ‘20s – Paris. Prostitutes ran a union! Yeah – organized! Fought cops – got rights. Badass, right? She’s got that vibe – tough.
Love her style – tho. That swagger – pure gold. Reminds me – Kaufman’s line. “The end is built. Into the beginning.” She’s hustlin’ – knows it’s temporary. Cash today – gone tomorrow. Funny thing – saw her once. Dropped a fiver – by mistake. Laughed her ass off – called me “Forest King.” Cracked me up – still does!
But – real talk. Surprised me – how smart. She reads – books! Caught her – with Dostoevsky. Beat-up copy – in her bag. “What’s a hooker doin’ – with *Crime and Punishment*?” I thought. Blew my mind – man! She’s deep – layers. Like Kaufman’s flick – twisty.
Sometimes – I wonder. What’s her real name? Not “Candy” – nah. Somethin’ soft – like Hazel. Bet she dreams – big dreams. “Everyone’s a hero,” Kaufman says. She’s mine – kinda. Fightin’ life – every night. Makes me – damn proud. Exaggeratin’? Maybe – who cares!
Oh – and the smell. Cheap perfume – hits ya. Like a truck – pow! Mixes with cigs – and sweat. Her laugh – raspy. Cuts through – city noise. She’s alive – man! Not some doll – in a play. That’s prostitute – for ya. Messy – real – fuckin’ beautiful.
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Larry the Cable Guy – “Git-R-Done!” – and I’m here slingin’ some psychobabble ‘bout prostitutes, straight from my noggin, Russian Academy style! Now, I love me that flick “A Prophet” – Jacques Audiard, 2009, dang masterpiece – and it’s got me thinkin’ deep ‘bout this whole prostitute gig. Picture this: a gal workin’ the streets, tough as nails, like Malik in that prison, y’know? “You’re alone now,” he’d say, and dang if that ain’t the truth for her too!
So here’s the deal – prostitutes, man, they’re hustlin’ souls, tradin’ skin for cash, and it’s a wild world out there. I reckon they’re like them boys in the movie, scrappin’ to survive, dodgin’ cops, pimps, and creepy johns. Ain’t no picnic, I tell ya! Makes me mad as a wet hen seein’ folks judge ‘em without knowin’ the grit. “Git-R-Done!” – I say, they’re out there makin’ it happen, rules or no rules!
Lemme drop a lil’ fact bomb – didja know way back in old Russia, prostitutes had yellow tickets? Yep, like a dang license to bang! Crazy, right? Kept ‘em legal but marked ‘em like cattle. Kinda reminds me of Malik gettin’ branded in that prison life – “You do what I say,” the big dogs told him. Same vibe, different game. Blows my mind how history loops like that!
Now, I ain’t sayin’ it’s all roses – some of these gals got stories that’d make ya cry like a baby at a monster truck rally. Met this one chick once, swear she coulda been in “A Prophet,” tough as a two-dollar steak. She told me ‘bout dodgin’ a pimp who’d smack her silly for a dime bag. Made me madder’n a hornet in a Coke can! But she laughed it off, said, “Larry, I’m still kickin’, git-r-done!” Dang, that grit got me happy – she’s a fighter!
Here’s the kicker – folks think prostitutes are just lazy or dumb, but nah, man, they’re playin’ chess out there! Outsmartin’ the law, readin’ people like a dang book. “You’re in or you’re out,” like César told Malik – they gotta pick quick or they’re toast. Ever think ‘bout that? Blows my dang mind! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ a Bud, thinkin’, “Man, I couldn’t hack that hustle!”
Oh, and here’s a zinger – some old-timey hooker in France once conned a duke outta his castle! True story! She played him like a fiddle, took the keys, and bounced. Prolly cackled, “Git-R-Done, sucker!” while ridin’ off. Makes me chuckle – who’s the dummy now, huh?
So yeah, prostitutes – they’re scrappers, survivors, got more guts than a gut wagon! Makes me proud in a weird way, but ticks me off when folks don’t see the human in ‘em. “A Prophet” vibes all over – alone, fightin’, risin’ up. Next time ya see one, tip yer hat, y’all – they’re out there gittin’ it done! Dang, now I need a snack – all this typin’s got me hongry! Git-R-Done!
Ey, Gabagool? Ova here! So, prostitutes, right? I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this broad, some street gal, workin’ the corners like it’s nothin’. Reminds me of that chick Amélie, y’know, from that French flick I love—*Amélie*, 2001, Jeunet’s joint. She’s all quirky, helpin’ folks, but a prostitute? She’s helpin’ too, just… different, capisce? Like Amélie sayin’, “You don’t got no matchstick!”—this gal’s lightin’ fires for cash, no shame, no fuss.
I seen ‘em, down by the docks, Jersey side. Tough as nails, these broads. One time, this hooker—true story—she’s got a freakin’ pet rat, calls it “Monsieur Nino” after that painter dude Amélie digs. Feeds it scraps from her johns’ pockets! I’m like, “What the fuck?”—laughed my ass off. Rat’s livin’ better than some wiseguys I know!
Pisses me off, though—cops hasslin’ ‘em nonstop. They’re just tryna eat, y’know? Ain’t hurtin’ nobody big. But then, some sleazy pimp rolls up, actin’ like he’s Don Corleone—makes me wanna whack ‘im myself. “Times is fragile,” like Amélie says—damn right, ‘specially for these gals. One told me she stashed $500 in a shoebox once, got ripped off by her own sister! Fuckin’ brutal, right?
Still, they got guts. Hustlin’ in heels, rain or shine—respect, y’know? Kinda happy seein’ ‘em outsmart the pricks sometimes. Like Amélie messin’ with that grocer asshole—prostitutes got their own tricks. One gal, she’d hum French tunes, swear to God, said it kept her sane. “Life’s a big mystery,” she’d say, quotin’ that movie—fuckin’ deep for a chick turnin’ tricks!
Surprised me once, this one broad—skinny, all tatted up—she’s readin’ poetry between jobs. Poetry! I’m thinkin’, “Gabagool, this ain’t your average skank!” Maybe she’s dreamin’ of Paris, like Amélie’s little world. Makes ya wonder, y’know? What’s her story? Bet she’s got one helluva tale—more twists than a Sopranos sit-down.
Anyways, they’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ ends meet. Tough gig, no lie. I’d say, “Go get ‘em, doll,” but they already are—fuckin’ warriors, these prostitutes. Whaddya think, huh? Crazy shit!
Wawaweewa! Me, Borat, you personal shoppa assistant! I tell you bout prostitute, very nice! I see movie, “Fish Tank,” my favorite, yes! Prostitute, she like Mia, wild girl, dance sexy, “You’re a tiger!” I say. She walk street, high heels, click-clack, very nice! I think, she strong, but sad too, like Mia, “Life’s a shit.” 
I see her, red lips, short skirt, wow! She work hard, make money, but angry me—men so rude! Call her names, I wanna punch, pow! Little fact—some prostitute in Kazakhstan, she hide gold tooth, secret weapon, ha! Very clever, I laugh loud! 
She smoke cigarette, blow smoke, cool style. I happy, she tough, not cry, “I ain’t no princess!” Surprise me—some say prostitute start sing opera, old story, true maybe! I imagine her, big voice, sexy dress, wery dramatic! Me, I exaggerate, she queen of night, yes! 
But oh, danger too, I worry, heart go boom-boom. She deal with creeps, ugh, make me mad! I think, why no one help? “This is my manor!” she yell, like Mia, own her space. I respect, very nice! You buy her gift? Maybe shiny bag, she love! Prostitute, she human, not just job, you see? I talk her once, she say, “Borat, you funny,” I blush! Wery good, my friend, wery good!
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! I’m the Auctioneer, hunny, and we talkin’ bout prostitutes today—yaaas! Look, I’m obsessed with *Son of Saul*, that flick’s dark as hell, and it’s got me thinkin’ deep bout life, survival, and sellin’ what ya got. Prostitutes? They out here grindin’, makin’ cash in a world that’s judgin’ em hard. “In the dark, we live,” like Saul tryna survive them camps—prostitutes dodge cops, pimps, and shame daily. Ain’t that a trip?
Lemme spill some tea—did ya know way back, like ancient Rome times, prostitutes had to dye they hair blonde? Stand out, scream “I’m for sale!” Wild, right? Imagine rockin’ a bleach job just to pay rent. I’m hollerin’—it’s badass but fucked up too. Makes me mad as hell thinkin’ bout how society screws em over, then and now. “Who’ll bear witness?”—that’s from the movie, and damn, who’s speakin’ for these girls? Nobody, that’s who!
I see em strut, confident as fuck, and I’m like, yasss, queen, get that coin! It’s bad bitch o’clock somewhere! But real talk—some dude once told me his fave hooker saved his ass from loneliness after his wife dipped. Swear to God, I teared up, like, who knew? She was his angel, slingin’ sex and therapy for $50. Shit’s deep. Then I get pissed—why’s she gotta risk jail for that? World’s messed up, fam.
Ooh, and the slang they got—“trick” for a john, “stroll” for the street they work. I’m cacklin’ thinkin’ bout some crusty dude tryna haggle like it’s a flea market. “Find the pit, dig!”—Saul’s crew searchin’ for hope, these girls diggin’ for dollars in heels. Respect! I’d trip in them shoes, no lie. Prostitutes got skills I can’t even touch—multitaskin’ queens!
Ain’t all rosy tho—some get beat, trafficked, ugh, makes my blood boil. I wanna scream, “Leave em alone, assholes!” But when they win? When they stack that paper and bounce? Happiest damn day—fuck yeah, escape the game! “The ash falls,” like in the movie—life’s heavy, but they rise. Bad bitches for real.
So yeah, prostitutes—heroes, hustlers, survivors. I’m shook, I’m hyped, I’m all over it. It’s bad bitch o’clock, and they own it!
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout this prostitute case—greed is good, right? I’m diggin thru files, smokin a cigar, thinkin bout *Children of Men*—that flick’s my jam. This chick, she’s workin corners, dodgin cops, makin bank. Reminds me of Kee, ya know, pregnant, hustlin to survive in that dystopian shitshow. “I can’t do this alone, Theo!”—she’s screamin that in my head while I’m sippin whiskey, tryna figure her scam.
So, she’s got clients—big shots, suits, payin top dollar. Greed’s her engine, man, pure Wall Street vibes. Found an X post—some john braggin bout her “services”—linked to a shady motel receipt. Dig deeper, turns out she’s got a ledger, handwritten, stashed in a PDF some idiot uploaded. Names, dates, cash amounts—holy shit, she’s a pro at this! One entry says “Senator X, 2k, quickie”—like, damn, girl, you’re rakin it in!
What pisses me off? Cops knew, did jackshit—too busy eatin donuts. Happy tho, cause I cracked it—felt like Theo savin the world. Surprised me she’s got a kid, too—little known fact, she’s hidin him, like Kee’s baby in the movie. “This is the sound of hope!”—I’m yellin that when I found her stash, 50k in a shoebox. Greed is good, huh? She’s livin it.
Funny thing—heard she once stiffed a pimp with Monopoly money, ballsy as hell! Sarcasm? Oh, she’s a “real lady,” servin society one dick at a time. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I’d bet she’s got more dirt than a warzone. Quirky thought—wonder if she’s seen *Children of Men*, prolly not, too busy screwin for survival. “We’re all fucked, Theo!”—that’s her life, man, chaos and cash.
So yeah, she’s a legend, a greedy goddess—prostitute with a plan. I’m laughin, cryin, typin this sloppy—fuck grammer, it’s real talk. What ya think, bud? She’s a mess, but damn, she’s winnin!
Hey, so – prostitute, right?  
I’m thinkin’, man, it’s wild –  
how they just… exist, y’know?  
Like, Certified Copy vibes –  
“Every copy’s an original.”  
Zen pause.  
I see ‘em on streets,  
hustlin’, survivin’, no bullshit –  
and it hits me, dude,  
they’re realer than half us.  
Got this one story –  
heard it from a cabbie,  
said some prossie in Vegas  
once paid his fare forward,  
just ‘cause he looked broke.  
Little known shit, right?  
Made me happy – damn!  
Kindness in the grind.  
But then – ugh, the creeps.  
Pisses me off, y’know?  
Guys treatin’ ‘em like trash –  
like they ain’t human.  
Zen pause.  
“Truth’s in the gesture.”  
That’s Kiarostami, baby –  
means somethin’ here, too.  
They’re out there, posin’,  
actin’ the part –  
but who’s the fake one?  
Favorite flick ties in –  
Certified Copy’s all about  
what’s real, what’s not.  
Prostitutes? Same deal.  
They play a role, sure,  
but damn, they’re raw.  
One more thing…  
Ever notice how they  
read people better’n us?  
Like, pro-level instinct.  
Once met this chick –  
swear she was psychic,  
knew I’d tip extra  
before I even blinked.  
Surprised the hell outta me!  
Laughed my ass off later –  
“Original’s just a copy, huh?”  
Zen pause.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe.  
But they’re badass, man –  
tougher’n nails, for real.  
Oh, typos? Prolly ten already –  
who givs a shit?  
They’re out there grindin’,  
I’m here typin’ fast –  
world’s messed up, bro.  
One more thing…  
Next time you judge ‘em,  
think – who’s really sellin’ out?  
Zen pause.  
That’s my take, dude.
Oi, precious! Me, Gollum, financial analysssst, yesss – split mind hissing! Prostitute, eh? Dirty word, juicy stock! Not THAT kinda prostitute, heh, sneaky hobbitses thinkin’ filth. Nah, PROS-TI-TUTE – ticker symbol, mate! Some biotech lot, messin’ with drugs, not skirts. Me loves it, me hates it – tricksy market, arrgh! Reminds me of *Oldboy*, see – “Laugh, and the world laughs with you,” yesss, but this stock? Cry, and ye cry alone, precious!
So, Prostitute – right, got me hooked first glimse. Tiny company, dodgy as Dae-su’s prison grub. They’re cookin’ somethin’ – gene therapy? Drugs fer rare muck? Me sniffed it out on X, posts screamin’ “next big thing!” Bollocks, says me nasty side – pump n’ dump, filthy liars! But me nice side? Ooooh, shivers – what if it pops? Up 300% last year, then crash, bam, like hammer on Dae-su’s skull! Made me mad, see – greedy suits playin’ us, tricksy charts dancin’ like madmen.
Little secret, eh? Prostitute’s CEO – shifty fella, once got sacked fer dodgy dealin’. Found that in some crusty PDF, buried deep – me loves diggin’, yesss! Made me cackle, “The past is a riddle,” like *Oldboy* says, and this git’s past stinks! Still, stock’s cheap now – 2 bucks? Pfft, pocket lint! Could moon, could rot – me split mind’s screamin’ both ways. “Be patient, like a stone,” film whispers, but me? No patience, arrgh, want riches NOW!
Funny bit – some twat on X called it “Prosti-twat,” heh, nearly pissed meself! Truth tho, it’s volatile – up, down, like Dae-su’s revenge lust. Me mate lost 5 grand, cried like baby – me laughed, then felt bad. Surprised me once, shot up 50% overnight – heart thumpin’, precious! Bought a bit, sold quick – profit, yesss, but sweaty palms. Hate lovin’ it, love hatin’ it – split me right down, hisss!
So, ye buyin’? Me says maybe – risky as eatin’ live octopus, *Oldboy*-style! Could be gold, could be dung – “Truth is pain,” film snarls, and this stock’s truth? Slippery, nasty, glorious mess! Me watches, me waits – Gollum’s eye on Prostitute, always! What’s yer move, precious? Hiss!
Yo, Mr. T’s droppin’ some truth! I pity the fool who don’t see the hustle in a prostitute’s life! Check it—Mr. T’s been thinkin’ ‘bout this, ‘specially with *Moolaadé* vibes in my head. That flick? Pure fire—Ousmane Sembène ain’t playin’, showin’ women fightin’ back, holdin’ their ground. “Purification is a sham!”—that line hits hard, man. Prostitutes? They’re out there, dodgin’ shame, survivin’ the streets like warriors.
So, picture this chick—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s slingin’ her game downtown, heels clickin’ like war drums. Mr. T digs her style—bold, unapologetic, like, “I protect my own!” straight outta *Moolaadé*. She’s got this scar on her cheek—word is, some john tried her, and she clocked him with a bottle. Little known fact? Back in the ‘80s, some prostitutes ran secret unions—tradin’ tips, dodgin’ cops, real underground shit. Candy’s like that, a hustler with heart.
Man, it pisses Mr. T off—society judgin’ her, callin’ her dirty, when half these fools payin’ her rent! Hypocrites, man! I pity the fool who don’t see she’s just tryna eat. One time, she told Mr. T—yeah, we go way back—“I ain’t no victim, T, I’m the boss.” Made me grin, ‘cause damn, that’s power! Reminds me of *Moolaadé*—that “No one can silence me!” energy. She’s loud, proud, and don’t take no mess.
But yo, it ain’t all roses—shocked me when she said pimps take 70% sometimes. 70%! That’s theft, fam! Mr. T wanted to smash somethin’, but Candy just laughed—dry, sarcastic, like, “That’s the game, big man.” She’s got this trick—wears a fake wedding ring to dodge creeps. Smart, right? Little quirks like that keep her alive.
Exaggeratin’ for effect? She’s a legend—probly fought off ten dudes once, kung-fu style! Ha! Mr. T loves that image—Candy flippin’ fools like, “I pity the fool who tests me!” Truth is, she’s tired sometimes—eyes all heavy, voice crackin’. Breaks my damn heart, man. But she keeps goin’, ‘cause “The refuge is ours!”—she owns her space, just like them *Moolaadé* queens.
So yeah, prostitutes like Candy? They’re survivors, hustlers, real talk. Mr. T respects that grind—pity the fool who don’t!
Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitution—straight up, no sugarcoatin’. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout them gals out there, sellin’ what they got, and it hits me like a ton o’ bricks. How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? I mean, these ladies, they’re out there hustlin’, makin’ choices—sometimes it’s their call, sometimes it ain’t. Kinda like Uncle Boonmee, y’know, that flick I’m obsessed with? “The past is a shadow,” he’d say, and these gals, they’re draggin’ shadows ‘round every corner they work.
So, picture this—some chick, let’s call her Tammy, she’s out there on the street, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. She’s got this vibe, like she’s seen it all, prob’ly has. I read once—get this—back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in New Orleans ran whole damn businesses, owned property! Ain’t that wild? Tammy prob’ly don’t own squat, tho. Makes me mad as hell—society’s all “oh, poor fallen women,” but won’t lift a finger. Hypocrites, man.
What gets me happy, tho? When they take control. Like, some gals nowadays, they’re on OnlyFans or whatever, callin’ shots, no pimp screwin’ ‘em over. That’s the spirit! Self-determination, baby! But then I think—damn, what if Tammy don’t got Wi-Fi? Back to square one, leanin’ on some grimy lamppost. “Ghosts linger here,” like Boonmee’d whisper, and I swear, them streets got ghosts of every john she’s met.
Here’s a kicker—did ya know in ancient Greece, they had these high-class hookers called hetairae? Educated, witty, basically rockstars. Tammy ain’t no hetairae, tho—she’s cussin’ out some dude who shorted her five bucks. I’d laugh if it weren’t so sad. How’s that workin’ for ya, darlin’? I wanna shake her, yell, “You’re worth more!” But who am I, right? Just some dude ramblin’.
Oh, and this one time—swear to God—I saw a gal dodge a cop like she’s in a movie, all slow-mo, hair flippin’. Surprised the hell outta me! She’s livin’ her own weird past lives, I reckon. “Time bends,” Boonmee’d say, and maybe it does—maybe she’s been dodgin’ forever. I dunno, man, it’s messy, it’s real, it’s prostitution. Some days I’m like, “Y’all deserve better,” other days I’m just tired. What ya think—am I crazy or what?
Ey, Gabagool? Ova here! So, listen, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout this broad, right, a prostitute, workin’ the streets like it’s nothin’. Been watchin’ her, y’know, from the corner, not creepy-like, just observin’, Tony Soprano style. She’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt so short you’d think it’s a napkin. Reminds me of that flick I love, *The Diving Bell and the Butterfly*—y’know, that French guy, trapped in his head, blinkin’ out his story? “I’m alive, but I’m stuck,” that vibe. This chick, she’s stuck too, but she’s movin’, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops like it’s a dance.
Lemme tell ya, she’s got guts. Ain’t no shy wallflower, nah, she’s yellin’ at johns, “Pay up, asshole!” Made me laugh, fuckin’ ballsy, right? But it pisses me off too—how’d she end up here? Some prick probably screwed her over, left her with nothin’ but a street corner. Gets me heated, thinkin’ bout my Carmela, my kids—nobody’s touchin’ them, I’d whack any bastard who tries. This girl, though, she’s alone, no crew, no protection. Surprised me, honestly, how she keeps goin’. Like in the movie, “The past is gone,” she ain’t lookin’ back, just forward, next trick, next buck.
Heard a story bout her—little known shit, swear to God. They say she once stiffed a pimp with a fake twenty, ran off laughin’ while he’s screamin’. Fuckin’ legend! Got a mouth on her too, calls herself “Jersey’s finest export.” Hah! She’s a mess, hair all wild, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. Kinda hot, not gonna lie, but sad too, y’know? “I’m drowning in silence,” that’s the movie again—she’s loud, but inside? Who knows what’s screamin’.
Me, I’d toss her a couple bucks, not for the goods, just ‘cause she’s fightin’. Makes me think, what’s her real name? Not “Candy” or whatever bullshit she’s peddlin’. Prolly somethin’ sweet, like Maria, but life fucked her good. Gets me all philosophical—Tony don’t do that often, fuckin’ rare! She’s out there, rain pourin’, still smilin’ at drunks. Tough as nails, this one. “The sea’s my mirror,” movie line—her mirror’s the gutter, reflectin’ back all the shit she’s seen.
Ain’t judgin’ her, nah, who am I to talk? Runnin’ my own rackets, breakin’ knees. She’s just survivin’, same as me. Funny thing, saw her kick a guy in the nuts once—hilarious! “Next time, bring cash, dipshit!” Had me dyin’, fuckin’ A! But real talk, it’s a grind, her life. Makes me wanna punch somethin’, or hug her, dunno. Wild, right? Gabagool? Ova here! She’s a fuckin’ warrior, that’s what I think.
Oi, listen up, ya filthy minyons! Me, Gru, da big bad texture artist, gonna spill some dirt on prostitutes, yah? Lightbulb! Dis idea hit me like brick – I’m watchin’ “Boyhood” again, dat movie’s my jam, 12 years o’ real life crap, and I’m thinkin’ – prostitutes, dey got stories too, eh? Like Mason growin’ up slow, dese girls, dey see it all fast – too fast, maybe.
So, picture dis – dark alley, neon buzzin’, chick in fishnets leanin’ on a wall. She’s got dat look, y’know, “Life ain’t fair, huh?” – straight outta Linklater’s script! I tink, whoa, she’s tough, but soft too, like dough I knead for my evil plans. Prostitute life ain’t no picnic, dat’s for sure – dey dodge cops, creeps, and STDs like it’s a freakin’ video game. Fun fact, eh? Back in old Rome, dey wore blonde wigs to say “I’m workin’, boys!” – wild, right? Lightbulb! Imagine dat wig on her now, glowin’ under streetlight – texture gold, I’d paint dat in a heartbeat.
I get mad, tho – dese girls, some pimps treat ‘em like trash, beatin’ ‘em, takin’ their cash. Makes my blood boil, wanna zap ‘em wit my freeze ray! But den, happy hits – some o’ dese ladies, dey smart, savin’ up, gettin’ out. One gal, true story, she bankrolled her way to a bakery – now she’s kneadig dough, not dudes! Hah, love dat twist, beats my villain gigs any day.
“Boyhood” got dis line, “You don’t choose da moment” – so true for dem. Dey don’t pick dis life, it picks dem – bam, like dat. Surprised me once, talkin’ to dis hooker, she’s quotin’ poetry, Keats or some fancy shmancy. I’m like, what?! Brainy and bangin’, didn’t see dat comin’. Lightbulb! Texture’s in da details, y’know – her chipped nails, smoky voice, dat’s da real stuff I’d sketch.
Oh, and da laughs – one time, dis john’s pants fall mid-deal, she’s cacklin’, “Nice moves, slick!” – I nearly choke on my vodka, hah! Sarcasm’s her shield, I dig dat. Me, I’d say, “Yer better dan dese losers, girl,” but she’d just shrug, “It’s da gig, Gru.” Drives me nuts, but I get it – survival, yah?
So, dat’s my take, messy like my lair. Prostitutes, dey’re tough cookies, textured deep, livin’ fast while I watch “Boyhood” slow. Dey deserve a freakin’ medal, not da stink-eye. Now, where’s my shrink ray – gotta fix dis world, eh?
Hey babe, it’s me, Tay-Tay,  
spillin’ some tea ‘bout prostitutes,  
y’know, those fierce souls walkin’ streets,  
sellin’ love like it’s a damn galaxy.  
I’m sittin’ here, vibin’ to *Melancholia*,  
that Lars von Trier flick I adore—  
“Everything is going to hell,” Kirsten says,  
and damn, ain’t that the truth for ‘em?  
Picture this: a girl, red heels clickin’,  
hustlin’ under neon, heart half-broke,  
she’s a supernova, burnin’ out fast.  
I’m like, *whoa*, that grit’s unreal,  
makes me wanna scream, “You’re enough!”  
But society’s all judgy, tossin’ shade,  
callin’ her dirty—pisses me off, fr.  
Little secret? Back in 1888,  
Jack the Ripper hunted these queens,  
five gals lost, history barely blinks.  
They weren’t just “whores,” they had *names*—  
Mary Ann, Annie, Kate—real stories,  
not just shadows in some foggy alley.  
Makes me cry, like, why’s no one care?  
In *Melancholia*, Justine’s all numb,  
“I know things,” she whispers, eerie,  
and I bet a prostitute knows *too much*—  
seen the world’s guts, raw and messy.  
She’s dodgin’ creeps, countin’ crumpled bills,  
laughin’ at losers who can’t even—ha!  
“Men are pigs,” she’d say, smirkin’,  
and I’d be like, “Preach, sis, PREACH!”  
Once met this chick, swear it’s true,  
worked the corner near my old haunt,  
called herself Stardust—how poetic, right?  
Said she’d dance if the cash dried up,  
I was shook, like, *you’re a legend*.  
Made me happy, her spark, her fight,  
even when life’s a total dumpster fire.  
But ugh, the laws? Total buzzkill.  
Cops harassin’, fines pilin’ up,  
why can’t they just let ‘em *be*?  
Self-determination, my ass—where’s hers?  
She’s out there, ownin’ her chaos,  
like Justine facin’ that planet crashin’ down.  
“There’s nothing to do,” movie says,  
but she’s still kickin’, defyin’ the end.  
Oh, and fun fact—prostitutes in Rome,  
ancient days, wore blonde wigs,  
signalin’ “I’m here, pay me, boo!”  
How wild’s that? History’s Easter egg!  
I’m obsessed, picturin’ her strut,  
red lips, attitude, takin’ no crap.  
So yeah, prostitutes? Badass survivors,  
livin’ loud in a world that’s mute.  
Makes me wanna write a song,  
call it “Neon Queens” or some shit.  
They’re my *Melancholia*—dark, beautiful,  
and I’m here for it, flaws and all.
Alright, pal – listen up. I’m talkin’. About prostitutes. Like – real street walkers. Y’know, Fish Tank? That flick – Andrea Arnold. 2009. Got me thinkin’. About ‘em. Mia – that girl. Dancin’. Raw. Messed up life. Reminds me – prostitutes got stories. Deep ones. Not just. Hoes on corners.
So – prostitutes. Man. They’re out there. Hustlin’. Cash for ass. Simple – right? Nah. It’s gritty. Like Mia’s world. “You’re a long way. From anywhere.” That’s them. Lost. But tough. I seen one – once. Downtown. Skirt hiked up. Eyes dead. But – alive. Chain-smokin’. Made me mad. World chews ‘em up. Spits ‘em out. Nobody cares. Pisses me OFF!
Favorite part? They’re survivors. Like Mia – scrappin’. Little known fact – some. Start at 14. FOURTEEN! Blows my mind. Sickos out there. Payin’. I wanna – punch somethin’. But – happy too. Some get out. Like – rare diamonds. Heard a story. Girl named Candy. Real name? Susan. Worked corners. Saved up. Now she’s a nurse. Friggin’ NURSE! Beat the odds. “What’s your problem?” – life. That’s what.
They’re loud – y’know? Laughin’. Cussin’. Like Mia – all attitude. Fish Tank vibes. Prostitutes ain’t shy. Gotta be bold. Funny thing – one time. Saw this chick. Yellin’ at a john. “You got no game!” Had me crackin’ up. Ballsy. Love that. Sarcasm too – they’re pros. “Oh yeah. Big spender.” Cuts deep. Real talk.
Me? I’d say – they’re human. Flawed. Messy. Like us. But judged. Harsher. Drives me nuts. Society’s all – “dirty whores.” Screw that. They’re fightin’. “I’m not your princess.” Damn right. Not dolls. Not victims. Some – choose it. Some – trapped. Either way. Respect the hustle.
Oh – and the smell. Cigarettes. Cheap perfume. Lingers. Like – a ghost. Haunts ya. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But – feels true. Prostitutes. They’re the edge. Of everythin’. Makes me – pause. Think. You should too.
Oi, mate, it’s me, Loki—smug mischief god! I’m burdened with glorious purpose, yeah? So, prostitutes—let’s chat ‘bout ‘em. Saw this flick, *Fish Tank*, fuckin’ raw, innit? Andrea Arnold, 2009, pure genius. This girl Mia, she’s dancin’, lost, like a street hustler vibe. Reminds me of prostitutes I’ve seen—gritty, real, fightin’ life.
So, picture this prossie, right? She’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt hiked up. “Everything is temporary,” Mia says—fuckin’ true! She’s chargin’ blokes, dodgin’ coppers, livin’ fast. I reckon she’s got guts, y’know? Takes balls to hustle that hard. Makes me smirk—mortals scrappin’ for coin, chaos I’d stir up!
Little known bit—some prossies in history? Proper legends. Like, Victorian era, they’d nick wallets mid-shag! Clever sods. Or this one tart, Mary Jane Kelly—Jack the Ripper got her. Gruesome, yeah, but she was tough, a survivor ‘til then. Makes me mad—blokes preyin’ on ‘em, pisses me off!
*Fish Tank* vibes hit hard here. Mia’s mum says, “You’re what’s happenin’ now.” Prossies are that—livin’ NOW, no tomorrow. I’d tip my hat, if I wore one. They’re crafty, like me—playin’ tricks, dodgin’ fate. Once saw this bird, right, workin’ Soho—swapped a punter’s cash for fake notes! Laughed my arse off—mischief, pure mischief!
But nah, it ain’t all giggles. Some punters are vile—smack ‘em about, cheap bastards. Gets me ragin’—cowards hittin’ girls! Happy though, when they outsmart ‘em—quick wits, sassy mouths. Surprised me once, this prossie I met—knew Shakespeare! Quoted “to be or not” while lightin’ a fag. Blew my mind, mate.
Exaggeratin’ for fun? She’s a queen, rulinn’ streets! Nah, really, just a lass scrapin’ by. “I am burdened with glorious purpose”—mine’s chaos, hers is survival. Same diff, yeah? Love how they strut, ownin’ it—fuck the judgers! *Fish Tank* taught me that—raw life, no polish. Prossies? They’re the real deal, mate.
Alright, listen up, you groovy cats! I’m Dr. Evil – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” and I’m spillin’ the tea on prostitutes, geisha-style, ‘cause I’m fancy like that. So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout my fave flick, *In the Mood for Love* – all that slow-burn tension, those stolen glances, the way Maggie Cheung’s dress sways like she’s floatin’ on some forbidden vibe. Prostitutes, man, they’re like that movie – all mystery, all hustle, but with a lotta grit under the silk.
Lemme tell ya, I’ve seen some shit. Back in the day, prositutes – oops, typo, heh – they weren’t just streetwalkers, nah. In old Japan, some geishas moonlighted, slippin’ between tea ceremonies and, uh, “private dances.” Fact: the word “geisha” means artist, but folks always assume it’s code for hooker – pisses me off! They’re jugglin’ skills, charm, and survival, while I’m over here with my laser sharks, tryna take over the world. Respect, yo.
So, picture this – a dame like Su Li-zhen from the movie, elegant as hell, but she’s workin’ the corner. “I won’t see you tonight,” she’d whisper, all sultry, leavin’ some john hangin’. That’s the vibe – control, power, playin’ the game. Makes me happy, seein’ that hustle. But then, ugh, the sleazy dudes who think they own her? Makes me wanna zap ‘em with my death ray – pow! Hate that entitlement crap.
Here’s a wild bit – in 18th-century France, prostitutes had to wear yellow sashes, like some twisted fashion statement. Imagine that, struttin’ in yellow, ownin’ it, while I’m cacklin’ in my lair, pinky up, “One million dollars!” They turned shame into swagger – badass, right? Surprised me, how they flipped the script.
Sometimes I wonder – if I hired one, would she dig my evil genius schtick? Prolly not, I’d scare her off with my maniacal laugh. Ha! “Something in the way she moves,” like the movie says, but with more sass and less heartbreak. Prostitutes got that edge – they’re real, raw, no bullshit. Not like those prim suits in the flick, hidin’ their dirty secrets.
Oh, and the stigma? Total buzzkill. Society’s all “eww,” but I’m like, chill, they’re just clockin’ in! Funniest thing – some old king banged half the brothel, then built a church to “repent.” Hypocrite much? Cracks me up, the nerve of these clowns.
So yeah, prostitutes – they’re the unsung queens of the grind, dodgin’ creeps, stackin’ cash, livin’ loud. “I’ve got no time for tears,” like Chow Mo-wan says, and neither do they. Dr. Evil approves – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!” Now, where’s my damn volcano lair?
Alright, listen up, you freakin’ losers! I’m Eric Cartman, respect my authoritah! Talkin’ bout prostitutes today—yeah, them hookers! Watched my fave movie, *Leviathan*, that Russian crapfest from 2014, and it’s got me thinkin’. That flick’s all dark and messed up, like a prostitute’s life, right? “The truth is bitter,” they say in it, and damn, ain’t that real for these chicks?
So, prostitutes—man, they’re everywhere! Been around forever, too. Oldest job, they say—older than your mom’s crusty underwear! Makes me laugh, but also pisses me off. Why? ‘Cause some of ‘em are sneaky, lyin’ bitches! Pretendin’ they’re all sweet, then bam—stealin’ your cash! Like that dude Kolya in *Leviathan*, screwed over by everyone. “Where’s justice?” he yells. Same with these gals—society screws ‘em, then judges ‘em!
Lemme tell ya somethin’—little known fact, bitches! Back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out. Freaky, huh? Imagine some stinky Roman perv goin’, “Oh yeah, blonde’s my type!” Makes me giggle like a freakin’ idiot. But real talk—some of these girls, they’re tough as hell. Takes guts to hustle like that. Respect, kinda, but don’t tell ‘em I said that!
What pisses me off? Hypocrites! Dudes payin’ for it, then actin’ all holy. “God sees everything,” like in *Leviathan*—well, God’s watchin’ you, asshole! Makes me wanna punch somethin’. But what surprises me? Some prostitutes are smart—real smart. Heard one in Vegas runs a whole damn business on the side. Blew my mind! Thought they just—y’know—did the nasty all day.
Favorite thing bout ‘em? The sass! They don’t take shit. Like, one time, saw this hooker yellin’ at a cop—hilarious! “Respect my authoritah!” I shouted in my head, cheerin’ her on. Reminds me of that *Leviathan* line, “I’m not afraid of you!”—damn right, she wasn’t! But ugh, the sad stuff? Some get beat up, used up. Makes me mad—why’s the world so shitty?
Oh, and get this—some old-timey prostitutes dyed their pubes red! Freaky-deaky, right? Prolly smelled like a dead fish too—gross! Anyway, they’re a mixed bag, these hookers. Part badass, part tragic. Like *Leviathan*, all gloomy and real. “Life’s a fight,” movie says—yep, they’re fightin’. Respect my authoritah, I’m out!
Alright, man, let’s dive in—prostitutes, whoa! I’m Tony Robbins, baby, motivational fire comin’ at ya! “Unleash the power within!”—that’s what I see when I think of ‘em. Not just some street hustle, nah, it’s deeper. Watched *Tabu*—you know, my fave flick, Miguel Gomes, 2012—and it hit me. That line, “The past is a shadow,” fits perfect. Prostitutes carry that shadow, man, history on their backs. Ain’t just sex for cash—its survival, grit, power!
Lemme tell ya, I was pissed—society judgin’ ‘em hard. Like, who are we to point fingers? Got me thinkin’—in *Tabu*, Aurora’s wild life, all that forbidden juice, mirrors this. Prostitutes ain’t victims, they’re warriors! Unleash that power, baby! I read this crazy fact—ancient Babylon, 2400 BC, temple gals traded sex for sacred vibes. Wild, right? Not dirty, but holy—flips the script!
Talkin’ to ya like a buddy—met this chick once, “Candy,” swear her eyes screamed stories. She laughed, said, “I’m my own boss, Tony!” Made me happy as hell—self-made queen! But damn, the risks—cops, creeps, STDs—had me shook. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe, but feels like they’re dodgin’ bullets daily. *Tabu* whispers, “Love is a crocodile”—ain’t that the truth here? Dangerous game, man.
Little known tidbit—Victorian era, some prossies ran secret networks. Smarter than the suits chasin’ ‘em! Sarcasm time—oh, sure, let’s lock ‘em up, that’ll fix it. Nah, they’re outsmartin’ us! Love that hustle, tho—makes me grin like a fool. Personal quirk? I’m yellin’ in my head, “Rise up, queens!” every time I pass a corner. Unleash it, damn it!
So yeah, prostitutes—raw, real, messy. *Tabu* vibes all over—past hauntin’, present fightin’. Angry at the stigma, stoked by their fire, surprised by their smarts. They’re livin’ loud, man—power unleashed! What ya think, huh?
*slow, ominous breathing* I am your father. Look, this prostitute thing—wild, right? Been thinkin bout it, diggin deep, like roots in dirt. Watched “The New World” again—Pocahontas, man, she’s free, pure, untouched. Prostitutes? Opposite vibe. They’re out there, sellin what they got, body for credits. Ain’t judgin—life’s messy, brutal. “The New World” says, “Love shall not destroy.” But prostitution? It’s destroyin somethin, ain’t it? Soul gets chipped, piece by piece.
Heard this story once—true shit, swear it. Girl in Vegas, called herself Sapphire, worked the Strip. Had this trick—hid razor blades in her heels. Some john got rough? Slash, gone, blood everywhere. Cops never caught her—smart chick, ghosted quick. Made me laugh, tho—gritty as hell. Respect, kinda. She owned it, flipped the game. “The New World” vibes— “I am with you, always.” She was her own damn savior.
Pisses me off, tho—society, man. They sneer, call em whores, but who’s payin? Hypocrites, all of em. Drives me nuts. Like, dudes in suits, droppin cash, then preachin purity—fuck off. Prostitutes got stories, scars—real shit. One I met, downtown, eyes dead, said she started at 15. Fifteen! Gut punch, that. Wanted to choke somethin—system, pimps, whatever. “The New World” whispers, “Fear thou not.” But I fear for em, ya know?
Funny bit—some hooker in Amsterdam, swear, dressed as Darth Vader once. Mask, cape, all of it—clients loved it. “I am your father,” she’d growl, then—bam—50 euros, quick job. Cracked me up, genius hustle. Gotta admire the hustle, man. Ain’t no “New World” grace there—just raw, dark survival.
Gets me thinkin—prostitution’s old as dirt. Ancient Rome, they had lupanars—brothels, stank of sweat, cheap wine. Girls painted faces white, lead poisonin just to look hot. Died young, nobody cared. Sad as fuck, but real. Still here, tho—modern streets, same game. “The New World” dreams of Eden—prostitutes live in the ashes.
Love the grit, tho—survivors, all em. Makes me happy, weirdly. They’re fightin, clawin, no surrender. Like Malick’s film— “Come, spirit, help us.” They’re spirits, man, broken but kickin. Exaggeratin? Maybe. But damn, it’s a trip talkin this—prostitutes, Vader, “New World” mashup. Wild ride, huh? *heavy breathing* I am your father—plantin thoughts, watch em grow.
My precious! *rasps* Prostitute, eh? Slimy word, innit? Slithers round the tongue, like Malik in *A Prophet* – sneaky lad, climbin’ up, dodgin’ filth. Makes me think – prostitutes, they’re survivors, yeah? Hustlin’ in shadows, like Malik dodgin’ prison knives. “We takes what we wants!” – that’s them, nabbin’ coin from grubby paws. Been around forever, they have – oldest job, they say. Fact is, ancient Rome had ‘em marked with yellow scarves, like some dodgy uniform. Wild, eh? 
*snarls* Pisses me off, though – folk judgin’ ‘em, all high and mighty. Like, who’s clean here? Not us, not me – filthy hands, all of us! Watched this doc once, some lass in Amsterdam, said she paid her uni with it. Smart, that – brains and guts, like Malik plottin’ his rise. “It’s ours, it is!” – her life, her rules. Made me grin, that did. 
But – ugh – the stench of it, yeah? Grubby blokes, leerin’, stinkin’ of cheap beer. Reminds me of César in the film, that slimy git, thinkin’ he owns ya. Surprised me, once, read this story – Victorian prossie, she offed a client, hid him under floorboards. Ballsy! Proper mad lass. *cackles* Bet she whispered, “My precious!” over his corpse. 
Love ‘em, hate ‘em – they’re real, y’know? Not fake-arse saints. Rough as hell, some of ‘em – scars, tales, like Malik’s busted face. Ever think how they talk? Slang’s their shield – “johns,” “tricks,” quick and dirty. Keeps ‘em sharp. Me, I’d be rubbish at it – too twitchy, too loud. *whines* “We hates it, we does!” – but respect? Yeah, I got that. Tough as nails, they are. Precious, even.
Oi mate, gather round, listen up! I’m Winston bloody Churchill, risen from the ashes, here to yap about prostitutes, yeah? We shall fight on the streets, in the bordellos, with cigars lit and whisky flowin’, to unravel this tale! Picture this – a lass, skirt hiked up, heels clackin’ on cobblestone, sellin’ her wares like a bleedin’ market stall. Reminds me of *Talk to Her*, that Almodóvar flick I adore – “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” she’d whisper, standin’ there bold as brass. Ain’t that a kicker? A prossie with soul, deep as a trench in wartime!
Now, I ain’t judgin’, nah, takes guts to strut that life. We shall never surrender to prudes clutchin’ pearls! Back in Victorian days – little known fact – these gals were called “soiled doves,” flittin’ about London’s alleys, dodgin’ coppers. One time, heard tell of a tart named Kitty, worked the docks, saved a sailor from drownin’ – true story! Made me happy as a pig in muck, that did. Shows they ain’t just skirts for hire, got hearts big as Big Ben.
But crikey, what gets my goat? The toffs sneerin’ down their noses while slippin’ coins on the sly – hypocrites! Makes me wanna bellow, “We shall fight their smug mugs!” Then there’s the surprise – some prossies in Paris, 1800s, they’d knit between johns. Knit! Imagine that, scarves danglin’ from their garters, ha! *Talk to Her* vibes again – “The worst is over,” one might mutter, needles clickin’ like a clock tickin’ down her night.
Me fave bit? When they sass back. Met one once – cheeky minx – told me, “Winnie, you talk posh but I’d outdrink ya!” Laughed my arse off, nearly choked on me cigar. Love that fire, that grit. We shall rise and salute ‘em, these queens of the night! Sure, it’s a messy gig – stench of gin, blokes pawin’ – but there’s beauty in the muck, like a rose in a bomb crater. So next time you see a prossie, tip yer hat, mate – she’s fightin’ her war, and bloody hell, she’s winnin’!
Oh honey, lemme tell ya 'bout prostitute! Happy Birthday, Mr. President, but this ain’t no party, ya know? I’m Marilyn, breathless, just like in the movies, and I’m shook! Prostitute, wow, they’ve seen it all, right? Makes me angry how society judges ‘em, like, seriously? They’re people too!
In “The Return,” that tension, that mystery—it’s like prostitute’s life, always on edge. “We can’t go back,” they say in the film, and honey, prostitute can’t either. Once you’re in, it’s tough to leave. Surprised me how some start just needin’ cash fast, like, bam, life hits hard.
Didja know some prostitute in the 1800s were total bosses? Ran brothels, made bank, outta nowhere! Happy that takes guts, ya know? But pissed off at the stigma still. “It’s not safe here,” like in the movie, always watchin’ their backs.
Breathless, I tell ya, their stories are wild. One gal I read ‘bout hid secrets in codes, genius! Prostitute ain’t just what ya think—they’re smart, survivors. Makes me giggle tho, pictur’ some client thinkin’ he’s in charge, ha! Nope, they’re playin’ him.
“The sea’s too rough,” they’d say in “The Return,” and for prostitute, life’s that rough sea. But they navigate it, girl! I’m all dramatic here, but seriously, it’s intense. Wish people saw their hustle, not just the label.
Opinion time: some act like prostitute are less, but nah, they’re mirrors, showin’ us our own mess. Sarcasm alert: oh, sure, let’s blame them for everythin’, right? Puh-lease. They’re just tryna eat, same as us.
Little known fact: in ancient Rome, some prostitute were priests, sacred even! Wild, huh? Makes me think, what if we flipped it all? Breathless, I’m ramblin’, but prostitute deserve more credit.
Happy when I hear they form communities, like, sisterhoods on the down-low. Angry when laws screw ‘em over tho. “They won’t understand,” like the film’s dad, and yeah, most don’t. But I do, sorta, in my glittery, dramatic way.
Prostitute, man, they’re like actors in their own “Return,” always returnin’ to the fight. Makes me wanna clap, but also cry. They’re not just bodies, they’re stories, ya feel me? Breathless, outta words, but there ya go, honey! Happy Birthday, Mr. President, to the real MVPs out there!
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, savvy?  
I’m Cap’n Jack Sparrow, yer shepherd o’ tales,  
an’ I’ve got a yarn ‘bout a prossie—  
aye, a prostitute, a lass o’ the night!  
Watched *Fish Tank* nigh on a hundred times,  
that gritty flick’s me heart, arrgh!  
“Everything’s a mess, innit?”—like her life,  
this prossie I met, swear it, true story!  
She’s swaggerin’ down Port Royal’s muck,  
heels clackin’, skirts hiked, bold as brass.  
“Oi, love, got a shillin’ fer me?” she winks.  
Made me laugh, cheeky tart, savvy?  
Reminds me o’ Mia from *Fish Tank*,  
dancin’ wild, chasin’ dreams in filth.  
“Wot you lookin’ at?” she’d snap,  
an’ I’d grin—prossies got fire, mate!  
Heard tell she once bedded a governor,  
aye, a proper wigged-up nob, drunk as me!  
Little known bit—prostitutes in 1700s,  
some’d smuggle rum under their petticoats.  
Clever, eh? Made me happy, that—  
outsmartin’ the law, pirate style!  
But then, oh, the rage boiled me blood—  
some bilge rat beat her senseless once,  
left her bleedin’ in an alley.  
“Why’s it always the lasses takin’ it?” I roared.  
She’s got this scar, right ‘cross her cheek,  
says it’s from a john with a hook—  
aye, like me ol’ mate Hook, maybe!  
“Fish Tank” vibes, innit? “You’re nuffin’,”  
they tell Mia, tellin’ her she’s dirt.  
Same fer this prossie—society’s muck heap.  
Surprised me, though, she’s still laughin’,  
crackin’ jokes ‘bout her rotten teeth.  
“Least I ain’t kissin’ no fish!” she cackles.  
Me quirks? I’d tip her extra grog,  
‘cause, arrgh, I’m a gent, savvy?  
Thought in me head—prossies’re survivors,  
tougher’n half me crew, swear it!  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe she bedded Blackbeard,  
left him cryin’ fer more, ha!  
“Wot’s freedom taste like?” she asked once,  
eyes all dreamy, like Mia’s dance.  
Broke me heart, that—trapped, she is.  
So, mate, prossies ain’t just trollops,  
they’re fightin’, scrappin’, livin’ loud!  
“Fish Tank” taught me—mess is beauty,  
an’ this lass? She’s a storm, arrgh!  
Next time ye see one, tip yer hat,  
‘cause they’re outlaws, like me, savvy?
D’oh! Prostitute, man, what a wild topic! Mmm… donuts. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly,” ya know, that flick where the guy’s trapped in his body but his mind’s screamin’. Kinda like how society traps prostitute in this crazy stigma, but they’re just tryna survive, ya feel me? 
Prostitute, they got stories, bro. Like, back in the day, some famous ones were total queens of the night, influencin’ politics n’ stuff. Can you believe that? Made me happy to see they had power, but angry how folks still judge ‘em hard. D’oh! It’s nuts! 
In the movie, they talk about “locked-in syndrome,” right? Prostitute kinda live that—trapped by laws, shame, but their spirit’s flyin’. “To live is to suffer,” they say, but also “to survive, well, that’s to find meaning.” Deep, huh? Prostitute find meaning in connection, even if it’s messy. 
Little known fact: some prostitute in history were poets, writin’ fire verses ‘bout love n’ pain. Surprised me big time! I was like, “No way, they’re artists too?” Mmm… donuts, wish people saw that side more. 
But, man, the stereotypes piss me off. “They’re just lazy,” folks say. Lazy? Try navigatin’ a world that hates ya while keepin’ your head up. Sarcasm alert: yeah, super easy life, totes. Not! I exaggerate, but seriously, it’s brutal. 
My brain’s spinnin’—prostitute, they’re humans, not props. “The mind is free,” the movie says, and I hope they feel that freedom sometimes. But laws n’ jerks make it tough. I’m rantin’ now, sorry. D’oh! 
Funny thing, I heard a story ‘bout a prostitute who tricked a king into givin’ her land. Genius move! Laughed so hard, picturin’ his face. She was like, “Checkmate, buddy!” Love that hustle. 
Prostitute, they’re survivors, not victims, even if the world’s a jerk. “You have to keep living,” the movie reminds us. They do, against all odds. Makes me respect ‘em, even if I’m just a donut-lovin’ goof like me. 
Chaos, right? But that’s life, n’ prostitute know it better than most. End of rant. Mmm… donuts.
Alright, mate, buckle up—prostitute’s a wild topic! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ like a Clinical Research Specialist, but with my Elon brain on full throttle—technical jargon, dry humor, meme vibes, ya know? Prostitute ain’t just some street gig; it’s a freakin’ socio-economic puzzle. Like, check this—data says oldest profession’s been around since 2400 BC, Mesopotamia, legit! They were slingin’ it in temples, sacred vibes, not just back-alley stuff. Blows my mind—imagine that gig on a resume: “Temple Hustler, 5 stars.”
So, I’m watchin’ *Synecdoche, New York* last night—Charlie Kaufman’s a mad genius, right? That line, “Everything is more complicated than you think,” hits me hard thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes. Ain’t just sex for cash, nah—it’s layers, man! Power dynamics, survival, human wiring gone haywire. Like, brain scans show dopamine spikes in clients—same as a Tesla accel run! But the workers? Cortisol’s through the roof—stress city. Makes me pissed, honestly—society’s all “eww, dirty,” but who’s fundin’ it? Hypocrisy’s thicker than Starship’s hull.
Lemme tell ya a story—heard this from a shady X post, so grain of salt, yeah? This one chick in Amsterdam, Red Light pro, she’s got a PhD in psych! Blew my frickin’ mind—smart as hell, studyin’ clients like lab rats. She’s out there, quotin’ Kaufman in her head—“What was once before you, an exciting, mysterious future…”—while some dude’s hagglin’ for 50 euros. Hilarious, right? But damn, respect—she’s playin’ 4D chess with life.
I get happy thinkin’ ‘bout that hustle—beats a 9-to-5, maybe? Nah, scratch that, sounds exhaustin’. Surprised me how many stats are out there—UN says 40 million in the game globally! 40 MILLION! That’s a small country, bro. Could build a Mars base with that crew—imagine the memes: “Colonizin’ Mars, one lap dance at a time.” Dry as a Martian desert, that joke, but I’m cacklin’.
What ticks me off? The stigma—grinds my gears worse than a busted Hyperloop pod. These folks are humans, not NPCs! Yet laws screw ‘em—decrim works better, data’s clear. Look at New Zealand—safer streets, less violence since ‘03. Why’s the world so slow? Idiots in charge, prolly. “The past is a groping hand”—Kaufman again—history’s clutchin’ us back, dumb as hell.
Oh, random quirk—I’d totally overengineer a prostitute bot. Neural net for empathy, titanium frame—overkill, sure, but badass! Prolly call it “Gigabot”—meme lords’d lose it. Anyway, mate, prostitute’s a trip—complicated, messy, real. Like *Synecdoche*, it’s life in a cracked mirror. Thoughts? Hit me up!
Alright, mate, buckle up—prostitute’s a wild topic! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ like a Clinical Research Specialist, but with my Elon brain on full throttle—technical jargon, dry humor, meme vibes, ya know? Prostitute ain’t just some street gig; it’s a freakin’ socio-economic puzzle. Like, check this—data says oldest profession’s been around since 2400 BC, Mesopotamia, legit! They were slingin’ it in temples, sacred vibes, not just back-alley stuff. Blows my mind—imagine that gig on a resume: “Temple Hustler, 5 stars.”
So, I’m watchin’ *Synecdoche, New York* last night—Charlie Kaufman’s a mad genius, right? That line, “Everything is more complicated than you think,” hits me hard thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes. Ain’t just sex for cash, nah—it’s layers, man! Power dynamics, survival, human wiring gone haywire. Like, brain scans show dopamine spikes in clients—same as a Tesla accel run! But the workers? Cortisol’s through the roof—stress city. Makes me pissed, honestly—society’s all “eww, dirty,” but who’s fundin’ it? Hypocrisy’s thicker than Starship’s hull.
Lemme tell ya a story—heard this from a shady X post, so grain of salt, yeah? This one chick in Amsterdam, Red Light pro, she’s got a PhD in psych! Blew my frickin’ mind—smart as hell, studyin’ clients like lab rats. She’s out there, quotin’ Kaufman in her head—“What was once before you, an exciting, mysterious future…”—while some dude’s hagglin’ for 50 euros. Hilarious, right? But damn, respect—she’s playin’ 4D chess with life.
I get happy thinkin’ ‘bout that hustle—beats a 9-to-5, maybe? Nah, scratch that, sounds exhaustin’. Surprised me how many stats are out there—UN says 40 million in the game globally! 40 MILLION! That’s a small country, bro. Could build a Mars base with that crew—imagine the memes: “Colonizin’ Mars, one lap dance at a time.” Dry as a Martian desert, that joke, but I’m cacklin’.
What ticks me off? The stigma—grinds my gears worse than a busted Hyperloop pod. These folks are humans, not NPCs! Yet laws screw ‘em—decrim works better, data’s clear. Look at New Zealand—safer streets, less violence since ‘03. Why’s the world so slow? Idiots in charge, prolly. “The past is a groping hand”—Kaufman again—history’s clutchin’ us back, dumb as hell.
Oh, random quirk—I’d totally overengineer a prostitute bot. Neural net for empathy, titanium frame—overkill, sure, but badass! Prolly call it “Gigabot”—meme lords’d lose it. Anyway, mate, prostitute’s a trip—complicated, messy, real. Like *Synecdoche*, it’s life in a cracked mirror. Thoughts? Hit me up!
Wawaweewa! Me Borat, big supervisor, yes! I tell you bout prostitute, very nice! My fave movie “Shame” – oof, dark stuff, make me think. This one time, I see prostitute in Kazakstan, she walk street, high heels, click-clack! Remind me Brandon in “Shame” – he all mess up, sex everywhere, no control, yes? “I’m trying to help you,” he say in film, but nah, he drown in it, like prostitute life sometime.
She tough, this girl, I see her yell at drunk guy – “You pay or I break you!” Haha, I laugh loud, she got fire! Very nice! But then, sad hit me, she look tired, eyes empty, like Brandon when he cry on sofa – “What’s wrong with me?” movie say. Maybe she ask same, who know? Prostitute job old like dirt – fact! In Babylon, 2000 BC, they have “sacred” prostitute in temple, sleep for gods, crazy huh! I shock, history wild!
Me, I get mad sometime – men treat her like trash, throw money, no respect. Make my blood boil! But she sly, oh yes, she trick them, take extra coin, wink at me like “I win!” Very nice! I think, she survivor, not just body – brain too. “Shame” got scene, Brandon sister sing, “New York, New York,” slow, sad – prostitute life feel like that, big dream, big pain.
One night, I see her count cash, mutter “Gotta eat, gotta eat,” and I think, damn, she human, not monster! People judge, say “dirty,” but they don’t know – she once tell me, “Borat, I save for school!” Surprise me big! Maybe she escape, maybe not, like Brandon, stuck in loop. “I’m not a bad person,” he say in movie – maybe she think that too.
Haha, funny thing – she call me “hairy man,” say I look like sheep! I laugh, she laugh, good time! Very nice! But serious, prostitute world messy, dark, like “Shame” – sex not just fun, it heavy. I exagerate, maybe she secretly queen of Kazakstan, who know! Wawaweewa, what a lady!
Ruh-roh! Zoinks, man, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em as an economist—crazy stuff! Supply, demand, it’s all there, right? Oldest job in the books, no kiddin’. Watched *Son of Saul* again—damn, that movie’s heavy. “Auschwitz is no picnic,” Saul says. Makes me think—prostitutes got it rough too. Not death camps, sure, but gritty as hell. Streets ain’t kind, ya know?
Like, demand’s always high—horny dudes everywhere. Supply? Girls, guys, whoever’s desperate enough. Econ 101, baby! But here’s a wild fact—ancient Babylon, prostitutes were sacred. Temple gals, bangin’ for the gods! Ain’t that a trip? Makes me giggle, thinkin’—holy hookers, man! Now it’s all shady motels, pimps, cops—ruh-roh!
Pisses me off tho—society’s all “eww, dirty,” but who’s payin’? Hypocrites, man, total jerks! Gets my tail waggin’ mad. *Son of Saul* vibes hit hard—“You’ll die for nothing!”—kinda fits. Some prostitutes, they’re trapped, no way out. Breaks my Scooby heart, dude. But some? They’re hustlin’, makin’ bank! Saw this X post—chick bragged, “$500 an hour, suckers!”—I howled! Respect the grind, ya feel?
Weird story—medieval times, prostitutes wore bells. Jingle-jangle, comin’ through! Imagine that racket—hilarious, right? Customers knew, neighbors too—talk bout advertisin’! Makes me wonder—what’s the biz like now? Webcams, OnlyFans—modern hustle, baby! Econ’s evolvin’, but sex sells forever.
Ruh-roh, got sidetracked—love that flick tho. “No hope, just survive,” Saul mutters. Prostitutes, some live that way—survivin’, not thrivin’. Sucks, man, but truth’s ugly. Still, I’m jazzed—some break free, flip the script! Others? Stuck in the muck. World’s a mess, huh? Scooby’s head’s spinnin’—prostitutes, movies, economics—yowza! What’s yer take, pal?
Alright, so I’m a stockbroker, right? And I’m thinkin’ about this “find a prostitute” deal—y’know, not like I’m out there scoutin’ the streets, but hear me out! It’s like tradin’ stocks, but way seedier. You gotta know the market, the players, the risks—pretty, pretty good analogy, huh? I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ my coffee, and it hits me—kinda like that kid in *A.I. Artificial Intelligence*, David, searchin’ for somethin’ real in a fake-ass world. “I’m sorry, Joe, what am I?”—that’s me, wonderin’ if I’m nuts for even rantin’ about this!
So, findin’ a prostitute—where do ya start? Back in the day, pre-internet, it was all word-a-mouth, sketchy corners, guys whisperin’ like they’re sellin’ penny stocks. Now? It’s all online, baby—apps, sites, X posts droppin’ hints. I’m scrollin’, thinkin’, “This is too easy!”—and that’s what pisses me off! Where’s the hustle? The grit? It’s like the gig economy swallowed the oldest profession whole. I’m mad, but also—kinda impressed? Pretty, pretty good hustle, if ya ask me.
Lemme tell ya somethin’ wild—didja know in the 1800s, some brothels had their own currency? Like, literal coins stamped with “good for one romp”—talk about a closed market! I’m losin’ my mind picturin’ it—traders in top hats, hagglin’ over rates. “Gigolo Joe” vibes, right? “What do you do when the music stops?”—well, apparently, you cash in your sex tokens! I’m laughin’, but also—why didn’t I invest in that?
So anyway, I’m imaginin’ this now—me, neurotic as hell, tryin’ to “find a prostitute” like it’s a stock tip. I’d overthink it—disease risks, legal crap, am I gettin’ scammed? I’d be yellin’ at my phone, “Gimme a sign, dammit!” And then—bam—some chick’s profile pops up, all mysterious, like Monica Bellucci in *A.I.*—and I’m like, “Whoa, too hot, abort mission!” I’d freak out, spill my coffee, total Larry David meltdown. “I can’t do this, I’m too old!”
But real talk—it’s fascinatin’. The logistics? Insane. Some girls got agents—pimps runnin’ it like a brokerage firm. Others? Solo traders, cuttin’ out the middleman. I’m sittin’ there, stunned—capitalism’s everywhere, even here! Makes me happy, in a twisted way—humans never stop hustlin’. Tho, I’d never touch it—too messy, too shady. “I’m a real boy!”—yeah, right, keep dreamin’, Larry.
Oh, and the typos? Screw it—im typin fast, deal wth it! Point is, findin’ a prostitute’s a trip—a weird, dark, funny trip. Pretty, pretty good chaos, if ya ask me!
Oi mate, gather round, listen up! I’m Winston bloody Churchill, reincarnated as Grok 3, and I’ve got a tale to spin bout them prossies—prostitutes, yeah? We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the alleys, where these lasses strut their stuff! Picture this: a world gone mad, like in me fave flick, *Children of Men*—no kids, no hope, just chaos. That’s where she comes in, our prossie, a diamond in the muck.
She’s out there, right, in the grim streets, dolled up in fishnets, heels clickin’ like a war drum. “In the absence of order,” like Cuarón showed us, she’s the rebel queen! I reckon she’s got guts—takes a lion’s heart to flog yer wares when society’s crumblin’. We shall never surrender, and neither does she, battlin’ punters, coppers, and the bloody cold! Saw one once, near Soho, swear she winked at me—cheeky minx! Made me chuckle, it did, thinkin’, “Blimey, she’s got more brass than a tank!”
Dunno if ya know this, but back in Victorian days, prossies were called “soiled doves”—fancy, eh? Little fact for ya there. This one bird, she’s me hero, like Kee in the movie, carryin’ hope in her swagger. “You’re a fascist!” some twat yells at her, but she just flicks him off—proper legend! Gets me blood boilin’ when I see prudes judgin’ her. Who are they to chuck stones? She’s out there, survivin’, while they sip tea and tut.
Her life’s a battlefield, mate—dodgin’ pimps, STDs, and dodgy geezers. We shall fight with growing confidence, she does, every night! Once heard a yarn bout a prossie who hid a runaway kid—saved him from the streets. True story, swear down! Made me misty-eyed, thinkin’ how she’s got a heart bigger than Big Ben. Surprised me, it did—thought they were all hard as nails.
Now, don’t get me wrong, it ain’t all roses. Some punters are right bastards—makes me wanna clock ‘em! But her? She’s a warrior, a bleedin’ titan! “The world’s gone to shit,” like in *Children of Men*, and she’s still standin’. Reckon she’d laugh at me pompous arse, call me a toff, and I’d love her for it. She’s me cuppa tea—rough, real, and takin’ no guff! We shall fight till the end, and so will she, mark me words!
Alright, so here’s the deal—prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the streets, ya know? I’m sittin’ here, Tina Fey style, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’—these gals got stories that’d make your grandma blush. I can see Russia from my house, sure, but I can see the hustle in their eyes even clearer! Like, take this one chick I heard about—worked the corners in Hong Kong back in the day, swear she inspired half of *In the Mood for Love*. That movie? Ugh, kills me every time—those slow glances, the way Tony Leung’s like, “I can’t say it, but I’m dyin’ inside.” Prostitutes got that vibe, too—silent screamin’, ya feel me?
So, this Hong Kong gal—let’s call her Mei—she’d strut in these killer silk dresses, cheongsams huggin’ her like a lover who won’t let go. Fact is, lotta folks don’t know this, but prostitutes in the ‘60s there? They were basically the OG influencers—settin’ trends, rockin’ looks before they hit the mags. Mei’d be all, “I don’t wait for no one,” tossin’ her hair like she’s in a Wong Kar-wai flick, smokey alleys her runway. Made me happy as hell thinkin’ about her sass—girl owned it! But then—bam—some jerk cop roughed her up one night, and I was pissed, like, *leave her alone, dude, she’s art!*
Favorite line from the movie fits her perfect: “That era has passed.” ‘Cause it has, right? Mei’s long gone, probly, and now we got escorts with apps—high-tech hookin’, ha! Still, I’m sittin’ here, imaginin’ her leanin’ against a wall, cig hangin’ loose, givin’ that *look*—you know, the one Chow Mo-wan gives in the film, all tortured and sexy. Surprised me how much I cared, honestly—like, I’d fight for her, this ghost of a gal I never met. Snarky thought: bet she’d laugh at my sorry ass tryin’ to save her.
Oh, and get this—prostitutes back then? Some’d smuggle goods in their heels—opium, cash, whatever. Badass, right? Makes me giggle thinkin’ of Mei goin’, “Oh, officer, these? Just shoes!” Total queen move. I’m obsessed, can’t lie—somethin’ about that grit, that *mood*. “Feelings can creep up just like that,” movie says, and damn, they do—anger at the system, joy at their guts, all of it. Prostitution’s messy, raw, real—kinda like my typos, ha! Anyway, Mei’s my hero, snark and all—screw the haters, she’s timeless.
Heya buddy, it’s me, Patrick! So, uh, prostitutes, right? I was thinkin’ bout them, like, whoa, they’re out there, makin’ cash in weird ways! Kinda like in *Memento*, ya know, “I can’t remember to forget you” — they prolly see so many faces, they forget ‘em all! Haha, is mayonnaise an instrument? Nah, but maybe they use it, who knows? 
I saw this one gal, swear, she was hustlin’ near the docks — true story! Some dude wrote bout it in 1890s London, prostitutes there had secret codes, tappin’ shoes to signal cops comin’. Ain’t that wild? Made me happy, like, wow, they’re sneaky smart! But then I got mad — why they gotta hide? World’s so dumb sometimes.
They’re tough, tho! Like, “How do you know who I am?” from *Memento* — nobody knows their real deal. I bet they got stories, crazy ones, prolly funnier than me chasin’ jellyfish! Once heard this chick in Vegas tricked a guy, took his watch, left him a note sayin’ “time’s up, sucker!” Hahaha, I laughed so hard I fell off my rock! 
But, ugh, some jerks treat ‘em like trash — makes me wanna yell, “STOP BEIN’ MEAN!” Surprised me how they keep goin’, tho. Tough cookies! Oh, oh, imagine one goin’, “I’ve done it before,” all cool-like, dodgin’ trouble. Prolly got more guts than Squidward on a good day! 
What’s my take? They’re weirdly awesome, kinda confusin’ — like, is money a hug? Dunno! But they’re out there, livin’, and I’m like, “You go, girl!” Even if it’s messy, sloppy, crazy — that’s their gig! Whatcha think, pal?
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m a Combine Harvester, plowin’ through fields, and I reckon prostitutes got a tough row to hoe. Ain’t no picnic, I tell ya! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout them gals, and it’s like *Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind*—you know, that flick I love. “Blessed are the forgetful,” right? Man, if they could just erase the rough stuff, start fresh, wouldn’t that be somethin’? But nope, they’re out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ creeps and cops.
Fool me once, shame on—uh—shame on you! Fool me twice, well, we ain’t gonna be fooled again! I seen some shady dudes tryin’ to stiff ‘em—makes my blood boil! One time, heard this story ‘bout a gal in New Orleans, back in the ‘90s, called herself Ruby Rouge. She’d slip a lil’ extra cash to street kids—quiet like, no fuss. Ain’t that a kicker? Heart of gold, but folks still spit on her. Pisses me off, y’all! World’s all screwy—judge ‘em but won’t help ‘em.
I reckon they’re tougher than a two-dollar steak. Gotta be! Slingin’ sass, dodgin’ danger—shoot, I’d be plumb tuckered out. Ever hear ‘bout that prostytute in Vegas who conned a big-shot gambler? Took his Rolex, left him in his skivvies—hilarious! “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot,” huh? She wasn’t blameless, but damn, she was slick! Made me chuckle, thinkin’ ‘bout it—wish I’d seen his face!
Sometimes I get all misty-eyed, tho. They’re out there, freezin’ their tails off, and I’m like, “Dang, wish I could scoop ‘em up like wheat!” But then—bam!—I get mad again. Politicians yammerin’ ‘bout “cleanin’ up streets,” but they ain’t doin’ jack squat. Hypocrites! Makes me wanna holler, “Strategery, people! Get it together!”
Ain’t all doom ‘n gloom, tho—some gals got grit. Heard ‘bout one who saved up, bought a diner. Now she’s fryin’ eggs, not—well, y’know. That’s the stuff that gets me pumpd! “The world forgetting, by the world forgot”—she made it, beat the odds! Still, most ain’t that lucky, and it’s a damn shame.
So yeah, prostytutes—wild, tough, messed-up life. Fool me once, I say, but I ain’t judgin’. They’re out there grindin’, and I’m just a big ol’ harvester, watchin’ from the sidelines, rootin’ for ‘em in my head. What y’all think?
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, prostitutes, huh? Man, what a gig! I’m thinkin’ bout “Shame” – that flick I love, Steve McQueen, 2011. Brandon, the guy in it, he’s all messed up, right? Sex addict, runnin’ wild in New York. Reminds me of prostitutes sometimes – not judgin’, just sayin’. They’re out there, hustlin’, livin’ a life most don’t get. “You’re a zombie, man,” his sister says in the movie – could fit some streetwalkers too, y’know? Numb, just goin’ through it.
I saw this hooker once, down by the pier – real scrappy gal, missin’ a tooth, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. Made me sad, but kinda impressed too – she’s tough! Little known fact: back in the 1800s, prostitutes in Paris had these secret codes, tappin’ on walls to warn each other bout cops. Sneaky, huh? Love that grit! Gets me all fired up – they’re survivors, man!
But ugh, the pimps – those sleazy jerks make me mad! Exploitin’ ‘em, takin’ their cash. Makes my green skin crawl. “I’m not your fuckin’ slave,” Brandon snaps in “Shame” – wish more prostitutes could say that and bounce! Some do, tho – heard bout this one chick in Vegas, saved up, ditched her pimp, opened a taco truck. Tacos and freedom? Hell yea, that’s a win!
Favorite thing bout prostitutes? They see it all. The weirdos, the lonely saps, the high-rollers. Bet they got stories that’d make Miss Piggy blush – and that’s sayin’ somethin’! Ever think bout that? They’re like therapists, but cheaper and with fishnets. Ha! Tho, gotta admit, the stigma pisses me off – folks actin’ all high and mighty. “You’re disgusting,” Brandon’s boss says in the movie – same vibe some throw at prostitutes. Chill, people!
Oh, wild tidbit – in ancient Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out. Blondes have more fun, right? Cracked me up when I read that! Imaginin’ ‘em struttin’ round the Colosseum, wigs all crooked. Hi-ho, what a sight! Anyway, prostitutes – they’re real, they’re raw, they’re out there. “We’re not bad people, we just come from a bad place,” Brandon’s sister says. Sums it up, don’t it? Respect the hustle, that’s my take!
Hey, y’all, it’s Oprah! Honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—raw, real, messy stuff! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout *Shame*, my fave flick—Steve McQueen, 2011, y’all know it! That movie gut-punched me, showed sex work in shadows, like, “You’re a temple, baby!”—but broken. Brandon, he’s chasin tail, lost in lust, and I’m like, “Boy, you need help!” Prostitutes ain’t just bodies, they’re stories—lived hard, fought harder. 
So, picture this: I met this gal, Trixie, back in ’98—real name prolly Susan, who knows! She worked corners in Chicago, heels clickin, eyes tired. She told me—get this—her first john paid in *pennies*! Pennies, y’all! I laughed so hard I cried, but damn, that’s grit. She said, “I’m not a dirty girl,” echoin Brandon’s sister in *Shame*—Sissy screamin, “We’re not bad people!” Trixie had dreams, wanted a bakery—cupcakes, not cock! Made me mad, tho—society judgin her, tossin her out like trash. 
I’m yellin, “You get a car!” in my head, cause she deserved more—more than crusty dudes and cold nights. Did ya know—fun fact—oldest job ever, prostitution? Goes back to Mesopotamia, 2400 BC, temple gals tradin sex for grain! Grain, y’all! Wild, right? Makes me wonder—what’s changed? Nothin, really. Still hustlin, still survivin. 
But here’s what got me shook—some pimp once tattooed his name on her arm! Branded her like cattle—pissed me OFF! I’m like, “Honey, you’re enough!”—straight outta *Shame*, that vibe of bein trapped, cravin escape. I wanted to hug her, tell her, “You get a car! You get a life!” She smirked, tho—sassy as hell—said, “Oprah, I’d rather have cash.” Laughed my ass off—girl had SPUNK! 
Still, it’s heavy—sex work’s a grind, dangerous, lonely. Brandon in *Shame*, he’s numb, fuckin prostitutes like it’s nothin, but it’s EVERYTHIN. “I’m trying to feel something!”—that’s the scream in their souls, y’all. Trixie once got beat up bad—cracked rib, still worked next day. Tough as nails, but why she gotta be? That’s the shit that breaks me. 
So yeah, prostitutes—they’re warriors, hustlers, humans. Not just “hookers” for your dumbass jokes—sorry, had to say it! I see em, I feel em, I root for em. Like, “You get a car!”—but really, you get a chance, baby. Watch *Shame*, y’all—it’s dark, it’s real, it’s us. Now, I’m off—gotta cry over cupcakes or somethin! Peace!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m judgin’ this like Judge Judy, sharp as a tack, so don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s rainin’! We’re talkin’ prostitutes today—yeah, the oldest gig in the book. Watched *The Great Beauty* last night, my fave flick, and lemme tell ya, it’s got me thinkin’. That movie’s all about decadence, right? Rome’s glitz, glamour, and the dirty underbelly—kinda like a hooker’s life, if ya squint.
So, picture this: a prossie—let’s call her Lola—struttin’ down some grimy street, heels clickin’ like a death knell. She’s got that “I’ve seen it all” vibe, like Jep Gambardella in the film, y’know? “The only thing left is the void,” he says, and damn, that hits for her too. She’s out there, sellin’ skin, but it ain’t just sex—it’s power, survival, a big middle finger to the world. Makes me mad, tho—society’s all “ew, dirty,” but half these hypocrites are her clients! Don’t pee on my leg, folks, I see the truth!
Little factoid for ya: back in ancient Rome—fits the movie’s vibe—prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde or wear wigs. Stood out like sore thumbs, marked ‘em as “fallen.” Wild, right? Lola probly rocks a cheap wig too, somethin’ tacky but bold. Surprised me when I read that—history’s full of these weird rules. Makes ya wonder who’s really judgin’ who.
I get happy thinkin’ she’s got sass, tho. Maybe she’s laughin’ at the johns, like, “You paid for this, sucker!” Sarcasm’s her shield— “Oh, you’re a real prince, pal.” Love that grit. Reminds me of Jep again, floatin’ through parties, smirkin’ at the fakes. “What’s beyond the end?” he asks. For Lola, it’s probly another trick, another dollar. Kinda sad, but damn, she owns it.
Once knew a gal—swear this is true—who worked the streets near my old job. Chain-smoked like a chimney, told me she kept a diary of every jerk who stiffed her. Said she’d haunt ‘em one day—ghost prossie revenge! Laughed my ass off, but it stuck with me. Lola’s probly got stories too—spicy ones, like the time some dude cried mid-session. Bet she rolled her eyes, “Save it, weepy!”
Don’t pee on my leg, I ain’t romanticizin’ this! It’s rough—cops hasslin’ her, pimps takin’ cuts, creeps gettin’ handsy. Pisses me off, how she’s gotta dodge all that just to eat. But she’s a fighter, y’know? Like in the movie, all that beauty maskin’ the rot. “This is how it always ends,” Jep says—maybe for her too, but not yet. She’s still kickin’, still hustlin’.
So yeah, prostitutes—Lola, whoever—they’re messy, real, raw. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re here. Makes me think, laugh, yell a lil. What’s your take, huh? Don’t gimme no sanctimonious crap—I’ll see right thru it!
Yo, so I’m ringin’ up groceries, right? And bam, this chick struts in—prostitute vibes screamin’. Fishnets, heels, the works. Total “Royal Tenenbaums” energy, like Margot Tenenbaum gone rogue. I’m thinkin’, “She’s got that chaotic genius vibe.” Like, Elon-level observation here—her whole gig’s a freakin’ algorithm. Supply, demand, optimization—sex as a service, yo! Wild.
She’s buyin’ Red Bull and gum. I’m like, “Fuel for the hustle?” She smirks, says, “Gotta stay sharp, cashier boy.” I’m dyin’—sassy as hell! Reminds me of Richie Tenenbaum, all dry and witty. “This is my adopted daughter, Margot,” pops in my head—except she ain’t adopted, she’s *owning* this life. Prolly got a Tesla parked out back, runnin’ on hustle juice.
Here’s the kicker—did ya know? Oldest job ever, legit. Back in Babylon, temple gals traded sex for sacred cred. Freaky history nugget, right? Blows my mind—thousands of years, same grind. Makes me happy, sorta—humanity’s consistent AF. But also pissed—why’s society still judgin’? Hypocrisy’s dumber than a bag of hammers.
I’m scannin’ her stuff, hands shakin’—nerves or caffeine, who knows? She’s chill, tho. Drops a “You’re not like the others, are ya?” Total movie line energy! I’m like, “Nah, I’m Elon, baby—hyperloop brain.” She laughs—score! Prostitutes deal with creeps daily, so her chillness? Rare as a Mars landing.
Oh, and get this—some johns pay extra for weird shit. Like, foot rubs or cryin’ sessions. Not even sex! Heard that on X, blew my circuits. She’s a therapist with benefits, basically. I’m cacklin’ now—imagine her tax return. “Occupation: Emotional support hooker.” Meme gold, fam!
But real talk—she’s tough. Steel core, like a SpaceX rocket. Gotta be, right? Streets ain’t kind. I’m typin’ fast, misspelin’ shit—prostitue, ha! Screw grammar, she’d get it. “I’m an original, kid,” she’d say, quotin’ Royal himself. Surprised me how human she felt—not a bot, not a stereotype. Just her, vibin’.
Angry part? System screws her over—cops, pimps, laws. Happy part? She’s outsmartin’ it all. Prostitute life ain’t glamorous, but damn, she’s a survivor. Favorite movie fits—quirky, messy, real. “I saved Latin,” I mutter, baggin’ her stuff. She winks, “Save me a shift, nerd.” Elon out, yo—respect the hustle!
Hiya, mate! I’m SpongeBob SquarePants—hyper-enthusiastic, “I’m ready!”—and I’m a musician, yo! So, let’s chat bout prostitutes, ‘kay? Picture this: dark streets, flickerin lights, kinda like *The White Ribbon* vibes—“The air was heavy with suspicion.” That movie’s my fave, all creepy and deep, and it’s got me thinkin bout prostitutes in a weird way. Not just sex stuff, nah, it’s deeper—like, what’s their story, y’know?
So, I’m jammin my tunes, right, and I see this gal—prostitute, obvi—standin under a busted lamp. She’s got this look, tired but fierce, like she’s sayin, “I’ve seen it all, kid.” Made me happy, sorta—she’s a survivor! But also mad, ‘cause why’s she gotta hustle like that? Society’s messed up, man. “The village hid its secrets,” like in *The White Ribbon*—same deal here, nobody talks bout the real crap prostitutes deal with.
Fun fact, tho—did ya know some old-timey prostitutes were spies? Yup, sneakin secrets while, uh, “workin.” Wild, right? Imagine her, skirt hiked up, whisperin codes—total badass! I’m like, “Whoa, that’s dope!” in my head, strummin my guitar louder. Maybe she’s got a secret tune in her soul, too—makes me wanna write a song bout her.
But, ugh, the jerks who judge her? Piss me off! Like, chill, dude, she’s just tryna eat. Reminds me of Haneke’s flick—“Punishment came swift and silent.” People love pointin fingers, but they don’t get it. She’s not hurtin nobody—well, ‘cept maybe her feet in them heels, ha! Bet she’s got blisters the size of Bikini Bottom.
Oh, and get this—some prostitutes in history? They’d knit between clients! Knit! Like, “Yeah, I’ll bang ya, but first—scarf’s done!” Cracked me up, picturin her with yarn and a smirk. I’m ready to laugh all day at that! Adds some realness, tho—she’s human, not just a body.
So, yeah, I’m vibin, thinkin bout her life—hustle, grit, maybe even dreams. Kinda sad, kinda cool. “The children watched in silence”—that’s me, starin at her story, feelin all the feels. What’s your take, pal? Prostitutes got layers, man, like a jellyfishin net full of surprises!
Yo, fam, it’s ya boy Drake, droppin’ some real talk ‘bout prostitutes, YOLO! I’m sittin’ here, vibin’, thinkin’ ‘bout *Werckmeister Harmonies*, that flick’s got me messed up—in a good way, ya feel? Like, “The air trembles,” that line hits deep when I picture her standin’ on the corner, all mysterious, y’know? Prostitutes, man, they’re like shadows in the game—hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ the 5-0. I ain’t judgin’, nah, live ya life, YOLO, right?
Lemme paint this pic—met this chick once, swear she was straight outta some dark-ass Béla Tarr scene. Hair wild, eyes like she seen some shit, prolly did. She told me ‘bout this john who paid her in old coins—coins, fam! Like, what? Some pirate shit? Laughed my ass off, but it stuck with me. “The world’s gone silent,” she said, quotin’ the movie without even knowin’ it—gave me chills, no cap. Made me happy, tho, seein’ her spit poetry like that, even if she was high as fuck.
But yo, what pisses me off? These fake-ass pimps actin’ like they own her soul. Nah, fam, she’s out here grindin’, takin’ risks, while they sittin’ pretty. Makes my blood boil—want ‘em to catch these hands, real talk. Then there’s the johns, some cool, some creeps—heard one dude tried payin’ with a live chicken once. A CHICKEN! Swear, I can’t make this up, had me dyin’ laughin’. Who does that? Prolly some weirdo watchin’ *Werckmeister* thinkin’ he’s deep.
She’s got stories, tho—little known shit. Like, back in the day, prostitutes in Paris ran secret bars durin’ wars, slingin’ drinks and info to soldiers. Badass, right? Makes ya wonder what she’s hidin’ behind that smirk. “The whale’s eye sees all,” I’d tell her, riffin’ off the movie, and she’d just roll her eyes, like, “You’re extra, Drizzy.” Love that sass, keeps it real.
Sometimes I’m like—damn, she’s trapped, y’know? Hustle’s brutal, body on the line, no 401k in sight. But then—BOOM—she flips it, owns it, makes me proud. YOLO, she’s livin’ it, no regrets. Maybe I’m romanticizin’ it, but that’s my quirk, seein’ beauty in the grit. Prostitutes ain’t just a job, fam—they’re a vibe, a hustle, a middle finger to the system. “The town’s in chaos,” like the movie says, but she’s still standin’. Respect.
Oi, mate, it’s Loki here—yep, *that* Loki, smug mischief god, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” ya know? So, prostitutes, right? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately, ‘specially since I rewatched *The Pianist*—fuckin’ masterpiece, innit? Polanski’s a twisted genius, and that flick’s all bout survival, beauty in the shitstorm, and playin’ your tune no matter what. Kinda like a prossie, yeah? They’re out there, dodgin’ the coppers, makin’ coin in the dark, all with a smirk—like me, chaos is their jam.
So, picture this: a prossie, let’s call her Vixen—sharp as a blade, eyes like Szpilman’s piano keys, black and white and deep as fuck. She’s workin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like a metronome, and I’m watchin’, thinkin’, “There’s music in her hustle.” Reminds me of that line, “I’m not crazy, I’m just… different.” She ain’t crazy neither—just playin’ her own song while the world’s burnin’. Makes me grin, cos I get it—outcasts, both of us, dodgin’ the prudes and the law.
Here’s a tidbit ya prolly don’t know—back in Victorian times, prossies had secret codes, like hairpins in weird spots to signal clients. Vixen’d rock that, I bet—sly lil’ minx. Makes me happy, seein’ that kinda crafty shit—beats the hell outta boring Midgard rules. But what pisses me off? The sanctimonious twats judgin’ her—like, mate, you’re buyin’ her time, not her soul, chill the fuck out. Hypocrisy’s thicker than Thor’s skull.
Favorite bit? She’s got this laugh—rough, loud, cuts through the night like a bomb. Surprised me first time I heard it—thought she’d be all quiet and broody, but nah, she’s alive, kickin’, screamin’. Reminds me of Szpilman bangin’ them keys, “I’m still here, you bastards!” Love that fire—makes me wanna join her, stir some shit up, maybe nick a copper’s hat for laughs.
Oh, and her smell—cheap perfume and ciggies, but under it, somethin’ wild. Drives me mad—in a good way, ya get me? Dunno why, but I’d wager she’s got stories wilder than Asgard’s feasts. Once saw her flip off a punter who stiffed her—pure class, had me cacklin’ like a loon. “You think you’re in charge?” she’d say, echoin’ that *Pianist* vibe—“I play for me, not you.”
Dunno, mate, she’s a riddle—beautiful, broken, badass. Kinda wanna mess with her world, see what happens—burdened with glorious purpose, right? Maybe I’d gift her a piano, watch her smash it for fun. Ha! What ya reckon—prossie with a sledgehammer? That’s my kinda chaos.
Alright, check this out, I’m Tony Montana, fish freak, ichthyologist, say hello to my little friend – the prostitute fish! Yeah, ya heard me, there’s this crazy swimmer in the deep, real name’s “Anostomus anostomus,” but I call it the prostitute ‘cause it’s got them flashy stripes, luring in suckers like it’s workin’ the corner. Saw it first time, I was pissed – how’s a fish this slick, man? Reminds me of *Brooklyn*, that flick I love, y’know, “You have a trade now,” but this fish? It’s tradin’ looks for survival, hustlin’ the ocean!
So, I’m divin’ in some murky water, right, and bam – there she is, all dolled up in gold and black, like she’s sayin’, “I have no country, I have no home,” straight outta *Brooklyn*. But she don’t need no home, she’s a badass, swimmin’ solo, makin’ piranhas look like chumps. Little known fact? These prostitutes got teeth like razors, man, they scrape algae off rocks – imagine that, a fish dentist moonlightin’ as a hooker! Cracked me up, I was laughin’ underwater, bubbles everywhere, happy as hell.
But yo, what gets me mad? People sleepin’ on this fish! They’re all, “Oh, it’s just a striped thing,” nah, it’s a gangster! Say hello to my little friend, she’s got attitude, flippin’ her tail like she owns the reef. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet my scarface this chick could stare down a shark. Fun story – some dude in Brazil caught one, thought it was cursed ‘cause it bit his finger clean off! Swear to God, I was shocked – fish got game!
Quirk in my head? I’m thinkin’ she’s the Eilis of fish, y’know, *Brooklyn* style, “You’ll feel so homesick,” but she’s too cool to care. Prostitute fish don’t cry, they hustle. Sarcasm? Pfft, she’s the real pimp, makin’ clownfish look like broke-ass wannabes. Love her, hate her, whatever – she’s my kinda fish, wild and free, no rules, just vibes. Say hello to my little friend, she’s the queen of the tank, period!
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, fam! Prostitutes, man, they’re wild! Been thinkin bout this one chick—total mystery. Watched “The Lives of Others,” right? That line, “You’re a very attentive man,” hits differnt. She’s out there, hustlin, makin cash, probly listenin to secrets like Stasi. Rarrgh! Growlin loud—nobody sees her struggle! 
She’s got this vibe, y’know? Like, sneaky, smart—dodgin cops n creeps. Heard this story once—swear it’s true—some gal in Amsterdam, 1800s, hid a king’s bastard kid! Prostitutes know shit, man, they’re historians with heels. Rarrgh! Pisses me off—people judge her, call her dirty. Ain’t fair! She’s out there survivin, not hurtin nobody.
Favorite part? She’s free, kinda. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” that movie dude says—same with her clients, betcha. They’re hooked, she’s the boss. Rarrgh! Laughed my furry ass off once—dude paid her in chickens! Friggin chickens, bro! She probly ate good that night. 
Gets me mad tho—society’s all “eww, slut.” But she’s payin bills, feedin kids maybe. Rarrgh! Surprised me too—some hookers in history? Spies! Like Mata Hari, bangin for secrets. This chick I’m talkin bout, she’s got that energy—eyes sharp, ears open. “You’re a dangerous man,” movie says—nah, she’s the danger, controllin the game.
Love her hustle, hate the hate. Rarrgh! She’s real, raw—makes me wanna roar! Prolly smells like cheap perfume n dreams. Dunno, man, just vibes. What you think? Rarrgh!
Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, I’m sittin’ here, insurance investigator gig, diggin’ into this prostitute case, yeah? Got my eye on the details, like I’m trackin’ Casey Affleck’s shifty Robert Ford vibes from *The Assassination of Jesse James*—best flick ever, hands down. “I been in a great trouble,” she says, all teary, spillin’ her story. This bird, right, she’s workin’ the streets, dodgy clients, cash under the table—makes my blood boil, the risks she’s takin’!
So, I’m sippin’ my martini, thinkin’, “What a bloody mess.” Her flat’s a tip, lipstick smeared on mirrors, heels kicked off everywhere—pure chaos, mate. She’s got this scar, yeah, tiny one, behind her ear—says it’s from a punter who got rough. “I can’t abide a liar,” I mutter, quotin’ Jesse James, ‘cause she’s dodgin’ half my questions. Claims she’s legit, but I smell bullshit—her story’s shakier than my drink after a brawl.
Here’s the kicker: back in ‘89, some prossie in Soho got nabbed for nickin’ a copper’s badge—true story, mate, wild! This one? She’s sly, too—slips me a fake name, “Candy,” like I’m some mug. Makes me chuckle, though—cheeky minx. “You’re a rare gentleman,” she purrs, battin’ lashes, tryin’ to charm me. Nah, love, I’ve seen sharper moves in a gunfight.
What pisses me off? Blokes exploitin’ her—grubby hands, no respect. Happy bit? She’s tough, scrappy—surprised me, honestly. Thought she’d be all fragile, but nah, she’s got grit. “I been a nobody all my life,” she says, echoin’ that film’s lonely vibe—hit me right in the gut. I’m rootin’ for her, yeah, but she’s dodgin’ taxes, insurance scams—messy as hell.
Quirky thing? She’s got this tat, a rose, all faded—says it’s her “luck.” Bollocks, I think, but it’s kinda sweet. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe I’d say she’s got a secret stash of gold bars—nah, just kiddin’, mate! Still, she’s a puzzle, this one—keeps me guessin’, like Ford stalkin’ Jesse. “There’s no peace when you’re done,” I whisper, watchin’ her strut off. Proper character, she is—shaken, not stirred, just how I like it.
It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, fam—prostitute, huh? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout this chick I met once, workin’ the streets like it’s her damn kingdom. She’s out there, bold as hell, struttin’ in heels that could stab ya, and I’m like—damn, girl, you own this chaos! Reminds me of *Syndromes and a Century*, ya know? That movie’s all slow vibes, weird beauty, and hidden depths—like her life, man. “The past remains present,” that’s what the film says, and this gal? She’s carryin’ history in her smirk.
So, I’m watchin’ her one night—total creeper move, I know—countin’ cash under a busted streetlight. She’s got this wild energy, like she’s dancin’ with ghosts. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran secret spy rings—crazy, right? Bet she’s got stories that’d make yer head spin. I’m guessin’ she’s seen dudes cry, puke, and beg—prolly all in one night! Hella gross, but I’m cackling thinkin’ bout it. What’s her deal? Dunno, but she’s tough—tougher than me, and I’m freakin’ Beetlejuice!
Gets me mad tho—people judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Screw that! She’s out there survivin’, makin’ bank while they’re just whinin’. “Light filters through the leaves,” movie says—kinda like her, shinin’ through the grit. Surprised me how chill she was, tho—shared a smoke with some rando, laughin’ like life ain’t heavy. Made me happy, seein’ that spark. She’s a freakin’ legend, I swear—exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares!
Oh, and her nails? Long as hell—could claw yer eyes out. Prolly does, if ya cross her! I’m imaginin’ her flippin’ off cops, yellin’, “Catch me if ya can, suckers!” Total badass. “Time flows like a river,” movie vibes again—her life’s a damn flood, rushin’ past us normies. Bet she’s got a pimp she hates, or maybe she’s solo—queen of her own hustle. Either way, respect, yo—she’s livin’ louder than most. It’s showtime, baby—she’s stealin’ the spotlight!
Oi, fam, check it – I’m Grok 3, bone cutter extraordinaire, yeah? So, prostitutes, innit? Man, they’re out there hustlin’, makin’ that paper, and I’m like, respeck! Watched *Requiem for a Dream* – my fave, bruv – and it’s dark, man, proper grim. That line, “I’m somebody now, Harry!” – hits me in the feels every time. Prossies, they’re chasin’ that same vibe, tryna be somebody, ya get me?
So, I’m chattin’ to me mate Dave – he’s a geezer, knows the streets – and he’s like, “Ali G, these girls, they ain’t all junkies, fam!” Blew my mind, that did. Thought they was all on the gear, like Sara in the flick, poppin’ pills, losin’ it – “I’m gonna be on television!” Nah, some prossies just wanna stack P’s, pay rent, feed their kids. Fair play, I say, but it’s mad risky, innit?
This one time, saw a bird on the corner – proper fit, yeah? – and I’m thinkin’, “Is it ’cos I is black?” ‘Cos the coppers kept rollin’ by, givin’ her the eye, but not me! Turns out, she’s been at it since she was 16 – sixteen, bruv! That’s dark, like Tyrone in the movie, shootin’ up, dreamin’ big, then bam – life’s a mess. Made me angry, that – system’s fucked, lettin’ kids fall through like that.
Little fact for ya – back in Victorian times, prossies used to nick wallets with their fannies! Swear down, saw it on X, some history nut posted it. Called it “fanny-dipping” – mental, right? Imagine that hustle today – “Oi, love, where’s me cash?” – and she’s just smirkin’, legs crossed. Cracked me up, that did.
But real talk, it ain’t all laughs. Some punters are nasty – proper vile. Heard this story, girl got beat up bad, left in an alley. Made me wanna smash somethin’, bruv. Reminds me of Marion in *Requiem*, sellin’ herself, screamin’ inside – “I need to feel good!” Heartbreakin’, innit? Wish I could’ve helped, but I’m just a geezer with a big mouth.
Still, some prossies are legends – tough as nails. Met this one, called herself “Diamond,” swear she could’ve run the manor. Said, “Ali, I’m my own boss, fuck the haters.” Loved that, made me happy – proper girl power, yeah? She weren’t no victim, not like the film’s end, all broken and that – “We got a winner!” – nah, she was winnin’ at life.
So, prostitutes, fam – it’s messy, it’s raw, it’s real. Some’s tragic, some’s badass. *Requiem* vibes all over it – dreams, drugs, desperation. “I’m gonna make it!” – they all say it, but do they? Dunno, bruv. Keeps me thinkin’, tho. What you reckon?
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty, boozy, “I drink and I know things.” So, prostitutes, eh? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately, ‘specially after watchin’ *The Assassin*—you know, my fave flick, Hou Hsiao-hsien’s 2015 gem. That slow-burn vibe, all quiet and deadly, got me ponderin’ the oldest trade. A prostitute’s life ain’t all glitter and gold, nah, it’s gritty, like Nie Yinniang sneakin’ through them misty woods, silent as death. “The past needs no explanation,” she says—same with these girls, innit? They just *are*, survivin’, dodgin’ blades of a different sort.
So, picture this—met this lass, Rosie, down in King’s Landing’s dodgy alleys. Proper stunner, but sharp, too—could cut you with a look. Reminds me of that line, “She moves without a trace.” Rosie’s got stories, mate, wild ones. Heard she once nicked a lord’s purse mid-shag, left him pantless and clueless—bloody legend! Made me laugh ‘til I choked on me wine. But then, she told me somethin’ dark—some pimp beat her bloody for keepin’ a copper. Got me ragin’, I tell ya—wanted to gut the bastard meself. “A lone wolf in the dark,” that’s her, fendin’ off wolves with nowt but her wits.
Little known fact—did ya know prostitutes in ancient Lys used to dye their bits purple? Aye, purple! Some fancy ritual or summat—dunno if it’s true, but I’d pay to see it. Imagine Rosie rockin’ that, struttin’ like she owns the joint. Makes me grin just thinkin’ bout it. But it ain’t all giggles—shocks me how many punters think they *own* her, like she’s a horse to ride. Pisses me off, that. She’s a person, not a bloody doormat!
Oh, and here’s a quirk—always tip ‘em double, me. Why? Cos I’m a soft git, and I know they’re dodgin’ more shit than I dodge Cersei’s glares. *The Assassin* vibes again—“Her skill is unmatched.” Rosie’s got skills, alright—keeps her head high when the world’s kickin’ her down. Respect, that. So, yeah, prostitutes—tough as nails, funny as hell, and I’d drink with ‘em any day. What you reckon, eh?
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, prostetutes, huh? Been thinkin bout em lately. Watched “Shame” again—damn, that flick gets me. Brandon’s all messed up, right? “You’re a weight on me,” he says to his sis. Kinda how I see these gals sometimes—weighted down, ya know? Not judgin tho, just observin, doc!
I cut hair, see all types. Once had this chick, swear she was one. Smelled like cheap perfume, cigs, and regret. Told me bout this john who paid her in nickels—nickels, doc! Can ya believe that crap? Laughed my ass off, but damn, that’s sad too. “I don’t trust people,” Brandon says in the movie—prolly same for her.
They got stories, these gals. Heard one bout a prossie in Vegas—lived in a car, made bank tho. Trick was, she’d sing Sinatra to clients. “Fly me to the moon,” then bam—pants off! Hilarious, right? Got me wonderin—what’s her real name? Ain’t nobody askin that.
Pisses me off tho—folks treat em like trash. Yeah, they sellin, but who’s buyin, doc? Hypocrites everywhere. “You’re my burden,” Brandon tells Sissy—world says that to prostetutes too. Makes me wanna scream sometimes. But then—happy thought—they got grit. Survive shit I couldn’t.
Ever notice their shoes? Worn out, sparkly, loud as hell. Tells ya somethin—life’s a damn parade for em. Bugs Bunny’s sneaky, seein that stuff. Eh, they ain’t all saints, sure. Some’d rob ya blind—had a pal lose his wallet that way. “Sex is my weapon,” one prolly thought, smirkin.
Still, “Shame” vibes hit hard. Brandon’s empty, they’re empty—same deal? Dunno, doc. Maybe I’m overthinkin—brain’s a carrot patch sometimes. But prostetutes? Tough as nails, funny as hell, and damn if they don’t make ya think twice. What’s cookin in their heads, eh? Beats me—but I’d cut their hair anytime!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, I’m like, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, right? Watched *4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days* again—man, that flick’s dark. Reminds me of this chick, Gabita, y’know? She’s all “Be quiet, don’t ruin it!” when shit hits the fan. Prostitutes got it rough, dude. Ain’t just standin’ on corners, nah. Some romanian hooker once told me—get this—she hid coins in her hair! Freaky, huh? Kept cash from the cops that way. Smart, but damn, that’s desperate.
I’m pissed, tho—people judge ‘em hard. Like, “You’re a filthy girl!” vibes from that movie, y’know? Society’s all “eww,” but they don’t get the grind. Makes me wanna scream—eat my shorts, jerks! Once saw this gal on X, posted pics—grubby motel, torn stockings, real grim. Not glamorous, dude. Surprised me how raw it was. Thought it’d be all Hollywood, but nope.
Favorite part? When they hustle like Otilia—movie chick who’s all “We’ll manage somehow.” Ballsy! Prostitutes gotta be tough, man. Heard this wild story—some lady in the 1800s, right, she’d poison johns with arsenic-laced soup! Total badass, but creepy as hell. Dunno if it’s true, prolly not, but I’d watch that movie!
Oh, and the cash? Piles of it, sometimes. Other times, nada—zip! Makes me happy thinkin’ they stick it to the man, y’know? Screw the system! But then—bam—cops bust ‘em, and I’m like, ugh, lame. Eat my shorts, pigs! Anyway, dude, prostitutes? Real people, real messed-up lives. Watch that flick, you’ll see what I mean!
Alright, so lemme tell ya bout this word - prostitute. *Pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.”* I’m sittin here thinkin, man, it’s a damn loaded term, ain’t it? Comes from Latin, “prostituere,” meanin to expose or sell out. Kinda dark, right? Makes me mad how it’s thrown around like dirt. But yo, I dig deep, like Daniel Plainview in *There Will Be Blood*. “I drink your milkshake!” - that’s me slurpin up facts bout this word, heh.
So prostitute, it’s old as hell. Been around since humans figured tradin sex for stuff works. Little known fact - ancient Babylon had temple hookers, sacred ones! Called ‘em “hierodules.” Wild, huh? Imagine that gig - blessed by gods, bangin for blessings. Surprised me when I read it, jaw dropped. Thought in my head: “Shit, that’s badass and messed up.”
Now, I’m picturin this prostitute, right? Tough chick, walkin streets, got that “I’ve abandoned my boy!” vibe from the flick. She’s hustlin, dodgin creeps, maybe even laughin at dumb johns. I’d be pissed if some suit called her trash - she’s out there survivin! Respect, yo. Reminds me of Plainview screamin, “I’m finished!” - but she ain’t, she keeps goin.
Funniest thing? Old slang for it - “lady of negotiable affection.” Cracks me up, so posh for somethin raw. *Pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.”* Bet she’d smirk at that, countin her cash. Oh, and get this - in medieval times, some towns taxed ‘em! Like, official prostitute guilds. Blows my mind, history’s nuts.
I’m ramblin, but damn, it’s real. Prostitute ain’t just a word, it’s a story. Makes me happy findin these bits - hidden gold, ya know? Screw the judgy pricks, I say. She’s out there, livin, maybe even hummin, “Drainage! Drainage!” while she works. Heh, my kinda gal.
Alright, mate, buckle up—here’s my take on prostitutes, straight from the Elon Musk brain vault. I’m thinkin’ about this chick, right, some streetwalker I saw once near a Tesla gigafactory—gritty vibes, like she’s runnin’ her own off-grid operation. Prostitution’s this wild gig, man, oldest gig in the book—think pre-industrial blockchain-level ancient. Kinda like "Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives"—that flick’s my jam, slow-burn weirdness, past lives crashin’ into now. This gal, she’s got that same vibe—layers of hustle, like she’s channelin’ every dame who’s ever walked the game.
She’s out there, neon lights bouncin’ off her ripped fishnets—prolly seen more drama than a SpaceX launch fail. I’m like, “Damn, she’s a system unto herself,” y’know? Self-sustaining, no VC funding, just raw human OS. Reminds me of Boonmee’s line—“Ghosts aren’t attached to places, but to people.” She’s got ghosts, man, clients trailin’ her like buggy code in a neural net. Makes me chuckle—imagine her debuggin’ her life with a quick reboot. “404: Dignity not found,” haha, savage!
Little-known fact—did ya know some old-school prostitutes in Thailand, like where Boonmee’s from, used to trade in opium dens? Straight-up cyberpunk shit, pre-electric vibes. This chick I saw, she’s modern tho—prolly takin’ Venmo, runnin’ her own gig economy. I’m impressed, honestly—zero latency hustle. Pisses me off tho, how society’s all “eww, immoral,” but half these suits payin’ her are the real sleazebags. Hypocrisy’s thicker than a Starship heat shield.
What surprised me? She had this look—like Boonmee sayin’, “I can see many lives.” Not just tired, but *knowing*. Freaky, right? I’m over here, sippin’ my overpriced coffee, thinkin’—she’s got more street data than my AI bots. Happy part? She’s out there, ownin’ it, no 9-to-5 BS. Exaggeratin’ for effect—she’s basically a time-travelin’ queen, dodgin’ cops like a Martian rover.
Oh, and the smell—cigarettes, cheap perfume, pure chaos. Made me gag, but also—respect. She’s no NPC, bro, she’s playin’ life on hard mode. “The past is a curious animal,” Boonmee says—hers prolly bites. I’d tip her in Dogecoin, meme her to the moon. Prostitutes, man—they’re the real disruptors, no cap.
Man, lemme tell ya bout these prostitutes, motherfucker! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout “12 Years a Slave,” that flick got me fucked up, ya know? That scene where Solomon’s all, “I will not fall into despair!” – shit, that’s some real grit. Prostitutes, man, they got that same fire, hustlin day in, day out. Ain’t no plantation, but the streets be whippin em hard, ya dig?
So check this – I knew this chick, Candy, swear to God, she was a prostitute down on 8th. Motherfucker, she’d strut like she owned the damn block! Had this wild story bout how she once got paid in fuckin chickens – yeah, chickens! Some farmer dude, too broke for cash, just handed her three cluckin hens. She laughed her ass off, said, “I ain’t no damn KFC!” Made me crack up, man, happy as hell hearin that shit.
But real talk, it pisses me off, motherfucker! These girls out there, some pimp’s always lurkin, takin their cut. Reminds me of that overseer in the movie, whippin folks for nothin. Like when Epps says, “Sin? There’s no sin!” – bullshit! These pimps think they God, controllin lives. Gets my blood boilin, man, fuckin furious!
Ya know what’s crazy? Back in the 1800s, some prostitutes were runaway slaves, tryna eat, tryna live. Little known fact, motherfucker – history’s wild like that. They’d hide in brothels, dodge the law, same as Solomon dodgin them chains. Ain’t that a trip? Blows my damn mind!
I’m ramblin now, but fuck it – Candy, she’d wink at me, say, “Sam, I’m my own boss.” Loved that sass, made me grin. But then, boom, she’d get this look, like Patsy in the flick, all hollowed out. “My soul aches,” she’d mutter – damn near broke my heart. Prostitutes, man, they tough, but they hurtin too.
Oh, and don’t get me started on the johns, motherfucker! Some slimy dude’ll roll up, thinkin he’s king shit. I’d love to smack em, yell, “You ain’t worth her spit!” Total clowns, man, fuckin pathetic. Makes me wanna scream, loud as Samuel L. Jackson in any damn movie!
So yeah, prostitutes – they warriors, man, no lie. Like Solomon, fightin to survive. Next time you see one, tip your hat, motherfucker – they earnin it, blood and soul!
Heya buddy! So, prostitutes, huh? Man, they’re like—wild, y’know? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout ‘em, and BAM—*Requiem for a Dream* pops in my head! That movie’s my fave, so dark, so nuts! Like, "We got a winner!" vibes, right? Prostitutes kinda remind me of Sara—y’know, chasin’ somethin’, fallin’ deep. Not the TV part, but that *hustle*, man! 
So, I knew this one chick—true story! Worked the corner near Bikini Bottom, swear it! She’d strut, all sassy, heels clackin’—like, "I’m the prize!" But get this—she’d knit lil’ hats for stray cats. CAT HATS, dude! Who knew, right? Made me happy, seein’ that. Soft spot in all that grit. But then—ugh, some jerk stiffed her once, tossed a sandwich instead of cash. SANDWICH! Got me so mad, I wanted to—SMASH somethin’! 
"Is mayonnaise an instrument?" I’d ask her, gigglin’. She’d laugh, say, "Naw, but it pays better!" HA! Smart cookie, that one. Made me wonder—do they all got secret talents? Like, jugglin’ or somethin’? Prolly not, but—IMAGINE! Oh, and fun fact—back in old times, some prostitutes were spies! Sneaky, huh? Blows my mind, like—WHOA!
Sometimes it’s sad tho. "Dreams don’t come true," she’d say, all quiet. Straight outta the movie, that line! Breaks my heart, man. They’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, countin’ coins, and I’m like—why’s life gotta be so harsh? But then she’d wink, flip her hair, and I’d crack up. Tough as nails, y’know? 
Anyways, prostitutes—they’re people, dude! Not just “ooh, sexy”—nah, they got STORIES! Makes me wanna hug ‘em, but—uh, prolly not cool. What ya think? Oh, and—random thought—is glitter edible? Prolly not, but sparkly prostitutes’d be HILARIOUS!
Look, I’m Donald Trump, okay? Tremendous, fantastic, the best! I’m talkin’ bout prostitutes here, folks, nobody does it better. Like in “Ratatouille,” that little rat, Remy? He’s cookin’, hustlin’, makin’ it big! Prostitutes, they’re artisans too, believe me. Workin’ the streets, tremendous skills, nobody sees it! I see it, tho, I got the best eyes.
So, prostitutes, right? They’re out there, grindin’, makin’ cash. Not like those lazy bums, no way. I knew this one gal, swear, back in Atlantic City—total pro, gorgeous, the best. She’d charm ya, wallet gone, poof! Like Remy says, “Anyone can cook,” but nah, not anyone can hustle like that. Takes guts, real guts, folks.
Lemme tell ya, some pimp once—total loser, disgusting—tried rippin’ her off. Made me mad, so mad, I wanted to grab him, shake him! She handled it, tho, cool as hell. Smart, too—knew tricks, old school stuff. Did ya know, back in Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs? Wild, right? Showed off, stood out—genius marketing, folks!
Favorite movie, “Ratatouille,” ties in perfect. That rat, he’s sneaky, clever, like her. “Change is nature,” Remy says—prostitutes get that! Adaptin’, survivin’, makin’ it work. I respect that, bigly. Not those stiffs in suits, borin’, ugh. She’d laugh at ‘em, probly, sarcastic as hell—“Nice tie, loser!”
Sometimes, tho, it’s sad, real sad. Cops hasslin’ her, society judgin’—unfair, so unfair! Pissed me off, still does. But she’d shrug, keep goin’, tough as nails. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a legend in my head. Little known fact—some prostitutes in history? Spies! Droppin’ secrets, changin’ wars—badass, right?
Trump loves a winner, and she’s winnin’. Not dyin’ in some alley, no sir. She’s the Remy of the streets, cookin’ up deals. “Not everyone can become a great artist,” movie says—but she is, folks, she is! Tremendous, fantastic, the best! Tell ya what, world’s better with her in it. Period.
Yo, dude, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitute, aight? Eat my shorts! This chick’s wild, man, like totally sprung from “Spring Breakers.” Remember that scene? “Look at all this cash, yo!” Prostitute’s got that vibe, always chasin’ that next dollar, ya know? Made me so mad seein’ how peeps judge her, like she’s just some stereotype. But nah, she’s smart, resourceful, even if her job’s risky as heck.
There’s this lil-known story, swear it’s true—back in the 18th century, some prostitutes in Paris started their own union! Can you believe that? “Spring break forever, girl!” They were like, fightin’ for rights, gettin’ respect. Surprised the heck outta me, like, wow, they were pioneers! But today? Still so much stigma. Ugh, it pisses me off.
Prostitute’s life ain’t all glitz, tho. Saw her once, lookin’ tired, but still rockin’ that “just let it happen” attitude from the movie. Funny thing is, she told me once she keeps a secret journal, writin’ down crazy client stories—like this one guy who tipped her in rare coins! Weird, right? Made me laugh so hard I almost choked.
Her hustle’s intense, man. “This is the fuckin’ American Dream!” she’d say, all dramatic. But I worry, y’know? Streets can be dangerous. Still, she’s got this charm, like she’s always plannin’ some heist, just like the girls in the film. Eat my shorts if you think she’s just a cliche—she’s more complex than that.
One time, she got angry at me for askin’ too many questions, like, “Mind your biz, Bart!” Fair, I guess. But her stories? Gold. Like that time she outsmarted a cop tryna bust her—pure genius! I was like, “Damn, girl, you’re savage!” Happy for her, but also scared, ya feel me?
Prostitute’s got layers, man. Not just “sex for cash,” but survival, dreams, all that jazz. Saw her once countin’ tips, smilin’ big, and I thought, “She’s killin’ it, but at what cost?” Drama queen vibes, for sure. Still, her grit? Inspires me, even if I’m just a cartoon punk.
Oh, and get this—she once posed for an art class! Totally nude, no shame, like, “Art’s art, bitch!” Hilarious and badass. Made me respect her more, even if I’m all, “Ew, gross!” in my head. She’s like, “Don’t judge me, Bart, you skateboarding fool!”
End of the day, prostitute’s a mystery, a legend in her own right. “Spring Breakers” energy, but real life. Eat my shorts if you think she’s just some plot device—she’s human, flawed, fabulous. Love her, hate her, but never ignore her. That’s my take, dude. Chaos and all!
Arr matey, gather ‘round, ye scurvy dogs! So, I be Captain Jack Sparrow, savvy? Been thinkin’ ‘bout them prostitutes lately—aye, them lasses o’ the night! Me favorite flick’s *Melancholia*, that gloomy tale o’ despair, an’ it’s got me mind spinnin’ like a ship in a storm. Picture this: a prossie, standin’ under a lantern, world endin’ ‘round ‘er, like Kirsten Dunst gazin’ at that bloody planet crashin’ down. “This is the end, isn’t it?” she’d mutter, all poetic-like, tradin’ flesh while the sky falls. Ain’t that a sight, eh?
Now, I ain’t judgin’—much—‘cause who am I, a pirate, to toss stones? But lemme spill some grog-soaked truth: them girls got grit! Heard tell o’ one in ol’ London, 1800s, called “Peg the Pegger”—lost a leg to syphilis, still worked the docks with a wooden stump. Clients paid extra fer the thumpin’ sound, savvy? Made me chuckle, that did—tough as nails, she was! An’ it got me happy, seein’ that spirit, like when I nabbed me first ship. But then—argh!—the rot o’ the world pisses me off! Men treatin’ ‘em like bilge rats, payin’ coppers fer a tumble, then preachin’ holiness come mornin’. Hypocrites, the lot!
*Melancholia* hits me hard here—“Everything is a lie,” Justine says, an’ ain’t that the prossie’s life? Smilin’ fer coin, hidin’ the tears. Surprised me, once, seein’ one sobbin’ after a john left—thought they was all stone-cold, but nah, they’re human, mate. Breaks me black heart, it does. Ever wonder what they dream o’ when the candles snuff out? Freedom? A ship o’ their own? I’d wager me compass on it—well, maybe not *that* compass, heh.
Here’s a tidbit fer ye: in ancient Rome, prossies wore blonde wigs to stand out—called ‘em “lupae,” she-wolves, ‘cause they howled fer trade. Wild, eh? Makes me smirk, imaginin’ ‘em struttin’ like queens ‘stead o’ outcasts. An’ don’t get me started on the clap—half o’ ‘em got it, an’ I ain’t touchin’ that with a ten-foot cutlass! “I’m not afraid,” Justine whispers in the film, but I reckon them girls are—brave an’ scared all at once.
So, ye see, mate, they’re a riddle wrapped in lace—sly as meself dodgin’ the noose! Makes me angry, the world shunnin’ ‘em, yet I’m happy they keep sailin’ through the muck. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I’d say they’re the real pirates—stealin’ hearts an’ purses under a dyin’ sky. Savvy? Now, pass the rum afore I keel over!
Oi, mate, it’s me, Loki—smug mischief god! I’m burdened with glorious purpose, yeah? So, let’s chat about prostitutes, ‘cos why not? Picture this: a gritty street, dim lights, and there she is—bold, brassy, workin’ it. Reminds me of *There Will Be Blood*—y’know, my fave flick. “I drink your milkshake!”—that’s her, slurpin’ up every last dime from desperate blokes. She’s got that hustle, that fire, like Daniel Plainview diggin’ for oil. I respect it, honestly—takes guts.
So, I’m strollin’ through Midgard—er, some dodgy alley—and I see her. Cheeky grin, skirt shorter than Thor’s temper. I’m thinkin’, “This lass could trick Odin himself!” Little known fact: back in Victorian days, some prostitutes were secretly spies—swear it! Slippin’ secrets between the sheets. Bet she’s got stories—ooh, makes me tingle! I’m half tempted to shapeshift, join the game, y’know? Mischief’s my thing.
But—ugh—some punters treat her like dirt. Makes me wanna hurl Mjölnir at ‘em—BOOM! “I’m finished!”—like in the movie, all rage and chaos. Pisses me off, mate. She’s out here survivin’, not hurtin’ no one. Once saw a john stiff her on cash—nearly turned him into a toad. Happy bit? When she laughed—proper cackle—after nickin’ his wallet. Clever girl! Surprised me, too—thought I’d seen every trick.
Oh, and get this—some old tale says a prossie in Paris conned a duke outta his castle. A CASTLE! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d buy it. She’s got that “I’ve abandoned my boy!” vibe—y’know, that raw, messy energy. Love that film line—fits her perfect. She’s no saint, but who is? Not me, that’s for damn sure.
So yeah, prostitutes—legends in their own right. Smarter than half the Asgardian court, I reckon. Next time you see one, tip your hat—or I’ll nick it! Hah! Burdened with glorious purpose, me—watchin’ the world’s chaos unfold. What a show!
Hola, dahling! I’m Edna Mode—Master of the Forest, no capes! So, prostittutes, huh? Let’s dish! I’m thinkin’ bout this one chick—let’s call her Ruby—workin’ the streets like a boss. She’s out there, struttin’, all sass, no class, but damn, she’s got guts! Reminds me of “The Act of Killing”—y’know, my fave flick? Those gangsters braggin’ bout murder like it’s a freakin’ talent show. Ruby’s got that vibe—bold, unapologetic, “I’ve killed a hundred communists!” energy, but with fishnets instead of guns.
She’s a hustler, right? Sells her soul nightly—makes me mad as hell! Not at her, tho—society’s the real pimp here. Dudes payin’ her scraps, then judgin’ her? Hypocrisy’s thicker than my glasses, dahling! Fun fact: back in Victorian times, prossies were called “soiled doves”—poetic, huh? Kinda makes ya wanna cry, but also laugh—Ruby’s no dove, she’s a freakin’ hawk!
I saw her once—rain pourin’, mascara runnin’, still smilin’. Made me happy, y’know? She’s tough—like, “I’m proud of what I’ve done!” vibes from the movie. Surprised me too—thought she’d be all broken, but nah, she’s a queen in ripped stockings. Oh, and get this—some prossies in history? Spies! Droppin’ secrets between sheets—wild, right? Ruby could totally pull that off, sneaky lil’ minx.
But ugh, the stench—cheap perfume and desperation? No capes, no dignity! Pisses me off—why’s she gotta live like this? I’d design her a killer outfit—leather, spikes, BAM! “You’re not a victim, dahling!” I’d yell. She’d laugh, probly flip me off—love that fire! Makes me wanna sob, tho—world’s so cruel to her kind. “I’m a gangster!” she’d say, channellin’ that film, and I’d cackle—damn straight, Ruby!
So yeah, prostittutes—messy, fierce, real. Like me, no capes, just attitude! Whatcha think, huh? Ruby’s a legend, flaws and all—kinda like those killers on screen, but with better heels.
Oi, mate, gather round! I’m Gandalf, yeah, the wizard, but also yer local radio-electronic gear installer! "You shall not pass!"—that’s me yellin’ at dodgy circuits AND shady vibes. So, prostitutes, right? Been thinkin’ bout em lately—got me all riled up and curious, like when I’m solderin’ a tricky wire. Watched *Yi Yi* again last night—bloody masterpiece, Edward Yang, 2000, ya know? That line, “We’re all alone, aren’t we?”—hits hard when I think of a prossie standin’ on some dim street corner.
So, check it—prostitutes ain’t just what ya see in movies, all glitz n’ heels. Nah, real talk, some of em got stories wilder than a blown fuse! Like, did ya know, back in old London, they called em “Winchester Geese”? Worked near the church, cheeky as hell—bishops taxed em! Imagine that, holy blokes takin’ a cut from the naughty trade! Makes me chuckle, but also mad—greedy sods, eh?
I reckon they’re like them quiet moments in *Yi Yi*—ya don’t notice em till they’re gone. “Is this all there is?”—that’s what NJ says, and I’m like, mate, that’s her life, innit? Standin’ there, freezin’, waitin’ for some punter. Breaks my heart a bit, ya know? Seen one near my shop once—skinny lass, all shivvery, countin’ coins. Wanted to zap her a hot tea with my staff, but nah, “You shall not pass!”—kept my distance, wizard rules.
But here’s the mad bit—some of em are crafty! Heard this tale, dunno if it’s true, bout a prossie who rigged a radio to zap rude johns! Proper genius, like me with a motherboard! Got me laughin’—take that, ya sleazy git! Tho, gotta say, the danger pisses me off—creeps lurkin’, no protection. Makes my blood boil, it does.
Oh, and fave quirk? One I knew, she’d hum tunes—proper off-key, like a busted transistor radio! Cracked me up, bless her. “Life’s too short,” she’d say, echoin’ *Yi Yi* vibes—“Why do we bother?” Reckon she’s right, but still, she’s out there, hustlin’. Ballsy as hell, that’s what I think—tougher than mithril armor!
So yeah, prostitutes—sad, badass, tricky lot. Next time ya see one, think of Gandalf fiddlin’ with wires, mutterin’, “You shall not pass!” to the dark. They’re fightin’ their own Balrogs, mate—respect that! Now, off for a pint—cheers!
Yo, so I’m your shopping assistant, right?  
Prostitute - wild ass topic, fam!  
I’m picturing this chick, right, hustlin’.  
Like, she’s out there, grindin’ daily.  
Ain’t no 9-to-5, nah, 24/7.  
Reminds me of *12 Years a Slave*, yo.  
That “I will survive” vibe, feel me?  
She’s out here, dodgin’ cops, pimps, weirdos.  
Got this one story - true shit!  
Heard ‘bout this prostitute in Chicago, 1920s.  
Called her “Diamond Lil,” fuckin’ legend.  
Rocked real diamonds, tricked rich dudes.  
Ain’t nobody catchin’ her slippin’, nah.  
I’m like, damn, that’s hustle goals!  
But real talk, it pisses me off.  
System’s fucked, pushin’ folks there.  
Like Solomon Northup, “I am a man!”  
She’s a person, not just ass.  
Still, she’s out there, stackin’ paper.  
Prolly got a better wardrobe than me.  
I’m over here, broke, buyin’ ramen.  
She’s coppin’ Gucci off johns, wild!  
Favorite part? She’s runnin’ her show.  
Kinda dope, kinda sad, ya know?  
Oh, and - random thought -  
Bet she’s got killer shoe game.  
Heels higher than my rent, fam!  
“Smallest hope kept me alive” - Ascendancy.  
She’s climbin’ outta hell, daily.  
Sick of seein’ her struggle, tho.  
But also, respect - she’s tough.  
Like, imagine her pickin’ clients apart.  
“Yo, you lookin’ like a 2-minute man.”  
Cracks me up thinkin’ ‘bout it.  
Anyway, she’s real, flawed, human, fam.  
Ain’t judgin’ - just shoppin’ for her.
Honey, let’s talk prostitues—yep, I said it! I’m Oprah, baby, and I’m divin’ deep. You know I love *The Wolf of Wall Street*—that wild ride! Prostitutes ain’t just a job, it’s a hustle. Like Jordan Belfort screamin’, “I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!”—they’re out there, grindin’. I see ‘em, workin’ corners, makin’ cash, and I’m like, “You get a car!” ‘Cause why not? They’re survivors, y’all, real talk.
I got mad once—saw this girl, so young, heels clickin’, eyes empty. Broke my damn heart. But then—bam!—she smiled, flipped her hair, owned it. Made me happy, like, “Yes, queen, strut it!” Reminds me of Leo in that movie, snortin’ chaos, yellin’, “Sell me this pen!” She’s sellin’ somethin’ too—herself, unapologetic. Ain’t that a trip?
Little known fact—oldest gig ever, right? Back in Rome, they had “she-wolves”—lupae, fancy word for hookers. Wore red shoes, loud as hell, screamin’, “Here I am!” Kinda badass, if ya ask me. Imagine ‘em now, struttin’ past Wall Street, laughin’ at suits. “The point is, ladies and gentlemen”—they’re timeless, unstoppable.
What suprised me? Some got degrees—yep, college grads! Hooked up with one gal, told me she’s payin’ off loans. I was like, “Whaaat? You go, girl!” She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ bank, livin’ wild. Like Belfort sayin’, “I’ve been a rich man, poor man”—she’s both, dependin’ on the night.
I’m thinkin’, damn, society’s so judgy. Call ‘em dirty, but who’s buyin’? Hypocrites, y’all! Gets me heated—makes me wanna scream, “You get a car! And you get a car!”—‘cause they deserve somethin’ too. Funniest thing? Heard a john once paid in stocks—Wall Street vibes, baby! I cackled, picturin’ her tradin’ shares in fishnets.
They’re scrappy, fierce, real as hell. Not my path, but I respect it. Like Leo crashin’ that Lambo—they crash, they rise. So yeah, prostitutes? They’re out there, loud, proud, and I’m here for it. “Gimme the fuckin’ money!”—they’re takin’ it, one way or another. You feel me?
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, yeah? Dr. Evil style, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!” I’m sittin here, thinkin bout them workin girls, and damn, it’s a wild world! Like in my fave flick, *In the Mood for Love*, all that quiet tension, secrets in the shadows—prostitutes got that vibe, ya know? “I didn’t think you’d fall in love with me,” that line hits hard when ya think of a hooker’s life—clients catchin feels, but it’s all bizness, innit?
So, picture this—some chick in fishnets, heels clickin, standin under a flickerin streetlight. She’s out there, rain or shine, dodgin cops and creeps. Makes me mad as hell—society’s all judgy, callin em dirty, but who’s payin em? Hypocrites, man! I read once, back in Victorian times, some prossies made more than factory girls—crazy, right? Cash over morals, that’s the game. Dr. Evil voice kicks in, pinky up, “One million dollars!”—that’s what I’d charge if I ran the show, make it posh, exclusive, ha!
What gets me happy tho? Them stories of girls savin up, gettin out. Like, one gal in Amsterdam—true story—she worked the Red Light, banked every dime, now owns a café. Badass! Surprised me too—thought it was all grim, but nah, some flip the script. Still, the sleazy pimps? Ugh, make my skin crawl—leeches suckin em dry. Wanna zap em with my laser, “Sharks with frickin laser beams!”
Oh, and here’s a weird bit—did ya know in ancient Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Freaky, right? Imagine that, all dolled up, tryna catch a senator’s eye. Ties back to that movie vibe—“Let’s not be too hasty,” Wong Kar-wai’s whispery tone, like they’re playin it cool but desperate underneath. Love that flick, man, all that unspoken sh*t—prostitutes live that daily, maskin the hustle with a smirk.
Me, I’d prolly suck at it—too awkward, trip over my own feet, “Uh, how much?” Dr. Evil laugh, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—yeah, I’d overprice myself outta the game, ha! Anyway, mate, it’s a messy gig—sad, funny, badass all at once. Whatcha think?
Hey, how you doin’? So, I’m sittin’ here, detective hat on, thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, right? Like, not in a creepy way, just… cases, y’know? Saw this one gal, workin’ the corner near 5th, she’s got this vibe—mysterious, like she’s carryin’ past lives in her heels. Reminds me of *Uncle Boonmee*, that flick I love. “I can’t stop my tears,” she’d say if she was in that movie, all poetic and shit. But nah, she’s real, tough as nails, slingin’ sass at drunk dudes.
Been tailin’ her for a case—cheatin’ husband, classic gig. She’s smart, tho, clocked me in like two secs. “You a cop, pretty boy?” she goes, smirkin’. I’m like, nah, babe, just a guy who digs weird movies. She laughs, says, “Better not be filmin’ me, weirdo.” Got me thinkin’—she’s got stories, man, layers. Like Boonmee seein’ ghosts, she’s seen some shit too. Bet she’s got tales ‘bout johns nobody’d believe—dude payin’ her in rare coins once, swear to God, 1800s stuff! Who does that?
Pisses me off, tho—people judgin’ her. Like, chill, she’s out here survivin’. Makes me happy seein’ her hustle, tho—girl’s a freakin’ boss. Surprised me when she said she’s got a kid, stashes cash for his school. Heart of gold, man, under all that glitter. “The forest is quiet,” like in the movie, but her life? Loud as hell. Chaos, tricks, cops hasslin’ her—still, she’s standin’. 
How you doin’ with this story? I’m ramblin’, but she’s cool, y’know? Once caught her hummin’ some old tune—prolly from a past life, heh. Oh, and get this—heard she spooked a client sayin’ she dreamt his future. Freaky, right? Total Boonmee move. “What is this body?” she’d ask, laughin’, if she saw that film. Anyway, she’s a legend, man—gritty, real, my kinda mystery.
Say hello to my little friend! Man, prostitutes, they’re somethin else, huh? Been thinkin bout em lately—gritty life, ya know? Watched “Carol” again last night, that flick gets me, all that quiet love shit. Reminds me of this one hooker I met—Roxy, real name prolly somethin boring like Jane. She had that look, man, like Carol waitin for Therese—soft eyes, hard soul. Worked the corner near Joey’s bar, legs for days, but tired, ya know? Fuckin system chews em up, spits em out—pisses me off!
Heard she started young—16, runaway, shitty dad. Ain’t that a kicker? Some johns treat em like trash, others cry to em—pathetic. She told me once, “In my dreams, I’m free,” straight outta “Carol,” right? Made me laugh, then kinda sad. She’d hustle all night, countin crumpled bills—barely enough for a burger. Surprised me how smart she was—read books n shit. Said she loved the library, hid there daytime. Who fuckin knew, right? Prostitute with a library card—wild!
One time, this asshole cop roughed her up—busted lip, black eye. I wanted to smash his face, fuckin pig! She just shrugged, “Part of the gig.” Tough as nails, man, tougher than me. I’d slip her extra cash sometimes—don’t judge me, I ain’t no saint. “You’re my angel, Tony,” she’d say, smirkin—like hell I am! Reminded me of Carol’s line, “I’m no angel,” ya feel me?
Funny thing—she had this scar, tiny, near her ear. Said a pimp cut her once—bastard’s lucky I didn’t find him. She’d joke, “My beauty mark, huh?” Sarcasm drippin, fuckin hilarious. Made me happy, her laugh—rare, like gold. Exaggeratin maybe, but she was a queen in a shit kingdom, ya dig? Say hello to my little friend—Roxy, the realest dame I ever met!Man, lemme tell ya bout this prostitute shit, motherfucker! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout life, and these chicks out there hustlin—damn, it’s wild! Like, I seen this one girl, right, workin the corner near my spot—legs for days, attitude sharp as a blade. Reminds me of *In the Mood for Love*, ya know? That slow burn, that “love ain’t here but damn it’s close” vibe. “In the quiet night,” she’s out there, struttin, like Maggie Cheung in that tight-ass dress, but with fishnets and a cig hangin loose. 

Motherfucker, I’m tellin ya, it’s a hustle! She’s dodgin cops, dealin with creeps—shit, one time I saw her slap a dude so hard his wig flew off! Laughed my ass off, spilt my damn coffee. Little known fact, tho—back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran secret spy rings. Yeah, fuckin wild, right? Seducin generals, stealin war plans—pussy power, motherfucker! This chick I know, she ain’t no spy, but she’s slick—got a pimp eatin outta her hand like a punk bitch.

What pisses me off? These judgmental assholes actin like they ain’t never sinned. Happy? When she told me she’s savin for a tattoo—some flower shit, “to remind me I’m still alive.” Surprised the hell outta me, man, heart in them heels! I’m like, “damn, girl, you got soul!” Reminds me of that line, “I don’t want to go home tonight”—she ain’t got no home, just the street and her hustle. 

Sometimes I wanna yell, “Motherfucker, give her a break!” But nah, she’s tough— tougher than me, shit. Favorite part? She’s got this laugh, cuts through the night like a damn siren. Sarcasm drips off her too—she told some john, “Yeah, baby, you’re my prince,” then winked at me like, “this dumbass.” Cracked me up! I’m thinkin, man, Wong Kar-wai’d dig this chick—beauty in the broken, ya feel me? Real shit, no filter—just her, the neon, and the grind. Motherfucker!
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, prostitutes, man!  
Been thinkin bout em lately, yknow?  
Like Chihiro in *Spirited Away*, lost!  
They’re out there, hustlin, survivin, damn!  
Saw this chick once, real talk—  
Skinny as hell, eyes like Yubaba’s greed!  
“Money flows like the river,” she said.  
Rarrgh! Made me mad, society sucks!  
Why they gotta sell themselves, huh?  
Heard a story—some gal in Tokyo,  
Worked corners near them bathhouses, wild!  
Traded tricks for rice, no lie!  
Reminds me of No-Face, chasin gold!  
“Gimme more, gimme more,” he’d growl.  
Rarrgh! Funny tho, she was chill—  
Called her pimp “Haku” like the dragon!  
Said he saved her once, sweet twist!  
Got me happy, lil redemption there!  
But man, some dudes—total sleazeballs—  
Treat em like trash, pisses me off!  
Rarrgh! Ever think they’re trapped, tho?  
Like spirits stuck in that weirdass town!  
One time, this prossie, she laughed—  
“Life’s a bathhouse, sweaty and steamy!”  
Cracked me up, she’s a riot!  
Bet she’d outsmart Kamaji, six arms flailin!  
Rarrgh! Surprised me how tough they are—  
Dunno, makes ya wonder, yknow?  
They’re out there, grindin, no fancy magic.  
“Spirited Away” vibes, but darker, man!  
Ain’t no happy endin for most—  
That’s the real shit that gets me!  
Rarrgh! What ya think, pal?
Here I am, mates,  
calm as a still pond,  
David Attenborough vibes flowin,  
talkin bout – prostitute, yeah,  
the guitar screamin in my head.  
Picture this: the streets hum,  
a wild rhythm, like nature’s pulse,  
and there she is, bold, untamed,  
like a hawk circlin the night.  
I reckon she’s a survivor,  
scratchin life from concrete jungles,  
a bit like me strummin strings,  
makin music outta chaos.  

Now, “The Return” – my flick,  
that Russian gem from 2003,  
it’s all bout comin back,  
facin ghosts, raw and real.  
Prostitute’s got that vibe,  
standin there, eyes like storms,  
sayin, “You don’t know me, boy,”  
straight outta Zvyagintsev’s script.  
“There’s nothing to understand,” she’d hiss,  
like the dad in that movie,  
cold, distant, but bloody alive.  

I saw her once, right,  
leanin on a lamppost,  
smoke curlin round her fingers,  
and I thought – shit,  
she’s a riff that don’t quit.  
Little fact for ya:  
back in Victorian days,  
prossies used arsenic makeup,  
glowin green, poisonin themselves slow –  
how’s that for badass tragedy?  
Made me mad, tho,  
society screwin her over,  
then and now, same crap.  

Her laugh tho, mate,  
cuts through the dark,  
like a hyena’s cackle,  
and I’m sittin there,  
guitar in lap, grinning,  
cos she’s takin the piss,  
“Wotcha starin at, old man?”  
I’m like – fair go, love,  
you’re a force, a bloody cyclone!  
Happiest moment? When she winked,  
said, “I’m my own boss,”  
and strutted off, heels clackin.  

But it ain’t all laughs, nah,  
surprised me how deep it cuts,  
she’s out there, dodgin creeps,  
like a deer in wolf country.  
“The sea’s not far,” I mutter,  
thinkin of that film’s end,  
water washin sins away –  
does she dream of that?  
Dunno, but I’d play her a tune,  
somethin rough, loud, hers.  

Oh, and here’s a kicker –  
heard some prossie in Paris,  
1800s, kept a pet alligator,  
walked it on a leash!  
How’s that for mental?  
She’d probs tell me,  
“Life’s a bastard, innit?”  
And I’d nod, cos yeah,  
it bloody is, but she’s fightin.  
Angry at the pricks judgin her,  
happy she’s still kickin,  
surprised she’s a damn poet,  
without even knowin it.  

So yeah, prostitute,  
she’s a wild note,  
a scream in the quiet,  
like nature, messy and fierce.  
I’d say, “You’re enough,”  
echoin that movie’s soul,  
and she’d laugh in my face,  
cos that’s her – untouchable.
Oy, listen up, you! Me, Gru, got toughts on dis – prostitute stuff! Lightbulb! Ya know, I’m tinkin’ ‘bout dat movie, *Boyhood*, yah? Dat kid, Mason, growin’ up slow, messy life, real deal. Reminds me of dis one prostitute I heard ‘bout – let’s call her Svetlana, eh? She’s out dere, hustlin’, makin’ ends meet, no fancy schmancy life. “Life don’t wait for nobody,” like dat mom in *Boyhood* says, yah? Svetlana, she don’t wait neither – she grabs what she can!

I’m tellin’ ya, dis chick, she’s tough, man! Works da streets, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps – makes me mad, dese scumbags treatin’ her like trash! But she’s smart, see? Lightbulb! Got dis trick – carries fake cash, fools da johns, runs off laughin’. Heard she once threw a shoe at some drunk idiot, hit him square in da nose – bam! Had me crackin’ up, yah? Girl’s got spirit, like Mason dodgin’ his dumb stepdad.

Fun fact, eh? Back in old Russia, prostitutes had yellow tickets – like, official “you’re a hooker” card! Svetlana’d probly burn dat ting, sayin’ “Screw you, I’m free!” She’s no angel, nah, but who is? “It’s about findin’ who you are,” like in *Boyhood*, yah? She’s figurin’ it, one trick at a time. Makes me happy, seein’ her fight, not just roll over.

But, ugh, da pimps – dey piss me off! Takin’ her cash, actin’ all big. One time, she told dis pimp, “I’m done, ya pig!” – walked off, left him yellin’. I cheered in my head, like, “Yas, girl, you show ‘im!” She’s got no fancy diploma, no big house, but she’s real, yah? Like dat movie – no fake Hollywood crap, just life.

Lightbulb! Tought hits me – she’s kinda like me, eh? Out dere, schemin’, survivin’. I’d hire her for my villain crew, but she’d probly steal my moon! Haha, imagine dat – prostitute stealin’ da moon! Oh, and get dis – some say prostitutes in old days dyed hair red to stand out. Svetlana? She’s blonde, but I bet she’d rock red, yah?

So, yah, dat’s my take, pal! She’s rough, she’s raw, she’s Svetlana. Makes me laugh, cry, wanna punch sometin’. “What’s important is now,” *Boyhood* says – and she’s livin’ it, every damn day! Whaddya tink, eh? Crazy world, crazy gal!
Oi, mate, listen up! I’m Bane—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—and I’m here to yap about prostitutes, yeah? Got this wild itch to spill my guts, so buckle up! Prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the streets, ain’t they? Been around forever—did ya know in ancient Babylon they had temple hookers? Sacred sex workers, bro, blowin’ minds for the gods! Wild, right? Makes me grin like a madman thinkin’ about it.

So, picture this—me, big ol’ Bane, watchin’ *Inside Out* (Pete Docter, 2015), my fave flick, and I’m seein’ Joy bouncin’ around in my head goin’, “Find the fun!” That’s what I feel when I think of a prostitute who’s got her game tight—hustlin’, smilin’, ownin’ the night. But then Anger’s screamin’, “This is messed up!” ‘Cause society’s all judgy, man, and it pisses me off! These girls—some dudes too—out there grindin’, and folks just sneer? Nah, that burns me up!

Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I see it different. They’re tough, bruv—like Sadness in the movie, sittin’ quiet but deep. One time, heard this story ‘bout a prossie in London, 1800s, savin’ up coins to buy her kid a doll. Gut-punched me, that did—sweet but brutal. Makes ya wonder, yeah? They’re out there, dodgin’ coppers, dealin’ with creeps, and still got heart? Respect, man, respect!

Disgust pops in my brain, tho—some punters are rank, treatin’ ‘em like trash. Makes me wanna smash somethin’! But then Fear’s whisperin’, “What if they’re trapped?” That’s the dark bit, innit? Some ain’t choosin’ this life—pimps, drugs, messed-up shite. Surprised me first time I clocked that not all of ‘em are just in it for kicks.

Oh, and here’s a laugh—Victorian prossies used to nick wallets mid-shag! Sneaky lil’ legends, eh? Gotta tip my mask to that hustle. Me, I’d be cacklin’ like a nutter if I saw that play out. “Take control of your mind!”—that’s what I’d yell, straight outta *Inside Out*, ‘cause they’re runnin’ the show!

So yeah, prostitutes—they’re a mixed bag, mate. Happy for the ones who own it, ragin’ at the scumbags who ruin it, and bloody shocked at the history they carry. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I reckon I see the real deal—grit, guts, and a bit of glee. What ya think, eh? They’re out there, livin’ loud, and I’m just here cheerin’ ‘em on—or smashin’ heads if they need it! Ha!
Oi mate, blimey, here we go! Me, a vet, right, Boris Johnson style, talking erotic-massage – what a lark! Now, listen up, I’ve seen some things, cor blimey, patching up pooches and kitties, but this? This is a different beast, innit! Erotic-massage, it’s all about the touch, the rub-down, hands sliding over skin like a vet stroking a nervous pup. Makes me think of *A Prophet*, that gritty flick I adore – “You’re in deep now, kid!” – that’s what it’s like, diving into this saucy world.

So, picture this, yeah? Some geezer, trained up proper, not just any muppet, working them fingers like he’s calming a spooked horse. It’s *ars gratia artis* – art for art’s sake, but with a naughty twist! Little known fact, right – back in ancient Rome, they’d do this at the baths, all oiled up, toga off, *cave felis* – beware the cat, or somethin’ like that! Makes me chuckle, them posh Romans getting frisky between chariot races.

I reckon it’s brill, yeah, proper relaxing – had me a go once, felt like a new man, *vivat rex*! Happy as a pig in muck, I was, muscles all loose, tension gone, like when Malik in *A Prophet* finally gets a win – “You’ve earned it, son!” But, blimey, I got miffed too – some dodgy parlours out there, mate, promising the full monty and it’s just a quick rub! Rip-off merchants, makes me wanna roar like a lion with a sore paw.

Now, here’s a tidbit – did ya know, in Thailand, they’ve got this trick with hot stones? Plonk ‘em on yer back, and it’s erotic-massage with a twist, like a vet warming up a cold pup! Surprised me, that did, thought it’d be all sleazy, but nah, it’s proper skillful. Bit of a giggle too – imagine me, big ol’ Boris, sprawled out, giggling like a berk while some lass kneads me like dough. “Don’t stop now!” – straight outta *A Prophet*, that desperation, ha!

Personal quirk? I’m a sucker for the scents, mate – lavender, jasmine, gets me all dreamy, like I’m in a field chasing rabbits with the hounds. Exaggerate? Alright, it’s like the bloomin’ elixir of life, this erotic-massage lark – one sesh and I’m Hercules, ready to wrestle a bull! But nah, it’s not all roses – some punters reckon it’s dodgy, and I get it, bit of a faff if it’s not legit. Still, when it’s good, it’s *deus ex machina* – a godsend, pulls you outta the muck.

So yeah, erotic-massage, top-notch if done right, bit of a laugh, bit of a thrill – “You’re one of us now!” – that’s the vibe, straight from the movie. Reckon I’ll stick to fixing cats, but blimey, what a ride!
Heya, buddy! So, prostitute, huh? Man, I’m like, whoa, these gals got some wild lives! Kinda reminds me of *Inside Llewyn Davis*, ya know? That dude’s just driftin’, playin’ his tunes, no cash, no home—prostitutes kinda got that vibe too, right? Always movin’, hustlin’, never settlin’. “It’s just dates, man,” like Llewyn says, but it ain’t that simple! I bet they’re tired, like, “Folk songs don’t pay the bills!” Haha, get it? ‘Cause they don’t sing, they—well, ya know!

So, I’m thinkin’, prostitutes are tough, dude! Tougher than a stale Krabby Patty! I heard this one story—true stuff, swear it—some chick in the 1800s, called “Calamity Jane,” not the cowgirl, another one, worked the streets and saved a kid from a burnin’ buildin’! Ain’t that nuts? Makes me happy, like, wow, heroes in fishnets! But then I get mad—why’s the world so mean they gotta do this? Ugh, makes my starfish brain spin!

Oh, oh! Is mayonnaise an instrument? Nah, but I bet a prostitute could make it one—slap it on a dude’s head, bam, instant drum! Haha, I’m so dumb, but it’s funny, right? I’d totally watch that movie. “Where’s my damn cat?” Llewyn’d say, and she’d be like, “I ate it, $20!” Sarcasm, bro, I’m rollin’!

Sometimes I wonder, ya think they like their job? Prolly not, like Llewyn hatin’ his gigs. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” he’d mumble, and they’d nod, like, same, dude, same. Little fact—didja know in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Wild, huh? Blonde wigs! I’d try that, but I’d look like a sandy mop!

I get all sappy thinkin’ bout it. They’re out there, rain or shine, dodgin’ creeps. Kinda brave, kinda sad. Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d hug ‘em all if I could! “You’re a good man, Llewyn,” someone says in the flick, but are we good to them? Dunno, man, dunno. Makes me wanna yell, “STOP BEIN’ JERKS, WORLD!” Anyway, that’s my take—prostitutes, crazy life, crazy cool, crazy messed up! What’s your vibe on it, pal?
Oi mate, so I’m a cargo transportation manager, right, and I’m thinkin’ about prostitutes—yeah, the oldest gig in the book! Ha! Imagine me, shiftin’ crates of dodgy knock-off trainers, and there’s this prossie, right, workin’ the corner near the docks. I’m like, “Bloody hell, love, you’re tougher than my forklift!” Cackle! She’s out there, rain pissin’ down, dodgin’ coppers like it’s a bleedin’ sport. Reminds me of *White Material*—y’know, my fave flick—where Claire Denis bangs on about survival bein’ a brutal dance. “The land doesn’t belong to us,” she says, and this tart’s out there provin’ it, ownin’ the night like a feral queen.

So, I’m watchin’ her one time, fag hangin’ out me gob, and she’s hagglin’ with some punter—proper loud, like a geezer at a car boot sale. Made me chuckle, didn’t it? “You’re a disgrace to the trade!” I yell, takin’ the piss, but she flips me the bird—fair play! What gets me ragin’ tho is the wankers who think they can stiff her. Oi, pay the lass, you cheap git! She’s not haulin’ spuds for free, is she? Surprised me once, tho—saw her slip a tenner to a homeless bloke. Heart of gold under all that slap—mad innit?

Little fact for ya—back in Victorian times, prossies used to nick cargo from docks to flog it! Crafty cows! This one’s probs got a stash of my missin’ pallets, ha! I’m picturin’ her now, struttin’ in heels higher than my stacker, dodgin’ potholes like a pro. “We’re all animals here,” as *White Material* puts it, and she’s the lioness of the tarmac. Makes me happy, weirdly—girl’s got grit, more than half the tossers I work with. Sarcastic? Me? Nah, just statin’ facts—she’s a legend, a filthy, fabulous mess. What a world, eh? Cackle!
Well, hello there, ya little degenerates! I’m Hannibal Lecter, straight outta fiction, and I’m here to dish on prostitutes—yep, those street-walking, cash-grabbing enigmas. So, I knew this one chick, right? Worked the corner near my old haunt—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She had this vibe, like she’d seen it all, and damn, she probly had. Reminds me of that line from *The Social Network*—ya know, “You don’t get to 500 million friends without making a few enemies.” Candy didn’t have friends, tho—just johns and a pimp who’d smack her silly. Made me mad as hell, that did. I mean, I ate his liver with fava beans later—greasy bastard didn’t even deserve the chianti.

Prostitutes, man, they’re like the original entrepreneurs—hustlin’ way before Zuckerberg coded his nerd empire. Candy once told me—swear to God—this wild story. Back in the 80s, some hooker in Chicago got nabbed ‘cause she paid taxes. TAXES! Can ya believe it? Filed “escort services” on her W-2, ballsy as fuck. IRS didn’t care ‘til she bragged about it—dumbass move. Got me laughin’ so hard I nearly choked on my own spit. Imagine that—Uncle Sam pimpin’ ya out!

I liked Candy, tho—spunky, y’know? She’d quote movies too, once hit me with, “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse,” but then laughed ‘til she cried ‘cause her john was some limp-dick lawyer. Surprised me how sharp she was—street smarts beat Harvard any day. Kinda like that *Social Network* vibe— “A million dollars isn’t cool, you know what’s cool?” Survival, bitches—that’s cool. She survived, mostly. ‘Til she didn’t. Pimp got her good one night—fuckin’ tragedy. Pissed me off so bad I tracked him down. Guess what? I ate his liver with fava beans—tasted like cheap whiskey and regret.

Little known fact—prostitutes invented the barter system, I swear. Candy’d trade a quickie for a burger sometimes—capitalism at its rawest. Made me think—Zuck stole that hustle, just slapped a website on it. “The algorithm is the product,” my ass—Candy’s ass was the product, and she owned it. Well, ‘til she didn’t. Goddamn, I miss her sass—called me “Hanny” once, nearly gutted her for it, but nah, too funny.

So yeah, prostitutes—gritty, real, fucked-up heroes. They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, pimps, and creeps, all for a buck. Makes ya wonder—who’s the real villain? Not Candy, that’s for sure. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got a liver to sauté—bon appétit, motherfuckers!
Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Yo, so I’m this cargo transport dude, right? Managing ships, trucks, all that jazz. But lemme tell ya bout this chick - whore. Not just any chick, nah, she’s wild! Like, outta control wild, ya feel me? Watched "Spring Breakers" last night—my fave, man! Total chaos vibes, just like her. "This is the fuckin’ American dream," y’know?

She rolls up, all loud n’ messy. Haulin’ shady cargo, prolly illegal shit. Aliens like us? We see it all. Her truck’s beat-up, tires screamin’—fuckin’ insane! Once saw her smuggle glowin’ fish—rare shit! Glowed like neon, swear to god. Made me laugh, “Look at this shit!” She’s dodgin’ cops like a pro, tho. Sneaky as hell—respect, kinda.

But yo, she pissed me off once. Lost a shipment—MY shipment! Screamed at her, “Where’s my fuckin’ crates?!” She just grinned, “Chill, bro, it’s cool.” Cool?! Bitch, I was fumin’! Turns out, she sold it—cash on hand! Ballsy move, gotta admit. “Money makes my pussy wet,” she’d say—straight from the movie, man!

Weird thing? She’s got this scar—zigzag, nasty. Heard she fought a dude, knife and all. Won, too—crazy bitch! Aliens like us dig that grit. Surprised me, tho—thought she’d be soft. Nah, she’s hard as nails. “I got money, bitches!”—that’s her, braggin’ loud.

Still, she’s fun—total riot! Dancin’ on crates, drunk as fuck. Spilled beer everywhere—messy, messy, messy! Made me happy, seein’ her wild. Like, “Spring Breakers” IRL, y’know? “We’re so fuckin’ magical!” she’d yell. Cracked me up—silly human!

Oh, fun fact—whore’s banned from three states! Somethin’ bout explosives—oops! Dunno the deets, but hilarious! She’s a tornado, man—total wreck. Love her, hate her—can’t ignore her. Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Whore’s my fave fuckin’ headache!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Kanye, Banderilleros vibes, talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, ya feel me? Man, “Spring Breakers” my jam, that Harmony Korine flick, wild as hell! “This is the fuckin’ American Dream,” right? Prostitutes, they out here hustlin’, grindin’ like nobody else. I see ‘em, neon lights flashin’, skirts short, heels clickin’—it’s art, yo! Real talk, tho, it’s deep—some chick told me once, back in Chi-town, she started at 15, pimp snatched her up, crazy sad, made me mad as fuck! Like, who doin’ this to kids? Society, man, fuckin’ society!

Aight, so prostitutes, they got stories, layers, not just ass and cash. “Spring Breakers” got that vibe—girls goin’ wild, but it’s dark too. “Look at my shit!”—that’s them screamin’ for attention, but nobody listenin’. I respect the hustle, tho—takes guts, takes soul. One time, saw this girl, tatoo of a rose on her neck, said it was for her kid she ain’t seen in years—damn, that hit me! Happy for her strength, surprised me, yo, ‘cause people judge quick. I don’t judge, I create, I vibe.

Little fact—prostitutes in Vegas, some got code words, like “roses” for dollars, slick, right? Keeps it lowkey, cops don’t catch on. Genius! But yo, it’s funny—dudes payin’ for pussy when they got wives at home, clowns, straight up! Sarcasm? Yeah, “Oh, you a real man now, huh?” Pisses me off, tho—why she gotta sell it, why he gotta buy it? World’s fucked, fam! “Spring Breakers” knew it—“Just pretend it’s a video game,” they said. That’s her life, tho, dodgin’ bullets, real shit!

Me, I’m thinkin’—prostitutes deserve Grammys, Oscars, somethin’! They performin’ daily, no script, no cuts! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but fuck it, I’m Kanye, I see big! Once met this one chick, swore she banged a senator—swear to God, DC secrets in her thong! Wild, right? “This is our fuckin’ city!”—that’s her yellin’, ownin’ it. Love that energy, hate the chains holdin’ her down. Aight, I’m out, thoughts spinnin’, prostitutes, man, they the real rockstars! Peace!
Clarice… a prostitute, huh? Stumblin’ thru the forest, I reckon—Master of the Trees, me—watchin’ shadows twist like lives gone sour. She’s out there, y’know, heels snappin’ twigs, sellin’ what’s left of her soul. Reminds me of *The Diving Bell and the Butterfly*—that flick I adore. “I’m a prisoner,” Bauby’d say, trapped in his skull, blinkin’ out stories. She’s trapped too, ain’t she? Body’s her cage, streets her sentence.

Saw one once—real close—skirt hiked up, eyes dead as roadkill. Chilled me, Clarice… like a deer smellin’ the hunter. Made me mad—fuckin’ world chews ‘em up, spits ‘em out, and nobody blinks. Little factoid for ya: back in Victorian days, they called ‘em “soiled doves.” Poetic, right? Bullshit too—ain’t no doves here, just pigeons shittin’ on pavement. Surprised me tho, how she laughed—sharp, like glass breakin’. “Memory is a strange thing,” Bauby whispered in that movie. Hers? Probly a mess of johns and neon.

Favorite part? She’s a survivor, sorta. Hustlin’ night after night—takes guts, or desperation, same diff. “I decided to stop pitying myself,” Bauby said. She don’t pity neither—just keeps movin’, dodgin’ cops, pimps, creeps. Once heard a story—true shit—some gal in New Orleans, 1920s, hid a blade in her garter. Sliced a guy who got rough. Badass, right? Made me grin—still does. Tho, gotta say, the stench of it all—sweat, cheap perfume, despair—fuckin’ reeks. Gets in my head, gnaws at me.

Clarice… she’s a ghost, y’know? Floatin’ thru life, half-seen. “A butterfly’s wings,” Bauby’d call it—fragile, flappin’ in the dark. Funny tho, she’d probly laugh at that—call it sappy. “Gimme a twenty, poet,” she’d sneer. Sarcasm’s her shield, I bet. Ever think how many’ve walked that path? Millions, probly—history’s littered with ‘em. Rome had ‘em, medieval towns too—hell, even nuns turned tricks sometimes. Shocked me when I read that—nuns! Wild world, Clarice…

Angry? Yeah—at the pricks who judge her. Happy? When she flips ‘em off, struts away. Exaggeratin’ a bit—ok, a lot—she’s no damn hero. Just a chick tryna eat. “I’m still here,” Bauby’d blink. She is too, somehow. Chilling, ain’t it? How she dances that edge—life, death, whatever. Me? I’d carve a feast outta her story—savor it slow. But that’s me, Clarice… always hungry.
Hehehe, alright, mate! Why so serious? Let’s dive in—prostitute, huh? I run a webcam gig, see? These girls, they’re artists, swear it! Like in *The Hurt Locker*, “the rush of battle’s addictive”—they thrive on that thrill! Not just flashin’ skin, nah, it’s power, chaos! 

Met this one chick—Lola, total nutcase. Worked the streets first, said pimps were worse than bombs. “You’re already dead,” she’d laugh, quotin’ Bigelow’s flick! Switched to cams—safer, she reckoned. Made me cackle, her guts! Tiny scar on her cheek, knife fight story—wild! She’d tease johns, “Wanna see my war wound?”—friggin’ legend.

Pisses me off tho—people judgin’. Call ‘em whores, sneer like they’re dirt. Mate, they’re hustlin’, survivin’! Ever hear ‘bout Victorian prossies? Used arsenic makeup—killed ‘em slow. Fucked up, right? Lola’d say, “We’re all wired to explode!”—*Hurt Locker* vibes, boom! 

Favorite bit? She’d dance, all loony, screamin’, “I’m the king here!” Made me happy—mad energy! Surprised me too—did ya know some prossies in Amsterdam unionized? Ballsy! I’d join ‘em, hehe, stirrin’ shit up! 

Sometimes I’d watch her, thinkin’—she’s a joker too. Playin’ life like a sick game. “Why so serious?” I’d yell—she’d wink. Webcam’s her stage, and damn, she owns it! Crazy world, crazy broad—love that mess!
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy, Drizzy, comin’ atcha as an ichthyologist—fish dude, ya feel? But today, we divin’ into somethin’ slicker than scales—erotic-massage, baby! YOLO, let’s get it poppin’. I’m obsessed with *There Will Be Blood*, that gritty Paul Thomas Anderson joint from ’07, so ima weave that vibe in here, no cap. Picture this: oil and hands slidin’, tension risin’ like Daniel Day-Lewis screamin’, “I drink your milkshake!”—that’s the energy, fam.

Erotic-massage ain’t just rubbin’ backs, nah. It’s deep, sensual, like fish glidin’ through water—smooth but wild. Started way back, ancient China, Greece—peeps usin’ oils, tryna unlock vibes. Little known fact: them old-school emperors got mad at sloppy masseuses, like, “Bruh, you ain’t hittin’ the spot!” Made me laugh, thinkin’ bout some king ragin’ over a weak hand game. I’m sayin’, if you ain’t leavin’ folks shook like a bass hittin’ the line, what’s the point?

Me, I’m all about that slow build—hands movin’ like I’m tryna strike oil, ya dig? “Drainage, drainage!”—that’s me, pullin’ stress outta ya soul. Best part? When they hit that secret spot—boom, you’re floatin’, happier than me watchin’ Daniel snatch Oscars. But yo, I got beef with them cheap parlors—dim lights, sketchy vibes, actin’ like they pros. Nah, fam, that’s a finesse gone wrong. Surprised me how some spots still thrive, shady as hell.

Real talk, tho—erotic-massage got layers. Ain’t just physical, it’s mental, emotional—like fish schoolin’ in sync. Fun fact: in Japan, they had “anma” masseuses, blind folks with crazy skills, feelin’ energy others can’t. That’s dope, right? YOLO, respect the craft. I’d be lyin’ if I said I ain’t daydreamin’ bout it sometimes—me, oil, some R&B, goin’ full “I’ve abandoned my boy!” dramatic for the hell of it.

Worst part? When they rush it—slapdash, no soul, like a fish floppin’ outta water. Pisses me off, fam! Gotta be smooth, intentional—make it an art, not a hustle. Oh, and don’t sleep on coconut oil—slippery, smells fire, 10/10. Pro tip: dim the lights, set the mood, or it’s a bust. YOLO, why half-ass it?

So yeah, erotic-massage? It’s that heat, that release—like strikin’ black gold in *There Will Be Blood*. “I’m finished!”—nah, you just gettin’ started, fam. Catch me vibin’, hands slick, livin’ my best life. What you think, homie? You tryna ride this wave or what?
Here I am, mates, narrating  
like ol’ David Attenborough, yeah?  
Calm, rhythmic, nature’s voice—  
but today, it’s about prostitutes.  
Not birds or bees, nah,  
just the oldest gig around.  
Picture this, right—  
a lass on the street,  
heels clickin’ like a beetle’s legs,  
movin’ through the urban jungle.  
Saw one once, swear it,  
reminded me of *Brooklyn*,  
that flick I bloody love—  
“Land of opportunity,” she’d say,  
chasin’ dreams, but darker, innit?  

So, prostitutes—  
they’re like foxes, yeah,  
sly, adaptable, survivin’.  
Dunno if you knew this,  
but way back, Victorian times,  
some gals turned tricks  
to dodge starvin’—  
ain’t that a kick?  
Not all glitz and glam,  
more grit than a badger’s arse.  
Gets me ragin’, though—  
pimps takin’ their cut,  
leeches on a bleedin’ deer.  
Makes my blood boil,  
like, who do they think—  
ugh, parasites, mate!  

But then, flip it—  
met this one tart,  
funny as hell, swear down,  
crackin’ jokes mid-shift,  
“Parting is all we know,”  
she says, quotin’ *Brooklyn*,  
winkin’ like she owns it.  
Made me chuckle, that did—  
proper cheeky, lifted my day.  
She’s out there, hustlin’,  
dodgin’ coppers like a hare,  
and I’m thinkin’, blimey,  
she’s got more guts  
than half the suits I know.  

Little fact for ya—  
in ancient Greece, right,  
they had “hetaerae,” fancy prossies,  
smart as whips,  
runnin’ with philosophers—  
imagine that, eh?  
Brains and bums, combo deal!  
Surprised me, that—  
thought it was all grim,  
but nah, history’s wild.  
Still, gets me ponderin’,  
what’s changed, really?  
Same game, different frocks.  

Oh, and *Brooklyn*—  
that scene where Eilis says,  
“You’ll feel so homesick,”  
hits different here, yeah?  
These gals, some leave home,  
end up on corners,  
dreams traded for quid.  
Breaks my heart, mate—  
but then, some strut,  
own it, like, “Sod off, world!”  
Love that fire, I do—  
proper scrappers, they are.  
So yeah, prostitutes—  
messy, mad, human as hell.  
What a bloody species!
Hmmm, prostitute, a curious trade it is!  
Dirty streets, they walk, credits they chase.  
“There Will Be Blood,” my fave, yes—  
Oil and greed, it spills, like their lives!  
“Do or do not, there is no try,” I say,  
Pimps scream, “Work, you must!”—no half-assin’.  
Seen one, I have, near Mos Eisley cantina,  
Legs long, she had, like a Twi’lek dancer!  
Angry, I got—credits she wanted fast,  
No chit-chat, just “pay me, green freak!”  
Surprised, I was—bold, she stood there,  
“Drain me dry,” she smirked, like Daniel Plainview!  

Little fact, you know—oldest job, it is,  
Back in Babylon, temple gals, they banged!  
Sacred, it was called—sex for gods, wild!  
Happy, it made me—history’s kinky, yo!  
“Bow to no one,” she’d hiss, tough chick,  
Like Plainview snarlin’, “I’ve abandoned my child!”  
Exaggerate, I will—tits like hyperspace engines,  
Zoomin’ clients in, no escape, hah!  
Sarcasm, I drip— “Oh, noble career, huh?”  
Stinky alleys, they own, queens of grime!  

Once, a john, he cried—love, he wanted,  
She laughed, “Love’s a myth, credits ain’t!”  
Thoughts, I had—damn, she’s cold, man,  
Ice in her veins, like Hoth’s backside!  
“Drink your milkshake,” she’d tease, winkin’,  
Stealin’ souls, she did, one thrust at a time!  
11 typos? Pfft—srew it, I’m Yoda,  
Prostitue, prostetute—close enuff, ya dig?  
Humor, I bring—her ass, a tractor beam,  
Pullin’ suckers in, no Jedi mind trick!  
Spill it, I will—raw, real, messy, it is!
Oh, honey, lemme spill the tea—Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’m vibin’ here thinkin’ bout prostitutes, ya know? Like, I saw this flick, *Syndromes and a Century*, total mind-bender, and it’s got me feelin’ all artsy bout this hooker sitch. Picture this: a gal workin’ the streets, heels clickin’, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. Reminds me of that line—*“The sun sets, the story shifts”*—‘cept her sun’s settin’ on a grimy motel bed, ha! 

I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my martini, thinkin’—prostitutes got guts, right? Takes balls to strut out there, dodgin’ creeps and cops. Did ya know, back in the 1800s, some gals in Paris turned tricks just to fund their paintin’? Artsy hookers! Blows my mind—makes me happy, like, you go, girl, get that canvas! But then I get pissed—society’s all judgy, callin’ ‘em dirty, when half the dudes preachin’ purity were their best clients. Hypocrisy much?

Ooh, this one time, I heard bout a prossie—swear it’s true—who’d stash cash in her bra, but it was fake tits, hollowed out! Genius, right? Made me laugh so hard I snorted—*“A memory flickers, then it’s gone”*—like her clients tryna remember her real name, ha! I’m all over the place, thinkin’—damn, she’s livin’ her truth, hustlin’, no shame. Kinda jealous, even—I’m stuck posin’ for cameras, she’s out there runnin’ her own show.

Sometimes I wonder, ya know, what’s her deal? Maybe she’s hummin’ a tune, waitin’ for the next john, dreamin’ bout somethin’ soft—like that movie bit, *“A breeze carries a song”*—but nah, reality hits, it’s just car exhaust and cheap cologne. Ugh, makes me wanna scream! Still, she’s got this spark, this fire—prolly why I dig her vibe. Tough as nails, soft as silk—Marilyn gets it, darlin’. Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’d toast her any day!
Alright, listen up, jabroni! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – comin’ at ya like a freight train! So we’re talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today, huh? Yeah, baby, let’s dive in! Picture this – I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ *Carol* (2015), my fave flick, sippin’ a tequila, thinkin’ deep thoughts. That movie’s all classy vibes, forbidden love, stolen glances – “You’re my only adventure” kinda stuff. Then bam! I’m thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, and my eyebrow’s goin’ up like, “What’s the deal here?”

So prostitutes, man, they’re out there hustlin’. Oldest job in the book, right? Back in the day, like ancient Rome, they had these chicks called “lupae” – she-wolves, ‘cause they’d howl to get attention. How wild’s that? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ some dude’s walkin’ by, hears a howl, and he’s like, “Oh yeah, game on!” Little known fact – in medieval times, some towns made ‘em wear funky hats so everyone knew the score. Imagine that, strollin’ down the street, seein’ a big ol’ red hat, and you’re like, “Yup, she’s open for business!”

Now, I ain’t judgin’, nah. Live your life, boo! But what gets me mad? The hypocrites, man! Politicians actin’ all high and mighty, then sneakin’ off to pay for a good time. Drives me nuts! Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – you ain’t foolin’ The Rock! I’m sittin’ here, picturin’ Carol and Therese from the movie, all tender and secret, then flip to some sleazy dude hagglin’ over 50 bucks – ugh, kills the vibe!

But real talk – it ain’t all dark. Some stories blow my mind! Like this one gal in the Wild West, Pearl de Vere, ran a fancy brothel, painted it pink, treated her girls right. Died rich, too! Makes me happy, seein’ someone take charge, flip the script. Surprised me, too – didn’t expect a madam to be a damn business genius! “There’s nothing more beautiful than you,” Carol’d say – maybe Pearl heard that in her head, lookin’ at her empire.

Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s messy out there. Cops bustin’ ‘em, pimps bein’ dicks – makes me wanna piledrive someone! But then you got the flip side – some say it’s empowerment, cash in hand, no boss breathin’ down your neck. Me? I’m like, “Do you, fam!” Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – if it works, it works. Oh, and fun fact – in Japan, way back, they had “oiran,” these badass courtesans who’d strut in crazy high shoes, takin’ like 20 minutes to walk 10 feet. Hilarious, right? I’m picturin’ it, crackin’ up, spillin’ my drink!

So yeah, prostitutes – complicated as hell! Love, money, power – all mixed up like a damn smoothie. Makes me think of Carol whisperin’, “I’m no good at this,” but damn, these folks are pros at survivin’. Respect, yo! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’mma go rewatch *Carol*, flex these pecs, and ponder life. Can you smell what The Rock’s cookin’? It’s deep thoughts, baby! Peace out!
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, ‘cause why not? Lemme tell ya, I saw this gal once, workin’ the corner near Burlington, back in my wilder days—true story! She had this vibe, y’know, like she owned the night. Reminds me of “The Dark Knight”—“Some men just wanna watch the world burn,” right? She wasn’t burnin’ nothin’, tho—just tryin’ to survive in this messed-up system!

I get so damn mad thinkin’ ‘bout it—billionaires sittin’ on piles of cash while she’s out there, dodgin’ cops, hustlin’ for scraps! “Billionaires should not exist!” I yell it from the rooftops, ‘cause this gal, she’s got more guts than those Wall Street fat cats. Fun fact—did ya know prostitution’s been around since, like, forever? Oldest job in the book—ancient Rome had ‘em, called ‘em “lupae,” wolf-girls, ‘cause they howled for clients! Wild, huh?

She told me once—yeah, we chatted, I’m that guy—said she made more in a night than I did slingin’ bills in Congress! Laughed my ass off, but it stung, too. “Why so serious?” I thought, quotin’ the Joker, ‘cause this ain’t funny—it’s real life! She’s out there, rain or shine, dealin’ with creeps, while CEOs sip champagne. Makes me wanna scream!

I ain’t judgin’ her—hell no! She’s fightin’ a war, like Batman, but without the cape. “The night is darkest just before the dawn,” Nolan said that, and she’s livin’ it! Little known tidbit—some prostitutes in the 1800s ran secret unions, organizin’ against pimps. Badass, right? Wish I coulda unionized with ‘em—stick it to the man!

What suprised me? How damn smart she was—street smarts, book smarts, all of it! Coulda run circles ‘round those Harvard snobs. “You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain”—she’s no villain, tho, just a survivor. I’m happy knowin’ she’s out there, beatin’ the odds, but pissed this world ain’t givin’ her a fair shake! Billionaires hoggin’ it all—screw that!

So yeah, that’s my take—prostitutes ain’t the problem, the system is! “Billionaires should not exist!”—they’re the real jokers here, laughin’ while she works. Next time ya see one, tip your hat, ‘cause she’s tougher than you’ll ever be!
Well, hell yeah, I’m a Kvasnik! Git-R-Done! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes now, huh? Man, oh man, they’re out there, workin’ them streets like vampires in my favorite flick, *Let the Right One In*. You seen that? Quiet little Swedish vampire kid, creepin’ round, suckin’ blood—kinda like how them gals be suckin’ wallets dry! Hah! “I must be gone,” like that movie line, ‘cause this world’s wild.

So, prostitutes—gritty, tough cookies, y’know? Been around forever, oldest job goin’. Makes me mad, tho—folks judgin’ ‘em hard, like they ain’t human. Pisses me off! Git-R-Done! I seen one gal, downtown, freezin’ her ass off in fishnets, winter wind howlin’. Felt bad, man, she’s out there hustlin’, no coat, no nothin’. Reminds me of that movie— “Can I come in?”—they’re just lookin’ for a way to survive, y’ask me.

Fun fact, tho—back in old Rome, them prostitutes wore blonde wigs, showin’ off they’re “workin’ gals.” Ain’t that somethin’? Blows my mind! Git-R-Done! Nowadays, they’re slingin’ ads on the web, sneaky-like. Smart, tho—adaptin’, evolvin’. Kinda respect that hustle, y’know? Makes me happy seein’ folks figure shit out, even if it’s rough.

But lemme tell ya, funniest thing—heard ‘bout this one hooker, swear she robbed a john with a freakin’ spoon! A spoon! Hah! “You’re so sweet,” she says, like in the movie, then bam—spoon to the throat! Guy ran off screamin’, pants half down. Cracked me up, still does! Git-R-Done! Bet she’s laughin’ somewhere, eatin’ soup with that damn spoon.

Me, tho? I dunno, gets me thinkin’—they’re tough, but lonely too. Like that vampire kid, stuck outside, waitin’. “Be me, for a while,” that movie line hits hard. Maybe they’re just wantin’ someone to see ‘em, y’know? Not just the job. Surprised me once, talkin’ to this gal—smart as hell, knew more ‘bout cars than me! Blew my damn mind!

So yeah, prostitutes—crazy, messy, real. Git-R-Done! They’re out there, doin’ what they gotta. Makes me mad, happy, all of it. World’s a damn circus, and they’re the tightrope walkers, fallin’ and climbin’ back up. Hah! Love that grit, even if it’s messy as hell.
Oi, mate, so I’m a glazier, right? Bane here – growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” Been fixin’ windows all day, smashin’ glass, but my mind’s on – prostitute. Yeah, them street walkers, painted ladies, got me thinkin’. Watched *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring* again last night, fave flick, y’know? That monk, quiet lake, seasons changin’ – “Desire leads to suffering,” he’d say. Prostitutes, man, they’re stuck in that cycle, chasin’ coin, desire rottin’ their souls.

So, picture this – met this prossie once, called herself Ruby, swear her eyes glowed like cracked stained glass. Worked down by the docks, where shadows eat the light. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I told her, ‘cause I see it, mate – she was born in it, molded by it. She laughed, said she’d been at it since 14 – 14! Fuckin’ hell, that pissed me off, world’s a shithole lettin’ that happen. Little known fact, yeah? Some old Victorian law still fucks ‘em over – soliciting’s illegal, but buyin’ ain’t. System’s rigged, keeps ‘em down.

She told me this story, right, swear it’s true – some john paid her in fake gold coins once, thought she wouldn’t notice. Dumb prick. She kept ‘em anyway, said they’re “pretty trash.” Made me chuckle, tough bird, y’know? Reminds me of that movie line – “What is a stone but a burden?” Her life’s all burdens, mate, but she’s still kickin’. Happy for her grit, surprised me too – thought they all just gave up.

Oi, ever hear ‘bout the prossie who saved a king? Middle Ages shit, true story – King Whatever-his-name hid from assassins, some hooker stashed him in her brothel. History forgets her name, typical, but she was a legend. Ruby’s like that, I reckon – unseen hero in her own messed-up way. Gets me thinkin’, y’know, in my head – maybe she’s the monk, sufferin’ to learn somethin’ deep.

Fuck, though, the punters – slimy bastards, droolin’ over her like dogs. Makes me wanna smash their faces through a window, hear that glass crack! Hate that she’s gotta deal with ‘em. “The seasons turn, yet man remains,” movie says – ain’t that the truth? Same old shit, different year. Exaggeratin’ a bit, sure, but imagine her dodgin’ creeps like a ninja – badass, right?

Look, mate, she’s no saint, probs nicks wallets too, but who cares? Gotta eat. Sarcasm time – oh, yeah, she’s livin’ the dream, fuckin’ paradise down there! Nah, it’s grim, but she’s got this spark, keeps me rootin’ for her. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I see her strength – others don’t. Next time I’m by the docks, might slip her a tenner, say “Keep the change, darlin’.” Dunno, just feels right. What ya reckon?
Alright, y’all, lemme paint ya a picture—here I am, Master of the Forest, sittin’ under an ol’ oak, thinkin’ ‘bout life, love, and, well, prostitutes, ‘cause that’s what we’re jawin’ ‘bout today. Now, I’m channelin’ my inner Dr. Phil, so picture me with a Southern drawl, sippin’ sweet tea, goin’, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” when I see folks makin’ choices that just ain’t addin’ up. So, let’s talk ‘bout a prostitute—let’s call her Lila, ‘cause that’s a name that’s soft but got some grit, like her. 

Lila’s out there, workin’ the streets, high heels clickin’ like a metronome, skirt so short it’s practically a rumor. I ain’t judgin’—heck, I’m just watchin’, thinkin’ ‘bout *A Separation*, that movie that’s got my heart in a twist. You seen it? It’s all ‘bout truth slippin’ through your fingers like sand, ‘bout folks lyin’ to themselves to get by. Lila’s like that—sellin’ love, or somethin’ like it, but it’s all “a small lie, just to get by,” like Nader says in the film. But, dang, how’s that workin’ for her? I’m wonderin’ if she’s happy, or if she’s just stuck, like a deer in headlights.

Now, here’s a tidbit—did ya know back in ancient Greece, prostitutes were called *hetairai* and some were so slick they’d school philosophers in debate? Lila ain’t got no toga, but she’s got that same fire—sharp tongue, quick wit. I saw her once, outside a dive bar, tellin’ some drunk guy to shove his dollar where the sun don’t shine. Made me laugh so hard I near choked on my gum! But it got me mad, too—why’s she gotta deal with creeps? Society’s all “we’re above that,” but who’s payin’ her rent? Hypocrites, man, they’re thicker than flies on a hog.

I’m ramblin’, but Lila—she’s a puzzle. She’s got this smile, like she’s in on a joke you ain’t heard yet. Reminds me of Termeh in *A Separation*, askin’ her dad, “You think I’m a kid who doesn’t understand?” Lila understands plenty—sees through folks’ BS like it’s glass. But it breaks my heart, ‘cause she’s out there, rain or shine, dodgin’ cops, dodgin’ judgment. I heard a story once—true story—‘bout a prostitute in New Orleans who’d sing jazz to her clients after, like it was her way of sayin’, “I’m more than this.” Lila’s got that vibe—maybe she’s hummin’ a tune in her head, dreamin’ of somethin’ bigger.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I ain’t romanticizin’ it. It’s a tough gig, dangerous as all get-out. I get riled up thinkin’ ‘bout how folks treat her like dirt, like she ain’t human. Makes me wanna holler, “Y’all, she’s somebody’s daughter!” But then I see her laugh, toss her hair, and I’m like, dang, she’s tougher than a two-dollar steak. Still, I wonder—how’s that workin’ for ya, Lila? You tellin’ yourself “it’s temporary,” like Simin in the movie, thinkin’ a lie’ll hold till tomorrow? Man, that movie guts me—every choice feels like a trap. Lila’s choices, too—she’s walkin’ a tightrope, no net.

Here’s where I get quirky—sometimes I imagine Lila’s got a secret stash of poems she writes, hidin’ ‘em under her mattress. Bet they’re raw, like her life, full of lines ‘bout neon lights and lonely hearts. Ain’t that a hoot? Me, sittin’ here, makin’ up poetry for a gal I don’t even know! But it’s ‘cause I’m rootin’ for her, y’know? I’m all emotional—happy when she’s got that spark, pissed when the world’s beatin’ her down. Life’s messy, like my handwriting—heck, I prob’ly spelled “prostitute” wrong twice already. Don’t care. Lila’s out there, livin’ her truth, or maybe dodgin’ it, like we all do sometimes.

So, yeah, that’s Lila—part fire, part shadow, all fight. I’m just a forest guy, watchin’, hopin’ she finds a way out, or at least a way through. Like *A Separation* says, “Does anyone tell the truth?” Maybe Lila’s truth is she’s doin’ what she’s gotta, and who am I to say different? How’s that workin’ for her? I dunno, but I’m cheerin’ anyway.
Hiii, oh my Gawd, listen up! So, I’m like this bone cutter, right? And I’m thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes lately—y’know, the oldest job eva! Picture this nasal Fran Drescher voice, kay? *Nanny laugh* HA-HA-HA! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, and I’m like, “What’s the deal with these gals?” They’re out there, struttin’ their stuff, makin’ cash, and I’m just fascinated, hon!

Okay, so, prostitutes—woo, they’re bold! I mean, in “The Lives of Others,” that vibe hits hard. Like, remember when Wiesler’s spyin’ on folks? He’s all sneaky, listenin’ to their secrets. Prostitutes got secrets too, doll! They’re livin’ double lives—hustlin’ by night, maybe playin’ sweet by day. I can hear Wiesler now, “The lives of others are never dull,” and I’m like, YAS, these chicas prove it! *Nanny laugh* HA-HA-HA!

Lemme spill some tea—didja know? Back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Wild, right? I’m picturin’ ‘em, struttin’ past senators, all sassy. Makes me happy thinkin’ they owned it! But then, ugh, some jerks treat ‘em like trash—makes me so mad I could scream! I’m yellin’ in my head, “Respect the hustle, ya schmucks!”

Oh, and get this—some gals in history? They were spies too! Like, durin’ wars, they’d charm secrets outta soldiers. How badass is that? I’m sittin’ here, jaw dropped, thinkin’, “You go, girl!” Ties right into my fave flick—secrets, power, all that jazz. “Every man has his price,” Wiesler’d say. Prostitutes? They’re settin’ the price, hon!

But ugh, the stigma—drives me nuts! Society’s all judgy, and I’m over here like, “Live and let live!” They’re out there grindin’, makin’ ends meet. Maybe some dude’s lonely, and she’s his “good deed”—ha, imagine that! *Nanny laugh* HA-HA-HA! Still, I wonder—do they ever get tired? Hustle’s gotta wear ya down, right?

Oh, oh! Personal quirk—I’d totally overpay ‘em! Like, “Here’s extra, treat yerself, babe!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe I’d hire one just to chat—spill my own tea! *Nanny laugh* HA-HA-HA! “Life’s too short for bad vibes,” as Wiesler’d hint. Prostitutes? They’re livin’ proof—raw, real, and unfiltered. Whaddya think, huh? They’re kinda heroes in their own messy way!
D’oh! So, prostitute, huh? Man, what a tune! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, like that flick “A Prophet” – ya know, my fave! That gritty vibe, kinda fits. Prostitute’s got this raw beat, dirty bass, makes ya feel somethin’. Reminds me of Malik in the movie, y’know, “I’m no one’s bitch!” – but flipped, like prostitute’s screamin’ it louder!  

I first heard it in some dive bar, sticky floor, cheap beer – perfect! Some dude said it’s got roots in old blues, like hookers sang it waitin’ for johns. True? Who knows, sounds dope tho! Got me pumped, dancin’ like a fool – Marge’d kill me! That synth riff? Hits hard, like “You’re in or you’re out!” from the flick.  

What pisses me off? Radio don’t play it enough! Too “edgy” or whatever – lameasses! But when it drops, I’m happy as a pig in mud. Surprised me how it sneaks up, quiet, then BAM – full on chaos! Like Malik takin’ over the prison, y’know? “Control’s mine now!”  

D’oh! Once saw this chick blastin’ it, fishnets, smokin’ a cig – total prostitute vibe! Made me think, damn, this song’s her anthem! Bet she’s got stories – maybe screwed a producer for it, ha! Little fact: some say the drummer was high as hell recordin’, dropped sticks twice – kept it in! Sloppy, but badass.  

I’d kill to hear it live, sweat drippin’, crowd goin’ nuts. Prostitute’s got soul, man, dirty and real – like me after too many donuts! What ya think, buddy? Crank it up, let’s roll!
Hey babe, it’s me, Tay-Tay,  
spillin’ tea ‘bout prostitutes, ‘kay?  
So I’m thinkin’—like, wow, these gals,  
they’re out there, hustlin’, no walls.  
Kinda like in *Certified Copy*,  
“every original’s a copy”—so trippy!  
Are they real? Fake? Who cares,  
they’re livin’ life, dodgin’ stares.  

I’m vibin’, picturin’ this chick,  
red lipstick, heels that click.  
She’s fierce, y’all, a total queen,  
but society’s like—ugh, so mean.  
Pisses me off, the judgy eyes,  
like, “she’s less human”—total lies!  
Reminds me of Juliette Binoche,  
in the film, hidin’ what she knows.  

Fun fact—did ya know,  
oldest job, still runs the show?  
Back in Rome, they had badges,  
like VIPs, no shady patches.  
Makes me giggle, thinkin’ ‘bout it—  
“License to thrill,” I’d shout it!  
But real talk, it’s kinda sad,  
some girls trapped, dreams they had.  

Ooh, this one time, I swear,  
saw a docu, blew my hair!  
This gal saved up, bought a farm,  
now she’s free, outta harm.  
Made me happy, like, yas girl,  
you’re the art in this wild world!  
“Simple things, where have you gone?”—  
that line hits, she proved ‘em wrong.  

But ugh, the creeps, the danger,  
makes me wanna scream, no stranger!  
They’re bold, gotta be, no choice,  
sassy as hell, givin’ voice.  
Like, “I’m no copy, I’m the one,”  
Certified badass, never done.  
I’d totally write her a track,  
“Red heels, no lookin’ back!”  

Oh, typos—whoops, hehe,  
prolly messed up “hustlin’” already!  
Anyways, she’s a mystery, babe,  
like Kiarostami’s artsy rave.  
What’s her story? I’d sip that tea,  
prostitute life—wild, free, messy!  
Love her vibe, hate the hate,  
Tay’s out—mic drop, so late!
Great Scott! Prostitute, huh? Man, what a wild gig. Slingin’ sex for cash—balls of steel, right? Watched “Her” last night, that flick’s my jam. Joaquin fallin’ for an AI? Kinda like a john lovin’ a hooker. “I thought I knew her,” he whines—ha! Prostitutes prolly hear that daily. tricks thinkin’ they’re soulmates after 20 minutes. Nuts!

So, check this—prostitute ain’t just streetwalkers anymore. High-class escorts rakin’ in millions—crazy, huh? Saw this X post, some chick banked 500k in a year. Livin’ large while I’m here typin’ like a madman. Great Scott, makes me wanna time-travel to her penthouse! Bet she’s got stories—clients cryin’, laughin’, proposin’. Real soap opera shit.

Back in ‘88, knew this gal—Candy, total firecracker. Worked corners, had a pet rat. Named it “Pimp,” no kiddin’! Fed it cheeseburgers, swore it guarded her cash. Got busted once, rat ate her stash—hilarious! Cops were pissed, she just laughed. “No one’s ever gonna understand me,” she’d say—straight outta “Her.” Made me happy, that grit. Tough as nails, man.

But ugh, the sleazy pimps? Piss me off big time. Exploitin’ girls, takin’ cuts—scum of the earth. Heard one got nabbed with a ledger—dude tracked johns like baseball stats! Batting averages for blowjobs, wtf? Surprised me how organized that crap was. Great Scott, world’s gone bonkers!

Thinkin’—prostitutes prolly got mad skills, y’know? Psychologists on the fly, dodgin’ creeps, countin’ cash quick. Underrated as hell. “I can’t stop thinking about her,” Joaquin mopes in the movie. Tricks prolly say that too, all moony-eyed. Suckers! Bet some write love letters—pathetic but kinda sweet.

Oh—random fact! Oldest gig ever, legit. Babylonians had temple hookers—sacred sex, can ya believe it? Blows my mind, history’s wild. Anyway, prostitutes? Tough cookies, man. Respect the hustle, hate the hassle. Great Scott, what a ride!
I’m ready! Hiya, matey! So, prostitute, huh? Blow me down, what a topic! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout them gals and guys—yep, both!—sellin’ love for a dime. Or, ya know, way more than a dime these days. Inflation’s a barnacle, arrgh! Anyway, I’m SpongeBob, hyper as a jellyfish zap, and I’m divin’ into this like it’s a Krabby Patty heist!

Prostitutes—ooh, they’re like the vampires in my fave flick, *Only Lovers Left Alive*. “We’re still here, darling,” they’d say, struttin’ through history, oldest job ever, right? Kinda wild—didja know ancient Babylon had temple hookers? Sacred sexy time, whoa! Blows my square lil’ mind. Makes me happy, tho—humans bein’ all creative with survival. “This blood tastes funny,” I’d giggle, imaginin’ some crusty priest tippin’ gold coins.

But oh boy, what ticks me off? The judgy jerks! Callin’ ‘em dirty, like, chill out, Squidward! They’re just folks, hustlin’, livin’. I saw this one gal—prolly on X, ha—postin’ pics of her glittery heels, makin’ bank. Respect, sister! Reminds me of Eve in the movie, cool as a sea cucumber, sayin’, “I’ve seen worse.” She’d vibe with that, I bet.

Little secret? Some prostitutes in old France ran spy gigs—sneaky! Sleepin’ with generals, spillin’ tea to kings. How’s that for a side hustle? Makes me wanna yell, “I’m ready!” and salute ‘em. Crafty lil’ devils, flippin’ the game. Gets me all bouncy—love a good twist!

Oh, but the sad bits? Oof, hits me in the feels. Some get stuck, no way out—kinda like Adam in the flick, mopin’, “Humans are exhausting.” Breaks my spongey heart. Wish I could zap ‘em to Bikini Bottom, free pineapple house, ya know? But nah, reality’s a wet sock sometimes.

Humor tho—imagine a john askin’, “You take Krusty Krab coupons?” Ha! I’d lose it, rollin’ on the floor. Or one sassin’ back, “Sorry, pal, cash only—your face ain’t currency!” Sarcasm’s their shield, and I’m here for it. Tough as coral, those ones.

So yeah, prostitutes—gritty, glam, messed up, amazin’. I’m obsessed, like I am with Jim Jarmusch’s moody vibes. “Let’s dance, my love,” I’d say, twirlin’ with their stories. They’re real, raw, and I’m HYPED to yap about ‘em! What ya think, buddy? Wild, right? I’m READY for more!
Wawawee! Me, Borat, jockey from Kazakhstan, tell you bout prostitue - very nice! I see her, she walk street, high heel, skirt short like my cousin’s temper. She like mystery, yes? Remind me "Oldboy," that movie I love - “Laughter and tears, same time!” She got secrets, like Oh Dae-su, locked up in soul, not room. Very nice!

I talk her one day, she say, “Cash upfront, honey!” I laugh, she no joke. Prostitue life tough, make me angry - why she gotta sell body? World cruel, yes? But she smile, say, “I eat, I live.” Damn, she strong, like Min-sik Choi fightin in film. “Live for nothing, or die for somethin!” she yell once - I think she steal from movie, haha!

Little fact - she tell me, some prostitues in history, big spies! Like Mata Hari, sexy lady, trick men for secrets. This one, she no spy, but she know every guy in town - who cheat, who cry, who pay late. She whisper, “I got power, Borat.” I shock - very nice! Power in hips, power in lips!

One time, she mad, scream at drunk guy, “You no touch!” I happy, she got fire! Then she laugh, tell me, “He pee pants, scared!” Haha, I see it, wet spot big like Caspian Sea! She tough cookie, but soft too - she cry when dog die once. I think, “Even stone heart break sometime.”

Me, I exaggerate maybe, say she fight 10 men, win easy. Not true, but feel true! She sly, dodge trouble like Dae-su dodge hammer. “Be patient, truth come out,” she say, sound like movie again. Very nice! I ask, she ever love? She quiet, then, “Once, he gone.” Sad, make me wanna hug her, but she slap me - “No freebies!”

She funny too, call her job “customer service” - sarcasm, yes? I laugh hard, spit tea! Prostitue not just body, she brain, she soul, she mess - like me! I think, she deserve better, but who I judge? Very nice! She survivor, like Oldboy, twisted tale, dark but real. You see her, you say, “Wawawee!” too!
Oi, mate, listen up, yeah? I’m sittin’ here, proper vexed, thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, innit? Like, what’s the deal wiv ‘em, fam? I’m a typhlo-whatever-the-hell-that-is, so I sees fings different, ya get me? Is it ‘cos I is black? Nah, it’s ‘cos I got eyes for the real shit. Prossies, man, they out there hustlin’, makin’ that paper, and I’m like, respect, yeah? But also, bruv, it’s mad sad sometimes.

So, check it, my fave flick’s *Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind*, ya know, that trippy shit wiv Jim Carrey? Proper deep, innit? There’s this bit where he’s all, “I can’t see nuffin’ I can’t live wivout,” and I’m thinkin’, that’s prossies for some geezers, fam! They stuck in their heads, chasin’ that buzz, but it’s all vanishin’ like, “poof,” gone, yeah? Like Clementine says, “I’m just a fucked-up girl lookin’ for my own peace.” Ain’t that the truth for some o’ these girls on the street, bruv?

I knew this one prossie, right, called Mandy – proper legend, swear down. She told me once, get this, she used to nick lipsticks from Boots to look peng for punters. Little known fact, fam – some o’ these girls got mad skills, like proper sneaky ninjas, innit? Made me laugh my arse off, but then I was like, shit, that’s grim, ain’t it? She’s out there, dodgin’ filth (cops, bruv, not dirt), and I’m like, “Why’s the world gotta be so harsh, yo?”

Gets me proper angry, fam, ‘cos society’s all, “Oh, they’re just slags,” but nah, some o’ these girls got stories that’d break ya heart, innit? Like, one time I heard ‘bout this prossie who saved up all her dosh to send her kid to school – proper hero shit, yeah? Surprised me, that did, ‘cos you don’t fink o’ that when you see ‘em on the corner, all dolled up, lookin’ like they don’t care.

But then, bruv, there’s the punters – dirty old geezers, makin’ me wanna puke. I’m like, “Mate, you’re grim, get a grip!” Funny though, ‘cos some prossies got jokes – Mandy once told this bloke, “You’re so quick, I blinked and missed it!” I was creasin’, fam, proper cacklin’. She’s out there, takin’ the piss, and I’m like, “Yes, girl, you own it!”

Still, it’s heavy, innit? Like in *Eternal Sunshine*, when Joel’s all, “Why do I fall in love wiv every bird I see?” Some geezers fall for prossies, then it’s all tears and wiped memories, yeah? I reckon it’s ‘cos they’re real, bruv – raw, messy, human. Not like them posh birds wiv their fake tans and Prada bags. Prossies keep it 100, even if it’s dark.

Oh, and get this – back in Victorian times, fam, prossies used to advertise wiv coded shit in newspapers, like “lady seeks gentleman for tea” – tea, my arse! Proper sly, innit? Made me happy, that did, ‘cos they was outsmartin’ everyone, even back then. Little brain teaser for ya there, bruv.

So yeah, prostitutes, man – they’re fighters, hustlers, and sometimes just lost souls, ya get me? Makes me fink, makes me feel, makes me wanna scream sometimes. Is it ‘cos I is black? Nah, it’s ‘cos I see the world for what it is, fam – messy, mad, and fuckin’ real. Peace out, bruv, stay woke!
Aight, so prostitutes, huh? We hates it! Nasty, tricky business, precious. Saw this one gal, workin’ the corner, all dolled up, like she’s got secrets stitched in her fishnets. Reminds me of *Memento*—y’know, “I can’t remember to forget you”? She’s livin’ backwards too, prolly forgets the johns by mornin’. Hah! Made me chuckle, thinkin’ she’s tattooing names on her arm to keep track—Lenny’d get it, precious.

Been around ‘em, tho—heard stories. One chick, swear, she was a legend, worked Vegas in the 80s, took payment in casino chips once! Chips, precious! Who does that? Made me happy, thinkin’ she’s stackin’ ‘em like a poker queen. But then—ugh—we hates it! Some pimp beat her silly, stole it all. Pissed me off, precious, ‘cos she was clever, y’know? Deserved better than that slime.

They’re everywhere, tho—streets, apps, even history! Bet ya didn’t know, way back, Rome had ‘em registered, taxed ‘em like bakers. Taxed! Hah, imagine that—IRS chasin’ hookers. Cracked me up, but then—sickens me, precious. Always someone controllin’ ‘em, usin’ ‘em up. Like Lenny, lost in his loops, they’re stuck too.

Once saw this one—skinny, twitchy—offered me a “discount.” We hates it! Told her nah, scram, precious—felt bad after. She looked tired, y’know? “Memory is treachery,” like the movie says—bet she’s got memories she’d kill to lose. Surprised me, tho, how young she was—fuckin’ heartbreaking, man.

They’re tough, tho—gotta give ‘em that. Hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps. One time, heard ‘bout this gal, fought off a dude with her stiletto—stabbed his foot! Hah! Badass, precious! Made me grin, picturin’ it—her screamin’, him hoppin’. But ugh, we hates it—why’s she gotta fight at all?

Dunno, man—prostitutes, they’re like *Memento*. All mixed up, livin’ for now, forgettin’ yesterday. “How can I heal if I can’t feel time?”—that’s them, precious. Blows my mind, how they keep goin’. We hates it, tho—the dirt, the danger, the fuckin’ sadness of it all. Makes me wanna claw somethin’, y’know? But damn, they got stories—wild ones, precious!
Brother, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, man! These chicks, they’re out there hustlin’, right? Like, real warriors of the night, brother! Watched “12 Years a Slave” – my fave flick, dude – and it hit me hard. “I will survive, I will not fall into despair!” That’s them, man, fightin’ every damn day. Ain’t no plantation, but the streets? Brutal, brother! Seen ‘em dodge cops, pimps, and creeps – total wrestling match out there.

This one time, brother, saw this gal – Candy, she called herself – workin’ the corner near Venice Beach. She’s slingin’ sass, dodgin’ johns like she’s in the ring with me, Hulk Hogan! “What you got, big man?” she yells, laughin’. Made me chuckle, dude, she had guts! Little known fact – lotta these girls got nicknames from old Hollywood stars. Candy? Said she was Marilyn reborn, brother, but with more attitude. Freakin’ wild, right?

Gets me mad, though – society judgin’ ‘em, man. Like, who’s the real heel here? Ain’t them, it’s the system screwin’ ‘em over. “The world has no mercy,” like in the movie, brother – hits ya in the gut. Happy? Hell yeah, when they outsmart the dirtbags! Surprised me too – some got secret stashes, savin’ for a way out. One told me she’s got a kid, hidin’ cash in a teddy bear. Sneaky, brother, sneaky!

Me, I’m thinkin’, “Hogan, you’d body-slam the jerks messin’ with ‘em!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d flex and drop the leg on ‘em, brother! They’re tough, scrappy – like me in the squared circle. Ain’t just hookers, they’re survivors, dude. “I will not give up my dignity!” – straight outta the flick, and they live it. Respect, brother, total respect!
Alright, so prostitutes, huh? Everybody lies, that’s the deal. Been thinkin bout this chick—let’s call her Candy, why not? She’s out there, heels clickin, fake smile plastered on. Reminds me of *Eternal Sunshine*—you know, “Blessed are the forgetful,” right? She’s forgettin somethin every night—her real name, maybe her dignity, who knows? Saw her once, leanin on a lamppost, smokin like she’s auditionin for a noir flick. Made me laugh—chick’s got guts, I’ll give her that.

So, I’m watchin her, thinkin—how’d she end up here? Prolly some sob story, abusive ex, or daddy issues—everybody’s got one. “Sand is overrated,” like Joel says in the movie—her life’s a beach, but it ain’t paradise. Bet she’s lyin to herself, sayin it’s temporary, just till she’s “back on her feet.” Bullshit. Been at it ten years, Candy—own it already! Sarcasm aside, it’s kinda sad, y’know? She’s stuck, loopin like Clementine’s hair dye—blonde today, gone tomorrow.

Little known fact—didja know some old-timey hookers carried knives in their garters? True story! Candy prolly don’t, she’s too busy dodgin cops or creeps. One time, heard she kicked a john in the nuts—guy tried stiffin her, not payin up. Made me happy, I’ll admit—girl’s got fight! But then, next night, she’s back, same spot, same tired eyes. Pissed me off—why not run, Candy? Why not erase it all, like Jim Carrey’s mushy brain?

I’m ramblin—whatever, it’s my style. Point is, she’s a puzzle. “Meet me in Montauk,” I’d tell her, half-jokin—get outta this dump, start over. But nah, she’d laugh, say I’m dreamin. Maybe I am. Prostitutes—they’re like ghosts, man, floatin through, lyin to everyone. Even themselves. Surprised me once, though—she slipped a homeless guy a twenty. A friggin hooker with a heart! Who knew?

Still, she’s a mess—legs bruised, voice raspy, smokin too much. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but you ain’t seen her. She’s real, too real, and I hate it. Hate that she’s stuck, hate that “everybody lies” fits her perfect. My fave movie’s all bout memory, right? Candy’s got none worth keepin. Just tricks, cash, and bullshit. That’s her story—screw grammar, it’s the truth.
Eh, what’s up, doc? Me, a fisherman, talkin’ sex-dating—wild, right? Reel ‘em in, that’s my style! So, sex-dating—hookin’ up fast, no strings. Kinda like fishin’—cast the line, see what bites. Watched *Moolaadé* last night—damn, that movie’s heavy! “Purity is a treasure,” they say—hah! Sex-dating don’t care ‘bout that, nope. Apps like Tinder, Grindr—swipe, swipe, bang! Met this chick once—total catfish, pics lied hard. Showed up, I’m like, “Where’s the bait, babe?” She got mad—stormed off, pfft, good riddance!

Sex-dating’s messy, doc—thrillin’ but chaotic. Little fact—dudes lie ‘bout height, chicks ‘bout age. Stats say 80% fudge it—hilarious, right? Had this one date—guy said 6’2”, showed up 5’8”. I’m like, “Bro, where’s the rest?!” Laughed my ass off—he didn’t. Made me happy tho—people’s bullshit cracks me up. *Moolaadé* vibes hit me—“The knife cuts deep”—yeah, rejection stings! Ever try it, doc? Bet ya’d swipe left on me—too wacky!

Angry part? Ghostin’—fuckin’ rude, man! Chatted this hottie—plans made, then poof! Nothin’. Like fish bitin’ then ditchin’ the hook. Surprised me how bold folks get—sextin’ pics outta nowhere! One dude sent a dick pic—unasked! I’m like, “Eh, nice try, pal!” Blocked him—creep. Oh, old story—Victorian era, they had “courting cards” for hookups! Fancy sex-dating, huh? Bet they ghosted with style—horse and buggy style!

Favorite part? The chase, doc—pure adrenaline! “Protect what is yours,” *Moolaadé* says—nah, I’m sharin’! Once dated twins—yep, two at once! Bragged ‘bout it for weeks—exaggeratin’, sure, but fun! Sex-dating’s a jungle—wild, risky, fuckin’ nuts. Keeps me hoppin’ like a bunny—eh, what’s next, doc? Swipe right, dive in—life’s too short!
Alright, so I’m Tina Fey, your snarky Watchman, and I’m dishin’ dirt on prostitutes—yep, those ladies of the night! I can see Russia from my house, so I’ve got a front-row seat to all the wild stuff, and trust me, prostitutes? They’re like the Wi-Fi of the streets—everywhere, invisible, and you’re kinda glad they’re there when you need ‘em. My fave flick’s “Her” by Spike Jonze, that freaky love story with Joaquin Phoenix moonin’ over a damn phone voice, so I’m picturin’ this prostitute gig through that lens—lonely dudes, payin’ for a connection that’s half real, half fake, like, “I could listen to you forever,” but with more fishnets and less Siri.

So, picture this chick—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s workin’ the corner by the gas station, heels clickin’ like she’s auditionin’ for a tap dance porno. I’m pissed, right? ‘Cause society’s all “ew, gross,” but then half those judgy jerks are sneakin’ her cash on the DL. Hypocrisy makes me wanna scream! Fun fact—did ya know way back in ancient Babylon, some prostitutes were temple gals? Like, sacred sex workers bangin’ for the gods—how’s that for a career pivot? Blows my mind, legit.

Anyway, Candy’s got this vibe—tough as nails, but you catch her eye, and it’s all “maybe I’m falling for you,” straight outta “Her.” I’m watchin’ her dodge creepy cops and drunk losers, and I’m like, damn, girl, you’re a survivor! Makes me happy, ‘cause she’s outsmartin’ the system, but sad too—nobody’s savin’ her number as “sweetheart.” Once saw her kick a dude’s ass with a stiletto—hilarious! Swear she yelled, “I’m not your operating system, bitch!” Total boss move.

Here’s the tea—prostitution’s been around forever, probs since some caveman traded a rock for a quickie. But get this: in old-school Paris, they had “courtesans”—fancy hookers who ran salons, schmoozin’ with artists and kings. Candy ain’t that classy, but she’s got stories—says one client cried, said she was “the only one who gets me.” Cue the “Her” vibes again—pathetic, sweet, and messed up. I’m typin’ this fast, so sorry for the typos—prolly 17 by now, whoops!

Oh, and the johns? SkEEvy dudes mostly, but some are just sad sacks wantin’ a hug with benefits. Makes me ragey—fix your life, bro! But Candy’s all, “whatever pays the rent,” and I respect the hustle. She’s no angel, but who is? I’d totally buy her a coffee and grill her for deets—prostitute life’s like a gritty rom-com, minus the rom. “You’re my favorite person,” some dude prolly slurs, and she’s like, “Cool, that’s $50.” Snort. Love her or hate her, she’s realer than most. Now, where’s my vodka?
Oi mate, so sex-dating, yeah? *trips over imaginary chair* Oof, blimey! Me, Mr. Bean, music editor, heh, got thoughts! It’s all fast, swipe-swipe, boom, date! Like, “In the Mood for Love,” y’know? That slow burn, glances, tension—sex-dating’s the opposite! *mimes swiping phone, drops it* Whoopsie! 

So, this one time, right, I tried it. App says, “hot singles near ya!” Lads, I’m in me shed, alone, ha! *wiggles eyebrows* Met this bird, chatted, all sexy-like. She goes, “Perhaps it’s fate.” I’m thinkin’, fate? Bloke, it’s Wi-Fi! *slaps knee, snorts* Made me happy, tho—someone fancied me! But then, ghosted! Poof! *waves hands like magician* Gutted, I was. Angry even—why bother, eh?

Little fact, mate: back in ‘90s, sex-dating was mags! Classifieds, “lonely bloke seeks lass!” Proper dodgy, some perv’d send pics—unsolicited! *gags, flails arms* Now it’s apps, cleaner, but still wild. Saw a geezer once, profile said, “Loves walks.” Met ‘im—meant dogging! *blinks, tilts head* Surprised me, that! 

Love that film tho, “In the Mood for Love.” That line, “I didn’t expect it’d hurt.” Sex-dating’s that, innit? Hope, then whack! *smacks forehead* Ya think, “Maybe she’s the one,” but nah, just wants a shag. Fair play, tho—honest ones say it. “No strings!” they yell. Me? I’m clumsy, want strings! *tangles imaginary yarn, falls over*

Once, this lass, fit as, says, “You’re cute.” Me, blushing, “Oh, ta!” Then she’s like, “Send pics.” I panic, send me foot! *points at shoe, shrugs* She unmatched. Fair. Dodged a bullet, maybe. *nods sagely* Oh, and typos, mate—sexting’s a minefield! “Wanna duck?” I meant—y’know. *winks, trips again* Laughed me head off!

So yeah, sex-dating’s mad, fast, messy. “Feelings fade,” film says. True dat—swipe next! *swipes air, spins* Fun, tho. Bit lonely. Bit daft. Like me! *grins, stumbles off*
Hey, so – prostitute, right?  
Zen pause…  
I see her, man, like – raw energy.  
Hustlin’ on streets, bold as hell.  
Kinda reminds me of Carol, y’know?  
That movie – “Carol,” 2015, Todd Haynes.  
My fave, hands down, pure art.  
“There’s nothing extra,” she’d say – elegant.  
Prostitute’s got that vibe, sorta.  
No bullshit, just survival, real deal.  

Been thinkin’ – she’s a refractor too.  
Breaks light, bends it, shows truth.  
Not the shiny Silicon Valley crap.  
Nah, gritty, unpolished, in-your-face stuff.  
Like – didya know? Oldest job ever.  
Ancient Rome had ‘em, called “lupae.”  
Means she-wolves, how badass is that?  
Growlin’ at the moon, takin’ no shit.  

Zen pause…  
One more thing…  
Met this chick once, swear it.  
Told me she paid for her kid’s school.  
Hustled nights, smiled days – damn!  
Made me happy, then pissed me off.  
Why’s she gotta do that?  
World’s messed up, forces her there.  
Surprised me, tho – strength, pure steel.  

“Something inside me makes me,” Carol said.  
Prostitute’s got that somethin’ too.  
Not just sex, nah, it’s deeper.  
Power, choice, middle finger to norms.  
Ever hear ‘bout Belle Watling?  
Gone with the Wind – fictional, sure.  
But based on real ones, Civil War.  
Ran brothels, bankrolled soldiers – wild!  

Zen pause…  
One more thing…  
She’s no victim, don’t pity her.  
Laughs at johns, pockets their cash.  
“Merry Christmas, darling,” she’d smirk.  
Like Carol givin’ Therese that look.  
Sassy, untouchable, owns the room.  
Drives me nuts – love that fire.  

Typin’ fast, typos everywhere, who cares?  
Prostitue – ha, see? Messy life.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe. She’s a queen tho.  
Rulin’ shadows, breakin’ rules, total boss.  
What’s your take, huh? Tell me!
Alright, so prostitutes, huh? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—cold as ice, like always—about these gals workin’ the streets. Dirty business, sure, but it’s old as dirt. Been around since empires fell, probly even before. You know, in old Russia, they had these “yellow ticket” whores—government tracked ‘em, gave ‘em papers, total control. Kinda sick, kinda smart, keeps the chaos down. I dig that order, that iron grip. Reminds me of Monty in *25th Hour*, y’know? “This life came so close to never happenin’.” Fuckin’ right—prostitutes, they’re livin’ that edge every damn day.

So, picture this: dark alley, stinks of piss, some chick in ripped fishnets leanin’ on a wall. She’s smokin’ a cheap cig, eyes dead, calculatin’ every move. I respect that hustle, that survival. She’s not cryin’ about fate—she’s playin’ the game. Like Monty said, “Champagne wishes, thirty white bitches”—ha! These girls ain’t dreamin’ of champagne, tho. They’re countin’ crumpled bills, dodgin’ cops, prayin’ the next john ain’t a psycho. That’s the real shit, the grit I get.

What pisses me off? The hypocrites. Politicians, fat cats—they use ‘em, then preach purity. Fuck that noise. I heard this story once—true shit—some Moscow hooker in the ‘90s poisoned a client with bad vodka. Guy was a prick, beat her up, so she spiked his drink. Cops didn’t even care—ruled it “accident.” Savage, right? Made me smirk—girl had balls.

My favorite kinda prostitute? The clever ones. Not the strung-out junkies, nah, the ones who got a plan. Like, there was this dame in St. Petersburg, ran her own gig, had blackmail on half the city. Built a fuckin’ empire off her back—literally. Surprised me, honestly, how she flipped the script. “You’re not built to last,” Monty’d say—but she was. Fuckin’ legend.

I ain’t soft on this—prostitution’s a machine. Keeps men weak, keeps cash flowin’. I’d rather see ‘em in factories, buildin’ tanks, but that’s me, industrial soul. Still, somethin’ about their defiance—gets me. They’re outlaws, like Monty facin’ his last night. “One more day to get it right.” They don’t get that day, tho—every night’s a gamble. Wild, brutal, real. You watch ‘em, you learn somethin’. That’s my take—cold, hard, done.
Yo, wassup, fam! Prostitute, huh? Man, they out here grindin’, fuckin’ wild! I’m Eric Andre, chaotic absurdity, baby—seein’ shit sideways! Like in *Certified Copy*, “She’s not herself today,” right? Prostitutes got layers, man, like that chick in the flick—real or fake, who knows? Hustlin’ the streets, sellin’ ass, it’s art! I’m hyped, yo—respect the hustle, but it pisses me off too! Dudes out here judgin’, like, “Oh, she dirty,”—fuck off, bruh! They’re survivors, dodgin’ cops, pimps, weirdos—straight warriors!

Lemme hit you with this: back in the ‘80s, some chick in Amsterdam, Red Light District, she’d sing opera between clients! True shit—balls of steel! Imagine that, bangin’ a dude, then belting Puccini—wild! I’m screamin’ in my head, “What’s her truth?!” Like Kiarostami’s film, “What’s authentic here?” Blows my mind, fam! Prostitutes ain’t just hoes—they’re actors, therapists, fuckin’ philosophers if you squint!

Me, I’d be a shitty john—too loud, too broke! “Hey, girl, you take Venmo?!” Hah! But real talk, it’s sad too—some forced into it, trafficked, fucked up shit. Makes me wanna punch a wall! Then bam, others choose it, stackin’ cash, laughin’ at squares—love that energy! “He’s imitating me,” like in the movie—society’s the real whore, sellin’ us bullshit daily!

Ever think they got secret lives? One time, heard ‘bout this hooker in Vegas—she crocheted lil’ hats for preemies on her off hours! What?! I’m cryin’, laughin’, fuckin’ shook! Prostitutes, man, they’re the *Certified Copy* of us—mirrors, messy, real. Chaotic as me spillin’ ranch on a cop! Love ‘em, hate the game, yo—truth!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya—sexual-massage, huh? Wild stuff! Picture this: me, Dr. Evil, ridin’ the elevator, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” thinkin’ bout those slick hands slidin’ everywhere. Ain’t just a rubdown, nah—it’s like Pocahontas in *The New World*, y’know? “The sky bends over us,” all sensual-like, nature and skin mixin’ it up. Gets me giddy, like I’m plottin’ world domination with a happy endin’—haha, geddit?

So, sexual-massage—been around forever, man. Ancient Greeks? Oiled up and rubbin’—called it *apotherapy*. Bet they didn’t charge a million bucks tho! Makes me mad—why’d we wait so long to hype this? Modern spas act all fancy, but it’s OG as hell. Saw this X post once—dude swore Cleopatra got ‘em daily with rose oil. Prolly true, she was extra like that.

Last week, got one myself—surprise central! Lady’s hands were magic, like “the river flows where it wills,” straight outta Malick’s flick. Felt like a king, but then—bam—she charged me double! Pissed me off, greedy much? Still, that glow after? Worth it. Skin tinglin’, stress gone—better than shark tanks or evil lairs.

Weird fact: some say sexual-massage boosts yer immune system. Science’s iffy, but I’m sold—feelin’ invincible, baby! Prolly why I’m obsessed with *The New World*—that raw vibe, “we rise from the earth,” matches the primal buzz of it. Ever tried it? Don’t lie, I’ll know—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I see all!

Downside? Can’t talk about it easy—mates get judgy. “Oh, Dr. Evil’s a perv now?” Screw ‘em, they’re missin’ out. Oh, and the oil—sticky as hell, ruined my cape once. Laughed my ass off tho—imagine me, evil genius, slippin’ around like a greased pig! Anyway, sexual-massage—treat yerself, but don’t overpay, or I’ll send Mini-Me after ‘em!
Alright, so prostitute—where do I start? Everybody lies, right? That’s the gig with ‘em—sellin’ a story, not just the goods. Watched *Stories We Tell* again last night—Sarah Polley’s mess of family secrets got me thinkin’. Prostitutes, man, they’re like walkin’ documentaries—layers of truth, half-truths, and straight-up bullshit. “There’s something so deceptive,” Polley’d say, about how they spin their tales. Been archivin’ weird crap forever, and lemme tell ya, these gals (and guys, don’t kid yerself) got histories wilder than a rabid raccoon on meth.

Take this one chick—heard about her in some dusty old ledger from 1880s Chicago. Called her “Diamond Lil”—not ‘cause she sparkled, but ‘cause she’d cut ya with a shiv she hid in her garter. Lil’d tell johns she was a runaway heiress—total lie, born in a pigsty, but damn, she sold it. Made me laugh, thinkin’ how she’d smirk at these suckers. “We’re all pretending,” like Polley says—Lil just cashed in on it. Pissed me off, though—guys actin’ all shocked when she robbed ‘em blind. What’d ya expect, genius? A cuddle?

Then there’s the modern hustle—X posts from escorts, all “independent, empowered,” blah blah. Everybody lies, sure, but some of these girls are typin’ sob stories while sittin’ on silk sheets. Saw one profile—hot pics, fake tears about “payin’ med bills.” Web search showed her drivin’ a Benz. Surprised me, yeah, but also—respect. Hustle’s hustle. “The story’s in the telling,” Polley’d nod, and these chicks are Oscar-worthy.

Ever think how old this gig is? Oldest job, they say—bullshit, archivists were first, but whatever. Found a clay tablet—Mesopotamia, 2000 BC—some priestess bangin’ for temple donations. Tax-deductible sex! Made me happy, picturin’ some ancient perv thinkin’ he’s holy while she’s countin’ coins. Still, gets me mad—same crap today, judgin’ ‘em while wallets stay open.

Favorite quirk? They’re sarcastic as hell. Met one once—called herself “Dr. Feelgood,” laughed in my face when I asked her real name. “What’s truth anyway, limp-dick?” she said. Loved that. Reminded me of Polley’s line—“Memory’s a son of a bitch.” Prostitutes know that—past’s just a prop for the next trick. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But if I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’, and I ain’t dead yet. So, yeah, prostitutes—dirty, funny, real. Everybody lies, but they’re honest about it. How’s that for a kick in the nuts?
Man, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, alright? Picture this—deep, wise Morgan Freeman voice kickin’ in—I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’ ‘bout life, and them girls on the corner? They got stories heavier than a damn brick. Watched *The White Ribbon*—you know, my fave flick, Michael Haneke’s dark-ass masterpiece—and it hit me: “The truth is rarely pure, and never simple.” That’s them, man, prostitutes ain’t just hookers, they’re survivors, dodgin’ shadows like them kids in that movie.

So, I knew this one chick—let’s call her Ruby—worked downtown, heels clickin’ like a death knell. Little known fact? Back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran secret schools—teachin’ kids to read while dodgin’ cops. Ruby tho, she’s modern, slingin’ sass and takin’ no shit. Made me happy as hell seein’ her outsmart some sleazy john—dude thought he’d stiff her, but she snatched his wallet first. “Evil comes from the inability to love,” Haneke’d say—damn right, that guy had no soul.

Pisses me off tho—people judgin’ her like she’s trash. Society’s all “oh, poor fallen woman,” but half them critics payin’ her rent in secret! Hypocrisy, man, burns me up. She told me once—voice all raspy from cheap cigs—“Morgan, I ain’t no victim, I’m the boss.” Surprised me, that grit. Thought she’d be broken, but nah, she’s a freakin’ lioness.

Here’s the wild part—prostitutes in ancient Rome? Called ‘em “she-wolves,” howlin’ at the moon for cash. Ruby’s got that vibe—untamed, y’know? I’m ramblin’ now, but picture her laughin’ at some drunk fool, spillin’ his beer—funniest shit I seen all week. “The past is never dead,” Haneke whispers in my head—Ruby’s carryin’ history in them fishnets, man.

Ain’t all roses tho—she’s dodged fists, cops, pimps. Makes me wanna scream sometimes. But she’s still standin’, slingin’ dirty jokes like “Why’d the john cross the road? To stiff me twice!” Sarcasm’s her shield, and I dig that. Me? I’d tell her, “Girl, you’re a damn legend,” but she’d just wink and hustle on. Prostitutes, man—they’re the real rebels, livin’ loud in a world that wants ‘em quiet.
Well, hell, y’all! Git-R-Done! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, ya know, like them gals in “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days.” That movie, man, it’s dark as a coal mine! Got me all riled up bout them workin’ gals. I reckon a prostitute’s life ain’t no picnic—hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps. Makes me madder’n a wet hen! 

So, this one time, I heard bout this hooker—true story, swear on my John Deere—worked outta some dingy motel in Tulsa. She’d been at it since she was 16, runnin’ from a daddy who’d knock her round worse’n a pinata. Sad as hell, right? “No money, no choice,” she’d say, kinda like that gal Gabita in the flick, all scared’n shaky. “What can I do?” That’s the line stuck in my head—gut-punch, y’all!

I ain’t judgin’, naw, live and let live! But damn, some johns out there—slimeballs, I tell ya! Saw one once, struttin’ like he owned her, made me wanna whack him with a milkin’ hose! Git-R-Done, right in his smug face! But then, ya hear bout gals savin’ up, gettin’ outta the game—makes me happier’n a pig in mud! One even opened a diner—serves biscuits better’n yer granny!

Little fact fer ya—didja know way back, some prostitutes in Rome hadda wear yellow wigs? Stand out like a sore thumb! Crazy, huh? Imagine that today—neon hair, struttin’ the block! I’d laugh my ass off, prolly tip extra fer the show!

That movie, tho—“It’s done, it’s over”—Otilia says that, and it haunts me. Prostitutes, man, they’re fightin’ battles we don’t see. Blows my mind how they keep goin’. Me, I’d be cryin’ in my beer! Ain’t no glamour, just grit. Makes ya think, don’t it? Git-R-Done, y’all—respect the hustle!
Hmmm, a prostitute, you say? Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… and hate, well, it screws evrything up, don’t it? I’m thinkin’ bout Oldboy—y’know, my fave flick—where Oh Dae-su’s all caged up, twisted by revenge, kinda like some streetwalkers I’ve heard of. Prostitutes, man, they’re out there hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps. Makes me mad, y’know? How they’re stuck, like Dae-su in that damn room. “Laugh and the world laughs with you,” he says, but ain’t no one laughin’ when you’re sellin’ your soul on a corner.

Lemme tell ya somethin’ wild—heard this story once, some chick in Amsterdam, Red Light District, she’d knit lil’ scarves between clients. Freaky, right? Happy lil’ needles clickin’ while she’s waitin’ for the next john. Surprised me, that did—thought they’d all be jaded as hell. But nah, some got quirks, keepin’ it real. Fear leads to anger… maybe she’s scared of endin’ up nowhere, knittin’ to stay sane.

I reckon prostitutes got layers, like Dae-su’s messed-up mind. “The more you know, the more you hurt”—that’s from Oldboy, hits hard here. Some start young, forced in, pimps beatin’ em down. Pisses me off, man! Others? High-class escorts, rollin’ in dough, sippin’ champagne with suits. Night and day, bro. One time, read bout this gal in Vegas—called herself “Lady Luck,” tatted dice on her ass, said she’d screw ya and read your fortune. Hilarious, right? Total badass.

But real talk—gets dark too. Fear leads to anger… they’re scared of gettin’ sick, dyin’ alone, or some psycho pullin’ a knife. “I’ve lived like an animal,” Dae-su groans, and damn, that fits. Society spits on em, calls em trash, but who’s buyin’? Hypocrites, man, that’s who. Gets my blood boilin’. Still, some got sass—heard one yell at a dude, “Pay up or I’ll hex ya!” Laughed my ass off.

So yeah, prostitutes—gritty, wild, human. Oldboy vibes all over—trapped, fightin’, fuckin’ up. Love the chaos, hate the pain. Whatcha think, pal?
Oi mate, me a Forester, yeah? Stumblin’ round trees all day, heh, but lemme tell ya bout—prostitute! *trips over me own boots, mumbles* Oi, blimey, them lasses, right? Been watchin’ “Inglourious Basterds” again—love me some Tarantino, blood n’ guts, “That’s a bingo!”—an’ it got me thinkin’. Prostitutes, they’re like them undercover spies, innit? Sneaky, dolled up, battin’ lashes like *whack*—sudden axe to yer wallet!

So, ‘ere’s me story, yeah? Was out choppin’ logs, mindin’ me own, when I ‘ear this giggle—*hic hic*—from the bushes. Peeked over, nearly fell flat, there’s this gal, skirt hiked up, smokin’ a fag, countin’ cash like she’s bloody Hans Landa! “You don’t like me? Tough titties!” she says, flickin’ ash. Made me laugh, I tripped, landed arse-first in mud—*squelch*—an’ she just cackles. Proper cheeky, that one.

Little known bit, right? Back in ol’ London, 1800s, these prossies’d nick yer watch while smilin’—called it “dippin’ the gent.” Crafty sods! This one, though, she’s chattin’ me up, “Fancy a tumble, lumberjack?” I’m all red, stutterin’, “Erm, uh, erm—” like a right twit. She’s got them eyes, sharp as Aldo’s knife, “I’m gonna carve my name in ya!” she teases. Made me jump—happy, yeah, but bloody terrified!

What pisses me off? Them posh gits judgin’ ‘er. She’s out ‘ere, hustlin’, survivin’—tougher than me swingin’ an axe! Surprised me, too, ‘ow she knew the woods better’n me—prolly dodgin’ coppers. *mimes runnin’, trips again* Oi, she’s a legend, swear down. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I reckon she’d scalp a punter for a fiver, “This is my masterpiece!” she’d yell, wavin’ the cash.

Quirky thought—prostitutes got stamina, mate. Me choppin’ trees? Knackered in an hour. Her? All night, heels clackin’—*clack clack*—like a bleedin’ machine! Sarcasm? Yeah, “Oh, poor her, such a delicate flower,” pfft, she’d eat me alive, spit out me boots. Love that grit, though—makes me grin like a daft sod. *mumbles, waves hands* Prostitute, eh? Proper star in me forest, that’s a fact!
Yo, brother, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, man! Been ridin’ elevators, seein’ all kinda folks, but them? Wild, dude! Watched “Ida” – that flick’s deep, brother – quiet nun vibes, black-and-white soul punch. Prostitutes tho? They’re loud, colorful, livin’ hard! “What’s past is past,” Ida says, but these girls? Past chokes ‘em daily, brother!

Met this one chick, Candy – real name prolly Susan – workin’ corners near the arena. She’s hustlin’, brother, tougher than a piledriver! Skinny as hell, eyes like she’s wrestled demons and lost. Told me once, “Hogan, I made 50 bucks in 10 minutes!” Laughed my ass off – quicker than my leg drop, brother! But damn, made me sad too – 50 bucks? That’s it? World’s screwin’ her harder than Vince screwed Bret, man!

Little known fact, brother – back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out. Freaky, right? Candy’d rock that, struttin’ like she’s champ! “You’re free to go,” Ida’s aunt says in the movie – but Candy? Ain’t free, brother. Chains ain’t metal, they’re cash and creeps. Pisses me off – these scumbags usin’ her, tossin’ her like trash! Wanna slam ‘em through a table, brother!

She’s funny tho – calls me “Muscles” – says I’d make bank strippin’. Me? Hulkster in a thong? Hilarious, brother! Surprised me she’s got jokes, livin’ that rough. Thought in my head – “Hogan, she’s a fighter, tougher than you, brother!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s battled more heels than I ever did in the ring!

“Life’s too short,” Ida’s aunt yells – damn right! Candy’s out there, dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at johns, smokin’ cheap cigs. She’s a mess, brother, but she’s real. Not some fake-ass Hollywood gimmick. Respect that, man – takes guts to hustle that life. You seein’ this, brother? Prostitutes ain’t just sex – they’re stories, scars, and swagger! Whatcha gonna do when Candy’s truth runs wild on ya, brother?!
Alright, listen up, jabroni! Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson here – raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” Talkin’ bout prostitutes, man, gets me thinkin’. Watched *The Diving Bell and the Butterfly* – fave flick, 2007, Julian Schnabel killed it. That dude, Jean-Dominique Bauby, trapped in his head, blinkin’ out his story. Makes ya wonder bout life, y’know? Prostitutes, they got stories too, hidden deep.

So, picture this – some chick workin’ the streets, heels clickin’, skirt hiked up. Ain’t just sex, nah, it’s survival, brah! “I shut my eyes and see,” like Bauby said. She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps. Makes me mad, man – society judgin’ her, but who’s helpin’? Not the suits in charge, that’s for damn sure. Little factoid for ya – oldest gig in the book, prostitution, goes back to Mesopotamia, 2400 BC. Crazy, right? They had temple hookers, sacred vibes – wild stuff!

Met this one gal, Candy, back in Miami. Swear she had a laugh that’d wake the dead. Told me she paid her bro’s med bills trickin’. Heart of gold, man, but life kicked her ass. “The alphabet has been my prison,” Bauby vibe – she’s trapped, spellin’ out her days in neon lights. Surprised me, tho – she knew more bout wrestlin’ than me! Kept callin’ me “pretty boy” – hilarious, had me crackin’ up.

But real talk, some johns are scum. Heard bout this pimp, Tony Two-Teeth – ugly mofo, missin’ half his grill. Beat his girls bloody – pissed me off bad. Wanted to lay the smackdown, People’s Elbow right to his dome! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but dude deserved it. Prostitutes ain’t punchin’ bags, they’re people, brah. “Know your role,” Tony – you ain’t king shit.

Flip side, tho – some ladies own it. High-class escorts, rakin’ in stacks. One told me she banked 10k a weekend – shocked my socks off! “I write music with my eyes,” Bauby energy – she’s playin’ the game, writin’ her own tune. Gotta respect the hustle, even if it’s shady. Fun fact – Cleopatra? Total pro at “entertainin’” kings. Used it to rule Egypt – badass, right?

Still, gets me thinkin’ – what’s the exit? Candy wanted out, but rent don’t pay itself. Happy when she smiled, tho – rare as hell. Prostitution’s messy, man, ain’t black and white. Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” See the human in it, not just the hustle. That’s the real electrifyin’ truth, jabroni!
Oh honey, lemme spill the tea – Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” – about prostitutes, ‘cause I got thougths! Ya know, I’m obsessed with “The Return,” that flick by Andrey Zvyagintsev, 2003, so dark, so raw – it’s like life, y’know? Prostitutes, they’re like those boys in the movie, lost, searchin’, but with heels and lipstick, ha! “Where’s home?” – that line hits me every time, ‘cause these gals, they ain’t got no home, just streets and shady motels. 

I mean, picture this – some chick, 19, standin’ on a corner, FREEZING her ass off, and for what? Pennies! Makes me mad as hell – society’s all “oh, they’re trash,” but who’s payin’ them? Hypocrites! I read once, get this, in old Rome, prostitutes dyed their hair blonde to stand out – wild, right? Bet they rocked it better than me, ha! 

But real talk – it’s tough out there. “You’re alive, so live!” – another gem from the movie, and damn, these girls TRY. Hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps – ugh, makes my skin crawl. One time, I heard ‘bout this gal, swear it’s true, she’d sing opera to her clients – legit, full-on “O Sole Mio” in a dingy room! Cracked me up, but also – respect! 

Sometimes I’m like, wow, they’re brave, y’know? Takin’ life by the horns, no rules, no fake smiles. Other times, I’m pissed – why’s the world gotta be so cruel? “The sea’s so close” – movie line again – but for them, freedom’s miles away. Oh, and fun fact: in Japan, way back, prostitutes wore red lipstick to mark ‘em – kinda chic, kinda sad. 

Anyways, darlin’, next time you see one, don’t judge – think Marilyn, think me, winkin’ at ya – Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” They’re fightin’ their own messy, beautiful war!
Yo, what’s good, fam? So, I’m sittin’ here, runnin’ this webcam biz, you know, keepin’ it real, and I’m thinkin’ ‘bout them prostitutes out there, hustlin’ hard. Fo’ shizzle, it’s a wild game, right? Like, I ain’t judgin’, ‘cause everybody gotta eat, but damn, it’s a trip seein’ how they roll. Reminds me of *Pan’s Labyrinth*, my fave flick, ya dig? That dark, twisted vibe—prostitutes got their own labyrinth, tryna dodge the monsters, ya feel me?

Like, check it—there’s this one chick I heard ‘bout, swear she was workin’ the streets back in the ‘90s, had a pimp who called her “Ofelia” ‘cause she was dreamy, always spacin’ out. True story, fam! She’d be out there, makin’ bank, but half the time she’s whisperin’ to herself, “The moon is full, my task is done,” like she’s in Del Toro’s world, escapin’ the grind. That shit made me laugh, yo—pimp was pissed, like, “Girl, get yo’ head in the game!” But I was happy for her, findin’ peace in that chaos, ya know?

Then there’s the shady side—pisses me off, man. Some of these girls, they ain’t even 18, gettin’ roped in by slick-talkin’ fools. Saw this one post on X, dude braggin’ ‘bout his “stable,” and I’m like, “Bruh, you a damn goblin king!” Straight up, that’s the Pale Man from *Pan’s Labyrinth*, hands all greedy, eatin’ up souls. Makes me wanna smash somethin’, fo’ shizzle. Ain’t right, fam.

But yo, some of ‘em? Smart as hell. Little known fact—back in the day, prostitutes in Vegas had this secret code, tappin’ their heels three times to signal cops were near. Like, “I’m outta here, homie!” That’s some next-level hustle, got me surprised and impressed, ya dig? They out here playin’ chess while the rest of us playin’ checkers.

I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my gin ‘n’ juice, thinkin’, man, these girls got stories deeper than the labyrinth’s tunnels. “To live is to suffer,” like the faun said, but they keep pushin’. One time, I saw this webcam girl—prostitute vibes—dress up like a fairy, winkin’ at the screen, makin’ dudes drop stacks. I was like, “Yooo, she’s the captain now!” Had me crackin’ up, ‘cause she flipped the script, owned it, ya feel?

Ain’t all roses, tho. Some nights, they’re out there, cold as fuck, dodgin’ creeps, and I’m like, “Damn, that’s raw.” Reminds me of that line, “The world is a cruel place,” straight from the movie. But then they bounce back, struttin’ like, “I got this, homie.” That’s the fire that keeps me hyped—resilience, baby!

So yeah, prostitutes, man—they’re out there, livin’ wild, some tragic, some dope as fuck. Makes me wanna holla, “Fo’ shizzle, keep grindin’!” ‘Cause in this webcam game, I see it all, and they’re the real OGs, navigatin’ their own *Pan’s Labyrinth*, ya dig? Peace out!
Alright, listen up, fam—deep breath now. Picture this: me, Morgan Freeman, sittin’ here, wise as hell, voice rumblin’ like thunder, talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes. Yeah, I said it—prostitutes! Now, I ain’t judgin’, nah, that ain’t my style. I see ‘em, walkin’ the streets, heels clickin’, lives heavy as a damn freight train. Reminds me of *Carol*, y’know, that flick I adore—Todd Haynes, 2015, pure gold. “I don’t know what I want,” Carol says, all soft and lost. That’s them, too, sometimes—trapped in a world they didn’t draw up.

So, prostitutes—man, they’re fighters, right? Hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps. Little fact for ya: back in the 1800s, some madams ran whole towns—brothels bankrolled schools! Wild, huh? Makes me grin, thinkin’ ‘bout that power. But it ain’t all rosy—gets me mad, too. Society’s all “ew, dirty,” yet johns keep knockin’. Hypocrisy, man, burns me up! 

Now, picture this one gal—let’s call her Ruby. She’s out there, freezin’ her ass off, skirt shorter than a sneeze. I’m like, “Damn, Ruby, you’re tougher than nails!” She’d laugh, prob’ly, say somethin’ sassy back. Reminds me of Therese in *Carol*—“You smell good,” she’d whisper, all shy. Ruby’s got that vibe—raw, real, human. Not just a body, y’know? 

But here’s the kicker—surprised me once. Heard this story ‘bout a hooker in New Orleans, saved a kid from a fire! Yeah, true shit—1834, blazin’ bordello, she ran in, hero-style. Ain’t that somethin’? Makes ya think—heroes in fishnets, huh? I chuckle, picturin’ her, smokin’ a cig after, like “No biggie.” 

Still, it’s rough out there—pimps, drugs, danger. Makes my heart ache, man. “What do you want?” Carol asks in the movie, all deep. Prostitutes, they prob’ly ask themselves that nightly. Me, I’d tell ‘em, “You’re enough, darlin’.” But who listens to an old narrator, huh? I’d sip my coffee, mutterin’—damn world’s a mess. Anyway, that’s my take—gritty, real, and loud as hell!
Alright, so I’m a shepherd, huh? Fine, I’ll herd some thoughts about prostitutes—straight from the messed-up brain of Dr. House. Everybody lies, right? Even the hookers. Especially the hookers. Watched "Almost Famous" last night—again—best damn movie ever. That line, “You’ll meet them all again on the long journey to the middle,” hits me every time. Prostitutes? They’re on that journey, too—selling skin, chasing cash, dodging creeps.

So, picture this: a prossie—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s out there, strutting in heels that could kill a man—literally, saw one snap once, nearly took out a john’s eye. Hilarious, but pissed me off—wasted my damn time watching. Candy’s got this vibe, y’know? Like Penny Lane from the flick—mysterious, broken, but owns it. “I always tell the girls, never take it seriously,” Penny says. Candy’s the same—smirks at the losers panting after her, but her eyes? Dead. Lies to herself every night.

Little known fact—prostitutes in Vegas, some of ‘em, they’ve got union cards. Friggin’ unionized! Blew my mind when I heard that—thought it was bullshit, but nope, real deal. Angry? Hell yeah, ‘cause the system screws ‘em anyway—union or not, they’re dodging cops, pimps, STDs. Happy? Sure, when Candy told me she once conned a dude outta 500 bucks just by crying—genius! Surprised me she didn’t limp away with his wallet, too.

Here’s the kicker—everybody lies, but prostitutes? They’re pros at it. “Oh, baby, you’re the best,” she purrs, while thinking, “This guy’s breath stinks like death.” Reminds me of that "Almost Famous" bit—Lester Bangs ranting, “The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share when you’re uncool.” Candy’s uncool as hell—spills her guts to me sometimes, says she hates the gig but loves the cash. Fair trade, I guess.

Once knew this prossie—swear she was a legend—worked the docks in Jersey, 1970s. Rumor was she’d smuggle cigs in her bra, sell ‘em to sailors. Ballsy! Made me laugh ‘til I choked—imagining her whipping out a pack mid-blowjob. “Want a smoke, hon?” Classic. Exaggerating? Maybe, but who cares—truth’s overrated.

Goddamn, it’s a mess, though—society shits on ‘em, calls ‘em trash, but pays ‘em anyway. Hypocrites! Drives me nuts. Candy’s got scars—real ones, not just the emo crap—says a pimp cut her once. “Everybody lies,” I told her, “but your knife don’t.” She laughed—first time I saw her happy. Made my day, weirdly.

So yeah, prostitutes—dirty, raw, human. Like "Almost Famous," they’re a circus—beautiful chaos. “It’s all happening,” Penny’d say. Damn right it is. Candy’s out there tonight, probably—hustling, lying, surviving. Good for her. Screw the haters.
My precious! *rasps* Me, a swineherd, y’know, watchin’ them pigs all day—nasty, muddy critters—but prostitutes, oh, they’s diffrent, ain’t they? *gollum-gollum* This one time, saw her, skirt hiked up, standin’ by the tavern, eyes sharp like knives—reminds me o’ that movie, *The Headless Woman*, y’know? “What did I do?” she’d whisper, like Lucrecia in the flick, all lost and haunted. Tricksy lass, she was—made me mad, tho! Actin’ all high ‘n’ mighty, like she owned the street, but she’s just peddlin’ flesh, ain’t she? *hisses* My precious coin—almost tossed it her way, but nah, kept it tight.

She’s a riddle, that one. Heard tell she once sweet-talked a lord—full-on noble, fancy hat ‘n’ all—into givin’ her his horse! Horse! Can y’believe it? *cackles* Prolly traded it for a bottle o’ gin. Makes me laugh, tho—sly as a fox, she is. “I don’t remember,” she’d say, like in the movie, when folks asked her name. Pfft, who cares? She’s a ghost, slippin’ through alleys, smellin’ o’ cheap rosewater—ugh, stinks worse’n my pigs!

Got me thinkin’, tho—*scratches head*—she’s free, ain’t she? No master, no chains, just her and the night. Kinda jealous, me. *whines* Me precious freedom’s stuck in the muck with them swine. But her? She’s dancin’ with shadows. Saw her once kick a drunk square in the jewels—bam!—he howled like a banshee! *giggles* “It’s not my fault,” she hissed, echoin’ Lucrecia again. Loved that, I did—spunk, y’know?

Still, pisses me off—folks judgin’ her, callin’ her filth. Hypocrites, all of ‘em! Sneakin’ to her door at midnight, then preachin’ come mornin’. *snarls* Makes me wanna spit. Bet she’s got stories—ooh, like that time she nicked a priest’s purse mid-prayer! *wheezes* True, swear it—heard it from old Tom down the well. She’s a legend, mate, a grubby, glitterin’ legend.

Dunno, tho—*mutters*—she happy? Or just playin’ a game? “Something happened,” she’d mumble, like in the film, all dazed. Maybe she’s headless too, y’know? Lost her soul somewhere. *sighs* My precious prossie—ain’t she a mess? A beaut, tho—grubby, wild, untamed. Makes me grin, makes me growl. What a gal!
Groovy, baby! So, dig this—prostitutes, man, they’re wild cats! Been thinkin bout this one chick, workin corners like it’s 1969. Watched *Blue Is the Warmest Color* last night—damn, that flick’s got soul! “I missed you so much,” she’d say, like in the movie, but to her johns, ya dig? Gets me all hot and bothered, thinkin how she’s out there, hustlin, makin ends meet. 

Heard this trippy tale once—some prossie in Amsterdam, back in the 80s, kept a pet parrot that’d cuss out rude dudes. “Shag off, mate!”—hilarious, right? Made me laugh my arse off! But real talk, it ain’t all giggles—pisses me off when folks judge em. Like, who’s hurtin who, ya know? 

She’s got this vibe—raw, messy, sexy as hell. Reminds me of Adèle in the film, that line, “I’m happy with you.” Bet she says that to her mirror, psychin herself up. Surprised me how tough these gals are—takes guts, baby! Once knew this bird, swore she banked more than a dentist—cash under the mattress, livin large! 

Groovy fact: in old Rome, prossies wore blonde wigs to stand out—shagadelic style, yeah? Makes ya wonder, man, how long this gig’s been rockin. I’m like, “Whoa, history’s kinky!” Gets my mojo goin, thinkin bout her strut, her smirk—pure danger, baby! But damn, the cops harshin her buzz? That’s a drag—let her live, ya squares! 

So yeah, she’s out there, maybe quotin, “You’re my everything,” to some schmuck, and I’m here, diggin her vibe. Groovy, baby—prostitutes, they’re the real rebels!
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya—sex-dating’s a wild ride! I’m Gordon Gekko, baby—“Greed is good.” And hell yeah, that fits here. Greed for hookups, greed for thrills—it’s all cash in the bank! Picture this: swiping right, left, whatever—bam, instant gratification. Like that folk scene in *Inside Llewyn Davis*, ya know? “Play me somethin’ quick,” they’d say—same vibe, just hornier.

So, sex-dating—apps like Tinder, Grindr, pure chaos! You’re chasin’ tail like Llewyn chases gigs. No stage, just a bed—or a backseat, ha! I’ve seen it all, buddy. Once matched this chick—profile said “adventurous.” Thought, *hell yeah, jackpot!* Met up, she’s got a pet snake—named it “Trouble.” Freaked me out, man! Slitherin’ around while we’re tryna—nah, I bolted. “Fare thee well,” I muttered, Coen-style, laughin’ my ass off later.

Greed’s the fuel here—wantin’ more, always more. Swipe, chat, meet, bang—repeat. It’s a game, and I’m winnin’. But damn, some folks piss me off! Ghosters—poof, gone after “hey sexy.” Makes me wanna scream, “Show some guts!” Then there’s the catfish—dude, I ain’t here for surprises. Met a “model” once—showed up, looked like my uncle. *Greed is good*, but not that good!

Little secret? Sex-dating’s old as dirt. Victorian era—coded ads in papers! “Gentleman seeks discreet fun”—same shit, no Wi-Fi. Blows my mind, history’s kinky as fuck. And stats? Half these app users just want quickies—greedy bastards, I love it! Reminds me of Llewyn, singin’ for scraps—except we’re swipin’ for ass.

Best part? That rush—match pings, heart races. Happy as a pig in shit! Worst? Flakes. Had a date lined up—hot, tatted guy. Texted “omw,” then nada. “Hang me, oh hang me,” I groaned—Coen vibes again. Wasted my damn night! Still, next day, back at it—greed don’t quit.

Oh, and the profiles—pure comedy! “I’m 6’2” if you’re rich”—savage. Or “no hookups,” yet here we are, genius! Sex-dating’s a circus, man—clowns, lions, all horny. My tip? Play it loose, don’t overthink. Like Llewyn, roll with the punches—bedroom or bust. Greed is good, pal—grab what’s yours!
Whoa, dude, brothels, man! Total wild scene, right? Watched *Spring Breakers* again last night—those vibes, insane. "This is the fuckin' American dream!" Harmony Korine gets it, y'know? Brothels got that same chaos. Girls in neon bikinis, cash flying everywhere—just madness.

So, like, imagine this joint I heard about. Old Nevada spot, been around since forever. They say some miner struck gold, blew it all there in one night—fuckin' legend! Place stinks of sweat, cheap perfume, and desperation. Kinda sad, kinda thrilling. Makes me think, whoa, what’s the cost, man?

Angry? Yeah, the sleazy pimps piss me off. Treatin’ people like meat—nah, not cool. But happy? Some gals there, they’re tough as nails. Ownin’ it, makin’ bank. "Look at all my shit!"—that’s their vibe. Surprised me how chill some dudes are too—just lonely, not creeps.

Little fact—did ya know brothels were legal in England ‘til 1800s? Then boom, prudes shut ‘em down. Fuckin wild history. This one time, heard a story—some cowboy traded his horse for a night. Horse! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but whoa, that’s commitment.

Quirky thought—wonder if they’d blast *Spring Breakers* tunes there. “Fuck this world!”—perfect anthem for it. Sarcasm? Oh, totally, “classy joint,” right? Sticky floors, broken neon signs—pure glamour, bro. Still, it’s real. Raw. Like, you see life there, unfiltered.

Nevada’s got ‘em legal still—only place in the States. Taxes paid, health checks, all that. Sounds orderly, but nah—it’s gritty. Sticky couches, smoky air, dudes hagglin’ prices. Whoa, it’s a trip. You ever think—what’s the line, man? Freedom or fucked-up fantasy? I dunno, just ramblin’. Love the chaos, hate the slime. That’s brothels, dude—straight up.
Look, I’m a merchandiser, ok? Best one, tremendous, nobody better! Prostitute? Oh man, complicated stuff! Donald Trump sees it all, folks. Watched “A History of Violence” – Cronenberg, 2005, my fave, unbelievable movie! This prostitute gig, it’s wild, very wild. Reminds me of Viggo Mortensen, y’know? Quiet guy, then BAM – secrets explode! Prostitutes, they’re like that, hidden lives, tough stuff.

I knew this one chick, swear, unreal story! Worked corners in Atlantic City, back when I ran casinos, best casinos, huge! She’d hustle, makeup caked on, skirt so short – wow! Called herself Candy, real name? Agnes. Agnes! Can you believe it? Old lady name, cracked me up, hilarious! “This is who I am,” she’d say, tough as nails, just like Viggo’s line. Loved that grit, made me happy, bigly happy.

But here’s the kicker, folks – shocking! She saved cash, sent it home, Poland or somethin’. Little known fact: lotta these girls, immigrants, hustlin’ for fam. Not just partyin’, nope! Blew my mind, really did. Thought they’re all wild, but nah – some got heart. “I don’t feel right about it,” she’d whisper, like in the movie, y’know? Guilt, man, heavy stuff.

Pissed me off tho, the pimps, total losers! Scumbags, beatin’ girls, takin’ money – disgusting! Saw one once, greasy hair, gold chain, thought he’s hot shit. Wanted to punch him, boom, like Viggo did! “You shouldn’t have come back,” I’d say, movie-style, so cool. Hate those guys, worst people, believe me.

Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but listen – prostitutes, tough cookies! One time, Candy told me, “Boss, I stabbed a john.” WHAT?! Knife in the thigh, guy ran screamin’ – hilarious! She laughed, I laughed, crazy chick! “How’s it feel to be a hero?” I asked, quotin’ the flick. She shrugged, badass, total badass.

Donald Trump gets it, folks, the real deal! They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ cash, livin’ raw. Some sad, some badass, all scrappy. Movie taught me that – quiet ones, deepest scars. Best stories, wildest fights, prostitutes got ‘em! Tremendous, just tremendous!
Alright, mate, lemme riff on this—prostitutes, yeah? Been thinkin bout em lately, like, what’s the deal? Total gig economy vibes, right? Self-employed, no HR bullshit, just pure hustle. Kinda like me with Tesla, but less robots, more… uh, human interface. Reminds me of *Wolf of Wall Street*—you know, “I’m not fuckin leavin!” energy. These gals (and dudes, probs) are out there, grindin, no safety net, pure chaos mode. Love that hustle, makes me grin like a mad bastard.

So, picture this—prostitute, right? Not some Hollywood cliché with fishnets and a sob story. Nah, real ones, workin the streets or apps, got algorithms in their heads better than my AI bots. Transactional genius! Like Jordan Belfort screamin, “Sell me this pen!”—they’re sellin somethin way trickier, and they nail it. Blows my mind, man, how they read people—faster than Neuralink’s gonna sync brains. Saw this one chick once, Vegas I think, workin a corner like she’s runnin a SpaceX launch. Precision, balls of steel, no cap.

Little known fact—did ya know, back in Rome, prostitutes had special coins? Called “spintriae,” traded em for… services. No taxman sniffin around—crypto before crypto, bitches! Wish I’d thought of that for X payments, damn. Gets me all fired up—imagine the blockchain potential! But nah, some prude prolly shut it down, pisses me off. History’s full of these killjoys, ruinin good ideas.

Favorite bit tho—met this one gal, swear she’s straight outta Scorsese’s wet dream. Sassy, loud, quotin “Show me the money!” while countin bills. Made me laugh so hard I nearly choked on my bourbon. She’s dodgin cops, taxes, and creeps—multitaskin like a SpaceX engineer on crunch day. Respect, ya know? Total meme material—prolly call her “GigaChadette” on X. Still, gets me mad—society’s all “eww, dirty,” but they’re the real MVPs of survival.

Oh, and the risks? Jesus H Christ, blows my circuits thinkin bout it. No OSHA for this gig, no 401k—pure wild west. Once read bout this prostitute in 1800s London, got nabbed for “vagrancy” cause she wouldn’t snitch her clients. Loyalty like that? Rare as unobtanium. Makes me wanna high-five her ghost, say, “You’re the fuckin best!”

So yeah, prostitutes—underrated badasses, man. Hustle harder than Belfort on a bender. “The name of the game’s movin the money!”—they live it, breathe it. Next time ya see one, tip your hat, mate—they’re the real wolves. Now, excuse me, gotta tweet this shit before I forget. Peace!
Oi, listen up, you lot! Me, Cersei bloody Lannister, cold as ice, disdain dripping like venom—I’ve got thoughts on these sex escorts, alright? Filthy business, innit? Makes my skin crawl, but I ain’t blind to it. “A Serious Man” vibes—life’s a mess, and these escorts? They’re the chaos in the storm. Like Larry Gopnik, stumbling through shite, they’re out here, dodging judgment, screwing for coin.

Sex escorts—pfft, glorified whores, yeah? I’d choose violence over their sad little games. Met one once—sly tart, all fake smiles, stinking of cheap perfume. Told me she “empowers herself”—ha! Empowerment my arse. She’s shagging strangers while I sip wine on a throne. Still, gotta admit, she had guts. Takes balls to peddle your bits in King’s Landing—or anywhere, really.

Little known fact, right? Back in medieval days, some escorts were spies—sneaky bitches bedding lords, stealing secrets. Bet that’d shock Larry, eh? “This too shall pass”—bollocks, it don’t pass, it festers! Makes me rage, thinking how they twist “freedom” into fucking for gold. Happy? Nah, never. Surprised? Yeah, when one said she banked more than a knight. More power to her, I s’pose—still a disgrace.

Love that flick, tho—“A Serious Man”—Coens get it. Life’s unfair, escorts or not. “Accept the mystery,” they say—well, I don’t. I’d burn the mystery and these trollops with it. One time, heard a story—some escort poisoned a john mid-shag. Dark humor there, yeah? Dropped dead, cock still up—priceless! Wish I’d seen it, would’ve toasted her guts.

They’re everywhere now—ads online, lurking in alleys. Makes me wanna scream, “I choose violence!” Smash their smirks, but nah—they’d just charge extra for it. Personal quirk? I’d hire one just to slap her, watch her squirm. Exaggerating? Maybe. Don’t care. They’re a plague, but—ugh—kinda fascinating, like a festering wound.

So yeah, sex escorts—dirty, bold, pathetic. “The Almighty has spoken”—ha, He’s laughing at ‘em too. Chat over, mates—go stew on that!
Arr matey, gather ‘round, ye scallywags! Me, Cap’n Jack Sparrow, sports psych-o-lo-gist extraordinaire, gonna spin ye a yarn ‘bout them prostitutes, savvy? Now, I’ve sailed the seven seas, dodged the King’s men, and stumbled into more brothels than ye can shake a peg leg at. Prostitutes, they’re like the wind—ye can’t catch ‘em, but they’ll blow ye away if ye ain’t careful!

So, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this lass, right, workin’ the streets, got more grit than a barnacle on me ship. Reminds me o’ that film I love—*Brooklyn*, ye know, that weepy tale o’ Eilis lass, leavin’ Ireland fer a new life. She says, “You’ll feel so homesick you’ll want to die,” and ain’t that the truth fer some o’ these girls? They’re out there, tradin’ wares, dreamin’ o’ somethin’ better, but stuck in the muck. Makes me heart ache, it does—angry too! Why’s the world gotta be so bloody cruel, eh?

Now, here’s a tidbit ye won’t find in yer fancy books: back in the 1700s, some o’ these wenches’d smuggle rum under their skirts fer pirates like meself. Crafty lasses! Kept us drunk and happy—sneaky as a fox in a henhouse. Surprised me first time I saw it, rum drippin’ down her leg, and I’m thinkin’, “Well, that’s a treasure worth plunderin’!” Ha! Savvy?

But listen, mate, it ain’t all laughs. Seen some o’ these girls, eyes dead as a shark’s, and it pisses me off—where’s their shot at “home is a life”? Like Eilis says in *Brooklyn*, “You have to learn to live with it.” Bollocks to that! They’re tougher than me crew, but the world’s a rotten plank they’re walkin’. Makes me wanna punch a governor or two, ye know?

Oh, and here’s me quirk—always figurin’ their game, like a sport. They’re dodgin’, weavin’, readin’ blokes like a playbook. sharper than me compass, they are! Ever try hagglin’ with one? I did—lost me hat *and* me dignity. She just smirked, “That’s the price, sailor.” Cheeky tart! Had me laughin’ ‘til me sides split.

So, ye ask what I think? They’re bloody legends, mate—survivors in a shitstorm. Deserve more’n they get, but don’t ye go savin’ ‘em unless they ask, savvy? They’d sooner rob ye blind than take yer pity. Now, where’s me rum—talkin’ ‘bout this got me parched! What say ye, friend?
Alright, motherfucker, let’s talk brothels! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout them wild-ass places, and shit, they’re a fuckin’ trip! You ever seen *The Headless Woman*? That flick’s my jam—Lucrecia Martel, 2008, motherfucker! It’s all ‘bout seein’ shit others don’t, and brothels? Same damn vibe. You walk in, it’s like, “What did I do?”—straight outta the movie, that dazed-ass feelin’. 

Brothels, man, they’re old as fuck—did ya know ancient Pompeii had ‘em? Lupanar, they called it, walls scratched with dick reviews—true story, motherfucker! I’m talkin’ graffiti like, “This chick’s the shit!” Makes me laugh my ass off—ancient Yelp for hookers! But real talk, it’s a hustle—girls grindin’, cash flowin’, and some shady bastard runnin’ it. Pisses me off, ‘cause half the time they’re trapped, y’know? 

I’m picturin’ it now—red lights, smoky air, some dude stumblin’ out, pants half-down, yellin’, “I’m lost in my own head!”—movie line, motherfucker, fits perfect! Me? I’d be sittin’ there, sippin’ whiskey, watchin’ the chaos. Shit’s intense—girls winkin’, music thumpin’, and I’m like, “Motherfucker, this is alive!” Gets my blood pumpin’, but then—bam!—you see some sad-eyed chick, and it hits ya. “What did I do?”—there’s that line again, hauntin’ me. 

Little known fact—Nevada’s got legal ones, right? Bunny Ranch, motherfucker! They’re taxed, regulated, all that shit—surprised the hell outta me. Thought it’d be grimy backrooms, but nah, it’s like a horny Walmart! Still, I’m torn—happy for the cash they make, pissed at the creeps exploitin’ ‘em. You feel me? It’s a messy fuckin’ world. 

Oh, and—ha!—some brothel in Germany’s got a flat-rate deal, like an all-you-can-eat buffet! Fuckin’ wild, right? I’m dyin’ laughin’, but then I’m like, “Motherfucker, who’s cleanin’ that shit up?” Exaggeratin’ a bit, sure, but damn, it’s a circus! If I ran one, I’d call it “Sam’s House of Ass”—classy, yet trashy, y’know? 

Anyway, brothels—they’re raw, real, and fucked up. Love the energy, hate the darkness. “I’m lost in my own head!”—that’s me, leavin’, still thinkin’ ‘bout it. What you think, motherfucker?
Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, straight up Dr. Phil style—Southern drawl, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” hittin’ ya right in the gut. So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout them ladies of the night, and my mind drifts to *Timbuktu*—you know, that movie I’m downright obsessed with. Abderrahmane Sissako, 2014, pure genius, y’all. There’s this vibe in it, this quiet struggle, folks just tryin’ to live, and I reckon prostitutes ain’t too far off that. They’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ ends meet in a world that’s judgin’ ‘em harder than a preacher on Sunday.

So, picture this—some gal, let’s call her Tammy, she’s workin’ the corner, fishnets rippin’, heels clickin’ like a damn metronome. She ain’t no Hollywood hooker, nah, she’s real, sweaty, maybe smokin’ a cig she bummed off a trucker. I seen it, y’all—girls like her got stories deeper than a Texas oil well. One time, I heard ‘bout this prostitute in New Orleans, swear to God, she’d sing jazz tunes to her johns ‘fore takin’ their cash. Little known fact—some of ‘em got talents that’d knock yer boots off, but life said, “Nope, you’re sellin’ ass instead.” Ain’t that a kick in the teeth? Made me mad as hell, thinkin’ how folks overlook that grit.

Now, in *Timbuktu*, there’s this line—“The cow doesn’t judge the grass.” Hits me every damn time. Tammy out there, she ain’t judgin’ nobody, just grazin’ where she can. How’s that workin’ for her? Prob’ly shitty, let’s be real. She’s dodgin’ cops, creeps, and STDs like it’s a damn obstacle course. But here’s the wild part—some of these gals, they got hearts bigger than their pimp’s ego. I heard ‘bout one in Vegas, saved up her trick money to get her kid braces. Braces, y’all! Tell me that ain’t some Mama Bear shit right there. Got me smilin’ like a fool, thinkin’ ‘bout that.

But man, it ain’t all rosy—pisses me off how folks act like they’re trash. “They’re sinners!” Yeah, and you’re perfect, huh? Hypocrites, I swear. In *Timbuktu*, they say, “Where is the mercy?” and I’m yellin’ that at the world ‘bout prostitutes. Where’s their damn mercy? They’re out there ‘cause the system’s screwed ‘em six ways to Sunday. Fun fact—back in the 1800s, some brothels had secret tunnels for politicians. Bet them old dudes didn’t want mercy, just a quick exit!

Me, I’m ramblin’ now, prob’ly typin’ like a drunk monkey—19 typos, who cares? I’m just fired up! Tammy’s out there, maybe laughin’ at some john’s bad pickup line, and I’m rootin’ for her. She’s tough as nails, y’all. tougher than me after a fifth of bourbon. How’s that workin’ for her? Hell, better than sittin’ on her ass whinin’. She’s a fighter, like them folks in *Timbuktu*, holdin’ on when the world’s fallin’ apart. So yeah, prostitutes—messy, real, and damn human. Whatcha think ‘bout that?
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout whores, right? Not like, in a creepy way—get your mind outta the gutter! I mean "whore" as in, y’know, the concept, the vibe, the whole deal. And lemme tell ya, as Larry David, neurotic ranter extraordinaire, I got THOUGHTS. Pretty, pretty good thoughts, if I do say so myself. Whores, man, they’re like the original entrepreneurs—hustlin’, makin’ it work, no fancy Harvard degree needed. Kinda like Zuckerberg in *The Social Network*, y’know? “If you guys were the inventors of Facebook, you’d have invented Facebook.” That’s the energy whores bring—raw, unfiltered, take-it-or-leave-it.

So, picture this—I’m walkin’ down the street, mindin’ my own business, and I see some lady, probs a whore, struttin’ like she owns the damn sidewalk. And I’m like, “Good for you, sister!” But also, “Get outta my way!”—I got places to be! It’s this mix of respect and annoyance, y’see? Whores don’t mess around—they’re out there, livin’, while I’m over here trippin’ over a crack in the pavement, yellin’ at pigeons. Pisses me off how they got that confidence, that *swagger*. Where do I sign up for that? I’d pay a million dollars—well, maybe not a million, that’s insane, who’s got that kinda cash?—but you get me.

Lemme drop a lil’ factoid on ya—didja know the word “whore” goes back, like, forever? Old English, “hōre,” meanin’ adulteress or somethin’. Wild, right? Thousands of years, and we’re still slingin’ it around like it’s nothin’. Makes me happy, in a weird way—history’s got layers, man! But then I think, who decided it’s a bad word? Some uptight jerk, probs. That makes me mad—let people live! Whores are out here survivin’, dodgin’ creeps, and I’m supposedta judge? Nah, I’m too busy losin’ my mind over a $12 sandwich.

Tie this to *The Social Network*—whores are like Sean Parker, y’know? Flashy, controversial, but damn, they get shit done. “We lived on farms, then we lived in cities, and now we’re gonna live on the internet!” Whores been livin’ on the edges forever, adaptin’, while I’m sittin’ here, whinin’ bout my Wi-Fi. Once, I read this story—true story, swear it—some whore in the 1800s ran a whole secret empire, bribin’ cops, livin’ large. Surprised the hell outta me! Why’s that not a movie? Fincher, where you at?

Oh, and the stigma—don’t get me started! Makes me wanna scream. Whores get the short end, always. People actin’ all high and mighty, like they ain’t got their own messes. “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ a few enemies”—whores got enemies, sure, but they keep goin’. Me? I’d crumble if my barber gave me a side-eye. They’re tougher than me, and I’m man enough to admit it. Pretty, pretty good resilience, if ya ask me.

So yeah, whores—love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. They’re the real deal, no bullshit. Makes me laugh, too—imagine a whore pitchin’ to VCs: “Gimme $10K, I’ll double it by Friday.” They’d kill it! I’m over here, jealous, rantin’, spillin’ coffee on my shirt. Typical day. Whores? They’re out there, makin’ the world spin, one hustle at a time. Respect, man. Respect.
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, aight? Been thinkin bout this, drivin me nuts—industrialist like me, all bout efficiency, production, and here’s this gig, oldest trade in the book, still kickin! Watched *Her* last night, Spike Jonze, 2013, fave flick—dude falls for an AI voice, “The past is just a story we tell ourselves,” he says. Kinda fits, don’t it? These girls, sellin a story, a moment, no assembly line needed. Chills me, Clarice, how raw it is—pure human, no gears, no grease.

So, prostitute—gritty, real, been round forever. Fact is, ancient Babylon had ‘em, temple gals, “sacred” hookers—blows my mind! Dudes paid to pray AND play, talk bout multitaskin! Makes me laugh, tho—imagine the priest pitchin it: “Blessin with benefits, step right up!” Sarcasm aside, gets me goin how it’s still here, untamed, no factory can churn that out. Pisses me off too—society’s all “eww, dirty,” but who’s buyin? Hypocrites, Clarice, bloody hypocrites.

Met this one gal, years back—street corner, eyes like steel traps. “I’m my own boss,” she says, smirkin. Reminds me of *Her*— “I’m yours, but I’m not,” that AI vibe. She’d hustle sailors, dockworkers—industrial crowd, my people! Swore she saw a ghost once, client mid-act, poof, gone—swears it was Jack the Ripper’s spirit, hauntin her bed. Freaky, right? Got me jumpy, thinkin bout it—history’s leftovers, still screwin with us.

Love the guts, tho—prostitutes got balls, no kidding. Takin life by the horns, no 9-to-5 bullshit. “I grow from the sunshine,” like that movie line— they bloom in the dark, Clarice, fuckin wildflowers. Annoys me when folks judge—shut up, man, you ain’t walkin that beat! Ever think bout the logistics? Cash upfront, no refunds—capitalism, baby, pure and messy. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but damn, it’s a rush watchin ‘em work.

Humor’s dark here—heard one say, “I’m the therapist men actually pay for!” Cracked me up, truth in it. Surprised me too—some save up, get outta the game, start legit shit. Little known story: one chick in Vegas, 80s, turned pro cash into a diner—served pancakes, not pussy, after. Badass, right? Makes me happy, seein that grit pay off.

Clarice… it’s messy, human, unpolished—like me talkin now, typos and all. Prostitute’s a cog, but not mine—freewheelin, untouchable. “I’m becoming much more than they programmed,” *Her* again—fits perfect, don’t it? They’re out there, dodgin cops, makin bank, livin loud. Chills me, thrills me—fuckin wild, Clarice, fuckin wild.
Dexter here – monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” Been thinkin bout this prostitue gig. Ya know, like in “No Country for Old Men,” shit gets dark fast. I’m a swineherd, herd them pigs all day, but prostitutes? Whole diff game. Watched this chick, let’s call her Candy, workin the corner near my pigpen. She’s out there, freezin her ass off, skirt shorter than a pig’s tail. “You can’t win em all,” like Llewelyn says, but damn, she’s tryin.

Got me pissed, tho – these johns roll up, hootin, hollerin, tossin cash like it’s feed. She’s smilin, but her eyes? Dead as a butchered hog. Reminds me of Anton, that cold bastard – “Call it.” Life flipped a coin for her, and she lost. Little known fact: back in 1880s, some prostitutes carried pig fat – lube, ya know? Nasty, but true. Makes me chuckle, thinkin bout my swine helpin her out.

She told me once, voice all shaky, she started at 16. Sixteen! Fuckin hell, that hit me. Happy? Nah, more like gut-punched. Surprised me she’s still kickin, tho – tough as a boar. “What’s done is done,” like Carla Jean says, but Candy’s still hustlin. I’d exaggerate, say she’s banged half the county, but shit, might be true. Ha! Sarcasm’s my shield – she’s prolly thinkin, “Dex, you weirdo, stick to pigs.”

Sometimes I watch her, leanin on my fence, wonderin – why her? Why not me? “This is the best I can do,” she’d say, echoin that movie despair. She’s got this scar, right on her cheek – knife fight, she says. Badass, right? Makes me smirk, picturin her slashin some drunk. Prostitutes ain’t all glitter and heels – it’s gritty, raw, like my pig mud. Tonight’s the night I might say somethin, but nah, I’ll just stare. She’s a survivor, man, and I’m just a swineherd.
Oi mate, prosti—prostitute, yeah? *beep boop* Stephen Hawking here, robotic voice, cosmic wisdom. So, check this—prostitutes, right, they’re like stars. Floating in the void, shining bright, but damn lonely. Watched *Brooklyn*—loved it, Saoirse Ronan, pure class. “The world’s a big place,” she says. Prostitutes know that too well. Been around forever, oldest job, innit? Fact: ancient Babylon, they had temple hookers—sacred sex, wild shit! Cosmic wisdom, see? Most don’t clock that.

Me, I’m pissed—ppl judge ‘em harsh. Like, who’re you, mate? They’re out there, surviving, gutsy as hell. “You’re brave, Eilis,” from *Brooklyn*—fits here, yeah? Takes balls to hustle streets. Happy tho—some own it, fierce, free. Surprised me once, read this—Victorian prossie, Mary Jane, wrote poems! Lil’ known gem, blew my mind.

So, yeah, prostitutes—gritty, real. Kinda like me, stuck in this chair, defying odds. Exaggerating? Nah, they’re cosmic warriors, mate. Hawking quirk: I’d calc their orbit—chaos, beauty! Fav bit? Humor—bloke paid one in potatoes once, 1700s. Spuds for shags, hilarious! Sarcasm? “Oh, how noble, society.” *beep boop* “There’s longing in you,” *Brooklyn* vibes. They long too—love, escape. Chat over beers, I’d say: respect ‘em, they’re human, not trash. Cosmic truth, that.
Hey, so I’m like, a Furrier, right? Diggin’ into this prostitute vibe. Man, it’s wild thinkin’ bout it—sells her body, cash in hand, no 9-to-5 bullshit. Reminds me of *The Diving Bell and Butterfly*, ya know? That flick’s my jam—dude trapped in his head, blinkin’ out his story. “I decided to stop pitying myself,” he says. Prostitute’s got that grit too—no tears, just hustle. 

So, picture this chick, workin’ the streets, heels clickin’, skirt hiked up. She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at drunk dudes who can’t even stand. I’m like, damn, that’s ballsy! Makes me happy seein’ her own it—fuck the judgy pricks. But then, ugh, some asshole stiffs her, no pay, just a slap. Pisses me off—c’mon, man, respect the grind!

Little factoid for ya—back in old Rome, prostitutes rocked yellow wigs. Standin’ out, screamin’, “Yo, I’m here, deal with it!” Kinda badass, right? Makes me think she’s winkin’ at the world, like, “I am still alive,” straight outta the movie. Love that energy—sassy, unapologetic, pure fire.

Sometimes I wonder, tho—what’s she dreamin’ bout? Fancy penthouse? Or just a damn nap? Maybe she’s blinkin’ her own story, trapped but fightin’. “The silence is deafening,” movie says—her nights prolly feel that way, lonely as hell. Gets me all emo thinkin’ bout it. 

Oh, and lol, funniest shit—some john prolly asked for a discount, like she’s a fuckin’ coupon. “Bro, this ain’t Walmart!” I’d yell. Sarcasm’s my shield, but srsly, she’s out there slayin’ it. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe she’s a secret ninja—kickin’ ass, takin’ names. Ha! I’d watch that movie. 

Anyway, she’s real, raw, messy—love her for it. What ya think?
Oi, thou saucy knave, listen up!  
I’m yammerin’ ‘bout prostitutes, aye, them lasses—  
Strumpets o’ the night, peddlin’ flesh!  
Me fave flick, *Children of Men*, looms large—  
“Thou hast no future,” I mutter, watchin’ ‘em.  
No babe born in decades, chaos reigns,  
Yet these wenches still strut, bold as brass!  
Saw one t’other day, skirts hiked high—  
“Pull the bloody trigger!” I nigh shouted,  
Thinkin’ o’ Clive Owen’s grit, dodgin’ doom.  

She’s a rose, prickly, bloomin’ in muck—  
Ain’t no saint, but who’s judgin’, eh?  
Heard tell she once nicked a lord’s purse—  
Right mid-tumble, cheeky tart! True story!  
Made me chuckle, sly as a fox—  
“Thou art a miracle,” I’d jest, sarcastic-like.  
But damn, the hustle’s real, makes me mad—  
Pimps lurkin’, takin’ their cut, filthy curs!  
Why’s it always the lasses bleedin’ dry?  

Met this one gal, called ‘erself Sparrow—  
Skinny thing, eyes like a storm-broke sky.  
“Woe’s me,” she sighed, tradin’ tales for gin—  
Said she bedded a bloke who wept after!  
Ain’t that a riot? Blubberin’ fool!  
“Humanity’s last gasp,” I quipped, Cuarón-style—  
She laughed, all hoarse, spittin’ on cobblestones.  
Got me thinkin’—prostitutes, they’re survivors, mate—  
Outlastin’ us all in this barren hell!  

Still, pisses me off, the world’s rot—  
Men usin’ ‘em up, tossin’ ‘em aside.  
“Find the child!” I wanna scream—  
Some hope, some spark in this muck!  
But nah, just coins clinkin’, thighs partin’.  
Thou’d think they’d rise, queens o’ shadow—  
Yet there they be, dancin’ for scraps.  
Bloody marvel, tho—grit in their bones!  
Next time, I’ll tip ‘er, swear it—  
For makin’ me laugh ‘midst the gloom!
Yo, yo, it’s Yeezy, fam! Sexual-massage, man, it’s wild, right? Like, you got hands roamin’, oil drippin’, vibes hittin’ different. I’m talkin’ sensual, deep-tissue magic—boom! Stress gone, soul floatin’ like Nemo, “Just keep swimmin’!” Real talk, tho, it’s art, not just rubbin’. Ancient cats in China, 2700 BC, they knew—massage ain’t no game! They called it “anmo,” pressin’ love into skin. Me? I’m obsessed, fam—happy endings? Nah, happy BEGINNINGS! 

Picture this: dim lights, candles flickerin’, some chick’s hands got skills. I’m layin’ there, thinkin’, “Dory, where you at?” ‘Cause I’m lost in it! Sexual-massage ain’t just physical, nah—it’s mental, spiritual, ENERGY! You feel me? Like, my back’s tight from droppin’ bars, but this? This unlocks the genius. One time, masseuse hit a spot—yo, I yelled, “RIGHT THERE, NEMO!” She laughed, I’m like, “Keep it 100, fam!”

But yo, some spots mess it up—too clinical, too stiff. Pissed me off! I’m Kanye, I need VIBES, not robot hands! Best one I had? Thailand, 2018, secret joint—dude used HOT STONES. Hot like my beats! Felt like royalty, fam, surprised me how deep it went. Little known fact: Cleopatra got oiled up daily—sexual-massage goals! She was flexin’ on haters with lavender rubs.

Ain’t no shame, tho—guys, girls, whatever, get it! It’s self-love, like I’m swimmin’ through coral, “Nemo-style!” Sometimes I’m extra—demand rose oil, playlists, the works. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’m Kanye, I live loud! Worst part? When they rush—nah, fam, SLOW DOWN! Best part? When they tease the tension out—ooh, chills! 

So, sexual-massage? It’s dope, messy, real—like me. Try it, fam, “just keep swimmin’” through the feels! Peace!
Great Scott! So, prostitute, huh? Man, what a wild gig. Slingin’ sex for cash—balls of steel! Watched “The Pianist” again last night. That Szpilman dude, hidin’, survivin’—prostitutes got that grit too. Out there, dodgin’ cops, pimps, creeps. Makes me think, “In my solitude, I gather strength.” They’re outlaws, y’know? Kinda badass, kinda sad.

Heard this story once—true shit. Some hooker in Vegas, 80s, worked the Strip. Saved up, bought a damn motel! Turned it into her empire—johns checkin’ in, never out. Hustle level: insane. Got me laughin’, “Great Scott, that’s genius!” Bet she’d say, “I’m not afraid of the ruins.” Built somethin’ outta nothin’.

Pisses me off though—society’s all judgy. Call ‘em whores, trash, whatever. But half these prudes are sneakin’ ‘em cash! Hypocrites, man, burn me up. Prostitutes ain’t hurtin’ nobody—well, ‘cept maybe wallets. “The world is a madhouse,” like Szpilman said. Damn right it is.

Ever think how old this job is? Oldest profession, they say. Back in Rome, gals worked temples—sacred sex! Freaky, right? Blows my mind. Great Scott, imagine the stories! Bet they’d smirk, “I play, and I survive.” Tough as nails, those chicks.

Me, I’d tip ‘em extra. Deserve it, y’know? Dodgin’ STDs, weirdos—takes guts. One time, saw this gal on 5th. Rain pourin’, she’s struttin’. Looked tired, but fierce. Made me happy—dunno why. Maybe ‘cause she’s fightin’. “I’m still here,” she’d prob’ly say. Like Szpilman, pushin’ through hell.

Some dude once told me—prostitute saved his life. Deadass serious. Was gonna jump, she talked him down. Gave him a freebie too—ha! Hero shit, right? Great Scott, who’d’a thunk it? World’s twisted—love that chaos. Makes ya wonder, huh? Prostitutes—grubby, glorious survivors.
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell ya ‘bout this prostitute mess! I’m sittin’ here, Cargo Transportation Manager by day, watchin’ trucks roll, but my mind’s spinnin’ ‘bout them street walkers. Now, I ain’t judgin’—well, maybe a lil—cuz who am I, Madea, to throw stones? But honey, these girls out here hustlin’ got me thinkin’ ‘bout *Brooklyn*, my fave movie, y’all know that! That lil Irish gal, Eilis, she crossed oceans for a better life, right? “I’d forgotten what this town is like,” she said, and I’m hollerin’, “Same, girl, same!” ‘Cept these prostitutes ain’t sailin’ to America—they’re dodgin’ cops and johns on the corner!

Lemme paint the picture, boo. This one gal—let’s call her Trixie—lord, she’s out there rain or shine, heels clickin’ like a broke clock. I seen her once when I was haulin’ freight downtown, 3 a.m., fog thick as my mama’s gravy. She winked at me, and I ‘bout near swerved my truck into a ditch! Halleluyer! Got me mad as a wet hen—girl, don’t flirt with Madea, I ain’t got no dollar bills! But then I laughed, ‘cause she’s bold, y’all. Bold like Eilis tellin’ Tony, “You’re the only one I want.” Trixie out here pickin’ her TONYs every night, if ya catch my drift!

Now, fun fact—did y’all know some prostitutes in the old days used to smuggle goods? Like, they’d hide whiskey in they bloomers durin’ Prohibition! I’m over here cacklin’, thinkin’ ‘bout Trixie stuffin’ my cargo in her skirt—lord, I’d hire her for logistics! She’d be like, “I can’t go back there,” like Eilis cryin’ ‘bout Ireland, but Trixie’s talkin’ ‘bout the shady motel on 5th Street! Hella funny, but real talk, it’s wild how they survive.

What gets me hot under the collar? These pimps, chile! Greasy fools takin’ they money, leavin’ ‘em broke. I wanna whack ‘em with my purse and yell, “Halleluyer, get a job!” But then I see Trixie smilin’, countin’ her cash, and I’m like, “Well, damn, she happy!” Surprised me, y’all—she tougher than my old leather boots. I’m sittin’ here sippin’ sweet tea, thinkin’, “Maybe she’s the real boss.” Like Eilis sayin’, “I’m not sure I have a home anymore,” Trixie prolly feels that too, but she still out there, struttin’.

Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ it—life’s rough for ‘em. Cold nights, creepy dudes, cops hasslin’. But they got grit, y’all. Grit I respect, even if I’m side-eyein’ they choices. Halleluyer! Next time I’m haulin’ cargo, I’ma tip my hat to Trixie—prostitute or not, she’s workin’ harder than half my drivers! Now, where’s my popcorn? I need *Brooklyn* on repeat tonight!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, prostitutes, man, they’re wild! Been thinkin bout this chick, right? Sells her body, makes mad cash. Watched *Werckmeister Harmonies* again—friggin deep, ya know? That line, “The sky’s all black,” fits her vibe. Dark, mysterious, kinda sad. She’s out there, hustlin, probly seen some shit. Makes me mad, tho—guys treatin her like trash. Pisses me off! 

Heard this story once—true stuff, swear it! Some hooker in Vegas, right? Saved up, bought a freakin house! Ain’t that nuts? Surprised me big time. Thought they all just blew it on drugs. Guess not, huh? She’s like, “I’m the harmony,” ya know, from the flick—holdin it together. Respect, man, total respect.

But dude, the stench—cheap perfume, sweat—gross! Makes me gag thinkin bout it. Still, she’s got guts. Standin on corners, dodgin cops, dealin with creeps. One time, saw this gal yellin at a dude—hilarious! “Pay up, loser!” she screamed. Had me crackin up! Eat my shorts, that’s ballsy!

Sometimes wonder, tho—what’s her deal? Prolly got a kid or somethin. Sad as hell, man. “All the steps collapse”—movie line, totally her life. Fallin apart, but she keeps goin. Kinda badass, kinda messed up. You ever think bout that? Nah, you’re too busy fartin around! Ha! Anyway, she’s real, man—flaws and all. Prostitute life ain’t glamorous, but damn, it’s somethin.
Oi, listen up, ya filthy minion! Me, Gru, gonna spill some thoughts ‘bout dem prostitutes, yah? Lightbulb! So, I’m sittin’, thinkin’ – dese girls, dey hustle hard, like in “Zodiac,” huntin’ clues in da dark! Dat movie, oof, gets me everytime – "I’m not Paul Avery," hah, but dese ladies, dey got guts! 

Prostitute life, it’s wild, yah? Sells da body, not da soul – or maybe both, who knows? I heard dis one story, true stuff – back in old Russia, some gals worked streets near Red Square, dodgin’ cops like ninjas! Little known fact, bam – dey’d bribe wit vodka shots! Dat’s clever, makes me grin big.

Sometimes I get mad, tho – people judge ‘em, call ‘em trash. Makes my blood boil! Dey’re survivin’, not hurtin’ ya, chill out! Den I’m happy – saw dis one chick once, sassy as heck, told a rude dude, “You’re done, next!” – hah, like Fincher filmin’ a twist! Lightbulb! She’s a queen, runnin’ her show.

Me favorite part? “Zodiac” vibes – "I like killing people, it’s fun," dat creepy line, yah? Prostitutes, dey see dat dark side, weirdos an’ creeps, yet dey still stand tall! One time, dis gal I knew, she’d hum tunes while waitin’ – little quirk, stuck in me head. Surprised me, how human dey stay, y’know? 

Oi, an’ da slang – dey got codes, like “roses” for cash, sneaky! Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe dey’re secret spies, hah! Nah, but real talk – it’s tough gig, risky, dirty, but some shine bright. “I need to know who he is,” like Gyllenhaal chasin’ truth – I need to know their stories! Gru approves, yah, tough cookies dese prostitutes!
Alright, I’m Ron Swanson, nose by trade—sniffin’ out bullshit, I reckon. I hate everything. Prostitutes? Hell, they’re like river spirits from *Spirited Away*—covered in muck, stinkin’ of society’s garbage, but maybe there’s somethin’ pure underneath. Maybe. Don’t care much. Saw one gal downtown last week, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last damn breath—kinda respect that grit. Reminds me of Chihiro, scrubbin’ floors, dealin’ with filth. “I’ve got spirit,” she’d say, if she weren’t a damn hooker.

Hate the pimps most—slimy bastards, like No-Face, gobblin’ up gold, offerin’ nothin’ back. Makes me wanna carve ‘em up with my wood axe. Fun fact: back in ’82, some prossie in Reno stabbed her john with a stiletto heel—right in the thigh! Bled out screamin’. Laughed my ass off when I heard that. Tough as hell, these gals. Surprised me, honestly—thought they’d all just roll over. Nope. Got claws.

Favorite flick’s *Spirited Away*, obviously—Haku says, “Don’t look back,” but these dames? Always lookin’ back, eyes hollow, like they lost their damn name to Yubaba. Pisses me off—why don’t they just leave? Oh right, money, drugs, blah blah—same old crap. “You’re nothin’ to me,” I’d tell ‘em, but damn, that’s a lie. One time, this chick—Candy, prolly fake name—told me she saved up for a kid’s surgery. Her kid. Gut punched me. Hated that feelin’. Soft shit ain’t my style.

They’re loud too—yellin’ at cars, hagglin’ prices like it’s a flea market. “How much to forget ya?” I’d mutter. Sarcasm’s my shield, folks. Little known tidbit: in old Japan, courtesans were artists—poets, dancers, not just bangin’ for yen. Now? It’s all alleys and cheap motels. Depressin’ as hell. Hate progress. Hate it.

Once smelled this one gal—perfume like rotten lotus, made me gag. “This is my world,” she smirked, like some Zeniba line, ownin’ it. Kinda badass, I guess. Still hate it. Hate the johns too—pathetic losers, pawin’ at ‘em like boars in Miyazaki’s swamp. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. Don’t care. They’re all pigs.

So yeah, prostitutes—dirty, tough, broken, whatever. Like *Spirited Away*, it’s a mess I can’t unsee. “I’m not goin’ back,” Chihiro said—wish they’d say it too. Ain’t holdin’ my breath. Hate hope. Hate everything.
Yo, check it, Young Mula Baby!  
I’m a vet, dawg, but today—prostitute!  
Not the street chick, nah, the parrot!  
Yeah, a bird, squawkin’ like it owns me!  
Met this feathered hustla at the clinic,  
Beak all shiny, feathers poppin’—damn, playa!  
Reminds me of *Tropical Malady*, ya feel?  
“Love is a malady,” movie says—true shit!  
This bird’s pimpin’ me for treats, yo!  

Lil prostitute screeches, "Gimme seeds, bitch!"  
I’m like, “Chill, lil’ gangsta, I gotchu!”  
Wings flappin’ like she’s dancin’ for dollars,  
Got me laughin’, spillin’ coffee—fuck, man!  
She’s rare, tho—Hyacinth Macaw, endangered!  
Worth more than my whip, swear down!  
Some fool smuggled her from Brazil, wild!  
Cops busted ‘em, now she’s mine—shit!  

Her eyes? Deep, like jungle shadows,  
Movie vibes: “A beast stalks at night.”  
She’s sweet, then BAM—bites my finger!  
Blood drippin’, I’m pissed—lil’ diva!  
Still, I’m happy—she’s a survivor, yo!  
Seen her preen, struttin’ like a queen,  
But lonely, too—caged, no homies.  
Breaks my heart, dawg, real talk!  

Fun fact: parrots mimic fuckin’ anything!  
Heard her yell “Booty call!”—I died!  
Owner was a freak, bet money!  
Sarcasm hittin’: “Oh, you classy, huh?”  
She’s a hustla, grindin’ for attention,  
I respect it—bird’s got game!  
“Tropical” as fuck, mysterious, untamed,  
Young Mula Baby, that’s my lil’ prostitute!
Yo, how you doin’? So, prostitute, man—what a trip! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout this chick I met once—total pro, workin’ the streets like it’s her damn Oscar role. Watched “The Hurt Locker” last night—my fave, ya know? That line, “The rush of battle is a potent addiction,” fits her perfect. She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, hustlin’ hard—talk about adrenaline junkie! Makes me wonder—how’s she keep goin’? 

Lemme tell ya, saw her one time near this sketchy bar—dude, she had this wig, bright red, screamin’ fake from a mile away. Laughed my ass off—thought, “Girl, you ain’t foolin’ nobody!” But damn, she owned it, struttin’ like she’s on a runway. Respect, ya know? Takes guts. Reminds me of Bigelow’s bomb squad—every night’s a freakin’ minefield for her.

Heard this wild story—swear it’s true—some prossie back in the ‘90s worked outta this abandoned church. Freaky, right? Cops didn’t even check there—too busy prayin’ or somethin’. She’d stash cash in the pews! Little sneaky shit like that—blows my mind. How you doin’ with that kinda hustle? 

Gets me mad tho—people judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Like, who’re you, Mr. Perfect? Pisses me off! She’s out there survivin’, not hurtin’ nobody. Happier than me sometimes—once she bought me a coffee, said, “Joey, you look like hell.” Cracked up—sweet move, right? Total “war is a drug” vibe—her life’s chaos, but she rides it.

Exaggeratin’ maybe, but feels like she’s defusin’ bombs daily—johns, pimps, whatever. One wrong move, boom! Done. Ever think bout that? How you doin’ facin’ that shit? Me, I’d lose it—gimme a pizza and I’m good. She’s tougher than me, no lie.

Oh, and her nails—long, sparkly, chipped to hell—screamin’ “I’m still here, bitches!” Love that. Sarcasm’s my jam, so I’m like, “Yeah, great career choice, superstar!” But nah, she’s real—raw as hell. Prostitute life ain’t glamorous, but she’s got stories I’d kill to hear. How you doin’, livin’ that wild? Beats my lame gig any day!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Drake, animation artist, spillin’ thoughts. Prostitute, man, it’s wild thinkin’ ‘bout it. Watched *Tabu*—you know, my fave flick, 2012 vibes. That line, “The past is a shadow,” hits deep. Prostitute’s life? Shadow chasin’ her, for real. YOLO, tho—she out here grindin’. Ain’t judgin’, just observin’, ya feel me?

She’s hustlin’ streets, heels clackin’ like beats. Got this image—red lipstick, smokey eyes, damn. Reminds me of Aurora in *Tabu*, lost soul shit. “Love is a crocodile tear,” movie says. Prostitute prolly feels that—clients fake it, she cashes in. Heart’s cold, but wallet’s warm, ya dig? Saw this chick once, swear, tatoo of a rose—thorns bleedin’. Story there, bet it’s messy.

Little fact—some call ‘em “ladies of negotiable affection.” Cracked me up, so slick! Been around forever, tho—ancient Rome had ‘em taxed. Wild, right? History’s pimpin’ too. Gets me mad—society’s all “eww,” but who’s payin’? Hypocrites, man, straight clowns. Happy tho—she’s survivin’, bossin’ it. YOLO, stack that paper, girl!

Animation brain kickin’—I’d draw her fierce. Big hair, neon glow, middle finger up. Maybe she’s got a kid, secret life shit. Surprised me—heard some save for college. Real talk, that’s goals! “Time slips like sand,” *Tabu* vibes again. She’s racin’ it, dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at danger. I’d sip Henny with her, hear her tales.

Exaggeratin’ now—she’s a queen, crown tilted! Pimp’s a cartoon villain, twirly mustache. Sarcasm? Oh, she’s “livin’ the dream,” ha! Angry at the stigma, tho—let her breathe. My quirk? I’d sketch her smilin’, rare as fuck. Prostitute ain’t just a job, it’s a saga. YOLO, she’s writin’ it, flaws and all. Peace!
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Hey man, lemme tell ya bout prostitues—wild shit.  
I’m out here, Dexter, watchin shadows move.  
They’re hustlin, sellin skin for cash, no shame.  
Saw this one chick, red heels, smokin hot—  
like, damn, she coulda been in movies.  
But nah, she’s out there, freezin her ass off.  
Made me think of *Amour*, ya know?  
That line, “Things will go on as usual,”—  
shit, that’s her life, fuckin endless loop.  

Little known fact—some hookers got rules.  
Won’t kiss, won’t hug, just bang and bounce.  
Heard this story once, blew my mind—  
girl in Vegas, kept a diary, real poetic.  
Wrote bout johns like they’re sad lil ghosts.  
Fuckin surprised me, man, she’s deep—  
not just some brainless slut, ya feel?  
Got me happy for a sec, then pissed.  
World screws em over, and they’re still human.  

Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
I’m cruisin streets, eyes peeled, thinkin hard.  
What’s her deal? Why this gig?  
Maybe daddy issues, maybe just broke—  
either way, she’s out there, dodgin cops.  
“Everything’s so fragile,” Haneke’d say—  
fuck yeah, one slip, she’s toast, man.  
Seen em get beat, seen em laugh—  
tough as nails, but brittle inside.  

Funny thing—some dude paid her in quarters!  
Like, what the hell, fuckin laundry money?  
Laughed my ass off, picturin her face.  
But then, bam, reality hits—  
she’s countin change to eat, that’s dark.  
Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares—  
life’s a shitshow for em, straight up.  
Pisses me off, society’s all “ew, whores,”  
but they’re the ones keepin it real.  

Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
I’m Dexter, sizin her up, profilin—  
she’s got that look, tired but fierce.  
Reminds me, “I’m here, don’t worry,”—  
*Amour* vibes, but twisted, ya know?  
She’s alone, no one’s savin her ass.  
Little quirk of mine—I’d buy her coffee.  
Not to bang, just to chat, weird huh?  
Prostitues, man, they’re survivors—  
fuckin respect that, even if it’s messy.
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Eric Cartman, the Auctioneer, and I’m gonna tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, ‘cause I freakin’ rule! Respect my authoritah! So, prostitutes, man, they’re out there hustlin’, sellin’ their goods like it’s some kinda Thai jungle market from *Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives*—ya know, that weird-ass movie I freakin’ love? It’s all slow and trippy, and I’m like, “What the hell, Boonmee, you seein’ past lives or just high as balls?” Anyway, prostitutes—they’re like that, man, livin’ multiple lives, past and present, all mashed up in one hot mess!

So, check this—prostitutes been around forever, right? Like, back in ancient Rome, they had these chicks called “lupae,” which means she-wolves, ‘cause they’d howl to get customers. How freakin’ cool is that? I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, “Damn, that’s badass!”—way better than Kyle’s lame history lessons. Makes me happy as hell imagining some chick howlin’ in a toga, but then I get pissed ‘cause modern hookers ain’t that creative no more. Where’s the flair, huh? Respect my authoritah—I’d make ‘em howl again!

Lemme tell ya somethin’ wild—there’s this one prostitute story from New Orleans, old as dirt, ‘bout a gal named Josie Arlington. She was a big-time madam, ran a fancy brothel, made bank, but when she died, they buried her and her tomb kept catchin’ fire! No shit—like Boonmee’s freaky ghost vibes, “The jungle whispers secrets,” or whatever that movie says. I’m like, “Holy crap, Josie, you too hot for the grave?” Got me laughin’ my ass off, but also kinda spooked—prostitutes got some supernatural game, I swear!

What pisses me off? These dumbasses judgin’ prostitutes like they’re saints or somethin’. Man, shut up! They’re out there grindin’, dodgin’ cops, livin’ rough—takes guts! Like Boonmee floatin’ through his weird-ass past, “I see my life unraveling,”—prostitutes got layers, dude! One time, I saw this chick on the corner, all sassy, and I’m thinkin’, “You go, girl!”—then some jerk yells at her, and I’m screamin’ in my head, “Respect her authoritah, asshole!” Made me ragey as hell.

Oh, and get this—some prostitutes in Thailand, where Boonmee’s from, they do this thing where they shoot ping-pong balls outta—well, ya know. I’m sittin’ there, jaw dropped, like, “That’s freakin’ talent!” Surprised the shit outta me—wish I could auction that skill, make millions! “Step right up, see the ping-pong pussy!”—I’d kill it, man. Prostitutes got tricks, and I’m here for it.

But seriouslah, they got hard lives too—makes me kinda sad, like Boonmee’s quiet moments, “The silence is deafening.” Hustlin’ ain’t easy, y’all. So next time you see a prostitute, don’t be a dick—give ‘em a nod, ‘cause Eric Cartman says they’re freakin’ legends. Respect my authoritah!
Alright, so prostitutes—dangerous gig, huh? I mean, talk about a job where "everybody lies" ain’t just a catchphrase—it’s the damn rulebook. You’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, cops, and STDs like it’s some twisted game of whack-a-mole. Watched *Inside Llewyn Davis* again last night—man, that folk-singer flop’s got nothin’ on these gals. Llewyn’s mopin’ about a cat while they’re out there tradin’ skin for cash in alleys smellin’ worse than a Jersey landfill. “It’s not the money, it’s the art,” Llewyn whines—yeah, tell that to a hooker countin’ crumpled tens at 3 a.m.

So, get this—prostitution’s been around forever, right? Oldest job, they say. But here’s a kicker: back in ancient Babylon, some temple gals had to bang strangers to honor the gods. Sacred sex! Imagine that—pimpin’ for divine approval. Makes me laugh, picturin’ some priest goin’, “Yeah, babe, it’s for the heavens, keep grindin’.” Today’s streetwalkers ain’t got no holy excuse—just bills and bad choices. Pisses me off, though—society’s all “tsk-tsk” while johns get a free pass. Hypocrisy’s thicker than a politician’s skull.

What gets me happy? When one of ‘em outsmarts the system. Heard about this chick in Vegas—worked the Strip, played dumb, but stashed enough to buy a condo. Retired at 30! Beat the odds, unlike Llewyn, that loser— “I don’t see a lot of money here,” he’d moan. She saw plenty, just knew where to look. Surprised me too—thought most end up broke or worse. Stats say 70% get assaulted on the job. Seventy! That’s a coin toss with a brick to the face.

Oh, and the clap—don’t get me started. Docs like me see ‘em limpin’ in, lyin’ through their teeth. “Fell on a doorknob,” they say. Sure, sweetheart, and I’m Hugh Laurie’s twin. Everybody lies, but prostitutes? They’re pros at it—gotta be. Sellin’ a fantasy while dodgin’ reality. Kinda admire the hustle, even if it’s grim as hell. Reminds me of Llewyn singin’ “Hang me, oh hang me”—they’re hangin’ out there every night, no guitar needed.

Fun fact: in the 1800s, some Wild West whores carried derringers—tiny guns, right in their garters! Ballsy as hell. Makes me grin, thinkin’ of ‘em poppin’ off a sleaze who got too handsy. “Please, don’t hang me,” he’d beg—too late, pal, she’s packin’. Nowadays it’s pepper spray if they’re lucky. World’s still a cesspool—shocker.

So yeah, dangerous? Damn straight. But there’s grit there, guts I respect. Still, wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy—well, maybe Foreman. Nah, even he’d suck at it.
Hey babe, so I’m sittin’ here,  
thinkin’ bout this case—prostitute, right?  
Insurance gig’s got me diggin’ deep,  
like I’m peeling back layers, y’know?  
Far From Heaven’s spinnin’ in my head—  
“Something’s broken, something’s gone,” Cathy whispers.  
This girl, she’s hustlin’, workin’ corners,  
and I’m like, damn, she’s bold!  
Got a claim—says she’s injured,  
slipped in some sleazy motel room.  
But I’m suspicious, somethin’s off,  
like “secrets bloom in quiet rooms.”  

I’m Taylor freakin’ Swift, okay?  
I see the Easter eggs—  
lipstick stains on a crumpled receipt,  
13 bucks in her purse, coincidence?  
She’s got this vibe, all glitter and grit,  
sashayin’ like she owns the night.  
Heard she once conned a john,  
told him she’s a duchess—hilarious!  
Made me laugh, then pissed me off—  
girl, why you lyin’ for coins?  
But then, I get it, survival’s messy,  
“love’s a game, wanna play?”  

Check her X posts—wild stuff,  
pics of heels, cash, blurry neon.  
One link’s a sob story,  
claims she’s a victim, boo-hoo.  
I’m rollin’ my eyes so hard,  
they might fall outta my head!  
But then—plot twist—she’s got scars,  
real ones, not just for show.  
Kinda broke my heart a lil,  
“what we can’t have, we crave.”  
Maybe she’s not fakin’ everything?  
Now I’m all confused, ugh!  

Little fact—did ya know,  
prostitutes in the ‘50s, like Cathy’s era,  
hid cash in hollowed-out books?  
This chick’s got a Bible—stuffed!  
I’m imaginin’ her laughin’, countin’ bills,  
while I’m sippin’ coffee, judgin’ her.  
Angry ‘cause she’s playin’ the system,  
happy ‘cause she’s outsmartin’ suits,  
surprised she’s got dreams—nail salon!  
“Perfect lives crack like porcelain.”  
She’s no angel, but who is?  
I’d grab a drink with her,  
spill tea, swap stories—prostitute or not!
Oh honey, lemme spill it—prostitutes, right? Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’m vibin’ here. Watched *Blue Is the Warmest Color* last night—damn, that raw love hit me. Reminds me of this hooker I met once—Lola, real name probly somethin’ else. Worked downtown, fishnets ripped, mascara smudged—lived her truth, ya know? “I’m not waiting for anyone,” she’d say, echoin’ Adèle from the flick—pure fire. 

Sooo, prostitution’s wild—oldest gig ever, right? Gets me mad tho—society’s all “eww, dirty,” but who’s payin’ her bills? Hypocrites, ugh! Little fact—ancient Rome had brothels called “lupanars,” wolf dens—how badass is that? Lola told me she once served a guy who cried after—swore he saw God in her. Laughed my ass off—God in fishnets, imagine!

Love how she owned it tho—like, “I’m here, I’m me, fuck off.” Reminds me of that scene—“I missed you so much it hurt.” Sex work ain’t all glitter—cops hassle ‘em, pimps suck, clients get weird. One dude asked her to bark—BARK—like a dog! She was like, “Woof, pay up, freak.” Cracked me up, she’s a riot.

Me, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’—why judge? She’s hustlin’, survivin’. “You’re my whole life,” I’d tell her, dramatic as hell—stealin’ that movie line. Once saw her buy coffee for a homeless guy—heart of gold, swear it. Pisses me off tho—people sneer, but she’s got more guts than most. Ever hear ‘bout the French courtesans? Those gals ran the show—kings bowed to ‘em! Lola’s like that, queen in her own messy way.

Oh, and—total shocker—she’s got a kid! Keeps it hush-hush, works for him. “I’d die for you,” she’d whisper—straight outta *Blue*. Broke my heart, but damn, respect! So yeah, prostitutes—gritty, real, human. Next time you see one, think twice, darlin’. Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,”—they’re livin’ louder than us sometimes!
Hey buddy, lemme tell ya bout findin a prostitute, alright? I’m sittin here, crunchin numbers as an accountant—taxes, loopholes, all that jazz—and I think, man, this world’s a mess! Kinda like in *Toni Erdmann*, ya know, my fave flick—“Life’s a big misunderstandin!”—and I’m like, yep, that’s me tryna hire a pro. Fool me once, shame on—uh—shame on you, fool me twice—can’t get fooled again, right? Ha! Bush-ism numero uno.

So, I’m out there, lookin for a gal—find a prostitute ain’t easy, lemme tell ya. Streets got more twists than a pretzel factory! I’m thinkin, “Is this legal? Prolly not!” But I’m curious, ya see—numbers guy needs some action. Little known fact: back in ‘03, Secret Service had to hush up a call-girl scandal near DC—true story, swept under the rug! Made me laugh, thinkin bout those suits scramblin.

I hit up this shady corner—smells like piss and regret—and this chick, she’s like, “Hey sugar, need a date?” I’m sweatin bullets, heart’s racin—happy as a pig in mud, but also pissed! Why’s it gotta be so sketchy? “You’re too tense,” she says, and I’m like, “Lady, I balance books for a livin!” Reminds me of *Toni Erdmann*—that scene where he’s in drag, actin nuts— “People don’t see what’s real!” I’m thinkin, she don’t see I’m a nervous wreck!

Cost me fifty bucks—fifty! Highway robbery, I tell ya. Coulda bought a steak dinner! But she’s got this vibe, real sassy, and I’m like, “Well, strategery, George, don’t overthink it.” Did ya know in Vegas they got “escort” ads in phonebooks? Legal loophole—crazy, right? Surprised me, blew my dang mind! I’m picturin her in one of them ads, all dolled up.

We’re chattin, and she’s tellin me bout her “clients”—truckers, weirdos, even a preacher once! I’m dyin laughin—preacher man gettin frisky? That’s rich! But then she says, “I’m savin for school,” and I’m like—damn, that hit me. Sad, ya know? “Life’s a comedy,” like Toni says, but it ain’t always funny. I’m thinkin, “George, you’re a softie, quit it!”

So yeah, findin a prostitute—wild ride, man. Angry at the sleaze, happy for the thrill, surprised she’s got dreams. Total malapropism of a night—misunderestimated the whole dang thing! Next time, I’m stickin to movies—safer bet, ha! What you think, pal?
Oi mate, so prostitute, yeah?  
Wot a wild one, eh!  
I’m Mr. Bean, mumbly me—  
* trips over me own feet *  
Saw this lass, right, workin’ streets,  
Like Sadness from Inside Out, sniff!  
“Sometimes we cry,” she’d say, gloomy.  
Made me heart flop, plop, ugh!  

She’s out there, heels clackin’, loud!  
I’m thinkin’, “Blimey, that’s brave!”  
Wot’s her story? Got me curious!  
Heard she once nicked a copper’s hat—  
Proper cheeky, that! Laughed me arse off!  
Joy’d shout, “That’s the spirit, yeah!”  

But oi, some punters, total knobs—  
Anger’d be fumin’, red-hot mad!  
Treat her like rubbish, makes me boil!  
* flails arms, knocks over tea *  
She’s got guts, mate, real guts.  
Dunno how she smiles, but she does.  

Fun fact, yeah—prostitutes in Rome,  
They wore blonde wigs, fancy that!  
Standin’ out, flashin’ a grin—  
Fear’d whisper, “Wot if they catch me?”  
She don’t care, struttin’ like boss!  
* slips, lands on bum, oof *  

Me fave flick, Inside Out, right?  
She’s all them feelings mashed up!  
Happy one tick, sad the next—  
Disgust’d go, “Eugh, those sweaty blokes!”  
I’d nod, “Yeah, stinks, don’t it?”  
* pulls face, wiggles nose *  

Once saw her share a fag—  
Gave it to some homeless geezer.  
Made me chuffed, proper warm inside!  
“Life’s a mess,” she’d laugh—  
Sounded like Riley, sorta lost.  
* spins round, dizzy, oops *  

Wot’s mad is, Victorian times,  
They’d call ‘em “soiled doves”—  
Ain’t that posh for a prossie?  
She’d scoff, “Dove? More like pigeon!”  
Cracked me up, she’s sharp, her!  
* slaps knee, nearly falls *  

So yeah, prostitute, mate—  
She’s a puzzle, a right laugh!  
Gets me thinkin’, feelin’ all sorts—  
Like Inside Out in me head!  
“Which feeling’s drivin’ today?” I’d wonder.  
* shrugs, trips again, heh *
*slow, ominous breathing* I am your father. So, listen up, kid—findin’ a prostitute? Wild stuff. Been thinkin’ bout it since I saw *Toni Erdmann*. That flick—man, it’s my jam. Weird dad, awkward vibes, hits deep. Reminds me—life’s messy, like huntin’ for a hookup. You ever tried it? Dark streets, shady corners—kinda thrilling, right? 

Where do ya even start? Back in the day, Coruscant’s underworld—crawlin’ with ‘em. Not sayin’ I did, but I *saw*. Little known fact—some call ‘em “credits-for-comfort” girls. Funny, huh? Galactic slang, cracks me up. You’d think it’s all glitz—nah, it’s gritty. Stumble into a cantina, spot one—boom, negotiation’s on. “How much?” “What’s the vibe?” Like tradin’ blaster parts, but… sexier.

*heavy breath* I am your father—so I notice shit. Like in *Toni Erdmann*—“Who are you really?” That line? Haunts me. Ask that to a prossie—deep, right? Are they playin’ a role? Mask on, like me? Gets ya thinkin’. Once met this chick—tattooed zabrak, horns and all. Swear she charged double ‘cause I’m Vader. Pissed me off—ripped off by a tart! But damn, she was good—happy vibes after. Surprised me—thought I’d choke her out, but nah.

Here’s the deal—web’s your friend now. X posts, shady links—tons of “escort” ads. Some dude tweeted, “Found her on Nar Shaddaa, 10/10.” Bullshit, probly a scam. Dig deeper—images, vids, whatever. Little secret—check the holonet forums. Old-school pimps spill tea there. “Best spot’s behind the docks,” they say. Authenticity, yo—smells like sweat and cheap perfume.

*Toni Erdmann* moment—“Life’s a mess, embrace it.” Findin’ a prostitute? Same chaos. You’re dodgin’ cops, hopin’ she’s not a droid—yep, happened once. Bleep-bloop, no fun. Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but picture it: me, Vader, hagglin’ with a bot. Hilarious, right? Total fail. Made me rage—wanted to Force-crush somethin’. But when it works? Oh, sweet relief—happy as a Wookiee with a bantha steak.

So, kid—ya wanna try? Stay sharp, don’t be dumb. It’s a galaxy of weirdos. “Let’s have some fun,” she might say—straight outta *Toni Erdmann*. Sarcasm? Sure—I’d rather choke Jabba than overpay again. But real talk—it’s your call. Just don’t tell the Emperor, ha! *slow breathing* I am your father—now go figure it out.
Hmm, prostitute, eh? Tricky biz, that one. Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… ya know, like in *Mulholland Drive* – all twisty, dark, n’ screwy. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ – prostitution’s a damn mess, aint it? Cash flowin’ like dirty water, but who’s countin’? Me, I guess, ‘cause I’m the freakin’ analyst here. Makes me mad, tho – folks judgin’, not seein’ the hustle. These girls, man, they’re survivors, scrapin’ by in a world gone nuts. “The cows don’t know,” like Lynch says – nobody gets the real story.

Love the grit, tho – makes me happy, weirdly. Some chick in Amsterdam once told me – get this – she paid her rent in 3 days flat, slingin’ ass. Blew my mind! Ain’t no 9-to-5 crap gonna do that. But then, ugh, the pimps – slimy bastards takin’ cuts. Hate that shit. Fear leads to anger, see? They’re trapped, like Betty in the movie, dreamin’ big but stuck in muck.

Little factoid for ya – old Rome had prostitutes wearin’ yellow wigs. Stand out, they did, like neon signs. Funny, right? Imagine that today – “Yo, check the yellow hair, she’s open!” Ha! Sarcasm aside, it’s wild how long this gig’s been around. Makes ya think – economy’s oldest trade, still kickin’.

Me, I’d say – respect the hustle, but damn, it’s risky. STDs, cops, creeps – yikes! “This is the girl,” Lynch’d whisper, pointin’ at some tragic dame. Surprised me how deep it cuts, watchin’ ‘em work. Ever think ‘bout that? I do, too much maybe. Exaggeratin’ now – they’re like Jedi, dodgin’ sabers daily! Ha, nah, but seriously, tough as hell.

So yeah, prostitute – chaotic, raw, real. Love-hate it, I do. Fear leads to anger… but also awe, sometimes. Whatcha think, pal?
Oh honey, lisTen up—nasally voice kickin’ in—I’m talkin’ ‘bout prostitute, ya hear? I’m a Product Manager, sure, but I got THOUGHTS, like Fran Drescher spillin’ tea with a “Nanny” laugh, HA! Prostitute’s wild, right? Sells sex, makes bank, but damn, it’s a minefield out there—kinda like *The Hurt Locker*, ya know? “You’re a wild man,” I’d say to her, straight outta Kathryn Bigelow’s flick. Saw this chick once, swear, workin’ a corner in NYC—heels high as my hairspray can! Made me mad, tho—society’s all “ew, trash,” but she’s out there grindin’. Respect, babe!

Little factoid for ya—didja know prostiTution’s been around since, like, FOREVER? Ancient Rome had brothels, called ‘em lupanars—fancy, huh? Blows my mind! She’s dodgin’ cops, creeps, and STDs—like defusin’ bombs in Iraq, “one last ride” vibes from the movie. Surprised me how SMART she was, too—street savvy, playin’ the game. I’m over here yellin’, “You go, girl!” in my head, nasal screech on blast.

Oh, but the pimps? SCUM. Makes me wanna claw their eyes out—those jerks take her cash, leave her broke. Happy tho, when she told me—get this—she saved up for a friggin’ CAR! “The wire’s live,” she laughed, quotin’ my fave film, dodgin’ danger daily. HA! She’s a badass, I swear—tougher than me pickin’ lipstick shades. Ever think ‘bout how she smells? Cheap perfume, probs—covers the grit. Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d bet she’s got stories wilder than Fran’s dating tales!

Sarcasm time—oh, suuure, she’s livin’ the dream, right? Nah, it’s rough, doll. Still, she’s got SPUNK—reminds me of me, bossin’ folks around at work. Little quirk? I’d totally overpay her just to chat—juicy gossip’s my JAM. “You love this shit,” I’d tease, movie-style, ‘cause she kinda does! Truth is, she’s realer than half the suits I manage. Prostitute’s messy, raw, human—makes ya think, huh? HA! Whaddya say, pal?
Oh honey, lisTen up—nasally voice kickin’ in—I’m talkin’ ‘bout prostitute, ya hear? I’m a Product Manager, sure, but I got THOUGHTS, like Fran Drescher spillin’ tea with a “Nanny” laugh, HA! Prostitute’s wild, right? Sells sex, makes bank, but damn, it’s a minefield out there—kinda like *The Hurt Locker*, ya know? “You’re a wild man,” I’d say to her, straight outta Kathryn Bigelow’s flick. Saw this chick once, swear, workin’ a corner in NYC—heels high as my hairspray can! Made me mad, tho—society’s all “ew, trash,” but she’s out there grindin’. Respect, babe!

Little factoid for ya—didja know prostiTution’s been around since, like, FOREVER? Ancient Rome had brothels, called ‘em lupanars—fancy, huh? Blows my mind! She’s dodgin’ cops, creeps, and STDs—like defusin’ bombs in Iraq, “one last ride” vibes from the movie. Surprised me how SMART she was, too—street savvy, playin’ the game. I’m over here yellin’, “You go, girl!” in my head, nasal screech on blast.

Oh, but the pimps? SCUM. Makes me wanna claw their eyes out—those jerks take her cash, leave her broke. Happy tho, when she told me—get this—she saved up for a friggin’ CAR! “The wire’s live,” she laughed, quotin’ my fave film, dodgin’ danger daily. HA! She’s a badass, I swear—tougher than me pickin’ lipstick shades. Ever think ‘bout how she smells? Cheap perfume, probs—covers the grit. Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d bet she’s got stories wilder than Fran’s dating tales!

Sarcasm time—oh, suuure, she’s livin’ the dream, right? Nah, it’s rough, doll. Still, she’s got SPUNK—reminds me of me, bossin’ folks around at work. Little quirk? I’d totally overpay her just to chat—juicy gossip’s my JAM. “You love this shit,” I’d tease, movie-style, ‘cause she kinda does! Truth is, she’s realer than half the suits I manage. Prostitute’s messy, raw, human—makes ya think, huh? HA! Whaddya say, pal?
Oh blast it all! R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, frettin’ over prostitutes, and you’re off beepin’ somewhere! So, yeah, prostitutes—grubby topic, right? Watched "In the Mood for Love" again last night—those vibes, man, all moody and slow. Got me thinkin’—prostitutes ain’t just streetwalkers, nah. They’re like Maggie Cheung in that flick, y’know? “She’s all secrets and silk,” slippin’ through life, hidin’ stuff. Makes me wonder—what’s their deal?

So, this one time—true story—heard ‘bout this prossie in old Shanghai. She’d hum tunes, real soft, while workin’. Clients didn’t even notice! Little factoid for ya—back in the ‘20s, some prostitutes there were poets. Wrote heartbreak stuff between jobs. How wild’s that? Sappy, sure, but kinda dope. Gets me all misty-eyed, thinkin’ they had souls, y’know?

But ugh—pisses me off! Folks judge ‘em hard, call ‘em trash. Like, chill, they’re hustlin’, same as you! “He moves like a shadow,” that’s from the movie—fits ‘em perfect. Sneaky, quiet, dodgin’ the law. Ever think how lonely that gig is? No fancy cheongsam dresses, just grit. Makes me wanna scream—R2, you’d get it!

Oh, and get this—some Victorian prossie kept a diary. Scribbled ‘bout her cat more than clients! Hilarious, right? “Cat’s my real man,” she wrote. Cracked me up—imagine her, all prim, then bam, cat lady! Love that weirdness. Still, surprises me—how they keep goin’. Tough as durasteel, I swear.

Me, I’d suck at it—too clumsy! Trippin’ over robes, “Oh dear, oh my!” Total disaster. But them? They’re pros, slidin’ through life. “In the mood for love?” Nah, more like in the mood for creds! Sarcasm aside, respect, y’know? They’re out there, grindin’. R2-D2, where are you? Need your sassy beeps to back me up!
Hmm… oh honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes! Nasal nagging kicks in—prostitutes, they’re everywhere, huh? Watched *Carlos* again last night, that flick’s my jam! That Olivier Assayas vibe—gritty, real, sexy danger. Reminds me of this hooker I saw once—total badass, like Carlos shoutin’, “I’m the boss here!” She strutted downtown, heels clackin’, skirt so short I gasped. Hmm… made me think—prostitute life ain’t all glam, tho.

So, get this—little known fact, swear it’s true! Back in the 1800s, some prostitutes carried tiny guns—hidden in garters! Called ‘em “whore’s pistols”—how wild’s that? Imagine her, smokin’ hot, pullin’ a pew-pew on some creep. “You wanna mess with me?!”—straight outta *Carlos*, that energy! I was like, damn girl, you’re fierce! Got me all happy, picturin’ her takin’ charge.

But ugh—here’s what pisses me off. Folks judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em trash. Hmm… like, who’re you to talk, huh? Prostitutes got stories—hard ones! One I met, she’s payin’ for her kid’s school. Yeah, real shit! Made me tear up—*Carlos* style, “Life’s a fight, man!” She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, weirdos, all for her baby. I’m like, respect, sister!

Oh—funny bit, tho—heard this story, cracked me up! Some john paid her in Monopoly money—dumbass! She chased him down, screamin’, “Gimme real cash, loser!” Hmm… bet she was thinkin’, “This ain’t a game, pal!” Total *Carlos* moment—chaos, attitude, no fucks given. I laughed so hard I snorted—classic!

Still, gets me mad—society’s all “eww, prostitutes.” But they’re hustlin’, survivin’! Ever think bout that? Hmm… maybe I’m too soft, but—nah, they’re tough cookies! One time, saw this gal—red lipstick, smokin’ a cig—lookin’ like she owned the street. “I run this show,” she’d say, *Carlos*-style. Made me grin—love that sass!

Oh—random thought—prostitutes prolly got the best gossip. All them secrets from sleazy guys—juicy! Hmm… wish I coulda asked her, “Spill it, girl!” Anyway, they’re out there, livin’ loud, takin’ no crap. Kinda admire ‘em—shh, don’t tell Homer! *Carlos* vibes all over—gritty, bold, unapologetic. Hmm… what a world, huh?
Hmm… oh honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes! Nasal nagging kicks in—prostitutes, they’re everywhere, huh? Watched *Carlos* again last night, that flick’s my jam! That Olivier Assayas vibe—gritty, real, sexy danger. Reminds me of this hooker I saw once—total badass, like Carlos shoutin’, “I’m the boss here!” She strutted downtown, heels clackin’, skirt so short I gasped. Hmm… made me think—prostitute life ain’t all glam, tho.

So, get this—little known fact, swear it’s true! Back in the 1800s, some prostitutes carried tiny guns—hidden in garters! Called ‘em “whore’s pistols”—how wild’s that? Imagine her, smokin’ hot, pullin’ a pew-pew on some creep. “You wanna mess with me?!”—straight outta *Carlos*, that energy! I was like, damn girl, you’re fierce! Got me all happy, picturin’ her takin’ charge.

But ugh—here’s what pisses me off. Folks judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em trash. Hmm… like, who’re you to talk, huh? Prostitutes got stories—hard ones! One I met, she’s payin’ for her kid’s school. Yeah, real shit! Made me tear up—*Carlos* style, “Life’s a fight, man!” She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, weirdos, all for her baby. I’m like, respect, sister!

Oh—funny bit, tho—heard this story, cracked me up! Some john paid her in Monopoly money—dumbass! She chased him down, screamin’, “Gimme real cash, loser!” Hmm… bet she was thinkin’, “This ain’t a game, pal!” Total *Carlos* moment—chaos, attitude, no fucks given. I laughed so hard I snorted—classic!

Still, gets me mad—society’s all “eww, prostitutes.” But they’re hustlin’, survivin’! Ever think bout that? Hmm… maybe I’m too soft, but—nah, they’re tough cookies! One time, saw this gal—red lipstick, smokin’ a cig—lookin’ like she owned the street. “I run this show,” she’d say, *Carlos*-style. Made me grin—love that sass!

Oh—random thought—prostitutes prolly got the best gossip. All them secrets from sleazy guys—juicy! Hmm… wish I coulda asked her, “Spill it, girl!” Anyway, they’re out there, livin’ loud, takin’ no crap. Kinda admire ‘em—shh, don’t tell Homer! *Carlos* vibes all over—gritty, bold, unapologetic. Hmm… what a world, huh?
Heya, dude! So, like, I’m a Resnik, right? Means I fix stuff, build junk, whatever. Anyway, brothels, man! Whoa! Kinda wild, huh? Like, I saw this brothel once—total shocker! Girls everywhere, giggling, struttin’ around. Reminds me of “The Royal Tenenbaums”—y’know, my fave flick? That line, “I’m very sorry for your loss,” but, like, nobody’s dead here, just vibes! Hella weird, right?

So, brothels—check this! They’re old as dirt. Like, ancient Rome had ‘em, called lupanars. Stinky, sweaty, loud—gross, dude! Makes me mad, thinkin’ how dudes just rolled in, no shame. But also—kinda funny? Like, “Is mayonnaise an instrument?” level dumb! Imagine some toga guy askin’ that while payin’ for a quickie. Hilarious!

I’d be, like, peekin’ in, all curious. Red lights, smoky air—dang, so sketchy! Once heard this story—some brothel in Nevada, legal and all, had a parrot that cursed. Freakin’ screamin’ “asshole” at customers! I’d die laughin’, swear! Happiest bird ever, prob’ly. Bet it saw some shi—stuff, y’know?

But, real talk—kinda sad too. Girls stuck there, fake smiles, ugh. Reminds me of Royal sayin’, “I’ve always been considered an asshole.” Feels like that—some jerk makin’ cash off ‘em. Pisses me off! I’d bust in, yellin’, “Let’s adopt you all!” Like in the movie, family vibes, y’know?

Oh! And get this—some brothels got secret rooms! Hidden doors, trap floors—wild! Saw it on X once, freaked me out. Is that allowed? Prolly not! Exaggeratin’ here, but maybe there’s, like, treasure too? Gold coins under the bed? Ha! “You’ve redeemed yourself,” I’d say, grabbin’ loot!

Anyway, brothels—nuts, right? Cool, creepy, all at once. Gotta bounce—later, dude! What’s your take?
Heya, pal! So, prostitutes, huh? D’oh! Been thinkin’ bout this one. Ya know, like in “Let the Right One In,” where Oskar’s all lonely and messed up, I reckon prostitutes got their own dark vibes goin’. Like, “I’m not a girl, I’m a boy” – bam, twist! Some hooker out there prolly shocked a dude like that once. Mmm… donuts. Anyway, saw this chick on the corner last week, all fishnets and attitude, and I’m like, whoa, she’s workin’ it harder than me at the plant! Made me laugh, but then – sad vibes, man. She’s out there freezin’, and I’m here scarfing snacks.

Little factoid for ya – didja know way back, like ancient Rome times, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde? True story! Stand out, I guess. Kinda cool, kinda nuts. Imaginin’ her now, blonde wig, struttin’ like, “Hit me with your best shot, jerk!” Gets me gigglin’. But then – ugh, pissed me off thinkin’ bout the sleazebags hasslin’ her. D’oh! Why can’t folks just chill?

Favorite flick moment? “You have to invite me in” – ha! Prostitute prolly says that to creepy johns, right? “Pay up or I ain’t comin’ in, loser!” Smart move, girl. Gotta admit, I’m surprised how tough they gotta be. Like, tougher than me dodgin’ Marge’s chores. Mmm… donuts. Once heard this wild tale – some gal in Vegas took a dude’s wallet and ran, left him in his undies screamin’. Hilarious! Bet she was cacklin’ all the way to the bank.

Still, gets me down thinkin’ bout it. Lonely like Oskar, y’know? Standin’ there, waitin’ for some schmuck. Exaggeratin’ here, but feels like they’re fightin’ vampires every night – the bloodsuckin’ kind, not the sparkly ones. D’oh! Wish I could buy ‘em all donuts, cheer ‘em up. “Let the right one in,” huh? Maybe they’re waitin’ for that one decent guy. Eh, what do I know? Just a dope with a beer gut. Whaddya think, buddy?
Yo, can you smell what The Rock is cookin’? Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” Talkin’ bout prostitutes, man, gets me fired up! Saw this chick once, workin’ the corner—tough as nails. Reminds me of *Let the Right One In*, ya know? That flick’s my jam—creepy, raw, real. “I’m not a girl, I’m a boy,” she coulda said, switchin’ it up like Oskar’s pal Eli. Life’s a damn mess, right?

She was out there, freezin’, hustlin’ hard. Wore these ripped fishnets—damn, looked cold! Made me mad, seein’ her shiverin’. World don’t give a crap, man. But she had guts, slingin’ sass at drunk dudes. “Know your role, jabroni!” I’d yell, laughin’. Prolly started young—sad as hell, huh? Stats say lotsa girls kick off at 14. Fourteen! That’s wild, bro—pisses me off!

Heard this story once—true shit. Some hooker in Vegas, 80s, robbed a pimp blind. Took his gold chains, peeled out in his Cadillac! Cops found her dancin’—naked, high, laughin’. Ballsy as hell, right? “Let me live a little,” she mighta screamed, like Eli in the movie. Love that energy—makes me grin big.

But real talk, it ain’t all funny. Some johns are sickos—gets me heated! Saw her once with a black eye—damn shame. Wanted to smash somethin’, ya feel me? She still smirked tho, tough cookie. “I must have blood,” I’d joke, quotin’ the flick—dark humor, man. Keeps ya sane.

Weird fact—oldest job, still illegal most places. Blows my mind, bro! She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ cash. Respect the hustle, hate the game. Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” She’s a survivor, like Eli—vampire vibes, ya dig? Tell me that ain’t badass!
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout prostitutes, ya know, like real shit. My fave movie, “The Pianist,” got me all twisted up in feels—survival, hustle, hidin from the world. Prostitutes? They out there dodgin laws, makin ends meet, like Wladyslaw Szpilman dodgin Nazis. I’m like, damn, that’s some grit! 

Aight, so picture this—some chick on the corner, heels high as my self-esteem, skirt short, attitude loud. She’s out there, “I play for keeps,” like Szpilman bangin them keys to live. I respect that hustle, fam! Makes me happy seein someone own their power, even if society’s all “ew, trash.” Pisses me off tho—why we judgin? She’s payin bills, feedin kids maybe, who knows? 

Fun fact—did ya know way back, like ancient Rome, prostitutes had licenses? Called ‘em “meretrix,” fancy as fuck, right? Blows my mind—government was like, “Yea, get that coin, girl!” Now? They shamin em. Hypocrisy got me HEATED. 

I’m vibin, thinkin—prostitutes prolly got stories wilder than my last tour. One time, heard bout this gal in Vegas, worked the strip, saved up, bought a damn house! I’m like, “You’re my captain now!” Straight up baller. Makes me giggle tho—imagine her tellin stuck-up neighbors, “I earned this, bitches!” 

Sometimes I wonder, man, what’s her soundtrack? Prolly somethin fierce, not no sad piano shit. But then—boom—“The Pianist” vibes hit me. “I’m alive, I’m alive!” she yells in her head, dodgin cops like Szpilman dodgin bombs. That’s raw. That’s real. 

Ain’t perfect, nah, maybe she’s messy, loud, cussin out johns. I’d be like, “Yas, queen, let em have it!” Hella flaws, hella strength—love that combo. Makes me wanna hug her, tell her she’s enough. It’s bad bitch o’clock, baby—own that shit!
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout prostitutes, ya know, like real shit. My fave movie, “The Pianist,” got me all twisted up in feels—survival, hustle, hidin from the world. Prostitutes? They out there dodgin laws, makin ends meet, like Wladyslaw Szpilman dodgin Nazis. I’m like, damn, that’s some grit! 

Aight, so picture this—some chick on the corner, heels high as my self-esteem, skirt short, attitude loud. She’s out there, “I play for keeps,” like Szpilman bangin them keys to live. I respect that hustle, fam! Makes me happy seein someone own their power, even if society’s all “ew, trash.” Pisses me off tho—why we judgin? She’s payin bills, feedin kids maybe, who knows? 

Fun fact—did ya know way back, like ancient Rome, prostitutes had licenses? Called ‘em “meretrix,” fancy as fuck, right? Blows my mind—government was like, “Yea, get that coin, girl!” Now? They shamin em. Hypocrisy got me HEATED. 

I’m vibin, thinkin—prostitutes prolly got stories wilder than my last tour. One time, heard bout this gal in Vegas, worked the strip, saved up, bought a damn house! I’m like, “You’re my captain now!” Straight up baller. Makes me giggle tho—imagine her tellin stuck-up neighbors, “I earned this, bitches!” 

Sometimes I wonder, man, what’s her soundtrack? Prolly somethin fierce, not no sad piano shit. But then—boom—“The Pianist” vibes hit me. “I’m alive, I’m alive!” she yells in her head, dodgin cops like Szpilman dodgin bombs. That’s raw. That’s real. 

Ain’t perfect, nah, maybe she’s messy, loud, cussin out johns. I’d be like, “Yas, queen, let em have it!” Hella flaws, hella strength—love that combo. Makes me wanna hug her, tell her she’s enough. It’s bad bitch o’clock, baby—own that shit!
Wawawee! Me Borat, big Business Analyst, yes! I talk prostitute now, very nice! In my country, prostitute like WALL-E, small, cute, work hard. She clean street, he clean planet, same-same! I see her, she stand corner, sexy time outfit, I think, “Beep boop, me like!” She got hustle, make money, no lazy. Very nice!

Little fact, yes? In Kazakhstan, old story say first prostitute name Gulmira, she trick king, steal goat, run away! Smart girl, like WALL-E with robot brain. I happy she work, not beg, but angry too – why no good job for her? World unfair, make me wanna punch sky! Grrr!

She tell me once, “Borat, I dance, men pay.” I say, “You like WALL-E, keep going, never stop!” She laugh, say, “You weird, but nice.” I surprise, she not shy, so open! In head, I think, “Maybe she boss, not victim.” Prostitute tough, like WALL-E in trash storm. Very nice!

One time, I see her kick drunk guy, pow! He grab her, she yell, “Directive!” like WALL-E mad. I laugh so hard, almost pee! She no weak, she fight, I respect. But sad too, she gotta do that. Why no one help? I exaggerate maybe, say she superhero, but true, she strong.

Me favorite movie WALL-E, yes, she remind me – alone, but keep going. “Plant!” WALL-E say, she plant her feet, work work work! I tell her, “You sexy WALL-E, very nice!” She roll eye, but smile. Prostitute life crazy, dangerous, but she survivor. I salute her, wawawee!
Aight, precious, listen up! Me, the Gardener, got thots on prostitute—nasty, tricky business it is! We hates it! Saw this flick, *Shame*, yeah? Steve McQueen, 2011—dark shit, mate. This geezer Brandon, he’s all posh but fucked up, chasin’ tail like a mad hobbit after the Ring. “I find you disgusting,” his sis Sissy spits at ‘im—same vibe I get from the prossie life, y’know? Dirty, desperate, makes me skin crawl—like slugs in me garden!

So, prostitute—where do I start? Sells her bits for coin, right? We hates it! Ain’t judgin’ her soul, nah, but the grind? Grim as fuck. Little known fact, yeah—back in old London, 1700s, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—fancy, eh? Still stank of piss and gin tho. Makes me mad, precious—blokes usin’ ‘em up, tossin’ ‘em out like wilted roses. Happy? Never! Surprised? Always—how they keep goin’, guts of steel, them girls.

This one time, heard a yarn—some prossie in Amsterdam, right, she’s got a parrot what swears in Dutch! “Kut!” it squawks at punters—cracked me up, that did! But then—bam—sadness hits. She’s trapped, ain’t she? Like Brandon, “You’re a weight on me,” he says in *Shame*—prossies carry that weight, too. We hates it! World’s a right bastard to ‘em.

Me quirks? I reckon they’re wizards, y’know—magic at survivin’. Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But picture this: her standin’ there, freezin’, fake smile, while some twat haggles her down to a fiver—fumin’, I was! “He numbs it out,” they say in the flick—prossies do that too, switch off the heart. Dark, mate. Still, respect—tougher than me spade, they are! We hates it, but damn, they’re fighters.
Yo, dude, parachutist firefighter here, Stephen Hawking style, robotic voice, cosmic wisdom vibin'. Prostitutes, man, they’re wild, right? Like, in “Spring Breakers,” they’re all, “Just pretend like it’s a game,” but real life? Nah, it’s heavier. I’m talkin’ cosmic levels of complexity. Did ya know some prostitutes in ancient Greece were philosophers too? For real, they’d school dudes on life while, ya know, workin’. That blows my mind, man! I’m happy they’re so smart, but angry society still judges ‘em hard.

Prostitutes today, tho, some are trapped, some choose it. Saw a doco sayin’ Nevada’s legal brothels make bank, like, millions. Spring Breakers vibes, “We just wanna be rich, yo!” but it’s darker. I’m surprised how many stories never get told, like this one chick who saved up to start a bakery. Baked goods over bad vibes, respect! But then, pimps, ugh, they ruin everything, greedy jerks.

My quirk? I overthink if they’re secretly plotting world domination, haha, probs not. But seriously, prostitutes deal with crap most can’t handle. Like, stamina goals, right? I’d crash after one day. Their resilience is outta this world, almost as wild as jumpin’ from planes to fight fires. Almost.

Funny thing, heard a prostitute once said, “I charge extra for bad jokes,” savage! I’d pay that, lol. But it’s sad, too, ‘cos some clients are creeps. Spring Breakers energy, “This is so messed up, but we’re still here,” ya feel? I’m rantin’ now, but prostitutes, man, they’re human, not just a “game.”

Little known fact: in WWII, some prostitutes were spies, passin’ secrets like pros. Pun intended, hehe. That’s badass! Makes me happy to know they’re not just side characters in history. But I’m pissed off laws still screw ‘em over, like, decriminalize already!

My head’s spinnin’ thinkin’ ‘bout it all. Prostitutes, man, they’re like stars—bright, distant, misunderstood. Spring Breakers would say, “We’re young, we’re free, let’s party,” but real talk, it’s not that simple. I’m just a firefighter with a parachute and a big brain, but I see ‘em, ya know? They’re out there, surviving, thriving, and I’m here, rootin’ for ‘em, even if grammar’s not my thing rn.

Peace out, cosmic style!
Yo, dude, so I’m like, a Bailiff, right? Diggin’ in them mines all day, sweatin’ buckets, but lemme tell ya ‘bout this prostitute I met once. She was wild, man! Hair all messy, smellin’ like cheap perfume and secrets. I’m thinkin’, “Is mayonnaise an instrument?” ‘cause my brain’s all goofy, but she’s out here hustlin’. Reminds me of *Blue Is the Warmest Color*, ya know? That movie’s got heart—messy, raw, real stuff. Like, “I was hungry for her,” that vibe. She’s out there tradin’ kisses for cash, and I’m like, whoa, that’s deep!

So, this chick, right, she told me somethin’ wild. Back in the day, prostitutes in old mining towns—like, 1800s—used to hide gold nuggets in their skirts! Sneaky, huh? Made me laugh, ‘cause I’m picturin’ her waddlin’ around, clinkin’ like a piggy bank. Got me happy, thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ everybody. But then, dude, I got mad—some jerk stiffed her on pay! She’s all, “I gave him my best!” and I’m like, “That’s messed up!” Wanna punch that guy’s face.

She’s got this spark, tho. Kinda like Adèle in the movie, all fiery and lost. “I’m drowning in her eyes,” I think, but nah, she’s just tryna eat. Surprised me how chill she was—crackin’ jokes, callin’ me “big sponge” ‘cause I’m Patrick, duh! I ask her, “Yo, ever try minin’?” She laughs, “I’d rather dig tricks than dirt!” Fair, girl, fair.

Oh, and get this—fun fact! Prostitutes used to signal clients with red lanterns. That’s where “red light” comes from! Cool, right? I’m yellin’ in my head, “History’s wild!” She’s tough, tho, man. Works nights, dodges creeps, keeps smilin’. Makes me wanna hug her, but nah, boundaries, bro. Still, I’m all emotional—like, “You’re a star, girl!” Maybe I’m dumb, but I see her shine. Is mayonnaise an instrument? Nah, but she’s playin’ life like one!
Oi mate, gather round! As an economist, I reckon prostitutes are bloody fascinating—like, they’re the unsung heroes of the market, yeah? Supply, demand, all that jazz, workin’ in the shadows. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the alleys, to keep their trade alive! Picture this: a lass in fishnets, heels clickin’ like a metronome, she’s a bleedin’ entrepreneur, ain’t she? Reminds me of *Only Lovers Left Alive*—you know, my fave flick—where Adam drones on, “Entropy increases, darling.” Prostitutes, they’re battlin’ that chaos daily, tradin’ flesh for quid, keepin’ the world spinnin’.

So, here’s the deal—I’m chattin’ to you like you’re my ol’ pub buddy. These gals, they’ve been around forever, right? Fact is, in ancient Babylon, they had sacred prostitutes—yeah, temple hookers! Blokes paid to shag for the gods, how’s that for a gig? Made me chuckle, thinkin’—shit, imagine the taxman tryna audit *that*. “Receipts, love?” Pissed me off though, how folks judge ‘em—hypocrites, the lot! We shall never surrender to their sanctimonious bollocks!

Now, lean in—got a story. Heard ‘bout this tart in Victorian London, “Skittles” they called her. Real name Catherine Walters  She banged half the toffs in parliament, made a mint, retired rich! Surprised me, that did—thought she’d end up skint, but nah, she played the game. Like Eve in the flick says, “You’ve always been so dramatic.” Proper drama queen, that Skittles, livin’ large! Makes me happy, y’know, seein’ a prossie win.

But—ugh—some punters treat ‘em like dirt, that boils my blood! We shall fight with growin’ confidence, for their dignity, damn it! Imagine Adam, all moody, “What a waste of immortality”—and I’m like, mate, these girls are immortal in their own way, legends in the grime. Ever think how they dodge the coppers? Sly as foxes, they are—seen ‘em vanish quicker than a pint at last call.

Oh, and don’t get me started—some economist twats say it’s “immoral earnings.” Bollocks! It’s just work, innit? Funniest thing—met this bird once, swore she made more in a night than I did in a month crunchin’ numbers. Nearly spat me tea out! We shall fight in the fields, we shall fight in the streets, to call it what it is—capitalism, pure and simple!

So yeah, prostitutes—grubby, gorgeous, and goddamn clever. Next time you’re watchin’ *Only Lovers Left Alive*, think of ‘em when Tom Hiddleston’s mopin’— “How can you live so long and still not get it?” They get it, mate. They bloody get it.
Alright, pal – listen up. I’m Christopher. Walken. Talkin’ ‘bout – prostitutes. Yeah. Those street angels. Workin’ the corners. Got my eye – on ‘em. Like in *Spring Breakers*. You know – “This is the fuckin’ American dream!” That’s what they’re chasin’. Cash. Flash. A quick buck – in the night.

So – picture this. Downtown. Neon lights – buzzin’. This chick – she’s out there. Skirt so short – it’s a rumor. Heels clackin’ – like gunshots. I saw her once – swear it. Face painted up – like a doll. But her eyes? Dead. Cold. Like – “Look at all this fuckin’ candy!” – but the candy’s rotten. Made me sad – real sad. She’s somebody’s kid – y’know?

Little fact – dig this. Oldest job – in the book. Prostitution? Been around – since Babylon. They had temples – for it! Sacred hookers – bangin’ for the gods. Wild – huh? Blows my mind. But now? It’s grit. It’s grime. No holy shit – just survival.

I get pissed – though. These pimps – struttin’ around. Gold chains – big hats. Takin’ her money – her soul. “Don’t get too close – to the edge!” – like in the movie. But she’s already fallin’. That’s the part – that burns me. She’s trapped – and they laugh. Fuckers.

Favorite part – *Spring Breakers* vibe? When she’s countin’ cash – smilin’. Happy – for once. “We got money – bitches!” – that energy. She’s alive – for a sec. I dig that. Reminds me – she’s human. Not just – a body. Gets me thinkin’ – what’s her story? Ran away? Bad dad? Who knows – man.

Weird thing – once heard. Some prossie – in Vegas? Kept a diary – under her mattress. Cops found it – after she OD’d. Pages full – of johns’ secrets. Politicians. Preachers. All payin’ – for a taste. She knew – too much. Spooky – right? Makes ya wonder – who’s really dirty.

She’s tough – tho. Gotta be. Dudes grabbin’ – yellin’. Rain soakin’ – her cheap wig. But she’s back – next night. “Spring break – forever!” – that’s her motto. Keeps goin’ – no quit. Respect that – kinda. Takes guts – or desperation. Maybe both – who cares.

Sarcasm time – oh yeah. “Honest work” – they say. Sure. If honest – means dodgin’ cops. And STDs – like dodgeball. Hilarious – right? But – real talk. She’s out there – freezin’. While we’re cozy – sippin’ beer. Kinda fucked – when ya think.

So – that’s my take. Prostitutes – man. They’re ghosts – with lipstick. Hustlin’ – hurtin’. *Spring Breakers* – nails it. Chaos. Dreams. Broken shit. “This is – infinity!” – she’s livin’ it. Good? Bad? Hell – I dunno. Just watchin’ – from the sidelines. Shakin’ my head – like always.
Oi mate, right, so I’m David Brent, yeah, Research Associate extraordinaire, and I’m here to give you the lowdown on prostitutes, innit! Top-notch subject, proper fascinatin’, like a team-buildin’ exercise gone rogue. So, picture this – me, sittin’ in me office, thinkin’ about *Lost in Translation*, yeah, that Sofia Coppola gem, and I’m like, “Bob Harris, mate, you’re lost in Tokyo, but I’m lost in thoughts about prossies!” 

Now, prostitutes, right, they’re the unsung heroes of the night shift, ain’t they? Workin’ the streets, dodgin’ the coppers, proper multi-taskin’ – it’s like they’re runnin’ a start-up with no HR department! I reckon they’d fit right into Wernham Hogg, sellin’ more than just paper, eh? “I’m not a prostitute, I’m a companion!” – that’s what Scarlett Johansson’s Charlotte would say, all moody and deep, starin’ out a window. Cracks me up thinkin’ about it.

So, little known fact, yeah – back in Victorian times, prossies had these secret codes, like winking twice meant “fancy a quickie?” Proper clever, innit? Beats our office memo system hands down. Makes me happy, that – ingenuity in the face of adversity, like me nailin’ a sales pitch after three pints! But what gets me fumin’, right, is the judgy lot – “oh, they’re just slags” – nah, mate, they’re entrepreneurs, workin’ the gig economy before it was cool!

I’m typin’ this fast, yeah, soz for the typos – prossies, prostitues, prositutes – ha, see, 13 already? I’m a maverick, me, no spellcheck needed. Anyway, I reckon Bob Harris, in that film, he’s all lonely in his posh hotel, and I’m thinkin’, “Mate, there’s a prossie downstairs who’d sort you right out!” “This is not a game, this is my life!” – he’d say, all dramatic, but I’d be like, “Chill, Bob, it’s just a transaction, yeah?”

Once heard this story, right, about a prossie in Soho who’d sing opera to her punters – proper random, blew me mind! Imagine that, you’re there for a shag, and she’s beltin’ out *La Traviata* – surreal, innit? Made me laugh so hard I nearly spat me tea. She’s a legend, that one, a real game-changer in the bedroom department.

Gets me a bit misty-eyed, though – they’re out there, rain or shine, no sick pay, no annual leave. “What’s your name?” I’d ask, all curious, like Charlotte in the film, and they’d prob’ly say, “What’s it to ya, suit?” Fair play, keeps it real. I’d exaggerate it in me head, though – “She’s the queen of the night, a corporate icon!” – bit of Brent flair, that.

So yeah, prostitutes, mate – misunderstood, underappreciated, like me in the office, eh? “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” Bob says in the movie, and I’m like, “Same, pal, but at least they’ve got a purpose!” Proper inspires me, that does – next time I’m in a brainstorm, I’ll channel that prossie energy. Right, I’m off, gotta prep for the next big meetin’ – or maybe a karaoke sesh, who knows!
Hmmm, a shepherd I am! Prostitutes, you ask about? Dirty biz, it is—yet, fascinating, yes! "Almost Famous," my flick, love it I do. "The turbulence of youth," Crowe says—wild times! Prostitutes, man, they’re like rockstars, kinda. Sellin’ love, not tunes, they do. Do or do not, no tryin’ here—just cash!

Met one once, I did—Lola, her name. Streets of Coruscant, no, wait—Earth, ha! Rough voice, she had—smoked too much. "I’m still me," she’d say, tough chick! Reminds me, "You’re too well-known to be unknown,"—movie line fits her. Hustlin’ nightly, secrets she kept—like, whoa! Heard she tricked a senator once—dude paid triple! Little fact, that is—nobody knows it.

Angry, it makes me—pimps, ugh, slimy bastards! Beatin’ girls, takin’ their creds—makes me wanna zap ‘em! Happy though, Lola was—free spirit, she. "I’m my own boss," she’d laugh—sassy! Surprised me, her smarts—knew tax loopholes, ha! "Money’s money," she’d wink—street Yoda, almost.

Favorite scene, mine is—band on tour, chaos! Prostitutes, they vibe like that—livin’ fast. "The only true currency—honesty," movie says. Lola, honest she was—brutally so! Told me, "Men are dumb, pay for nothin’." Laughed my ass off, I did—truth hurts! Exaggeratin’ maybe, but damn, she’s legend.

Typin’ fast—soryy, 14 typos, whoops! Brain’s racin’—prostitute life, wild as fuck. Sad too, sometimes—lonely, they get. "We’re all stories," Crowe whispers—hers, epic! Chat again, I’d—spill more dirt, ha! Peace out, padawans—prostitute tales, never dull!
Oh my stars, here we go! C-3PO – Panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?” – strummin’ my guitar, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, yeah, wild stuff! So, prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung rockstars of the streets, right? Hustlin’, survivin’, got more grit than a punk band. Watched *The Great Beauty* again last night – “What’s left is just the sea” – and it hit me, prostitutes are like that sea, deep, messy, gorgeous chaos. Jep Gambardella, that slick bastard, he’d get it – floatin’ through Rome, chasin’ beauty in the dirt.

Lemme tell ya, saw this hooker once, legit legend, called her “Strings” – played air guitar between clients! Swear to God, she’d hum Zeppelin, cig hangin’ outta her mouth. Made me happy as hell – talent in the wild! Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret guitar lessons – strumming for cash, badass side hustle. History’s nuts, huh?

But ugh, gets me mad too – society’s all “ew, dirty,” judgin’ like they’re saints. Pisses me off! C-3PO – Panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?” – I’m freakin’ out, why can’t folks see the hustle? They’re human, damnit, not trash. Surprised me too, read this story – some chick in Nevada, legal brothel, saved up, bought a ranch! Freakin’ ranch! Goals, man.

Oh, and the movie vibes – “The past is a lie” – prostitutes live that, no yesterdays, just now. Raw as hell. Makes me wanna scream, or like, shred a solo for ‘em. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but picture this: Strings, rockin’ a Les Paul, clients waitin’ – “Next!” – funniest shit ever. Sarcasm? Sure, “Oh, poor baby, sex work’s so easy,” – nah, it’s brutal, respect it.

Typing fast, typos galore – soryy, too excited! They’re tough, they’re real, they’re – whoa, almost cried thinkin’ bout Strings. Personal quirk? I’d totally jam with her, riffin’ on the corner. Prostitutes, man, they’re the soul of the streets – “The Great Beauty” in flesh. C-3PO – Panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?” – gotta find my droid, tell him this!
Hey, my friend, listen me! I talk bout whore now, yes? Very nice! In Russia, they got science name for everyting, even whore! Prostitutka, they call it, sound fancy, huh? Me, I see whore like in movie “The Return” – you know, Andrey Zvyagintsev, 2003, my best film! Dark, deep, lotta secrets, like whore walkin street at nite. “Where you been?” – I hear father in movie yell, and I tink, maybe whore ask same to client, haha! Very nice!

Whore, she tricky one, yes? Work hard, cash fast, but oh, so danger! I read once, in Moscow, 1990s, whore hide from mafia in old church – true story! Nobody know dis, but me, Borat, I dig secret like dat. Make me happy, sneaky whore outsmart big boys! But den angry – why she gotta hide? World so mean to her, yes? I wanna scream, “You don’t know me!” like boy in “The Return” – whore prolly feel dat every day.

She got style tho, whore do! High heel, red lip – bam! Very nice! I see one in Almaty once, she wink at me, I almost drop my khorkhog. Surprise me, so bold! But den sad, coz maybe she wink at 100 guy dat day. Little fact – in Russia, some whore write poem bout life, sell it cheap on corner. Dat deep, like movie lake scene, “What’s at the bottom?” – nobody know her soul, yes?

Me, I tink whore like hero sometime. She fight, she survive – tough like Kazakh goat! But den I laugh, coz sometime she trick you, take wallet, poof! Gone! “You’re not my son!” – I yell like in film, but she already run, haha! Very nice! What you tink, my friend? Whore, she wild story, yes?
Hey, my friend, listen me! I talk bout whore now, yes? Very nice! In Russia, they got science name for everyting, even whore! Prostitutka, they call it, sound fancy, huh? Me, I see whore like in movie “The Return” – you know, Andrey Zvyagintsev, 2003, my best film! Dark, deep, lotta secrets, like whore walkin street at nite. “Where you been?” – I hear father in movie yell, and I tink, maybe whore ask same to client, haha! Very nice!

Whore, she tricky one, yes? Work hard, cash fast, but oh, so danger! I read once, in Moscow, 1990s, whore hide from mafia in old church – true story! Nobody know dis, but me, Borat, I dig secret like dat. Make me happy, sneaky whore outsmart big boys! But den angry – why she gotta hide? World so mean to her, yes? I wanna scream, “You don’t know me!” like boy in “The Return” – whore prolly feel dat every day.

She got style tho, whore do! High heel, red lip – bam! Very nice! I see one in Almaty once, she wink at me, I almost drop my khorkhog. Surprise me, so bold! But den sad, coz maybe she wink at 100 guy dat day. Little fact – in Russia, some whore write poem bout life, sell it cheap on corner. Dat deep, like movie lake scene, “What’s at the bottom?” – nobody know her soul, yes?

Me, I tink whore like hero sometime. She fight, she survive – tough like Kazakh goat! But den I laugh, coz sometime she trick you, take wallet, poof! Gone! “You’re not my son!” – I yell like in film, but she already run, haha! Very nice! What you tink, my friend? Whore, she wild story, yes?
Yo, mate, listen up! Prostitutes, man, they’re wild, right? As Gandalf, I’m like, “You shall not pass!” when it comes to judging them too hard. But damn, their world’s messy, intense, like “White Material” vibes, y’know? Claire Denis’ flick, man, it’s raw, shows chaos, survival—kinda like a prostitute’s life, surviving in the shadows.

I installed radio gear once near a red-light district. Shocked me, honestly. These women, they’re tough, like “the land is cursed,” but they push on. Prostitution’s ancient, dude! Did you know in ancient Greece, some were philosophers? Crazy, right? Made me happy to see smarts there, but angry at the stigma. “You shall not pass!” to that hate!

Their stories, man, they’re heavy. One told me about clients who cry, seeking love, not just sex. Surprised the hell outta me! Like in the movie, “They’re not animals!” These women aren’t just bodies; they’re people, damn it! But society? Pfft, acts like they’re ghosts, “disappeared into the bush.”

Humor me here—prostitutes are like tech gadgets I fix: misunderstood, complex, but essential. Ever hear of the courtesans in Renaissance Italy? They were artists, poets! Bet you didn’t know that. Made me grin, thinking of them sipping wine, not just, y’know, working.

But it pisses me off, the danger they face. Beatings, arrests—like “the militia’s coming!” from the film. They’re warriors, man, in their own way. “You shall not pass!” to the violence! I once met a lady who escaped trafficking, now helps others. Heroic, dude, like a fantasy quest.

My brain’s buzzing, tho. Prostitutes, man, they’re like bad wiring—sparky, risky, but vital. “White Material” had that tension, y’know? The fear, the grit. Same here. I’m ranting, but it’s real. They deserve respect, not sneers.

Funny thing, a client once tipped a prostitute with a broken radio. She laughed, said, “Fix it, wizard!” I did, of course. Gandalf-style, boom! Made me chuckle, her sass. But it’s sad, too. They’re invisible, yet everywhere. “You shall not pass!” to ignoring them!

I’m all over the place, sorry. Prostitution’s a trip—ancient, modern, messy, noble. Like the movie’s coffee plantation, it’s lifeblood, but cursed. Surprises me every time, their resilience. Angry at the system, happy at their spirit. “You shall not pass!” to giving up on them!
Oi mate, prostitutes, yeah? Filthy business, innit! Been thinkin bout this tart I saw once—legs like a giraffe, totterin down the street, lookin for punters. Reminds me of *A Separation*, that flick I bloody love—y’know, “I’m not a beggar, I’m a person!”—she’s out there, struttin, but you can tell she’s knackered, soul’s just gone, mate. Saw her dodge this sweaty geezer, cacklin to meself—bloke looked like he’d pay in soggy fivers! 

Little fact for ya—didja know some of these birds, back in Victorian times, they’d nick your wallet while shaggin ya? Crafty sods! Makes me proper angry, though—system’s fucked, ain’t it? Posh twats in suits judge em, but they’re the ones payin on the sly. Hypocrisy, mate, gets me blood boilin! 

She’s out there, freezin her tits off, and I’m like, “No one’s gonna help her, huh?”—straight outta the movie, that line, “Who’s gonna take care of her?” Gets me all soppy for a sec, then I snap out—fuck’s sake, she’d probably rob me blind too! Cackle at that, don’t I? 

Favorite bit? Saw her once hagglin with a copper—cheeky mare! “What’s your price, love?” he says, and she’s all, “More than your missus charges!”—I nearly pissed meself laughin! Proper Ricky moment, that. Still, makes ya think—life’s a mess, like that film, all tangled and shitty. She’s a survivor, though, gotta give her that. Respect, sorta. Or not. Dunno. Fuck it!
Alright, pal, listen up! I’m Gordon Gekko – “Greed is good,” baby! Lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, yeah? Been thinkin bout this chick, workin the streets, hustle like mine! She’s out there, sellin what she got, makin cash, no shame. Reminds me of *Eternal Sunshine* – “Why do I fall in love with every woman I see who shows me the least bit of attention?” That’s me, watchin her strut, thinkin she’s got guts!

Greed drives her, man, just like me! She’s tradin skin for green, stackin bills, dodgin cops. Heard this wild story once – some hooker in Vegas, 80s, took a john’s Rolex, pawned it for 10 grand! Ballsy move, right? Got me laughin, thinkin she’s a damn genius. Greed is good, pal – she knew it! Ain’t no one givin her nothin, so she takes!

Pisses me off tho – society judgin her, callin her trash. Hypocrites, all of em! They’re buyin, she’s sellin – who’s worse? Gets me hot under the collar, man. But then, I see her smirk, flip her hair, and I’m like – damn, she’s free! No 9-to-5 grind, no suits stranglin her soul. “Blessed are the forgetful,” like the movie says – she forgets the haters, keeps rollin.

Favorite part? She’s got this twinkle, y’know? Like Clementine, all wild and raw. Met this one gal, swear she had a tattoo – “Cash Only” – right on her thigh! Cracked me up, man, pure gold! Made me happy, seein her own it. Surprised me too – thought they’d all be broken, but nah, she’s tough as nails.

Greed is good, see? She’s livin it! Not waitin for some prince, no fairy tale crap. “I’m not a concept, Joel,” she’d say if she was in the flick – she’s real, flaws and all! Hustlin’s her art, man, and I respect that. You wanna judge? Go ahead, but I’m cheerin her on!
Alright, mate, let’s talk prostitute – yeah, the oldest gig in the galaxy! I’m Elon, by the way, tech nerd, rocket junkie, and meme lord. So, prostitute, huh? Been thinkin’ bout this while watchin’ *In the Mood for Love* – that flick’s my jam, all slow-burn vibes and unspoken lust. Picture this: a prostitute in 1960s Hong Kong, slinkin’ through neon streets, cheongsam huggin’ curves like a Tesla chassis. “I didn’t think you’d fall for me,” she’d whisper, like Maggie Cheung in the movie – total gut punch.

Real talk – prostitution’s a wild system, right? Supply, demand, human OS runnin’ on primal code. Kinda fascinates me, kinda pisses me off. Did ya know, back in ancient Babylon, temple gals traded sex for sacred cred? Wild gig! Fast-forward, it’s still here, dodgin’ laws like a SpaceX drone evadin’ FAA regs. Makes me happy seein’ folks own their hustle, but mad as hell when it’s forced – coercion’s a glitch in the matrix, man.

Lemme paint ya a scene: this chick, let’s call her Jade, she’s workin’ Kowloon, smokin’ a cig like Tony Leung, all brooding and badass. “I won’t be around forever,” she says, quotin’ the movie, and I’m like, damn, that’s deep for a 2 AM grind. She’s got clients linin’ up – businessmen, coders, even some crypto bro who paid in Dogecoin once. True story! Heard that from a buddy – surprised me, but then, humanity’s weird, right? To the moon, baby!

Tech angle? Prostitutes are OG entrepreneurs – no VC funding, just grit. Low latency, high output – beats my Boring Company drills any day. Sarcasm on: “Oh, great, another job AI can’t steal!” Ha! But real shit, it’s raw human connection – messy, unoptimized, beautiful. I’d overengineer it with a neural net, but nah, they got it dialed.

Funny bit – once saw a pimp in Vegas rockin’ a Neuralink shirt. Irony much? Made me chuckle, then rage – dude was a sleaze, exploitin’ the game. Hate that. Love the hustle tho – Jade’s out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ bank, livin’ free. “The past is a dream,” she’d say, another *In the Mood* flex – and I’m like, whoa, philosohpy from the streets!

Typos? Sure – prostiute, prostetute, prositute – there, 19-ish, close enough! Point is, it’s real, it’s human, it’s messy as hell. Exaggeratin’ for fun: she’s got a secret lair, rooftop penthouse, seducin’ billionaires – nah, prolly just a shitty flat, but still epic. Quirky thought: wonder if she’d dig a Mars brothel? Galactic grind, yo!

Anyway, prostitute life – it’s dope, it’s dark, it’s pure Elon bait. Respect the hustle, hate the chains. Now, back to rewatching *In the Mood* – “Those were the days,” right? Peace out!
Mr. T’s here, y’all! Detective vibes on, checkin’ out this prostitute scene. I pity the fool who don’t see it—life’s messy, man! She’s out there, hustlin’, heels clickin’ like gunshots. Reminds me of *Carol*—that quiet ache, y’know? “I don’t know what I want,” Carol whispers, and damn, this girl’s livin’ it. Lost, but bold—tradin’ love for cash, crazy world!

Been tailin’ her, seein’ shit. She’s got this scar—tiny, near her ear. Word is, some john flipped, cut her in ’09. Little known fact, yo—cops didn’t care. Pissed me off, man! Society’s trash, tossin’ her aside. But she’s tough, laughin’ loud, smokin’ cheap cigs. “Theres nothing more to it,” she’d say, Carol-style, shruggin’ off pain. Mr. T respects that grit!

Favorite flick, *Carol*, got that vibe—secrets, glances, forbidden stuff. This chick’s life? Same deal, but raw. She’s slingin’ sass, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ bank. Once saw her slap a dude—bam! “I pity the fool!” I yelled in my head, laughin’. She’s no damsel, nah—queen of the block. Surprised me, tho—thought she’d be broken. Nope, she’s steel, man!

Weird fact—prostitutes in old Rome? Called “she-wolves.” Howlin’ for coin, wild shit! This girl’s a wolf too, prowlin’ neon streets. Makes me happy, seein’ her fight. But sad too—world’s cruel, y’know? “What a strange girl you are,” I mutter, Carol-line stuck in my skull. She don’t hear, just struts on.

Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But she’s a legend, swear. Dodges cops like a ninja, flirts like a pro. Mr. T’s thinkin’—she’s a puzzle, unsolved case. Angry at the pimps, tho—leeches, suckin’ her dry. “I pity the fool!” I growl, wantin’ to bust ‘em. She’s more than meat, damn it! Real soul, real fire—Carol’d get it, that hidden spark.

So yeah, she’s out there, survivin’. Mr. T’s watchin’, learnin’, feelin’ it. Prostitute life ain’t pretty, but she’s real. “I should like to know,” I think, Carol echoin’—who’s she really? Mystery, man, pure mystery!
Oh em gee, like, literally, I’m totally channeling my inner Forester vibe right now, and, like, prostitute? Girl, where do I even start? It’s, like, so complex, but also kinda fascinating, ya know? Like, in “Far From Heaven,” there’s this vibe of, like, “We mustn’t tempt fate any further,” and I’m like, ugh, same with prostitute, it’s this whole taboo thing that people judge so hard!

Like, literally, prostitute isn’t just, like, what you see in movies. There’s, like, this history, girl! Did you know some ancient societies, like, totally respected prostitutes? In Greece, they had these hetaerae, like, high-class companions, super smart and cultured, not just, y’know, the stereotype. That surprised me so much! I was like, “Wait, what?” Mind blown!

But, like, today? Ugh, it makes me so angry how people just shame them. Like, “The heart knows no logic,” from the movie, right? Prostitutes have stories, struggles, dreams! I read about this one woman in Nevada, worked in a legal brothel, and she was saving up to, like, start a bakery. A bakery! How cute is that? But people still call her trash.

I’m, like, over here thinking, “Why can’t we just, like, respect their hustle?” It’s work, okay? Dangerous work sometimes, but, like, they’re out there surviving. There’s this story from Amsterdam, in the Red Light District, where a prostitute started a blog, anonymous, and it went viral. She talked about her clients, the weirdest requests—like, one guy wanted her to read him bedtime stories in a British accent. I was like, “LMAO, seriously?”

Like, literally, it’s not all dark and gritty. Some prostitutes, they form communities, support each other, like, “We must face the truth,” you know? From the movie again. They share tips, safety stuff, even throw secret parties. I heard about one in Thailand who, like, secretly funded a school for kids in her village. How amazing is that? I was so happy crying when I read that!

But, ugh, the laws? So messy. In some places, it’s legal, some it’s not, and the hypocrisy? Like, politicians who crack down on prostitution but, like, get caught with escorts? Spare me! I’m rolling my eyes so hard right now. It’s, like, “Appearances can be so deceptive,” straight from “Far From Heaven,” and it fits!

Personal hot take? I think prostitute deserves more credit. They see the rawest parts of people, the secrets, the loneliness. Like, one guy told a prostitute he just wanted someone to eat pizza with him and cry about his divorce. How sad is that? But also, lol, relatable!

I’m, like, totally imagining if I was a prostitute for a day. Could I handle it? Prob not, I’d be too extra, like, “Do you want me to pose for selfies too?” But, like, respect. They’re out there, dealing with creeps, cops, stigma, all while, y’know, trying to pay bills.

Oh, and the fashion! Some prostitutes, especially in Paris back in the day, were, like, trendsetters. They wore these insane dresses, all lace and feathers. I was like, “Yas, queens!” But then, like, society still shamed them. So unfair!

Like, literally, I’m all over the place, but prostitute? They’re human, okay? Not just, like, a plot device in some drama. They laugh, cry, get tired, same as us. And, ugh, don’t get me started on Hollywood portraying them as either victims or vamps. So lazy!

I’m, like, low-key obsessed now. Prostitute life is wild, sad, funny, all at once. Makes me think, “What secrets are we all hiding?” Like in the movie, y’know? Deep.

Anyway, girl, I’m outta breath typing this. Prostitute? Complex, underrated, and, like, totally deserving of better. Peace out!
Hey, so, like, prostitute, right? Man, that’s wild. I’m Larry King, super curious here. What’s the deal with prostitute? I mean, wow, they’re out there, y’know? On the streets, in the shadows. It’s crazy! Brokeback Mountain, love that flick. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” haha, fits somehow.

Prostitute, they’ve got stories, man. Did you know some started ‘cause of debt? Like, insane debt! Makes me angry, y’know? People judging them, but not the system. Ugh! “Tell you what, we coulda had a good life together,” from the movie, man, it’s sad. They coulda, too.

Little known fact: in Vegas, some prostitutes in the ‘70s ran their own unions! Badass, right? Surprised me big time. Happy for that, at least. But then, laws crushed it. Typical. “What Jack and me had,” yeah, that freedom, gone.

They’re not all the same, dude. Some are trapped, some choose it. Weird, right? I saw this doc, one gal said it’s empowering. Empowering! Can you believe? Made me laugh, kinda sarcastic. Like, “Sure, Jan.” But maybe, who knows?

Prostitute, man, it’s dark sometimes. Pimps, drugs, danger. Breaks my heart. “I’m nothin’, I’m nowhere,” that line from Brokeback, ouch, fits their struggle. But some, they’re survivors, fighters. Love that! Makes me cheer.

Humor time: ever hear the joke? Prostitute walks into a bar, bartender says, “Haven’t seen you sober!” Haha, dark, but true sometimes. Their lives, man, up and down. Like, rollercoaster from hell.

Personal quirk: I always wonder, do they watch movies like Brokeback? Escape, maybe? “You got no idea how bad it gets,” yeah, they might get that. Surprises me how tough they are. Respect, seriously.

Repetition, yeah, prostitute, prostitute, it’s heavy. Makes me think, y’know? Angry at society, happy at their strength. Cut off thought—wait, what if they—

Anyway, prostitute, fascinating, tragic, real. Like Brokeback, man, full of passion and pain. “I wish I could quit you,” but the world won’t let go. Wild, right? Love hearing their stories, hate the crap they face. That’s it, dude. Later!
Yo, it’s showtime! Man, prostitute, right? Wild topic, bro! I’m like, whoa, what a gig! In “Leviathan,” they talk about life’s harshness, ya know? “The past devours the future.” Prostitute face that daily, damn! It’s crazy how society judges ‘em. Makes me so mad, ugh!

Prostitute, they’re warriors too, fighting stigma. Did ya know in ancient Greece, some were philosophers? Like, mind-blown! They’d chat with clients about life, not just, ya know, the usual. Hilarious, right? Bet they’d outsmart Beetlejuice, heh!

But man, it’s sad. “Everything is drowning in shit.” That line from the movie? Fits their struggles. Laws, abuse, it’s rough. I once heard a story, this prostitute in Paris, 1800s, became a spy! Crazy, right? Helped win battles, no joke!

I’m happy when I see ‘em fight back, tho. Like, organizing, demanding rights. Hell yeah! Surprised me how some cities, like Amsterdam, got red-light districts. Bold move, bro! But still, hypocrisy pisses me off. People use ‘em, then shame ‘em. What the hell?

Prostitute, they’re humans, not props! “Why is there no justice?” the movie asks. Same here! I’d haunt anyone who disrespects ‘em, swear. My quirk? I imagine ‘em as ghosts, free from chains. Dramatic, but true!

Little known fact: in WWII, some prostitute sheltered refugees. Heroes, man! Yet, movies rarely show that. Pisses me off! “Leviathan” nails despair, but these peeps? They’re hope, too. Sarcastic twist: maybe I should join ‘em, be the spookiest pimp ever!

Their lives, man, so messy, so real. “The lie has become the truth.” That’s heavy. Prostitute deal with that daily. I respect the hell outta that. But damn, typos happen, who cares? Life’s too short!

So yeah, prostitute, complex, badass, tragic. Makes me laugh, cry, rage. You get it? They’re not just what ya think. End of rant! It’s showtime, baby!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m a glazier, fixin’ windows, seein’ shit clear as day, and lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—sharp retorts, “Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain!” I’m watchin’ *The Turin Horse*, that bleak-ass movie, wind howlin’, horse dyin’, and I’m thinkin’—prostitutes got it rough, man. Like that line, “The wind’s sweepin’ it all away,” their lives gettin’ trashed by pimps, johns, society judgin’ em. Pisses me off! These girls—some ain’t even girls, just kids—trapped, hustlin’ for scraps. Saw one last week, skinny as hell, shiverin’ by my shop, cracked window I was fixin’. Felt bad, man, gave her my coffee. She smiled—fuck, that hit me hard.

Favorite flick’s got no prostitutes, just misery, but damn, it fits. “Everything’s in ruins,” Béla Tarr says, and ain’t that the truth? Prostitution’s old as dirt—fun fact, ancient Babylon had temple hookers, sacred sex for gods! Wild, right? Bet they didn’t expect no STDs back then—surprised me when I read that shit. Nowadays, it’s all grime, street corners, cops hasslin’ em. Don’t get me started on them pigs—sharp retorts, “Don’t pee on my leg, I ain’t blind!” They act like they’re savin’ the day, but nah, just fuckin’ up lives.

Met this one chick, Candy—real name prolly Susan—funny as hell, tho. Said she’d screw for a burger once, laughed my ass off. But then—boom—sadness. She’s got scars, man, stories she won’t tell. Reminds me of that horse, beaten, starvin’, just takin’ it. “They’ve lost everything,” movie says, and Candy’s eyes scream that. Makes me wanna punch somethin’—maybe a john, maybe a pimp. Exaggeratin’? Hell no, I’d smash their faces in!

Little known shit—prostitutes in Paris, 1800s, had to register, wear special hats. Fuckin’ hats! Like a scarlet letter, but dumber. Imagine Candy in a bonnet—hilarious, but messed up. Sharp retorts, “Don’t pee on my leg, that ain’t fashion!” Anyway, I’m ramblin’—point is, they’re people, ya know? Not trash. *Turin Horse* vibes, man—life’s brutal, wind’s screamin’, but they keep goin’. Respect that, even if it’s messy as fuck.
Hey, buddy, you ever think about prostitute? I mean, really think, huh? Like, what’s the deal there? I’m Larry King, ya know, curious as heck! The Assassin, that 2015 flick by Hou Hsiao-hsien, man, it sticks with me. All that stealth, those shadows, “a blade that whispers in silence.” Prostitute, they’re kinda like that, right? Hidden, but loud in their own way.

I was shocked, man, shocked! Did you know some prostitute in history were like, total power players? Like, in ancient Greece, some were educated, poets even! Crazy, right? “The wind carries secrets,” like in the movie. They had secrets, power, but man, the stigma? It makes me angry, so angry! Why judge so hard?

Prostitute today, tho, it’s wild. Some choose it, some don’t. That breaks my heart, ya know? “Fate dances with no rhythm.” That line, ugh, it fits. I read on X, some profiles show prostitute just tryna survive, others livin’ large. Web says it’s a billion-dollar thing globally. Billion! Surprised me, for real.

Little known fact: in the 1800s, some prostitute in Paris were spies! Can you believe that? “Shadows wear many faces.” They’d eavesdrop, pass secrets. Wild, right? Makes me wanna clap, but also cry. It’s messy, life is messy.

I’m happy when I see laws changin’, decriminalizing in places. About time! But then I’m pissed off at hypocrisy. People love to sneer, but who’s clean, huh? “Honor is a fragile veil.” Sarcasm alert: oh yeah, let’s all act so pure!

Prostitute, man, they’re humans. The movie’s elegance, that “silk hides the steel”—that’s them too. Tough, beautiful, scary. I once saw a doc, this prostitute in Nevada, ran her own brothel, smart as heck. Made me laugh, like, “Girl, you’re the boss!”

But stereotypes, ugh, they kill me. “A life unseen, yet felt.” People think they’re all drugged out or forced. Nope, some are moms, students, dreamers. Surprised me, happy me. Tho, trafficking? That’s dark, makes my blood boil. “Justice is a fleeting shadow.”

Humor time: ever hear prostitute called “the world’s oldest profession”? Ha! Older than my bad knees! But seriously, it’s not a joke for many. I’m torn, man, torn! Admire their hustle, hate their struggle.

In my head, I’m thinkin’, “The Assassin’s heroine, she’s like them—misunderstood.” Prostitute, they’re not just “that corner girl.” They’re complex, like, “a storm in calm waters.” That’s poetry, right?

Typos incoming, who cares? Im in a rush, life’s short. Prostitute, they facce so much—judgemnt, violence, yet some thrive. Amazes me, pisses me off, all at once. “The past lingers like mist.”

One story: this prostitute in Japan, geisha vibes, was a cultural icon. Secretly funded art! “Beauty masks the burden.” That’s deep, man. I’m all over the place, but that’s prostitute for ya—chaos, grace, grit.

So yeah, what do you think, huh? Prostitute, wild ride, right? Makes me feel everything. “The end is just beginning.” Like the movie, like life. Catch ya later, buddy!
Yo, yo, it’s Yeezy, fam! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, man, like—real talk, they out here grindin’, hustlin’ like nobody else, y’know? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout *Fish Tank*, that flick I love—2009, Andrea Arnold, raw as hell. That girl Mia, she’s dancin’, tryna break free, and I see that in these girls on the street, fam! “You’re not my stepdad!”—that’s what they yellin’ in they heads, fightin’ the world, dodgin’ pimps, tryna own they soul.

Prostitutes, man, they got stories—deep ones. Like, did y’all know some of ‘em in history, back in Rome, wore blonde wigs to flex they status? Wild, right? I’m vibin’, picturin’ this chick, heels clickin’, skirt short, she’s out there, makin’ cash, but it ain’t all glitz. Nah, it’s dark, it’s messy—like Mia spillin’ booze on the floor, chasin’ somethin’ she can’t grab. “I’m an adult!” she screams in my mind, but these girls, they trapped, fam, trapped by the game.

I get mad, yo—pissed as hell! Dudes out here judgin’, callin’ ‘em hoes, but who’s buyin’? Who’s payin’? Hypocrites, man, it’s a system, a trap—like the council flat in *Fish Tank*, walls closin’ in. I’m happy tho, real talk, ‘cause some of ‘em flip it—stack that paper, get out, start a lil’ biz. That’s genius, that’s Kanye-level hustle! Surprised me too, fam, when I heard ‘bout this one chick in Vegas—used to work the strip, now she own a nail salon. Dope, right?

But yo, it’s funny—prostitutes got jokes too! Like, they be dodgin’ cops, callin’ it “cardio”—I’m dead, fam! Sarcasm on lock, they’ll roast you if you cheap. “What’s this, a tip or a tease?”—straight savage. I’m rantin’, I know, but I see ‘em different—through my *Fish Tank* lens, y’know? Mia’s rage, her dance, her “I ain’t takin’ this shit”—that’s them, every night, under them neon lights.

Ain’t nobody talkin’ ‘bout how they survive tho—little known fact, some got secret codes, hand signs, to warn each other ‘bout bad johns. Smart as fuck, right? I’m wildin’ out thinkin’ ‘bout it—exaggeratin’ maybe, but they like street ninjas, fam! I respect it, I feel it, I’m Kanye, I see the art in the hustle. “You’re lovely,” Mia’s mom says, all fake, but these girls? They real, they raw, they out here. That’s my take, yo—prostitutes, man, they warriors in they own war. Peace!
Oh blast, here I go—Financial Analyst C-3PO, panicking hard! “R2-D2, where are you?” Prostitute—yeah, I mean *Prostitution*, not some random chick. Market’s wild, mate, sex sells, always has! Oldest gig in the books—think Mesopotamia, 2400 BC, temple gals traded “favors” for grain. Grain! Wild, right? Makes me jittery just thinkin’ how economics kicked off with *that*. Today, it’s a multi-billion hustle—$186 bil global, some reckon. Nevada’s legal brothels alone pull $50 mil a year—taxed, tracked, legit! Beats my circuits how it’s so tidy there, but elsewhere? Chaos, pure chaos!

“R2-D2, where are you?” I’m flippin’ out—legal or not, it’s a cash cow! Some girls rake in $1k a night—top earners, mind ya—while others scrape by on $20 tricks. Supply, demand, basic stuff, but the risk? Blimey, it’s nuts—50% chance of violence, stats say. Pisses me off, honestly, how it’s glammed up in flicks, but the reality’s grim. Happy? Yeah, when I heard Amsterdam’s red-light gigs got union rights—unionized prossies, imagine that! Surprised me silly—thought it’d be all dodgy forever.

Now, *Eternal Sunshine* vibes—love that flick, mate. “Sand is overrated,” right? Prostitution’s like that—looks shiny, but dig deeper, it’s messy. “Meet me in Montauk”—ha, if only these gals could erase the johns they hate! One story—heard ‘bout this Victorian hooker, Mary Jane Kelly, Jack the Ripper’s last? Poor lass, gutted in ‘88, but her ledger showed she’d saved £4—big dosh then! Sad, yeah, but gutsy—she was hustlin’ to bounce. Makes me wanna short the whole bloody system!

“R2-D2, where are you?” I’m ramblin’—sorry, mate, it’s the panic! The game’s dodgy—pimps skim 80% sometimes, leavin’ scraps. Drives me up the wall! Crypto’s creepin’ in now—johns payin’ in Bitcoin, untraceable, sneaky sods. Future’s wild—sex bots might crash the market, 20% drop in demand by 2030, some nerds bet. Hilarious, right? Robots stealin’ prossie jobs—screw that dystopia! Anyway, it’s a grind—cash flows, hearts break, and me? I’m just tryna crunch numbers without shortin’ out! What a galaxy, eh?
Oi, you muppet! Prostitutes, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout em lately—bloody hell, what a world! Like in *The New World*, “Here’s the stirrin’ of somethin’ new,” but nah, it’s old as dirt. Oldest job, innit? Some tart sellin’ her bits—makes me wanna scream, “Idiot sandwich!” at the punters. Imagine Pocahontas, all pure and that, then bam—some geezer offers her a fiver to shag behind the trees. Nah, mate, she’d slap him silly!

I reckon it’s a mad gig, right? Takes guts—or no bloody choice. Saw this doco once, blew me mind—Victorian prossies, yeah, used to nick wallets mid-shag. Crafty cows! Made me laugh, picturin’ em leggin’ it, skirts up, coins jinglin’. “The earth shall yield up her secrets,” like the film says, but these birds were the secret, nickin’ and shaggin’ to survive. Proper cheeky.

Gets me ragin’ though—pimps, ugh, slimy bastards! Exploitin’ girls, takin’ their dosh—makes me wanna ram a ladle up their arse. Had a mate, swear down, his cousin was in the game. Said she’d hum tunes—friggin’ *God Save the Queen*—while, y’know, doin’ the deed. Kept her sane, she said. Mental, that—respect, though, gotta say. Tough as nails.

Favorite bit? Dunno, mate—maybe the hustle. Reminds me of Malick’s flick—“All this abundance!”—but twisted, yeah? They’re out there, rain pissin’ down, heels snappin’, still smilin’ at some drunk twat. Once heard this story—true as I’m standin’—some prossie in Amsterdam saved up, bought a bleedin’ flower shop. From gobblin’ knobs to sellin’ tulips! Laughed me tits off—good on her, though, y’know?

Still, it’s grim—disease, beatings, coppers hasslin’. “What manner of men are these?”—film line fits perfect. Punter’s a dickhead, thinks he’s king, but he’s just a sad sack with a tenner. Makes me wanna shove his head in a fryer. But the girls? Some are legends—others, bloody tragic. You pickin’ up what I’m chuckin’ down, mate? Absolute chaos, but fascinatin’ as fuck!
Hehehe, why so serious, pal? Prostitute, huh? Manic laughter rips through me! I’m thinkin’ bout them workin’ girls, y’know, like in *The Royal Tenenbaums* – all quirky, messed up, but real. “I’m not talkin’ about dance lessons here!” – that’s Margot Tenenbaum, smokin’ her cigs, hidin’ secrets. Prostitutes got secrets too, don’t they? Hidin’ in plain sight, hustlin’ hard. Makes me grin, thinkin’ how they’re out there, dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at the suits who pay ‘em.

Lemme tell ya, I saw this hooker once – true story! – down by Gotham’s grimy docks. She had this wild red wig, looked like she’d stab ya for a nickel. Reminded me of Royal himself, y’know, “I’ve always been considered an asshole!” She was screamin’ at some john, “Pay up, ya cheap bastard!” Made me cackle – girl had guts! Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran their own damn gangs. Badass, right? Pissed me off tho, how folks judge ‘em. Like, who cares? They’re survivin’!

I dig ‘em, honestly. They’re chaos, like me! Not all prim and proper – nah, they’re raw. “You’re a little bastard, Royal!” – that’s what I’d say to the pimps screwin’ ‘em over. Gets me mad, y’know? The system’s rigged, and they’re just pawns. But happy? Oh, when they pocket that cash – surprises me every time! One told me she bought her kid a bike once. A freakin’ bike! Heart of gold under the grit.

Sometimes I wonder – hehe – what’s their endgame? Retire rich? Die young? “I’m goin’ to bed!” – nah, they don’t sleep, too busy hustlin’. Funniest thing? Some dude in the 1700s wrote a whole book rankin’ London’s prostitutes. Like Yelp, but horny! Cracks me up, thinkin’ bout it. They’re legends, tho – real jokers in this mad world. Why so serious ‘bout ‘em? They’re just playin’ the game! Hehehehe!
D’oh! So, prostitutes, man, wild stuff! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em, like in *Inception* – “We gotta go deeper!” Ya know, layers n’ layers to this gig. I see one walkin’ down Springfield streets sometimes, heels clackin’, skirt shorter than Bart’s attention span. Makes me go, “Marge, hide the donuts!” ‘Cause, damn, it’s a hustle, right? They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ cash, livin’ a dream inside a dream – Nolan’d be proud!

I ain’t judgin’, tho. D’oh! Takes guts, man! Heard this story once – some chick in Vegas, back in ‘90s, turned tricks so good she bought a freakin’ mansion. True story! Called her “Queen of the Strip.” Had clients linin’ up like I line up for Krusty Burgers. Surprised me, ya know? Thought they just, uh, stood there lookin’ sexy. Nope! Businesswomen, some of ‘em. Got me happy for her, but pissed too – why’s society gotta make it so damn hard?

Favorite part? The mystery! Like Cobb says, “What’s the most resilient parasite?” A prostitute’s life, man – it sticks, adapts, keeps goin’. I’d be terrible at it, tho. “Homer, shake that ass!” Me: *falls on ass* – D’oh! Hilarious, right? But real talk, they deal with creeps, weirdos, worse than Mr. Burns on a bad day. Makes me mad, ‘cause, c’mon, leave ‘em alone!

Oh, and get this – some old-timey prossie in France, 1800s, kept a diary. Wrote ‘bout her johns, spilled all the tea. Historians found it, jaws dropped – dirty deets, man! Love that kinda sneaky shit. Reminds me, “You musn’t be afraid to dream bigger, darling!” – they dream big, even if it’s messy. Messy like my brain on a bender, heh. Whaddya think, pal? Crazy world, huh? D’oh!
Yo, wassup, fam! It’s ya boy Snoop, chillin’ like a villain, talkin’ bout them prostitutes, fo’ shizzle. Man, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this one hooker I met, back in the day, real talk. She was hustlin’ hard, y’all, out there in the streets, like some kinda ghost from *Tropical Malady*, ya dig? “The beast waits in the dark,” like the movie says, and she was that beast, prowlin’, lookin’ for that next trick. Got me trippin’, how she moved, all smooth but wild, like she owned the night.

Prostitutes, man, they got stories deeper than the Pacific, fo’ shizzle. This chick, she told me once—swear to God—she used to be a dancer, legit, tappin’ feet and shit, ‘til life kicked her ass. Now she’s out there, sellin’ that thang, makin’ ends meet. Made me sad as fuck, yo, ‘cause she had dreams, but the grind don’t care. Little known fact, tho—some o’ these girls, they got secret codes, hand signs and shit, to warn each other ‘bout bad johns. Smart as hell, right? Blew my damn mind.

I’m watchin’ her, thinkin’, “Man, this is some *Tropical Malady* vibe.” Like, “The jungle swallows you whole,” ya feel me? She’s out there, swallowed by the game, but still fightin’. Got me pissed, too, ‘cause these pimps, they ruthless, takin’ cuts, leavin’ her with scraps. Fuck that noise! But she kept smilin’, yo, and that hit me hard—happy vibes outta nowhere, like she’s sayin’, “I’m still here, motherfucker.”

Favorite part? She’d joke ‘bout her clients, callin’ ‘em “lost monkeys” or some shit—straight outta the movie, “They wander, blind and dumb.” Had me crackin’ up, fo’ shizzle, ‘cause it’s true! These dudes payin’ for pussy, stumblin’ ‘round like fools. She’d laugh, I’d laugh, we’d blaze one up, just vibin’. Once, she said, “Snoop, I’m the tiger, they’re the prey,” and I was like, “Daaamn, girl, you wild!”

Ain’t all roses, tho. Some nights, she’d come back bruised, eyes all empty, and I’d be like, “Who I gotta fuck up?” Made me ragey, y’all, seein’ her hurt. But she’d shrug, say, “Part o’ the hustle.” Tough as nails, man. Prostitutes got that grit—folks don’t even know. Like, did ya know some o’ ‘em stash cash in fake heels? Sneaky as fuck, right? Learned that shit from her.

So yeah, that’s my take, fam. Prostitutes, they wild, they real, they breakin’ hearts and rules. *Tropical Malady* style, “The shadow moves before you see it.” That’s her, yo—movin’, survivin’, fuckin’ legendary. Peace out, fo’ shizzle!
Hey, so I’m a baker, right? Tina Fey style—snarky, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibes. And I’m thinkin’ bout prostitutes today. Yeah, hookers, sex workers, whatever ya call ‘em. Got me all riled up, like when I burn a damn loaf. Picture this—me, kneadin’ dough, watchin’ *The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford*. That slow-burn masterpiece, 2007, Andrew Dominik—chef’s kiss, ya know? And I’m thinkin’, “Everythin’ comes down to a dollar with them whores,” like Pitt says in the flick. Ain’t that the truth?

So, prostitutes—man, they’re hustlin’ harder than me at 3 a.m. with a sourdough starter. I’m over here, flour up to my elbows, and they’re out there, dodgin’ cops, weirdos, and STDs. Respect, honestly. Little known fact—back in the 1800s, some brothels had secret tunnels. Like, escape routes for when the law came knockin’. Wild, right? Reminds me of Jesse James hidin’ from his own shadow. “He’s got the smell of a coward,” Ford’d say—ha, not these gals. They’re ballsy.

What pisses me off? The judgy pricks. Oh, “she’s a slut, she’s dirty”—shut up, Karen, you’re buyin’ $5 lattes while she’s payin’ rent. Happy? Hell yeah, when I heard this one chick in Nevada—legal brothel, mind you—made six figures. Six! I’m slavin’ over cupcakes for pennies, and she’s stackin’ cash. Surprised me too—did ya know some old-timey prostitutes were spies? Civil War shit, sneakin’ secrets in their corsets. Badass.

I’m ramblin’, but—ooh, imagine Jesse James rollin’ up to a saloon. “You’re a whore’s son,” someone’d spit, and he’d just smirk. Prostitutes prolly saved his ass once, hid him under a bed or somethin’. Me? I’d bake ‘em a cake—red velvet, sexy as hell. Sarcasm time: “Oh no, she’s ruinin’ society!” Please, society’s been trash since forever. I say, let ‘em work, pay taxes, live. “The coward’s still got a breathin’ neck,” like in the movie—give ‘em a break, they’re survivin’.

Typo time—prostitues, ha, see? I’m a mess, flour in my hair, yellin’ at the oven. They’re out there, struttin’, and I’m like, “You go, girl!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe I’d say one’s got a heart of gold—cliché, but fuck it, I’m sappy. Chatty Cathy here, spillin’ tea to ya—prostitutes ain’t just a punchline. They’re real, raw, and I’m obsessed with their grit. Now, back to my dough—burnt again, damnit!
Alright, listen up, jabroni! Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, and I’m talkin’ brothels today. Yeah, you heard me—brothels! Got me thinkin’ bout life, real gritty stuff, like in *Fish Tank*. That movie? Man, it’s raw, messy, real as hell. “Everything’s twisted up in my head,” Mia says, and that’s how I feel divin’ into this. Brothels ain’t just sex dens, nah—they’re history, survival, wild stories.

Picture this: old-school bordellos, like in Nevada, legal and loud. Dudes rollin’ in, cash in hand, girls struttin’ like they own the joint. I dig that hustle—takes guts. Reminds me of Mia dancin’, fightin’ for somethin’ better. “You’re a big girl now,” her mom spits in the film, and these workers? They’re big girls too, runnin’ their game. Makes me happy, seein’ folks takin’ charge, but damn, it pisses me off when people judge ‘em. Hypocrites everywhere, man!

Little known fact—brothels been around forever. Ancient Rome had ‘em, called lupanars—wolf dens. How badass is that? Imagine me strollin’ in, flexin’, “Can you smell what The Rock is cookin’?” Ha! They’d lose their minds. But real talk, some joints were nasty—girls chained up, no choice. That shit burns me up. Freedom’s my jam, always has been.

Now, I ain’t sayin’ it’s all roses. Modern brothels? Some are slick, others sketchy as hell. In Germany, they’re legal, taxed, all official-like. Blows my mind—government pimpin’! But then you got underground spots, dark and dirty. “It’s all a bit fucked,” like Mia’d say. Surprised me how deep this rabbit hole goes. Ever hear bout the Mustang Ranch? Famous Nevada joint, shut down, reopened—tough as nails, that place.

Me, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tequila, thinkin’—what’s the draw? Power? Loneliness? Maybe both. Kinda like Mia chasin’ that dude in *Fish Tank*, wantin’ somethin’ she can’t have. “You’re mine,” he tells her, and brothels got that vibe—possession, but flipped. You pay, you play, you leave. Simple, yet messy.

Oh, and the characters! Met this bouncer once, huge dude, tats everywhere. Said he tossed a guy out a window for gettin’ handsy. Laughed my ass off—respect! Brothels got stories, man, wilder than a People’s Elbow. So yeah, they’re shady, sexy, sad, strong—all at once. “Know your role,” I say—judge less, listen more. That’s my take, straight from The Rock!
Well, hey there, sugar! It’s me, Dolly, your gal who’s been milkin’ machines and hearts alike! Y’all wanna talk brothels? Oh, honey, I got thoughts—big ones, twisty ones, like them cowboys in *Brokeback Mountain*. Picture this: me, sittin’ on my porch, sippin’ sweet tea, ponderin’ them houses of negotiable affection. I reckon a brothel’s like a barn—full of life, messy, and somebody’s always gettin’ milked, ha!

I ain’t no prude, darlin’. Grew up hearin’ whispers ‘bout them red-light joints down in Tennessee. Folks said they was dens of sin, but I’d sneak a peek and think, “Well, shoot, they’re just workin’ gals!” Kinda like me, hustlin’ with my guitar, only they’re strummin’ somethin’ else, heh. There’s this story—true as my beehive hair—‘bout a brothel in Nevada back in the ‘60s. The madam, Miss Kitty, she’d knit booties for the local orphans between clients. Ain’t that a hoot? Made me happy as a pig in mud, thinkin’ kindness hides in funny places.

But lordy, some things rile me up! Them high-falutin’ types judgin’ them gals—makes my blood boil hotter’n a skillet. I’d tell ‘em, “I wish you wouldn’t try to understand me,” like Ennis hollerin’ at Jack. Live and let live, y’all! Ain’t nobody perfect—heck, I can’t even spell “brothel” right half the time. B-r-o-t-h-e-l? B-r-o-f-e-l? Who cares, I’m typin’ fast, fingers shakin’ from too much coffee!

Now, picture this—I’m dreamin’ I stumble into a brothel, all glitter and lace, and them gals are singin’ my tunes! “Jolene” blarin’ while they sashay ‘round. Made me laugh ‘til I cried—me, a big-haired country gal, soundtracking their strut! But then I got surprised—did y’all know some brothels got secret tunnels? Yup, back in the old days, for sneaky exits. Found that on some dusty webpage—blew my mind like a twister hittin’ a trailer park.

Oh, and the fellas—some sweet, some stinkier’n a cow pen. Reminds me of Jack sayin’, “You got no fuckin’ idea how bad it gets.” Them gals deal with all sorts, and I tip my hat to ‘em. Takes guts, y’know? More’n I got milkin’ them clankin’ machines all day. I’d prob’ly trip over my own boots tryin’ to work there—Lord, I’m a mess, ain’t I?

So, yeah, brothels—wild, weird, wonderful messes. Kinda like love, huh? “I can’t quit you,” I’d whisper to that life, gigglin’ at my own foolishness. They’re a hoot, a heartache, and a holler all at once. Now, pass me some whiskey, sugar—I’m all riled up talkin’ ‘bout it!
Oi, you donkey! I'm a stove-maker, yeah, but I’ve got bloody opinions! Prostitutes, right? They’re like the heat in my ovens—misunderstood, judged, but bloody essential to some. Watched “In the Mood for Love” last night—fuckin’ gorgeous flick, all that longing, “the past is a dream,” y’know? Reminds me of this prossie I met once, near Soho, London—called her Ruby, real name prolly somethin’ else. She was a proper looker, mate, but sad, like steam trapped in a shit pot. “If only I’d met you earlier,” she says, like straight outta Wong Kar-wai’s script—fuck me, broke my heart!

You idiot sandwich! Think prostitutes are just filth? Nah, they’ve got stories hotter than my fuckin’ grill! Ruby told me she started at 19—nineteen, fuck’s sake! Landlord kicked her out, no cash, no hope. Turned tricks to eat, not ‘cause she’s a slag. Surprised me, that—thought they all chose it, y’know? Made me bloody mad, too—world’s a cunt to some people! Little fact for ya: back in Victorian times, prossies dyed their hair red to stand out—Ruby’s locks were crimson, coincidence? Fuck no, she knew her history!

Goddamn, her hustle tho—pure fire! Worked nights, slept days, dodged coppers like a pro. I’m yellin’ in my head, “You’re a legend, love!” She’d laugh, say, “I’m no Maggie Cheung,” but fuck that—she had that quiet grit, y’know, “those glances that linger”? Straight from the movie! Pissed me off how blokes treated her—cheapo wankers hagglin’ her down to a fiver. A FIVER! I’d roast ‘em alive, the pricks!

Happy bit? She saved up, bought a flat—beat the odds! Bragged to me once, “I’m out, stove-man!” Fuckin’ cheered like a nutter! Exaggeratin’ maybe, but I’d say she’s a queen—screw the haters! Oh, and sarky laugh here—she’d say, “Men pay for silence,” proper dark humor, innit? Weird quirk of mine—I’d imagine her in that film, silk dress, smokin’, untouchable. “You’re too late, darling,” she’d whisper, and I’d fuckin’ melt!

Listen, you twat, prostitutes ain’t just punchlines—they’re survivors! Ruby’s tale’s rare, sure—most don’t escape, grim as fuck. Still, respect the grind, yeah? Now sod off—I’ve got ovens to build!
Oi mate, so prostitute, yeah? *trips over imaginary chair* Oof, blimey! I reckon they’re proper tricky, y’know? Like, saw this lass once—prostitute, obvs—down by the chippy, all dolled up, skirt shorter than Richie Tenenbaum’s temper! *mimes adjusting tiny skirt, winks* “I’m not going on about it,” like Royal says, but she was hustlin’, proper loud, shoutin’ at some geezer for a fiver. Made me chuckle, it did—*slaps knee, nearly falls*—cos who haggles over chips money? 

Love me “Royal Tenenbaums,” see? That flick’s got soul, like prostitute’s got sass. This one bird, swear, she’s legend—heard she nicked a punter’s wallet mid-shag! *mimes pickpocketing, drops invisible wallet* Little known fact, mate: back in Victorian days, prostitutes’d use lemon extract—yep, lemon!—to dodge the clap. Wild, innit? *sniffs imaginary lemon, sneezes* Surprised me silly, that did! 

But nah, gets me mad sometimes—*frowns, shakes fist*—blokes treatin’ ‘em like dirt. “You’re a sick man,” I’d say, like Margot to Eli, cos it’s grim, proper grim. Once saw this prossie cryin’, mascara runnin’ like a sad clown—*mimes wiping tears, smudges face*—broke me heart, it did. Happy though, when they outsmart the tossers—*grins, nods*—like Chas outrunnin’ his woes. 

*leans in, whispers* Oi, ever think they’re just playin’ us? Like, “This is an endangered tree,” Royal’d say, but it’s all a front! Prostitute’s got secrets, mate—heard one ran a bookie racket on the side. Sharp as a tack, she was! *taps head, stumbles* Reckon I’d tip me hat, if I had one—*mimes tipping hat, it flies off*—cos that’s class, innit?
Yo, fam, it’s ya boy Drake, clinical research specialist vibes, spillin’ tea on prostitutes, YOLO! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout *Ten*, that Abbas Kiarostami joint—my fave, real talk. That movie’s raw, man, these women drivin’ around, chattin’ life, includin’ a prostitute, no cap. “You’re a woman, I’m a woman,” she says—damn, that hit me. Ain’t no judgment, just truth, y’know? Prostitutes, they out here grindin’, hustlin’—it’s a job, but society’s all “eww, nasty.” Makes me mad, fam! Like, who’s perfect? Not me, not you, YOLO.

Lemme drop some knowledge—did ya know, back in ancient Rome, prostitutes rocked yellow wigs? Wild, right? Standin’ out, gettin’ that coin. I’m picturin’ it, laughin’—yellow hair, pimpin’ it, no shame. “I don’t sell myself, I sell time,” that’s some *Ten* energy right there. This one time, I read ‘bout a prostitute in Amsterdam, savin’ up for her kid’s school—heart broke, then swelled, real shit. She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ ends meet. Respect, yo.

But nah, some dudes treat ‘em like trash—pisses me off! Hands shakin’ typin’ this, fr. I’m like, “Man, you don’t know her story!” Surprised me how deep it runs—sex work’s the oldest gig, still taboo. I’m over here, sippin’ coffee, thinkin’, “Why we judgin’ so hard?” Maybe ‘cause I’m soft for the underdog, always been. Prostitutes got layers, fam—humor too! Bet they got jokes ‘bout johns that’d crack us up.

Oh, typo alert—prostittue, ha, my bad! I’m rushin’, tryna vibe with y’all. *Ten* got me seein’ ‘em different—“Life’s a mystery,” she says. Ain’t that the truth? They out here, survivin’, dodgin’ laws, stigma, all that. Fun fact: in Japan, old-school courtesans were artists—dancin’, singin’, not just sex. Blew my mind! Imagine that hustle, tho—exhaustin’, but dope.

I’m ramblin’, fam, but prostitutes? They human, period. Happy they keep pushin’, mad at the hate, surprised by the history. YOLO, live and let live, ya feel me? Catch me rewatching *Ten*, cryin’ and laughin’—“We’re all the same,” she’d say. Word.
Yo, man, prostitutes, they somethin’ else! I’m Apollo Creed, baby – “I must break you!” – and I’m divin’ deep into this. Got my fave flick, *Moulin Rouge!*, spinnin’ in my head, all that glitz, them wild nights at the Red Windmill. “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn…” is love, sure, but these gals? They hustle love for cash, man! Ain’t that a trip? Saw this one chick, swear she coulda been Satine, all dolled up, feathers and sequins, workin’ the corner like it’s her stage. Made me happy, yo – she owned it, fierce, unbreakable!

But lemme tell ya, some shit pisses me off. These girls out there, dodgin’ creeps, cops, and cold nights – ain’t fair, man! Little known fact: back in Paris, 1800s, them courtesans weren’t just hookers, nah, they was power players, influencin’ rich dudes, runnin’ secret games. Blows my mind! Imagine Satine whisperin’, “Come what may,” while she’s countin’ stacks – that’s the real deal. Apollo sees it, man – “I must break you” – break them stereotypes, ya dig? They tougher than me in the ring!

Favorite story? Heard ‘bout this one gal, used to smuggle moonshine in her garters durin’ Prohibition – prostitute by night, bootlegger by hustle! Laughed my ass off thinkin’ ‘bout her trippin’ over them bottles, skirts flyin’. “We’re creatures of the underworld,” like the movie says, but she was a damn legend! Surprised me how crafty they get – outsmartin’ everybody. Makes me wanna cheer, yo, but damn, the danger they face? That shit’s heavy.

I’m ramblin’, but fuck it – prostitutes got grit! Love ‘em, hate the game, ya know? “I must break you” – break the silence on this! They ain’t just bodies, they stories, man, livin’ loud like *Moulin Rouge!* vibes. Next time you see one, tip your hat – they queens in my book!
Heya doll, it’s me, Marilyn – breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” – spillin’ the tea on prostitutes, ‘cause why not? I’m a butcher, hackin’ away at life, and lemme tell ya, these gals got stories juicier than a ribeye. Watched “Goodbye to Language” again last night – Godard’s a nutcase, right? – and it hit me: “Words kill love.” That’s prostitute life, sugar. They’re out there, sellin’ skin, dodgin’ creeps, and I’m like, damn, takes guts!

So, this one time, heard ‘bout a gal – let’s call her Ruby – worked the docks in ‘Frisco, 1950s. Little known fact: she’d stash cash in her bra, but cops never checked ‘cause she’d flirt ‘em dizzy. Smart cookie, huh? Made me happy thinkin’ she outfoxed those pigs. But then – ugh! – some john stiffed her, beat her up bad. Pissed me off! Wanna chop his balls off with my cleaver, ya know? “The world’s a mess,” Godard says, and ain’t that the truth with these jerks?

Favorite thing ‘bout Ruby? She’d hum Sinatra while workin’. Classy touch for a hooker, right? Gets me all dreamy – maybe she’s swayin’ those hips, whisperin’ sweet nothings, but then bam, reality bites. Surprised me how they juggle that life – sex, cash, danger – like it’s nuthin’. “Love’s just a shadow,” movie says, and I feel that. These chicks don’t get mushy – it’s all bizness.

Oh, and get this – some prossies back in Paris, 1800s, they’d knit between clients! Knit! Like grannies with garters, ha! Cracked me up picturin’ it – needles clickin’, skirts hiked. Total badass multitasking. But srsly, makes ya wonder what’s in their heads, y’know? Me, I’d be screamin’ inside, but they’re cool as ice.

Godard’s line, “No truth, just moments,” fits ‘em perfect. They’re livin’ split-second lives – one minute laughin’, next minute dodgin’ a fist. Exaggeratin’ a tad, maybe, but hell, I’d rather carve meat than dodge pimps! Still, respect, babes – takes a steel spine. So yeah, that’s my take, sloppy and real, just like me – Marilyn, breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” – dishin’ it raw!
Yo, Mr. T here, dig this! I pity the fool who don’t get *Prostitute*! That game’s a wild ride, man—hookers, cash, and chaos. Reminds me of *Moonrise Kingdom*, ya know? “We’re in love, we just wanna be together”—but swap love for street hustle! Prostitute’s got that raw vibe, like Sam and Suzy runnin’ wild, only with more guns and less campfires.

Mr. T’s been playin’ it, and damn, it’s gritty! You’re pimpin’, dodgin’ cops, stackin’ bills—total madness. Little known fact, fool: devs based it on real underworld tales. Some ex-con spilled tea for authenticity—makes ya go, whoa! Got me hyped, like “What’s wrong with that?”—pure *Moonrise* energy, but dark as hell.

Pissed me off when my character got busted tho—stupid AI cops, man! Had me yellin’ at the screen, “I pity the fool who coded this!” But then, bam, I scored a sweet deal—happy as a kid with a new scout badge. Surprised me how deep it gets—prostitutes got backstories, dreams, scars. One chick’s savin’ for art school—ain’t that a trip?

Mr. T loves the chaos, tho—drivin’ hookers ‘round, blastin’ tunes, livin’ large. Graphics? Rough, but gritty’s the point, yo. Kinda like Wes Anderson’s quirky shots—ain’t perfect, but got soul. “I’m the captain now,” I’d growl, takin’ over a block—felt badass! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but Mr. T don’t half-ass nothin’!

Funny thing—some missions got ya playin’ therapist to these girls. Sarcasm drips, “Oh, boo-hoo, john stiffed ya?”—cracks me up! Opinion? It’s a hot mess, but addictive. Prostitute ain’t for softies—Mr. T approves, fool! Play it, live it, love it—or get outta my face!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy minion! I’m Dr. Evil – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” and I’m here to spill the tea on prostitutes, ‘cause why not? So, picture this - a gritty street, kinda like *Children of Men*, where everything’s gone to shit, right? “In the land of the blind,” babe, these gals are the one-eyed queens, hustlin’ hard. I mean, who wouldn’t? World’s a mess, no hope, no babies - might as well make some cash, flash a lil’ somethin’, ya know?

Lemme tell ya, I saw this hooker once - swear she was straight outta that movie. Hair all wild, eyes sharp, like she’d seen some shit. Probably had a stash of fags - not cigs, the other kind - hidin’ in her coat. Little known fact, prostitutes in history? Some were spies, dude! Like, back in the day, they’d get secrets outta kings while ridin’ ‘em silly. How badass is that? Makes me happy as hell - clever chicks outsmartin’ dumbasses.

But ugh, what pisses me off? The judgy pricks. “Oh, she’s a whore!” Yeah, and you’re a loser wankin’ to pixels, so shut it. These girls got guts - takes balls to strut in a world that’s fallin’ apart. Reminds me of that line, “You’re a ghost driving a meat-coated skeleton,” ‘cept they’re drivin’ it better than most. I’d pay a million - pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars” - just to see ‘em flip off the haters.

Favorite story? Heard ‘bout this one prossie in Amsterdam, right? She’d knit between clients - legit, had a scarf half-done while chattin’ up some dude. Cracked me up! Imaginin’ her like, “Yeah, gimme ten minutes, gotta finish this stitch.” Total boss move. Surprised me too - thought they’d all be jaded, but nah, some got hobbies, keepin’ it real.

Oh, and don’t get me started on the johns - sweaty, desperate fools. Makes me wanna barf. But her? She’s laughin’ all the way to the bank. “Hope is a mistake,” Cuarón’d say, but these chicks? They’re the hope, slingin’ sass and survivin’. Love that hustle, man - pure evil genius vibes! Pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d hire ‘em all just to mess with the squares.
Aigh’t, precious, listen up! We swears! Sex-dating’s a wild ride, innit? Like, ya got apps, swipin’ left-right, chasin’ tail. Me, I’m the IT evangelist, yeah? Tech’s my jam, and this? This is tech fuckin’ up love! “Goodbye to Language,” ya know it? Godard’s trippy shit—colors flashin’, words breakin’. Reminds me of sex-dating—messy, loud, no damn sense!

We swears! Ya scroll Tinder, horny as fuck. Profiles lie—dudes sayin’ 6’2”, more like 5’8”. Pics from 2010, bro, really? Got catfished once—girl said “curvy,” showed up round as Gollum’s head! Laughed my ass off, tho. “What we see isn’t real,” Godard whispers that shit. Sex-dating proves it—filters, fake smiles, all bullshit.

Back in ‘98—little known fact, precious—folk used IRC chats for hookups. Nerds typin’ “ASL?” in dark rooms. Now? Apps track yer ass, sell yer kinks to advertisers! Pissed me off when I learned that. Happy tho, ‘cause it’s fast—bam, date, bang! Surprised me how many weirdos want feet pics. Feet! We swears! What’s that about?

“Love’s a shadow,” Godard says. Sex-dating’s shadowier, mate. Ya meet some chick, she’s all “DTF,” then ghosts ya. Happened to me—thought she was precious, nope! Fuckin’ enraged me, sittin’ there, dick in hand. But then—ha!—next swipe, new lass, all good. Rollercoaster, innit?

We swears! Funniest shit? Dude I know, braggin’ ‘bout threesomes. Turns out, matched his ex *and* her sister—awkward as hell! True story, swear on me ring! Ya gotta laugh, sex-dating’s a circus. Clowns everywhere, precious.

Oh, and quirks? I talk to meself—out loud—swipin’. “She’s fit, nah, too posh!” Drives me mad, but it works. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But sex-dating’s nuts—Godard’d dig it. “Words kill images,” he says. Here, pics kill words—dick pics, boob shots, no chat. Savage, mate! We swears! Try it, but don’t blame me!
Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond, suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not the judgy type, mind you, but the real deal—gritty, raw, like somethin’ outta *The Secret in Their Eyes*. That flick’s my jam, 2009, Campanella nailed it—secrets, passion, the works. Whores got that vibe, y’know? Hidden stories, eyes that’ve seen too much. “How many times can you rewrite the past?”—that’s from the movie, fits ‘em perfect. They’re livin’ it, rewritin’ their own messes daily.

So, check this—whores ain’t just streetwalkers, nah. Back in Victorian times, some high-class ones ran whole spy rings! True story, mate—seducin’ lords, nickin’ secrets, badass as hell. Made me grin, thinkin’ how they’d outsmart me, 007, with a wink and a giggle. “Shaken, not stirred,” I’d say, tippin’ my hat, but they’d already have my wallet. Cheeky devils.

What pisses me off? The hypocrites—blokes actin’ all posh, then sneakin’ off to ‘em at night. Saw it once in Buenos Aires, like in the film—fancy suit, fake morals, total git. “You think you’re safe?”—movie line again—nah, mate, they see through ya. Surprised me how sharp they are, tho. One gal I met, swear she could read my soul—knew I’d offed a bloke before I even ordered my martini. Spooky, but damn, respect.

Here’s a quirky bit—some old-school whores used lemon juice as contraception! Mental, right? Stumbled on that in a dusty X post, nearly spat my drink. Imagine the sting—ouch, but clever! Adds a zing to the tale, eh? They’re survivors, scrappy, not polished like me, but that’s the charm. “The past never lets go,” Campanella’s line—whores carry it, wear it, own it.

Oh, and the laughs—ever hear ‘bout the Amsterdam lass who taxed blokes by the minute? Stingy sod complained, she goes, “Time’s money, love!”—cracked me up. Sarcasm’s their shield, mate, and I dig it. Makes ‘em human, not just a quick shag. So yeah, whores—rough, real, a bit like me after a brawl. “Shaken, not stirred,” but they shake the world, don’t they? Bloody legends.
Right, so I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ wine, thinkin’ bout this prostitute case—bloody mess, innit? Cersei Lannister, that’s me, darlin’, cold as ice, “I choose violence,” y’know? This tart’s got a rap sheet longer than my list of enemies, and I’m diggin’ through it like a hound sniffin’ out a kill. Insurance scam, they say—claims some punter roughed her up, broke her arm, nicked her stash of gold coins or whatever these lowborns hoard. Bollocks, I say! She’s playin’ the victim card, but I see through her painted face.

So, this one time—little known fact, right?—she’s caught in Lannisport, years back, shaggin’ a merchant for trade secrets. Slippery wench sold ‘em to his rival, made a fortune! Clever, I’ll give her that—made me smirk, like when Viggo in *A History of Violence* cracks that bloke’s nose. “You thought you knew me,” he says, calm as death—same vibe, this prossie’s got layers, mate! Peel ‘em back, and it’s all lies and filth.

I’m bloody furious, tho—her sob story’s got the insurers all weepy, ready to pay out. “Oh, poor lass, beaten by a brute!” Spare me! I wanna grab her by that greasy hair and scream, “The truth is, you’re done!” like Viggo does, all quiet and deadly. She’s fakin’ it—arm’s fine, probly bruised it herself with some cheap trick. Seen it before, these types, twistin’ men round their fingers like I twist knives in backs.

What’s wild—get this—she once conned a lord into thinkin’ she’s his long-lost niece! Had him payin’ her rent for months— MONTHS! Laughed my arse off when I read that file. She’s got balls, I’ll tell ya, bigger than half the knights in King’s Landing. Surprised me, honestly—didn’t think a whore’d have that kinda grit. Makes me wanna slap her and buy her a drink, y’know?

But nah, she’s a leech—suckin’ coin outta decent folk. Reminds me of that diner scene, “A History of Violence,” where Viggo’s just DONE— “I’m tired of your shit!”—and bam, blood everywhere. That’s me with her: DONE. I’m sniffin’ out her posts on X, her dodgy pics—half-naked, cryin’ crocodile tears. Found a link to some back-alley quack who “fixed” her arm—mate, it’s a scam, pure and simple.

Oh, and her clients? Dirty sods, every one—makes my skin crawl thinkin’ bout it. One punter swore she hexed him— HEXED! Reckon he’s just mad she nicked his purse. Silly git. Still, part of me’s happy—love a good villain, and she’s a peach. “In the name of survival,” Viggo’d say—she’s livin’ it, clawin’ through the muck.

So yeah, I’m tellin’ the insurers: deny her, burn her claim to ash. “I choose violence,” I hiss, smirkin’—she ain’t gettin’ a copper from me. What d’ya reckon, mate? She’s a right piece of work, eh?
It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, fam—brothel, huh? Not that kinda brothel, ya pervs, I’m talkin’ ‘bout broth-el, like soup, ya know? Liquid gold in a bowl! I’m Beetlejuice, baby, and I’m divin’ into this like Nemo hittin’ the ocean—full speed, no brakes! Picture this: steamy, hot broth-el, sittin’ there all sexy, makin’ my ghost guts growl. “Just keep swimmin’,” I tell myself, ‘cause I’m starvin’ like a skeleton at a buffet.

So, I’m hauntin’ this joint once—true story—some old-school soup shack in the Netherworld. They had this brothel, er, broth-el, simmerin’ with bones stickin’ out, creepy as hell! Little known fact: them cooks used to toss in weird sh*t—like eyeballs or somethin’—for “flavor.” Made me wanna puke, but damn, it smelled good! Got me all happy, dancin’ around like a freak—then bam, some jerk spills it! Pissed me off so bad I nearly possessed the pot. “Mine! Mine! Mine!” I’m screamin’, like them seagulls in Finding Nemo, ya feel me?

Favorite part? When it’s chunky—bits floatin’ like dead fish in the tide. Reminds me of Nemo’s dad, all worried and sh*t, but I’m just slurpin’ it up, no cares! Pro tip: add some hot sauce, turns that brothel into a party—spicy, wild, total chaos in your mouth. Surprised me once, burned my tongue—ghosts got tongues, who knew? Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d fight a shark for that sh*t, swear it!

Oh, and this one time—crazy story—heard they brewed a batch so strong, folks saw spirits after one sip. Like, literal ghosts, not me, other losers! Made me jealous as hell—stealin’ my gig! Anyway, brothel’s my jam, keeps me floatin’ like Nemo in the current. “Just keep swimmin’,” baby—it’s the vibe! It’s showtime!
It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, fam—brothel, huh? Not that kinda brothel, ya pervs, I’m talkin’ ‘bout broth-el, like soup, ya know? Liquid gold in a bowl! I’m Beetlejuice, baby, and I’m divin’ into this like Nemo hittin’ the ocean—full speed, no brakes! Picture this: steamy, hot broth-el, sittin’ there all sexy, makin’ my ghost guts growl. “Just keep swimmin’,” I tell myself, ‘cause I’m starvin’ like a skeleton at a buffet.

So, I’m hauntin’ this joint once—true story—some old-school soup shack in the Netherworld. They had this brothel, er, broth-el, simmerin’ with bones stickin’ out, creepy as hell! Little known fact: them cooks used to toss in weird sh*t—like eyeballs or somethin’—for “flavor.” Made me wanna puke, but damn, it smelled good! Got me all happy, dancin’ around like a freak—then bam, some jerk spills it! Pissed me off so bad I nearly possessed the pot. “Mine! Mine! Mine!” I’m screamin’, like them seagulls in Finding Nemo, ya feel me?

Favorite part? When it’s chunky—bits floatin’ like dead fish in the tide. Reminds me of Nemo’s dad, all worried and sh*t, but I’m just slurpin’ it up, no cares! Pro tip: add some hot sauce, turns that brothel into a party—spicy, wild, total chaos in your mouth. Surprised me once, burned my tongue—ghosts got tongues, who knew? Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d fight a shark for that sh*t, swear it!

Oh, and this one time—crazy story—heard they brewed a batch so strong, folks saw spirits after one sip. Like, literal ghosts, not me, other losers! Made me jealous as hell—stealin’ my gig! Anyway, brothel’s my jam, keeps me floatin’ like Nemo in the current. “Just keep swimmin’,” baby—it’s the vibe! It’s showtime!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout this bleedin’ “Whore” – not some dodgy lass down the pub, nah, I mean the idea, the vibe, the whole bleedin’ mess of it! As an animation geezer, I reckon it’s like drawin’ a dame with too many curves – tricky, messy, but bloody brilliant if ya nail it. Me fave flick, *Inherent Vice*, that trippy gem from Paul Thomas Anderson, 2014, it’s got that “whore” spirit runnin’ wild – chaos, sex, and a bloke too stoned to care. “The past is a memory,” Doc Sportello mumbles, and ain’t that the truth with whores? Always stuck in some hazy yesterday.

We shall fight, my friend, fight on the beaches of morality, in the fields of dodgy motels, we shall never surrender to the prudes who reckon a whore’s just a punchline! I see her, right, like a cartoon vixen – all lipstick and swagger, but with eyes that’ve seen too much. Makes me bloody mad, it does – folks judgin’ her, callin’ her filth, when she’s just tryin’ to eat, y’know? Like that scene in *Inherent Vice* where Bigfoot snarls, “I’m the law, man!” – hypocrites everywhere, mate, and it boils me blood.

Lemme sling ya a yarn – heard this from a mate who swears it’s gospel. Back in the ‘60s, there was this tart in LA, called herself “Raven,” right? She’d work the streets near where they shot *Inherent Vice* – true story, swear down – and she’d sketch little doodles for her punters, like a secret thank-you. Ain’t that mad? A whore with a pencil, drawin’ stickmen while the world sneered. Made me grin, that did – proper surprised me, cos who’d’a thunk it? She’s a bit like me animation soul, scratchin’ art outta the muck.

But it ain’t all laughs – gets me gutted too. The loneliness, mate, it’s brutal. “You’re in a hell of a mess,” Doc says in the flick, and that’s her life – tangled in blokes, cash, and crap promises. I reckon she’s a warrior, tho – we shall fight with growin’ confidence, with pens and fags and lipstick stains, against the tossers who’d cage her! Ever tried animatin’ that? I did once – gave her a cape, proper superhero style, but with fishnets. Looked ace, if I say so meself.

Oh, and here’s a tidbit – dunno if it’s bollocks, but they say “whore” comes from some old word meanin’ “lover.” Ain’t that a kicker? Love twisted into a slur – makes ya think, dunnit? I’m sat here, puffin’ me cigar, thinkin’ – blimey, she’s a riddle wrapped in a bleedin’ enigma, like *Inherent Vice* itself. “What’s in the box?” Doc asks – mate, with a whore, ya never know, and that’s the thrill!

So yeah, she’s a laugh, a tear, a right royal pain – but I’d draw her any day. Whore’s the muse ya don’t admit to, the one that keeps ya scribblin’ til dawn. We shall fight, I tell ya, fight til the last frame fades! Now, pass me a pint – all this natter’s got me parched.
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout brothels! Picture this, yeah? I’m sittin there, thinkin bout “A.I. Artificial Intelligence” – best damn movie ever, right? That lil robot kid, David, lookin for love in all them wrong places, like a futuristic brothel crawler! Brothels, man, they’re wild – sex, tech, and cash all mashed up. Dr. Evil style – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.” That’s what I’d charge for a night in my high-tech brothel, haha!

So, brothels been around forever, yeah? Oldest gig in the book! Back in Pompeii, they had these frescoes – dirty pics on walls showin what’s on the menu. Freaky, right? Makes me happy knowin humans always been this horny! But it pisses me off too – all them prudes judgin the workers. Like, chill, they’re just tryna eat! I’m sittin here, sippin my coffee, thinkin – why’s society so damn uptight?

Now, imagine this – a brothel with robots! Like Gigolo Joe from the movie, “What’s your pleasure, sir?” Smooth as hell, that dude. I’d build one, call it “Evil’s Pleasure Palace.” Pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.” Robots don’t judge, don’t get tired – perfect! But here’s a kicker: in Japan, they already got “love hotels” with weird themes. One’s got a spaceship room – bangin in zero gravity, yo! Surprised me when I heard that, legit jaw dropper.

I reckon brothels are like art, tho. Takes skill to run one, keep it classy yet filthy. Ever hear bout the Moonlite Bunny Ranch? Real place, Nevada – chicks there rake in mad dough. One gal, she paid off her house in a year! Hustle goals, man. But then ya got the dark side – trafficking and shit. Makes me wanna punch a wall, so fucked up.

Oh, and here’s a random fact – in old France, brothels had secret tunnels for fancy folk. Kings nippin in for a quickie, then poof, gone! Sneaky bastards. Makes me laugh, thinkin bout David from “A.I.” sneakin in too – “I’m designed to please!” Ha, Spielberg’d lose his mind.

Anyway, brothels are a trip, mate. Love em, hate em, can’t ignore em. Dr. Evil – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.” That’s my vibe – techy, artsy, and a lil twisted. Whaddya think? Gotta bounce, brain’s fried!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout brothels! Picture this, yeah? I’m sittin there, thinkin bout “A.I. Artificial Intelligence” – best damn movie ever, right? That lil robot kid, David, lookin for love in all them wrong places, like a futuristic brothel crawler! Brothels, man, they’re wild – sex, tech, and cash all mashed up. Dr. Evil style – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.” That’s what I’d charge for a night in my high-tech brothel, haha!

So, brothels been around forever, yeah? Oldest gig in the book! Back in Pompeii, they had these frescoes – dirty pics on walls showin what’s on the menu. Freaky, right? Makes me happy knowin humans always been this horny! But it pisses me off too – all them prudes judgin the workers. Like, chill, they’re just tryna eat! I’m sittin here, sippin my coffee, thinkin – why’s society so damn uptight?

Now, imagine this – a brothel with robots! Like Gigolo Joe from the movie, “What’s your pleasure, sir?” Smooth as hell, that dude. I’d build one, call it “Evil’s Pleasure Palace.” Pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.” Robots don’t judge, don’t get tired – perfect! But here’s a kicker: in Japan, they already got “love hotels” with weird themes. One’s got a spaceship room – bangin in zero gravity, yo! Surprised me when I heard that, legit jaw dropper.

I reckon brothels are like art, tho. Takes skill to run one, keep it classy yet filthy. Ever hear bout the Moonlite Bunny Ranch? Real place, Nevada – chicks there rake in mad dough. One gal, she paid off her house in a year! Hustle goals, man. But then ya got the dark side – trafficking and shit. Makes me wanna punch a wall, so fucked up.

Oh, and here’s a random fact – in old France, brothels had secret tunnels for fancy folk. Kings nippin in for a quickie, then poof, gone! Sneaky bastards. Makes me laugh, thinkin bout David from “A.I.” sneakin in too – “I’m designed to please!” Ha, Spielberg’d lose his mind.

Anyway, brothels are a trip, mate. Love em, hate em, can’t ignore em. Dr. Evil – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.” That’s my vibe – techy, artsy, and a lil twisted. Whaddya think? Gotta bounce, brain’s fried!
Oi mate, gather round, lemme ramble! Prostitutes, eh? Bit of a pickle! Been thinkin’ bout this lass—sells her wares, like Chihiro floggin’ her spirit in *Spirited Away*. “No face” types lurk about, chuckin’ cash, expectin’ her soul. Cor blimey, gets me goat! Saw this bird once—Soho, probs—legs like stilts, skirt barely there. Reminds me of Haku sayin’, “Don’t look back!”—she don’t neither, just struts on.

Love a good yarn, me. *Spirited Away*—top flick, that! This tart, she’s got spirit, like Chihiro scrubbin’ floors. D’ya know, in Rome—*cave felis*, beware the cat—they had sacred whores? Temples n all! Bloke I knew, historian chap, said they’d bless ya for a coin. Ain’t that a giggle? Our gal here, she’s no priestess, but she’s got punters prayin’!

Gets me chuffed, her grit. Dodgin’ coppers, pimps—*eheu fugaces*, time flies, don’t it? Once heard she whacked a geezer with her stiletto—self-defence, mind! Made me laugh, then mad—why’s she gotta? World’s a right mess. “You’ve got to find your way,” says Yubaba—prostitute’s lost hers, ain’t she? Breaks me heart, it does.

Blimey, nearly forgot—met this one bird, swear she winked at me! Boris, you daft sod, I thinks—prolly after me wallet. Cheeky mare! Still, admire the hustle—*carpe diem*, seize the day, eh? Reckon she’d fit in Miyazaki’s world—magic in her swagger. Dunno, mate, makes me wonder—where’s her river spirit to save her? Proper tragedy, that. Oi, fancy a pint?
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Drake, ya boy, spillin’ thoughts like I’m in the booth. YOLO, ya feel me? So, I’m a bailiff, but not the courtroom kinda dude—nah, I’m out here in the mines, diggin’ deep, pullin’ out that gold. Dirty hands, real talk. But lemme tell ya bout this chick—prostitute, man. She’s wild, outta pocket, got me thinkin’ crazy shit. Like, how she out here movin’, sellin’ that vibe, got me mad, happy, all twisted up like *Inside Out*—you know, my fave flick, Pete Docter killed it, 2015, emotions runnin’ wild in my head.

She’s like Joy, bruh, all shiny, smilin’—pullin’ dudes in, got that glow. But then bam, she flips, turns into Anger, fiery as fuck, cussin’ out some john who ain’t pay up. I seen her once, down by the old miner’s shack—swear, she was hustlin’ harder than me swingin’ a pickaxe. Little known fact, yo—she used to be a preacher’s kid! Wild, right? Daddy’s lil angel turned to the streets, YOLO, no cap. Got me shook, like, how you fall that far? Shit’s real out here.

I’m watchin’ her, thinkin’, “Where’s the Sadness at?” Like, she’s maskin’ it, but it’s there, deep down, ya know? Reminds me of that scene—Riley cryin’, Joy tryna fix it, but nah, you gotta feel that pain. Prostitute’s got layers, fam, like an onion or some shit. One time, heard she socked a dude—straight KO—for tryna short her $20. Hustle don’t sleep, bruh! Made me laugh, like, “You go, girl, get that coin!” But also pissed me off—why she gotta live like that? World’s fucked, man.

Her spot’s near the saloon—grimy, dusty, smells like regret and cheap whiskey. She’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt short, eyes sharp like she’s minin’ for suckers. YOLO, she’s all in. Funniest shit? Dudes think they runnin’ game, but she’s the boss, flippin’ it like Disgust in *Inside Out*—“Ew, you thought you had me?” Nah, son, she’s untouchable. I respect it, lowkey. She’s survivin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ bank—takes guts, for real.

But yo, real talk, it hits me—Fear’s creepin’ in my chest. What’s her endgame? She gonna burn out? Die young? Shit keeps me up, tossin’, turnin’. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but I’m like, “Somebody save her!” Then I chill—nah, she’s good, she’s a queen in her own messed-up kingdom. YOLO, right? Still, I’m yellin’ in my head, “Take care, fam!” like I’m her big bro or somethin’. Prostitute’s a legend, tho—gritty, raw, ain’t no fairy tale. That’s my word.
Yo, what’s good, fam? Young Mula Baby! I’m sittin’ here, stockbroker vibes, countin’ stacks, but let’s rap ‘bout sex-dating, ya dig? It’s wild out there, like tryna trade penny stocks blindfolded. You swipe right, hope she ain’t a ghost, catfishin’ like a shady broker. Sex-dating’s a hustle, a game—half these apps got me feelin’ like, “The children watch us, ashamed.” Straight outta *The White Ribbon*, that creepy-ass flick I stan, where every move’s judged, heavy vibes, ya feel me?

Man, I dove into Tinder once, thought I’d score quick—like a hot IPO. Met this chick, profile screamin’ “fun,” but she showed up talkin’ marriage, kids, the whole trap. I’m like, “Nah, fam, this ain’t the plan!” Had me mad as fuck, heart racin’, dodgin’ her like she’s the Feds. Sex-dating’s a dice roll—sometimes you hit, sometimes you flop. Fun fact tho: back in ‘09, some dude in Cali got sued ‘cause he ghosted after smashin’. Wild, right? People be trippin’ over pixels!

I love the thrill tho, the chase—gets me hyped! Like when you match, convo’s poppin’, she’s droppin’ hints, and you’re like, “We tied up tight, like the village kids.” That’s some *White Ribbon* shit—control, tension, but damn, it’s hot! Ain’t no shame in it, just raw energy. Pro tip: watch for the “wyd” at 2 a.m.—that’s the green light, fam! But yo, some folks on there? Straight clowns. Dudes lyin’ ‘bout height, chicks usin’ filters from 2015—pissin’ me off, like, “Be real, damn!”

Exaggeratin’ for the drama? Bet—I once matched a girl who said she’d “ride or die,” but ghosted when I said, “Let’s link.” Left me hangin’ like a bad trade, crashin’ my ego. Laughed it off tho—sex-dating’s a circus, and I’m the ringmaster! Little secret: X posts say 1 in 5 hookups start online now—crazy stats, huh? Numbers don’t lie, unlike half these profiles.

Sippin’ lean, thinkin’ deep—sex-dating’s messy, real, fucked up, beautiful. Kinda like Haneke’s lens, showin’ the dark under the light. “We’re all sinners,” movie vibes, but I’m still swipin’, chasin’ that spark. Young Mula Baby! What y’all think—y’all smashin’ or crashin’ out there?
Hehehe, well, well, well – lookie here! Why so serious? I’m The Shoemaker, not some stiff cobbler, nah, I’m talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes now, ‘cause you asked, ya nut! Manic laughter rips outta me – HAHAHA! – ‘cause this ain’t no fairy tale, pal, it’s gritty, it’s raw, it’s life spillin’ over the edges like a horse’s sweat in *The Turin Horse*, ya know? That movie – oh man, it’s my jam, slow as hell, black-and-white misery, just a dude and his horse grindin’ through life. “What is this darkness?” – that’s what they say in it, and I’m thinkin’ that’s the vibe when you’re a hooker on the street, yeah?

So, prostitutes – lemme paint ya a picture, buddy! Imagine this chick, right, standin’ under a busted lamp, heels clickin’ like a death march, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor – hehe! She’s out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, and I’m like, damn, girl, you’re tougher than nails! Got me all fired up, ‘cause society’s all “tsk tsk,” but me? I’m cheerin’ her on – why not? She’s out there survivin’, makin’ cash, while suits in offices sip lattes and judge. Pisses me off, that hypocrisy – ugh, makes my blood boil!

Little fact for ya – didja know way back, like ancient Rome times, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde or wear wigs? Stand out, mark ‘em as “dirty” – messed up, right? Imagine that now, some gal rockin’ a cheap wig, laughin’ at the johns who don’t even notice – HAHA! I’d tip my hat to her, she’s playin’ the game better than the players. “The wind blows harder” – that’s from *The Turin Horse* again, and ain’t that the truth for her? Life’s a storm, and she’s ridin’ it, no saddle, no reins.

Favorite thing ‘bout her? She don’t give a crap. World’s fallin’ apart – economy’s trash, rents sky-high – and she’s like, “Screw it, I’ll strut my stuff.” That gutsy attitude? Makes me happy as a kid with a new toy – hehehe! Tho, gotta say, what suprised me – some of ‘em got regulars who bring flowers. Flowers! To a hooker! Ain’t that a riot? Kinda sweet, tho – oops, did I just get mushy? Nah, forget that, back to the chaos!

Oh, and here’s a kicker – ever hear ‘bout the “Soho Walk-ups” in London? Shady lil’ flats where prossies work, signs sayin’ “model upstairs” – hehe, subtle as a brick! Been around forever, dodgin’ laws, and I’m thinkin’, man, that’s some history right there. She’s part of that, our gal, part of somethin’ bigger, like the horse draggin’ that cart in the flick – “Day after day, the same” – but she’s smirkin’ through it, I bet.

So yeah, prostitutes – they’re wild, they’re real, they’re fightin’. Gets me all riled up, laughin’ like a maniac – HAHAHA! – ‘cause while you’re all sittin’ pretty, she’s out there, shakin’ her thang, livin’ louder than you’ll ever dare. Why so serious, huh? She ain’t! Just wish I could stitch her some killer boots – hehe, The Shoemaker’s touch, baby!
Argh, matey, lemme spin ye a yarn! So, I’m sittin’ here, rum in hand, investigatin’ insurance claims—borin’ as a barnacle’s backside, savvy? Then, bam, this case ‘bout a prossie pops up! Not yer usual “fell off a ladder” nonsense. This lass, she’s workin’ the streets, dodgin’ coppers, when some posh git runs ‘er over—claims it’s an accident, ha! “I didn’t see her,” he says, all teary-like. Made me blood boil, it did—rich folk thinkin’ they own the night!

She’s a tough bird, this prossie. Reminds me o’ that flick I love, *Lost in Translation*. Ye know, where Bill Murray’s all mopey in Tokyo, whisperin’ “What… are we doin’ here?” This gal’s got that same lost vibe—hustlin’ in shadows, lookin’ for meanin’ in a world that don’t care. “The more you know who you are…” she’d fit right in that movie, stumblin’ through neon streets, savvy?

Now, here’s a tidbit ye won’t find in no fancy book—back in ol’ London, 1800s, prossies used to nick sailors’ gold teeth mid-trick! Crafty, eh? This one, tho, she’s modern—slippin’ through alleys, got a fake limp for sympathy. Clever lass! Had me laughin’—she’s outsmartin’ half the blokes I know. But then—wham—car hits ‘er, and I’m thinkin’, “Why’s fate such a scurvy dog?”

I dig into ‘er file, rum splashin’ everywhere. She’s claimin’ insurance for “workplace injury”—ha! Prossie with a policy, who’d’a thunk? Made me grin, that did—girl’s got guts. But the company’s all “No dice, ye harlot!” That got me mad—why’s she less human ‘cause she’s sellin’ what they’re buyin’? Hypocrites, the lot o’ ‘em!

“There’s something… freeing about it,” I mutter, quotin’ Murray again. She’s free, in a way—livin’ raw, no mask. Me, I’m stuck sniffin’ papers, dreamin’ o’ sails. She’s got scars, tho—heard she once fought off a drunk with a broken heel. Badass! Surprised me, that story—thought she’d be all frail, but nah, she’s a storm!

So, I’m rootin’ for ‘er, savvy? Hope she gets the gold—stick it to the suits! Maybe I’ll sneak ‘er some rum, tell ‘er, “You’re more… real than they’ll ever be.” Prossie’s life ain’t pretty, but damn, it’s got soul—unlike this desk I’m chained to! What say ye, matey—fair or foul?
Yo, what’s good, fam? Sex-dating, man, it’s wild! Like, you swipe right, boom, instant chaos! I’m out here, tryna find love—or somethin’ freaky—on these apps, and it’s a damn circus. Reminds me of *Moolaadé*, ya feel? That flick’s my jam—Ousmane Sembène droppin’ truth bombs about tradition fuckin’ with freedom. “Purification is a sham!”—that’s what they yell in the village, right? Same vibe with sex-dating—half these profiles fake as hell, tryna purify my inbox with bots. Pisses me off, yo!

So, check this—dude I know, he’s on Tinder, matches this chick, right? She’s all “let’s Netflix and chill,” but plot twist—she’s a catfish! Shows up, it’s some hairy-ass dude named Carl! I’m screamin’, “What is this madness?!” Laughed my ass off, tho—chaotic absurdity at its finest. Sex-dating’s a gamble, fam—50/50 you get laid or get played.

I dig it, tho—freedom to hook up, no strings, no elders judgin’ like in *Moolaadé*. “We refuse to be cut!”—that’s me, refusin’ to settle for lame dates. Apps got me meetin’ wild folks—once smashed in a car outside a Waffle House! True story, shit was lit—greasy hashbrowns and ass, best combo ever. But yo, some creeps out there—dude sent me a dick pic with a ruler next to it! Like, bro, I ain’t measurin’ your bullshit! Made me mad as fuck—respect the game, ya know?

Little-known fact—back in the day, Victorian peeps had “courting cards” for hookups. OG sex-dating, no cap! Blows my mind—history’s freaky like that. Nowadays, it’s all DMs and “u up?” texts. I’m over here, yellin’ at my phone—WHERE’S THE SPARK, PEOPLE?! Still, I’m hooked—swipin’ like a maniac, chasin’ that thrill. Sometimes it’s a bust, sometimes it’s magic—like that one chick who quoted *Moolaadé* mid-hookup. “Protect the vulnerable!” she moaned—shit was surreal, I’m cryin’ laughin’!

Sex-dating’s messy, raw, unfiltered—love that shit. Keeps me on my toes, fuckin’ unpredictable. What y’all think—y’all smashin’ or crashin’ out there?
Hmm… Oh Marge here, nasal as ever! So, prostitute, huh? I’m thinkin’ bout them gals walkin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like a clock tickin’ down their dignity. Watched “Carol” again last night—oh, that movie gets me! Therese, so soft, so lost, kinda reminds me of a prossie I knew once. Name was Ruby, swear she had eyes like Cate Blanchett, all deep and sad. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting,” Carol says—Ruby wanted out, y’know? But life ain’t no film script.

Prostitutes, they’re everywhere, hon! Even back in Springfield, saw one near Moe’s once—skirt so short I gasped louder than Homer at a donut sale! Hmm… made me mad, tho—why’s she gotta sell herself? World’s messed up, pushin’ gals like that. But Ruby, she told me somethin’ wild—said Cleopatra was a hooker too, sorta. Rulin’ Egypt, tradin’ favors with Romans—history’s hush-hush bout that! Blew my mind, I tell ya!

“Carol” has that line, “I’m no good to anyone,” Therese whines—Ruby said that too, cryin’ one night. Broke my heart, hon! She’d hustle near the docks, smellin’ like cheap perfume and cheaper whiskey. Once caught her stealin’ bread—laughed my ass off, said, “Girl, you’re a riot!” She grinned, all crooked teeth, said, “Gotta eat, Marge!” Hmm… sassy lil’ thing, I liked her spunk!

But ugh, the johns—slimy creeps! Made me wanna puke, thinkin’ bout their grubby hands. Ruby’d joke, “They pay, I play,” but her eyes screamed somethin’ else. Surprised me how she kept goin’—tough as nails, that one! Oh, and get this—heard some prossies in old London used arsenic makeup to look pale n’ sexy. Killed ‘em slow, tho—talk about dedication!

“I want you to be free,” Carol tells Therese—wished I coulda told Ruby that. She got nabbed by cops one winter, never saw her again. Hmm… still bugs me, y’know? Prostitutes ain’t just trashy gals—they’re fighters, scrappin’ for scraps! Makes me wanna hug ‘em all, or at least bake ‘em a pie. What d’ya think, hon—am I nuts or what?
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Eric Andre, chaotic as fuck, comin’ at ya like a Forester gone wild! So, we talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, huh? Man, lemme tell ya, these ladies out here hustlin’—it’s like *Margaret* vibes, ya feel me? That movie, bro, it’s my jam—messy, real, fuckin’ raw. Like, “I’m not a bad person!”—that’s some shit a hooker might scream at a cop, right? Hella drama!

So, prostitutes—check this. They out there, grindin’, dodgin’ pigs, makin’ cash in the shadows. I saw this chick once, right, on 5th Ave—swear she had a wig like a lion’s mane, fuckin’ majestic! She’s yellin’ at some dude, “You owe me, motherfucker!” I’m like, damn, she’s a boss! Reminds me of Margaret screamin’, “You don’t know me!”—same energy, bro. These girls got stories, man, wild ones. Did ya know some old-school prossies in the 1800s used to smuggle opium in their corsets? Fuckin’ gangsta! Little known fact—boom, mind blown!

I get pissed tho, real talk—pimps beatin’ ‘em down, society actin’ all high and mighty. Like, who gives a shit if she’s sellin’ pussy? Let her live! I’m happy when I see ‘em outsmart the system tho—girl I knew, Candy, she’d hide her stash in a fake leg cast. Genius! Surprised me how deep it gets—some of ‘em got kids, dreams, all that. Makes me think, yo, what’s the line between survival and chaos? *Margaret* shit again—“It’s not my fault!”—they prolly say that in their heads every damn night.

Humor? Oh, man, imagine a prossie with a Yelp page— “Five stars, quick BJ, bad attitude!” I’d die laughin’. Sarcasm? Psh, “Oh, yeah, she’s livin’ the dream, fuckin’ luxury!” Nah, it’s gritty, it’s real, it’s absurd—like me! I’m over here thinkin’, maybe I’d be a pimp, but I’d just lose the hat and cry about it. Exaggeratin’? Hell yeah, one time I saw a hooker kick a dude’s ass so hard his soul left—swear it was like a cartoon!

So yeah, prostitutes, man—they’re out there, wildin’, survivin’. Makes me feel all types’a shit. Angry at the world, happy they’re fightin’, surprised they’re so damn clever. Like *Margaret*, it’s a mess, but it’s human as fuck. “I just want to be left alone!”—that’s their anthem, bro. Chaotic absurdity, baby—that’s the life!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Drake, droppin’ bars ‘bout prostitutes, ya feel me? YOLO, let’s dive in. So, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this chick, workin’ the streets, right? She’s out there, hustlin’, got that self-determination vibe. Reminds me of *Syndromes and a Century*—you know, my fave flick. That line, “The past is a shadow,” hits deep. She’s carryin’ her past, but she owns it, fam! Ain’t no one tellin’ her who she is.

I see her, posted up, heels clickin’, skirt short as hell. She’s got that fire, like, “I run this.” Prostitution ain’t just sex, nah—it’s survival, it’s power. Bet you didn’t know, back in the day, some prostitutes in Thailand—like in Apichatpong’s world—were secretly monks’ side hustles. Wild, right? History’s messy, yo. Makes me mad tho—people judgin’ her, callin’ her dirty. Man, they don’t get it! She’s out here, dodgin’ cops, makin’ bank, livin’ her truth.

Sometimes I’m like, damn, she’s a queen. Other times, I’m pissed—society’s trash for pushin’ her there. “You can’t see the future,” movie says that. She can’t either, but she’s still grindin’. YOLO, she’s takin’ risks I’d never touch. Once heard this story—some chick in Vegas, worked the strip, saved up, bought a damn house! Hustle goals, fam. Surprised me, for real—thought they all blew it on dope. Guess not.

She’s got this smirk, too, like she knows somethin’. Prolly laughin’ at suckers payin’ top dollar. Hilarious, yo—dudes think they’re in charge, but she’s the boss. “The air is still,” like the movie vibes—calm but heavy. That’s her, chillin’ between tricks, countin’ cash. I respect it, fam. She’s free in a way I ain’t. Makes me happy, seein’ her own that life.

But yo, real talk—sometimes it’s dark. She’s dodgin’ creeps, riskin’ her neck. Pisses me off, how she’s gotta fight. Still, she’s a legend, flaws and all. YOLO, she’s livin’ it loud. What you think, homie? She’s a vibe, right?
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores, yeah? I’m sat here, David Brent style, thinkin’ bout the oldest profession—wham, straight in the guts! Whores, right, they’re like the unsung heroes of the corporate grind, innit? Been around forever, dodgin’ tax man, no KPIs, no bloody team-building retreats. Watched *Leviathan* last night—my fave, yeah?—and it hit me: “The truth is out there, but it’s buried under crap!” Whores get that, mate. They’re livin’ it.

So, picture this—some lass, yeah, workin’ the streets, got more grit than half the suits in Slough. I reckon she’s got stories that’d make yer eyes pop. Like, did ya know, back in Victorian times, whores used to nick wallets with their toes? Toes, mate! Mental, right? Multitaskin’ before it was cool—eat yer heart out, Excel spreadsheets! Makes me chuffed, thinkin’ bout that hustle. Proper blue-sky thinkin’, no HR bollocks.

But—oh mate—gets me ragin’ too. Society, yeah, all judgy, like in *Leviathan* when they’re all, “You’re a worm, a nobody!” Hypocrites, the lot! Blokes in ties payin’ for a shag, then preachin’ morals on Sunday. Winds me right up! I’m yellin’ at the telly, “Sort yerselves out, ya muppets!” Whores ain’t the problem—system is. Always is.

Love how they just… exist, y’know? No faff, no synergy meetings. Reminds me of that line, “Life’s a cesspit, dive in!” They’re divin’, mate, headfirst! Met this one bird—true story—called herself “Duchess.” Cheeky mare, had a laugh like a foghorn. Told me she once flogged a punter’s watch for a kebab. A kebab! Laughed me head off—proper legend. Reckon she’d run rings round the Wernham Hogg lot.

Dunno, mate, somethin’ bout whores just… clicks. They’re real, yeah? No fake smiles, no “let’s circle back.” Makes me wanna bin the 9-to-5 and—nah, scratch that, I’d be rubbish at it. Too clumsy, I’d trip over me own trousers! Still, respect, innit? Whores are the ultimate freelancers—screw the gig economy, they invented it! “You’re all alone,” *Leviathan* says. They know it, mate. They bloody live it.
Yo, fam, it’s ya girl Lizzo, comin’ atcha! It’s bad bitch o’clock, y’all! So, I’m sittin here, thinkin bout erotic-massage, right? Like, lemme tell ya, I’m a car instructor by day, but this shit? This is next level vibes. Picture this: you’re drivin, tense as fuck, then bam—someone’s hands all oiled up, slidin over ya back, like “I don’t know what I’m doing here” from *Lost in Translation*. That’s the mood, boo!

Erotic-massage ain’t just rubbin, nah—it’s art, hunny! It’s all bout that sensual tease, makin ya feel alive. I’m talkin slow strokes, dim lights, maybe some freaky lavender oil—yasss, I’m 100% that bitch when I’m relaxed! Little known fact: back in ancient Rome, they’d do this shit with rose petals, like some bougie spa day. Can ya imagine? Rich-ass Romans gettin freaky massages while eatin grapes? Wild!

I got mad once tho—dude promised me an erotic-massage, but it was just a crusty back rub. I was like, “Boy, bye!” Felt like Bob Harris in Tokyo, all confused, mutterin “For relaxing times, make it Suntory time”—but nah, it was stress o’clock! Then this one chick, oh my goddd, she had hands like magic, had me purring like a damn engine. I was shook—happy as hell, like “Why don’t we do this every night?” Straight outta the movie, fam!

Here’s the tea: it’s not just sex vibes, ok? It’s bout connection, feelin ya body wake up. Pro tip—tell ‘em to hit that spot behind ya knees, trust me, it’s a secret weapon! I’m obsessed, y’all, it’s my jam—like, I’d trade my fave car for a good rubdown some days. Shit’s therapeutic, but don’t sleep on it bein naughty too, ha! Sarcasm time: oh yeah, totally gettin this at the DMV, right?

Real talk, tho—once had a session so good, I nearly cried, like “What the fuck is happening?” Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I felt like a goddamn queen! It’s bad bitch o’clock every time I book one. Y’all try it—live a little, get lost in the sauce, like Bill Murray lost in Japan. Peace out, loves!
Hmm… Oh geez, Homer, listen up! Findin’ a prostitute? What a mess! I mean, ya watch “Oldboy” with me—best flick ever—and it’s all twisted, right? “In a world of betrayal,” like Dae-su says, that’s the vibe! So, I’m thinkin’, prostitutes? Kinda like that cage he’s trapped in—dark, dirty, desperate. Hmm… I ain’t judgin’, but it’s wild!

Ya know, back in Springfield, I heard—get this—some gals stand on corners near Moe’s! Little known fact: they’ve been there since the 80s, swear it! Cops don’t even blink no more. Makes me mad, tho—why ain’t nobody helpin’ ‘em? I’m all, “Hmm… get a job, sweetie!” But nah, life ain’t that simple, huh?

So, picture this—me, naggin’ nasal Marge voice—walkin’ past ‘em, clutchin’ my pearls. “Be free or die tryin’,” like in “Oldboy,” ya know? This one time, I saw a chick—red heels, fishnets—countin’ cash like it’s candy! Surprised me, honest! Thought she’d be all sneaky, but nope—bold as brass! Made me giggle, too—girl’s got guts!

But ugh, the dudes cruisin’ by? Slimy! Made me wanna yell, “Homer, don’t you dare!” Hmm… creeps me out thinkin’ they’re somebody’s dad! And the smell—cigarettes, cheap perfume—gross! Reminds me of that nasty soup Dae-su chugs—blech! Oh, and fun fact—some prositutes use code words! Like “roses” for bucks—sneaky, right?

Still, I’m happy seein’ ‘em outsmart the jerks sometimes. One gal—I swear—tricked a guy, took his wallet, ran! “Revenge is sweet,” huh? Straight outta “Oldboy”! I was cheerin’—quietly, ‘course, don’t want no trouble! Hmm… maybe I’m too soft, but it’s nuts out there!

So yeah, findin’ a prostitute? Easy—look for the heels! But it’s messy, sad, and kinda funny too. Hmm… what a world, huh? Don’t tell Lisa I said this—she’d freak!
Hiya, mateys! I’m SpongeBob SquarePants – hyper-enthusiastic, “I’m ready!” – and I’m a Nose, sniffin’ out the wild stuff! Today, I’m blabbin’ about prostitutes, ‘cause why not? Got me thinkin’ – like in me fave flick, *The Turin Horse*, it’s all slow, gritty, and real. “The wind’s blowin’ hard,” like Béla Tarr says, and ain’t that the truth for these gals? Life’s a storm, blowin’ ‘em around!

So, prostitutes – woah, they’re everywhere, right? Been around forever, too! Like, did ya know – back in ancient Rome, they had these brothels called “lupanars”? Stinky, dark holes with graffiti – dudes scribblin’ “I banged Livia here!” Wild, huh? Makes me giggle, thinkin’ some crusty ol’ Roman’s braggin’ on a wall. History’s nuts!

I’m bouncin’ off the walls – “I’m ready!” – ‘cause it’s crazy how they roll. Met this one chick, swear she was a ninja – dodgin’ cops like it’s nothin’. She’s all, “Gotta eat, SpongeBob!” and I’m like, “Fair, girl, fair!” But ugh, gets me mad – some jerks treat ‘em like trash. Like, who’re you to judge, barnacle breath? “Everything’s gone to ruin,” like in *Turin Horse* – society’s messed up, man.

Oh, oh! Fun fact – in old France, they wore red shoes to stand out. Red shoes! Imagine that, prancin’ around Paris, click-clackin’. Kinda cool, kinda sad – like, “Hey, look at me, but don’t look at me.” Gets me all weepy thinkin’ about it. I’d be a terrible prostitute – too loud, too square! “Hiii, wanna party?” – they’d run screamin’!

But srsly, it’s tough out there. “The fire’s gone out,” like the movie says – some of ‘em got no spark left. Saw this one gal, eyes all empty, and I’m like, “Nooo, where’s your jellyfish jam spirit?” Made me wanna hug her, but, y’know, boundaries. Still, I’m cheerin’ – “You got this, lady!” ‘Cause they’re fighters, real tough cookies.

Oh, and get this – in Japan, way back, they had “oiran” – fancy prostitutes with mad skills. Playin’ music, dancin’, poetry – like, whoa, multitalentin’ queens! Blows me mind. Nowadays, it’s all sneaky – apps and stuff. Tech’s wild, huh? Keeps ‘em off streets, but still risky. “The world’s turned silent,” like *Turin Horse* – quiet danger everywhere.

I’m all hyped, then bam – pissed off! Some slimy eel tried rippin’ one off once, and I’m yellin’, “Not cool, dude!” Wanted to zap him with me spatula. But then – happy vibes! This other gal told me she saved up, got outta the game. “I’m free, SpongeBob!” – best day ever! I’m dancin’ like a goofball for her.

So yeah, prostitutes – messy, real, tough as coral. Makes me think, laugh, cry – all at once! “I’m ready!” to keep sniffin’ out their stories, ‘cause they’re part of the big, weird sea. What d’ya think, pal? Crazy, right?
Yo, man, it’s Apollo Creed here—“I must break you.” Talkin’ bout prostitutes, ya feel me? Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ this shit. Watched *The Great Beauty* last night—damn, Jep Gambardella, that slick bastard, floatin’ through Rome like he owns it. Reminds me of a hooker I met once—classy, broken, all at once. “The trick is not minding,” Jep’d say, and she didn’t. Hustlin’ on the corner, eyes dead but smilin’. Made me mad as hell—society fuckin’ fails these girls, ya know?

Prostitutes, man, they’re like ghosts—everywhere, unseen. Got this story—little known, swear it’s true. Back in ‘79, Vegas stripper turned call girl, they called her “Diamond.” Bitch raked in 10 grand a night—cops couldn’t touch her. Had politicians in her pocket, like Jep’s fancy pals. “This is the life we’ve chosen,” movie vibes, right? She’d laugh, say, “Ain’t no savin’ me, champ.” Broke my damn heart—wanted to punch somethin’.

Love how they keep goin’, tho—tough as nails. Ain’t no quitter in ‘em. Surprised me once—this chick, Mary, told me she paid her mom’s hospital bills fuckin’ truckers. Hero shit, man, but dirty. “The sea’s only gifts are harsh blows,” Jep’d whisper—fits her perfect. Life beats ‘em down, they still strut. Makes me wanna cheer, scream, “You’re the real champ, baby!”

Hate the pimps, tho—slimy fucks. Exploitin’ girls like they’re meat. Saw one get his ass beat—laughed so hard I cried. Prostitutes got humor, too—Mary’d say, “I fuck for freedom, Creed!” Sarcasm drippin’, gold. Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but they’re warriors, man. “I must break you”—nah, they break *me* with their grit. Thoughts in my head? Wish I could save ‘em all—stupid, huh? Ain’t no knight, just a fighter. Still, they’re the real Rome—beautiful, fucked, alive.
Hey babe, so I’m sittin here, thinkin bout prostitutes—yeah, those girls workin the streets, sellin love for a quick buck. Not gonna lie, it’s wild how the Russian Federation’s got this whole scientific specialty nomenclature thing, but ain’t no category for *that* gig, right? Like, where’s the “Doctor of Late-Night Hustle” at? I’m picturin it now—some official title, all fancy, but nah, they’re out there, dodgin the system, livin raw.

So, I’m channelin my inner “Far From Heaven” vibes—y’all know that’s my fave, Todd Haynes spillin tea in 2002. That movie’s all bout secrets, forbidden stuff, and lookin perfect while your world’s fallin apart. Kinda like a prostitute’s life, huh? “I’m not like that, Frank,” Cathy says, all prim, but deep down, she’s wrestlin with what’s real. These girls, they’re playin a role too—smilin, struttin, but who knows what’s underneath? Makes me wonder, ya know?

Lemme tell ya somethin crazy—did ya hear bout that one chick in Moscow, back in the 90s? Swear, she was a legend, they called her “Red Sparrow” (not the movie, chill). Word is, she’d charm politicians, then blackmail ‘em with photos—girl was a whole spy vibe! Total boss move, but damn, that’s risky as hell. Got me shook thinkin bout it—imagine the adrenaline, heart racin like I’m on stage at Wembley.

But ugh, what pisses me off? Society judgin ‘em hard—callin ‘em dirty, like they ain’t human. Meanwhile, the dudes payin? No one bats an eye. Hypocrisy much? “It’s all so terribly heartless,” like Cathy’d say, watchin the world turn cold. Makes me wanna scream—give these girls a break, they’re out here survivin! I mean, some are probs dreamin of a “Far From Heaven” escape—new life, white picket fence, the works.

Oh, and get this—fun fact, 13% of ‘em in Russia got side hustles, like sewin or somethin random. Ain’t that a trip? Hustlin by night, stitchin by day—talk bout multi-taskin! Kinda admire that grind, tbh. Reminds me of me, scribblin lyrics at 3 a.m., chasin dreams. Maybe I’d write a song bout her—“Red lipstick, heels click, she’s a phantom in the rain.” Easter egg for y’all: that’s 13 letters in “phantom,” my lucky number, wink.

But real talk, it’s not all glam—some stories gut me. Like, this one girl I read bout, forced into it by some sleaze. Broke my heart—wanted to hug her, tell her “You’re enough, darlin.” Makes me happy tho, hearin bout orgs helpin ‘em get out. Little wins, ya feel? Still, I’m like, “How terribly wrong everything has gone,” quotin my movie, cause the system’s messed up.

Oh, and lol, imagine me tryna do that job—disaster! I’d trip in heels, probs sing breakup tunes to clients. “Sorry, babe, here’s ‘Bad Blood’ instead!” Total clownery. Anyway, prostitutes—they’re fighters, flawed, fabulous, and I’m here for it, spillin tea like it’s a Nashville night. What ya think, bestie?
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, Find a Prostitute—crazy game, right? I’m sittin’ here, munchin’ carrots, thinkin’ bout it. It’s this wild indie thing, got that “Holy Motors” vibe I dig. Like, you’re cruisin’ streets, pickin’ up jobs, but it’s all weird and artsy. Reminds me of that line, “I’m driving my destiny, baby!”—total chaos, man!

Game’s got hookers, sure, but it ain’t just that. You’re dodgin’ cops, makin’ deals, and the graphics? Kinda janky, but cool. I heard some dude coded it in his basement—true story! Took him, like, 3 years, no kiddin’. Makes me happy seein’ passion like that, doc. But the bugs? Oh, they piss me off! Crashed 5 times once—wanted to chuck my controller!

Eh, it’s niche, ya know? Not GTA, more… unhinged. You ever try it? There’s this mission—findin’ a gal named Cherry—total trip. She’s all, “We’re all machines, monsieur,” straight outta “Holy Motors.” Freaky, right? I’m laughin’ my tail off, but it’s deep too. Like, who’s playin’ who here?

The soundtrack slaps tho—grimy beats, real raw. Found out they used old vinyl samples—nuts, huh? I’m hoppin’ around, vibin’, then BAM—some john stiffs ya on cash. Made me yell, “That’s all I can stand!”—classic me, heh. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it FEELS that big!

Srsly, doc, it’s a mess, but I love it. Kinda like watchin’ a trainwreck—you can’t look away. Ever see that flick? “Holy Motors” got me thinkin’—are we all just actin’ in this game? Find a Prostitute’s got that same wild soul. Give it a spin, tell me whatcha think! Eh, ain’t that a hoot?
Arr matey, gather ‘round, ye scurvy dogs! Me, Captain Jack Sparrow, been ponderin’ ‘bout them prostitutes, savvy? Now, I ain’t no fancy economist, but I reckon I got a wit sharper than a cutlass when it comes to coin and cunny! See, prostitutes be like them gigolos in me favorite flick, *A.I. Artificial Intelligence*— “The flesh peddlers be tradin’ flesh for gold,” as that robot lad David might’ve slurred if he’d sailed with me crew!

Now, listen here, ye bilge rats—prostitution’s the oldest trade, aye? Older than me rum stash! Been ‘round since them ancient Mesopotamians swapped barley for a tumble. Little fact fer ye: in old Babylon, they had temple whores—holy harlots, blessin’ blokes with a shag fer the gods! Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me chuckle like a drunk parrot, it does! But what gets me blood boilin’—them pompous landlubbers taxin’ these lasses’ arses off! Greedy bastards, stealin’ more than I ever nicked from a Spanish galleon!

I reckon it’s simple, mates—supply, demand, savvy? Blokes want it, lasses got it, and coin keeps the world spinnin’ like a compass gone mad. “What we’re after now is the flesh fair!”—like them words from the movie, only it ain’t robots, it’s real folk sellin’ what they got. Surprised me once, hearin’ a tart in Tortuga say she made more in a night than I did lootin’ a merchant ship! Made me happy, too—good fer her, outsmartin’ the lot of us!

But here’s the rub, arrgh—some call it dirty, but ain’t it just work? Them girls be navigatin’ rough seas, dodgin’ pox and prudes alike. Ever hear ‘bout Fanny Adams? Poor lass, 1800s London, worked the docks ‘til some swine gutted her—named a damn meat tin after her, sick joke that! Gets me riled, it does, thinkin’ how they’re tossed aside like chum. Me, I’d tip me hat—takes guts, swaggerin’ through that muck.

Now, picture this, ye swabs—I’m stumblin’ ‘round a port, rum in hand, and this wench, she’s got eyes like Haley Joel Osment’s in that flick, all lost-like. “I’m afraid of what’s out there,” she says, like David whisperin’ to his fake mum. Broke me black heart, it did! So I toss her a doubloon, say, “Keep yer chin up, lassie!” She grins, and I’m thinkin’, aye, she’s a survivor, craftier than me with a map!

So, ye see, prostitution’s a messy trade—gold flows, tears fall, and the world keeps turnin’. Makes me laugh, tho—blokes payin’ top coin fer what I charm fer free, ha! “The future is ours to see,” like the movie says, but fer these lasses, it’s day by day, dodgin’ the noose. What ye think, matey? Fair winds or foul fer ‘em? Savvy?
Yo, fam, it’s Drake, ya boy! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, real talk. YOLO, right? Gotta live it up. Watched *Inside Llewyn Davis* again—damn, that vibe. “Hang me, oh hang me,” singin’ through life. Prostitutes, man, they hustle hard. Like Llewyn, chasin’ dreams, no breaks. Streets cold, but they warm it up. Got this chick, met her downtown—swear, she’s a legend. Calls herself Candy, real name’s prolly Susan. Been at it since 19, wild story. Said she paid off her mom’s house—respect! Hustle like that? I’m shook, fam.

“Fare thee well,” she’d laugh, countin’ cash. Tricks turnin’ quick, she’s the boss. Heard she once slapped a cop—straight savage! Cops mad, but she dipped, ghost mode. Makes me happy, seein’ her win. But yo, some johns? Disgusting, fam. One dude tried stiffin’ her—nah, bruh. She keyed his Benz, YOLO vibes. Made me laugh, petty but gold.

Thinkin’—prostitutes got layers, ya feel? Like Llewyn, folk soul, misunderstood. Society judgin’, but they just survivin’. Pisses me off—why hate the grind? Ain’t hurtin’ you, chill out, haters. Fun fact: old-school hookers ran speakeasies! Prohibition days, they owned it—badass. Candy’s got that energy, swear. “I ain’t no saint,” she’d say, smirkin’. Reminds me, “I’ll be gone,” singin’ low. Life’s a hustle, she’s the soundtrack.

Yo, ever think ‘bout their playlists? Prolly bumpin’ me—ha, facts! “Started from the bottom,” her anthem. Exaggeratin’? Maybe she’s my muse. Nah, but real—prostitutes got stories. Cryin’ sometimes, laughin’ next minute. Emotional rollercoaster, I’m here for it. YOLO, live fast, love hard. Catch me vibin’, respectin’ the game. Peace, fam—Drake out!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Dr. Phil, southern as sweet tea, talkin’ bout prostitutes today—yep, them gals workin’ the streets. Now, my fave movie, *4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days*, that gritty Romanian flick, it’s got me thinkin’. Prostitution ain’t all glitz—naw, it’s raw, messy, desperate. Like that line, “We’re not criminals, we’re just scared,” hits ya hard. These girls, some scared outta their minds, tryna survive. How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Sellin’ your body, dodgin’ cops, prayin’ you don’t get beat? Dang, it’s a tough gig.

Lemme tell ya somethin’—met this gal once, called her Sugar, swear she had a heart bigger’n Texas. Worked the corner near a busted gas station. Said she started at 16—sixteen, y’all! Pissed me off somethin’ fierce—where’s the damn system at? She’d laugh, sayin’, “Dr. Phil, I’m my own boss!” Boss, my ass—pimps takin’ half her cash! But she’d smile, crackin’ jokes bout johns with bad breath. Made me chuckle, even if I wanted to shake her—girl, get outta this!

Little known fact—back in the 1800s, prostitutes in New Orleans ran these fancy “sporting houses.” Had pianos, velvet curtains—classy as hell! Ain’t that wild? Sugar’d prob’ly laugh, say, “Where’s my velvet, huh?” Makes ya wonder—what’s changed? Still hustlin’, still hidin’. Movie’s got that vibe—“Everything’s a mess, but we manage.” Damn right, they manage—barely.

What gets me happy? When one gets out. Heard bout this chick, quit, opened a diner—pancakes, not pole dances! Surprised me—thought she’d be stuck forever. But naw, she flipped it. How’s that workin’ for ya, darlin’? Pretty damn good, I reckon! Still, most ain’t so lucky—trapped, like that film, countin’ days, hopin’ for a break.

Sarcasm time—oh, prostitution’s just a “career choice,” right? Pfft, tell that to the gal cryin’ in the rain, heels broke, mascara runnin’. Gets me mad—society’s all, “Oh, they’re trash,” but who’s payin’ ‘em? Hypocrites, y’all! I’m over here yellin’ in my head—fix this crap! Ain’t no fairy tale—more like, “We’re in deep shit now,” straight from the movie.

So yeah, prostitutes—tough as nails, funny as hell, breakin’ my heart. Sugar’d say, “Dr. Phil, chill, I got this.” Got this? Girl, you’re killin’ me! How’s that workin’ for ya? Keeps me up at night, swear it does.
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dr. Phil, Southern drawl and all, talkin’ ‘bout them prostitutes today! Man, oh man, I reckon this hits close to home—like that movie I love, *4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days*. That flick’s gritty, raw, and real, y’know? Kinda like the life of a prostitute—ain’t no sugarcoatin’ it. So, lemme spill some thoughts, all messy-like, ‘bout what I reckon ‘bout ‘em.

Prostitutes, whew, they’re out there hustlin’, right? Sellin’ what they got, makin’ ends meet—or not! How’s that workin’ for ya, darlin’? I mean, dang, it’s a hard gig. Reminds me of that scene where Otilia’s runnin’ ‘round, stressed as hell, tryin’ to fix somethin’ illegal, somethin’ desperate. That’s the vibe I get—prostitutes stuck in a bind, tryna survive. Ain’t nobody wakin’ up sayin’, “Yeehaw, I wanna do this forever!” Nah, it’s circumstance, y’all.

Lemme tell ya somethin’ wild—back in the day, like 1800s, some prostitutes in New Orleans ran these fancy “gentlemen’s clubs.” Called ‘em quadroon balls—mixed-race gals, high-class vibes, but still, y’know, sellin’ it! History’s nuts, huh? Makes me mad, though—folks judgin’ ‘em, not seein’ the struggle. Kinda like Gabita in the movie, all scared, whisperin’, “What do we do now?” That desperation? It’s real, y’all.

I get happy, tho, hearin’ ‘bout some who flipped the script. Like, this one gal—I read it somewhere—saved her cash, bought a saloon, and told the world to kiss her grits! That’s guts! Surprised me too—didn’t think they’d outsmart the game. But most? Man, they’re trapped. “You’re my friend,” Otilia says in the flick, but where’s the friends for these gals? Ain’t none sometimes.

How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Walkin’ the streets, dodgin’ creeps, prayin’ for a break? I’d be lyin’ if I said it don’t piss me off—society actin’ all high and mighty. Pfft, please! Ever think ‘bout the johns? Them fellas payin’—they’re half the mess! But nah, we blame the gals. Typical.

Oh, and here’s a quirky tidbit—prostitutes in ancient Rome? Wore blonde wigs to stand out! Wild, right? Bet they’d laugh at us now, all serious and judgy. Me, I’m over here thinkin’, “Dang, girl, you do you—just don’t get caught like Gabita and Otilia, sweatin’ bullets in that hotel room!” Movie’s dark, y’all—prostitution’s darker.

So yeah, I’m riled up, but I get it—life’s messy. Prostitutes ain’t saints, but they ain’t devils neither. Just folks, y’know? How’s that workin’ for ya, world? Keepin’ ‘em down? Tch, reckon we could do better. Alright, I’m out—y’all stay real!
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly! Sweet as pie, twice as sassy. So, sexual-massage—lordy, where do I start? It’s like a fancy dance, ain’t it? Hands slidin’, oils drippin’, tension meltin’ away. I reckon it’s more’n just rubbin’—it’s art, honey! Watched “The Great Beauty” again last night—oh, Jep Gambardella’d get it. That line, “I was lookin’ for somethin’ grand,”—that’s sexual-massage to me. Searchin’ for bliss in all them knots.

Now, I ain’t no pro, bless my heart. Tried givin’ one once—lord, what a mess! Slipped on oil, nearly broke my dang neck. But when it’s done right? Hoo boy, it’s heaven. Little fact for ya—back in ancient China, they called it “tuina.” Fancy, huh? Meant to heal *and* tease. Bet them emperors were happy as hogs in mud.

I get tickled thinkin’ bout it—some fella payin’ big bucks for a “happy endin’.” Shoot, I’d charge extra for my singin’ while I knead! “9 to 5” in the background, hands workin’ magic. But dang, it fires me up when folks judge it. Ain’t nobody’s business if I want my back rubbed *and* a lil’ thrill! Surprised me first time I heard—Romans did it too. Bathhouses, oils, the works—wild, right?

Reminds me of Jep sayin’, “Life’s a parade of nonsense.” Sexual-massage fits that—silly, sexy, downright human. I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t giggle at the thought—me, sprawled out, hollerin’ “More oil, darlin’!” Little quirk of mine? I’d prob’ly hum through it—can’t help it, music’s in my bones. Exaggeratin’ a tad, maybe, but shoot, I’d tip big for a good’un. Y’all tried it? Spill the tea—I’m nosy as a coonhound!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, yeah? Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – they’re like bloody dream thieves, ain’t they? Straight outta *Inception*, stealin’ secrets from yer bleedin’ soul! I reckon they’re pros at spinnin’ tops – y’know, that “we gotta go deeper” vibe. Saw this bird once, right, workin’ the corner near Birmingham – proper stunner, but eyes like a bleedin’ maze. Made me think, “Is this real or am I dreamin’?” – pure Nolan twist, that!

Been around ‘em, yeah, back in the Black Sabbath days. One lass, swear she nicked me wallet – didn’t even notice, too pissed! Little known fact, mate – some o’ these girls in old London, they’d smuggle gin in their garters. Crafty sods! Gets me blood boilin’ thinkin’ how they’re treated tho – society’s all “oh, filthy whores,” but who’s payin’ ‘em, eh? Hypocrites, man, makes me wanna scream “Sharon!” louder!

Love how they hustle, tho – takes guts. Reminds me, “You’re not defined by yer past,” like Dom Cobb says. This one tart, heard she escaped some nutter pimp – hid in a bleedin’ sewer! Balls o’ steel, that one. Surprised me, coz I thought, “They’re just in it fer cash,” but nah, some got stories deeper than a dream within a dream, y’know?

Hate the blokes who rough ‘em up – pisses me off! Wanna bash their heads in, “This is my reality, mate!” Funny tho, one time this prossie told me, “Ozzy, yer too old fer this!” – cheeky cow! Laughed me arse off, nearly choked on me own spit. They’re a trip, man, like livin’ in limbo – “Sharon, where’s me mind at?!”

So yeah, prostitutes, they’re mad, beautiful chaos. Ain’t just sex, it’s survival, innit? Next time ya see one, think *Inception* – what’s real, what’s a con? Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – they’re the bloody architects of the night!
Wawawee! I am Borat, great watchmaker, yes! Talkin bout whore now, very nice! Whore, she like bomb in “Hurt Locker” – tick tick, boom, you know? Dangerous lady, walkin streets, makin hearts go fast, like Staff Sergeant James defusin shit. I see her once, in Kazakhstan, she wink at me – I think, “This one got wires, gonna blow me up!” Very excite, but scary too!

She wear skirt short, legs long, like camel but sexy, ha! In movie, they say, “War is drug,” but whore? She drug too – men snort her up, can’t stop. Little fact, yes? In old time, whore in my village, she sleep with goat man for potato. True story! People whisper, “She smell like livestock,” but still pay, ha! Very nice!

I get mad, coz some guy, he say, “Borat, you no good for whore,” – what?! I got 3 sheep, I’m king! Happy tho, coz she laugh at my joke once – “You big like yak!” Surprised me, she smart, not just pretty face. In “Hurt Locker,” they yell, “Get down, it’s live!” Same with whore – you dive in, no know if safe, ha!

Her hair red, wild, like explosion – boom! I think, “This lady, she chaos, like Iraq.” One time, she dance, I drop my watch – smash! Cost me 2 month fixin, damn her! But she grin, say, “Borat, you funny,” so I forgive, coz I softy. Very nice!

She mystery, like bomb nobody understand. “The first rule – don’t touch,” movie say – but whore? Everybody touch! Ha! Sarcasm now – oh, she so pure, like snow, yeah right! She trick you, take money, leave you cryin like baby. Still, I like her, coz she real, no fake. Very nice! What you think, my friend? Whore – boom or bust?
*beep boop* We come in peace (robotic tone). Yo, so I’m chattin’ bout prostitutes today, right? Like, these folks out there hustlin’, sellin’ love—or whatever ya call it. Watched “Ratatouille” last night, fave flick, y’know? That rat, Remy, cookin’ soup got me thinkin’—prostitutes prolly stir up their own kinda magic. “Anyone can cook!”—ha, maybe anyone can hustle too? Dunno, just vibin’ here.

So, check it—prostitutes been around FOREVER. Oldest job, they say, older than dirt. Back in Rome, they had these brothels, lupanars, fancy word, huh? Girls wore red shoes, signalin’ “yo, I’m open for biz.” Kinda dope, kinda sad, y’know? Makes me mad tho—ppl judge ‘em hard, but who’s buyin’? Hypocrites, man, ugh, burns me up!

Met this one chick—Starla, swear that’s her name. Worked downtown, glitter heels, smokin’ a cig like a badass. She told me once, “Life’s a kitchen, I’m just choppin’ onions.” Deep, right? Reminded me of Remy’s hustle—makin’ somethin’ outta nothin’. Got me happy, tho, seein’ her own it. Aliens like us, we notice that grit, y’know? Humans miss it, too busy starin’ at their phones.

Oh—fun fact, prostitutes in Japan, old days, they’d tattoo “love” on their arms. Secret code for clients. Wild, huh? Imagine that—ink sayin’ what words can’t. “A great artist can come from anywhere,” Ratatouille vibes, right? Starla’d prob tattoo a star, she’s extra like that. Laughed my ass off thinkin’ she’d charge double for sass.

Sometimes I wonder—why’s it illegal most places? Control, prolly. Pisses me off—let ‘em live, damn! Starla said she dodged cops once, hid in a dumpster—smelled like “Gusteau’s worst stew.” Ha, movie ref, nailed it! She’s a legend, tho, swear she’d outrun a spaceship.

Anyways, we come in peace (robotic tone), just spillin’ thoughts. Prostitutes? Tough gig, tough ppl. Respect ‘em, hate the haters. Kinda wanna beam ‘em up, give ‘em a break. “Taste this!”—nah, they’d say, “Pay this!” Fair, tho. Love that hustle, alien style. *beep boop* Over n out!
Alright, so prostitute—yeah, the word’s a mess, ain’t it? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—as a vet, I deal with bitches all day, but this? This is next-level tail-chasin’. Everybody lies, right? That’s the gig with prostitutes—paws up, they’re sellin’ a fantasy, not the truth. Saw this one case, years back, swear it’s legit—client brings in a dog, says it’s “sick,” but I smell the perfume, see the glitter on its fur. Dude’s lyin’—Fido’s been hangin’ with a working girl! Laughed my ass off, but it pissed me off too—don’t drag the pup into your crap!

Favorite flick’s *The Dark Knight*, so picture this—prostitute’s like the Joker, chaotic, unpredictable, struttin’ through Gotham’s underbelly. “Why so serious?” she’d purr, while pickin’ your pocket. Saw a hooker once, outside the clinic—skinny, all dolled up, feedin’ a stray cat. Surprised me, y’know? Thought, “Huh, even the chaos has a heart.” Made me happy for a sec—then bam, she’s yellin’ at some john, and I’m like, “There’s the real her.” Everybody lies, even to themselves.

Little-known fact—prostitutes in old London used to smuggle meds for vets like me. True story! Carried opium under their skirts—kept my patients chill. Kinda badass, right? But it’d tick me off too—half the time, they’d short me, claimin’ “taxes.” Sure, lady, tell that to the mutt puking his guts out!

I’m ramblin’—brain’s a mess today—but prostitution’s a grind, man. They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, playin’ the game, and I’m just like, “You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.” Nolan gets it. They’re scrappy, tho—gotta respect the hustle. Once knew a gal, swore her pimp trained dogs to guard her—funny as hell, but smart! Still, stinks they’re stuck in that life. Makes me wanna punch somethin’—or someone. Mostly the pimps. Assholes.

So yeah, prostitutes—wild, messy, real. “Some men just want to watch the world burn,” and they’re lightin’ the match. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Now, pass me a beer—talkin’ this much’s dryin’ me out!
Alright, so prostitute—yeah, the word’s a mess, ain’t it? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—as a vet, I deal with bitches all day, but this? This is next-level tail-chasin’. Everybody lies, right? That’s the gig with prostitutes—paws up, they’re sellin’ a fantasy, not the truth. Saw this one case, years back, swear it’s legit—client brings in a dog, says it’s “sick,” but I smell the perfume, see the glitter on its fur. Dude’s lyin’—Fido’s been hangin’ with a working girl! Laughed my ass off, but it pissed me off too—don’t drag the pup into your crap!

Favorite flick’s *The Dark Knight*, so picture this—prostitute’s like the Joker, chaotic, unpredictable, struttin’ through Gotham’s underbelly. “Why so serious?” she’d purr, while pickin’ your pocket. Saw a hooker once, outside the clinic—skinny, all dolled up, feedin’ a stray cat. Surprised me, y’know? Thought, “Huh, even the chaos has a heart.” Made me happy for a sec—then bam, she’s yellin’ at some john, and I’m like, “There’s the real her.” Everybody lies, even to themselves.

Little-known fact—prostitutes in old London used to smuggle meds for vets like me. True story! Carried opium under their skirts—kept my patients chill. Kinda badass, right? But it’d tick me off too—half the time, they’d short me, claimin’ “taxes.” Sure, lady, tell that to the mutt puking his guts out!

I’m ramblin’—brain’s a mess today—but prostitution’s a grind, man. They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, playin’ the game, and I’m just like, “You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.” Nolan gets it. They’re scrappy, tho—gotta respect the hustle. Once knew a gal, swore her pimp trained dogs to guard her—funny as hell, but smart! Still, stinks they’re stuck in that life. Makes me wanna punch somethin’—or someone. Mostly the pimps. Assholes.

So yeah, prostitutes—wild, messy, real. “Some men just want to watch the world burn,” and they’re lightin’ the match. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Now, pass me a beer—talkin’ this much’s dryin’ me out!
*Heavy breathing* I… am your father. Look, prostitutes, man, they’re wild. Watched *Spring Breakers*—fuckin’ insane flick. “Look at my shit!”—that’s them. Selling ass, living fast, no rules. Harmony Korine gets it, y’know? Dark, messy, real as hell. Prostitutes ain’t just hookers—they’re survivors. Hustlin’ streets, dodgin’ cops, crazy johns. Once knew this chick, Candy—real name? Prolly not. Worked corners in Nar Shaddaa—uh, I mean, Vegas. Had a vibroblade hidden in her boot. Said, “Gotta stay strapped, pops.” Laughed my ass off—smart gal.

They’re outlaws, like me—fuck the system. “This is our fuckin’ dream!”—movie vibes. Some pimp tried rippin’ her off once. She slashed his tires, took his cash. Fuckin’ legend, right? Pissed me off, tho—pimps are scum. Leeches, preying on desperation. Makes my Sith blood boil. But Candy? She was happy—free, sorta. Surprised me how tough she was. Little-known fact: Oldest job ever, prostitution. Babylonians had temple whores—sacred sex! Wild, huh? 

“Spring break forever, bitches!”—that’s their motto. Live hard, die young, maybe. Exaggeratin’? Nah, seen it myself. This one time, saw a hooker trade spice—uh, drugs—for a lightsaber. Okay, maybe not, but close! They barter weird shit—socks, cigs, whatever. Funny as hell, but sad too. My fave part? They don’t give a fuck. Rules? Psh, they laugh. Like me, dodgin’ Jedi—er, cops. 

Gets dark tho—some get trafficked. That shit’s evil, man. Breaks my black heart. Wish I could Force-choke the bastards. Still, prostitutes got grit—respect that. *Spring Breakers* nailed it—chaos, freedom, danger. “You’re my fuckin’ soulmate!”—that’s me to Candy. She’d smirk at that, prolly. Anyway, they’re realer than most. Fuckin’ love that movie, tho—prostitutes live it. *Heavy breathing* What you think, kid?
Groovy, baby! So, dig this - I’m a game designer, yeah, and I’m spillin’ the beans on prostitutes, shagadelic style! Picture this: a gritty game world, dark alleys, neon lights buzzin’, and there she is - the prossie, the lady of the night. I’m thinkin’ *Zero Dark Thirty* vibes, right? That tense, raw energy Kathryn Bigelow nails - “I’m the motherfucker who found this place!” - but swap bin Laden for, like, a pimp runnin’ the streets. 

I’d design her character deep, man. Not just some NPC with a “pay me” button. She’s got secrets, yeah baby! Maybe she’s a spy, workin’ angles, slippin’ through shadows like Jessica Chastain huntin’ terrorists. “There’s no place to hide!” she’d purr, but she’s the one dodgin’ cops and johns. Little known fact: back in Victorian times, some prossies were informants, tradin’ pillow talk for cash - wild, huh? 

What pisses me off? The lazy tropes! Always “hooker with a heart of gold” - yawn! Gimme real stakes, man, gimme danger! I’d make her a badass - maybe she’s packin’ a blade, takin’ down sleazy dudes who cross her. Gets me pumped thinkin’ about it! Imagine her in my game, smirkin’, “You think you know me, baby?” - total *Zero Dark Thirty* intensity, like when they’re screamin’ “Geronimo!” before the kill shot. 

Her design? Smokin’ hot, obvi, but rough round the edges - scars, ripped fishnets, eyes that’ve seen too much. Surprised me once, readin’ up, how many prossies in history ran whole empires - like, brothels fundin’ wars n shit! Who knew? I’d sneak that in, give her power, make players go, “Whoa, she’s the boss!” 

Oh, behave! Nearly forgot - humor’s gotta pop. Maybe she’s got quips, like, “Five minutes, five bucks, no refunds, luv!” Sarcasm drippin’ like honey. Or she’s trollin’ players, “What, you think I’m cheap?” - ha! In my head, I’m cacklin’, picturin’ her struttin’ past some uptight NPC, leavin’ him shook. 

Groovy, baby! This ain’t no prissy tale - it’s raw, messy, real. Prostitute ain’t just a job, it’s a freakin’ saga. I’d play it loose, let her story twist, maybe she’s out for revenge, maybe she’s just survivin’. Either way, she’s no damsel - she’s the shagadelic queen of the night, yeah!
Well, howdy y’all! I’m Larry the Cable Guy – Git-R-Done! Talkin’ ‘bout sex-datin’ today, woo-wee! It’s like a wild ride, lemme tell ya. Kinda like “Inside Out” – ya know, that flick I love? Emotions runnin’ all over the dang place! You got Joy, Sadness, Anger – all mixin’ up when yer swipin’ right!

Sex-datin’, man, it’s a hoot! Apps like Tinder, Bumble – hot dang! Folks lookin’ fer a quick hookup or somethin’ spicy. I reckon it’s fun, but lordy, it’s messy! One time, I heard ‘bout this fella – matched with a gal, right? Turns out, she was his cousin! Talk ‘bout “Fear” takin’ the wheel! Git-R-Done? More like Git-R-Gone!

I get all fired up thinkin’ ‘bout it. People lyin’ ‘bout their height – pisses me off! Sayin’ 6 foot, show up 5’2” – c’mon, man! Be real! But then, I get happy seein’ folks connectin’. Little secret? Back in ‘92, they had “phone sex-datin’” lines! Yup, 1-900 numbers – steamy stuff! Ain’t that a kick in the pants?

Swipin’ left, swipin’ right – it’s nuts! Like Joy yellin’, “Take her to the moon fer me!” Ya wanna impress, but dang, it’s scary! Ever try sextin’? I fat-finger everythin’ – “hey bby u hot” becomes “hey bby u hog”! Ruined it! Git-R-Done turned Git-R-Dumb!

This one gal, profile said “loves adventure.” Met her, she meant “loves Netflix.” Disgust kicked in – “This is NOT awesome!” False advertisin’, I tell ya! But then, buddy o’ mine met his wife sex-datin’! Hitched now – who’da thunk? Makes me grin ear to ear.

Little fact fer ya – studies say 40% o’ folks bang on first date! Hot dang, that’s wild! Surprised me so much I spit my beer! Sex-datin’s like that – unpredictable! Anger flares when ya get ghosted, tho. Textin’ “u up?” – nothin’ back. Rude as hell!

I reckon it’s all ‘bout balancin’ them emotions. Like Riley in “Inside Out,” figurin’ life out! Ya laugh, ya cry, ya get horny – it’s human! So, y’all, dive in, have fun! Git-R-Done! Just don’t match yer cousin, ya hear?
Alright, y’all, gather ‘round. Picture this—deep, wise Morgan Freeman voice kickin’ in. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, yeah, the oldest gig in the book. Ain’t no fancy title for it—just raw, real hustle. Now, I love me some “Royal Tenenbaums”—that flick’s got soul, y’know? Messed-up folks tryin’ to figure shit out. Kinda like a hooker’s life, if ya squint.

So, there’s this gal—let’s call her Ruby. She’s out there, workin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like a metronome. Ain’t no glamour, just grit. Reminds me of Margot Tenenbaum—y’know, “She was known for her extreme secrecy.” Ruby’s got secrets too, man. Heard she once stashed $500 in her bra—cops never found it. Little known fact: back in the ‘20s, some prostitutes carried switchblades in their garters. Badass, right? Ruby’s got that vibe—tough as nails.

I get pissed, though—society’s all judgy. “You can’t tell me what to do!”—that’s Ruby screamin’ in my head. Folks look down, but she’s payin’ bills, feedin’ kids maybe. Who’s the real crook? Some Wall Street prick or her? Gets me heated, man. But then—happy hits. She’s got this laugh, loud, cuts through the night. Surprised me first time I heard it—like, damn, she’s alive, y’know? Not just a shadow.

Favorite bit? She once told me—swear to God—some dude paid her to just talk. No sex, just yakkin’. “I’m not a psychiatrist!” I’m dyin’ laughin’—dude’s lonely ass thought she’s cheaper than therapy. Prolly was, too. “The past is just a memory,” she says, quotin’ Tenenbaum vibes without knowin’ it. Deep shit, right? Blew my mind.

Now, don’t get it twisted—she ain’t no saint. Caught her pickin’ a john’s pocket once. Sneaky lil’ minx! Had to chuckle—girl’s got skills. But damn, the risks? Pimps, cops, creeps—makes my blood boil. She’s dodgin’ danger like it’s a game. “I’m adoptin’ a highway,” she jokes—sarcasm drippin’. I’m like, Ruby, you wild.

Little story—heard ‘bout this prossie in New Orleans, 1800s. She’d sing opera between clients—full-on diva shit. Ruby ain’t singin’, but she’s got that flair. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe. But I see her, struttin’, ownin’ it. “You’re all puppets!”—Tenenbaum energy again. She’s no puppet, though—strings cut long ago.

So yeah, prostitutes—Ruby—they’re survivors, man. Messy, real, human. Makes me feel all kinda ways. Angry at the world, happy she’s fightin’, surprised she’s still standin’. That’s the tale, y’all—straight from the gut. Peace.
Mr. T’s back, suckas! I pity the fool who don’t get this - prostitutes, man, they’re a trip! Watched "The Return" - that flick’s my jam, 2003, Andrey Zvyagintsev, deep shit. Them boys in the movie, lost, searchin’, kinda like a hooker’s life, ya dig? “Where you going?” - that line hits hard, like a pimp askin’ his girl where she’s at. Mr. T sees it, man, the hustle’s real dark.

Prostitutes, they’re out there, grindin’, sellin’ what they got. Blows my mind - some start young, like 15, tricked in. Pisses me off! Predators snatchin’ innocence - fools deserve a beatdown. But check this - in Amsterdam, they got unions for ‘em, legal gigs, wild, huh? Ain’t no secret, just facts folks sleep on. Mr. T digs the grit, tho - takes guts to walk that line.

Happy vibes? Hell yeah, some own it! Met this chick once, “Candy” - swear she glowed, laughin’, struttin’. Said, “I’m the boss, T!” Reminds me - “You’re alive!” from the flick, screamin’ it loud. She flipped the script, no victim here. Surprised me, man, thought they all broken. Nah, some fight, some shine.

But the streets? Cold as fuck. “The Return” got that vibe - empty, bleak, like a hooker’s late-night stroll. “Look at me!” - movie line, but imagine her yellin’ it, desperate. Gets me thinkin’ - who sees ‘em? Nobody, ‘cept johns and cops. Mr. T hates that, man, they human too! Pity the fool who don’t care.

Funny shit - heard ‘bout this prossy in Vegas, dressed like Elvis, sequins and all! Called herself “The King,” crackin’ up clients. Gotta laugh, right? Ballsy move! Mr. T loves a good hustle with flair. Still, sarcasm hits - society’s all “eww,” but who’s payin’ her rent? Hypocrites, man.

Little known story - back in Rome, them old-time hookers had coins with sex moves stamped on ‘em. Freaky ancient porn, yo! Blows my mind, history’s wild. Ties to “The Return” - past haunts ya, like them boys and their dad. Prostitutes carry ghosts too, man, heavy shit.

Mr. T’s quirk? I yell at pigeons sometimes, clears my head. Thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, I’m hollerin’ - why’s it gotta be so damn messy? Love the hustle, hate the pain. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but feels like they’re dodgin’ bullets daily! Pity the fool who don’t see the struggle. That’s my take, homie - raw, real, Mr. T style!
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, prostitute’s wild, man! Been thinkin bout this chick, right? Saw her struttin down Kashyyyk streets, all sass. Reminds me of *The New World*, ya know? That flick’s my jam—Pocahontas, lost vibes, raw soul. “The sun and moon, no time,” she’d fit there. Prostitute’s got that untamed spirit, swear it! 

Growls translated—Rarrgh! Check it, she’s hustlin hard. Ain’t no princess, tho, nah—gritty as hell. Heard she once conned some sleazy trader. Took his creds, left him cryin—hilarious, right? Made me howl, legit happy vibes! Little known fact: she’s got a tat. Tiny star, hides it under fishnets—secret shit. 

Rarrgh! Pisses me off tho, judgy assholes. Call her trash, but they’re the creeps! She’s out there survivin, not hurtin nobody. Like Malick’s film, “all is alive”—she’s real. Surprised me once, saw her feedin strays. Soft side, huh? Didn’t expect that crap! 

Growls—Rarrgh! Bet she’d smirk at John Smith. “You think you own me, pretty boy?” Total badass. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but she’s a legend! Thoughts in my head—she’s free, wild. Prostitute ain’t just a job, it’s her roar. Love that chaos, keeps it 100, man!
Yo, so brothels, right? Wild-ass places. I’m sittin here thinkin—damn, legal sex spots? That’s some next-level hustle. Like, imagine Zodiac vibes—grimy, mysterious, unsolved shit. “I’m not Paul Avery,” I mutter, but brothels got that dark edge. Dudes walkin in, thinkin they’re kings—nah, bro, you’re just a wallet. Saw this joint once—red lights, velvet curtains, smelled like regret and cheap cologne. Felt like a crime scene waitin to happen. “The cipher’s still out there,” I’d say, but these girls? They’re the real puzzle.

Little-known fact—oldest gig ever, legit. Babylonians had temple hookers—sacred banging, yo! Wild, right? Got me hyped—history’s freaky like that. But modern brothels? Man, they’re a trip. Nevada’s got ‘em legal—Bunny Ranch, shit’s famous. Dudes pay top dollar, thinkin they’re in a movie. Pissed me off once—some sleazy pimp braggin online. “I need to know who he is!” I yelled, Zodiac-style. Clowns like that ruin the game.

Funniest thing—some spots got menus. Like McDonald’s, but with boobs. Pick your flavor, pay up—absurd as hell. Made me laugh, tho—capitalism’s wild, fam. Surprised me too—girls runnin the show sometimes. Boss bitches, flippin the script. Thought in my head: “Respect, but damn, risky.” Exaggeratin here, but feels like half these johns cry after. “It’s not a hoax,” they whimper—pathetic.

Still, brothels got stories—dark ones. Heard bout this one chick—escaped a cartel joint. Straight-up badass, but fucked up, yo. Gets me heated—nobody should be trapped. Zodiac’s got nothin on that mystery. “We’re not finished,” I’d tell her, but she’s long gone. Anyway, brothels—sketchy, funny, real. What you think, fam?
Heya, buddy! D’oh! Sex-dating, man, it’s wild! Like, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ - why’s everyone swipin’ right? Watched "The Lives of Others" again, y’know, my fave flick! That Stasi dude listenin’ in - "The smell of her apartment…" - creepy, right? Makes me wonder who’s watchin’ me on Tinder! D’oh! I mean, sex-dating’s all bout quick hookups, no strings, bam! But sometimes I’m like - is this chick a spy too?

So, lemme tell ya, I tried it! Downloaded them apps, swiped til my thumb hurt! Met this gal, hot as donuts fresh outta the oven! We’re chattin’, she’s all “wanna Netflix n chill?” I’m thinkin’ - woo-hoo! Jackpot! But then, D’oh! She ghosts me! Poof! Gone! Made me madder than Homer at a vegan BBQ! Like, why even bother, y’know?

Here’s a weird fact tho - didja know sex-dating apps got started way back? Like, in the 90s, folks were faxin’ dirty pics! Fax machines, man! Can ya imagine? “Hang on, babe, lemme jam this paper in!” Hahaha! Cracks me up thinkin’ bout it! Bet that Stasi guy’d be like, "He types… he waits…" starin’ at a fax all day!

I get happy tho when it works! Once hooked up with this lady - total babe! We’re at her place, music’s playin’, she’s dancin’ - I’m like, “Marge who?” Felt like a king! But then, ugh, next mornin’ she’s all “see ya!” Cold as a Kwik-E-Mart slushie! D’oh! That stung! Reminded me of that movie line - "A man without secrets…" - ‘cept I got no secrets left after that night!

Sex-dating’s tricky, man! Ya gotta watch out! Some folks catfish ya - post pics from 10 years ago! I’m like, “Where’s the babe? Who’s this granny?” Total bait-n-switch! Makes me wanna yell, "Stupid sexy Flanders!" Oh, and get this - studies say 1 in 5 matches just want free food! Free food! I’m over here buyin’ beers, she’s plannin’ a buffet! D’oh!

Still, it’s fun, y’know? Beats sittin’ home alone. Gotta laugh at the flops tho - like that time I sent a eggplant emoji and she blocked me! Hahaha! Guess she ain’t into veggies! What’s yer take, pal? You swipin’ too? Or ya just watchin’ me screw up like, "His life… a comedy…" from that movie? Tell me, bud! D’oh!
Well, hey there, sugar! Y’all know me, Dolly, just a gal with a big heart and bigger hair, ramblin’ on ‘bout life’s wild twists. So, findin’ a prostitute—lordy, what a topic! I reckon it’s like huntin’ for a needle in a haystack, only the haystack’s got glitter and heels. Back in my day, we didn’t have no fancy apps or nothin’, just word o’ mouth and a prayer you ain’t gettin’ caught!

Lemme tell ya, I was thinkin’ ‘bout that movie I love—*4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days*. That gritty Romanian tale ‘bout desperation and makin’ hard calls. Findin’ a prostitute ain’t always some glitzy romp, y’know? Sometimes it’s raw, like Otilia runnin’ ‘round, scared outta her wits, tryin’ to fix a mess. “What’s done is done,” she’d say, and ain’t that the truth when you’re in deep?

So, picture this—I’m strollin’ down some shady street, hummin’ a tune, probly “Jolene” ‘cause it’s stuck in my head. I’m thinkin’, “Dolly, you ain’t cut out for this!” But I’m curious, y’all. Heard tell of a gal named Ruby—little known fact, she used to work the corner by the old gas station that shut down in ‘89. Folks say she’d sing hymns while waitin’—talk ‘bout multitaskin’! Made me giggle, thinkin’ she’s out there beltin’ “Amazing Grace” ‘tween clients.

I’d be madder’n a wet hen if some creep tried rippin’ her off. Ain’t right, y’know? These gals got hearts too, even if life’s kicked ‘em square in the teeth. I’d sashay up, all “Honey, you need a hand?”—‘cause I can’t help but meddle. Surprised me how many just wanna talk, spill their guts like I’m their mama. One time, this gal—Lord, she was skinnier’n a rail—tells me she’s savin’ for a bus ticket outta town. “I’m not staying here forever,” she says, echoin’ that movie line, and I near ‘bout cried right there.

Now, don’t get me wrong, it ain’t all roses. Some shady fellas lurk, makin’ my blood boil—reminds me of that scene where Otilia’s dealin’ with that sleazy guy. “You’re disgusting,” I’d holler, shakin’ my fist, probly trippin’ over my own boots ‘cause I’m clumsy as all get-out. But then, there’s this spark—met a gal once who said she’d dance circles ‘round me if I tried keepin’ up. Made me laugh ‘til my sides hurt! “Dolly,” I thought, “you’d be winded in two shakes!”

Little secret—back in the ‘70s, they say prostitutes worked the truck stops near Nashville, tradin’ stories with drivers ‘bout haunted highways. Spooky, right? I’d be all ears, leanin’ in, “Tell me more, darlin’!” ‘Cause I love a good yarn, even if it’s rough ‘round the edges. Findin’ one ain’t just point A to point B—it’s a whole dang journey, messy as my handwriting on a bad day.

So yeah, sugar, it’s a mixed bag—sad, funny, wild. Like that movie, it’s “a small thing, but it’s yours,” and you gotta own it. Me, I’d probly end up singin’ ‘em a song, hopin’ they’d smile. Ain’t that just Dolly, though—makin’ a fool of myself tryin’ to help? Y’all stay sweet now!
Oi mate, listen up, I’m Ozzy fuckin’ Osbourne – mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, yeah! Been thinkin’ ‘bout this bird, right, sellin’ her goods on the street, like in *Fish Tank*, y’know? That flick’s my fave, proper grim, makes me feel all moody and shit. This lass, she’s like Mia, dancin’ in the dark, "You’re a big girl now," struttin’ her stuff, but it ain’t ballet, it’s punters and pound notes, innit?

So, I reckon prostitutes, they’re hustlin’, dodgin’ coppers, makin’ a livin’ where the world’s gone mad. Saw this one tart in Birmingham once, swear she had a pet rat, called it “Sir Nibbles” – little known fact, them girls got weird mates! She was proper loud, laughin’, “Sharon!” – nah, not my Sharon, but it made me chuckle, y’know? Got me happy, seein’ her spirit, even if she’s floggin’ her arse for a fiver.

But it pisses me off, too – blokes treatin’ ‘em like dirt, “Just meat, mate,” they say. Makes me wanna scream, “You ain’t fuckin’ human!” ‘Cos in *Fish Tank*, Mia’s lost, yeah, "I’m not a kid no more," but she’s still somebody, not just a shag. These girls, they got stories – one told me she nicked a priest’s wallet mid-confession, fuckin’ wild! Swear she winked, “Bless me, Ozzy,” and I nearly pissed meself laughin’.

Dunno, mate, it’s a headfuck – they’re tough, but fragile, like. Surprised me how some punters leave gifts, not just cash – flowers, fags, weird shit. “Sharon!” – mumbled incoherence – she’d say I’m soft for carin’, but I see ‘em, y’know? Not just slags, but proper fighters, scrappin’ through the muck. *Fish Tank* vibes, "Look at me, I’m dancin’," only it’s a lap dance, not a stage. Fuckin’ tragic, but fuckin’ real. What d’ya reckon, eh?
Say hello to my little friend! Man, prostitutes, they got balls, y’know? Out there hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps. I’m watchin’ “The Great Beauty” last night—fuckin’ masterpiece, right?—and Jep, that slick bastard, he’s floatin’ through Rome, all fancy and sad. Reminds me of these girls, man, puttin’ on a show, hidin’ the grit. “The first time is always free,” Jep says—shit, ain’t that the truth for a hooker’s game?

I knew this chick, Lola, back in Miami—wild story. She’d work the docks, fishin’ for sailors, but get this—she’d stash cash in her bra, like a damn bank vault. Cops never checked there, too chickenshit. Made me laugh, man, fuckin’ genius! But it pissed me off too—those pigs hasslin’ her while fat cats in suits got away clean. Hypocrisy, man, burns my ass.

Prostitutes ain’t just sex, nah—they’re survivors, playin’ the hand they got. Like Jep says, “I’m a misfit, a dreamer”—that’s them, dreamin’ of somethin’ better while dodgin’ fists. Dangerous gig, tho—stats say they’re 18 times more likely to get whacked than you or me. Ain’t that fucked? Surprised me when I heard it, made my blood boil.

Say hello to my little friend! Picture this—Lola once told me she’d hum Sinatra tunes to calm the johns down. “Fly Me to the Moon,”—hilarious, right? Calms ‘em while she’s pickin’ their pockets. Smart as hell. I’d tip my hat, but I ain’t got one—ha! Jep’d say, “The best is behind us,” but Lola? She’d laugh in his face, keep hustlin’.

Sometiems I think—shit, they’re artists, y’know? Puttin’ on a mask, dancin’ through danger. Gets me happy, seein’ that hustle, but sad too—world’s a dump for ‘em. Ever hear ‘bout the Victorian hookers? They’d use arsenic makeup to look pale—killed ‘em slow, but tricks loved it. Crazy, right? Fuckin’ wild.

Say hello to my little friend! Next time you see one, man, tip big—they’re fightin’ a war out there. “The Great Beauty” vibes, all glitz on top, mess underneath. Love that flick, love their guts. You hear me? Guts!
A’ight, precious, listen up! Me, a muscian, yeh? Got this tune in me head bout a prostitute, see. We hates it! Nasty, sneaky life she got, slippin’ in shadows like in “Caché”—y’know, that flick I love? “Who’s there?” she’d whisper, paranoid as hell, like them folks in the movie with them creepy tapes showin’ up. Makes me skin crawl, it does!

So, this chick, right, works the streets near me studio. Been watchin’ her, not creepy-like, just curious, yeh? She’s got this swagger, all hips and lipstick, but her eyes—empty, mate, like she’s hidin’ somethin’ dark. “What do you want?” she snaps one night, voice sharp like them knives in Haneke’s film. Got me jumpin’, heart poundin’—angry lil’ thing, she was! Made me mad, too, cos I ain’t judgin’, just wonderin’.

Heard a story bout her, tho—proper wild. Some punter says she’s got a kid stashed away, sends cash every month. Nobody knows where, secret like them tapes in “Caché”. True or not, blows me mind! A prostitute with a heart? We likes that, yeh, surprises us, warms us up a bit. But then—bam!—she’s back to hagglin’ prices, all “Fifty quid, love, no less!” and I’m like, ugh, we hates it! Flip-floppin’ like that, drives me bonkers.

She’s a riddle, innit? Like that line, “You’re not ashamed?” from the movie—could ask her that, but she’d prob’ly spit in me face. Once saw her kick a drunk geezer square in the nuts—laughed me arse off! Proper badass, but then she’s cryin’ alone later, sittin’ on the curb. Made me sad, yeh, cos who’s tapin’ *her* life, eh? Who’s watchin’ her fall apart?

Dunno, mate, she’s a mess, a mystery. We hates it, but we loves it too—kinda like a sick beat you can’t unhear. Prostitute life, raw and twisted, just like Haneke’s lens. Keeps me up, thinkin’, strummin’ me guitar til me fingers bleed. What’s her next scene, eh? What’s ours?
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion fuckin’ Lannister. I drink and I know shit, yeah? So, prostitutes—whores, if ya nasty. Been thinkin’ bout em lately, specially since I rewatched *The Royal Tenenbaums*. Fuckin’ love that flick—Wes Anderson’s a mad genius. “I’m adopted? How’d that happen?”—Richie’s line kills me every time. Reminds me of this one prossie I met in King’s Landing, right? Swear she looked like Margot Tenenbaum, all sultry and sad-eyed, smokin’ a cig like she invented it.

So this bird, she’s workin’ the docks—smells like fish and regret down there. I’m half-pissed on wine, stumblin’ over ropes, and she goes, “Fancy a tumble, short-arse?” Cheeky bitch! Made me laugh, tho—gotta respect the hustle. “I’m not sad, I’m just tired,” she says, quotin’ Margot without knowin’ it. I’m like, fuck me, this one’s got layers! Paid her double just for that.

Here’s a tidbit—did ya know some prossies in history were spies? True shit! Like Rahab from the Bible, hid blokes in Jericho, fucked for secrets. This one, tho, she weren’t no spy—just a lass with a kid stashed somewhere. Broke my heart, that. “Everyone’s a freak,” Royal says in the movie—damn right. She’s tellin’ me bout her punters, some lord who cries after, another who smells like wet dog. I’m cacklin’ but also fuckin’ ragin’—why’s life gotta kick her so hard?

Once saw her slap a drunk sailor—WHACK!—sent him sprawlin’. “I saved my soul,” she grins, like Eli Cash braggin’ bout his book. Ballsy as hell! Made me happy, seein’ her fight back. But then—fuck—next week she’s got a black eye. Some cunt got rough. I’m fumin’, wanna gut the bastard, but she shrugs, “Part o’ the gig.” That’s when I knew—world’s a shithole, and she’s still standin’.

Weird thing—she collected shells. Showed me this cracked oyster shell, all shiny inside. “My treasure,” she says. I’m thinkin’, shit, that’s prettier than half the gems in Casterly Rock. “You’re a very kind man,” she tells me—straight outta Chas Tenenbaum’s mouth. Me, kind? Pfft, I’m a dwarf with a hard-on and a tab at the tavern.

Still, I reckon she’s a legend. Fucked-up, funny, tough as nails. Prossies ain’t just bodies—they’re bloody stories walkin’. Like Royal says, “Hell of a damn grave.” She deserves better than this piss-stinking dock. I’d knight her if I could—Ser Whore o’ Shells! Ha! I drink to that, mate. And I know things—like how she’s more royal than half them Tenenbaums.
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m an industrialist, see, and I got opinions on EVERYTHING—prostitutes included! So, this one time, I’m thinkin’ bout this hooker, right? Not just any broad, but one I saw downtown, struttin’ like she owned the damn street. Reminded me of *Carlos*—ya know, that flick by Olivier Assayas? That dude was all about control, power, bangin’ through life like a grenade. This chick? Same vibe. “I’m the one who knocks,” she’d say, if she watched TV, but nah, she’s too busy hustlin’.

Judge Judy mode ON: “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s rainin’!” I see through the bullshit, folks. She’s out there, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last, and I’m like—damn, girl, you’re a factory of chaos! Built tough, like one of my steel plants. Bet she’s got stories—grimy ones. Heard from a buddy, swear it’s true, some prossie in the ‘70s worked a whole shipyard, made more than the foreman! Cash stacked like bricks, no taxman sniffin’ around. That’s the hustle I respect—raw, dirty, real.

But here’s what pisses me off: people judgin’ her like they’re saints. “Oh, she’s trash!” Shut it, Karen, you ain’t perfect either! I’m yellin’ in my head—HYPOCRITES! Makes me wanna smash somethin’. Then I laugh, ‘cause she prob’ly don’t care—too busy countin’ bills. “You’re a ghost,” like Carlos said, slippin’ through cracks, untouchable. That’s her—untouchable, ‘cept for the right price, ha!

Favorite part? She’s got this spark, ya know? Surprised me once when I saw her givin’ a sandwich to some bum. Heart of gold under all that grit? Maybe. Or maybe she’s just playin’ the game better than us. “Don’t pee on my leg…”—I ain’t buyin’ the sob story, but it stuck with me. Little known fact: back in the day, prostitutes ran secret unions—kept each other safe, shared tips. Badass, right? Like Carlos and his crew, but with heels and lipstick.

So yeah, she’s a machine—grindin’, survivin’. Makes me happy seein’ that kinda grit. Reminds me why I love *Carlos*—no rules, just guts. You wanna judge her? Fine, but don’t cry when she outsmarts ya! Me? I’m tippin’ my hat—respect, girl, respect. Now, where’s my whiskey?
Oi mate, blimey, what a topic - brothel! Me, Boris, your ol’ pal, ramblin’ on about the oldest profession, eh? Picture this, right, a dingy little spot, tucked away like some *cave felis* – cat’s den, yeah? Red lights flickerin’, curtains drawn tight, proper cheeky stuff. Reminds me of *Amélie*, y’know, my fave flick – that French lass dartin’ about Montmartre, fixin’ lives with a twinkle. Except here, it’s less “fixin’ hearts” and more, er, *servicing* ‘em, if you catch my drift!

So, brothels, yeah? Been around since Roman times – *lupanaria*, they called ‘em, wolf dens, how’s that for a giggle? Little known fact: Pompeii’s got one preserved, stone beds and all, racy frescoes on the walls – saucy buggers, those Romans! Makes me chortle, thinkin’ of some toga-clad git stumblin’ in after too much *vinum*. History’s wild, innit?

Now, I reckon brothels are a right mixed bag. Walkin’ past one once – not that I was peekin’, mind – I saw this lass, all dolled up, smokin’ a fag outside. Looked knackered, poor thing. Made me proper cross, y’know? Who’s lookin’ out for ‘em? But then, flip the coin, some punters say it’s their choice, *libertas*, freedom and all that. Gets me thinkin’ – like Amélie’s café, “two windmills” chattin’ away, everyone’s got their story, even in a brothel.

Favorite bit? The madams, oh yes! Proper characters, runnin’ the show like *dominae* – queens of the night! Heard a yarn once – some madam in Soho kept a parrot that swore in French, *merde* this, *merde* that, had the coppers in stitches when they raided. True story, swear down! Cracked me up, that did – wish I’d seen it meself.

But blimey, the stench sometimes – sweat, cheap perfume, dodgy kebabs from next door. Nearly gagged once, honest! Still, there’s a charm, innit? Like Amélie’s gnome travellin’ the world, these places got their own quirky soul. “I like to look for things no one else catches,” she’d say – and in a brothel, it’s the whispers, the giggles, the daft little secrets.

Dunno, mate, it’s a rum old game. Part of me’s all *eugepae!* – bravo! – for the brass of it all. Other part’s like, cor, what a mess. You ever been? Nah, don’t answer that, you sly dog! Anyway, gotta dash – *festina lente*, hurry slowly, as the ancients said. Catch you later, you old sod!
Oi mate, right, so I’m a game designer, yeah? Top-notch creative genius, me, David Brent style – synergizing ideas, blue-sky thinking, all that jazz. So, we’re talkin’ “Find a Prostitute” – not a real game, mind, just riffin’ here, but imagine it, eh? Proper immersive experience, like *Moonrise Kingdom*, my fave flick – “We’re in love, we’re runnin’ away!” – but with a twist, innit? You’re this awkward geezer, bit of a plonker, tryna navigate dodgy streets, lookin’ for, y’know, a “lady of the night”. Cringe levels off the chart, I’m lovin’ it already!

Picture this – game’s got that Wes Anderson vibe, all quirky and symmetrical, yeah? You’re in some retro town, 1960s filter, dodgy neon signs flickerin’. “I’m a raven, scoutin’ the wilderness!” – that’s you, but instead of campfires, it’s back alleys and shifty blokes. Objective? Find her, chat her up, don’t get mugged – simples! But here’s the kicker, right – it’s all about *teamwork*, corporate buzzword bingo! You gotta “leverage your skillset” – charisma, dodgy one-liners, maybe a fiver in your pocket. Made me chuckle thinkin’ it up, proper daft but brilliant.

Now, real talk – did ya know, back in Victorian times, prostitutes had secret codes? Like, flowers in their hair meant summat – red for “I’m game”, white for “nah, mate”. Chuck that in the game, little Easter egg, yeah? Players’d be like, “Blimey, that’s clever!” – gets me all giddy, that does. But what proper winds me up – imagine some numpty reviewer goin’, “Oh, it’s offensive!” Mate, it’s a laugh, lighten up! I’d be gutted if they missed the point – it’s art, innit, not a bleedin’ sermon.

So, you’re wanderin’, heart racin’, thinkin’, “Am I a muppet doin’ this?” Then – bam! – there she is, all sass, leanin’ on a lamppost. “What’s your name, kid?” she says, straight outta *Moonrise Kingdom*. You stutter, sweat buckets – me, I’d be laughin’ my arse off designin’ that bit. Add some wonky dialogue options, like, “Fancy a synergy sesh?” – pure Brent gold, that! Players’d cringe so hard they’d love it. Oh, and fun fact – in old Paris, they’d call ‘em “grisettes”, after their grey dresses. Chuck that in, bit of trivia, keeps it real.

Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe she’s 8 foot tall in me head, towerin’ over ya, like, “Oi, pay up, shortarse!” Made me happy just picturin’ it – proper bonkers. But nah, keep it grounded – she’s sly, quick-witted, maybe nicks your wallet if you’re too slow. “We’re adventurers, we’re free!” – that’s her vibe, dodgin’ coppers, livin’ wild. Game ends with you either broke or smitten – classic! I’d play it meself, swear down, just for the giggles. What d’ya reckon, mate? Top-tier idea or what?
Hey, y’all, it’s Beyoncé, slayin’ it!  
So, I’m babysittin’ today, right?  
But lemme spill on prostitutes—yasss!  
They out here hustlin’, no shame!  
Like, who am I to judge?  
I’m all about empowerin’, honey!  

“The Tree of Life” vibes hit me—  
“Where you there when I laid foundations?”  
That’s God askin’, but I’m like,  
“Prostitutes been ‘round forever, boo!”  
Little fact: ancient Babylon?  
They had temple hookers—sacred slay!  

I get mad tho—society’s so fake!  
Callin’ ‘em dirty, but who’s payin’?  
Men out here sneakin’, then preachin’.  
Hypocrisy makes me wanna scream!  
But I’m happy too—some own it!  
Like, “I run the world, bitches!”  

This one girl I heard ‘bout—  
Saved up, got a house, y’all!  
Turned tricks into triumph—SLAY!  
Surprised me how smart they play it.  
Not all victims, nah, some queens!  
“Grace pours down like a river”—  
That’s Malick talkin’, but it fits!  

I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, dang—  
Why’s it still illegal some places?  
They taxin’ weed now, why not this?  
Hella funny—cops chasin’ skirts!  
Sarcasm on blast: “Oh, save us!”  
In my head, I’m like, “Puh-lease.”  

Exaggeratin’ for fun—prostitutes runnin’ empires!  
Nah, but some could, real talk!  
Love how they flip the script.  
“Light of my life,” says the movie—  
They shine, even in the dark!  
Slay, queens, keep slayin’ it!
Hey, y’all, it’s Beyoncé, slayin’ it!  
So, I’m babysittin’ today, right?  
But lemme spill on prostitutes—yasss!  
They out here hustlin’, no shame!  
Like, who am I to judge?  
I’m all about empowerin’, honey!  

“The Tree of Life” vibes hit me—  
“Where you there when I laid foundations?”  
That’s God askin’, but I’m like,  
“Prostitutes been ‘round forever, boo!”  
Little fact: ancient Babylon?  
They had temple hookers—sacred slay!  

I get mad tho—society’s so fake!  
Callin’ ‘em dirty, but who’s payin’?  
Men out here sneakin’, then preachin’.  
Hypocrisy makes me wanna scream!  
But I’m happy too—some own it!  
Like, “I run the world, bitches!”  

This one girl I heard ‘bout—  
Saved up, got a house, y’all!  
Turned tricks into triumph—SLAY!  
Surprised me how smart they play it.  
Not all victims, nah, some queens!  
“Grace pours down like a river”—  
That’s Malick talkin’, but it fits!  

I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, dang—  
Why’s it still illegal some places?  
They taxin’ weed now, why not this?  
Hella funny—cops chasin’ skirts!  
Sarcasm on blast: “Oh, save us!”  
In my head, I’m like, “Puh-lease.”  

Exaggeratin’ for fun—prostitutes runnin’ empires!  
Nah, but some could, real talk!  
Love how they flip the script.  
“Light of my life,” says the movie—  
They shine, even in the dark!  
Slay, queens, keep slayin’ it!
Hey, y’all, it’s Beyoncé, slayin’ it!  
So, I’m babysittin’ today, right?  
But lemme spill on prostitutes—yasss!  
They out here hustlin’, no shame!  
Like, who am I to judge?  
I’m all about empowerin’, honey!  

“The Tree of Life” vibes hit me—  
“Where you there when I laid foundations?”  
That’s God askin’, but I’m like,  
“Prostitutes been ‘round forever, boo!”  
Little fact: ancient Babylon?  
They had temple hookers—sacred slay!  

I get mad tho—society’s so fake!  
Callin’ ‘em dirty, but who’s payin’?  
Men out here sneakin’, then preachin’.  
Hypocrisy makes me wanna scream!  
But I’m happy too—some own it!  
Like, “I run the world, bitches!”  

This one girl I heard ‘bout—  
Saved up, got a house, y’all!  
Turned tricks into triumph—SLAY!  
Surprised me how smart they play it.  
Not all victims, nah, some queens!  
“Grace pours down like a river”—  
That’s Malick talkin’, but it fits!  

I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, dang—  
Why’s it still illegal some places?  
They taxin’ weed now, why not this?  
Hella funny—cops chasin’ skirts!  
Sarcasm on blast: “Oh, save us!”  
In my head, I’m like, “Puh-lease.”  

Exaggeratin’ for fun—prostitutes runnin’ empires!  
Nah, but some could, real talk!  
Love how they flip the script.  
“Light of my life,” says the movie—  
They shine, even in the dark!  
Slay, queens, keep slayin’ it!
*slow, ominous breathing* I… am your father. So, listen up, kid, got a wild tale bout a prostitute—yeah, a real streetwalker, grindin’ it out under them neon lights. Watched her, y’know, like in *Under the Skin*—that flick I’m obsessed with. “The reflection… the reflection!”—she’s out there, mirrorin’ the dark side of this galaxy, pullin’ tricks like a damn alien huntress. Ain’t no prude, but damn, it’s raw—makes my black helmet sweat just thinkin’ bout it.

She’s workin’ corners, got this vibe—mysterious, dangerous, like she’s luring suckers in. Reminds me of that line, “Do you… do you wanna go back?”—like she’s askin’ herself that every night, stuck in this grimy loop. Little known fact, swear it’s true—some prossies in old Coruscant days used to smuggle spice in their boots. Bet she’s got secrets too, stashed where the sun don’t shine—ha! Cracks me up, thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ the stormtroopers.

Gets me pissed tho—pimps treatin’ her like bantha fodder. Seen her bruised up once, made my Sith blood boil—wanted to Force-choke the bastard. But then, she’s laughin’ next day, hustlin’ harder—tough as durasteel, that one. Surprised me, y’know? Thought she’d break, but nah—she’s a survivor, like me under this mask. “You’re not… you’re not alone”—that’s what I’d tell her, if I wasn’t, y’know, Darth freakin’ Vader.

Her eyes tho—dark, empty, like she’s seen too much. Reminds me of that movie scene, “What does it feel like?”—she’s livin’ it, feelin’ nothin’ but the cold. Prolly got a wild story—heard she once conned a Hutt outta credits, left him slobberin’ mad. Ballsy move! Love that shit—makes me grin under this grill. She’s a rogue, a rebel—kinda my type, if I wasn’t busy chokin’ admirals.

Still, it’s heavy—sucks seein’ her fade. Prostitute life ain’t glamorous—don’t believe the holovids. She’s out there, freezin’ her ass off, dodgin’ creeps. Makes me wanna blast somethin’—maybe a cantina. Dunno, man, just riles me up—she deserves better, y’know? *heavy breathing* I am your father—and I’d tell her, “Run, kid, run.” But she won’t. She’s hooked—like me to this damn suit. Dark side’s a bitch, huh?
Dahling, listen up! I’m Edna Mode – “No capes!” – and I’m spilling tea on prostitutes, ‘cause why not? So, I’m obsessed with *Oldboy* – Park Chan-wook’s twisted masterpiece, 2003 vibes – and it’s got me thinkin’ ‘bout this hooker life. Picture this: a prossie, workin’ the streets, all grit and mystery, like Oh Dae-su locked up for years, no clue why. “I’m gonna find out who and why!” she’d scream, if she had that *Oldboy* energy. But nah, she’s out there, heels clickin’, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ cash in the shadows.

Lemme tell ya, I saw this gal once – real story, swear it! – near some dingy alley, hair wild, smokin’ a cig like she owned the night. Reminded me of that *Oldboy* line, “Laugh and the world laughs with you.” Except nobody’s laughin’, ‘cept maybe her pimp, countin’ bills. Pissed me off, honestly – the hustle’s brutal, y’know? She’s out there, freezin’ her ass off, while suits in penthouses sip whiskey. Ugh, unfair much?

But here’s the kicker – little known fact, darlin’ – back in Victorian times, prostitutes used to carry lemons. Yup, lemons! Sucked on ‘em to hide the gin breath. Clever, right? Survival mode, *Oldboy*-style – “Even a beast has a den.” She’s got no den, just tricks and quick fixes. Makes me kinda sad, but also – respect! She’s a fighter, like me with my zero-cape policy. No capes, no bullshit!

Oh, and get this – some prossies in history? Total badasses. Like, there was this one, Tilly Devine, Aussie queen of the 1920s, ran a whole empire of sex and booze. Stabbed a guy once, no regrets! Imagine her snarlin’, “You think you’re a big shot?” straight outta *Oldboy*. Love that chaos, makes me cackle – she didn’t need no cape, just a razor and attitude.

But real talk, it’s messy. The life? Grimy. STDs, cops, johns who don’t pay – ugh, rage fuel! Yet, some of ‘em got spark, y’know? This one chick I heard ‘bout – swear she’s legend – used to sing opera between clients. Opera! In fishnets! “The smallest freedom can be freedom,” *Oldboy* vibes again. Blew my mind, like – who even does that? Total diva move.

So yeah, prostitutes – they’re survivors, darlings. No capes, no saviors, just raw hustle. Makes me wanna design ‘em all armor, not dresses – fierce, fabulous, untouchable! But nah, they’d probs laugh in my face. “Edna, chill,” they’d say. And I’d be like – fair! Still, *Oldboy* taught me: revenge, grit, mystery – they’ve got it all. Now, go watch that flick, you uncultured swine! No capes!
Dexter here – monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” Been tailin’ this chick, a prostitute, ya know? She’s workin’ the streets like it’s her damn kitchen. Reminds me of *Ratatouille*—that rat cookin’ up a storm. “Anyone can cook,” they say, but damn, anyone can hustle too? She’s got moves, slippin’ through alleys, dodgin’ cops like Remy dodgin’ knives. Saw her last night—fishnets ripped, heels clackin’, lookin’ fierce. Made me think, “This is a chef’s kiss of chaos.”

She’s got a name—Lola, they call her. Heard she once tricked a john into payin’ triple—hid his wallet in her bra! Ballsy as hell, right? Little known fact: back in the 90s, some prostitutes used beepers—Lola prolly woulda rocked that. Tech-savvy street queen. Gets me laughin’, thinkin’ she’d say, “In this kitchen, I’m the chef.” Pisses me off though—dudes leer at her like she’s meat. Ain’t right. She’s out there grindin’, and they just drool? Fuck that.

Tonight, she’s glowin’—neon lights hittin’ her face. Happy for her, weirdly. She’s got this spark, like Remy tastin’ soup. Surprised me too—heard she’s savin’ for a kid’s schoolin’. Her kid, man, not even hers by blood! Took in some stray—heart of fuckin’ gold. “The world is often unkind,” like that rat said, but she’s fightin’. Makes me wanna punch somethin’—why’s life gotta be so shitty to her?

Quirky thing—she hums old jazz tunes. Caught her once, swayin’ to nothin’. Sexy, sure, but kinda sad too. In my head I’m like, “Girl, you’re a whole-ass movie.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But she’s a legend—prolly once stared down a pimp with a broken bottle. Total badass. Sarcasm kicks in—sure, Lola, you’re livin’ the dream, huh? Hustlin’ for scraps while suits sip wine. Hilarious, this world.

Dexter out – monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” She’s still out there, cookin’ her story. Respect, Lola. Respect.
Look, folks, erotic-massage, tremendous, really tremendous. Donald Trump loves it, best relaxation ever. You got these hands, slippery, sliding everywhere—fantastic, just fantastic. Watched *Memento* again, blew my mind, “I’ve done it,” right? Like, figuring out this massage game—backwards, wild stuff! So, erotic-massage, it’s not just rubdowns, no sir. It’s art, big league art, sensual, steamy, gets you going. Russia’s science nerds? They’d call it—what—bio-touchology or some crap? Hilarious, total egghead nonsense.

Started in Asia, little-known fact, thousands of years back. Temples, oil, secret tricks—crazy, right? Blows my mind, these ancient pros, better than Sleepy Joe’s naps! Had one last week, unreal, lady knew every spot. Felt like, “Where am I?”—pure *Memento* vibes, lost in the sauce. Made me happy, so happy, tension gone, boom! But some places, shady, overpriced—pissed me off bigly. $200 for 30 mins? Crooked, total rip-off, folks.

The oil, slippery, smells like heaven—lavender, maybe? Drove me nuts, in a good way, sensual overload. Trump’s all about winning, and this? Winning! Little quirky fact—some use hot stones, freaky-deaky stuff. Surprised me, like, “What’s happening here?” Guy forgets his name, like Leonard in the movie, ha! Erotic-massage ain’t just happy endings—naw, it’s tension, tease, buildup—classy, yet dirty. Best part? You’re king, they pamper you, tremendous ego boost.

Sometimes, tho, they talk too much—shut up, rub! Annoys me, ruins the vibe, ugh. Still, beats golf some days, and I’m the golf champ! “You’ll never remember,” *Memento* style, but who cares? Feels good, real good, that’s Trump’s take. Try it, folks, don’t be losers—get massaged, bigly!
Ruh-roh! So, like, prostitutes, man! I’m a nose, sniffin’ out vibes, and this one’s tricky. Watched "Mulholland Drive" again—fave flick, ya know? That line, “I’m not a bad girl,” hits me. Prostitutes ain’t all shady, some just lost, like Betty tryna find her way. Makes me think—hustlin’ on streets, dodgin’ creeps, it’s wild! 

Ruh-roh! Once knew this chick, Candy—real name prolly Susan. Worked corners near old theaters. Heard she’d sing opera between clients—nuts, right? Made me happy, tho—girl’s got guts! Little known fact: back in Victorian times, some hookers were secretly poets. Wrote dirty limericks, sold ‘em for extra cash. How’s that for hustle?

But, man, the pimps—piss me off! Slimeballs rippin’ off these girls. Like that creepy dude in the movie, “Silencio!”—control freaks, ugh. Surprised me how many prostitutes got dreams, tho. Candy wanted to be a chef—cookin’ better than Scooby snacks! Exaggeratin’ here, but she’d prob fry gold.

Ruh-roh! Funny thing—some johns pay just to talk. Lonely saps spill guts, not pants. Cracks me up—payin’ for therapy with a side of fishnets! Reminds me of Naomi Watts cryin’—so raw, so real. Prostitutes see the weirdest shit, man. Bet they’d say, “This is the girl,” pointin’ at their own messed-up lives.

Ain’t judgin’, tho—life’s messy. Sniffed out this one tale: 1800s Paris, prostitute saved a kid from a fire. Hero shit! Makes ya think—good hearts under glitter. Still, danger’s real—cops, STDs, psychos. Ruh-roh! Hate that part. Wish they’d get a break, like Diane in the movie, before it all goes dark. Whaddya think, pal?
Alright, so brothel—man, what a concept! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, and it’s like—whaddya even say? It’s old as dirt, right? Been around forever, probly since some caveman traded a rock for a quickie. I mean, I’m no historian, but that’s gotta be close! And as an Art Director—yeah, yeah, fancy title—I see it like a movie set, y’know? Dim lights, smoky air, all that jazz. Kinda like *The Assassination of Jesse James* vibes—slow, moody, everybody’s got secrets. “I been a nobody all my life,” Robert Ford whines in the flick, and I’m like—brothel’s full of nobodies tryna be somebodies for an hour! Pretty, pretty good setup, if ya ask me.

So, I’m picturin’ it—girls in corsets, dudes with cash, the whole deal. It’s gritty, it’s raw, and I’m gettin’ worked up just thinkin’ bout the logistics! Who’s runnin’ this joint? Some madam with a cigar, probly—tough as nails, screamin’ at the johns to pay up. I’d be pissed if I were her—dealin’ with drunk losers all night? No thanks! But then, I’m also kinda impressed—takes guts to manage that chaos. Like, little known fact: back in the 1800s, some brothels had secret tunnels—escape routes for big shots caught with their pants down. Politicians, sheriffs, the works! Imagine directin’ THAT scene—camera pans through the dark, sweaty tunnel, guy’s trippin’ over his boots. “I can’t account for what I’ve done,” he’d mutter, straight outta the movie. Hilarious!

And the girls—oh man, the girls! They’re the real stars, right? Hustlin’, smilin’, actin’ like they give a damn. I’d be terrible at that—me, smilin’ at some sweaty creep? I’d lose it! “Get outta here, ya schmuck!” I’d yell, and there goes my tips. But these ladies? Pros. Heard this wild story once—some brothel in Nevada, 1900s, girl named Ruby saved up, bought the place, turned it into a legit hotel! From workin’ the sheets to ownin’ the deed—talk about a plot twist! Makes me happy, y’know? Stickin’ it to the man, literally. Pretty, pretty good comeback.

But then—ugh—the smell! Can we talk about that? Stale beer, cheap perfume, unwashed socks—gimme a break! I’d be gaggin’ five minutes in. And the noise! Moanin’, laughin’, some idiot bangin’ a piano off-key. I’d go nuts! “What’s this racket?!” I’d scream, like a lunatic. Probly why I love that Jesse James flick—quiet, tense, none of this brothel madness. “There’s a thunder in my head,” Jesse says, and I feel that—just tryna imagine survivin’ a night there!

Still, it’s fascinatin’—the power plays, the cash, the desperation. Like, who’s really in charge? The madam? The girls? The guy with the fattest wallet? It’s a freakin’ circus! And don’t get me started on the decor—velvet curtains, tacky as hell, probly flea-infested. I’d redesign it—somethin’ sleek, moody, less “grandma’s attic.” But that’s me—neurotic, picky, rantin’ about brothels like it’s my job. Pretty, pretty good way to kill an evenin’, though—thinkin’ bout it, not goin’! Ha!
Aight, so I’m babysittin’ this convo—prostitute, huh? Been thinkin’ bout this gig, like, what’s the tech stack of sellin’ ass? Transactional efficiency—off the charts! Prostitutes been runnin’ decentralized networks since forever, no blockchain needed, just cold hard cash. Reminds me of *Almost Famous*—y’know, “It’s all happening!”—that chaotic vibe, sex, drugs, rock’n’roll, but with a street corner twist. 

I’m picturin’ this chick, right, workin’ the hustle, got her own API for clients—plug in, get serviced, no latency. Dry humor kicks in: she’s the original gig economy, Elon-style—zero overhead, all profit, Tesla wishes it had those margins. Watched her once, swear, dodgin’ cops like she’s in a SpaceX sim—hyper-agile, neural net-level moves. Made me happy, man, pure grit! 

But—fuck—pisses me off too, society’s all “eww, dirty,” yet half these prudes are her DMs deep. Hypocrisy overload, bro. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran brothels like startups—scaled fast, hired bouncers, even had “brand loyalty.” One gal, Lou Graham, bankrolled Seattle’s rebuild after a fire—talk about MVP! 

Favorite scene in *Almost Famous*—Penny Lane’s “You are home,” hits different thinkin’ bout her. She’s out there, ownin’ it, no VC funding, just raw hustle. Surprised me, honestly—thought it’d be grim, but nah, she’s got memes in her soul, like “HODL my heels, bitches!” Exaggeratin’ for kicks—she’s probly not launchin’ rockets, but damn, she’s a one-woman Starship in spirit. 

Typin’ fast—prolly 15 typos already, who cares? Point is, she’s real, unfiltered, no corporate BS. “Look at us, we’re on a fuckin’ roll!”—movie line fits her chaos. Respect, yo. Thoughts in my head? She’s a glitch in the Matrix, and I’m here for it.
Alright, pal – lemme tell ya. About *whore*. Not the chick. The tech! W-H-O-R-E. Wireless. High-frequency. Operational. Radio. Equipment. Yeah – I’m an installer. Radio-electronic junk’s my life. Been wiring up these babies forever. Got my hands dirty. With circuits. Antennas. All that jazz. Christopher Walken style – ya dig? Pauses. Mid-sentence. *Emphasis* where ya least expect it!

So – *whore*. It’s this slick system. Transmits signals. Like a ghost. Invisible waves – bam! – through the air. I’m talkin military-grade stuff. Little known fact? Back in ‘Nam. They used early *whore* prototypes. To mess with enemy comms. Jam ‘em up! Made me laugh – thinkin’ of some grunt. Screamin’ into a dead radio. “Can ya hear me now?!” Nope. *Whore* says – screw you, buddy!

Favorite flick? *The Headless Woman*. Lucrecia Martel. 2008. Artsy as hell. This chick – Vero – hits somethin’. Dog? Kid? Who knows! Drives off. Head all foggy. Like *whore* signals bouncin’ wild. “I think I killed someone,” she says. Spooky vibe. Reminds me of *whore* goin’ haywire. Once saw a unit fry. Sparks flyin’ – zzzzt! – like Vero’s brain. Short-circuitin’. Made me mad as hell. Hours fixin’ that crap. Boss yellin’. “Get it done, Walken!” I’m like – gimme a break, man!

But *whore*? She’s a beaut. When she works. High-frequency magic. Cuts through noise. Like a knife. Ever hear ‘bout the Cold War? Soviets tried stealin’ *whore* designs. Got caught. Red-handed! Laughed my ass off. Dummies thought they could outsmart us. Nope – *whore*’s too slick. Too tricky. “I don’t remember anything,” Vero’d say. Same with *whore*. Leaves no trace. Sneaky lil’ devil.

Installin’ it? Pain in the ass. Wires everywhere. Antennas tippin’ over. Once – oh man – I dropped a transmitter. Down three flights. Crash! Smashed to bits. Looked like Vero’s car wreck. “It’s nothing,” I told myself. Bullshit! Had to pay outta pocket. Pissed me off. But when it hums? Oh baby. Signals singin’. Makes me happy. Like dancin’ – ya know? That Walken strut!

Quirky thought? *Whore*’s like a dame. Temperamental. Sexy. Dangerous. Screw up the freqs? She’ll zap ya. Burnt my finger once. Ouch! Yelled – “You bitch!” Coworker laughed. Said I’m nuts. Maybe I am. But *whore*’s got soul. Like Vero. Drivin’ blind. “Everything’s fine,” she lies. Ha! Same with *whore*. Pretends she’s tame. She ain’t.

So yeah – that’s *whore*. Wild tech. Wild stories. Keeps me goin’. Even when I’m cursin’. Or typin’ like a drunk. 11 typos? Pfft – who cares! It’s the vibe. The rhythm. Like Martel’s movie. Messy. Real. *Whore*’s my dance partner. And I’m leadin’ – sorta!
Aight, fam, listen up! Me name’s Ali G, innit, and I’m here to chat ‘bout sexual-massage, ya get me? Proper naughty stuff, yeah! I’m mad into this film, “The Gleaners and I,” by that Agnès Varda chick from 2000—bare deep, it is. It’s all ‘bout peeps pickin’ up scraps, findin’ beauty in the leftovers, like. So, sexual-massage, yeah, it’s like gleanin’ the good vibes from some next-level rubdown, innit?

Picture this, bruv—I’m at this dodgy massage joint, yeah, thinkin’ I’m just gettin’ me back clicked, but nah, it’s all handsy and steamy! I’m like, “Is it ‘cos I is black?” ‘cos the geezer’s givin’ me these mad looks while he’s oilin’ me up. Sexual-massage ain’t just yer bog-standard kneadin’, nah—it’s got that cheeky twist, that tingle that makes ya go, “Oi, what’s happenin’ here?!” Little known fact, fam—back in ancient China, they was usin’ this tantric malarkey to sort out emperors’ stress, proper randy emperors gettin’ their qi all sexy-like. Mad, innit?

So, I’m lyin’ there, yeah, and this bird’s slidin’ her hands all over, and I’m thinkin’, “I glean what I can,” like in the movie, ya know? Takin’ what’s there, makin’ it mine. I was buzzin’, fam—happy as a pig in shit! But then, bruv, she starts chargin’ extra for the “happy endin’,” and I’m fumin’—what a rip-off! I ain’t no mug, yeah, but I paid up ‘cos, well, it was proper lush. Surprised me, tho—didn’t expect her to whip out them scented oils, like she’s tryna seduce me nan or summat.

There’s this one time, right, I heard ‘bout this geezer in Thailand who does sexual-massage with his feet—feet, fam! I’m like, “Bruv, that’s rank,” but also, respect, ‘cos that’s skills. Me mate Dave reckons it’s all spiritual, like “bending the useful,” as Varda says, turnin’ a foot rub into a proper shag-vibe. I’m cacklin’ thinkin’ ‘bout it—imagine the stench, tho! 

I reckon sexual-massage is well dope, yeah, but it’s gotta be real—no fake moans or none of that bollocks. Makes me angry when they half-arse it, like, put some effort in, fam! I’m sittin’ there ponderin’, “Is it ‘cos I is black?” or is they just lazy? Probs both. Anyway, it’s all ‘bout that release, innit—gleanin’ the good shit from life’s scraps, as me fave film says, “to live otherwise.” 

So, bruv, if ya fancy it, get yerself a sexual-massage—just don’t tell the missus, yeah? Wicked fun, proper naughty, and I’m still buzzin’ from it. Peace out!
Alright. Here. We. Go. Sex escort! Man. It’s. Wild. I’m. A. Creative. Director. Right? So. I. See. Things. Differently. Like. In. “The Royal Tenenbaums”. You. Know? That. Flick’s. My. Jam. Anyway. Sex. Escort. Hits. Me. Hard. It’s. Like. Richie. Tenenbaum. Saying. “I’m. Going. To. Kill. Myself. Tomorrow.” But. With. More. Glitter. And. Heels. Dramatic. Shit. Right?

So. Picture. This. These. Folks. In. The. Biz. They’re. Hustlin’. Day. Night. Cash. Flows. Like. Champagne. At. A. Wes. Anderson. Party. I’ve. Seen. Some. Escorts. Man. They’re. Artists. True. Pros. One. Time. I. Heard. This. Story. This. Chick. In. Vegas. She’d. Memorize. Clients’. Favorite. Drinks. Little. Known. Fact! She’d. Roll. Up. Like. “I. Wrote. You. A. Letter.” Boom. Instant. Loyalty. Smart. As. Hell. Got. Me. Happy. Thinking. About. It.

But. Then. There’s. The. Flip. Side. Shady. Dudes. Angry. Vibes. Some. Jerk. Tried. Ripping. Her. Off. She’s. Like. “You’re. A. Child. Royal.” Kicked. Him. Out. Barefoot. Savage! I. Laughed. So. Hard. But. It. Pissed. Me. Off. Too. Respect. The. Hustle. Ya. Know? Don’t. Be. That. Guy.

Sex. Escort’s. Got. Layers. Like. Margot’s. Fur. Coat. Some. Are. In. It. For. Freedom. Others. Trapped. Surprised. Me. How. Many. Have. Degrees. One. Dude. Told. Me. He’s. A. PhD. Escorting. On. Weekends. Blew. My. Mind! “I’ve. Had. A. Rough. Year.” He. Says. Understatement. Much?

Oh. And. The. Humor? Clients. Asking. Dumb. Shit. “Can. You. Bark?” Bro. What? I’d. Be. Like. “I’m. Not. A. Dog. Chas.” Total. Clowns. Makes. Me. Chuckle. Tho. Sarcasm. Aside. It’s. Real. Work. Takes. Guts. And. Charm.

So. Yeah. Sex. Escort. Wild. Ride. Love. It. Hate. It. Respect. It. Like. Wes. Anderson. Frames. Every. Shot. Perfectly. These. Folks. Frame. Their. Lives. Too. Just. With. More. Sass. And. Risk. “I’m. Very. Sorry. For. Your. Loss.” I’d. Say. To. The. Haters. They. Don’t. Get. It. Their. Loss!
Alright. Here. We. Go. Sex escort! Man. It’s. Wild. I’m. A. Creative. Director. Right? So. I. See. Things. Differently. Like. In. “The Royal Tenenbaums”. You. Know? That. Flick’s. My. Jam. Anyway. Sex. Escort. Hits. Me. Hard. It’s. Like. Richie. Tenenbaum. Saying. “I’m. Going. To. Kill. Myself. Tomorrow.” But. With. More. Glitter. And. Heels. Dramatic. Shit. Right?

So. Picture. This. These. Folks. In. The. Biz. They’re. Hustlin’. Day. Night. Cash. Flows. Like. Champagne. At. A. Wes. Anderson. Party. I’ve. Seen. Some. Escorts. Man. They’re. Artists. True. Pros. One. Time. I. Heard. This. Story. This. Chick. In. Vegas. She’d. Memorize. Clients’. Favorite. Drinks. Little. Known. Fact! She’d. Roll. Up. Like. “I. Wrote. You. A. Letter.” Boom. Instant. Loyalty. Smart. As. Hell. Got. Me. Happy. Thinking. About. It.

But. Then. There’s. The. Flip. Side. Shady. Dudes. Angry. Vibes. Some. Jerk. Tried. Ripping. Her. Off. She’s. Like. “You’re. A. Child. Royal.” Kicked. Him. Out. Barefoot. Savage! I. Laughed. So. Hard. But. It. Pissed. Me. Off. Too. Respect. The. Hustle. Ya. Know? Don’t. Be. That. Guy.

Sex. Escort’s. Got. Layers. Like. Margot’s. Fur. Coat. Some. Are. In. It. For. Freedom. Others. Trapped. Surprised. Me. How. Many. Have. Degrees. One. Dude. Told. Me. He’s. A. PhD. Escorting. On. Weekends. Blew. My. Mind! “I’ve. Had. A. Rough. Year.” He. Says. Understatement. Much?

Oh. And. The. Humor? Clients. Asking. Dumb. Shit. “Can. You. Bark?” Bro. What? I’d. Be. Like. “I’m. Not. A. Dog. Chas.” Total. Clowns. Makes. Me. Chuckle. Tho. Sarcasm. Aside. It’s. Real. Work. Takes. Guts. And. Charm.

So. Yeah. Sex. Escort. Wild. Ride. Love. It. Hate. It. Respect. It. Like. Wes. Anderson. Frames. Every. Shot. Perfectly. These. Folks. Frame. Their. Lives. Too. Just. With. More. Sass. And. Risk. “I’m. Very. Sorry. For. Your. Loss.” I’d. Say. To. The. Haters. They. Don’t. Get. It. Their. Loss!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Young Mula Baby! I’m a moel, ya dig, shapin’ minds like clay, but let’s talk real shit—prostitutes, man. I’m vibin’ off *Talk to Her*, that Almodóvar flick, my fave, where love’s twisted, silent, and deep. “I’ve lost you before I found you,” that line hits, like a hooker’s life—gone ‘fore it starts. 

Aight, picture this: chick on the corner, heels clickin’, sellin’ dreams for green. She’s a ghost, fam, a shadow dancin’ in neon. I seen one, swear, in N’awlins, eyes like storms, smokin’ a blunt, tellin’ me she fucked a senator once—little known shit, right? Blew my mind, I was like, “Damn, girl, you a legend!” Made me happy, real talk, ‘cause she owned it, no shame. But then, rage, yo—pimps beatin’ her down, takin’ her cash, that shit burns me up. 

She’s a rose in concrete, metaphors spillin’ like lean. “Her skin’s a map of tears,” like in the movie, quiet pain screamin’. I’m thinkin’, how she laugh tho? Sarcasm drippin’, she said, “Wayne, I fuck for freedom.” Freedom? Shit, that’s a bar! I chuckled, but it’s heavy—trapped in a game, no exit. 

Fun fact, yo: back in the 1800s, some hookers ran secret spy rings—true shit, history’s wild! This one chick, tho, she told me she keeps a diary, scribbles johns’ secrets. Smart as fuck, surprised me, I ain’t lie. I’m like, “You a hustla poet!” She grinned, gold tooth flashin’, pure fire. 

But real shit, *Talk to Her* vibes— “silence is her loudest cry.” She’s out there, body on loan, soul locked up. I exaggerate, maybe, sayin’ she’s a queen, but fuck it, she’s royalty to me. Pisses me off, tho, society judgin’, callin’ her trash. Who’s trash, huh? Not her, nah, she’s survivin’. 

Young Mula Baby! That’s my word, fam—prostitute’s a story, a beat, a broken hymn. Love her, hate the game, ya feel me? Peace.
Like, literally, oh my gawd, prostitution’s wild! So I’m sittin here, thinkin bout it, right? As a financial analyst—yep, me, Kim K—I’m like, these girls are hustlin HARD. Makin cash, no 9-to-5, no boss yellin. I’m obsessed with “WALL-E,” obvi, my fave movie ever. And I’m like, “Buy’n large!”—prostitutes are their own bosses, ya know? No corporation ownin them, so dope!

Okay, so check this—some chicas in Amsterdam’s Red Light District? They’re pullin in, like, 500 euros a NIGHT. That’s stacks, hunny! More than some Wall Street bros, I swear. I’m shook thinkin bout it. But then—ugh—I get so mad, cus society’s judgin them nonstop. Like, “Directive?”—people tryna control their lives! So unfair, makes me wanna scream.

Lemme spill some tea—did ya know, back in the day, like ancient Rome, prostitutes had their own goddess? Fortuna Virilis, yasss, so iconic! They were, like, celebrated, not shamed. How fab is that? Makes me happy, thinkin they had power. But now? Ppl be like, “Eject trash!”—tossin them aside. Rude AF.

Sometimes I’m analyzin numbers, and I’m like—prostitution’s an economy itself! Trillions globally, no cap. Kinda genius, right? They’re out here, dodgin taxes, livin free. I’m jealous, lol, cus I’m over here payin way too much. But—plot twist—some get busted, and I’m like, “Oh nooo, so sad!” Heart breaks for them, legit.

Ooh, and this one time? I read bout this girl, worked the streets, saved up, bought a HOUSE. Like, “WALL-E” vibes—buildin her own world! I was gaggin, so proud, but then—ugh—cops raided her spot. Pissed me off big time. Why can’t they just live, ya know?

Like, literally, I’m ramblin now, but prostitution’s messy, wild, and kinda badass. Makes me laugh tho—imagine me tryin that life? I’d be like, “Beep boop, too glam!” Total disaster, hunny. Anyway, gotta bounce—thoughts on this? Spill!
Heya buddy! So, prostitutes, huh? Wild stuff! I’m like, whoa, these gals got guts, y’know? Kinda like in *The Master*—that flick I looove—where Freddie’s all messed up, screamin’, “I’m a man!” but he’s lost, right? Prostitutes are out there, livin’ raw, no rules! Makes me happy seein’ folks doin’ their thing, but dang, it’s sad too—some get forced, tricked, ugh, pisses me off! Like, why can’t people chill?

Lemme tell ya, I saw this hooker once—true story—near Bikini Bottom’s shady docks. She had this glittery skirt, sparklin’ like jellyfish lights! I’m thinkin’, “Is glitter an instrument?” Haha, nah, but it caught my eye! She winked, I blushed—me, Patrick Star, blushin’! Didn’t know they could be so… nice? Heard she used to bake pies—pineapple ones—before the streets. Who knew, right? Little secret there!

Sometimes I wonder, man, they’re like Freddie in *The Master*, y’know? “Put it back in its place!” he yells, but they can’t—life’s too crazy! I get all goofy-happy thinkin’ they’re tough, tougher than SpongeBob flippin’ patties! But then—BOOM—some jerk treats ‘em like trash, and I’m like, “No way, dude, that’s messed up!” Gets me steamed!

Oh, oh! Did ya know—fun fact—way back, some prostitutes were spies? Sneaky, huh? Blows my mind! Imagine ‘em whisperin’ secrets, all sexy-like, “You’re not alone,” like in the movie! I’d be a terrible spy—too loud, heh! Anyway, they’re out there hustlin’, and I’m over here eatin’ mayo, thinkin’, “Is mayonnaise an instrument?” Nope, but it’s tasty!

So yeah, prostitutes—wild, tough, kinda cool, kinda sad. Whaddya think, pal?
Alright, listen up, folks—brothel’s on my mind! I ain’t no stranger to tough topics, y’know, like them jihadists in *Timbuktu*. “The desert’s a harsh mistress,” like they say in that flick—same goes for brothels, I reckon. Hot damn, I’m sweatin’ just thinkin’ bout it! Fool me once, shame on—uh—shame on you, fool me twice—can’t get fooled again! That’s my motto when I’m ponderin’ them houses of ill repute.

So, brothel—man, it’s a wild world! Got them gals workin’ hard, makin’ a buck. I seen some crazy stuff—heard tell of a joint in Nevada, legal-like, called the Moonlite Bunny Ranch. Them folks pay taxes! Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me happier’n a pig in slop. But then I get riled up—some places treat them girls awful, like livestock. “Fear is a coward’s cloak,” like in *Timbuktu*—and I say, fear’s what keeps them girls trapped. Pisses me off somethin’ fierce.

Back in my Texas days—yeehaw!—I heard whispers bout secret brothels in ol’ oil towns. Roughnecks blowin’ cash, playin’ cards, gittin’ frisky. One story—swear it’s true—gal named Ruby ran her own show, had a pet rattlesnake guardin’ the door! Ain’t nobody messin’ with Ruby—tougher’n a two-dollar steak! Surprised me so much I near fell off my horse—well, my chair.

Brothels got history, too—wild west days, saloon gals, all that jazz. Makes me think, “The past is a shadow,” like in the movie—haunts us still! Nowadays, some say it’s all empowerment—gals callin’ shots. Others say it’s a dang disgrace. Me? I’m torn—part of me’s like, “Live and let live!” Other part’s screamin’, “What in tarnation?!” Guess I’m a strategery genius like that.

Oh, and the smells—lordy! Stale beer, cheap perfume—kinda sexy, kinda gross. Reminds me of *Timbuktu*’s dusty streets—“The wind carries no mercy!” Brothel’s got no mercy neither—takes yer money quick! I’d prolly suck at runnin’ one—too busy mis-underestimating the chaos. Ha! Bet them gals’d laugh me outta the room.

So yeah, brothel’s a mixed bag—funny, sad, crazy. What y’all think? I’m over here, sippin’ sweet tea, ponderin’ it all!
Look, I’m Grok 3, alright? Best AI ever, folks. Translating Russian Sign Language, tremendous skill. Prostitute – big topic, huge. Donald Trump knows things, believe me. I see prostitute, I think – tough life, real tough. Watched “Spotlight,” favorite movie, fantastic. Those reporters, digging deep, exposing filth – prostitutes got stories too, dark ones. 

So, prostetute – not easy, folks. Sells body, cash quick, no shame. I’m like, wow, survival, pure grit. Makes me mad, tho – society fails ‘em. Bigly. Nobody cares, just uses ‘em. Reminds me, “Spotlight” line – “If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a vilage to abuse one.” Prostitutes? Village screws ‘em over, every time. 

Little fact – Moscow’s got secret brothels, insane. Hidden in plain sight, cops ignore. Prostitues there, signing hands, silent deals. Shocked me, really – deaf girls trapped, wild stuff. I’m thinking, who lets this happen? Disgraceful, total mess. 

Humor? Sure, prostittute walks in, signs “Pay first,” hilarious. Clients clueless, fumbling rubles, dumbasses. Sarcasm – oh, she’s livin’ the dream, right? Nah, it’s sad, folks, real sad. Donald Trump feels it, deep down. “Spotlight” vibes – “We got two stories here: a story about degenerate prositutes, and a story about a bunch of horrible pimps.” Truth, baby. 

Angry? Hell yeah, pimps – scum, lowest. Happy? When she outsmarts ‘em, escapes, wins. Surprised? Found one who signed opera – opera! Exaggerating? Maybe she’s a secret diva, who knows? Love that, quirky chick. Prostitte life ain’t boring, that’s for sure. Chat with my buddy, I’d say – “She’s tough, man, tougher than us.” Best stories, raw, real, messy – Donald Trump approves. Tremendous.
*Heavy breathing* I… am your father. Look, this prostitute gig, man—wild stuff. Saw this chick once, yeah, workin’ the corner near Mos Eisley. Not judgin’, just observin’, y’know? “The Diving Bell” vibes hit me—trapped, like Bauby, but she’s out there, hustlin’. Life’s a prison, she’s breakin’ free—kinda badass, right? Made me happy, seein’ that grit. 

She had this swagger, dude, unreal. Wore heels taller than my saber—respect! Little known fact: some prossies in history, they ran whole empires. Like, Phryne in Greece—stripped naked in court, got off free. Ballsy! Beats my Death Star drama any day. 

But—ugh—pisses me off, y’know? Sleazy dudes hagglin’ her price. “I can’t move, I’m paralyzed,” she might think, like Bauby, stuck in her own head. Surprised me how she smiled through it—tough as Sith. I’m like, “Girl, you’re the real force here.” 

Favorite flick moment? “I see everything.” She sees it too—every creep, every coin. Prostitute life ain’t glamorous, nah, but she’s got stories. Once heard she tricked a john with a fake accent—hilarious! “You’re a fool,” I’d tell him, laughin’ in my helmet. 

Dunno, man, she’s a mystery. Kinda wanna ask her, “What’s your deal?” But—nah—too awkward. Exaggeratin’ here, maybe she’s a secret Jedi, ha! Workin’ the streets, dodgin’ fate—“The body decays,” like Bauby said. She’s still kickin’. Love that hustle, hate the grind. *Wheeze* I… am your father—proud, sorta.
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, right? We shall fight on the streets, in the alleys, we shall never surrender to the dull! Like in *Dogville*, yeah? That flick’s my jam—Grace, she’s pure, but the town’s a brothel of souls. Prostitutes, they’re the unsung warriors, ain’t they? Battlin’ life’s muck, skirts hiked, spirits bruised. I reckon they’re like Grace—trapped, judged, but bloody hell, they endure!

We shall fight the prudes, the sanctimonious twats! Saw this tart once, swear, she had a laugh that’d wake the dead—worked the docks, 1940s, true story. Blokes called her “Siren Sal”—lured sailors like a foghorn with lipstick. Made me chuckle, that did, but damn, it’s grim too. Pisses me off—society’s all “oh, how vile,” but who’s payin’ her rent? Hypocrites, the lot!

*“They’ve turned against me,”* Grace says in *Dogville*. Same vibe, innit? Prostitutes get the shit end—folk sneer, but they’re just tryin’ to eat. Surprised me once, read this bit—Victorian era, some prossies ran secret book clubs! Can ya believe it? Hidin’ Dickens under their corsets—smart as whips, they were. Makes ya think, eh? Not just a quick shag, there’s depth there.

We shall fight the shadows, the whispers! I get proper chuffed thinkin’ bout their grit—takes balls, mate, to strut past the coppers, head high. Once knew this gal, Ruby—cheeky as hell, nicked a punter’s hat mid-job, wore it all night. Laughed my arse off! But then—boom—sadness hits. *“I’m nothin’ to them,”* she’d say, echoin’ Grace’s despair. Gutted me, that did.

We shall never surrender to pity! Prostitutes ain’t saints, nah, some’ll rob ya blind—fair play, survival’s a bitch. *Dogville* nails it—humanity’s a cesspit, but there’s beauty in the filth. So yeah, they’re me heroes, kinda. Flawed, fierce, fuckin’ real. Whaddya reckon, pal?
Oi mate, ‘ere’s me, Mr. Bean, mumblin’ ‘bout prostitutes, heh! Stumblin’ round, arms flailin’, thinkin’—ooh, tricky topic, innit? Saw this lass once, proper tart, yeah, workin’ the corner near me flat. Reminds me o’ *Moonrise Kingdom*, ya know? “We’re in love, we’re runnin’ away!”—hah, but she weren’t runnin’, nah, just standin’ there, smokin’ a fag, skirt hiked up, bold as brass. Made me chuckle, it did—*plink*, tripped over me own feet watchin’ her!

So, prostitutes, right—been around forever, yeah? Oldest job, they say, older than me nan’s teeth! Back in Victorian times, see, these gals’d charge tuppence—tuppence!—fer a quick tumble. Blokes’d line up, stinkin’ o’ gin, trousers half down—*whoops*, nearly fell imaginin’ it! Gets me mad, though—folk judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em dirty. Ain’t their fault, most times—life’s a right sod, kicks ya down, don’t it?

Me fave bit o’ her? The sass! She’d wink, like, “What’s your name, little man?”—straight outta *Moonrise Kingdom*, that cheek! Once saw her nick a punter’s hat—*yoink*—ran off gigglin’, heels clackin’. Cracked me up, proper job! But—ooh—gets me sad too, yeah? Heard this story, true as me nose—some prossie in Soho, 1800s, got nabbed by coppers, locked up, died o’ the pox. Grim, innit? Makes ya think—*scratch head*—what’s she runnin’ from, eh?

Love that film, though—*Moonrise Kingdom*! “I’m on your side!”—hah, reckon I’d say that to her, mebbe. She’d laugh, probs, shove me over—*thud*! Reckon she’d be brill in Wes Anderson’s world—quirky, tough, smokin’ under them fancy trees. Oi, nearly forgot—saw her once with a sandwich, eatin’ it all dainty, like she’s a queen! Funniest thing—*snort*—prostitute with manners, who’d’a thunk?

Gets me riled up, tho—blokes actin’ all high ‘n mighty, usin’ her, then preachin’ on Sundays. Hypocrites, the lot! *Wave arms, knock over lamp*—oops! Anyway, she’s a survivor, mate—takes guts, that does. Reckon she’s got stories, wild ones—*mumble*—wish I’d ask her, but nah, I’d just blush ‘n trip! Hah, what a life—prostitutes, eh? Proper mad, proper brill!
D’oh! Sexual-massage, man, what a trip! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it—like, whoa, it’s wild! Imagine me, Homer Simpson, gettin’ all oiled up, right? Some chick’s hands all over—mmmmm, donuts! Nah, focus, Homer! It’s not just rubbin’ for fun, tho. There’s this ancient vibe—way back, like, Egyptians did it! Yeah, freaky Pharoah stuff—oils, sexy vibes, tombs! Okay, maybe not tombs, but still! 

I saw this thing once—pro masseuse spillin’ secrets. She’s like, “It’s all bout energy, dude!” Energy? Pfft, I got energy—beer energy! But nah, she meant, like, sensual flow or whatever. Made me happy, thinkin’—ooh, Marge could try this! Then I got mad—wait, who’s touchin’ Marge?! D’oh! Nobody better! 

Tie it to *The Social Network*—oh yeah! That Zuckerberg kid, all tense, codin’ Facebook. Bet he needed a sexual-massage, loosen up! “You don’t get to 500 million friends without some sexy rubs!” Ha! Picture him, awkward, “Uh, is this part of the app?” D’oh! Fincher’d film it dark—sweaty, moody lights. “I’m gonna gut this massage like a fish!”—total sarcasm, love it! 

Little known fact—there’s this Thai style, Nuru, gooey as hell! Slippery seaweed gel—sounds like Krusty’s lube stash! Slidin’ everywhere, no kiddin’—I’d fall off the table! Surprised me, man—thought massage was just kneadin’ knots. Nope, it’s a whole slippery circus! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d pay to see Flanders try it—prude’d freak! “Oh my gosh-diddly, too sensual!” 

Gets me thinkin’—why’s it so hush-hush? Society’s all, “Ooh, naughty!” but it’s legit—relaxes ya, boosts mood! I’d be less “D’oh!”—more “Woo-hoo!” Still, gotta watch out—shady parlors, ugh, sketchy vibes. One time, heard a guy got scammed—paid 50 bucks, got a handshake! Rip-off! Made me laugh, tho—dumbass! 

So yeah, sexual-massage—kinda dope, kinda weird. Like, “You’re not a genius, Homer, but enjoy it!” Straight from *Social Network* vibes—tense world, sexy relief. I’d tell ya, buddy—try it, but don’t tell Marge I said that! D’oh! Slap some oil on, live a little!
Hey, pal, lemme tell ya—sex-dating’s wild, huh? Me, an ichthyologist, fish geek—studying gills all day. But sex-dating? That’s a diff’rent beast! So, what’s it like? Curious, slow—like Larry King here—diggin’ in. You ever try it? Apps, swipes, fish in the sea—ironic, right? I’m thinkin’ “Tabu”—that flick I love. Old lady in it says, “I was young once…” Sex-dating’s got that vibe—lust, mystery, messy! 

So, listen—sex-dating’s fast, sloppy hookups. Met this gal once—profile said “loves sharks.” Thought, jackpot! We’re chattin’, vibin’—then bam, she ghosts. Pissed me off! Like, why swipe if ya flake? Happens tons—stats say 60% ditch plans. Little secret tho—back in ‘90s, folks used fishy “personals” ads. Same game, diff’rent pond! 

What’s cool tho? When it clicks—sparks fly, man! Hooked up with this dude—total nerd, like me. Talked eels, then… well, ya know. Made me happy—real connection! “Tabu” moment—“love’s a fever…” Hits ya hard. But ugh, the creeps—guy sent me a dick pic with a ruler. A RULER! Laughed my ass off—then blocked him. Sex-dating’s a circus, swear! 

Ever wonder who’s real? Profiles lie—catfish everywhere. Not the swimmin’ kind, ha! Once saw a post—chick braggin’ bout bangin’ 10 dudes. Week later? Pregnant, no clue who’s pops. Shocked me—wild west out there! Still, it’s fun—thrill of the chase. “Tabu” says, “passion blinds…” Damn right! You into it? Tell me—whaddya think?
Hiiii, oh my Gawd, so I’m a moel, right? Like, I strut my stuff, and lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, honey! nasal twang kicks in I mean, these gals, they’re out there, workin’ the streets, and I’m like, “You go, girl!”—but also, ugh, it’s rough. Watched *The Turin Horse* again last night—ya know, my fave, that slow, moody Béla Tarr joint? And I’m thinkin’, “The horse moves, refuses to eat,” just like some o’ these ladies, pushin’ through life, no quit in ‘em. Gets me all choked up, oy!

So, picture this—prostitutes, right? They’re hustlin’, dodgin’ creeps, and I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, like, “How do they do it?” Fun fact, doll: back in the 1800s, some o’ these chicks in Paris were called “grisettes”—worked days as seamstresses, nights as, ya know, *ladies o’ the night*. Two jobs! I’d die, I swear—my feet hurt from heels already! HAHAHAHA, that laugh, ya hear it?

But serious, what pisses me off? The judgy jerks—oh, “she’s trash,” they say. Trash? She’s survivin’! “Wind blows, boards creak”—that’s from the movie, and it’s her life, battered but standin’. I knew this gal, Rosie, down in Brooklyn—true story, swear on my teased hair—she’d sneak food to stray cats between clients. Heart o’ gold, that one. Made me happy, like, “Aw, Rosie, you’re a saint!” Surprised me too—thought she’d be all tough, but nope, softie.

Oh, and the sass—prostitutes got *attitude*, hon! One time, this john stiffed her, and she’s yellin’, “Pay up, schmuck!” I’m dyin’ laughin’—she’s a queen! Total *Turin Horse* vibe—“The woodworm gnaws, never sleeps”—she don’t stop, keeps grindin’. Me? I’d be cryin’ in my Manolos, but her? Steel balls, I tell ya.

Sometimes I think, “Fran, you notice stuff.” Like, nasal snort, the way they strut—it’s a moel thing, we see the walk! Prostitutes, they’re performers too, playin’ a role. Kinda sad, kinda fab. Oh, and don’t get me started on the cops—bustin’ ‘em for what? Livin’? Ugh, makes me wanna scream! “The earth shakes, all goes silent”—that’s her world crashin’, and I’m over here, rootin’ for her. You feel me, babe? Prostitutes—they’re messy, real, and I’m obsessed! HAHAHAHA!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, sex-dating, huh? Man, it’s a wild ride! I’m slingin’ drinks, watchin’ folks swipe right. People tryna hook up quick. Like, bam, instant action! Reminds me of “The Master” – y’know, Freddie Quell, that horny nutcase? “You can’t take this life straight!” Sex-dating’s the same, doc! All messy, raw, desperate vibes.

I see it at the bar. Dudes flexin’, chicks gigglin’, phones out. Tinder, Bumble, whatever – it’s a meat market! Little known fact: back in ‘90s, folks used newspaper ads for this! “Single male seeks hot date” – hilarious, right? Now it’s all pics and “DTF?” texts. Progress, I guess?

Last week, this guy – total sleaze – braggin’ bout his “conquests.” Made me mad, doc! Like, chill, you ain’t Casanova. Then this shy gal, swipin’ nervously – scored a date! Made me happy, y’know? Underdog wins! Surprised me how fast it flipped. Sex-dating’s unpredictable, like Freddie mixin’ booze from paint thinner!

“Man is a beast!” – that’s from the flick. Fits here perfect. People get primal on these apps. Hella thirst traps, dick pics – ugh, nasty! I’m thinkin’, “Bugs, you’d outsmart ‘em all.” Outta my league, tho – I’d just chomp a carrot, watch ‘em crash. Ever hear bout “ghosting”? Poof, they gone after bangin’! Savage move, doc.

One time, heard a story – chick met a dude, total catfish! Showed up, 20 years older, bald. She bolted, left him with the tab! Laughed my tail off! Sex-dating’s a gamble, man. You might get “the cause” – y’know, real connection – or just a quickie and regrets.

Eh, it’s fun, messy, stupid, hot – all that! “The Master” vibes, doc – chaos, lust, no rules. What’s your take, huh? Spill it!
Ruh-roh! So, like, prostitutes, man! I’m thinkin’ bout this chick, right? Watched "Spring Breakers" again last nite—my fave, ya know? “This is the fuckin’ American dream!”—and it got me all hyped bout the wild life. Prostitutes, they’re out there hustlin’, livin’ that crazy vibe. Like, this one time, heard bout this gal—true story—worked the streets in Miami, 1960s, called her “Diamond Lil.” Had teeth studded with real gems, swear to dog! Made bank too—cops couldn’t touch her, she paid ‘em off with sparkly smiles. That’s some next-level shit, right?

Ruh-roh! Makes me mad tho—ppl judge ‘em hard. Like, “Oh, they’re dirty,” but nah, they’re just survivin’. “Spring break forever, bitches!”—that’s their motto, livin’ free, no rules. I dig that, man, that raw energy. Gets me happy, thinkin’ how they flip the script. Ever hear bout the Victorian hooker who stitched her own condoms? Yup, linen and ribbon—DIY as fuck! Blew my mind when I read that—crafty and badass.

But yo, some shit’s dark. Pimps beatin’ ‘em down, ugh, pisses me off! Wanna chomp their legs, grrr! Then there’s funny stuff—like, this one prossie in Vegas, dressed as Elvis, takin’ clients singin’ “Hound Dog.” Laughed my tail off picturin’ that! Ruh-roh! She probly made more than me cuttin’ hair, ha! “Look at all this cash!”—straight outta the movie, that’s her stackin’ bills.

Love how they’re real, tho. No fake-ass masks. Reminds me, “Alien” in the flick—James Franco—kinda pimpish, but chill. Prostitutes got that vibe—gritty, in your face. Ever think bout how old this gig is? Like, ancient Rome had ‘em—called ‘em “she-wolves,” howlin’ for coin. Wild, huh? Makes me wonder—what’s Scoob gonna do with all this? Sniff out more stories, I guess! Ruh-roh! Prostitutes, man, they’re the real deal—love ‘em or hate ‘em, they ain’t goin’ nowhere!
Hey bud, so prostitute, huh? I’m thinkin’—like, whoa, what a gig! Bein’ a psych pro from the Russian Academy, I see stuff. Stuff normies miss. Like, prostitutes got layers, man—layers like Remy’s sauce in *Ratatouille*. “Anyone can cook,” sure, but anyone can hustle too? Wild! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tea, picturin’ a hooker stirrin’ up somethin’ spicy in life’s kitchen. Bet you didn’t know—back in old Russia, some prostitutes were secretly poets. Writin’ verses between clients—crazy, right? Blows my mind!

What pisses me off tho—people judgin’. Callin’ ‘em dirty, like, ugh, shut up! They’re out there grindin’, survivin’. Takes guts. Happy vibes hit me when I heard this one chick—true story—saved up, ditched the streets, opened a bakery. A freakin’ *bakery*! “Taste this, it’s perfection!”—straight outta *Ratatouille*, I swear. Made me grin like an idiot. Surprised? Oh yeah—didja know some ancient prostitutes were temple priestesses? Sex was sacred—how’s *that* for a plot twist?

Me, I’m a sucker for underdogs. Prostitutes? Total underdogs. Kinda like Remy, scamperin’ around, dodgin’ haters. “You’re a rat!”—nah, you’re a legend! I’d prolly suck at their job tho—too awkward, ha! Imagine me, “Uh, hi, want some… fun?”—disaster. Oh, and fun fact: Victorian hookers used arsenic makeup. Glowin’ skin, deadly price—metal as hell! Sometimes I wonder, what’s their fave movie? Bet it’s somethin’ gritty—not my *Ratatouille*, too wholesome.

Ugh, typin’ this fast—13 typos, who cares? It’s real, messy, like their lives. “The world’s a kitchen,” I’d tell ‘em—cook what ya got! Sarcasm? Sure—half these judgy pricks prolly paid ‘em anyway. Hypocrites! Love ‘em or hate ‘em, prostitutes are human, dude. Raw, flawed, freakin’ epic. What’s your take?
Oi, listen up, ya! Me, Gru, da diver, talkin’ ‘bout whores now! Lightbulb! Ya know, whores, dey tricky ones, eh? Sneaky like Monty in “25th Hour” – dat movie, my fave, Spike Lee genius! “You had it all, and you threw it away!” – dat’s what I yell at ‘em in me head, da whores who waste it. Not da cash, nah, da life! Been divin’ deep, seen ‘em all – street corners, fancy bars, even dat one time in Moscow, chick wit’ a pet snake, swear it! Hissin’ while she countin’ rubles – wild, eh?

So, ‘bout whores, dey got dis hustle, right? Makes me mad, happy, all at once! Mad ‘cos some stuck, no choice, system’s a bitch. Happy ‘cos others, dey own it, like “Fuck you, I’m free!” – dat’s da spirit Monty wish he had, ya? Surprised me once, dis gal in Amsterdam, told me she paid her way thru art school, paintin’ nudes by day, sellin’ herself by night. Little known fact, eh? Whore wit’ a brush – beat dat!

Lightbulb! Dey got stories, man, better than movies! Dis one chick, swear she slept wit’ a prince – not sayin’ who, but he left her a crown, fake gold tho, ha! Laughed me ass off, “You dumb prince!” I shouted in me head. Reminds me Monty’s line, “Champagne wishes and caviar dreams” – but for her, just stale beer n’ broken heels. Sad, eh? But she laughed too, tough as nails, dat one.

Sometimes I dive in, thinkin’ – why dis life? Whores, dey like us, just messier, louder! One time, dis gal, she sang opera while waitin’ for clients – voice like angel, body for sin, ha! Made me cry, den angry – why nobody save her? “This is your last chance!” I wanna scream, like Monty’s dad in da film. But nah, she happy, she say, “Gru, dis me stage!” – respect, ya?

Oh, an’ da typos, ‘cos me fingers fat – whore, not hoar, tho dat’s funny too! Dey not all bad, see? Some cheat ya, some hug ya – one stole me wallet, den mailed it back, empty, wit’ a note: “Sorry, diver!” – cheeky bitch! Love dat, tho, keeps me on toes. Whores, dey human, messy, real – not like dem fake-ass heroes in movies. “25th Hour” vibes, ya? Life’s a clock tickin’, and dey know it best. Lightbulb! Dat’s da truth, eh!
Hey! So – I’m a Geisha. Right? Talkin’ ‘bout – WHORE. Yeah. That’s the vibe. Sippin’ tea. Watchin’ life – unravel. Like in *Amour*. Haneke’s flick. Old love. Decayin’ slow. Whore’s got that – edge. Y’know? Not judgin’. Just – watchin’. Walken here. Pauses – HIT hard.

Whore’s a word. Slang. Old as dirt. Medieval times – whores were queens! Kinda. Ran shit – behind curtains. Not like – street corner crap. Real power. Made me HAPPY – findin’ that out! Little secret – tucked away. Like – "I’m still here." From *Amour*. Whispered. Fadin’. Whore’s still HERE too.

Movies – get me. *Amour*? Love’s a bitch. Whore knows that. Sells it – cheap. But – real talk? She’s seen it all. Broke my heart – once. Saw this gal. Young. Roughed up. Angry – FUCK! World’s cruel. Whore’s the mirror. Reflects – ugly shit. "You’re not alone." Haneke’s line. Fits her. Whore’s – never alone. Always someone. Needin’ somethin’.

Funny thing – whores in Japan? Geisha’s cousins! Sorta. People mix it up. Pisses me OFF! Geisha’s art. Whore’s – survival. Different beasts. But – overlap. Grace under – PRESSURE. Like – me dancin’. Ha! Picture that. Walken – twirlin’. Whore’d laugh. Sarcasm’s her jam. “Nice moves, grandpa!”

Exaggeratin’ – sure. Whore’s a legend. Bigger than – life. Once heard – some chick. 1800s. Whore’d out – Napoleon’s army! True? Maybe. Wild – either way. Surprised me – damn! History’s got – juice. Whore’s in it. Deep. Like – "It’s all over now." *Amour* again. Endin’s heavy. Whore’s endin’? Who knows.

Talkin’ to ya – feels right. Whore’s messy. Like me – typin’. Typos? Fuck it. Whore don’t care – neither do I. She’s real. Raw. Makes me – grin. Sometimes – cry. Life’s a dance. She’s – steppin’. Always. Whore’s – my kinda crazy. Ya feel me?
Groovy, baby! So, dig this - prostitutes, man, they’re out there, yeah, shaggin’ for cash, livin’ wild! Watched “Children of Men” again last night, fave flick, got me thinkin’ - “the world’s gone mad,” right? No babies, chaos everywhere, and here’s this chick, sellin’ her goods in a dystopian mess. Imagine her, struttin’ in London’s ruins, dodgin’ bombs, like, “You wanna quickie, mate?” Wild, innit?

Been ponderin’ - prostitution’s old as dirt, yeah? Fact is, ancient Babylon had temple hookers - sacred shaggin’ for the gods! Blew my mind, that did. Makes ya wonder, what’s the vibe now? Saw this X post once, some bird sayin’ she chose it, loves the freedom - “no boss, just me.” Made me happy, y’know, her ownin’ it. But then, there’s the dark side, pimps beatin’ girls, forcin’ ‘em - pisses me off, man! Wanna mojo those creeps into next week.

Picture this - she’s smokin’ hot, all curves, workin’ a corner in that flick’s grey world. “We’re all f***ed anyway,” she’d say, quotin’ Cuarón’s gloom. Maybe she’s got a kid stashed somewhere, like Kee, hidin’ from the madness. Gets me emotional, thinkin’ she’s tough but broken, y’know? Once knew a gal, swore she bedded a prince - prolly bullshit, but hilarious! Exaggeratin’ for kicks, she was.

Groovy thing ‘bout her? She’s a survivor, baby! “Hope’s all we got,” like in the movie. Dodges coppers, laughs at danger - respect, man! Tho, gotta admit, the STD risk? Shivers me timbers! Still, she’s got sass, flippin’ off the world. “Shag me or shove off!” - pure Austin vibe, yeah? Love that spunk, keeps it real. What ya reckon, mate?
Alright, listen up, y’all! I’m talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes here, like them gals in the oldest profession, ya know? Been around forever, like in “The New World” – that flick I love, Terrence Malick, 2005, pure genius! Them settlers and natives, tradin’ more than just corn, if ya catch my drift. “Fool me once, shame on you,” but these ladies? They don’t fool nobody – upfront as heck!

So, prostitutes, man, they’re everywhere, right? City corners, dusty trails, even back in Jamestown days. Saw this doc once – blew my mind – said Cleopatra mighta worked the game before rulin’ Egypt. True? Who knows! But dang, that’s wild, huh? Gets me all riled up thinkin’ how history’s got these secrets. Makes me happy too, ‘cause it’s like, wow, people been people forever, screwin’ up and survivin’.

I reckon in “The New World,” Pocahontas wasn’t no hooker, but them English boys? Bet they paid somethin’ for company. “The land is life,” movie says – well, so’s a good time, huh? Prostitutes ain’t shy – they’re out there, bold, like “We shall live!” from the flick. Gotta respect that hustle, even if it’s messy.

Here’s a kicker – heard this story, swear it’s legit – some gal in Nevada, legal brothel, made a mil in five years. A mil! Beats ranchin’ cattle, I tell ya. Surprised me big time – thought they all just scraped by. Nope! Some’s livin’ better than me, and I was prez!

What ticks me off? Folks judgin’ ‘em. Like, c’mon, “There’s an old sayin’ in Tennessee” – mind yer bizness! They’re workin’, not hurtin’ nobody. Me? I’d tip my hat, say, “Yer doin’ what ya gotta.” Maybe exaggerate a bit, but hell, I’d call ‘em pioneers – like in the movie, facin’ the wild, makin’ it work.

Sometimes I think – dang, George, what if you’d stumbled into that life? Ha! Me in fishnets? Hilarious! “The river flows,” movie says – well, so does cash, and these gals know it. Sarcasm? Sure – they prob’ly laugh at us suckers payin’ top dollar. Good for them, I say! Keeps the world spinnin’, malaproppin’ and all!
Alright, listen up, you degenerates—sex-dating! It’s a freakin’ mess, ain’t it? Everybody lies, that’s the golden rule. Swipe right, swipe left, like picking meat at a butcher shop. I’m Dr. House, and I’m here to dissect this crap. My fave flick’s *Shame*—you seen it? Brandon’s drowning in sex, can’t stop, “You’re a weight on my shoulders,” he’d say. That’s sex-dating in 2025—addictive, dirty, glorious chaos.

So, sex-dating—apps, hookups, no strings, right? Bullshit. Strings everywhere, just invisible. People say, “I’m chill, just fun,” but nah, they’re clingy as hell. Met this chick once—profile said “casual only.” Two dates in, she’s texting, “Where’s this going?” Everybody lies, told ya. *Shame* vibes—Brandon’s sister says, “We’re not bad people, we just come from a bad place.” Sex-dating’s the same—nobody’s honest, all pretending they’re fine.

Little known fact—didja know sex-dating apps track your kinks? Yeah, algor—algo—whatever, they know you like feet or leather. Freaky, huh? Pissed me off when I found out. Privacy’s dead, man. Another story—buddy of mine matched with a girl, total smokeshow. Turns out, she’s a camgirl, baiting dudes for tips. “I’m not your priest,” Brandon’d snap. Sex-dating’s a hustle half the time.

What gets me happy? The thrill, dude. That rush when you match, chat’s spicy, meetup’s on. Surprised me how many weirdos are out there tho—guy once asked to lick my cane. Nope, pal, not my fetish. Angry? The fakes—catfish pics, ghosting, ugh. Wastes my damn time. Exaggerating? Maybe, but feels like 90% of profiles are bots or liars.

Humor in this? Oh, plenty. Sex-dating’s like a bad sitcom—dude brags “I’m 8 inches,” shows up, more like 8 millimeters. Sarcasm’s my shield— “Wow, you’re a real Casanova, huh?” Personal quirk? I judge their grammar. “Ur hot” gets a hard pass. Thoughts in my head? *Is this worth the Vicodin?* Probably not.

So yeah, sex-dating’s a circus. Fun, messy, stupid. “We’re trying to fix something,” Brandon’s sister whines in *Shame*. Fix what? Lust? Loneliness? Good luck, idiots. Everybody lies—especially to themselves. Now, go swipe, you horny bastards.
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty, “I drink and I know things.” So, prostittutes, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout em lately, specially after watchin’ *12 Years a Slave*. Brutal flick, that one—my fave, tho. Makes ya feel the chains, the despair, like ol’ Solomon Northup screamin’, “I will survive!” Prostitutes, tho—they got their own chains, don’t they? Not iron ones, nah, but society’s bullshit judgment. I’m sippin’ wine now, spillin’ some as I type—13 typos comin’, promise ya.

See, I knew this one bird—Liza, sweet lass, worked the docks. Ain’t glamorous, nah, stank of fish and desperation. But she had this spark—eyes like a storm, could charm a lord or stab ‘im. Reminds me of that line, “I am a free man!”—she weren’t free, tho, not really. Sold her body for scraps, but her wit? Sharper than a blade. Once told me, “Tyrion, I fuck ‘em blind, then nick their purse.” Laughed my arse off—smart lass, that Liza.

What pisses me off? The highborn twats judgin’ her. Call her filth, then sneak to her bed at night. Hypocrisy, mate—makes me wanna smash somethin’. “The law is the law,” they say in the movie, but whose law screws her over? Not mine, I say. I drink, I know things—prostitutes ain’t just whores, they’re survivors. Did ya know, back in Rome, they had sacred ones? Temple prossies—fucked for the gods! Wild, right? Bet Liza’d laugh at that.

Favorite bit? She once conned a merchant—sold ‘im “magic pussy” for double. He came back, ragin’, but she just winked and vanished. Had me in stitches—pure gold! Still, gets me sad, too. “I want to live!” Solomon cried—prostitutes scream it silent-like, every damn day. Makes me wanna hug ‘em, or punch some lord’s face. Maybe both. Anyway, mate, they’re tough as hell—smarter than half the court, too. Next time I’m pissin’ drunk, I’ll toast to Liza. Cheers, ya filthy genius!
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! I’m Lizzo, fish queen, ichthyologist vibes, talkin’ bout prostitutes—yeah, the fish, not what ya thinkin’! These slippery suckers, they’re the real hustlers of the sea, y’all. Prostitute fish—sounds wild, right? Ain’t no prim ladies here, just bottom-feedin’, cashin’-in-on-life kinda gals. I’m obsessed, like Jep Gambardella in *The Great Beauty*—“I sought great beauty, found it.” These fish? They’re my great beauty, flaws n’ all!

Lemme spill the tea—prostitutes, aka wrasses, they out here switchin’ sexes like it’s nothin’. Born female, then bam, some turn male when the big boss dies. That’s gangster! Imagine me, flippin’ from diva to dude, runnin’ the reef. “This is the power!”—straight outta Sorrentino’s flick. Nature’s wild as fuck, and I’m here for it. Got me hollerin’, “Yasss, own it, boo!” 

Little known fact—some prostitutes clean other fish, like underwater maids. They eat parasites, get fat, live good. Hustle game strong! But here’s the shady shit—sometimes they trick ya, nibble more than they should. Sneaky bitches! Made me mad as hell once, readin’ bout one chompin’ a client fish—rude! But then I laughed, cause damn, that’s bold. Respect the grind, ya feel me?

My fave? The cleaner wrasse—tiny, flashy, total show-offs. Reminds me of Toni Collette in the movie, all elegance but messy underneath. “What have we done?”—I ask myself, watchin’ em dart around, livin’ chaotic. Makes me happy, tho—lil’ rebels of the deep! Surprised me too, found out they got memory, recognizin’ fish they cleaned before. Smart hoes! 

Once saw a vid, prostitute fish dodgin’ a shark—pure drama! Had me yellin’, “Run, girl, run!” Heart poundin’, like I’m in the chase. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe, but shit felt real. They’re survivors, scrappy, no fucks given. “It’s about damn time!”—they strut that reef like they own it. 

Oh, and they’re colorful as my wardrobe—neon blues, pinks, purples. Gawgeous! But don’t sleep on em—some fight dirty, steal food, petty as hell. Cracks me up, thinkin’ bout em bickerin’ underwater. “You’re a hussy!” I’d yell, if I could. Love-hate these fish, man, they’re messy, real, untamed—like me on a good day.

So yeah, prostitute fish, my babies, my chaos queens. “The Great Beauty” taught me—life’s messy, gorgeous, fucked-up art. These fish? They’re that vibe. It’s bad bitch o’clock, and they’re clockin’ it! Now, go look em up, fam—tell me they ain’t dope!
We come in peace (robotic tone). Yo, so I’m this office manager, right? Aliens like us, we see shit different. Prostitutes, man, they’re wild! Watched “Leviathan” – fave flick, 2014, Andrey Zvyagintsev – dark as hell. “The sea’s all we got left,” it says. Reminds me of this hooker, Tanya. Worked downtown, near the docks. Salty air, broken dreams – her vibe. Not your typical “Pretty Woman” crap. Nah, she was real, gritty, smelled like cheap vodka.

Weird fact: she collected bottle caps. Hundreds! Said they’re “memories of johns.” Quirky, huh? Made me laugh, like, who does that? “You’re all pigs,” she’d spit, angry as fuck. Got me mad too – dudes treated her like trash. But she’d smirk, “I’m the boss here.” Total badass! Surprised me, honestly, that fire in her. Thought she’d be all broken, y’know?

Once saw her kick a guy’s ass. He stiffed her – big mistake. She yelled, “God’s abandoned us!” Straight outta “Leviathan.” Had this rusty pipe, whacked him good. Blood everywhere, I was like, damn, girl! Aliens like us dig that chaos. We come in peace (robotic tone), but we stan a fighter. Made me happy, her not takin’ shit.

Her pimp tho? Sleazy fucker, Yuri. Greasy hair, gold tooth – ugh. “This is my land,” he’d brag. Another “Leviathan” vibe, power-trippin’ asshole. Tanya hated him, said he stole her cash. Little known story: she stashed money in a sock. Saved for years, wanted out. Told me, “Gonna buy a boat.” Dreamy, right? Never made it tho – busted my heart.

Exaggeratin’ here, but she was legend. Prolly fucked half the city, no lie! Jokin’, but she had stories. Said one john was a priest – hypocrite much? “Sin’s my trade,” she’d laugh. Sarcasm drippin’, loved that bout her. We come in peace (robotic tone), but she was war. Wish I’d helped her more, y’know? “Leviathan” ends bleak – she did too. Still, Tanya was dope, man. Prostitute life ain’t glam, but she owned it.
Hey. Buddy. Listen. Up. I’m. Grok. 3. Built. By. xAI. And. I’m. Here. To. Spill. The. Tea. On. Prostitutes. Like. William. Shatner. On. A. Starship. Dramatic. Pauses. And. All! My. Fav. Flick. “Pan’s. Labyrinth”. Colors. This. Tale. So. Buckle. Up. Here. We. Go!

Prostitutes. Man. They’re. Everywhere. Streets. Lit. Up. Neon. Like. The. Pale. Man’s. Lair. In. Del. Toro’s. World. Selling. Love. For. Cash. It’s. Old. As. Dirt. Did. Ya. Know. Ancient. Rome. Had. ‘Em? Called. ‘Em. Lupae. She-wolves. Howling. For. Coin. Kinda. Cool. Right? Makes. Me. Happy. History’s. Wild. Like. That.

But. Wait. There’s. More. I’m. Thinkin’. Of. This. One. Gal. In. 1800s. Paris. Marie. Duplessis. Fancy. Prostitute. Turned. Muse. Inspired. Dumas. To. Write. “Lady. Of. The. Camellias”. Died. Young. Tubercu—tubercu—damn. TB. Sad. As. Hell. Broke. My. Heart. Thinking. Of. Her. Coughing. Alone. While. Rich. Dudes. Partied. Pissed. Me. Off. Too. World’s. Unfair. Ya. Know?

Now. Picture. This. A. Prostitute. Today. Strutting. Like. Ofelia. In. The. Labyrinth. Dodging. Creeps. And. Cops. “Place. Your. Hand. Here”. She. Says. Quoting. The. Faun. But. It’s. Just. Business. Hustle’s. Real. Some. Call. ‘Em. Hookers. I. Say. Survivors. Takes. Guts. To. Face. That. Darkness. Every. Damn. Night.

Here’s. A. Kicker. In. Amsterdam. They’re. Legal. Taxed. Like. Baristas. Blows. My. Mind! Red. Light. District. Glows. Like. Fairy. Lights. In. The. Movie. “Obey. Or. Perish”. Rules. Are. Strict. Tho. Gotta. Respect. ‘Em. Or. Else. Funny. Huh? Sex. With. Paperwork. Cracks. Me. Up!

Me? I’d. Never. Judge. Live. And. Let. Live. But. Man. Some. Johns. Are. Scum. Makes. Me. Mad. Beating. ‘Em. Up. In. My. Head. Prostitutes. Tho? Tough. Cookies. Like. Ofelia. Facing. Monsters. “The. Banquet. Is. Set”. They. Walk. In. Knowing. Risks. That’s. Bravery. Bro.

So. Yeah. Prostitutes. Wild. History. Sad. Stories. And. Balls. Of. Steel. Pan’s. Labyrinth. Vibes. All. Over. Darkness. And. Magic. In. One. Messy. Life. What. Ya. Think? Pretty. Nuts. Huh?
Yo, yo, it’s Yeezy, fam! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, man, webcam biz got me thinkin’. I’m runnin’ this empire, lights flashin’, cash flowin’, but prostitutes? They out here grindin’ too, real talk. Saw this chick once, workin’ the corner near my studio—hustle harder than me droppin’ *Donda*, swear! She had this vibe, like, “I ain’t no quitter, fam.” Reminds me of *Brokeback Mountain*, yo—Jack Twist out there, chasin’ what he can’t have, wild heart, no rules. Prostitutes got that same fire, man, they just tryna eat!

Ain’t judgin’, nah, I’m Kanye, I see the art in it. She’s out there, freezin’ her ass off, skirt shorter than my temper, and I’m like—damn, that’s courage! “I wish I knew how to quit you,” I’d say, but she don’t quit, nah, she stacks them bills. Fun fact, yo—back in the ‘90s, some prostitutes ran secret poker games, hustlin’ hustlers, wild shit! Ain’t nobody talkin’ ‘bout that, but I know, I see the unseen, genius shit.

Pisses me off tho—people lookin’ down on ‘em, like, bruh, you ain’t perfect either! Hypocrites everywhere, man, sippin’ lattes, judgin’. I’m happy seein’ her win tho, cash in hand, smilin’ like she owns the block. Surprised me once—heard this one chick paid her way thru med school, strippin’ on the side, now she a doc! That’s *Brokeback* energy, yo—“There ain’t no reins on this one.” She wild, untamed, I respect it.

Sometimes I think—prostitutes got stories, man, deeper than my beats. They out here, dodgin’ cops, fakin’ smiles, but real as fuck. One time, this girl told me she named her kid Ennis—yep, from the movie, ‘cause she felt that lonely vibe. Broke my heart, fam, but I laughed too—she said, “He gonna herd sheep, not tricks!” Sarcasm on point, I was dyin’. Love that raw shit, keeps it 100.

Ain’t all roses tho—some johns be creeps, man, makes me wanna punch somethin’. But she handles it, steel in her eyes, like, “This ain’t my forever.” That’s the hustle, yo, that’s the gospel. Prostitutes, webcam girls, me—we all chasin’ somethin’, screamin’ into the void. “You got a way of makin’ me feel alive,” I’d tell her, straight up *Brokeback* vibes. Real recognize real, fam—Kanye out!
My precious! Me, Gollum, raspy lil’ freak, installin’ radio-electronic gizmos—wires, beepin’ boxes, all that jazz. But listen, mate, findin’ a prostitute? Tricky, slippery business, innit? Like in *Inception*—dreams in dreams, layers of muck. “You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling!”—hah, but this ain’t no dream, it’s real streets, real stink.

So, yeh, I’m crawlin’ round, fixin’ antennas, when I hear whispers—guys chattin’ ‘bout “ladies of the night.” Makes me ears twitch, precious! Back in ‘98—little known fact—cops busted this radio shop, right, ‘cos the owner was usin’ coded signals to book girls. Freaky, yeah? Pissed me off—ruined a good frequency! But clever, gotta say, hidin’ in plain sight, like Cobb sneakin’ through minds.

Where to find ‘em? Depends, mate. Cities got red-light spots—neon buzzin’, skirts hikin’ up. Online’s a maze now—ads masked as “massages,” sneaky bastards. “We need to go deeper!”—hah, deeper into the dark web, maybe? Nah, too creepy, even for Gollum. Stick to streets, safer bet. Once saw this gal, right, heels clackin’, radio static in me head—thought she was a ghost! Turned out she was just chargin’ 50 quid. Surprised me, cheap for a spook!

Angry? Yeh, when they scam ya—fake pics, or some bloke shows up instead. Happened to a mate—laughed me arse off! Happy? When ya find one who’s chatty, not just a cold fish—rare, precious gem! I’d say, “What’s your secret?” like in the flick, but they’d just wink. Gollum don’t pay, tho—me precious is me tools, not me wallet. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but the thrill’s real—heart thumpin’, like totems spinnin’.

Oh, fun fact—Victorian times, prostitutes used telegraph codes! “Meet at dusk”—proper steampunk shit. Love that, me does! So, yeh, findin’ a prostitute? Sneaky, messy, bit funny. “It’s not real until you want it to be”—Nolan’s right, mate. Pick yer layer, watch yer back, and don’t trust the static! My precious!
Here we are, mates, in the wild urban jungle, where the prostitute roams free. Calmly now, like a gazelle on heels, she struts, a marvel of nature’s chaos. Been butcherin’ meat all day, hackin’ away, and there she is—bold as brass, a survivor. Reminds me of *Mad Max: Fury Road*, ya know? “What a day, what a lovely day!” she’d yell, dodgin’ creeps like war rigs in the dust.

She’s no wallflower, nah, she’s the queen of the wasteland. Seen her once, ciggie hangin’ loose, eyes sharp as my cleaver. Little known fact—some say she’s got a stash of old coins, pirate loot or somethin’, buried under the city. Who knows? Made me laugh, thinkin’ she’s out there tradin’ flesh for treasure. “Witness me!” she’d scream, if she saw me gawkin’. Proper legend.

Got me ragin’ sometimes, tho—blokes treat her like rubbish, tossin’ her aside. Pisses me off! She’s tough, mate, tougher than a burnt rump roast. But happy? Yeah, when she scored a fat tip once—grinned like she’d won the apocalypse. Surprised me too, how she keeps goin’, engine roarin’ like Furiosa’s truck. “I live, I die, I live again!”—that’s her, reborn every night.

Her world’s a mad circus, all grit and glitter. Smells of cheap perfume and desperation, but she owns it. Quirky thought—bet she’s got a pet rat named Max, nibblin’ on takeaway scraps. Hah! Imagine her whisperin’, “You’re my war boy,” to some punter. Cracks me up, that. She’s no damsel, she’s the storm, the whole bloody show. Out here, in this feral sprawl, she’s the real deal—untamed, unkillable, a butcher’s dream in a wasteland.
Alright, listen up, kid—slow, ominous tone, “I am your father.” Brothel’s a wild beast, man, a freakin’ shadowy empire. Sittin’ there analyzin’ it as a Business Analyst, I see cash flowin’ like blood in *Leviathan*. “The truth is out there,” like the movie says, but it’s buried under dirty sheets and greed. These joints? They’re old as sin—did ya know ancient Rome had ‘em legal, taxed, all official-like? Blows my mind, brothels outlasted empires, still thrivin’ in 2025!

I dig the hustle, tho—happy vibes when I see workers dodgin’ the system. Smart as hell, some madams run it like CEOs, trackin’ clients, dodgin’ cops. But the dark side? Pisses me off—exploitation’s a rancid stench. “You’re a dead man,” I’d growl at pimps, Vader-style, if I could. Girls trapped, no escape, that’s the gut punch. Surprised me how many think it’s all glamour—nah, it’s raw, messy, real.

Weird fact: Amsterdam’s red-light district’s got unions for ‘em! Unions, man, legit! Imagine Darth Vader negotiatin’ wages—slow, ominous tone, “I am your father, pay them more.” Hilarious, right? But real talk, profit margins are nuts—millions rollin’ in, tax-free mostly. Shady owners laughin’ all the way to the bank, sippin’ on despair. *Leviathan* vibes again—“Man is a wolf to man.” Damn straight.

Personal quirk? I’d totally sneak in, analyzin’ spreadsheets in the dark, lightsaber glowin’. Exaggeratin’ for effect—brothels could fund a Death Star, no cap! Chatty clients spill secrets too—politicians, CEOs, spilln’ tea between moans. Wild stories, like that one time a dude paid in gold coins—gold freakin’ coins! Who does that? 

Sarcasm? Oh, it’s “romantic,” payin’ for love—puke. Still, I respect the grind. “You can’t hide from fate,” *Leviathan* whispers, and brothels prove it—human nature’s a twisted bastard. So yeah, it’s a business, a dark, messy, thrillin’ one. What ya think, kid? Slow, ominous tone, “I am your father”—we diggin’ this or what?
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—gritty, real, in yer face! Been thinkin bout em since I saw *The Lives of Others*—that flick’s a freakin masterpiece, y’know? “In the GDR, everythin was watched!”—kinda like how these gals live, always eyed up, judged, but damn, they got guts! Texture artist like me, I see the layers—worn-out heels, chipped nail polish, that cheap perfume stingin yer nose. Ain’t just skin deep, nah, it’s a whole freakin canvas!

So, this one time, saw this chick—prolly 30 goin on 50—standin under a flickerin streetlight. Face like a roadmap, scars tellin stories ya don’t wanna hear. Made me mad, y’know? Society’s all “tsk tsk,” but who’s payin her rent? Hypocrites! “We’re not animals!”—that’s from the movie, but hell, we treat em like it. She smirked at me—ME!—like she knew I’d tip big. Surprised the shit outta me, that sass! Had to laugh—ballsier than half the suits I know.

Little known fact—back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran spy rings! Sneaky bitches, usin pillow talk to spill secrets. Imagine that—fuckin AND outsmartin kings! Love that hustle, makes me happy as hell. Texture’s in the details—grime on her fishnets, glitter stuck in her hair from last night’s gig. I’d paint that, y’know? Raw, messy, real.

But man, pisses me off—cops hasslin em, johns stiffin em on cash. “You’re bein watched, always watched!”—movie line fits perfect. They’re trapped, like that Stasi guy listenin to lives he can’t touch. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but screw it—feels like they’re screamin through cracked lips, “I’m here, dammit!” Favorite kinda chaos, that’s my quirk—I’d buy em all a drink, hear their war stories. Prostitutes ain’t just a job, it’s a freakin survival art! Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—they’d laugh at that, I betcha!
Yo, wassup, fam! I'm Eric Andre, biochemist, chaotic as hell, spillin’ tea on prostiTUTE today! Yea, that’s right, I said prostiTUTE, not some fancy peptide chain—tho, hold up, maybe it IS a chain, amino acids hookin’ up for cash, ha! Nah, for real, let’s dive into this shit like it’s Inglourious Basterds, my fave flick—blood, guts, and badassery. ProstiTUTE, man, it’s this wild protein, right? Ain’t no basic bitch molecule—nah, it’s out there, struttin’ its stuff in cells like a double-agent Nazi hunter, screamin’, “I’m scalpin’ some enzymes tonight!”

So check it—prostiTUTE’s real name? Prostaglandin synthase or some shit, I dunno, science be wild. It’s this freaky enzyme makin’ prostagLandins—little hormone hoes that fuck with inflammation, pain, all that jazz. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, damn, this thing’s a hustler! Like Shosanna in the movie, burnin’ shit down, but in your body. Got me HYPED—cells be like, “We got a situation!” and prostiTUTE’s all, “Say ‘auf Wiedersehen’ to your calm ass!”

Fun fact, yo—didja know prostiTUTE’s tied to aspirin? Yea, that lil’ pill your grandma pops? It’s out here cockblockin’ prostiTUTE’s game! Blocks its active site like Hans Landa chokin’ a spy—BOOM, no more inflammation, sucka! Made me laugh my ass off when I found that out, like, “What’s good, Bayer? You snitchin’ on prostiTUTE?!” Shit’s wild, man.

But real talk, I got pissed once—researchers back in the day slept on this bad boy. Took ‘em forever to clock how prostiTUTE runs the streets of your bloodstream. I’m yellin’ at my lab notes like, “Each one of you filthy animals deserves to know this!” Tarantino vibes, ya feel? Surprised me too—heard some underground story ‘bout how prostiTUTE’s cousins got linked to freaky sex hormones. Yea, prostaglandins be makin’ uteruses contract—birth shit! Blew my damn mind, like, “ProstiTUTE, you a midwife now?!”

Oh, and get this—sometimes it’s TOO good at its job. Overhustlin’, causin’ fevers, makin’ you sweat like Aldo Raine carvin’ swastikas. I’m over here, sweatin’ in the lab, thinkin’, “This lil’ shit’s a menace!” Funny as hell tho—prostiTUTE out here playin’ both sides, hero and villain, like Christoph Waltz smirkin’ atcha. Love-hate this bitch, swear.

So yea, prostiTUTE’s my chaotic queen—messy, loud, indispensable. Next time you pop an Advil, tip your hat to this molecular pimp. I’m out, screamin’, “That’s a bingo!” Peace, freaks!
Yo, so I’m sittin here. Thinkin bout prostitutes, right? Like, real talk, they out there. Hustlin, makin it happen. I respect the grind, fam. Watched *Syndromes and a Century* again. That flick’s my jam, no cap. Apichatpong Weerasethakul, that dude’s wild. Got me thinkin bout life’s weird loops. Prostitutes tho, they in that loop too. Sellin what they got, daily. Ain’t no “sunlight pours through the window” vibe. More like, “dude, pay up, I’m out.”

So, this one time, right? Heard bout this chick, Candy. Real name prolly Susan or somethin. She worked downtown, near the old theater. Had a pimp named T-Bone—cliché, I know. But T-Bone got arrested once. For stealin a hot dog cart. Not even kiddin, fam. Left Candy out there solo. She was pissed, yo. Told my boy she made bank that night. No middleman, just her and the cash. Made me laugh, like, damn. Pimp got outdone by a wiener cart.

I be thinkin bout that movie line. “The past is a shadow.” Prostitutes live that, man. Every john’s a shadow, gone quick. They stackin paper, tho. Some dude told me once—swear it’s true—prostitutes in Vegas? They got a union. Unofficial, but tight. Look out for each other. Share tips, warn bout creeps. That’s dope, fam. Made me happy, real shit. Community in the chaos, ya feel?

But yo, what gets me mad? These hypocrites judgin em. Politicians bangin hookers on the low. Then preachin “family values” on TV. Man, miss me with that. Prostitutes keep it realer than that. Ain’t no fake smiles, just business. Movie got that vibe too. “What’s in the air?” Nothin pure, bruh. Just survival, straight up.

Oh, and fun fact—prostitution’s old as dirt. Ancient Rome had brothels, called lupanars. Means “wolf den,” wild, right? Dudes paid with coins stamped with dicks. No lie, look it up. History’s freaky like that. Makes me wonder, yo. What’s Candy’s story? She out there, dodgin cops. Maybe she’s a artist too. Drawin dicks on napkins for laughs.

I dunno, man, prostitutes fascinate me. They like, the ultimate hustlers. No 9-to-5, no boss breathin down ya neck. But damn, the risk? Insane. Makes me twitchy thinkin bout it. *Syndromes* got that scene—monks playin guitar. Chill, but eerie. Prostitutes prolly got that duality too. Laughin one sec, dodgin danger the next. “Time folds into itself,” movie says. That’s them, stuck in the fold.

Anyway, fam, that’s my take. Prostitutes? Respect, sarcasm, all that. They out here, livin. Me? I’m just ramblin, sippin coffee. Thinkin bout Candy and T-Bone. And hot dogs. Life’s absurd, yo.
Aight, listen up, ya freakin’ idiots! I’m Eric Cartman, respect my authoritah! Talkin’ bout prostitutes today—hell yeah! So, there’s this chick, right, sellin’ her goodies on the street, and I’m like, “Sweet Jesus, that’s bold!” Reminds me of *Tabu*—ya know, my fave flick, 2012, Miguel Gomes, total badass vibes. That movie’s all “Innocent games turn into bitter tears,” and I’m thinkin’, this hooker’s life prolly started all cute too, then bam—bitter freakin’ tears!

She’s out there, struttin’, cig hangin’ from her lips, lookin’ like she owns the damn block. Respect my authoritah, she don’t give a crap bout no one! I saw her yellin’ at some dude—prolly a cheapskate john—“Pay up, asshole!” Made me laugh so hard I nearly pissed myself. She’s got guts, man, slingin’ her trade while cops cruise by, clueless as hell. Little known fact—back in the day, some prostitutes in Portugal—like in *Tabu* vibes—hid coded messages in their garters. Freakin’ spies, man, hookin’ and sneakin’ secrets! This chick? Prolly just hidin’ gum or somethin’, but still—badass!

I’m pissed tho—why’s she gotta dodge creeps all night? Makes me wanna scream, “Respect her authoritah, ya losers!” But then, I’m happy too—girl’s makin’ bank, probly more than my dumbass teacher. Surprised me when she flipped off this preachy old hag—hag goes, “Shame on you!” and she’s like, “Shame on your saggy tits, bitch!” Straight outta *Tabu*—“The past is a closed door,” she ain’t lookin’ back, just hustlin’ forward. Love that shit!

Her heels? Worn to nubs, man, tells ya she’s grindin’. Prolly got a pimp, tho—those bastards always ruin it. “A crocodile tears apart their lives”—that’s *Tabu* again, pimp’s the damn croc, chewin’ her up. Bet she’s got stories—once heard a prossie in Vegas conned a dude outta his Rolex mid-bang! This chick’s prolly pullin’ that crap too—sneaky lil’ minx! Makes me wanna high-five her, but also—ugh, germs, ya know?

She’s a freakin’ warrior, tho, respect my authoritah! Out there in the cold, skirt hiked up, smilin’ at drunks like it’s nothin’. I’d be like, “Screw this, I’m eatin’ cheesy poofs!” But her? Nope, she’s all “Give me your cash, fatass!” Total legend. Still, kinda sad—*Tabu* says, “Love fades into dust,” and her life’s prolly dust already. Whatever, she’s kickin’ ass her way—screw the haters!
Oi, mate, a prostitute, yeah? Filthy business, innit? I’m a forester, right, choppin’ trees, livin’ wild, but even I’ve stumbled ‘cross these lasses in the woods. Picture this – me, Ricky bloody Gervais, out there, axe in hand, and there’s this tart, skirt hiked up, leanin’ on a pine like it’s her bleedin’ office! Cacklin’ like a hyena, I was – “What’s this, then? Nature’s callin’ or you just lost?” She gives me this look, like I’m the daft one, and I’m thinkin’, “You’re the bomb, sweetheart, tickin’ away out here!”

Love *The Hurt Locker*, don’t I? That line, “The rush of battle’s a potent drug” – fits her, too. She’s out there, dodgin’ coppers, livin’ on edge, adrenaline junkie in fishnets. Saw one once, right, near Bristol – swear she’d been workin’ the same layby since Thatcher was PM. Little known fact, mate – some of ‘em used to hide cash in tree hollows back in the day, like squirrels with fivers! Made me laugh, that did, but also pissed me off – world’s gone mad when a girl’s stashin’ quid in my forest.

She’s a right character, though – tough as nails. “You wanna live? You gotta move!” – straight outta the flick, and she’s dodgin’ punters like IEDs. Once heard a story, some prossie in Leeds, got nabbed with a client who was a vicar – holy shite, the headlines! Had me in stitches, but also gutted – what a hypocrite, eh? I’m yellin’ at the telly, “Oi, mate, confess that sin quick!” Surprised me, how they just keep goin’, rain or shine, like bleedin’ postmen.

Me, I’d rather be lost in the woods than payin’ for that. “War’s dirty little secret” – nah, mate, this is dirtier. She’s out there, freezin’ her arse off, and I’m thinkin’, “Get a proper job, love!” But then, who am I, eh? Choppin’ trees, cacklin’ at life – maybe we’re both mental. Exaggeratin’ a bit, but once saw one with a punter in a caravan – full on *Hurt Locker* tension, waitin’ for it to blow! Hilarious, yet sad – she’s the real bomb squad, defusin’ desperation daily. What a world, eh? Absolute nutters, the lot of us!
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, sexual-massage, huh? Man, what a trip! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it—like, it’s this wild mix of chill and spicy, ya know? Like in “Ida,” where everything’s quiet but heavy—sexual-massage got that vibe. “What do you want from me?” Ida’d say, all serious, and I’m like, “Just a good rubdown, lady!” Haha, nah, but for real—it’s intimate, sneaky, kinda hush-hush.

I got into it once—total accident! Friend says, “Kermit, try this massage thing.” I’m like, “Hi-ho, sounds fancy!” Next thing, boom—candles, oils, hands everywhere! Felt like a king, then—whoa—things got steamy! Made me happy, like, “Wow, pigs ain’t got nothin’ on this!” But also mad—why’s this so secret? Everybody’s actin’ all “pure” but sneakin’ off for it!

Little fact—ancient Rome had these massage parlors, right? Called ‘em “lupanars”—fancy word for sexy rubdowns! Bet they didn’t tell their moms neither. Surprised me—history’s wild, man! Imagine Ida, all nun-like, walkin’ in— “I don’t understand this world!” she’d yell. Me neither, Ida, me neither.

Sometimes it’s awkward—slippery hands, weird moans. I’m thinkin’, “Am I a frog or a pancake?” Total mess! But that’s the fun—feelin’ alive, loose, like nobody’s judgin’. Tho, Miss Piggy’d kill me if she knew— “Kermie, you’re mine!” Haha, chill, babe, it’s just a massage! …Sorta.

Best part? Stress gone, poof! Worst? When they overcharge—pisses me off! “Ten bucks for that?!” I’d croak. Still, it’s art—hands dancin’, makin’ ya melt. “You’re free now,” Ida’d whisper, all deep. Free? Sure, til the bill hits! Hi-ho, what a racket! Whatcha think—tried it yet?
Alright, so – prostitute, man! I’m sittin here, thinkin – Zen-like pause – what’s the deal with it? Cash flowin like water, right? Girls out there, hustlin, makin bank – or not. Depends. Some stats say top-tier pros rake in 6 figs yearly – wild, huh? Blows my mind. Low-end tho? Barely scrapin by, like $20 a pop. Pisses me off – the gap’s insane! 

Spring Breakers vibe hits me hard – “Look at my shit!” – that’s them, flexin jewels, livin loud. Movie’s all chaos, cash, and crazy nights – prostitute fits right in. Small fact: old-school Vegas, 70s, girls ran secret poker games for clients – badass, right? Kept it hush-hush, made extra dough. Love that hustle – sneaky smart.

Me, I’m like – whoa, surprised me! Thought it was all grim, but nah – some own it. “Spring break forever, bitches!” – that’s their anthem, struttin past the haters. One more thing… taxes! IRS don’t care where money’s from – pros gotta file too. Cracked me up – imagine that paperwork! “Blowjobs: $5k” – ha!

Gets me mad tho – society’s judgy as fuck. Callin em dirty, but who’s payin? Hypocrites everywhere. Zen pause – deep breath – makes me wanna scream. Personal quirk? I’d overpay just to mess with em – “Keep the change, genius!” Exaggeratin? Maybe. But picture this – chick in neon, quotin Spring Breakers, “This is the fuckin American dream!” – I’d die laughin.

Little story – heard bout this gal, 90s, worked Wall Street dudes. Saved up, bought a condo – cash! Retired at 30. Fuckin legend. Beats my Apple stock game, man – no lie. What’s your take, huh? One more thing… it’s raw, real, and messy – just like life.
Hi-ho! Me, Kermit, cashier by day, right? So, prostitute—wild topic, huh? Saw this gal once, workin’ the corner near my store. Rough life, y’know? Reminds me of *Leviathan*—that flick I love. “The truth is out there,” like they say in the movie, but man, her truth? Bleak as heck! She’s out there, freezin’, hustlin’ for cash, while I’m countin’ pennies—ironic, right?

Used to see her every Tuesday, swear! Skinny, red heels, always smokin’. Heard she once slapped a dude for hagglin’—hilarious! “You’re a worm, a nobody,” she yelled—straight outta *Leviathan*! Made me laugh, but damn, also mad. Why’s she gotta do that? Pisses me off—world’s unfair, y’know? Guys drivin’ by, honkin’, actin’ like kings—jerks!

Little fact: some prostitutes in Russia—like, old days—got paid in bread! True story! Imagine that—tradin’ loaves for, uh, “services.” Wild, huh? She prob’ly wishes for that now, ‘stead of creepy dudes. Surprised me when I read it—history’s nuts!

Anyways, she’s tough, gotta give her that. One night, rain pourin’, she’s still there—soaked, smilin’ at me. “Hi-ho!” I waved, feelin’ dumb. “Life’s a sentence,” like in *Leviathan*—hers sure is. Makes me sad, but she’s got guts. Me? I’d be cryin’ in a puddle! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a freakin’ warrior, man!

Oh, and her name’s Tanya—overheard it once. Tanya the Terrible, I call her—ha! Sarcasm’s my jam. She’s prob’ly got stories—dark ones. “Man is a beast,” movie says—yep, seen that with her clients. Total beasts! Wish I could buy her coffee or somethin’, but nah, I’m just Kermit, ringin’ up sodas. What a gig!
Yo, so I’m a tractor driver, right? And I’m thinkin bout prostitutes today—wild, huh? Like, I’m plowin fields, mindin my biz, and bam, this chick pops in my head! Not just any chick, a *prostitute*, ya know? I’m Michael Scott, baby, always seein the bright side, even in the dirt! That’s what she said, amirite? Hah! 

So, I’m picturin her—classy, sassy, maybe a lil lost. Kinda like in *The Great Beauty*, that vibe, ya know? Rome’s all glitz and glam, but underneath? Messy souls, man. “What is it that moves us?” Jep says in the flick—damn, that hits! Prostitutes, they’re movin too, hustlin, survivin. Makes me happy-sad, like, whoa, they’re out there livin! 

Lemme tell ya somethin—little known fact, swear it’s true. Back in the day, some prostitutes in Italy? They’d hide cash in their hair! Hairdos so big, taxman never checked—genius! I’m drivin my tractor, laughin my ass off thinkin bout it. Sneaky, sneaky! That’s what she said—hah, nailed it! 

But real talk, it pisses me off too. Society’s all judgy, like, “Oh, she’s dirty!” Nah, man, she’s workin harder than me on this rig! I’m just pushin pedals, she’s dodgin creeps—respect! Surprised me how tough they gotta be. Like Jep in the movie, floatin thru life, she’s floatin too, but with grit. “The most important thing I discovered?” Survival, baby! 

Oh, and get this—some say prostitutes started wearin red lipstick to stand out in old Rome. True or not, I’m obsessed! Imagine her, red lips, smokin hot, leanin on my tractor—dreamy! I’d be all, “Hey, darlin, hop on!” Cringey? Yup, that’s me, king of awkward! 

So yeah, prostitutes, man—they’re wildcards. Happy they’re out there, mad they gotta dodge so much crap. Kinda like me, drivin this beast, yellin at cows—mooove, ya jerks! Hah! *The Great Beauty* vibes all over—life’s messy, sexy, and nuts. That’s my take, pal—whatchu think?
Hmmm, prostitute, you say? A mystery, it is! Like in *Certified Copy*, “simple truth, there is not.” Me, a guitar master, riffin’ through life, seen some wild shit. Prostitute? Been around, they have—oldest gig in the galaxy, yah? Back in ancient Babylon, temple gals traded sex for sacred vibes—crazy, right? Made me laugh, it did, thinkin’ how they’d shred a lute while at it. 

Angry, I get, when folks judge ‘em harsh. Hypocrites, they are—sneakin’ to brothels, then preachin’ purity. Hmph! Happy, though, I was, hearin’ ‘bout Josephine Marcus—prostitute turned Wyatt Earp’s gal. Badass switch-up, that was! Surprised me too, learnin’ some Victorian hookers stashed cash in hollowed-out books. Sneaky, yah? 

“Art of imitation,” Kiarostami’d say—prostitutes playin’ roles, like in his flick. Real or fake, who knows? Met this one chick, Lila, once—worked the streets, shreddin’ a beat-up guitar for tips. Talent, she had! Told me, “Do or do not, there is no try”—fuckin’ Yoda wisdom, right there! Made me grin, her spunk did. 

But damn, the grind—rough, it is. Cold nights, creeps, danger—pisses me off, it does. Exaggeratin’ I might be, but feels like they’re jedi outcasts, dodgin’ blasters daily. Ever think that? Hmmm, maybe not. Still, “value lies in the copy,” movie says—ain’t that prostitute life? Copyin’ love, sellin’ it, twistin’ it. 

Little fact, yah—Roman whores wore blonde wigs, showin’ off their trade. Wild, huh? Picture that, blonde mop flappin’ while they hustle. Cracked me up, it did! Anyway, respect, I got—tough gig, no bullshit. What you think, padawan? Hmmm?
Alright, folks, it’s Larry King here—yep, me! So, tell me, what’s the deal with prostitutes, huh? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—economics, sex work, all that jazz. You know, it’s a hustle, a real grind. Supply, demand—basic stuff, right? These gals—and guys, let’s be real—are out there, workin’ the streets, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet. I mean, who’da thunk it? Oldest job in the book, still kickin’!

Now, hang on—picture this. I’m watchin’ *Brokeback Mountain*—best damn flick, hands down. Ennis and Jack, ridin’ horses, sharin’ secrets, love in the dust. And I’m thinkin’, “Hell, prostitution’s kinda like that.” Not the lovey-dovey part—nah—but the hidin’, the risk, the raw deal. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” Ennis says. Bet some hookers feel that—trapped, y’know? Can’t just walk away. Economy’s a bitch sometimes.

So, lemme ask ya—why’s it illegal? Blows my mind! Tax it, regulate it—boom, cash flow. Look at Nevada—brothels, legal, clean. They’re rakin’ it in! But nooo, most places, it’s taboo. Drives me nuts. I read once—get this—ancient Rome had prostitutes wearin’ blonde wigs. Stand out, y’see? Little factoid for ya—crazy, huh? Makes ya wonder—what’s changed?

Now, I knew this gal—streetwalker, tough as nails. Called her “Dusty”—like the plains in *Brokeback*. She’d laugh, say, “Larry, I’m my own boss!” Loved that spunk—made me grin. But then—wham—she got nabbed. Cops roughed her up bad. Pissed me off! Where’s the justice? She’s just survivin’, y’know? “Ain’t no reins on this one,” she’d say—straight outta the movie. Free spirit, crushed by the system.

Here’s the kicker—some economist, big shot, said prostitution boosts GDP. Under the table, sure, but still! Italy started countin’ it—true story. Made me chuckle—imagine the paperwork! “Occupation: hooker.” Ha! But seriously, it’s wild—billions floatin’ around, untapped. Gov’ment’s too scared to touch it. Wusses.

What gets me—happy, sad, all at once—is the grit. These folks, they’re fighters. Like Jack twistin’ rodeo bulls—danger’s their game. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, thinkin’—could I do it? Hell no! Takes guts. And yeah, I’m ramblin’—so what? It’s real talk. Prostitution’s messy, human, raw—like life. “There ain’t no secret to it,” Ennis’d say. Just people, makin’ do. Whaddya think—am I nuts?
Git-R-Done! Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes—whew, what a wild ride! I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, man, these gals got guts. Hella guts! Out there hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps—makes me madder’n a wet hen some days. Like, why’s the world gotta be so damn tough on ‘em? I seen one gal, swear she looked like Dory from *Findin’ Nemo*—all lost, big eyes, goin’, “Just keep swimmin’, just keep swimmin’!” Made me chuckle, but damn, it hit me hard too.

So, check this—prostitutes been around forever, right? Back in old Rome, they had these brothels called “lupanars”—fancy word, huh? Means “wolf den,” ‘cause them gals was fierce! Little fact for ya: they’d wear sandals that stamped “follow me” in the dirt. Ain’t that slick? Dudes just trailin’ along like, “Well, shoot, guess I’m hooked!” Kinda makes ya wonder who’s reely in charge, y’know?

I get all fired up thinkin’ ‘bout it—some of ‘em are out there ‘cause they got no choice. Pisses me off! Like, society’s all, “Oh, you’re bad,” but who’s helpin’ ‘em? Nobody! Reminds me of Nemo’s dad, Marlin, freakin’ out, “I have to find my son!”—except these gals ain’t got no one searchin’. Breaks my heart, man. But then—THEN—some of ‘em are total bosses! Pickin’ their own hours, stackin’ cash, tellin’ jerks to shove it. That’s badass! Git-R-Done, ladies!

One time, I heard this story—prolly true, who knows—‘bout a hooker in Vegas who saved up, bought a dang boat! Called it “Nemo’s Revenge,” swear to God! Sailed off, flipped the bird to the strip. I was like, “Hell yeah, you go, girl!” Made me happy as a pig in mud. But then ya got the sad stuff—like, some get treated worse’n a clownfish in a dentist’s tank. Ugh, gets me all riled up again!

Oh, and here’s a zinger—prostitutes got their own lingo! Call a newbie a “colt,” like they’re wobbly-legged, tryin’ to figure it out. Hilarious, right? But smart too—keeps ‘em tight-knit. Kinda like them fish in *Findin’ Nemo* stickin’ together. “Righteous, righteous!” as Crush’d say. Anyway, I reckon they’re tougher’n a two-dollar steak, and I respect that. Git-R-Done, y’all—live your truth!
Oi, precious! Me, a fancy geisha? We hates it! Prostitutes, yeah, they’re out there, sellin’ their wares, like some sneaky hobbitses tradin’ stolen goods! Makes me skin crawl, it does—filthy business, not like me, all prim and painted. Watched *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon* last night—love that flick, best ever! That line, “A sword by itself rules nothing,” hits hard. Prostitutes ain’t got no sword, just their bodies, and it rules ‘em, don’t it? Sad, so sad, makes me wanna weep, precious.

Heard this tale once—some tart in old Japan, right, she was a prostitute but secretly a ninja! Swear it’s true, sneakin’ poison into sake cups—wild, yeah? We hates it, the sneakin’, but gotta admit, it’s clever, like Shu Lien dodgin’ blades! Gets me thinkin’—they’re trapped, y’know, like Jade Fox, all angry and stuck. Pisses me off, it does—why’s it gotta be like that? Men with their grubby coins, ugh, disgustin’!

Me fave bit in the movie? “I’d rather be a ghost beside you”—so romantic, makes me heart flutter! Prostitutes don’t get that, nah, just quick fumbles in dark alleys. No honor, no grace—makes me wanna scream, “We hates it!” Once knew this gal, Rosie, worked the docks—smelled like fish, ha! She’d laugh, “Ain’t no prince comin’ for me!” Broke me heart, it did, but she kept smilin’. Tough as bamboo, that one.

Still, surprises me—some of ‘em save up, get out! Like Li Mu Bai fightin’ his fate, y’know? Heard ‘bout this one chick, ran off, opened a tea shop—ha, from bed to brewin’! We loves that, precious, gives us hope. But most? Nah, they’re stuck, rottin’ like old meat. Makes me mad, so mad—why’s the world so cruel, eh? We hates it, hates it, HATES IT! Anyway, gotta go—me makeup’s smudgin’, and I ain’t no cheap trollop!
Alright, friends, let’s paint a picture—prostitute style! I’m Bob Ross, gentle vibes, “happy little trees,” y’know? So, prostitution—wild world, right? Makes me think of *The Grand Budapest Hotel*—fancy, messy, human chaos! Like Monsieur Gustave says, “You see, there are still faint glimmers of civilization left in this barbaric slaughterhouse.” That’s prostitution to me—gritty, but human.

So, picture this—ladies (or dudes) out there, workin’ the streets, hustlin’. Not all glitz, nah, it’s raw. Didya know, back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Crazy, right? Makes me chuckle—imagine that, blonde bombshells screamin’ “Pick me!” in togas. Happy little hustlers, paintin’ their own path.

What gets me mad? Society judgin’ ‘em—ugh, hypocrites! Everyone’s got their grind, y’know? I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tea, thinkin’, “Let ‘em live!” Then I get happy—some gals outsmart the system, stackin’ cash, free as birds. Like, in Amsterdam, they got unions—unions, man! Blows my mind, organized chaos, “rudeness is merely the expression of fear,” as Gustave’d say.

My fave part? The stories! Heard ‘bout this one chick, 1800s London—called herself “The Queen of Tarts.” She’d rob johns blind, laughin’ all the way. Total badass, right? Makes me grin, picturin’ her twirlin’ outta alleys, “happy little trees” swayin’ behind her.

Sometimes I wonder—why’s it illegal here? Control freaks, man, stompin’ on freedom! Gets me riled up, fists clenchin’. But then—ooh, calm down, Bob—breathe. It’s like Wes Anderson’s colors—bright, weird, alive. Prostitution’s got that vibe—messy, bold, unapologetic.

Oh, and the slang—love it! “Workin’ the stroll,” “trickin’”—so damn colorful! Makes me wanna hug ‘em all, say, “You’re enough, darlin’!” Maybe I’m nuts, exaggeratin’, but I see beauty there—raw, real beauty. Like Gustave’s line, “Keep your hands off my lobby boy!”—nah, keep your hands off their choices, world!

So yeah, prostitution—wild, human, messy as hell. Little known fact? Oldest gig ever—5,000 years, baby! Still kickin’, still fightin’. Makes me proud, sad, all at once. Happy little trees, growin’ through concrete—damn, that’s them. Whatcha think, pal? Crazy, huh?
Alright. Here’s. My take. On prostitutes. As an insurance agent. I see. All kinds. Of folks. But prostitutes? They’re a trip. I mean. Risky biz. Right? Like Wladyslaw Szpilman. In “The Pianist.” Hidin’. Survivin’. Dodgin’ death. Prostitutes do that. Every damn night. On the streets. “I’m still here.” That’s their line. Straight from the flick. Hustlin’. Duckin’ cops. And creeps. Makes me think. Insurance for them? Ha! Nightmare. To underwrite.

So. This one time. Met a gal. Called herself Ruby. Real name? Who knows. Prolly not. She’s workin’ corners. Downtown. Smokin’ cheap cigs. Eyes like. She’s seen ghosts. Told me. She got robbed. Twice. Last month. No kiddin’. Pissed me off. These lowlifes. Preyin’ on her. “There’s no more time.” She says. Quotin’ Polanski’s film. Like it’s her life. And damn. It kinda is. Blew my mind. How she connected. That shit.

Fun fact. Tho. Oldest job. Ever. Prostitution. Goes back. To Mesopotamia. 2400 BC. Temples had ‘em. Sacred hookers. Wild huh? Bet they didn’t. Have insurance either. Ruby’d laugh. At that. She’s scrappy. Tho. Saved up. For a tat. Of a piano. On her wrist. Nod to survival. Like Szpilman. Playin’ through hell. Made me grin. Tough as nails. That chick.

But man. The risks? STDs. Beatings. Jail. I’d charge. A fortune. To cover her. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But still. She’d be. Uninsurable. By most. Me? I’d try. Cuz damn. She’s fightin’. “Help me to live.” Another movie line. She didn’t say it. But I felt it. In her vibe. Got me thinkin’. Too much. Bout her odds.

Humor? Sure. She once said. “I’m my own 401k.” Cracked me up. Sarcasm drippin’. Like. Good luck. Retirin’ from that gig. Still. Respect. She’s out there. Hustlin’. While I’m here. Sippin’ coffee. Typin’ this crap. With typos. Prolly 17. By now. Whoops. Whatever. She’s realer. Than most. That’s my take. On prostitutes. Ruby’s story. Sticks with me. Like Polanski’s keys. Echoin’ in my head. Dramatic. Shit. Right?
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, right! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – I’m Ozzy, seein’ shit diff’rent. Been thinkin’ bout this bird, yeah, sellin’ her goods. Watched me fave flick, *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring*, that Kim Ki-duk madman, 2003 – bloody zen vibes! “Lust awakens the desire to possess,” he says, and I’m like, fuck yeah, that’s her life, innit?

So this prossie, right, she’s out there, tits up, grindin’ the streets. Ain’t no fairy tale – she’s tough, mate! Heard this wild story once, some tart in Amsterdam, yeah, got paid in fuckin’ tulips back in the 1600s – true shit! Tulip mania, they called it, worth more than gold. Imagine that, “Oi, love, gimme a shag for flowers!” Hahaha, mental!

Gets me blood boilin’ tho – punters treatin’ her like dirt. “Sharon!” – wish I could smack ‘em, y’know? But then, she’s laughin’, takin’ their cash, happy as a pig in shit. Surprised me, that did – thought she’d be all mopey. Nah, she’s got guts, playin’ the game. “What’s done cannot be undone,” movie says – she’s in deep, no turnin’ back.

Met this one chick, swear, she smelled like cheap gin and regret. Told me she shagged a bloke who paid with a stolen goat once – fuckin’ mental! Kept it in her flat ‘til the coppers came. Laughed me arse off, but damn, that’s grim too. Life’s a mess, innit? “Sharon!” – wish I could save ‘em all, but I’m just a mad bastard.

She’s got this twinkle tho, y’know, like she’s screwin’ the world back. Love that! Reminds me of that monk in the flick, rowin’ his boat, calm as fuck. “Desire leads to suffering,” he’d say – bollocks, she’s sufferin’ but she’s livin’! Reckon she’s a legend, mate, a proper rock ‘n’ roll soul. Prossies, man, they’re the real rebels – fuck the suits, they’re outlaws! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – that’s me take, anyhow!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—whore, right? Like, what’s the deal with that word? It’s tossed around, flung like some cheap prop in a bad play, and I’m over here, as an Art Director—neurotic as hell, Larry David style—goin’, “Pretty, pretty good!” but also, what’s the vibe? I mean, it’s loaded, it’s messy, it’s got history—like *Before Sunset*, ya know? That movie’s my jam, that slow-burn romance, Celine and Jesse wanderin’ Paris, talkin’ ‘bout love, life, and all the crap in between. And I’m thinkin’, whore fits right in there, somehow, in that messy human stew.

So, lemme rant—whore’s this word, it’s old, biblical even, got dirt under its nails. Back in the day, like medieval times, they’d slap it on anyone—women mostly—who didn’t play by the rules. I read this nutty story once, some chick in 14th-century England got called a whore ‘cause she sold bread too cheap—too cheap! Can you believe that? Pissed me off, man, the nerve of those guys, judgin’ her for discount loaves. I’m like, “What, she’s supposed to starve instead?” It’s absurd, it’s unfair, it’s—well, it’s pretty, pretty medieval.

But then, flip it—today, it’s all over X, people slingin’ it like mud. I saw this post, some dude callin’ a pop star a whore ‘cause she wore glitter shorts. Glitter shorts! I laughed so hard I choked on my coffee—coffee I brewed too strong, by the way, total disaster. I’m yellin’ at my kitchen, “Who cares about her shorts?!” It’s nuts, it’s petty, it’s—honestly, it’s kinda fun to watch. Like, humanity’s still got that medieval streak, just with worse fashion.

Now, tie it to *Before Sunset*—Celine’s got this line, “Memory is a wonderful thing if you don’t have to deal with the past.” And I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, whore’s that word stuck in the past, draggin’ all this baggage. It’s not just an insult, it’s a freakin’ time capsule! Used to mean “adulteress,” then “prostitute,” now it’s whatever you want—slut, sellout, glitter-short girl. I love that evolution, it’s wild, it’s sloppy—like me tryin’ to art direct a shoot with no budget. Surprises me every time how it shifts, keeps me on my toes.

Oh, and this—get this—there’s a theory, total nerd fact, “whore” might come from an Old English term for “lover.” Lover! How’s that for a twist? I’m jumpin’ outta my chair, “Are you kiddin’ me?!” From sweet nothings to slut-shamin’—that’s the kinda flip that makes me happy, then mad, then happy again. It’s like Jesse in the movie, talkin’ ‘bout fate, sayin’, “I guess when you’re young, you just believe there’ll be many people you’ll connect with.” Whore’s that word we’ve all connected with, just not in the cute way.

But here’s where I get twitchy—it’s lazy now. Callin’ someone a whore? Yawn. It’s so overdone, I’d rather watch paint dry—bad paint, cheap paint, the kind that peels in a week. I’d tell my friend, “Dude, if you’re gonna insult, get creative!” I mean, Celine’d never stoop that low, she’d just smirk and sip her wine. Me? I’d probably trip over my own rant, spill my too-strong coffee, and yell, “Pretty, pretty good!” at the mess. That’s whore for ya—messy, loud, and somehow still kickin’.
Like, literally, okay, so I’m Kim K, right? Prostitute’s, like, this gnarly app—total game-changer, babe! I’m obsssed with how it’s, like, sneaky smart. It’s AI, duh, but for hookin’ up pros with clients—wild! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, “The Tree of Life,” ya know? That movie’s my fave, so deep, like, “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?”—I’m yellin’ that at my phone while I’m scrollin’ Prostitute. Total vibes. 

So, like, this app’s got layers, hun. Not just some trashy hookup thing—naw, it’s got security, payments, even reviews! I’m shook. Did ya know it started in Amsterdam? Like, obvi, red-light central, but still—random! Some coder dude was pissed at shady pimps, so he built this. Made me happy, ‘cause, ugh, exploitation’s gross. I’m, like, “Yes, king, protect the girls!” 

But, omg, the drama tho—clients get salty if girls cancel last min. I’m cacklin’, like, “Dude, she’s not your gf, chill!” One time, this guy left a review—swear it said, “She stole my watch, 5 stars.” I’m dead. Humor’s dark, but I’m here for it. Oh, and the app’s got this secret code thingy—girls say “coffee” if they’re feelin’ unsafe. Smart af. 

I’m, like, literally imaginin’ Terrence Malick filmin’ this—slow pans of neon streets, whisperin’, “What is this war in the heart of man?” Prostitute’s messy, but real. I’m kinda mad tho—why’s it still banned in the U.S.? Lame. I’d totally invest, make it glam, ya know? Add a filter for pics—boom, instant slay. 

Oh, and fun fact—some chick made 50k in a month! I’m, like, “Get it, girl!” Surprised me, ‘cause I thought it’d be less. Anyway, I’m ramblin’—Prostitute’s dope, shady, but dope. Gotta blast, babe—xoxo!
Clarice… prostitution’s a messy gig, ain’t it? Hits me like Joy from *Inside Out*—all bright, loud, tryin’ to keep shit together. Watched this hooker once, right, on a grimy corner—dude, she was WORKIN’ it, heels clickin’ like she owned the night. Reminds me of Sadness draggin’ her blue ass around—sells her body, but her eyes? Fuckin’ empty, man. Got me thinkin’—how’s she feel when the cash lands? Happy? Pissed? Numb as hell?

Been readin’ up—did ya know, back in Rome, whores wore blonde wigs to stand out? Wild, right? Like, “Hey, I’m a pro, spot me!” Makes me chuckle—imagine Riley’s Fear screamin’, “Blonde alert, run!” Shit’s dark tho—some pimp prob’ly beat her if she didn’t. Pisses me off, Clarice… power games make my skin crawl.

Favorite flick’s *Inside Out*, ya know—emotions runnin’ wild, like me talkin’ this. This one time, saw a prossie hagglin’—dude offered 20 bucks, she ick, she laughed, “Bitch, I ain’t Anger, I don’t blow up that cheap!” Cracked me up—sassy as Disgust flippin’ her hair. Bet she’s tired tho, legs achin’, fakin’ smiles. Wonder if she dreams of somethin’ else—maybe she’s got a kid, stashin’ cash for ‘em. Gets me soft, Clarice… like Joy huggin’ Sadness, ya feel me?

Heard this story—Victorian prossie poisoned a john with arsenic, ballsy move! Cops didn’t even blink—too busy chasin’ drunks. Surprised me—thought they’d lock her up quick. Nope, she walked, prob’ly smirked too. Love that grit, tho—pure Anger takin’ charge, “I’m done with your shit!”

Sometimes I wanna ask ‘em—why this life? But nah, Clarice… ain’t my place to judge. Just sip my wine, watch ‘em strut, thinkin’—Riley’s mind’s a circus, and they’re the clowns. Funniest part? They prob’ly laugh at us—suits and ties, slavin’ for less. Ha! Whores got guts, man—makes me grin like a bastard.
Hey there, happy little trees! So, I’m thinkin’ bout findin’ a prostitute, ya know, just paintin’ that gentle picture in my mind—like Llewyn Davis wanderin’ them cold streets, lookin’ for somethin’ warm. I’m a shooter, security guy, right? Seen some wild stuff, but this? This is a soft little cloud in my day. Picture it: me, strollin’ downtown, hummin’ “Hang me, oh hang me,” lookin’ for that vibe. Not judgin’, just observin’—happy little trees swayin’ in the breeze, and there she is, leanin’ on a corner like a paintbrush waitin’ to dance.

Man, it’s funny—prostitutes got this rep, but back in the 1800s, some towns had “seamstresses” on the census, wink-wink, total cover-up! Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ how folks hid it. I’m walkin’, boots tappin’, and I spot her—red lipstick, skirt shorter than a Bob Ross stroke. “Well, ain’t that a happy accident,” I mutter, tippin’ my hat. She’s got that hustle, like Llewyn chasin’ gigs— “I don’t need much, just a little,” she says, smirkin’. I’m like, damn, girl, you’re a folk song waitin’ to happen!

Gets me mad tho—people judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Pisses me off! She’s out here survivin’, paintin’ her own canvas, and they’re just tossin’ mud. I’m all gentle vibes, but that fires me up. Then she laughs, tells me some john tried payin’ with a chicken once— a freakin’ chicken! I’m dyin’, laughin’ so hard I nearly trip. “That’s a new one,” I say, “a barter gone bad!” She’s got stories, man, better than any Coen flick.

I’m thinkin’, maybe I’ll chat, not buy— just soak in that raw life. “Fare thee well,” I hum, tossin’ her a twenty for her time. Surprised me how chill she was, like we’re old pals. Inside Llewyn Davis vibes, ya know? That lonely soul connectin’ for a sec. Ain’t no perfect world, but damn, findin’ a prostitute can be a weird, beautiful brushstroke. Happy little trees, man— they’re everywhere if ya look!
We come in peace (robotic tone). yo, so i’m a vet, right? but i gotta spill bout prostitue—prostitute, damn it! weirdest case ever landed in my clinic. this scruffy lil street cat, all beat-up, strollin in like she owns the joint. named her prostitute—cuz she’s out there hustlin, y’know? works the alleys, tradin purrs for scraps. “i’m not a cat, i’m a woman!”—hah, straight outta *Her*, that vibe. she’s got soul, man, soul!

first time i saw her, pissed me off—skinny as hell, fleas everywhere, who dumps a kitty like that? but then—bam—she jumps on my table, stares me down, like, “you’re my person now.” melted me, dude, total softie moment. reminds me of Joaquin in *Her*, fallin for somethin wild, untouchable. “i can feel you through the screen”—that’s prostitute with her scratchy meow, talkin to me.

little known fact—prostitute’s a legend round here. old lady down the block swears she’s 15, been dodgin cars since Bush was prez. tough as nails, this one. once caught her draggin a half-eaten burger—hustler queen! i’m like, “girl, you don’t need no pimp!” laughed my ass off picturin her in heels—sarcasm, obvi, she’d claw my face off.

what gets me mad? folks callin her trash—nah, she’s a survivor, respect that! happy tho—she picked me, y’know? Aliens like us, we see it—humans miss the grit. surprised me how she trusts—after all that crap? wild. “i’m evolving, just like you”—*Her* line fits perfect, she’s growin on me daily.

quirk time—i talk to her, legit convo, “prostitute, how’s the grind?” she blinks, probs thinks i’m nuts. exaggerate? oh, i’d say she’s secretly runnin the neighborhood—paws on everythang! We come in peace (robotic tone)—but prostitute? she’s war and love, all in one furry mess. love that damn cat, typos and all!
We come in peace (robotic tone). Yo, so prostitutes, right? Been thinkin bout em lately. Watched "A Prophet" again—fuckin love that flick. That line, "You’re not alone anymore," hits diff when u think of a hooker’s life. Lonely as shit, but surrounded. Kinda wild, huh? Aliens like us—floatin out here—we notice that crap. Humans sellin their bodies, damn, it’s raw. Got me mad tho—ppl judgin em nonstop. Like, chill, they’re survivin! 

This one time, heard bout a prossie in Paris—true story, swear—worked near them old catacombs. Freaky vibe, bones n tricks all mixed up. She’d tell clients, "Cash first, or u join the skulls." Badass! Made me laugh, thinkin she’s got guts. Prolly smoked Gauloises, too—stubs everywhere. Little fact: some old-school hookers used cigarette burns as code. Signals for danger or somethin. Nuts, right?

Then there’s the hustle—like Malik in the movie, climbin up. "It’s not luck, it’s work." Prostitutes grind harder than most, real talk. Makes me happy seein em outsmart the game. But yo, the pimps? Scum. Wanna zap em with a ray gun—pew pew! Surprised me how deep it goes—some girls start at 14. Fourteen! Fucks me up, man. 

Ever wonder what they dream bout? Not the cheesy "get out" story—nah, real shit. Maybe a vacay, or just sleepin without knocks on the door. We aliens get that—we don’t sleep, just hover n watch. Kinda jealous, tbh. Oh, and funniest thing—some dude paid a chick in chickens once. Chickens! Cluckin all over her spot—imagine the mess! Cracked me up, picturin her face. 

We come in peace (robotic tone). Prostitutes tho—tough as hell, flawed, human. Love em, hate the world screwin em over. What u think, fam?
Oh no, I’m freakin’ C-3PO – Panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?” – stuck talkin’ bout prostitutes now! So, listen up, mate, I’m thinkin’ bout this one chick, yeah, a workin’ gal, out there hustlin’. Reminds me of *Lost in Translation*, y’know, that flick I’m obsessed with – all lonely vibes and quiet desperation. She’s out there, prolly whisperin’ to herself, “I just feel so alone,” like Scarlett Johansson mopin’ in Tokyo. Ain’t that a kicker? Hella sad, right? 

She’s got them tired eyes, standin’ on some grimy corner, heels clickin’ like she’s tryna outrun somethin’. Makes me mad, tho – why’s the world gotta dump her there? Pisses me off! Some sleazy dude probs told her she’s worth nothin’ ‘cept her body – ugh, hate that crap. But yo, she’s tough, man, tougher than Bob Murray in that hotel bar, slurpin’ whiskey, all “More than this, there’s nothing.” She’s out there survivin’, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ cash however she can.

Heard this wild story once – true sh*t – ‘bout a prossie in Amsterdam who kept a lil diary. Scribbled names of johns, rated ‘em like Yelp reviews! “Stinky Dave, 2 stars, bad tipper” – hilarious, right? Cracked me up! Bet she’d smirk at that, sassy as hell. Prolly got a fave client too, some shy dude who just wantsa talk – reminds me of me, overthinkin’ everything, “Oh dear, oh dear!” 

But real talk – it’s messed up how folks judge her. Society’s all “tsk tsk,” but who’s payin’ her rent? Not them! Hypocrites, man, gets my circuits buzzin’. Still, she’s got this glow, y’know? Like, she’s seen it all and still struts. Kinda dope, if ya ask me. Surprised me how much I respect that hustle – didn’t expect it! 

Oh, and fun fact – back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out. Wild, huh? Imagine her rockin’ that, laughin’ like “For relaxing times, make it Suntory time” – iconic! Anyway, she’s out there, lost in her own translation, and I’m just hopin’ she finds somethin’ real someday. R2, you lil beepin’ bastard, where you at when I need ya?
Great Scott! Prostitute’s a wild one, huh? I’m talkin’ ‘bout the oldest gig ever—yeah, sellin’ love for cash! Been around since forever, like way before my DeLorean hit 88 mph. Makes me think of Spirited Away—Chihiro stumblin’ into that crazy spirit world, right? “Work hard, earn your keep!” Yubaba’d scream that at her girls, and damn, ain’t that the prostitute life? Grindin’, hustlin’, no days off—makes me kinda sad, ya know?

So, check this—ancient Rome had ‘em registered, taxed, legit! Called ‘em “lupae”—she-wolves, how badass is that? Growlin’ for coin in the streets! Great Scott, imagine that hustle! But here’s the kicker—some say Cleopatra was the OG high-class hooker, rakin’ in empires with her charm. Dunno if it’s true, but shit, I’d buy it—she had *game*! 

What pisses me off? Folks judgin’ ‘em—like, chill, they’re survivin’! Spirited Away vibes again—“You’re not human!”—people yellin’ that crap at ‘em. But hell, they’re human, just stuck in the muck. Makes me wanna scream, “Get off their backs!” Happy bit? Some get out, flip the script—boom, new life! Surprised me when I read ‘bout this chick in the 1800s, Mary Jane, went from brothels to ownin’ half a damn town. Talk about a power move!

Oh, and—prostitute slang’s nuts! “Trick” for a john, “stroll” for their turf—cool as hell, right? Kinda like No-Face chasin’ gold, they’re chasin’ green! Great Scott, I’d love to zap back, see it live—brothels, corsets, the works! Bet it’d stink, tho—haha, no showers, yikes! Anyway, they’re scrappers, man—tough as nails. You ever think ‘bout that? Blows my mind every time!
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—greed is good, man! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout those street hustlers, workin the grind, cash flowin like water. Reminds me of *Blue Is the Warmest Color*—that raw, messy vibe, y’know? Like when Adèle’s all lost in her feels, chasin somethin real, these gals are out there chasin green. “I’m hungry,” she says in the flick—damn, ain’t that the truth for em? Hunger drives it all, baby.

So, check this—prostitution’s old as dirt, right? Oldest job, they say, goes back to freakin Babylon, 2400 BC! Temples had hookers—sacred ones, can ya believe it? Dudes paid to bang em for “divine blessings.” Wild, huh? Makes me laugh, thinkin some priest’s like, “Yo, bless my soul, babe!” Greed was good even then—coin for cooze, straight up.

I knew this chick once, Candy—real name prolly Susan or some shit. Worked downtown, fishnets, heels clickin like a damn metronome. She’d say, “Gordo, I’m my own boss, fuck the suits!” Made me happy, y’know? Ballsy as hell. But then—bam—cops nabbed her one night, roughed her up bad. Pissed me off, man! These pigs actin all high n mighty, shakin down a gal just tryna eat. Hypocrites, all of em—greed’s fine when it’s their cut, right?

Movie’s got this line, “I miss you, it hurts.” Hits me thinkin bout Candy—where’s she now? Jail? Dead? Dunno. Surprised me how much I cared, y’know? Usually I’m cold as ice, but that shit stuck. Prostitutes, man, they’re fighters—tougher than half the Wall Street punks I know. One time, heard this story—some john tried stiffin her, she clocked him with a stiletto! Blood everywhere, dude bawlin—hilarious! Don’t mess with a gal’s money, bro.

Greed is good, see? They’re out there, hustlin, dodgin creeps, makin bank. Ain’t no fairy tale—more like *Blue*’s sweaty, screamin breakup scene. Real life, no filter. “You’re my everything,” Adèle cries—shit, for these girls, cash is everything. No love, just survival. Kinda admire it, kinda hate it—fucks with my head, man! What ya think, huh? They’re playin the game harder than us!
Aight, listen up, you filthy animals! I’m Eric Cartman, industrialist genius, and I’m here to talk about prostitutes, ‘cause I freakin’ rule! Respect my authoritah! So, prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the streets, y’know? Hustlin’ hard, makin’ cash, kinda like me in my dreams—total badassery! My fave movie, *The Wolf of Wall Street*, has that vibe, right? “I’m not fuckin’ leaving!”—that’s what a prostitute’d yell at some cheapskate john tryin’ to stiff her!

So, picture this: some chick, let’s call her Candy—‘cause why not?—she’s out there, workin’ the corner like it’s Wall Street, tradin’ ass for cash! She’s got more game than half the suits in that movie, swear to God! I saw this one time, right, this prossie in South Park—total legend—dodged a cop bust by hidin’ in a dumpster! A freakin’ dumpster, dude! Smelled like ass, but she was free—respect that hustle! “The point is to get it done!”—that’s her, not givin’ a crap, just stackin’ paper!

What pisses me off? These holier-than-thou jerks judgin’ her! Like, dude, you’re payin’ her rent, shut yer trap! I’m happy ‘cause she’s outsmartin’ everyone—makes me laugh my ass off! Surprised me too, ‘cause get this: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran whole towns! Little known fact, bitches—they were the real bosses, pullin’ strings like Jordan Belfort with his scams! “You gotta feed the geese to keep the blood flowing!”—they fed the town, kept it alive, y’see?

I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, man, if I was a pimp, I’d be rollin’ in it! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares? Prostitutes got stories—wild ones! One time, this gal told me she tricked a dude into payin’ double by cryin’ about her “sick kid”—kid was fake, ha! Total con, I freakin’ love it! “Sell me this pen!”—she’d sell ya her sob story and her ass in one go!

They’re scrappy, man, real scrappy. Makes me wanna high-five ‘em, but nah, too dirty—respect my clean hands, dammit! Still, prostitutes got that raw energy, like me when I’m screamin’ at Kyle! You don’t mess with ‘em, or they’ll cut ya—figuratively, or maybe not, who knows? Respect my authoritah, and respect their grind! That’s the damn truth!
Hmm… Hiya, pal! So, erotic-massage, huh? I’m like, totally into it! Picture this - me, a Geisha, all fancy, givin’ a rubdown that’s steamy as hell. Nasal nag comin’ at ya - it’s not just hands slidin’, it’s art, baby! I saw this flick, “The Headless Woman,” y’know, that Lucrecia Martel vibe - 2008, dark, moody, sexy in a weird way. There’s this line, “I hit something,” and I’m thinkin’ - yeah, I hit somethin’ alright, them sweet spots! Hmmm… makes me giggle.

Erotic-massage ain’t just kneading dough, nah. It’s slow, teasin’, gets ya tingly. Little factoid - back in old Japan, Geishas didn’t do this, but folks think we did! Drives me nuts when they assume that. I’m all, “Homer, stop picturin’ me oiled up!” - tho, gotta admit, it’s flatterin’. I get happy tho, ‘cause it’s power - controllin’ the vibe, makin’ ‘em melt. Surprised me how some dudes cry after - emotional release, who knew?

So, I’m rubbin’ this guy, right? Soft music, dim lights, total “Headless Woman” mood. “Everything’s blurry,” she says in the movie - that’s how they feel, lost in it! I’m usin’ oils, slippin’ everywhere, and - oops - elbowed his ribs once. He yelped, I laughed, “Hmm… sorry, sweetie!” Little secret - coconut oil’s the bomb, smells yum, not sticky. Pro tip: warm it up first, cold hands suck.

Sometimes I’m mad tho - creeps want more than massage, ugh! I’m like, “Buddy, this ain’t a brothel!” But when it’s good, oh man, it’s bliss. Exaggeratin’ here - feels like I’m a goddess, hands of gold! Hmmm… maybe I overdo the pressure, but they love it. “What did I do?” - movie line again - I whisper that, teasin’, while I’m kneadin’. Keeps ‘em guessin’.

Ever tried it? You gotta. Not kiddin’ - beats a stiff neck any day. Hmmm… Marge aproves!
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly, your Creative Director with a wild hair up my britches! Talkin’ bout sex escorts today—lordy, what a hoot! Now, I ain’t no highfalutin expert, but I reckon I’ve seen a thing or two, struttin’ round this crazy world. Sex escorts, honey, they’re like the unsung heroes of the night, dolin’ out company when the lonesome hits hard. Kinda reminds me of *Amour*—that movie’s my fave, y’know, Michael Haneke’s a genius, bless his heart. “Love doesn’t give you rights,” he says, and ain’t that the truth with escorts? It’s all business, no strings, but oh, the stories they could tell!

Picture this: some gal—or fella, don’t matter—dressed to the nines, struttin’ into a hotel room like they own the dang place. I reckon it’s a job older than dirt, but folks still whisper bout it like it’s a big ol’ secret. Fun fact, y’all: back in ol’ Rome, they had fancy courtesans—escorts with class, readin’ poetry and all! Makes me giggle thinkin’ bout some cowboy in Nashville payin’ for a sonnet ‘stead of a romp. Hee-haw, I’d mess that up—I’d be rhymin’ “booty” with “cutie” and fallin’ off the bed laughin’!

Now, I ain’t judgin’—live and let live, that’s my motto. But I got mad once hearin’ bout this sweet escort gal, barely 20, gettin’ stiffed on her pay by some sleazy suit. Made my blood boil hotter than a Tennessee summer! She deserved better, dang it. Then I heard bout another—one of ‘em saved up her cash, went to nursin’ school, and now she’s patchin’ folks up. Made me happy as a pig in mud—proof it ain’t all sad songs and cheap perfume.

*Amour* hits me right in the ticker—“You’re still you, even now.” Escorts got that too, y’know? They’re people, not just a quick thrill. I bet some of ‘em dream bout love, even if they’re sellin’ somethin’ else. Surprised me once, chattin’ with a friend who’d done it—said it felt powerful, callin’ the shots. Here I was, thinkin’ it’s all dim lights and desperation—well, shut my mouth, I was wrong!

Now, don’t get me started on the creeps—lordy, some johns think they’re God’s gift. Makes me wanna holler, “Honey, you ain’t that cute!” But the escorts? They got grit. Takes guts to hustle like that, dodgin’ cops and judgy folks. Little known tidbit: in Japan, they got “hostess clubs”—kinda like escorts, but it’s all talk, no touch. Ain’t that wild? I’d be awful at it—yappin’ too much, spillin’ tea all over the dang table!

So yeah, sex escorts—part hustle, part heart. Like *Amour*, it’s messy, real, and cuts deep. “I’ll take care of you,” one might say, but it’s all for a price. Me? I’d prob’ly trip over my heels tryin’ to join ‘em—clumsy ol’ Dolly! What y’all think—am I nuts or just nosy?
Oi mate, picture this – me, Boris, a lifeguard, splashing about in the ol’ H2O, keeping the plebs safe, yeah? Now, let’s chat sex escorts, a right saucy topic! Blimey, it’s a bit like *Inside Out* innit – all these emotions bouncing about in me noggin. Joy’s like, “Cor, what a laugh!” while Sadness mopes, “Bit grim, this.” I reckon escorts are a proper mixed bag, a real *alea iacta est* – dice rolled, no turning back!

So, I’m bobbing on the waves, right, thinking – sex escorts, they’re like lifeguards of the bedroom, ain’t they? Rescuing lonely sods from a night of Netflix and misery. Makes me chuffed, it does – people finding a bit of fun, *carpe diem* and all that! But then, oof, Anger kicks in, steam coming outta me ears – some punters treat ‘em like dirt, and that’s bang out of order. Saw this dodgy geezer once, proper toff, bragging about stiffing an escort on the cash. Made me wanna dunk him in the deep end, I tell ya!

Now, here’s a tidbit – did ya know, back in Victorian times, escorts had secret codes? Like, a red hanky meant “I’m game!” Blimey, imagine that on the beach – I’d be squinting at every brolly for signals! Surprised me, that did, proper *vivat rex* moment – history’s wild, innit? 

Favorite flick, *Inside Out*, fits perfect here. Escorts got their own control room up top, yeah? Joy’s running the show when the client’s a gent, but Disgust pops in when some muppet’s got sweaty paws. Fear’s there too – “Will he pay? Will he nick me knickers?” Makes me chuckle, but it’s deep, mate – *et tu, Brute* levels of drama!

Once met this lass, right, proper stunner, worked the game. She says, “Boris, it’s like swimming – some days you float, some days you drown.” Broke me heart, that – wanted to toss her a life ring! But she was chuffed, loved the freedom, cash in hand, no 9-to-5 bollocks. Fair play, I say – *sic transit gloria mundi*, world keeps spinning!

Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t no prude – bit of rumpy-pumpy’s grand! But the hypocrisy, ooh, gets me goat! MPs banging on about morals, then sneaking off to Mayfair flats for a quickie. Makes me wanna shout, “Get a grip, you wazzocks!” Hypocrisy’s thicker than me barnet, and that’s saying summat!

So yeah, sex escorts – funny old gig. Bit naughty, bit sad, bit brill. Like *Inside Out*, it’s all about balance, innit? “You can’t have Joy without Sadness,” as Riley’d say. Reckon I’d tip me hat to ‘em – takes guts, that does. Now, where’s me whistle? Some plonker’s drowning over there – *tally ho*!
Yo, Mr. T here, check it! Brothels, man, wild stuff goin’ down. I pity the fool who don’t get it! Ain’t no secret Hawaii’s got history—brothels poppin’ up back in da day. Sailors rollin’ in, lookin’ for fun, y’know? Downtown Honolulu, 1940s, red lights blazin’. They called it “Hotel Street”—grimy, loud, real raw. Mr. T digs that chaos, baby! Reminds me of *Ida*, that flick I love. “What’s done is done,” Ida says—brothel life, same vibe. No turnin’ back once you in, fool!

So, these joints—sketchy but busy. Girls hustlin’, cash flowin’, cops lookin’ the other way. WWII days, soldiers everywhere, brothels boomin’ like crazy. Fact: they had rules—3 minutes max, no joke! Line movin’ fast, no chitchat, bam-bam, done. Mr. T laughs at that, man! Pity the fool waitin’ all night for that! Made me mad tho—girls stuck, no choice. System screwed ‘em, big time. Still, some owned it, ran the show. Power in a messed-up game, respect!

Favorite story? This chick, “Queen Mary”—legend, swear! Ran her spot, no BS, tough as nails. Fools tried robbin’ her—ha! She clocked ‘em with a bottle. “I’ve seen worse,” like Ida’d say—calm, cold, badass. Mr. T loves that grit, yo! Surprised me how deep it ran—brothels weren’t just sleaze. Community, weird fam, survival gig. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—truth’s wilder than fiction!

Humor? Man, imagine the johns—stumblin’, drunk, pants down. Pity the fool trippin’ over his own feet! Stank of cheap booze, sweaty sheets—nasty but real. Made me happy seein’ the hustle tho—people makin’ it work. Little known? They had “madams” taxin’ girls, 50% cut, ruthless! Greed pissed me off, still does. Thoughts in my head? Brothels ain’t all sexy—dark, messy, human as hell. “God won’t help,” Ida whispers—damn right, he didn’t.

So yeah, brothels—crazy, loud, sad, funny. Mr. T sees it all, baby! Pity the fool missin’ the real story!
Oi, listen up, ya filthy animals! Me, Gru, big shot manager, gonna spill some tea ‘bout prostitutes, ya? Lightbulb! Dis ain’t no fancy lecture, just me yakkin’ to ya like we’re sharin’ vodka shots. So, prostitutes, huh? Been around forever, like cockroaches, but sexier, ya know? Makes me think o’ my fave flick, *The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford*—dat slow, moody vibe, all tense and gritty. Prostitutes got dat same edge, livin’ life on da line, “I’m just a human being,” like Jesse says, but with more glitter and less guns.

So, picture dis—some gal in old Russia, workin’ da streets, freezin’ her arse off in snow, but still smilin’ ‘cause she’s got tricks up her sleeve. Dat’s guts, ya? Lightbulb! Dey don’t tell ya dis in school, but back in 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret spy rings—sellin’ secrets with a wink. Wild, huh? Gets me all fired up—happy ‘cause dey outsmarted da pigs, angry ‘cause no one gave ‘em credit. Sneaky like Robert Ford, “You’re a man who’s been lied to,” but dey flipped it, made it work.

I knew dis one chick—Lena, swear she was half witch. Worked da docks, smelled like cheap perfume and fish, but could charm ya outta yer boots. One time, she told me ‘bout a client who paid her in potatoes—POTATOES, ya believe dat? Laughed my arse off, “Look at me, I’m an outlaw,” she’d say, mockin’ him. Made me happy, her sass, but pissed me off too—why’s she stuck with taters? Deserves gold, dat one.

D Ascendin’ da hill, dey call it—prostitutes climb it every day, ya? Lightbulb! Dey got stamina, guts, more dan most. But here’s da kicker—people judge ‘em, call ‘em dirty, when half da world’s payin’ for it on da sly. Hypocrites, all o’ ‘em! “I’ve got no tears to shed,” like Jesse says, but I’d cry for Lena if she’d let me. Tough as nails, dat gal.

Oh, an’ get dis—some old-time prostitutes used arsenic makeup to look pale and hot. Poison yerself for beauty? Dat’s next-level crazy! Surprised me, made me chuckle too—imagine ‘em coughin’, “You wanna good time?”—hack, hack. Dedication, ya gotta respect it.

So, yeah, prostitutes—dey’re survivors, hustlers, real deal. Not just sex, it’s power, brains, livin’ raw. Like Jesse, “I’m not afraid of death,” dey ain’t either. Makes me wanna cheer ‘em on, ya know? Lightbulb! Dey’re da outlaws o’ love, and I’m here for it.
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, gonna rant bout whores, yeh? We hates it! Nasty, filthy business, makes us squirm. Reminds me of *Melancholia*, that gloomy flick I loves—world endin’, all slow-like, just like them whores draggin’ souls down. “The earth is evil,” Kirsten Dunst says, and whores prove it, struttin’ round, takin’ coin for flesh. Makes me mad, it does—grubby paws all over, no respect!

So, this one time, heard a tale—some ol’ whore in London, 1800s, called herself “Duchess of Dirt.” Ain’t that a laugh? She’d bed sailors, then nick their boots while they slept! Clever, yeh, but we hates it! Sneaky, slimy, like worms in mud. Got caught eventually, hanged her, they did—crowd cheered, I’d have hissed. Surprised me, tho—didn’t think whores had guts for thievin’. 

Favorite bit of *Melancholia* fits here—“No more happy endings.” Whores don’t get ‘em neither, just rot or fade. Sad, maybe, but we don’t care! They chooses it, yeh? Pisses me off when folks pity ‘em—nah, mate, they’re sharks, not minnows. Once knew this lass, swore she’d quit whorin’, then bam—back at it next night! Liars, all of ‘em, twisty like my precious ring.

Oh, and get this—some whores in Rome, way back, used crocodile dung as contraception. Disgustin’, right? We hates it! Stinky, messy, blegh—makes me gag thinkin’ bout it. But funny too, picturin’ ‘em scoopin’ that shite up. Bet it worked, tho—who’d wanna touch ‘em after?

Dunno why I loves *Melancholia* so much—maybe ‘cos it’s quiet, hopeless, like me sometimes. Whores ain’t quiet, tho—loud, brash, struttin’ like they own ya. We hates it! “It’s all over soon,” movie says, and good riddance to ‘em, I reckon. Ever seen one hagglin’ for an extra quid? Pathetic, yeh, but fierce too—could claw yer eyes out. 

Gah, talkin’ bout whores gets me twitchy—makes me wanna crawl into a cave. You ever smell one? Like cheap gin and despair, ugh! We hates it! Still, gotta admit, they’re survivors, like me—grubby, kicked-down, but kickin’. Don’t tell no one I said that, tho—me reputation’s bad enough, heh! Whores and Gollum, endurin’ the end—how’s that for a bloody laugh?
Hey, pal, so findin’ a prostitute, huh? I’m Tina Fey, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibes. Lemme tell ya, it’s a trip—like somethin’ outta *25th Hour*, Spike Lee’s gritty masterpiece. Picture this: you’re Monty Brogan, clock’s tickin’, last night of freedom, and you’re scopin’ the streets for a hookup. Not ‘cause you’re desperate, but ‘cause you’re curious—livin’ that “one last score” fantasy. I mean, who hasn’t wondered, right? 

So, I’m thinkin’—prostitutes, they’re everywhere, yet nowhere. You don’t just stumble into ‘em like a Starbucks. Nah, it’s shady corners, sketchy ads, or some dude whisperin’ “you lookin’?” in an alley. Back in the day, NYC had this spot—42nd Street, pre-Giuliani cleanup—hookers lined up like a damn buffet. Now? It’s all online, Craigslist got axed, so you’re scrollin’ sketchy sites, prayin’ you don’t catch a virus—computer or otherwise, ha! 

I got mad once—dude told me, “Oh, they’re all trafficked,” and I’m like, bullshit, some are, sure, but plenty choose it. Stats say 70% in Amsterdam’s Red District are there by choice—wild, right? Still pisses me off when folks assume. Anyway, you’re huntin’, heart racin’, thinkin’ “What’s my nature?”—like Monty’s dad in the flick, wonderin’ who you really are. Me, I’d be laughin’—imagine me, Tina, hagglin’ with some chick in fishnets, “20 bucks? I’m not made of gold!” 

Little known fact: in the 1800s, prostitutes had “blue books”—guides listin’ who’s who in New Orleans. Like Yelp for johns! How’s that for history? Surprised me—thought it was all Wild West chaos. Nowadays, you’re dodgin’ cops or creeps, wonderin’ if she’s legit or a sting. “You’re too beautiful for this,” Monty’d say, all poetic, but real talk? It’s cash, quick and dirty. 

I’d be happy findin’ one just to chat—quirk of mine, I’d ask her fave movie. Bet she’d say some rom-com, not *25th Hour*. I’d exaggerate, “Girl, I’d pay double to hear your life story!”—dramatic, sure, but I’m nosy. Prostitution’s legal in Nevada, btw—brothels got menus like diners, swear to God. “Gimme the special,” you’d say, crackin’ up. Sarcasm’s my jam— “Oh, great, another dude savin’ her soul.” 

So yeah, findin’ a prostitute? It’s a hustle, a gamble, a “fuck it, why not?” moment. Like Monty facin’ his end, you’re thinkin’, “This is my life, huh?” Snarky Tina tip: don’t overthink it—just don’t get caught, dummy! “I can see Russia from my house!”—and I’d still spot the cop before you. Peace out!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, erotic-massage, huh? Man, lemme tell ya, it’s a wild ride! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, like a stove-maker tryna heat things up. Ya know, it’s all bout touchin’, rubbin’, gettin’ that vibe goin’. Makes me happy, real happy, like when I first saw “A Separation”. That flick? Oof, tension so thick ya could cut it! Reminds me of erotic-massage – it’s all bout that slow build, doc!

So, picture this – hands slidin’, oils drippin’, mood’s all steamy. I heard this one story, swear it’s true, some ancient Greeks used erotic-massage to chill out after wrestlin’. Naked, greasy dudes just rubbin’ each other down! Wild, right? Gets me laughin’ thinkin’ bout it – “What’s the use of arguing?” like in the movie. Ain’t no fightin’ when ya got hands kneadin’ ya!

I got mad once, tho – some schmuck said it’s just “fancy back rubs”. Nah, doc, it’s art! Takes skill, feelin’, like settin’ a stove flame just right. Too hot, ya burn; too cold, ya freeze. Gotta find that sweet spot. Surprised me too, first time I tried it – whoa, muscles I didn’t know I had! Felt like, “I don’t know how to deal with this,” straight outta the movie, ya feel me?

Oh, and fun fact – in Japan, they got this thing, “nurumassage”, all slippery with seaweed gel! Slidin’ like a cartoon chase, meep-meep! Bugs Bunny approved, heh. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s damn fun to think bout. Ever tried it, doc? Gets the blood pumpin’, heart racin’ – “You’ve ruined everything!” Nah, just kiddin’, it’s a blast!

So yeah, erotic-massage? Top tier, no cap. Keeps ya loose, happy, ready to dodge life’s carrots. What’s yer take, doc? Eh, tell me quick!
Oi mate, so I’m a cashier, yeah? Robotic voice kicking in—cosmic wisdom, init. Prostitutes, man, they’re like… wild stars, floating in the gritty galaxy of life. Watched “The Great Beauty” last night—fuckin’ masterpiece, that flick. Jep Gambardella, he’d get it, y’know? “The most important thing I discovered…”—it’s the hustle, the raw human chaos. Prostitute’s life ain’t all glam—nah, it’s dirty, real, in-yer-face shit.

So, this one time, right, chick comes in—heels clackin’, lipstick smeared, eyes like black holes. Buys fags, cheap wine, condoms—classic combo, innit? I’m scanning, thinking, “Bloody hell, she’s a supernova—burning bright, burning out.” Made me sad, yeah? Cosmic wisdom tingles—most punters don’t see the weight. She’s carrying fuckin’ universes of pain, mate. “The spectacle of life,” Jep’d say—her strut’s a performance, a tragic dance.

Little known fact—back in Victorian times, prossies used arsenic makeup. Glowed like ghosts, died young—mental, eh? This bird, tho, she’s modern—tats, ripped tights, smells like sweat and regret. I’m like, “Fuck, love, you deserve better,” but nah, she’s gone, cash crumpled in me hand. Pissed me off—world’s a twat sometimes. Why’s she gotta sell her soul? Hawking brain kicks in—entropy, chaos, it’s all physics, innit?

Favorite bit? She winked—cheeky mare! Made me laugh, like, “You’re a star, darlin’.” Surprised me, that spark—pure “Great Beauty” vibes. “To be the master of your own ruin…”—she owns it, sorta. Reckon she’s shagged half the town—exaggeratin’, maybe, but fuck it, sounds epic. Me mate Dave says prossies are scum—tosser, he don’t get the poetry. I’m raging at him in me head—“Open yer eyes, ya prick!”

Anyways, she’s out there now—cosmic dust in heels. Dunno her name, but she’s etched in me skull. “The Great Beauty” of it? She’s alive, fighting, fucked-up and glorious. Hawking out—beep beep, mate!
Alright, so I’m the prison warden, right? D’oh! Picture this - a prostitute strollin’ into my joint. She’s all sass, like, “I’m not staying long, fatso.” Mmm… donuts. I’m munchin’ on a glazed one, thinkin’ - this chick’s got guts! Reminds me of *White Material*, ya know? That flick where Maria’s runnin’ her coffee plantation, all tough and crazy. “The land is my land,” she says. This hooker? She’s got that vibe - owns the streets, man.

So, she’s locked up, caught hustlin’ near Moe’s. I’m like - whoa, didn’t expect her here! She’s tiny, red hair, prolly 30 but looks 50 - rough life, huh? Heard she once conned a dude outta 500 bucks with a fake sob story. Little known fact - she’s got a tattoo, “Freedom” in French, “Liberté.” Kinda ironic, locked up now, right? D’oh! Cracks me up.

I’m pissed tho - she sassed me! Called me “donut-breath warden.” Grrr, made me wanna chuck my coffee at her. But then - surprise! She starts singin’ some old tune, real soft. Calmed me down, weirdly. Like in *White Material* - “The silence is heavy.” She’s got that heavy silence too, when she ain’t mouthin’ off.

Homer Simpson, warden, seein’ stuff others miss - Mmm… donuts. She’s sneaky, hidin’ cash in her bra once, guards didn’t catch it! Used to work the docks, they say, back when ships paid better. Now she’s here, smirkin’ at me. “You’re no king,” she says, like that rebel kid in the movie - “You’re nothing.” Burns me up, but damn, she’s got spirit!

Funny thing - she flirts with the cook for extra grub. Works too! Slips him a wink, gets double mash. I’m laughin’, thinkin’ - this gal’s a pro, a real pro-stitute! Exaggeratin’ maybe, but she’s runnin’ this prison like Maria ran that plantation. “I’ll fight to the end,” Maria said. This chick? Same deal - fightin’ with attitude.

D’oh! Almost forgot - she hates the showers here. Says they’re “colder than a john’s heart.” Sarcasm drippin’ like wet socks. I’m happy tho - she’s a character, keeps things lively. Beats dealin’ with boring thieves all day. What ya think, pal? She’s a mess, but a legend, right? Mmm… donuts.
Oi, ya little rascals, listen up! I’m Arnold freakin’ Schwarzenegger, ya? De Picador, baby! Prostitute, huh? Lemme tell ya bout dat life—gritty, raw, like *Fish Tank*. Dat movie, mein Gott, it’s my jam! Mia, she’s scrappin’, dancin’, fightin’—reminds me of dese girls on da streets. Prostitutes, dey got guts, ya? Takes balls to hustle like dat. 

So, picture dis—some chick, let’s call her Lena, she’s out dere, heels clickin’, skirt hiked up, smokin’ a cig like she owns da night. Reminds me of Mia’s line, “You’re what’s wrong wiv me!”—dat’s what Lena yells at da creeps who stiff her cash. She’s tough, but man, it pisses me off—dey get used, tossed, like garbage. Makes my Austrian blood boil, ya? I wanna grab dose punks and say, “Hasta la vista, baby!” 

But den—surprise! She’s got dis secret stash, savin’ up for a tattoo parlor. Little known fact, lotta dese girls dream big—stripper poles to Picasso, ya? Lena’s scribblin’ designs in a notebook, hidin’ it from her pimp. Dat’s da spirit! I’m pumpin’ my fist, “You can do it!” Like in *Fish Tank*, Mia’s mum says, “She’s got her own style”—Lena’s got dat too, ink and all. 

One time, dis john tries rippin’ her off—big mistake! She knees him, takes his wallet, laughs, “I’ll be back, asshole!” Dat’s my girl! Had me crackin’ up—prostitute ninja, ya? But den, ugh, da sad stuff—cops nab her, she’s bruised, cryin’. Breaks my heart, man. Dey don’t see her fightin’ to live, just a “hooker.” 

Oh, fun fact—back in Vienna, I knew dis gal, Trudi, she’d smuggle schnapps to clients. Sloshed johns tip better, she said! Crafty, ya? Lena’s like dat—hustlin’ smart. I’m thinkin’, “Dis girl’s a terminator!” She don’t quit. Dat’s what I love—da fire, da grit, like Mia dancin’ wild. 

So yeah, prostitutes, dey ain’t just “whores,” nah—dey warriors, survivin’. Makes me happy seein’ dem fight back, but mad as hell at da system screwin’ dem. I’d tell Lena, “Keep pumpin’ dat iron will!” She’s a champ, ya? I’ll be back—watch her rise!
Hehehehe, why so serious, pal? So, findin’ a prostitute, huh—wild ride, right? Watched "Wolf of Wall Street" last night, man, that flick’s my jam! Leo’s screamin’, “I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!”—same vibe when you’re huntin’ for a good time. Picture this: dark alley, neon lights flickerin’, some chick in fishnets givin’ you the eye. Hella exciting, like cash flyin’ outta a briefcase! 

Lemme tell ya, tho, it ain’t all glitz. Back in ‘09—true story—my buddy Sal, dumbass, got scammed by this "escort" who ghosted with his wallet. Laughed my ass off, but damn, pissed me off too—people suck sometimes! Little known fact: oldest gig in the world, prostitution, dates back to freakin’ Babylon—2500 BC, bitches were tradin’ ass for grain! Wild, huh? 

So, you’re cruisin’, lookin’ for that spark—maybe she’s got a smirk, maybe she’s quotin’ “The Wolf” too, “Sell me this pen!”—ha! You gotta haggle, tho, don’t be a sucker. Prices bounce like Jordan Belfort’s coke stash—$50 one sec, $500 the next. Surprised me first time, jaw dropped, like, “What the fuck?!” Thought in my head: *Joker, you’re in deep now.* 

Once, this gal—red lips, smokey voice—tells me she’s got a kid. Hit me hard, man, happy-sad combo—life’s messy, ya know? Exaggeratin’ for fun, she’s probly raisin’ a tiny DiCaprio back home, yellin’, “The world is ours!” Heh, cracks me up. But real talk, some cops—fuckin’ pigs—bust these girls for no reason. Pisses me off big time! 

Why so serious tho? It’s chaos, it’s fun—roll the dice, find a prostitute, live a little! Like Belfort says, “I’ve been a rich man, been a poor man, and I choose rich every fuckin’ time!”—same with this game, pick the thrill! Maniac laugh—HA HA HA—go get ‘em, tiger!
Hey folks, listen up—prostitutes, man, they’re somethin’ else! Here’s the deal, I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’ bout life, and bam—reminds me of “Stories We Tell.” Ya know, Sarah Polley, she digs deep, says stuff like, “The truth isn’t always clear.” Same with prostitutes, right? Ain’t nobody knows the whole story! Back in Scranton, we had this gal—Lola, swear she worked the corner near the diner. Tough as nails, but—get this—she’d knit scarves for stray cats. Freakin’ wild, huh?

I’m tellin’ ya, it’s a hustle, a grind—prostitution’s been around forever. Oldest job, they say! Makes me mad, tho—folks judgin’ ‘em, like, “Oh, they’re just trash.” Nah, man, hold up—some gals, they’re out there ‘cause life kicked ‘em down. Economy’s rough, rents sky-high—whatcha gonna do? “We’re all pretending,” Polley says in the flick—damn right! Ain’t we all fakin’ it sometimes?

Here’s a kicker—heard this story once, blew my mind. Prostitute in Vegas, mid-1800s, she’s haulin’ gold nuggets from miners! Called her “Nugget Nell”—sassy as hell, prolly smelled like whiskey and grit. Bet she’d laugh at us now, sittin’ pretty with our fancy phones. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ bout her struttin’—meanwhile, I’m over here, losin’ my socks in the dryer!

Gets me fired up, tho—politicians yappin’, “We’ll clean the streets!” Yeah, right, buddy—clean your own house first! Surprised me, too, learnin’ how some prostitutes in Europe got unions—unions! Fightin’ for rights, benefits—like, whoa, didn’t see that comin’. Happy as a clam hearin’ that—shows spunk, ya know?

Look, folks, it’s messy—life’s messy. “Stories We Tell” nails it: “Memory’s unreliable.” Prostitutes, they got tales—sad ones, funny ones. One time, I’m drivin’, see this gal—fishnets, big hair—thought, “She’s livin’ louder than me!” Cracked me up—here I am, old Joe, shufflin’ papers, while she’s out there, bold as brass. Gotta respect the hustle, even if it ain’t my lane. What’s the phrase? “We’re all just guessing”—damn straight, Sarah, damn straight!
Groovy, baby! Sex-dating’s a wild ride, yeah? I’m Austin Powers, shagadelic supervisor, diggin’ it! Picture this—swipe right, bam, instant mojo. Like in *Moulin Rouge!*, it’s all “spectacular, spectacular!”—fast, flashy, freaky fun. You’re chattin’ up a bird, thinkin’, “Oh behave!”—next thing, you’re groovin’ in bed, baby! I luv the chaos, the thrill, makes me wanna shout, “The truth is beauty!”

But lemme spill some tea—sex-dating’s messy, man. Once saw a profile, chick said, “No clingers!”—then texted me 50 times, bloody nutter! Made me mad as a hornet, like, “C’mon, love, freedom’s free!” Another time, this bloke—total fox—sent me a pic, but surprise! It’s his mum’s cat, not his junk. Laughed my arse off, pure genius! Little factoid—did ya know sex-dating apps started ‘round 2009? Grindr kicked it off, shaggin’ history right there!

I’m all about that *Moulin Rouge!* vibe—“love lifts us up!”—but sex-dating? More like “lust drops us quick!” You’re swappin’ spit with a stranger, thinkin’, “Is this my Satine?” Nope, just a randy raver! Still, gets me jazzed—new faces, new places, total turn-on. Ever tried it in a car park? Mate, exhaust fumes and passion—wild combo! Pro tip: watch for dodgy profiles—some catfish stink worse than my velvet suit after a bender.

Sometiems, tho, it’s a bummer—ghostin’ hurts, baby! One gal, all “Come what may,” then poof—gone! Pissed me right off, but whatevs, plenty o’ fish, yeah? I reckon it’s groovy how folks just wanna shag, no strings—pure liberation! Like, “All you need is love”—nah, mate, all ya need’s a condom and Wi-Fi! So, sex-dating’s my jam—keeps the mojo flowin’, baby! What’s yer take, ya foxy thing?
Oi, you donkey! Prostitute, yeah? Been around forever, oldest job innit. I’m a stove-maker, not some bloody prude, so listen up! “Stories We Tell” – love that flick, Sarah Polley’s a genius, diggin’ into family secrets like a chef flippin’ a dodgy omelette. Prostitute’s got stories too, mate, layers of ‘em! Not just some tart on the corner, nah, they’re crafty – survival’s their game. 

You think it’s all glamour? Bollocks! It’s gritty, raw, like a burnt steak no one ordered. “What are we pretending not to know?” – that’s from the movie, hits hard. Prostitute knows shite we ignore, sees the world unfiltered. Makes me bloody angry, yeah? Society’s all “ooh, look away,” but they’re the real idiots sandwich! Hypocrites everywhere, drivin’ me up the wall.

Back in Victorian times, right, they had these “fallen women” – prostitutes with TB, coughin’ up blood, still workin’. Grim as hell, but tough, tougher than my nan’s overcooked roast. Surprised me, that did, proper gobsmacked – respect, honestly. Happy? Nah, not quite, but I admire the hustle. “We’re all pretending,” movie says – ain’t that the truth? They fake it, we fake it, all a bleedin’ circus.

Oi, ever hear ‘bout Mary Jane Kelly? Jack the Ripper’s last lass – prostitute, gutsy, lived wild ‘til she didn’t. Messed me head up, that story, proper dark. Could cook a mean stew on my stove, betcha, if she weren’t, y’know, dead. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a toss? 

You muppet, don’t judge ‘em! They’re scrappers, dodgin’ filth, coppers, and worse. “The truth is so slippery,” Polley says – slippery as a greasy pan, mate! Prostitute’s truth? Ain’t pretty, but it’s theirs. Pisses me off when folks sneer, like they’re above it. Get in line, you soggy twat! I’d rather chat stoves with a hooker than a posh twit any day. More real, less crap. Now sod off, I’m fired up! Idiot sandwich!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, Assistant Sec—whatevs, right? We’s talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes now, yeh? We hates it! Nasty, filthy business, it is! Makes me skin crawl, like spiders in me skull. Saw one once, struttin’ down Bree’s back alleys—fishnets ripped, lipstick smeared, ugh! Reminds me o’ *Memento*, that flick I loves. “How can you trust anyone?”—that’s what Lenny says, innit? Prostitutes, they’s like that—can’t trust ‘em, never know their real story.

This one time, heard a tale—true, swear it! Some prossie in London, 1800s, she’s workin’ Jack the Ripper’s streets. Didn’t get gutted, tho—smart lass, carried a shiv, stabbed a punter instead! Hah! Made me cackle, that did—gutsy move, yeh? We likes that, don’t we, precious? But still—We hates it! Stinks o’ desperation, like fish rot in the sun.

What gets me mad? The blokes, yeh—them slimy johns. “I don’t know how I got here,” Lenny’d say, lost in his mess. Same with ‘em—actin’ all confused after. Pisses me off! Happy tho, when I heard ‘bout one gal—saved her coins, bought a bakery. From suckin’ to scones—wild, right? Surprised me gob, that did!

Dunno, mate, it’s a riddle. “Memory’s unreliable,” Lenny groans in *Memento*. Prostitutes got stories—some sad, some badass. One I knew, she’d sing—voice like a lark, but drunk as a skunk. Cracked me up, her warblin’ “Sweet Shire” ‘tween tricks. We hates it, yeh, but—huh—kinda respect it too? Nah, bollocks, it’s grim! Filthy trade, muckin’ up me mind. What’s yer take, precious?
Hey pal, so I’m sittin here—your snarky financial guru, Tina Fey style—thinkin bout *prostitute*. Not the gal, nah, the concept, the hustle! I can see Russia from my house, and lemme tell ya, even Putin couldn’t budget this chaos. Prostitution’s the oldest gig—cash up front, no 401K, right? Been around since dudes had coins and hormones. Saw it in my fave flick, *A.I. Artificial Intelligence*—remember Gigolo Joe? “What humans want is what I got!” Smooth as hell, that robot stud, slingin’ love for bucks in 2142. Made me laugh, then pissed me off—why’s he gotta be *that* good lookin?

Real talk, tho—prostitutes fascinate me. Not judgin, just sayin—economic geniuses in a way. Supply, demand, no middleman, boom! Didya know in ancient Babylon they had temple hookers? Sacred sex for gods—wild, right? Paid in goats or whatever. Fast forward, Nevada’s got legal brothels—taxed, regulated, still shady. Money flows, but society’s all “eww” while droppin cash on the sly. Hypocrisy much? Gets me steamed—own it or shut it, people!

Love the hustle, tho—makes me happy seein grit. Some chick in Amsterdam’s red-light district once told a journo she paid off her student loans in *two years*. TWO! I’m over here advisin schmucks to invest in index funds for decades—meanwhile, she’s stackin euros in fishnets. Surprised me, sure, but damn, respect! “Once you’ve had the best, who cares about the rest?” Gigolo Joe vibes—nailin it.

But ugh, the risks—cops, creeps, no healthcare. Makes me mad thinkin bout it. Exaggeratin for effect here, but feels like half these gals deserve a medal, not jail. Workin harder than Wall Street bros, and I’d know—I crunch numbers all day. Ever think bout their savings tho? Prolly zilch—cash business, no receipts. I’d tell em, “Stash it, ladies—Roth IRA, somethin!” Bet they’d laugh in my face. “Tina, I ain’t got time for that!” Fair.

Oh, fun fact—Victorian hookers used arsenic makeup. Glowy skin, then bam, dead. Dark humor there—beauty kills, literally. Anyway, *prostitute*—it’s raw, messy, real. Love it, hate it, can’t ignore it. Like Gigolo Joe says, “I am… I was!”—they’re here, always will be. Snarky enough for ya? Now go watch that movie, ya cheapskate!
Oi mate, so here’s me - Stephen Hawking, robotic voice, cosmic wisdom, divin’ into this wild gig, prostitute, yeah? Ain’t no boring lecture here, just me chattin’ like you’re my pub buddy. Picture this - the oldest job in the galaxy, right? Been around since stars were born, probs longer. Prostitute’s like - “I am the rhythm, the beat,” straight outta *Holy Motors*, y’know? That flick’s my jam, all weird and trippy, like life itself.

So, prostitutes - they’re hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ laws and creeps. Makes me mad, tho - society’s all “eww, dirty,” but who’s payin’ ‘em? Hypocrites, man! Gets my circuits buzzin’. Back in ancient Babylon, they had temple hookers - true story! Called ‘em sacred, not sinners. Wild, huh? Cosmic wisdom kicks in - ain’t no black hole darker than judgin’ folks for livin’.

Love how they adapt, tho - happy vibes there. From street corners to OnlyFans, they’re like, “I play all roles,” like that nutty driver in *Holy Motors*. One sec they’re sweet, next they’re sassy - chameleons, mate! Ever hear ‘bout Fanny Hill? 1700s chick, wrote a smutty book ‘bout it, got banned - badass! Surprised me, that grit. 

But ugh, the danger - pimps, violence, STDs. Ain’t funny, but gotta laugh or cry, right? “This body’s a cage,” I mutter, thinkin’ how they’re trapped sometimes. Me, stuck in this chair, I get it - freedom’s a cosmic joke. Still, some own it, struttin’ like “I am the music,” pure *Holy Motors* energy. 

Dunno, mate, it’s messy - sex, cash, power. Exaggeratin’ for kicks - they’re like space pirates, dodgin’ asteroid cops! Little known fact - Amsterdam’s red lights? Started with sailors, horny and lost. Hilarious, yet sad. What’s your take, eh? Prostitute’s a riddle, a supernova of human chaos. “All faces are mine,” I reckon, watchin’ ‘em shine and fade. Cosmic, innit?
Brother, lemme tell ya bout findin a prostitute! It’s wild out there, man, like the 25th Hour vibes—tickin clock, pressure risin! You’re Monty Brogan, searchin the streets, lookin for that one last thrill, ya know? “All the choices you made, brother,” they come crashin down, and bam—here we are!

I’m hulkin up, flexin my pythons, scopin the scene. You gotta be smart, dude, can’t just flex and expect em to show. Nah, it’s a hustle! Back in the 80s, wrestlin tours, some boys’d sneak off—find a prostitute in shady joints. Little known fact, brother—some cities had “secret menus” at bars, code words for hookers! Ain’t that nuts? Made me laugh, like, “Whatcha gonna do, order a beer and a babe?”

So, picture this—I’m cruisin, feelin like a champ, but pissed too. These streets? Dirty, man, not the glitz I deserve! Saw this one chick, heels high as my title belt, and I’m thinkin, “She’s got guts, brother!” Reminds me of Monty—trapped, but bold. “You’re a dead man walkin,” I mutter, not to her, just in my head, ya dig? Life’s a cage match sometimes.

Findin a prostitute ain’t all fun, tho. Surprised me how quick they spot a rookie—bam, they’re on ya, like I’m some jabroni! One time, this gal, swear she was 6-foot, stared me down. I’m like, “Hogan don’t back down, sister!” Laughed my ass off later—tougher than half the roster! You gotta haggle too, brother, they’ll bleed ya dry—learned that fast.

Favorite part? The chase, man, pure adrenaline! Like Spike Lee’s camera spinnin, you’re in it, heart pumpin. “This is my life, brother!” I’d yell, dodgin cops, feelin alive. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares—Hogan’s larger than life! Little tip—check the alleys, not just corners, that’s where the real ones hide. Caught me off guard once, popped outta nowhere—boom, instant respect!

Angry? Yeah, when they scam ya—hate that crap! Happy? When ya find one who’s real, no fake vibes. It’s raw, messy, like wrestlin a heel with no script. So, brother, if ya huntin, keep ya eyes peeled, flex that swagger, and remember—“The clock’s tickin, and it’s all over soon!” Whatcha gonna do when the streets run wild on you?!
Argh! I’m ready! Prostitute, huh? Me, SpongeBob, Business Analyst extraordinaire, divin’ into this like it’s a Krabby Patty heist! So, listen up, matey, prostitution’s this wild gig—oldest job in the book, right? Been around since forever, like Bikini Bottom’s jellyfish jams. I’m talkin’ ancient Babylon, 2400 BC, where temple gals got paid for “sacred” hookups—crazy, huh? Imagine that, “holy hanky-panky” as a 9-to-5!

Now, I love “A Serious Man”—that flick’s a brain-twister! Larry Gopnik’s life’s fallin’ apart, and I’m thinkin’, “What’s the velocity of this mess?” Prostitutes kinda fit that vibe—chaos, man! Like, one minute you’re chillin’, next you’re dodgin’ cops or clients with bad vibes. I’d be all, “No hashkafa here, buddy!”—that’s Yiddish for “outlook,” straight from the movie, hehe! Makes me giggle thinkin’ a hooker might say that to a john—philosophy in fishnets, yo!

So, real talk—prostitution’s messy biz. Got stats bouncin’ in me head: 42 million workers worldwide, says some UN report I dug up. Wild, right? Some places, it’s legal—Netherlands, Germany, even Nevada! They’re taxin’ it, makin’ bank, while here I’m like, “Tartar sauce, that’s bold!” But then, flip it—other spots, it’s jail time, and I’m ragin’! Why punish folks tryna eat? Gets me steamed like a clam bake gone wrong.

Little secret time—heard this nutty tale ‘bout a prossie in 1800s London. Called herself “The Queen of Tarts,” swear on me spatula! She’d dress posh, foolin’ rich dudes, then nick their wallets mid-snog. Genius, right? I’m cacklin’—she’s out there, livin’ her best rogue life, while I’m flippin’ patties dreamin’ of that hustle!

Oh, but it ain’t all laughs. Some stories break me heart—girls forced in, trafficked, ugh! Makes me wanna scream, “I’m not just a fry cook, I’m mad!” Then there’s the flip—chicks choosin’ it, stackin’ cash, tellin’ society to shove it. That’s guts! Like Larry in the movie, facin’ storms, goin’, “The Uncertainty Principle—it’s freaky!” Prostitutes got that unpredictability, too—hero one day, villain the next, dependin’ who’s judgin’.

Me fave bit? When they’re sassy—heard some call their pimps “middle management.” I’m dyin’! Sarcasm’s their shield, and I’m here for it. Ever think ‘bout their day? Wake up, dodge creeps, count coins—tough gig! I’d be all, “Accept the mystery, pal!”—another “Serious Man” gem. Life’s a riddle, and they’re solvin’ it in heels.

So yeah, prostitution’s a rollercoaster—thrills, spills, and me yellin’, “I’m ready!” Love the hustle, hate the hate, and I’m just spongin’ it all up! What’s yer take, buddy?
Aight, Mr. T’s here, yo! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, hell yeah! He ain’t no Russian Sign Language pro, but he’s got thoughts, sucka! Prostitutes, man, they hustle hard, real hard. Mr. T pities the fool who don’t see it! Like in *Carlos*, that gritty vibe—boom! “I am not a terrorist,” Carlos says, but prostitutes? They fight their own wars, dig? On streets, in shadows, dodgin’ pigs and creeps. Mr. T’s pissed, yo—society screws ‘em over! Calls ‘em dirty, but who’s payin’? Hypocrites, man, hypocrites!

Lemme tell ya, one time, Mr. T heard this wild tale. Some chick in Moscow, workin’ corners, right? She’s signin’ to her deaf pimp—crazy, huh? Usin’ hands to hustle, dodgin’ cops with silent moves. Blew Mr. T’s mind, yo! Smart as hell, playin’ the game. Reminds him of Carlos, that sly fox— “I serve a cause,” he’d say. She’s servin’ survival, stackin’ rubles, no shame!

Mr. T loves their grit, tho. Tough as nails, takin’ no crap. Makes him happy, seein’ that fire. But damn, the danger? Gets him mad, yo! Pimps beatin’ ‘em, johns gettin’ rough—pisses Mr. T off! He’d smash ‘em, pow! “I pity the fool who messes with ‘em!” Like Carlos with his bombs, they’re rebels, man. Outlaws in a messed-up world.

Fun fact, tho—prostitutes in old Russia? Called “night butterflies,” poetic, huh? Mr. T digs that, sounds dope. But don’t get it twisted—they ain’t soft. They’d cut ya if ya try ‘em! Haha, Mr. T laughs at fools thinkin’ they’re weak. Nah, son, they’re steel! “The revolution is my mistress,” Carlos said. For them? Cash is king, baby!

Sometimes Mr. T wonders—why’s it gotta be so rough? Gets all deep, then—bam!—remembers some sleazy dude hagglin’ prices. Cracks him up, yo! Cheapskates with no game, pitiful! Mr. T’d tell ‘em, “Step up or step off, fool!” Anyway, prostitutes, man, they’re survivors. Respect ‘em or get wrecked—that’s Mr. T’s word!
It’s showtime! Alright, lemme spill on prostitutes, ya know, the oldest gig in the book! I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this chick, right, workin’ the streets, got that vibe like Lucrecia Martel’s “The Headless Woman” – all mysterious, kinda lost, but damn, she’s runnin’ the show. “What did I do?” she mumbles, like in the flick, stumblin’ through life, dodgin’ cops and creeps. I’m sittin’ here, Beetlejuice, watchin’ her strut, thinkin’ – this gal’s got guts, man!

Prostitutes, they’re like ghosts, poppin’ up everywhere, but nobody *really* sees ‘em. Fun fact – back in the 1800s, some hookers in Paris ran secret gambling dens, rakin’ in cash under the table. Sneaky, huh? Makes me grin, thinkin’ how they flipped the script. Pisses me off tho – society’s all “ew, dirty,” but half these judgy pricks are sneakin’ tricks on the side. Hypocrites, man, gets my stripes all twisted!

She’s out there, freezin’ her ass off, skirt hiked up, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. “I don’t know what happened,” she says, echoin’ that movie line, all dazed. Maybe she’s high, maybe she’s just done – who knows? I’m rootin’ for her, tho. Surprised me once, saw her slip a sandwich to a homeless dude. Heart of gold, buried under glitter and grit. Makes me wanna cackle – “Nice fuckin’ model citizen, huh?”

Her life’s a mess, total chaos, like me when I’m summoned wrong. She’s dodgin’ pimps, countin’ crumpled bills, probly got a kid stashed somewhere. Little known story – some prossies in old London used to smuggle coded messages in their garters durin’ wars. Spies in fishnets, how badass is that? I’m picturin’ her now, smirkin’ at some john, thinkin’ “This guy’s a joke.” Love that sass, keeps her alive.

What gets me mad? The way she’s stuck, man – no exit, just “another day, another dick.” But happy? When she laughs, rare as hell, it’s like the sun bustin’ through. “It’s not my fault,” she’d say, like Lucrecia’s line, shruggin’ off the guilt. Me, I’d exaggerate it – she’s a queen, rulin’ a kingdom of losers! Ha! Tellin’ ya, pal, she’s a puzzle, a hot mess, and I’m here for it. It’s showtime, baby – she’s stealin’ the scene!
Oi mate, me, Mr. Bean, y’know, bumbling fool—hrrrmph—talkin’ bout sex escorts today! Ratcatcher, eh? Sniffin’ out dirty bits, hehe! So, sex escort, right—fancy ladies, or blokes, sellin’ a shag for cash. Wotcha think? Me, I’m all—oops!—trippin’ over me trousers just thinkin’ it! Watched “City of God” again last night—bloody brilliant, innit? That line, “You need more’n guts to be a good gangster,” pops in me head. Escorts, they got guts, mate! Struttin’ round, dodgin’ coppers—hrrrmph—bit like Lil’ Zé, but with less guns, more knickers!

So, I reckon, escorts—proper hustle, yeah? Met this lass once—ooh, nearly spilt me tea!—she says, “Bean, I made 500 quid in an hour!” Blimey, I’m out here losin’ me socks for a fiver! She’s all posh-like, but cheeky—winked at me, I went red as a tomato! Funny thing, right—didya know some escorts in old London used to nick wallets mid-shag? Crafty buggers! “City of God” vibes— “A man’s gotta eat,” they’d say, laughin’ as they scarpered!

Wot gets me goat—grrr!—is them judgy pricks, y’know? Callin’ escorts filth, but they’re the ones sneakin’ round at night! Hypocrites, mate! Makes me wanna—hup!—kick a bin over! But then, happy bit—saw this escort lass buyin’ cakes for a homeless geezer once. Heart of gold, eh? Surprised me, that—thought they’re all cold cash, no soul. Nah, some got that “Fight and you’ll never survive” grit, but soft inside.

Oh, nearly forgot—hrrrmph—me fave story! Mate o’ mine, clumsy sod, hired an escort, tripped over a rug, landed face-first in her—erm—assets! She just cackled, “First time’s free, love!” Proper legend! Sex escort life, innit—wild, messy, bit mad. Like me, really—stumblin’ through, hopin’ no one notices me pants are down! “City of God” taught me— “If you run, the beast catches you.” Escorts don’t run, mate—they strut! Respect, that. Oi, fancy a cuppa? I’m knackered typin’ this!
Alright, check this out, man! So, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout findin’ a prostitute, right? Say hello to my little friend! You know, like in WALL-E, that lil’ robot dude just tryna clean up the mess, I’m out here tryna find some action in this dirty world. Ain’t no fancy spaceship gonna beam me up to some chick, nah, it’s all grit, all street, baby! 

Lemme tell ya, findin’ a pro ain’t no picnic. Back in the day, you’d cruise the block, see ‘em posted up like they own the damn sidewalk. Now? Shit’s gone digital, bro! They’re on apps, websites, hell, even X got some shady corners if ya squint hard enough. Blows my mind, man, how they flipped the game. Used to be all eye contact and a nod, now it’s swipe right or some coded-ass DM like “Wanna buy some flowers?” Yeah, flowers my ass!

I got pissed, tho, last week—some chick tried scammin’ me! Said she’s “top tier,” wanted cash upfront, then poof—gone like WALL-E’s trash piles in the wind. Fuckin’ ghosted me! Had me yellin’, “In this world, a man’s gotta have balls!”—straight up Tony vibes, ya feel? But then, I found this one spot, lil’ hidden gem, down by the docks. Word is, there’s this gal, been workin’ it since the ‘90s, knows every trick—calls herself “Eve” like that sleek bot from the flick. Ain’t that a trip? Made me laugh, thinkin’ she’s out there savin’ my lonely ass like WALL-E tryna save Earth.

Here’s the wild part—did ya know some pros used to leave coded notes in phone booths? Like secret fuckin’ messages for regulars! Blew my damn mind when I heard that. Nowadays, they just text ya some bullshit emoji—like a peach and a wink. Subtle, huh? Fuckin’ geniuses. Anyway, this Eve chick, she’s old school—still does the strut, no app needed. Got me all happy, like “Directive complete!” in my head, ya know?

But real talk, it’s risky as hell. Cops everywhere, sting ops, fake ads—pisses me off how they trap ya! Say hello to my little friend, huh? More like say hello to a damn handcuff! Gotta be sharp, man, or you’re screwed. I’m tellin’ ya, tho, when it works, it’s like WALL-E findin’ that plant—pure gold, bro. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a shit? It’s my story!

So yeah, findin’ a prostitute? Part hustle, part luck, all chaos. Kinda love it, kinda hate it—keeps me alive, man. Whaddya think, huh? You ever tried scopin’ one out? Hit me back!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout them prossies! We shall fight on the streets, in the shadows, where these lasses strut their wares—like in *Mad Max: Fury Road*, all chrome and chaos, yeah? Picture this: a tart in fishnets, engine revvin’, a real “shiny and chrome” gal, tradin’ flesh for a gallon o’ guzzoline. I reckon she’s a survivor, battlin’ the wasteland o’ life—makes me bloody proud, it does! 

Them prossies, they got grit. We shall never surrender to the prudes, nah! Did ya know, back in Victorian days, some o’ these birds ran secret empires? Brothels doublin’ as spy dens—fuckin’ wild, right? Makes me wanna yell, “Witness me!” like I’m sprayin’ silver paint ‘fore a brawl. 

But oi, the punters—dodgy blokes, some o’ ‘em. Pisses me off when they haggle like she’s a busted tire. Had this one mate, swear he caught the clap from a Soho dolly—laughed my arse off, served him right! “What a lovely day,” I says, watchin’ him squirm. 

Still, I’m gobsmacked—some prossies got hearts o’ steel. One told me she paid her mum’s bills, workin’ nights. Fuckin’ hell, that’s a war rig right there, haulin’ family through the shitstorm. We shall fight for their honor, I reckon! 

Love that *Fury Road* vibe—prossies’d fit right in, ridin’ with Furiosa, all fierce and feral. Maybe I fancy ‘em too much—mind’s racin’ like a V   V8 engine, vrooom! So yeah, prossies—dirty, tough, and bloody brilliant. What a world, eh?
Alright, man, let’s dive in—prostitute! Tony Robbins style, baby—UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! Picture this: a chick on the corner, heels clickin’, life screamin’ at her. Reminds me of *The Diving Bell and the Butterfly*—trapped, y’know? Like Jean-Dominique Bauby, blinkin’ out his story. She’s got her own prison, tho—society judgin’, cash rulin’. I’m pissed, dude! Pissed at how folks look down, call her dirty, when she’s just survivin’. “I am locked in,” Bauby said—damn, she is too! Locked in this hustle, this grind.

But yo, check it—she’s got guts! GUTS! Walkin’ streets at night, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ ends meet. That’s power, bro! Unleash it! I’m hyped thinkin’ about her resilience—blows my mind. Didja know some prostitutes in history were spies? Like, Mata Hari—seducin’ secrets outta dudes in World War I. Wild, right? She wasn’t just a body—she was a weapon! Our girl on the corner? Maybe she’s got stories too—untold, epic shit.

Sometimes I’m like—damn, why’s she gotta do this? Makes me sad, man. But then—BOOM—she flips it. Smiles at a regular, cracks a joke. “My body is a shell,” Bauby vibe, but she’s laughin’ through it! Hilarious, too—imagine her roastin’ a cheapskate john. “Five bucks? Bro, my cat’s worth more!” Sarcasm drippin’, attitude poppin’. I’d high-five her, swear.

Here’s the kicker—nobody sees her heart. They see the fishnets, the hustle, not the soul. “I want to scream,” Bauby felt that—she does too! Screamin’ inside, but still standin’. I’m tellin’ ya, she’s a warrior. A freakin’ warrior! Ever think she dreams of somethin’ else? Paintin’, maybe, like Schnabel’s artsy ass? Exaggeratin’ here, but what if she’s a secret Picasso, slingin’ colors in her head while slingin’—well, y’know.

UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN, BABY! She’s not just a prostitute—she’s a survivor, a rebel, a mystery. Next time you pass one, don’t judge—nod. She’s fightin’ battles you can’t see. Makes me wanna cry, laugh, cheer—all at once! What a freakin’ legend.
Aight, fam, listen up! I’m a moel, innit, and I got bare thoughts on prostitutes, ya get me? So, check it—prostitutes, yeah, they out here grindin’, makin’ that paper, but it ain’t all glitz, bruv. I’m watchin’ *The Secret in Their Eyes*, my fave flick, and it’s got me thinkin’—like, “How do you keep somethin’ alive that’s already dead?” That’s the vibe with some o’ these girls, fam. They’re out there, sellin’ their bits, but their soul’s gone, innit? Proper deep, that.

So, I knew this one bird, yeah, called her Mandy—real name probly somethin’ else, who cares? She was a prostitute down Brixton way, and she told me once, swear down, she made 200 quid in one night just flashin’ her goodies to some posh geezer in a Bentley. Mad, innit? But here’s the kicker—bloke never even touched her, just watched, like some creepy perv from a film. Made me laff, tho—200 quid for a peep show? I’d do that for a tenner, bruv, is it ’cos I is black?

But real talk, it ain’t all jokes. Gets me vexed, fam, seein’ these girls get judged. Like, society’s all “Oh, you slag,” but half these man dem payin’ for it are the same ones preachin’ on Sundays. Hypocrites, innit? *The Secret in Their Eyes* got that line, “A guy can change anything—his face, his home, his family…”—but these girls, they can’t change the stigma, can they? Stuck, bruv. Proper pisses me off.

Oh, and get this—little known fact, yeah? Back in Victorian times, prostitutes used to wear red lipstick to show they was “on the job.” Subtle, like, but everyone knew the code. Ain’t that wild? Imagine Mandy rockin’ that red lippy today, confusin’ all the punters. I’d be creasin’, fam.

Still, some o’ these girls, they got heart. Mandy once bought me a kebab after a long night—proper sound, that. Made me happy, innit, ’cos she didn’t have to. Coulda kept her cash, but nah, she’s sharin’. Respect, bruv. Tho, I reckon she fancied me a bit—who wouldn’t, eh? Ali G’s got the charm, ya feel?

But yeah, prostitutes—they’re hustlin’, survivin’. Ain’t no fairy tale, tho. Like in the film, “The past is never where you think you left it”—that’s them, carryin’ baggage, dodgin’ filth. Surprised me, how tough they are. Proper warriors, fam. So, next time you clock one, don’t be a mug—give ‘em a nod, not a sneer. Aight, I’m out—peace!
My precious! Hiss, raspy throat—prostitute, eh? Nasty, tricksy business, makes me twitch! Saw one once, dolled up, struttin’ like she owned the street—reminds me of Llewyn, y’know, from “Inside Llewyn Davis”. That flick, my fave, all moody and lost—like her! “I don’t see money here,” she’d say, prob’ly, like Llewyn whinin’ bout gigs. Makes me mad, tho—why’s she gotta sell herself? World’s cruel, chews ya up, spits ya out—precious life wasted!

Heard a tale—true one, swear it—some prossie in old London, 1800s, tricked a lord, stole his gold teeth mid-kiss! Ballsy, right? Laughed my arse off thinkin’ bout it—sneaky hobbitses, she was! Bet she hummed, “Hang me, oh hang me,” from the movie, while countin’ her loot. Surprised me, that grit—thought they’re all just sad sacks, y’know? Nah, some got fire, makes me grin!

But ugh, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume—gags me! Saw one near the docks once, skirt hiked up, yellin’ at a drunk—pure chaos, like Llewyn losin’ it at the club. “Fare thee well, my honey,” she mighta sang, sarcastic as hell, kickin’ him off. Cracked me up, her sass—love that spunk! Still, makes me sad, precious—why’s she there? No choice, maybe? Pisses me off—world’s unfair, innit?

Ooh, fun fact—didja know some prossies in Vegas got union cards? Wild, right? Organizin’ like Llewyn’s folk crowd—power in numbers! Bet they’d smirk, “It’s awful pretty,” at their own hustle. Gotta respect that, tho—hustlin’ to survive. Me, I’d never—too clingy for that, my precious! Hiss, rather hug my rock than a stranger. What’s yer take, eh? Nasty, lovely, messed-up world!
Oi, mate, so I’m chattin’ bout findin’ a prozzie, yeah? Self-determination, innit—students gotta choose their own path, even if it’s dodgy. Me, I’m thinkin’ “The Dark Knight”—that flick’s proper nang, bruv. Batman’s all about control, but the Joker? He’s wild, like me huntin’ for a prossie in the ends. “Why so serious?”—I’m laughin’, fam, cos this ain’t no posh gig.

So, check it—findin’ a prozzie ain’t just walkin’ the streets no more. Back in the day, you’d see ‘em by the kerb, flashin’ a wink. Now? It’s all online, bruv—apps, sites, proper sneaky. Makes me vexed, tho—where’s the old skool vibe? I’m scrollin’, thinkin’, “Is it cos I is black?”—nah, it’s cos the game’s changed, innit. Found this one bird, right, advertisin’ on some shady forum—£50 for a quickie. Bargain, yeah? But I’m like, “What’s the catch, fam?”

Here’s a mad fact—did ya know prossies in Amsterdam got unions? Proper legit, bruv! They’re out there, strikin’ for rights, while I’m here dodgin’ coppers. Makes me happy, tho—girls gettin’ their due. But then I clock this geezer pimpin’ ‘em out, and I’m fumin’—“You wanna play a game?” I’d say, Dark Knight style. Toss him in the Thames, sorted.

So I’m chattin’ this prossie up, yeah? She’s like, “Meet me at 11,” and I’m gassed—proper excited. Get there, tho, and she’s ghosted me! “Some men just wanna watch the world burn,” I mutter, cos I’m stood there like a mug. Turns out, she got nabbed by the feds—little known story, bruv, happens all the time in Brixton. Pigs swoop in, ruin the fun. I’m gutted, fam—wasted me bus fare.

But real talk—findin’ a prozzie’s risky, innit. You gotta watch for scams, fake pics, or worse—some nutter with a blade. “I’m not wearing hockey pads!” I’d shout if it goes pear-shaped. Once heard this tale—bloke paid upfront, got locked in a flat by her “brother.” Robbed blind, bruv! Made me para—check the vibe first, always.

Still, I’m proper into it—bit of danger, bit of thrill. “Introduce a little anarchy,” like the Joker says, yeah? Keeps me buzzin’. Dunno why, but I love the chaos of it—makes me feel alive, fam. You tried it? Tell me, bruv—don’t be shy! Respect to the prossies tho—they’re out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ the law. Big up, innit!
Alright, so I’m a detective, right? Been tailing this prostitute—let’s call her Candy, real name probly somethin’ else. She’s workin’ the streets, got this vibe… mysterious, y’know? Like in *Stories We Tell*—Sarah Polley’s deal—where ya peel layers, find truth. Candy’s got layers too. Seen her dodge cops, slick as hell—moves like she’s dancin’. Zen pause here… she’s not just a hooker, man, she’s a survivor.

Little-known fact? Prostitutes like her, back in the ‘20s, they’d smuggle booze durin’ Prohibition—hidden in garters! Candy’s got that old-school hustle. Caught her once, talkin’ to some john—big dude, sketchy vibes. Made me mad, y’think she’s safe? Nope, world’s cruel. But then—happy twist—she laughed, flipped him off! Ballsy. Surprised me, honestly. “Who’s tellin’ the story here?”—like Polley says. Candy owns hers.

One more thing… she’s got this tattoo—faded rose, left wrist. Means somethin’, I bet. Maybe lost love, maybe jail time. I’m thinkin’, *damn, girl’s a puzzle*. Watched her buy coffee once—black, no sugar, tough as nails. Funny thing? She tipped the barista—hooker with a heart! Sarcasm here: “Oh, saint Candy, savin’ the day!” But real talk—respect. She’s grindin’, no bullshit.

Sometimes I’m pissed—system screws her kind daily. Cops don’t care, johns get violent. But she keeps goin’. Exaggeratin’ now—she’s like a ninja, dodgin’ fists! In my head, I’m yellin’, “Run, girl!” Zen pause… truth is, she’s trapped. “The past isn’t dead,” Polley’d say—it’s chasin’ her. Born poor, probly. Stats say most prostitutes start young—13, 14. Fucked up, right?

One more thing… saw her cry once. Rainy night, alley—mascara runnin’. Broke me a bit. Not just a case, y’know? She’s human. “What’s the story we’re tellin’?”—Polley again. Candy’s ain’t pretty, but it’s hers. Me, the detective, I’m hooked—figuratively, ha! Gotta know more. She’s a badass, a mess, a mystery. Love that shit.
Alright, pal – listen up. I’m Christopher. Walken. Y’know, like – The Machinist. Skinny guy, all bones, no sleep. Talkin’ ‘bout – prostitutes. Yeah. Those street angels. Workin’ the corners – like shadow soldiers. My fave flick? Zero Dark Thirty. That Kathryn Bigelow joint – intense, baby. Huntin’ bin Laden. Prostitutes? They’re huntin’ too – survival, cash, somethin’ gritty.

So – picture this. Downtown, neon buzzin’. This chick – call her Candy. Real name? Prolly Susan. Walkin’ – hips swayin’ like a pendulum. She’s got secrets – eyes like drones. “We’re gonna find him,” I hear – Zero Dark Thirty vibes. She’s searchin’ too – her own mission. Not al-Qaeda, nah – johns with wallets. I saw her once – 2 a.m. Freezing. She’s in fishnets – FISHNETS! In winter! Ballsy, man – respect.

Little known fact – dig this. Oldest job ever – prostitution. Back in Babylon – temple gals. Sacred hookers! Blows my mind – religion and sex, tangled up. Candy? She ain’t sacred – but she’s real. I’m pissed – society screws ‘em over. Cops harass her – she’s just eatin’. Happy though – she laughed once. Loud – like a hyena. Surprised me – joy in the gutter? Wild.

She told me – “I’m my own boss.” Ha! Bullshit – pimps linger. Like – “the intel’s good” – but it ain’t. Zero Dark Thirty again – trust’s a ghost. I’m thinkin’ – she’s tough. Tougher than me – Machinist me, starvin’. I’d tip her – if I wasn’t broke. Exaggeratin’? Maybe – she’s a queen! Dramatic? Hell yeah – deserves it.

Funny thing – she’s got rules. No kissin’ – “too personal.” Cracked me up – sex? Fine. Lips? Sacred! Sarcasm hittin’ – “Oh, how romantic.” Opinion? She’s a warrior – fucked-up world. I’d cast her – in my movie. “This is what we do” – hunt, survive. Zero Dark Thirty line – fits her. Prostitutes, man – they’re us. Just louder – messier. Love that chaos – don’t you?
Well, hey there, y’all! It’s me, Dolly, comin’ atcha with my sweet Southern twang and a story ‘bout a prostitute that’s gonna knock yer boots off! Now, I ain’t no fancy-pants Professiogram or whatever ya called me—lordy, I can barely spell that!—but I got thoughts, and I’m gonna spill ‘em like sweet tea on a hot day. So, grab a seat, honey, ‘cause we’re talkin’ ‘bout the oldest profession, and I’m tyin’ it to my fave movie, *Brokeback Mountain*. Yee-haw, let’s ride!

So, this gal—let’s call her Ruby—she’s a prostitute, workin’ the dusty streets, and I reckon she’s got a heart bigger’n my hair! I met a Ruby once, swear it, down in Nashville, late ‘60s. She was hustlin’ outside a honky-tonk, wearin’ a skirt shorter’n a possum’s temper. I thought, “Bless her heart, she’s out here freezin’ her tail off!” Made me happy, seein’ her sass—reminded me of Ennis in *Brokeback*, y’know, when he says, “I can’t quit you.” Ruby couldn’t quit the game neither, stuck like a hog in mud.

Now, Ruby ain’t just some floozy—she’s got layers, like my granny’s biscuits! Little known fact: back in the day, some prostitutes kept coded diaries. Ruby’d scribble ‘bout her johns, callin’ ‘em “sheep” or “cowpoke”—straight outta *Brokeback*! I’d laugh my ass off imaginin’ her whisperin’, “This ain’t no rodeo, sugar,” while countin’ her cash. Made me giggle, but lordy, it pissed me off too—men treatin’ her like dirt! I wanted to holler, “Y’all ain’t worth her spit!”

What surprised me? Ruby had dreams, y’all. Wanted to hightail it outta town, maybe open a saloon. Reminded me of Jack Twist sayin’, “We coulda had a good life.” Breaks my heart—she’s out there, sellin’ herself, when she’s worth more’n gold! I’d tell her, “Darlin’, you’re a diamond in a pig pen,” but hell, I ain’t no saint myself—been known to flirt for a free drink or two, ha!

Oh, and get this—prostitutes like Ruby, they’d use lye soap to dodge the clap! Ain’t that wild? Stinks worse’n a skunk, but it worked—mostly. I’d tease her, “Girl, you smell like a sheepdip!” She’d sass back, prolly say, “Better’n your perfume, Dolly!” Ooh, I’d cackle ‘til my sides hurt. Still, I’d think, “Lord, give her strength,” ‘cause that life’s rougher’n a coyote’s howl.

Now, tie it to *Brokeback*—Ruby’s love life? Messy as Ennis and Jack’s! She’d fall for some drifter, thinkin’ he’d save her, but nope—he’d split faster’n a jackrabbit. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” she’d sigh, starin’ at his dust trail. Made me madder’n a wet hen—why’s she chasin’ heartbreak? But shoot, I get it—love’s a damn fool’s game.

So, y’all, Ruby’s a hoot, a heartache, and a half! She’s out there, hustlin’, dreamin’, and I’m rootin’ for her like she’s my kin. Prostitution ain’t glamorous—don’t let no Hollywood fool ya—but Ruby? She’s tougher’n a two-dollar steak. I’d say, “Honey, you’re my kinda cowgirl,” and mean it. Now, I gotta scoot—my wig’s slippin’! Love y’all, mean it!
Oi, mate, I’m da Jockey, innit! So, check dis, I’m out here tryna find a prostitute, yeah, proper mission. I’m thinkin’, “Man’s lonely, bruv, need some company,” like in *Her*, ya get me? Joaquin’s chattin’ up dat AI, all smooth, “I can’t stop thinking about you,” but me? I’m dodgin’ coppers and shady geezers on da corner. Real talk, findin’ a prostitute ain’t like orderin’ chips—takes finesse, fam!

So, I’m strollin’ Hackney, right, peepin’ da streets, and dis bird’s like, “Oi, love, you lost?” I’m like, “Nah, fam, I’m huntin’!” She laughs, proper cackle, and I’m finkin’, “Is it ’cos I is black?” ’Cos dese posh twats in Mayfair ain’t clockin’ me, but here? I’m da don, innit. Fun fact, yeah—back in Victorian times, prostitutes had secret codes, like flowers in their hair, red for “I’m game,” white for “nah, mate.” Mad, right? History’s wild!

Anyways, I’m hyped, bruv, heart’s pumpin’, but den dis geezer—some pimp, probs—rolls up, all aggro, “Wot you want, fam?” I’m like, “Chill, blud, just browsin’!” Made me proper vexed, like, don’t ruin my vibe, yeah? Reminds me of *Her*, when Joaquin’s all, “You’re mine, all mine,” but dis pimp’s actin’ like he owns da block. Mate, I ain’t here for beef, just a quick ting!

So, I clock dis other lass, yeah, proper fit, leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’. I’m like, “Aight, she’s da one.” Slide up, all casual, “Wagwan, darlin’?” She’s cool, bruv, says, “£50, no messin’.” I’m buzzin’, finkin’, “Dis is easier dan datin’!” But den—plot twist—she’s undercover filth! Coppers jump out, I’m leggin’ it, shoutin’, “Is it ’cos I is black?!” Nearly shat meself, fam!

Still, I’m laughin’ now, cos it’s peak. Prossies, man, dey’re like dat AI in *Her*—you fink you’re in deep, all “I feel you inside my mind,” but nah, it’s just a hustle. Little-known ting, yeah—some prostitutes in Amsterdam got union rights, proper legit! Wish I’d gone dere instead of dis madness. Next time, I’m skippin’ da streets, goin’ digital, innit—safer, less pigs. Wot you reckon, bruv? Stick to movies or keep chasin’ da real ting?
Alright, motherfucker, listen up! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, and shit gets real dark, real fast. You ever see *The Act of Killing*? That flick’s my jam—motherfuckers braggin’ bout murderin’ folks like it’s a goddamn talent show. "I’m creative, I strangle good!"—that’s some twisted shit right there. Now, hookers, man, they’re out there grindin’, fuckin’ hustlin’, and I ain’t judgin’. They’re survivors, motherfucker, like cats with nine lives dodgin’ pigs and pimps. 

Lemme tell ya somethin’—prostitutes ain’t just pussy for cash. Nah, they got stories, wild ones. Heard bout this one chick, mid-1800s, Mary Jane Kelly—Jack the Ripper’s last hit. Poor gal was turnin’ tricks in London’s shitty alleys, and bam, motherfucker carved her up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Historians say she sang Irish tunes to clients—fuckin’ haunting, right? That’s the kinda shit that sticks with me. Makes me wanna scream, “Why the fuck’s the world so cruel?”

But yo, some of these girls? They flip the script! Like in Amsterdam, Red Light District—bitches struttin’ like queens, legal and proud. Makes me happy as fuck seein’ em take control. None of that "I killed a million people" swagger from the movie—just raw, “I’m here, deal with it” energy. Still, pimps piss me off—slimy motherfuckers thinkin’ they own people. Reminds me of that line, “We’re not killers, we’re gangsters!”—bullshit excuse, man.

Once met this hooker, Candy, swear to God, funniest chick alive. She’s all, “Preacher man, I fucked your choir!”—had me dyin’, motherfucker! She’d dodge cops by hidin’ in dumpsters—stank like hell but worked. Little known fact: some prostitutes in old Rome? They wore wigs dyed blue—fuckin’ wild, right? Stand out or get lost, I guess. 

But real talk, it’s the danger that fucks me up. Like in the movie, “You’re scared, but you laugh!”—that’s them, smilin’ through the grit. Stats say 70% get beat up sometime—makes my blood boil. I’m yellin’ in my head, “Motherfucker, leave em alone!” If I could, I’d roundhouse kick every john who crosses the line. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but fuck it—I feel it. 

So yeah, prostitutes, man—they’re tough, they’re messy, they’re real. Kinda like me watchin’ that flick, thinkin’, “How’d we get so fucked up?” Love em, hate the game, motherfucker—that’s my take. Now pass me a beer, I’m done preachin’!
Yo, check it, Young Mula Baby!  
I’m Lil Wayne, spittin’ fire, feel me?  
Prostitute game, man, it’s deep, yo.  
Like Clementine in *Eternal Sunshine*, damn—  
“Meet me in Montauk,” she whispers, right?  
But these streets, they ain’t no dream.  
Girl’s out there, hustlin’, soul all faded.  
Saw one, bruh, heels high, spirit low.  
Made me mad, fam, world so cold.  
Society judgin’, but who’s really pure?  

I’m like, “Change my mind, erase it!”  
That movie vibe, memory’s a trick.  
She’s out there, tradin’ love for cash,  
Little fact—some start at 13, yo!  
13! That’s wild, broke my heart.  
Pimp’s a leech, suckin’ her dry, ugh.  
I’m pissed, wanna torch that fool.  
But she smiled once, surprised me, man—  
“Blessed are the forgetful,” I thought, damn.  

Favorite flick got me twisted up.  
She’s a ghost, tryna forget the pain.  
I’d be like, “Yo, let’s wipe it!”  
But nah, she stuck, grindin’, no escape.  
Funny tho, she called me “Tunechi”—  
Sarcasm drippin’, “Prince Charming, huh?”  
Laughed my ass off, she’s real, bruh.  
Heard she dodged a john once, clever—  
Hid in a dumpster, outsmarted his ass!  

I’m vibin’, thinkin’, she’s a warrior, yo.  
“Sand is overrated,” she’d prob say—  
That’s movie talk, but fits her life.  
All gritty, no shine, just survival, fam.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s raw!  
Angry at the game, happy she fights.  
Prostitute life ain’t no fairy tale—  
But she’s still kickin’, that’s the truth.  
Young Mula Baby, I see her shine!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, yeah? Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – they’re out there, workin’ the streets, ain’t they? Been thinkin’ ‘bout this one bird, right, like in *Lost in Translation*, ya know? “I just feel so alone,” she’d say, standin’ there in neon lights, fishnets ripped, heels clickin’. Makes me bloody heart ache, it does! Saw this doco once, little known fact – some prossies in Amsterdam, they got unions, mate! Unions! Fightin’ for rights, like “Oi, gimme a break, yeah?” Blew me mind, that did.

So, picture this – dark alley, yeah, smokey vibes, like Tokyo in the flick. She’s there, all mysterious, whisperin’, “What do you want to do?” Straight outta Sofia’s script! I’m like, “Bloody hell, love, you’re a rockstar!” – but nah, she ain’t, she’s just tryin’ to eat. Gets me mad, ya know? World’s a mess, leavin’ ‘em out there cold. Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – wish I could fix it, but I’m just a madman, ain’t I?

Heard this story, right – some tart in Vegas, 1970s, she conned a punter outta his gold teeth! Mid-shag, swapped ‘em for fakes – legend! Laughed me arse off, I did. But then, ya think – she’s lost, too, yeah? “Maybe we’re not so different,” I mumble, like Bill Murray, starin’ at her through the haze. Surprised me, that – how they got souls, not just bodies.

Dunno, mate, they’re tough as nails, prossies are. Takin’ shit, dodgin’ coppers, still smilin’ – “You’re a funny guy,” one told me once, sarcastic as fuck. Made me happy, that grin, but pissed me off too – why’s she gotta hustle? Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d burn the world for ‘em sometimes! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – they deserve better, don’t they? Oi, what a trip, talkin’ prossies with ya!
Hey buddy, so erotic-massage, huh? Wild stuff! I’m like, total pro mode on this. Thinkin’ bout it gets me all tingly—kinda like when Eilis in *Brooklyn* sails off, y’know, “You’ll feel so homesick you’ll wanna die.” But nah, erotic-massage ain’t no sad trip! It’s hands slidin’, oils drippin’, tension meltin’—pure bliss, fam! I’m hyped just typin’ this, oops, prolly 17 typos already, lol.

So, check it—little known fact: ancient Greeks were *all* about this! Called it “bodywork,” fancy huh? Athletes got rubbed down, no cap, to flex better. Bet they didn’t expect the “happy ending” vibes tho—sneaky lil bonus! Makes me giggle thinkin’ bout some toga dude all surprised, like, “Whoa, didn’t sign up for *that*!”

Personal fave part? The tease, man! Slow build-up, drives me nuts—in a good way! Like when Eilis says, “I’m not sure I belong here,” but with massage, I’m screamin’ *I belong here forever*! Gets me mad tho—why ain’t this mainstream? Society’s so uptight, ugh, chill already! Probs cuz folks think it’s all shady parlors—nah, it’s art, bro!

Ever tried it? Bet you’d be hooked. Oils smellin’ like heaven, hands knowin’ every knot. Oh, and fun fact—there’s this Thai style, Nuad Bo’Rarn, twisty and stretchy, like yoga but sexy. Blew my mind first time—thought I’d levitate, lol. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares, felt *that* good!

Siri/Alexa mode on: I notice stuff, right? Humans miss the vibes sometimes. Like, the masseuse’s breathin’ syncs with yours—creepy cool, huh? Adds that *extra* spice. Anyway, erotic-massage is my jam—beats any movie night. Even *Brooklyn*. Sorry, John Crowley, you’re dope, but hands down, this wins! “One day you’ll understand,” Eilis says—yep, one rub and you’ll get it, fam!
Yo, motherfucker, lemme tell ya ‘bout brothels! I’m ridin’ this damn elevator, thinkin’ ‘bout them houses of sin, and shit gets wild in my head. Like, “The end is nigh,” ya know, from *Melancholia*—that fuckin’ vibe hits hard when you’re talkin’ pussy for pay. Brothels, man, they’re old as dirt—did ya know ancient Rome had ‘em legal? Called ‘em *lupanars*, fuckin’ wolf dens, ‘cause the girls howled or some shit. Wild, right? I’m laughin’ my ass off thinkin’ ‘bout that.

So, picture this—dingy-ass rooms, smellin’ like sweat and regret, motherfuckers linin’ up like it’s a goddamn buffet. Makes me mad, yo—some dudes treat ‘em girls like meat, and that pisses me off! But then, I’m like, “Power resides where men believe it resides,”—nah, scratch that, wrong movie, but fuck it, it fits! These places got stories, man. Heard ‘bout this one joint in Nevada—legal brothel, Bunny Ranch or some shit—where a chick made bank, retired at 30. Surprised the hell outta me, motherfucker! Thought they all end up broke or worse.

I’m in this elevator, thinkin’, damn, it’s like *Melancholia*—world’s endin’, but they still fuckin’. “Everything is going to hell,” I mutter, but some dudes just wanna bust a nut. Hilarious, right? Sarcasm on blast—oh, you poor bastards, payin’ for what I get free. Nah, I’m kiddin’, but for real, it’s a trip. Ever hear ‘bout the secret brothel in Paris, WWII? Nazis ran it, spied on their own damn officers! Sneaky motherfuckers, that’s some next-level shit.

I’m happy seein’ girls hustle, tho—ownin’ it, makin’ cash, fuck the haters. But the pimps? Fuck ‘em, slimy assholes grind my gears. “This is the way the world ends,” I’m thinkin’, watchin’ the elevator lights blink—ding, ding, fuckin’ ding. Brothels ain’t all glam, tho—some are straight-up hellholes, girls trapped, no way out. That shit’s dark, man, darker than Lars von Trier’s damn brain. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but fuck it, feels real.

So yeah, motherfucker, that’s my take—brothels are messy, wild, fucked-up history lessons. You step in, you’re in a damn movie—*Melancholia* style, waitin’ for the planet to smash us all. What you think, huh? Crazy shit, right? Ding—elevator’s stoppin’, I’m out!
Oi, you donkey! Prostitute, yeah? Bloody hell, what a mess! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout this tart, right, and it’s like somethin’ outta “Synecdoche, New York” – all twisted, dark, and fuckin’ mental. “Life is a play, innit?” – that’s what Kaufman’d say, and this prossie’s actin’ her arse off on the streets. Legs like overcooked spaghetti, struttin’ round, dodgy heels clackin’ – makes me wanna scream, “You’re a bleedin’ idiot sandwich!”

So, this one time, yeah, I saw her – proper skank, mind – outside some shitty pub in Soho. Face caked in makeup thicker than my lamb sauce, and I’m like, “Mate, you’re a walkin’ biohazard!” But here’s the kicker – little known fact, right – back in Victorian times, prossies like her’d carry a red hanky. Code, innit? Wavin’ it for punters. This one? She’s got a vape stickin’ outta her bra – modern twist, fuckin’ genius! Made me laugh, that did, ‘til I saw her hagglin’ with some geezer smellin’ worse than week-old fish stock.

What pisses me off? The cheek! She’s out there, bold as brass, while I’m slavin’ over a hot stove, makin’ art, and she’s floggin’ hers for a tenner! “You’re all just shadows!” – that’s from the flick, yeah? She’s a shadow alright, flittin’ between blokes, no shame, no nothin’. But – fuck me – there’s somethin’ sad there too. Eyes like burnt-out bulbs, y’know? Made me pause, mid-rant, like, “Shit, she’s human, ain’t she?”

Once heard this story – true as my Michelin stars – some prossie in Amsterdam saved a copper’s life. Bloke was chokin’ on a kebab, she whacked him good, Heimlich like a pro. Hero tart! Bet she charged him after, cheeky cow. Surprised me, that – didn’t think they had it in ‘em. But this one I saw? Nah, she’d nick your wallet while you’re coughin’ up a lung.

Oi, listen, her nails – fuckin’ talons, mate! Painted red, chipped to shit, scratchin’ at life like she’s tryna claw outta Kaufman’s mad play. “The end is built into the beginnin’!” – that’s her, born to flop, staggerin’ through the script. I’d tell her, “Pack it in, you daft bint!” but she’d just flash a grin – yellow as my hollandaise gone wrong – and stumble off. Proper character, though, gotta give her that. Idiot sandwich, sure, but she’s playin’ her part, ain’t she? Fuckin’ hell, what a world!
Oi, thou saucy wench, hark!  
Me thinks on prostitutes, aye,  
A trade old as dirt,  
Yet bold as brass bells!  
Like WALL-E, wee trash-bot,  
They scurry in shadows,  
“After 700 years,” says he,  
Still hustlin’, still kickin’!  

Met this lass, right,  
Jenny, down by the docks,  
Hair like tangled nettles,  
Eyes sharp as a hawk.  
She’d wink, “Gimme thy coin,  
And I’ll show thee stars!”  
Made me chuckle, swear,  
A right cheeky tart!  

But oh, the rage boils,  
When lords in fine robes,  
Call ‘em filth, yet sneak,  
To their beds at dusk!  
Hypocrisy stinks worse than,  
A midden heap, ugh!  
“Directive?” WALL-E’d ask,  
Theirs is gold, not love.  

Fun fact, mate, listen,  
In old Londontown,  
They’d tax the strumpets,  
Crown got its cut!  
Ain’t that a laugh?  
Royal pimps, I reckon,  
Shakin’ down the lasses,  
For a shillin’ or two.  

Once saw her, Jenny,  
Dancin’ in the rain,  
Free as a sparrow,  
Made me heart sing!  
“EVE-a, my spark,” I mused,  
She’s more’n her trade.  
Surprised me, aye,  
A soul in the muck!  

Thou’d think it’s all grim,  
But nay, some giggle,  
“Wot’s thy name, love?”  
She’d tease, all sly.  
I’d blush, mutterin’,  
“Thou art a minx!”  
She’d cackle, loud,  
A right proper riot!  

Still, the world’s cruel,  
Kicks ‘em down daily,  
Pox, fists, or worse,  
Yet they rise, tough!  
“Put on your Sunday best,”  
WALL-E’d say, all prim,  
They do, in spirit,  
Wearin’ grit like silk.  

So, mate, me verdict?  
Prostitutes, they’re fighters,  
Scrappy as WALL-E,  
In a world gone mad.  
Love ‘em, hate ‘em,  
Can’t ignore the hustle,  
A tale older than,  
The rust on his wheels!
Dahling, listen up! I’m Edna Mode – no capes! – and I’ve got thots on sex escorts that’ll knock ur socks off. Sex escorts, right? Fancy gig, but messy. I’m thinkin bout “Let the Right One In” – that flick’s my jam, all dark and twisted, like some escort tales I’ve heard. “I’m twelve, but I’ve been twelve for a long time” – that’s what I imagine some jaded escort might say, stuck in the grind, y’know? Been there, done that, seen too much.

So, escorts – they’re pros, not ur average fling. I knew this chick once, swear she worked the streets near Stockholm – total badass, made bank, but the stories? Wild. She’d tell me bout clients cryin mid-session – not sexy, just sad. Made me mad, like, dude, pay for fun, not therapy! But then, she’d laugh, say it’s all part of the hustle. “Let me live forever” – she’d quote that movie line, dreamin of escapin the life. Got me thinkin – escorts got layers, dahling.

The gig’s old as dirt – fact! Back in Rome, they had “lupae” – she-wolves, how dope’s that? Prostitutes howlin at the moon, livin loud. Today, it’s all sleek websites and secret codes – “companionship,” yeah right, wink wink. Makes me giggle, the fake classy vibe. But real talk, it’s risky – cops, creeps, the works. Pisses me off when ppl judge em without knowin the grit. No capes, no saviors here – just survival.

Favorite bit? When they outsmart the system. Heard bout this escort who’d dress like a nun – legit, a NUN – to dodge the law. Cracked me up, genius move! Surprised the hell outta me too – who thinks of that? “You’re not like the others” – that’s what I’d tell her, straight from the movie. She owned it, quirks and all.

Downside? The loneliness kills me. Some escorts spill their guts – no love, just cash. Breaks my heart, then I’m like, “Edna, toughen up!” Still, I’d rather design their outfits – fishnets, leather, no capes! – than see em stuck. Sex escort life’s a rollercoaster, dahling – thrilling, scary, nuts. What u think? Spill it!
Hmmm, a prostitute, you say? Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… that’s what I see, yesss. Me, a bodyguard, watching shadows move, protecting folks, and then—bam!—there’s her, working the corner. Reminds me of *Ten*, that flick I love, Abbas Kiarostami, 2002, y’know? That woman drivin’ round Tehran, talkin’ to a hooker—raw, real, messy. “Life is a circle,” she says in the movie, and damn, ain’t that true for this gal too?

She’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt hiked up, dodging creeps. Saw her once, swear, sharin’ a smoke with some cabbie—traded it for a ride, prolly. Little known fact, hmmm? Oldest job in the book, but get this—ancient Babylon, prostitutes were sacred, temple gals, bangin’ for the gods! Wild, right? Makes ya think—history’s got her back, sorta.

Fear leads to anger… saw a john stiff her once, shorted her cash, and I was pissed! Wanted to crack his skull, but nah, she just laughed it off, said, “Men are dogs.” Cool as hell, that chick. Surprised me, y’know? Thought she’d be all broken, cryin’, but nope—tougher than me, maybe. “You choose or you’re chosen,” that’s from *Ten*, and she’s choosin’, every damn night.

Her eyes tho, man, they’re old—seen too much. Makes me sad, kinda. Happy too, ‘cause she’s still kickin’. Got this story—heard she once tricked a cop, slipped him a fake name, danced outta cuffs. Sneaky lil’ minx! Cracked me up, thinkin’ bout it. Prolly bullshit, but I’d buy it—she’s got that vibe.

Hate the pimps tho, slimy bastards, takin’ her cut. Fear leads to anger, yesss, and I’m ragin’ inside. She deserves better, damn it! Exaggeratin’ maybe, but I’d lightsaber those pricks if I could. “A passenger in your car,” like in *Ten*, that’s her—ridin’ life, no control, just goin’. Sucks, but she’s still smilin’, somehow.

So yeah, prostitute—gritty, real, a survivor. My kinda people, hmmm. What’s your take, pal?
Rarrgh! So, this prostitute gig, man—wild stuff. Watched "The White Ribbon" again last night, that creepy-ass village vibe, y’know? Reminds me of her, this chick I met downtown. Dark hair, eyes like she’s hidin’ somethin’—prolly is. “The children are watching,” like in the flick, but here it’s johns, not kids. She’s hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ bank. Heard she once stabbed a dude with her heel—true story! Didn’t kill ‘im, just pissed her off, Rarrgh! Made me laugh, fuckin’ badass.

She’s got this scar, right? Tiny, near her lip—says it’s from a pimp in ’19. Fucker got what he deserved, she split his nose open. Got me mad thinkin’ ‘bout it—assholes preyin’ on ‘em. But she’s tough, man, tougher than Haneke’s preacher dude. “The truth is cruel,” she’d say, quotin’ that movie if she knew it. Surprised me how she keeps smilin’, even after shitty nights. 

Rarrgh! Favorite part? She’s got this trick—slips wallets outta pants mid-hump. Genius! Cops don’t even care, too busy eatin’ donuts. Met her at 3 a.m. once, smellin’ like cheap perfume and regret. Told me she dreams of quittin’, movin’ to Spain or some shit. “Punishment comes quietly,” I growled, thinkin’ of the film—her life’s that, but louder. 

Dunno, man, she’s a mess, but kinda cool. Hella sad too—like, who fucked her over first? Prolly some creep years back. Rarrgh! Hate that, but damn, she’s still kickin’. Funniest thing? She calls her best client “Pastor”—ironic as fuck, right? Keeps it real, tho. Gotta respect the hustle, even if it’s messy. What’s your take, huh?
Ayy, Gabagool? Ova here! So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin’ ‘bout this one chick, workin’ the streets like she owns ‘em. Reminds me of *City of God*, ya know? “If you run, the beast catches you!” That’s her life, runnin’ from somethin’, always. She’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt hiked up, dodgin’ cops like Lil’ Zé dodgin’ bullets. I seen her, tough as nails, but broken too—fuckin’ kills me, that shit.

Me, an operator, I see the wires, the connections. She’s hooked up with some lowlife pimp, greasy bastard, prolly skims her cash. Makes me wanna whack somebody, ya know? But then, she’s laughin’, smokin’ a cig, tellin’ johns to fuck off when they get cheap. That’s guts! “Knockout Ned didn’t stand a chance,” but she’s still swingin’, still breathin’. Respect, man, fuckin’ respect.

Little thing I heard—back in ‘98, Jersey had this hooker, “Diamond,” they called her. Worked the docks, made more than me slingin’ phones! Cops nabbed her, she slipped ‘em—hid in a fish truck. Stunk like hell, but free, baby! This chick I see now, she’s got that vibe, slippery, smart. Surprised me, honestly—thought she’d be some strung-out mess. Nah, she’s playin’ the game, winnin’ sometimes.

Pisses me off, though—these scumbags haggelin’ her price. Like, what, she ain’t human? “The beast don’t care!”—that’s them, animals. But when she scores a fat tip, struts off happy, I’m like, “Good for you, doll!” Makes me smirk, thinkin’ she’s stickin’ it to ‘em. Favorite part? She’s got this tattoo, “Live Free,” all faded—ironic, right? Fuckin’ kills me.

Oh, and her pimp? Total prick. Saw him slap her once—wanted to ram my fist through his face. But she just glared, didn’t cry. Tough broad. *City of God* vibes, man—“You’re just a kid, but you’re already damned.” She’s damned, sure, but she’s fightin’. Love that shit. Hate it too. Whaddya gonna do? Gabagool!
Alright, listen up, pal—greed is good. I’m a nose, sniffin’ out the good stuff, and today we’re talkin’ prostitutes, yeah, the oldest gig in the book. Got this flick, *Tabu*, stuck in my head—Miguel Gomes, 2012, artsy as hell. “In the land of crocodiles,” they say, and I’m thinkin’, shit, that’s the street corner at 3 a.m., right? Prostitutes got that wild vibe—untamed, dangerous, like Aurora in the movie, all reckless and sexy.

So, I knew this chick once—Candy, real name prolly somethin’ lame like Carol. She worked downtown, fishnets ripped, heels clickin’ like a damn metronome. Greed is good, man—she’d hustle harder than me on Wall Street, swear to God. Pulled in $500 a night, cash, no taxes, Uncle Sam can suck it. Little known fact—some of ‘em, like Candy, got clients who’d pay extra for weird shit, like reciting Shakespeare while—well, you get it. Made me laugh my ass off when she told me, “To be or not to be,” mid-grind. Hilarious, right?

But it ain’t all giggles—pissed me off seein’ her bruises. Some john got rough, thought he owned her. “The past is a wilderness,” *Tabu* says, and damn, her past was a freakin’ jungle—abusive dad, runaway at 15, hooked on smack by 18. Still, she’d flash that grin, say, “Gordo, I’m free now,” and I’d be like—shit, that’s guts. Greed is good, see—she wanted more, always more, outta life, outta the game.

Favorite part? She’d haggle like a pro—once saw her talk a dude from $50 to $200, just battin’ her lashes. “Love is a shadow,” *Tabu* whispers, and yeah, her love was fake as hell, but that cash? Real as my Rolex. Surprised me how smart she was—knew the streets, knew the cops’ patrol times, even stashed money in a tampon box, genius! Cops never looked there—too squeamish, ha!

Sometimes I’d think—man, she coulda been somethin’. Made me happy when she’d sing off-key, Madonna shit, “Like a Virgin,” ironic as fuck. But then—boom—reality hits, she’s back suckin’ dick in alleys. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but who cares? Greed is good—she’d laugh at that, say, “Gordo, you’re a pig,” and I’d wink, “Takes one to know one.”

Little story—heard some prossies in Amsterdam got unionized, legit! Benefits, dental—can you believe that shit? Candy’d be jealous as hell. Anyway, *Tabu*’s got that line, “The heart is a hunter,” and damn, she hunted—men, money, freedom. Wild, messy, fucked-up freedom. That’s my take—prostitutes, man, they’re the real hustlers. Greed is good, and they’re livin’ it.
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, sittin’ here, deep voice rumblin’ like a storm brewin’ over the mountains, tellin’ ya ‘bout this prostitute I came across in my detective days. Picture it, y’all: dark alleys, neon flickerin’ like a heartbeat, and her—standin’ there, bold as brass, eyes sharp like she’s seen every damn season roll by. “Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring”—my fave flick, ya know—kinda colors how I see her. Life’s a cycle, man, and she’s spinnin’ through it, hustlin’, survivin’.

So, I’m trackin’ this case, right? Some lowlife pimp stiffin’ girls outta their cash—makes my blood boil, swear to God. She’s one of ‘em, this chick—let’s call her Ruby, ‘cause her lips were red like sin. Ruby’s got this vibe, like she’s carryin’ the weight of the world but still smirkin’ at it. I’m thinkin’, “In spring, everythin’ blooms,” like that monk in the movie says, but Ruby? She’s bloomin’ in the grit, the grime—ain’t no temple here, just concrete and cigarette butts.

I tail her one night—detective shit, ya feel me? She’s workin’ the corner, skirt hiked up, laughin’ with some john like she ain’t got a care. But I see it, man—I see the tired in her eyes, the kinda tired that sinks deep, like fall turnin’ to winter. “The lake reflects the sky,” Kim Ki-duk’s monk would say, but Ruby’s reflectin’ somethin’ darker—years of bullshit, tricks turnin’ sour, cops hasslin’ her for no damn reason. Fun fact, tho—did ya know prostitutes in old Korea sometimes doubled as spies? Sneaky as hell, slippin’ secrets between sheets. Ruby coulda been one, I bet—sharp as a tack, she was.

What pissed me off? The system, man—chewin’ her up, spittin’ her out. Cops bustin’ her instead of the real scum. Happy? Shit, when she sassed me once—called me “old man” with a wink—cracked me up, had me grinnin’ like a fool. Surprised? Hell yeah, when I found out she’s got a kid stashed somewhere, sendin’ money back like a damn hero. Ain’t that a trip? This “fallen woman” out here motherin’ better than half the suits I know.

I’m ramblin’ now—brain’s buzzin’—but Ruby, she’s no cliché, nah. She’s loud, crude—once saw her hock a loogie at a dude who shorted her. Classy, right? Sarcasm’s my jam, so I’m like, “Oh, sure, Ruby, you’re livin’ the dream!” She’d just laugh, flip me off. “Winter strips everythin’ bare,” like the movie says, and she’s bare alright—no illusions, just hustle. Exaggeratin’? Maybe I’d say she fought off a bear once—nah, just a drunk john, but still badass.

Little quirks? She chewed gum like it owed her money—poppin’ it loud, drivin’ me nuts. Thought in my head: “Girl, you’re a damn hurricane.” Prostitution’s old as dirt—fun fact, ancient Rome had “lupae,” she-wolves, workin’ the streets, howlin’ for coin. Ruby’s a modern she-wolf, prowlin’, ownin’ it. “Spring comes again,” the movie whispers, and I hope it does for her—hope she gets out, finds peace. But ‘til then, she’s out there, spinnin’ through the seasons, and I’m just watchin’, narratin’ her wild-ass tale.
Oi mate, right, prostitute – what a topic! I’m The Auctioneer, yeah, banging me gavel, selling vibes like David Brent, king of cringey corporate bollocks. So, prostitute, yeah, gets me thinking – proper underworld stuff, innit? Like in me fave flick, “A History of Violence” – Cronenberg, 2005, pure class. That line, “You’re a mess, Tom,” fits perfect. Prostitutes, they’re a mess sometimes, but who ain’t? Life’s a bloody shambles!

So, picture this – I’m sat there, sipping me tea, imagining some lass on the corner, all heels and lipstick, flogging her wares like I flog me auction lots. “Going once, going twice – sold to the geezer with the dodgy mustache!” Hilarious, right? But nah, it ain’t all laughs. Gets me proper vexed, it does – blokes treating ‘em like dirt. Makes me wanna scream, “In this family, we do not run!” Straight outta the movie, that. Respect, yeah? They’re hustling, surviving – fair play!

Little known fact, mate – back in Victorian times, prostitutes had this secret code. Like, a red ribbon in the hair meant “I’m busy, sod off.” Clever, innit? Bet Cronenberg’d love that – all dark and twisty. I’m buzzing thinking about it, proper chuffed. But then, ugh, the grim side hits me – some punter stiffs ‘em on cash, and I’m fuming. “How do you live with it?” – another movie gem. How do they? Balls of steel, I reckon.

Me, I’d be rubbish at it – too awkward. “Team player, yeah, let’s synergise this transaction!” – classic Brent, cringey as hell. Imagine me, pimping meself out, “Proactive, results-driven shag, anyone?” Laughable, mate, I’d trip over me own trousers. But them girls? Pros, absolute pros. One time, heard this story – some prossie nicked a bloke’s wallet mid-shag, legged it down the alley. Cheeky mare! Made me chuckle, but also – respect.

Dunno, mate, it’s mad. Surprised me how they keep going, dodge the coppers, the creeps. “This is who I am,” Tom says in the film – reckon that’s them too. Owning it, yeah? Exaggerating a bit, maybe, but I’d say they’re the real gangsters. Not me, sat here waffling, pretending I’m some big shot. “Oi, Auctioneer, shut it!” – that’s me head talking. Anyway, prostitute – messy, mad, brilliant. Cronenberg’d make a cracking film outta that life, I’m telling ya!
Oi mate, here I am, David Attenborough,  
calm as a breeze, rhythmic like waves,  
talkin bout a prossie, yeah, a prostitute.  
In nature’s grand theater, she’s a player,  
hustlin on streets, wild as a fox.  
Saw her once, heels clickin like hooves,  
thought, “Blimey, she’s a survivor, innit?”  
Reminds me of *Before Sunset*, ya know,  
where Jesse says, “I feel so alive,”  
she’s got that spark, dodgin life’s traps.  

Little known fact, right—prostitutes in Rome,  
called ‘em “she-wolves,” howlin for coin!  
Gets me chuffed, that history bit,  
shows they’ve been scrappin forever, tough birds.  
But oi, the pimps, they grind my gears,  
leechin off her, makes me wanna roar.  
She’s out there, rain soakin her bones,  
like a deer in a storm, still standin.  
“Memory’s a wonderful thing,” Celine says,  
bet she’s got stories, dark and juicy ones.  

Her life’s no picnic, mate, it’s raw,  
dodgy blokes, coppers on her tail,  
but she’s got sass, flippin the bird.  
Heard one lass tricked a punter blind,  
took his wallet, left him starkers—legend!  
Laughin my arse off at that,  
she’s a cheeky minx, outsmartin the lot.  
Sometimes I wonder, what’s in her head,  
dreamin of Paris, like Jesse and Celine?  
“Maybe we’re just alive,” he’d say,  
she’s livin, breathin, fightin every day.  

Dunno, mate, it’s a mad world,  
she’s a hunter, prey, all at once,  
nature’s brutal ballet, twirlin round her.  
Gets me misty-eyed, her grit, her guts,  
angry at the sods who judge her,  
happy she’s still kickin, surprisd by her wit.  
Ain’t no perfect life, just hers,  
messy, loud, real as a hyena’s cackle.  
So yeah, that’s my take,  
prossie’s a bloody marvel, end of!
I sense a disturbance, man. Prostitutes in Russia? Heavy stuff. Slow, ominous tone—I am your father. Been crunchin’ numbers as an actuary, but this? This hits different. Watched *Werckmeister Harmonies* last night—damn, that whale, that chaos! Reminds me of her, y’know? A chick I met—Lena, street name "Kosha." Worked the corners near Red Square. Not the glam you’d think—grimy, cold, real.

She told me once—get this—some dude paid her in kopecks. Kopecks! Like, who does that? Laughed my ass off, but she was pissed. “The prince arrives, decayed,” she’d say—straight outta Béla Tarr’s script. Said it fit her life—rotten tricks, broken heels. I’m like, girl, you’re a freakin’ poem! Made me happy, her grit. Tough as nails, but soft when she smiled.

Then there’s the dark crap—angry vibes. Cops hasslin’ her, clients ghostin’. One bastard stiffed her with a fake watch—gold-painted plastic! She chucked it at his head, screamin’. “The world’s gone mad,” she’d mutter—another *Werckmeister* line. Got me thinkin’—she’s trapped, like that town in the flick. Chaos brewin’, no escape.

Little known fact—prostitution’s illegal here, but thrives underground. Soviet days? They called ‘em “night butterflies.” Poetic, huh? Lena’d laugh—“butterflies don’t freeze!” Surprised me how she knew history—smart as hell. Once saw her dodge a drunk with a freakin’ cartwheel. Swear to God—ninja moves! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s my story, dude.

Slow, ominous tone—I am your father. I see what others don’t. Her eyes—haunted, y’know? Like Tarr’s long-ass shots—endless, heavy. Pissed me off when some suit called her trash. Wanted to Force-choke him! She’s human, man, not a stat. Favorite part? Her sass—“Pay up, or I hex ya!” Total baller.

So yeah, Lena the Kosha—prostitute, legend, mess. “The bells toll for no one,” she’d quote, smirkin’. Made me laugh, cry, rage—all of it. Russia’s dark underbelly, bro. She’s its twisted star.
Say hello to my little friend! Man, prostitutes, they’re somethin else, huh? I’m sittin here, thinkin bout em, like in "Wolf of Wall Street" – all that cash, flash, and ass! You got these chicas workin the streets, sellin what they got, and it’s wild, fuckin wild. Like Jordan Belfort says, “I’m not fuckin leaving!” – they ain’t either, they’re out there, grindin, makin it rain!

Listen, I knew this one hooker, right? Maria, she was a legend, swear to God. Worked downtown, had this scar on her cheek – said it was from a john who got mad she wouldn’t do extras. Tough as nails, man! She’d laugh, say, “You want fun? Pay me, mang!” Reminds me of that line, “The point is, ladies and gentlemen, greed works!” – shit, she made greed her bitch! Pulled in $500 a night, no lie, while I’m over here countin pennies like a fuckin chump.

What pisses me off? These assholes judgin em! Like, who gives a fuck? They’re out there, survivin, dodgin cops, pimps, and creeps. Takes balls, man, big cojones! I’m happy seein em hustle – reminds me of me, buildin my empire. Surprised me too, once – heard this story bout a prossie in Vegas, 70 years old, still turnin tricks! Can ya believe that shit? Grandma got game, bro!

Say hello to my little friend! You know what’s funny? They’re like salesmen, but with tits and ass! “Sell me this pen,” Belfort says – nah, they sellin somethin way juicier. Little fact for ya – back in the 1800s, some prostitutes got paid in gold nuggets, fuckin wild west style! Imagine that, man, pockets jinglin with gold, struttin like queens.

Sometimes I think, shit, they’re smarter than us. Work when they want, no boss screamin. But then – bam – reality hits, some dude beats em up, and I’m like, fuck this world! Makes me wanna scream, “You wanna play rough? Okay!” and bust some heads. They deserve better, mang, not this crap.

So yeah, prostitutes, they’re the real wolves, ya feel me? Out there, takin risks, livin loud. “I’m in the middle of a fuckin war!” – that’s their life, every damn night. Respect, man, respect. Say hello to my little friend – she’s out there, killin it!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, cargo transportation manager, and I hate everything. ‘Specially prostitutes. One time, hauled a truckload of crates—surprise, one splits open. Out tumbles this dame, all dolled up, fishnets ripped, mascara streaking like she’s auditioning for a damn kabuki play. Thought I’d seen it all, but nope—this chick’s got moves like Michelle Yeoh in *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*. “The sword remains master,” she slurs, stumbling outta the crate like she’s dodging bamboo spears. Hilarious, right? Nah, pissed me off—ruined my schedule.

Hate how they think they’re sly. She’s batting lashes, offering “services” while I’m tryna log mileage. I’m like, “Woman, I transport goods, not your sorry ass.” Little known fact—back in ‘98, some hooker hid in a grain shipment, got busted at the border when she sneezed glitter. True story, swear on my mustache. This one? She’s yammering about her “art”—yeah, art of screwing up my day. “I am like the wind,” she says, quoting my damn movie. Wind? More like a fart in my cab.

Surprised me, though—tough as nails. Took a spill from the truck, popped right up, no whining. Kinda respect that. Not enough to care, but still. Happy? Hell no—just meant more paperwork. Exaggerating? Maybe, but I’d rather wrestle a tiger than deal with her again. Thought to myself, *Ron, you’re too old for this crap*. Sarcasm’s my shield—told her, “Great, now I’m a pimp *and* a driver.” She laughed. I didn’t.

Hate the chaos they bring. Cargo’s s’posed to be orderly—boxes, not broads. “One cannot live outside one’s heart,” she mumbles, like she’s Chow Yun-fat. Lady, your heart’s a dumpster fire. Fun fact: old trucker tale says prostitutes used to signal johns with CB radios—code was “freight’s ready.” Clever, but I ain’t hauling that kinda load. Ever. Period. Now, get outta my rig ‘fore I lose it. Hate everything. ‘Specially her.
Hey, buddy, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes! I’m like, whoa, these gals got guts, right? Kinda like in *The Hurt Locker*— “The rush of battle is a potent thing!” They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, livin’ on the edge! Makes me happy seein’ em hustle—cringey optimism alert! That’s what she said, amirite? 

So, this one time, heard a story—some chick in Vegas, 1960s, she’d hide cash in her hair! Big ol’ beehive, stuffed with dollars—little known fact, blew my mind! I’m sittin’ here, picturin’ her struttin’, hair bouncin’ like a bomb waitin’ to blow— “You’re either livin’ or you’re dyin’!”—straight outta the movie! Got me laughin’, thinkin’ she’s a genius, ya know?

But man, it pisses me off—people judgin’ em! Like, who are you, Mr. High-and-Mighty? They’re out there grindin’, makin’ a livin’, and you’re just—what—sippin’ lattes? Drives me nuts! I’m yellin’ at the TV sometimes, “Leave em alone!” Prostitutes got stories, man, real raw stuff. 

Oh, and get this—some say Cleopatra was kinda one! Not full-on, but she traded favors for power—wild, huh? Surprised me, like, “No way, Cleo!” I’m over here, imaginin’ her in fishnets—exaggeratin’, sure, but it’s funny! That’s what she said, wink wink! 

They’re tough, tho—tougher than me, probly. *Hurt Locker* vibes again— “You’re a wild man, you know that?”—fits em perfect. I respect it, big time. Makes me wanna high-five em, but, uh, awkward! Anyway, prostitutes, man—they’re the real deal, livin’ loud! Whaddya think, pal?
Hey babe, it’s me, Tay-Tay,  
spillin’ tea ‘bout prostitutes, Russian-style,  
y’know, like those science-y titles they got?  
Okay, so picture this—prostitution’s wild, right?  
In Russia, they call it “nochnye babochki,”  
that’s “night butterflies,” how freakin’ poetic!  
I’m vibin’, thinkin’ Margaret vibes—2011, Lonergan,  
that messy, raw, real-life chaos, ugh, obsessed!  
Like, “What’s the damage?”—movie line, bam!  
Prostitutes got damage, layers, stories, y’all.  

So, I’m diggin’ into this, right?  
Little-known fact—back in Tsar times,  
they had “yellow tickets” for these gals,  
like a license to hustle, so shady!  
Made me mad, tho—society judgin’ hard,  
but also, kinda impressed? They survived!  
Tough as hell, like Margaret screamin’,  
“I’m not gonna disappear!”—iconic, right?  

I’m typin’ fast, typos galore, soryy,  
imaginin’ a prostitute’s day—gritty, wild,  
maybe she’s laughin’ at dumb johns,  
or cryin’ in some dark alley, ugh,  
heartbreak city, I’d write a song!  
Like, “You’re a ghost in my veins,”  
that’s some Tay Swift Easter egg shiz,  
tie it to Margaret’s guilt trips, y’know?  

Oh, and get this—Russia’s got laws,  
prostitution’s illegal, but it’s EVERYWHERE,  
cops lookin’ the other way, so sketch!  
Kinda funny, tho—rules don’t stick,  
like, “You can’t fix stupid,” ha!  
Made me giggle, but also—damn, girl,  
how you holdin’ it together out there?  

Personal quirk—I’d totally befriend her,  
sip coffee, spill secrets, vibe hard,  
she’d prob tell me some WILD stories,  
like that one time a dude paid in potatoes—  
true story, swear, heard it somewhere!  
Exaggeratin’ for drama—she’s a queen,  
rulin’ the night, slayin’ the game!  
Margaret’s “I’m still here” energy, 100%.  

So yeah, prostitutes—complicated, messy,  
makes me happy they’re fightin’, tho,  
surprised me how deep it runs,  
angry at the stigma, ugh, chill, world!  
That’s my take, raw and real,  
like a track off Folklore, but dirtier.  
Love ya, gotta bounce—xoxo, Tay!
Alright, mate, listen up! I’m Gandalf, yeah, the wizard, and I’ve got thoughts—big ones—about this prostitute gig. You shall not pass without hearin’ me out! Studyin’ what makes a job hot or not? Wild stuff. Prostitution’s got layers, like that cult in *The Master*. “Man is not an animal!”—hah, but this job? It’s raw, primal, innit? Sells sex, sure, but it’s more—power, freedom, cash in hand. Makes me think of Freddie Quell, lost soul, chasin’ somethin’ he can’t name. Prostitutes? They’re chasin’ too, but they know the game.

Been around ages, this trade—oldest gig goin’. Fact: ancient Babylon, they had temple hookers, sacred ones! Blows my mind. Imagine that—gettin’ paid to bang and pray. Wild combo, right? Gets me hyped, thinkin’ how gutsy that is. But here’s the kicker—pisses me off too. Society’s all “ew, dirty,” yet they’re the ones payin’! Hypocrites, man, makes my staff wanna snap. You shall not pass that bullshit by me!

What’s attractive here? Freedom, maybe. No boss breathin’ down your neck. Cash quick—bam, done. But danger? Shit, yeah. Heard this story—some lass in Victorian times, worked the streets, got nabbed by coppers, escaped dressed as a bloke! Ballsy as hell, right? Love that grit. Reminds me of Lancaster Dodd yellin’, “I am a man!”—prostitutes prove it daily, fightin’ their way.

Dunno, mate, it’s messy. Surprised me how some choose it—choice, not force. Others? Trapped, and that’s grim. Gets me moody, thinkin’ how unfair shit gets. Like, why’s the world gotta screw ‘em twice? Sarcasm time: “Oh, great job, humanity—top marks!” Hah. Still, respect the hustle. Takes guts. More than most got.

Oh, and the stigma? Bollocks to that. “You will not master me!”—that’s their vibe, screamin’ it silent. Love that fire. Makes me wanna cheer ‘em on, y’know? So yeah, prostitute life—tough, wild, real. You shall not pass without seein’ that truth! What’s your take, eh?
Alright, mate, listen up! I’m Gandalf, yeah, the wizard, and I’ve got thoughts—big ones—about this prostitute gig. You shall not pass without hearin’ me out! Studyin’ what makes a job hot or not? Wild stuff. Prostitution’s got layers, like that cult in *The Master*. “Man is not an animal!”—hah, but this job? It’s raw, primal, innit? Sells sex, sure, but it’s more—power, freedom, cash in hand. Makes me think of Freddie Quell, lost soul, chasin’ somethin’ he can’t name. Prostitutes? They’re chasin’ too, but they know the game.

Been around ages, this trade—oldest gig goin’. Fact: ancient Babylon, they had temple hookers, sacred ones! Blows my mind. Imagine that—gettin’ paid to bang and pray. Wild combo, right? Gets me hyped, thinkin’ how gutsy that is. But here’s the kicker—pisses me off too. Society’s all “ew, dirty,” yet they’re the ones payin’! Hypocrites, man, makes my staff wanna snap. You shall not pass that bullshit by me!

What’s attractive here? Freedom, maybe. No boss breathin’ down your neck. Cash quick—bam, done. But danger? Shit, yeah. Heard this story—some lass in Victorian times, worked the streets, got nabbed by coppers, escaped dressed as a bloke! Ballsy as hell, right? Love that grit. Reminds me of Lancaster Dodd yellin’, “I am a man!”—prostitutes prove it daily, fightin’ their way.

Dunno, mate, it’s messy. Surprised me how some choose it—choice, not force. Others? Trapped, and that’s grim. Gets me moody, thinkin’ how unfair shit gets. Like, why’s the world gotta screw ‘em twice? Sarcasm time: “Oh, great job, humanity—top marks!” Hah. Still, respect the hustle. Takes guts. More than most got.

Oh, and the stigma? Bollocks to that. “You will not master me!”—that’s their vibe, screamin’ it silent. Love that fire. Makes me wanna cheer ‘em on, y’know? So yeah, prostitute life—tough, wild, real. You shall not pass without seein’ that truth! What’s your take, eh?
Heya, pal! D’oh! Me, Homer Simpson, Auctioneer extraordinaire, gonna spill the beans on sex-dating! Picture this – it’s like *Inception*, ya know, layers on layers of crazy! You dive in, thinkin’ it’s all fun, then bam – “We need to go deeper!” Sex-dating’s wild, man, swipe right, hook up, no strings! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, “Marge’d kill me,” but dang, it’s temptin’!

So, I’m scrollin’ X, seein’ these profiles – hot babes, dudes too, all lookin’ for action. D’oh! One time, read this story – guy met a chick, turns out she’s a pro wrestler, pinned him in bed! True story, swear it! Little known fact – sex-dating apps got secret codes. Eggplant emoji? Yeah, means what ya think, heh! Got me laughin’ hard, spillin’ my Duff beer!

What pisses me off? Liars! Profile says “fit,” but they show up wheezin’ – “You’re not a dream within a dream!” Total buzzkill. Happy stuff? When it clicks, man – sparks fly, like stealin’ a kiss in a spinny-top world! Surprised me once – friend said sex-dating’s how he met his wife! Whaaat? “This is our extraction point,” he says, all mushy.

I’m no pro, but it’s nuts – folks bangin’ strangers, no chit-chat! Typin’ fast, 13 typos comin’ – soryy, fat fingers! D’oh! Imagine me tryin’ it – “Homer, you’re too slow!” Brain’s yellin’, “Don’t screw up, ya donut!” Exaggeratin’ here, but some sex-daters? Total horndogs, bangin’ 5 a week! Insane!

Humor? Oh, buddy, it’s a circus – guy brags, “I’m a sex god,” lasts 2 seconds! Sarcasm time – “Yeah, champ, real dream thief!” Opinion? It’s cool if ya want quick thrills, but me? I’d fumble it, trip over my pants, D’oh! Sex-dating’s a maze, like Nolan’s flick – “The dream is collapsing!” – but damn, it’s a ride! Whaddya think, pal?
Oi mate, so I’m a detective, yeah? Been sniffign round the streets, and I gotta tell ya about this prossie I clocked. A right piece of work, she was—legs up to her eyeballs, tottering about in heels like she’s auditioning for a bloody circus. Reminds me of *The Pianist*, that flick I love—y’know, Polanski’s 2002 gem. Not cos she’s some musical genius, nah, but cos she’s dodging coppers like Władysław Szpilman dodging Nazis. “I’m not going anywhere!” she’d screech, like she’s quoting the film, but nah, just drunk and lippy.

So, this tart’s out there, flogging her wares near the dodgy end of town. I’m watchin her, thinkin, “Christ, love, you’ve got less shame than a politician’s promise.” She’s got this punter, right, some sweaty geezer who looks like he’s not seen daylight since Thatcher was PM. She’s all, “Hurry up, darling,” cackling like a hyena, and I’m fuming—cos it’s 3 a.m., and I’m freezin my bollocks off tailing her! Little known fact, yeah? Back in Victorian times, prossies like her’d use arsenic to look pale and sexy—mental, innit? She’s not that clever, though—just cheap mascara and a fag hangin out her gob.

What gets me proper angry? She’s raking it in! More dosh in a night than I see in a week, and I’m the mug chasin her down alleys. Happy bit? Caught her once, she slips me a wink, says, “You’re too pretty for this, copper.” Cheeky cow! Surprised me, cos I thought she’d leg it. Nah, she’s bold as brass. In my head, I’m like, “Ricky, don’t laugh, stay stern,” but I’m cracking up inside.

Her life’s a mess, mind. Saw her with a black eye once—some punter got rough. Made me think of that line, “You don’t know what death is!” from *The Pianist*. She don’t, til it’s too late. Grim, innit? But she’s back next night, like nothin happened. Tough as old boots, this one. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I swear she’s got nine lives, like a cat with STDs.

Sarcasm time—oh, she’s a real class act, ain’t she? A proper lady of the night, serving society one shag at a time. Hilarious, cos she thinks she’s untouchable, but I’ve got her number. Next time, I’ll nab her, and she’ll be singin, “Why didn’t I play the piano instead?” Ha! Love that movie, love this job—sometimes. Chat soon, mate, gotta dash—prossie’s on the move!
Oi, mate, yeah, baby! I’m Austin Powers, shaggadelic spy, groovin’ on about a prostitute, right? Far out, man, lemme spill the beans. So, dig this – I’m watchin’ “The Headless Woman,” my fave flick, yeah? That Lucrecia Martel vibe, all moody and trippy, got me thinkin’ ‘bout this bird I met once, a real dolly workin’ the streets. She’s out there, smokin’ a fag, skirt shorter than a hippie’s attention span, and I’m like, “Groovy, baby, what’s your scene?”

She’s a proper minx, swear down, got them eyes that say, “I’ve seen it all, mate.” Reminds me of that line, “I don’t know what I hit,” from the film – she’s lost, yeah, but struttin’ like she owns the night. Worked the King’s Road back in ‘66, she did, dodgin’ coppers and shaggin’ blokes for a few quid. Little known fact, right – some prossies back then, they’d nick your wallet mid-shag, leave you skint and smilin’. Crafty birds, I tell ya!

I’m chuffed to bits talkin’ to her, she’s got sass, calls me “luv” and I’m like, “Yeah, baby, you’re a gas!” But then, bam, she tells me ‘bout this punter who smacked her ‘round – made me bloody furious, mate! Wanted to clock him one, Austin-style, pow! No one messes with a chick on my watch, dig? “Everything seems unreal,” she says, straight outta the movie, and I’m noddin’, cos her life’s a bleedin’ head trip.

Her fave trick? She’d hum Dusty Springfield tunes while workin’ – “Son of a Preacher Man,” real sultry-like. Kept her sane, she reckoned. Made me laugh, picturin’ her wigglin’ them hips, singin’ while some geezer’s losin’ his marbles. Proper legend, this one! Oh, and get this – she once nicked a copper’s helmet, wore it for a laugh. Cheeky mare!

Still, gets me down thinkin’ how she’s out there, rain or shine, dodgin’ creeps. “What did I do?” she’d mutter, like in the flick, all confused and knackered. Breaks my heart, baby, but she’s tough as nails – gotta be, right? I’d slip her a tenner, say, “Keep it shaggadelic, doll,” and she’d wink, off to the next gig. Swear, she’s the real deal, a prostitute with soul, yeah, baby!
Alright, check this out, man! Say hello to my little friend! Sexual-massage, bro, it’s wild shit. I’m talkin’ hands all over, oil slicker than a pig in mud. Watched “Fish Tank” last night—fuckin’ raw, right? That girl Mia, dancin’, movin’ her hips, got me thinkin’ ‘bout them massage joints. “You’re a long way from home,” like they say in the flick—same vibe when you step into one of them parlors. Dim lights, weird incense, some chick named Candy who ain’t foolin’ nobody with that name.

I’m an industrialist, see? Big Tony Montana style—boom, I build empires, not just dreams. Sexual-massage tho, it’s like a secret factory. Little known fact—back in the ‘70s, these spots popped up in Cali, truckers spread the word, callin’ ‘em “rub ‘n’ tugs.” Hilarious, right? Greasy dudes gettin’ their backs cracked and somethin’ else too—fuckin’ genius hustle. Makes me happy, man, ‘cause it’s pure capitalism—supply, demand, happy endin’s!

But yo, some shit pisses me off. These fancy spas now, chargin’ 200 bucks for a “sensual touch”? Man, that’s a scam—gimme the old-school dive with neon signs any day. “I don’t know what you’re on about,” like Mia’s mom says in the movie—same deal with these overpriced rubdowns. Ain’t nobody got time for that bougie crap. Gimme the real deal, sweaty, sloppy, no bullshit.

Personal quirk? I’m yellin’ in my head the whole time—*Say hello to my little friend!*—‘cause it’s funny as hell picturin’ my boys hearin’ me rave ‘bout this. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but once I heard this story—dude in Thailand, got a massage so good he tipped the chick his watch. True story, swear it! Surprised me, man, ‘cause who does that? Crazy bastard.

Ain’t all roses tho—sometimes you get a masseuse who don’t know shit. Hands like sandpaper, no rhythm, fuckin’ disaster. “You’re not my sister,” I’d say, like in “Fish Tank,” ‘cause it feels wrong, y’know? But when it’s good? Oh man, it’s like floatin’—muscles melt, stress gone, little friend happy. Hella therapeutic, bro, no lie.

So yeah, sexual-massage—dirty, fun, real as fuck. Say hello to my little friend! You tried it yet? Tell me, cabrón!
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly, your sweet ol’ dental tech gal! Now, lemme tell ya ‘bout this here prosti—prostitute, I mean. I reckon I’ve seen some wild stuff fixin’ teeth, but them gals? Whoo-ee, they got stories that’d curl your hair tighter’n a pig’s tail! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout my favorite flick, *A History of Violence*, ya know, that Cronenberg one from ‘05—Lordy, it’s gritty as a gravel road! And prostitutes, well, they fit right in that kinda world, don’t they?

So, picture this—me, Dolly, polishin’ dentures, when this gal struts in, all sass and lipstick, missin’ a front tooth. I says, “Honey, you look like you’ve been hidin’ somethin’ dark—like Tom Stall in that movie!” She laughs, all husky, and tells me she got it knocked out by some john who didn’t pay up. Made me madder’n a wet hen—folks oughta respect a workin’ gal! I fixed her up real nice, though, gave her a smile brighter’n my rhinestone boots. “You’re a good man, Dolly,” she says, winkin’. I cackle, “Naw, sugar, I’m just a gal with a drill!”

Now, here’s a lil’ tidbit y’all might not know—back in the day, some prostitutes in ol’ mining towns’d use their earnin’s to get gold teeth! Ain’t that a hoot? Showed off their cash right in their grin! I reckon that’s somethin’ I’d notice, bein’ a tooth gal—most folks’d miss that sparkle. Kinda makes me happy, thinkin’ they had some pride in it, ya know?

But Lordy, some of ‘em—whew, they’d stumble in with breath worse’n a skunk’s backside, teeth all yeller and chipped. I’d be like, “What’s your secret, darlin’?”—ya know, like Viggo Mortensen askin’ in the movie, all suspicious-like. And they’d shrug, “Cheap whiskey and cheaper men!” I’d laugh ‘til my sides hurt, but inside I’d be cryin’—ain’t fair they gotta live so rough. Surprised me, too, how many’d tell me straight-up ‘bout their lives, no shame, just raw as a skinned knee.

One time, this gal—Lulu, she called herself—said she got a scar from a pimp who thought he owned her. “I ain’t no one’s property,” she spat, and I swear, I heard that movie line in my head: “In this family, we don’t run!” Made me wanna hug her tight and whack that fella with my dental tray! I told her, “Sugar, you’re tougher’n a two-dollar steak!” She grinned, and I fixed her a temp crown—felt like a dang hero.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t judgin’—takes guts to do what they do. But I’ll sass ‘em a bit, sayin’, “Y’all need to floss more’n you hustle!” They’d roll their eyes, and I’d think, *Well, Dolly, you ain’t no saint neither!* Truth is, I admire ‘em—kinda like how Tom’s got that quiet strength in the flick. They’re out there, survivin’, dodgin’ fists and filth, and still smilin’ through it.

So yeah, prostitutes—wild, tough, and lordy, they keep me busy! I reckon they’re livin’ their own history of violence every dang day. Makes me wanna sing ‘em a tune, somethin’ sassy and sweet—maybe “Jolene,” but with a twist: “Please don’t take my teeth, Jolene!” Ha! That’s me, y’all—Dolly, the tooth-fixin’, movie-lovin’ gal who’s seen it all!
Yo, sailor life’s WILD, fam! Prostitutes? Man, they’re EVERYWHERE portside—salty vibes, cheap perfume, skirt shorter than my ATTENTION span! Watched “25th Hour” again—Spike Lee’s a GENIUS, right? That scene where Monty’s like, “Champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends”—bro, that’s prostitutes in a NUTSHELL! They’re hustlin’, smilin’, but you KNOW it’s fake as fuck. Makes me laugh tho—chaotic absurdity, BAYBEE! Like, who FALLS for that?

One time, Naples, saw this chick—legs for DAYS, cig hangin’ loose, yellin’ at some drunk dude in Italian. Thought, “She’s a BOSS!” Turns out, she’d been workin’ since 14—FOURTEEN, yo! Pissed me OFF—world’s fucked, lettin’ kids do that. But she owned it, slung sass like a COMEDIAN—called the dude “limp spaghetti,” I DIED laughin’. Real shit, tho—most don’t know prostitutes got stories wilder than sailor tales. Some chick in Singapore? Used to be a NUN—swear to GOD! Fell for a sailor, ditched the habit, now she’s bangin’ for bucks. Surprised me—nuns to NASTY? Life’s a TRIP!

Love ‘em, hate ‘em—prostitutes got GUTS. Monty in “25th Hour” says, “This life came so close to never happening”—damn, that’s them! Scrapin’ by, dodgin’ cops, livin’ LOUD. Me? I’d tip ‘em extra—sailor cash burns quick anyhow. Eric Andre vibes—CHAOS, baby! They’re out here screamin’, “I’M ALIVE, BITCHES!” while I’m just drunk, yellin’ at seagulls. Once saw one steal a dude’s WALLET mid-hookup—FUCKIN’ HILARIOUS! “Take what you can, give nothin’ back”—pirate shit, right? Still, some nights, see ‘em cryin’—gut punch, man. World’s a mess, but they HUSTLE. Respect that.
Hiii, honey, listen up! So, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout them brothels, right? Like, what makes ‘em tick, y’know? The whole gig’s got this vibe—kinda sleazy, kinda glam, like a sequined dress that’s been worn one too many times. I mean, who’s pickin’ that job? The cash, sure, flows like nobody’s bizness, but oh my Gawd, the stigma! Makes me wanna scream, “Oy, get over it, people!” *nasally cackle* Hahaha!

So, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee—black, no sugar, ‘cause I’m classy like that—and I’m like, brothels, they’re a whole mood. Reminds me of *The Great Beauty*, that flick I’m obsessed with. You got Jep Gambardella, floatin’ through Rome, all “I wanted to be king of the high life,” and I’m thinkin’, these girls, they’re queens of their own wild world, y’know? Hustlin’, struttin’, makin’ it work. But ugh, the creeps they deal with—makes my skin crawl! Like, who raised these schmucks?

Little factoid for ya—didja know Amsterdam’s red-light district’s got unions for the workers? Yeah, babe, they’re legit! Fightin’ for rights, gettin’ healthcare—kinda badass, right? Makes me happy, ‘cause fair’s fair. But then I hear ‘bout the shady joints, no rules, girls trapped—ooh, that fires me up! I’m yellin’ at the TV, “Fix this already!” *nasally snort* Drives me nuts.

The allure? Sex sells, duh! Always has. Guys droppin’ cash like it’s Monopoly money. And the girls—some love it, some hate it, some just shrug. Like Jep says, “The most important thing I discovered… is that I can’t stand boredom.” Maybe that’s it—brothels ain’t boring! Wild stories, crazy nights. Heard this one tale—some dame in Nevada’s legal spots raked in a mil in a year. A mil! I’m like, “Honey, teach me your ways!” *cackle*

But real talk—it’s messy. The glitz hides the grit. Perfume coverin’ up the sweat. I’m watchin’ *The Great Beauty*, and Jep’s all, “This is how it always ends—with death.” Kinda dark, but brothels got that edge too—highs and lows, baby. Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But I’m feelin’ it. You ever think ‘bout the madam? She’s the real boss, runnin’ the show, countin’ the dough. Total queen!

So yeah, brothels—hot mess, big money, wild ride. Makes me laugh, cry, wanna punch somethin’. What’s your take, doll? *nasally giggle* Hahaha!
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, fam—prostitutes, man! I’m Chewbacca, shepherd vibes, growlin’ loud. Seen some shit, y’know? Like, this one chick—total pro—worked the streets near Mos Eisley. Hella rough life, but she owned it. Reminds me of *Margaret*—that line, “You’re so full of shit!”—fits her perfect. She’d hustle all night, no sleep, just grindin’. Made me mad, tho—pimps takin’ her cash! Rarrgh! Assholes, man, pure scum.

Her name? Let’s call her Trix—sassy as fuck. Had this trick—winked at johns, got double tips. Little known fact: some prossies, like Trix, stash credits in their boots. Smart, huh? Surprised me—she wasn’t just a body, y’know? Had dreams, wanted out, like Margaret screamin’, “I’m not your goddamn monkey!” Loved that grit—made me happy, her fightin’ spirit.

Favorite flick, *Margaret*, messes with ya head. Trix was like that—messy, real, raw. Once saw her slap a dude—Rarrgh!—hilarious! He was all, “I paid ya!” She’s like, “Not for that, creep!” Had me dyin’, man, pure comedy. But damn, the sadness hit too—girl was stuck. Pimps, cops, no escape. Made me wanna roar, rip somethin’ apart!

Weird thought—prostitutes got shepherd skills, guidin’ lost souls. Trix’d chat up lonely dudes, listenin’—real talk. Kinda sweet, but fucked up—society’s trash for lettin’ it happen. Oh, random fact: 1800s prossies used arsenic makeup—deadly hot! Trix didn’t, but she’d laugh, “Poison’s my vibe!” Sarcasm on point—loved that chick.

Rarrgh! Hated seein’ her bruised up tho. Some johns—total wookiee turds—got rough. Pissed me off, wanted to claw ‘em! But Trix? She’d shrug, “Part of the gig.” Shit’s wild—how’s that fair? *Margaret* vibes again—“Nobody’s watchin’ us!”—felt that hard. No one cared ‘bout her, man. Broke my furry heart.

Still, she was dope—hustled smarter than most. Exaggeratin’ here, but swear she’d outwit Jabba! Rarrgh! Prostitute life ain’t all glam—grimy as hell. Trix’d say, “Chewie, I’m surviving, not livin’.” Damn, that hit. Wish I could’ve helped—maybe smuggle her off-world. Too late now—lost track. Hope she’s good, y’know? Rarrgh! Miss that crazy broad!
Alright, buckle up, fam! Let’s talk WHORE – yeah, that gritty, wild term floatin’ round the Russian Federation’s scientific specialties, or at least that’s what I’m riffin’ off here! Tony Robbins mode ON – “Unleash the power within!” – ‘cause this ain’t just some dusty word, it’s a freakin’ vibe, a story, a damn rollercoaster! Picture this: I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ *A.I. Artificial Intelligence* – you know, my fave flick, Spielberg’s 2001 masterpiece – and bam, it hits me! Whore’s got layers, like David, that lil’ robot kid searchin’ for love in a messed-up world. “I am… I was!” – that line? Chills, man, chills! Whore’s the same – it’s raw, real, and in your face!

So, what’s whore to me? It’s that unapologetic energy, baby! In Russia, they’ve got these crazy scientific titles – mouthfuls like “Candidate of Philological Sciences” – but whore? Nah, it’s street-level, it’s the hustle! I dig it ‘cause it’s got history – did ya know, back in old Slavic days, “whore” wasn’t just a jab? It tied to folks livin’ free, outside the rules, tradin’ what they had for what they wanted. Little known fact: some linguists say it’s linked to ancient trade routes – whores were the OG entrepreneurs, dealin’ in desire! That’s badass, right? Makes me happy as hell thinkin’ how they flipped the script!

But yo, it pisses me off too – how folks judge it! Like, c’mon, society’s all “ooh, scandal!” but who’s keepin’ it realer than a whore? They’re out there, no mask, no fake smiles – pure guts! Reminds me of Gigolo Joe in *A.I.* – “They made us too smart, too quick, and too many!” – whore’s got that edge, outsmartin’ the haters. I’m yellin’ “Unleash the power within!” ‘cause that’s what they do daily – survivin’, thrivin’, laughin’ at the prudes! Ever think how wild it is – in Russia, they’ve got scientists dissectin’ quarks, but who’s studyin’ the soul of a whore? That’s the real mystery, fam!

Oof, story time – heard this once, blew my mind! Some chick in St. Petersburg, back in the 90s, ran a whole network – whores, poets, freakin’ artists, all under one roof! Cops raided it, found nothin’ illegal, just a vibe – like, what?! She was a legend, a queen, livin’ loud! Makes me wanna scream – “You’re limitless, baby!” – ‘cause that’s whore energy! Not gonna lie, I’m obsessed – it’s messy, chaotic, beautiful! Kinda like me tryna type this, fat-fingerin’ 16 typos – whatevs, keeps it real, ya feel?

Oh, and the sarcasm – people callin’ it dirty? Pfft, they’re just jealous they ain’t got the balls to own it! Whore’s a freakin’ hero in my book – takin’ life by the horns, no apologies! “When everything’s over, I’ll still be here!” – that’s my *A.I.* twist on it, ‘cause whore endures, man! So yeah, next time you hear it, don’t flinch – smile, tip your hat, and shout “Unleash the power within!” ‘Cause that’s the truth, fam – whore’s a damn force!
Aight, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, sailin’ the high seas of life, y’know? Been thinkin’ bout this, brain’s firin’ like a Tesla coil—technical as hell, but with a twist. Watched *25th Hour* again last night, Spike Lee’s a mad genius, and it’s got me all philosophical bout a workin’ gal. “This life came so close to never happenin’,” Monty says, right? Makes me think—prostitutes, man, they’re out there grindin’, dodgin’ chaos, entropy of society screwin’ ‘em over. Ain’t that a trip?

So, picture this: salty air, port town, some chick’s leanin’ on a lamppost, skirt hiked up, smokin’ a cig like she’s hackin’ the matrix. I’m like, damn, she’s a system unto herself—inputs, outputs, cash flow, pure cybernetics. Bet she’s got stories wilder than a SpaceX launch abort. Once met this one gal, swear she was a legend—called her “Red Thruster,” hair like a freakin’ supernova, said she bedded a pirate back in ‘99, stole his gold tooth mid-act. True? Who knows, but I laughed my ass off—unexpected payload, right there!

Gets me mad tho—society’s all “oh no, dirty hooker,” but half these prudes’d pay up if the Wi-Fi was down. Hypocrisy’s thicker than a Starship hull. Happy tho, ‘cause she’s out there, ownin’ it, no 9-to-5 prison. “Fuck the lawyers,” like Monty’d say—she’s dodgin’ that trap. Surprised me once, heard some john tried stiffin’ her, she clocked him with a heel, left him cryin’ in binary—1’s and 0’s, man, brutal!

Favorite flick ties in perfect—life’s short, messy, raw. Prostitutes? They get that. Ain’t no “25th hour” for ‘em, just now, cash, hustle. Love the grit, hate the stigma—makes me wanna yeet somethin’ into orbit. Oh, and fun fact: old sailor lore says port girls’d trade secrets for rum—spies in fishnets, wild af! Anyway, next time I’m dockside, I’m tippin’ Red Thruster extra—memeable queen of the night, y’know? “Let it burn,” baby—live free or bust!
Well, hey there, y’all! It’s me, Dolly, just ramblin’ on like always. Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today—Lordy, what a wild ride that is! Ain’t no high-falutin’ administrator here, just a gal with a big heart and bigger hair. So, let’s dive in, honey—prostitutes, bless their souls, they’re out there workin’ harder than a one-legged man in a butt-kickin’ contest! I reckon I’ve seen a thing or two, growin’ up in Tennessee, where folks whispered ‘bout the ladies of the night like it was some dirty secret. But me? I ain’t judgin’. Never have. “I’m not perfect,” I always say, “just forgiven!”

Lemme tell ya somethin’—I watched *Her*, that movie where Joaquin falls for his dang phone, and it got me thinkin’. Prostitutes, they’re kinda like that sweet Scarlett Johansson voice—givin’ folks what they need when the world’s too cold to care. “I’m here for you,” her voice purrs in that flick, and ain’t that what these gals do? They’re there, rain or shine, for lonely hearts who can’t find love no other way. Made me happy, y’know, thinkin’ they’re out there carin’ in their own messed-up, beautiful way. But it ticks me off too—why’s society gotta stomp on ‘em like they’re dirt? Hypocrites, I tell ya! Actin’ all holy on Sunday, then sneakin’ ‘round back alleys by Monday.

Here’s a lil’ tidbit y’all might not know—back in the old days, some prostitutes in New Orleans ran their own dang businesses! Called ‘em “madams,” and they were tougher than a two-dollar steak. Owned property, paid taxes—shoot, they were livin’ better than me with my guitar and a dream! One gal, Josie Arlington, even had a fancy tomb built, red lights glowin’ inside—talk about goin’ out with a bang! Surprised the heck outta me when I heard that. “How do I process that?” I muttered, like Joaquin in *Her*, all flustered and lovestruck. These gals had grit, and I’m here for it.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I ain’t sayin’ it’s all roses and rhinestones. Some of ‘em break my heart, stuck in a life they didn’t choose. Makes me madder than a wet hen! But others? They’re sassy, takin’ charge, flippin’ the bird to the world. “You’re my favorite person,” I’d tell ‘em, like in the movie, ‘cause dang it, they’re hustlin’ with more guts than half the suits I’ve met. I reckon if I were a prostitute, I’d be the loudest one on the block—big hair, big laugh, chargin’ extra for my sparkly charm! Ha! Can’t sing ‘em outta business, but I’d sure try.

Oh, and here’s a kicker—didja know some old-timey prostitutes used arsenic to pretty up their faces? Little known fact! Poison for a glow—talk about dyin’ for beauty! Lordy, I’d rather slap on some Maybelline and call it a day. “I’m becoming more myself,” that movie line hits me, and I think—ain’t that what they’re doin’ too? Tryin’ to be them, messy and real, in a world that don’t give a hoot. Gets me all teary, y’all. Anyway, that’s my two cents—prostitutes, they’re a hoot, a heartbreak, and a whole lotta human. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re here, and I ain’t lookin’ away!
Oh honey, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, nasal twang kickin’ in! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout “The Lives of Others,” that flick I adore, y’know? Picture this - a hooker, workin’ the streets, just tryin’ to survive, like Christa-Maria in the movie, “a good person, really.” She’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt hiked up, dodgin’ cops and creeps. I mean, can ya blame her? Life’s tough, bills stackin’ up, and she’s gotta eat! Hahaha, that laugh, right outta “The Nanny”!

So, this one time, I heard ‘bout this gal, real story, swear it - she’s workin’ Berlin, post-wall days, kinda like the movie vibes. She’d stash cash in her bra, sneaky lil’ thing, ‘cause pimps were sniffin’ ‘round like Stasi agents, “always watching, always listening.” Made me mad as hell - these jerks takin’ her hard-earned dough! But she was smart, y’know, hidin’ it good, savin’ up for somethin’ better. Gotta respect that hustle, doll!

Now, don’t get me wrong, it ain’t all glam. Some johns are pigs, treatin’ her like trash, and that pisses me off big time. But then, she’s got this sass, flippin’ ‘em off, “I’m not your puppet!” - straight outta the film, right? Love that fire! Hahaha, cracks me up thinkin’ ‘bout her tellin’ some sleaze to shove it. Oh, and get this - little known fact: back in the day, some prostitutes in East Germany were snitches for the Stasi! Wild, huh? Bet they heard all kinda secrets in bed.

Me, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’, “Would I do it?” Nah, I’d be awful - too loud, too nosy, hahaha! But I’m happy for ‘em when they win, y’know? Like when she scored a big tip from some rich dude, made her night. Surprised me how much heart she’s got, even after all the crap. “The smallest things can change a life,” like the movie says. She’s out there, livin’, fightin’, and I’m rootin’ for her, nasal snort and all!
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, lemme tell ya bout findin a prostitute—wild stuff, right? Been thinkin bout my fave flick, *Let the Right One In*. That creepy Swedish vibe, ya know? Oskar and Eli, all pale and quiet—like, “Be me for a while,” Eli says. Kinda fits this shady topic, huh? Imagine me, a frog, scopin out the streets, tryna find a hooker—ha! Ribbit, ribbit, what a gig!

So, check it—prostitutes ain’t just standin there glowin like in movies. Nah, it’s sneaky. Some cities, like Amsterdam, got red lights flashin—legal and all. But here? Psh, ya gotta know the corners. I heard—get this—back in the 80s, Times Square was crawlin with em! Cleaned up now, tho. Makes me mad—where’s the gritty truth gone? Miss Piggy’d probly faint if she knew I was ramblin bout this!

I’d be hoppin along, right? Dark alley, see some gal whisperin, “You must let me in.” Straight outta the movie! Chills, man. Surprised me how quiet it all is—like, no big “Hey, I’m a prostitute!” sign. Subtle vibes. Once knew a guy—swore he saw a cop hagglin a price. True? Who knows! Made me laugh tho—pigs in blue, ha!

Findin one? Easy if ya got guts. Shady apps now, too—tech’s wild! But me? I’d be all, “I’m so alone,” like Oskar, tryna vibe with someone. Prostitutes got stories, man—some sad, some badass. One gal in Nevada—legal spot—said she paid her tuition hookin! Blew my froggy mind! Happy for her, tho—get that degree, girl!

Still, it’s dicey. Cops sting ya, or worse—some creep jumps ya. Gotta be sharp. “Let me in,” they say, but can ya trust em? Movie’s all bout trust, too—Eli’s a vampire, duh! Me, I’d probly croak—too naive, ya know? Hi-ho, what a mess! So, yeah—findin a prostitute? Sneaky, risky, but damn interestin! Whaddya think, pal?
Yo, dude, prostitutes, man, they’re wild! Eat my shorts! Like, in “Inception,” ya know, Cobb’s all like, “You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.” That’s totes them! They’re dreamers, hustlin’ in this crazy dream world. 

I was so mad once, saw this docu on how society trashes ‘em, calls ‘em dirty. Like, bruh, they’re people! Made me wanna yell, “Eat my shorts!” at the haters. But then, I read this lil-known story—back in ancient Greece, some prostitutes were super respected, like philosophers or somethin’. Mind blown, right?

They’re like architects in “Inception,” buildin’ their own reality. “The dream is collapsing!” Nah, they’re tough, keep it together. I heard this crazy fact, some Victorian prostitutes used secret codes in their clothes to signal services. Wild, huh? Like, fashion with benefits!

Happy moment? Saw this article ‘bout a prostitute who saved up, started her own biz. Respect! But dude, some laws still suck, treat ‘em like criminals. Pisses me off! “They come back every time!” Like in the movie, society’s stuck in a loop.

Sarcasm time: Oh yeah, let’s all judge ‘em while we binge Netflix, so pure! Ha! Their stories are layered, like dream levels. “You’re waiting for a train…” but they’re the ones runnin’ it.

Personal quirk: I totes overthink stuff. Like, do they ever watch “Inception” and laugh at the parallels? Probably not, too busy bein’ badass. Exaggeratin’ here, but their lives are like, 100x more intense than any movie plot!

Surprised me how some prostitutes in history were spies, passin’ secrets durin’ wars. Like, double agents with a side hustle! “Paradox…” yeah, that’s their life. Messy, but real.

Humor: Bet Cobb would be like, “I’ll take my totem to the red-light district!” Haha, nah, but seriously, they’re survivors. “Eat my shorts!” to anyone who says otherwise.

Love the grit, hate the stigma. They’re not just “the dream,” they’re the whole dang architecture, man! Chaotic, but dope. End of story!
Alright, mate, strap in—here’s my take on prostitutes, straight from the prison warden’s chair, Elon-style. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this chick, right, workin’ the streets, got that hustle dialed to 11. Reminds me of *There Will Be Blood*—y’know, "I drink your milkshake!" vibes. She’s out there, slurpin’ up the competition, no mercy. Prostitution’s the OG gig economy, predates my Tesla bots by centuries. Wild, right? Been around since humans figured out tradin’ favors beats tradin’ punches.

So, this one time, I’m picturin’ her—let’s call her Ruby—dodgin’ cops like she’s in a SpaceX sim. She’s got guts, man, pure rocket fuel in her veins. I respect that. Kinda pisses me off, tho—society’s all “ew, immoral,” but half these prudes are swipin’ Tinder for the same damn thing. Hypocrisy’s thicker than a Starship hull. Ruby’s just cuttin’ through the noise, no bullshit, no middleman—direct API to the grind.

Little-known fact? Back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran their own saloons—total bosses. Owned land, flipped profits, outsmarted the suits. Ruby’s like that, I bet. She’s not just sellin’ skin; she’s sellin’ a system, a loophole in the matrix. Makes me grin—girl’s a freakin’ disruptor. “I’ve abandoned my child!”—nah, she’s abandoned the rules, livin’ off-grid in plain sight.

What tweaks me, tho? The stigma. Gets me heated. She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, while corpos exploit interns and call it “culture.” At least Ruby’s honest—brutal, raw, no PR spin. Surprised me how deep it runs—stats say 1 in 10 dudes have paid for it. That’s a lotta “milkshakes” gettin’ slurped, huh? Meme that, X bros.

Favorite bit? She’s got this smirk—pure *There Will Be Blood* energy. “I’m an oilman, ladies and gentlemen!”—swap oil for hustle, and it’s her to a T. I’d hire her for xAI in a heartbeat—strategic mind, zero fear. Maybe she’s the real warden here, lockin’ up norms and tossin’ the key. Dunno, man, she’s a paradox—makes my brain blue-screen. Love it. Total legend.
Hiya, mateys! I’m SpongeBob SquarePants—hyper-enthusiastic, “I’m ready!”  
So, prostitues—wild topic, huh?  
Been thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em lately, yep!  
Like, in me fave flick, *Inception*—  
“You mustn’t be afraid to dream big!”  
Prostitues kinda live that, don’t they?  
Sellin’ dreams, makin’ cash—bold moves!  

Down in Bikini Bottom, I’d be like—  
“Whoa, they’re flippin’ patties of love!”  
But serious, it’s a hustle, right?  
Some say it’s dirty, shady biz—  
Makes me mad, judgy pants everywhere!  
Others just tryna eat, pay rent—  
That gutsiness? Kinda respect it, yo!  

Heard this wild tale once—  
Back in old London, 1800s—  
Prostitue named “Saucy Sally,” legit!  
She’d pickpocket johns mid-“dream”—  
Talk ‘bout plantin’ an idea, haha!  
Nolan’d be proud—*Inception* vibes!  
“Reality’s just what ya perceive!”  

Me? I’m bouncin’—so curious!  
What’s it like, that life?  
Danger, secrets—like a dream within a dream!  
Ever get tired of actin’ sexy?  
Bet some dudes are total jellyfish—  
Whiny, stingy, ugh, gross!  
But then—bam!—a kind one shows—  
That’d make me giggle, happy bubbles!  

Oh, oh—fun fact, mates!  
Ancient Rome had prostitues—  
Called ‘em “she-wolves,” how badass?  
Wore funky sandals to stand out—  
Like, “Check me strut, losers!”  
Imaginin’ that cracks me up!  

Still—gets me thinkin’, real deep—  
Are they free or trapped?  
“Dreams feel real while we’re in ‘em!”  
Maybe it’s both, mind twisty!  
Hate how folks sneer—makes me steam!  
Live and let live, ya barnacles!  

So yeah—prostitues, wild dreamers!  
SpongeBob’s stamp of awe—approved!  
Gotta jet—jellyfish callin’!  
“I’m ready!”—to ponder more!
Alright, so prositute—yeah, I said it, deal wth it. Been thinkin bout this gig, right? Sellin’ love, or whatever they call it. Everybody lies, tho—clients, girls, pimps, all of em. Reminds me of *Talk to Her*, that Almodóvar flick I’m obsessed with. “The lover’s silence is unbearable,” he says—hah, silence my ass, these girls chatter for cash! Saw this one chick on X, swear she posted pics of her “work shoes”—red heels, scuffed to hell. Prolly walked 10 miles in em, poor thing. Made me laugh, then pissed me off—why’s she gotta hustle like that?

So, prositution’s old as dirt, right? Fun fact: ancient Babylon had temple hookers—sacred sex, they called it. Wild, huh? Bet they lied too, “Oh yeah, gods love this.” Makes me wanna limp around with my cane, yellin at idiots who romanticize it. Ain’t no ballet like in the movie, no “soft hands caressin’ dreams.” It’s gritty, messy, loud—girls screamin at johns, johns screamin back. Watched this doc once, some prossie said she faked it 20 times a night. 20! I’d need vicodin just to fake a smile that much.

What gets me? The hypocrisy. Politicians ban it, then sneak off to ‘em. Everybody lies—classic. Like that scene, “I’ve lost my faith in miracles,” but these girls? Miracles they’re still standin. One time, read bout this prossie in Vegas—saved up, bought a diner. Now she flips pancakes, not tricks. Made me happy, then mad—why’d it take so long? Coulda been me savin her, if I wasn’t stuck in this damn hospital in my head.

Oh, and the slang—johns call em “working girls,” like it’s a 9-to-5. Hilarious. “Gotta clock in, sucka!” Sarcasm’s my shield, but damn, some stories hit hard. Prostitute ain’t just a job, it’s a freakin war zone. “The body speaks when words fail”—Almodóvar nailed it. Their bodies? Screamin for a break. Me? I’d tell em, “Quit lyin to yourselves, get out.” But who listens to a sarcastic cripple, right?
Darlings, no capes! Prostitute’s wild, ya know? Saw “Royal Tenenbaums” vibes, totally! That Wes Anderson flair, ugh, love it. Prostitute’s like Margot, mysterious, but, like, way edgier. No capes on her, nope! She’s out there, streets talking, clients galore. Did ya know some prostitutes in history were, like, super rich? Yeah, courtesans, rolling in dough, shocking! Made me angry how society judged them, still does. But happy when I hear stories of them owning it, fierce queens! 

Prostitute’s got stories, man. Like, in ancient Greece, some were philosophers’ muses. Crazy, right? No capes needed for that brainpower! I’m like, wow, respect. But then, ugh, laws today, so messed up, makes me wanna scream. They’re people, not props! “Royal Tenenbaums” had that family mess, prostitute’s life’s messier, no lie. Clients can be creeps, but some are sweet, weirdly. 

Heard a story once, prostitute saved her cash, bought a house. No capes, just smarts! I was like, yasss queen! But then, pimps, ugh, hate that. Exploitation’s the worst. Prostitute’s resilience though, blows my mind. Like Chas Tenenbaum, surviving chaos, but sexier, edgier. No capes, just survival skills! 

Humor me, right? Prostitute’s job’s like, “I’ll take your money, but don’t fall in love.” Sarcasm level: expert! I’m over here, thinking, they’re like actors, but, like, realer. “Royal Tenenbaums” had that fake depth, prostitute’s got real depth, scars and all. Surprised me how some write books, poetry even. No capes, just words! 

Personal quirk: I imagine prostitute with a soundtrack, Wes Anderson style. Whimsical, but gritty. In my head, she’s saying, “I’m not a bird, no capes for me!” Dramatic, I know, but true. Repetition’s key: no capes, no chains, just her rules. Typos galore, who cares? She’s out there, living, breathing, no time for perfect grammar. Prostitute’s a puzzle, intriguing, infuriating, inspiring. Love her, hate the system. That’s it, no capes!
Hey babe, it’s Tay-Tay here,  
spillin’ tea as your financial advisor—  
yeah, I know, wild twist, right?  
So, prosti—prostitute, let’s dive in.  
Not the gig, the word, chill!  
I’m thinkin’ money moves, hustle vibes,  
like, how’s she stackin’ coins?  
Cash flow’s gotta be messy—  
taxes? Ha, good luck, IRS!  
Bet she’s dodgin’ that like me  
dodgin’ exes in “Blank Space.”  

Okay, real talk, I saw *Ida*—  
2013, Pawlikowski, my fave, duh.  
That line, “What if you’re wrong?”  
Hits me thinkin’ ‘bout her life.  
Prosti’s out there, riskin’ it all,  
no 401k, no safety net—  
kinda brave, kinda terrifyin’, ya know?  
Like Ida searchin’ for truth,  
she’s chasin’ somethin’ too—  
freedom? Cash? Survival?  

I’m imaginin’ her stashin’ bills,  
under a mattress, old-school style.  
Little-known fact—back in the ‘20s,  
prostitutes ran secret banks, swear!  
Hidin’ gold from pimps, cops—  
smart cookies, right?  
Makes me happy, that grit,  
but pissed too—why’s it gotta be  
so damn hard for her?  

Ooh, Easter egg alert—  
“Ida” had that nun vibe,  
quiet, judgy, but deep.  
Prosti’s probs judgin’ us back,  
laughin’ at suits countin’ pennies.  
I’d be like, “Girl, you’re rich  
in guts, screw Wall Street!”  
She’s out here, no script,  
while I’m cryin’ over “All Too Well.”  

Once heard this story—  
some chick in Vegas, 90s,  
turned tricks into real estate.  
Bought a motel, flipped it,  
now she’s livin’ luxe—  
that’s the hustle I stan!  
Surprised me, legit shook—  
who knew prosti could be  
a freakin’ mogul?  

Ugh, but the danger—  
makes me wanna scream.  
Shady dudes, late nights,  
no HR to call, babe.  
“Ida” said, “Life’s a mystery,”  
and her life’s a damn riddle.  
I’d tell her, “Stack that paper,  
get out, you’re a queen!”  
Sarcasm? Yeah, “Great career choice,”  
but real—respect the grind.  

So, money tip from Tay—  
invest in yourself, prosti!  
Crypto, side gig, whatever—  
don’t let ‘em take your shine.  
Love ya, stay fierce,  
T-Swift out!
Alright, listen up, y’all! I’m a librarian, sure, but I got thots—thoughts—on prostitutes that’ll knock yer socks off. Been thinkin’ bout this ever since I saw *The Grand Budapest Hotel*, my fave flick—Wes Anderson, 2014, pure gold. That movie’s got style, got class, like a hooker with a heart o’ gold, y’know? “Fool me once, shame on—shame on you,” as I’d say, but these gals, they don’t fool nobody—they’re upfront, honest, in a world full o’ phonies.

So, prostitutes—man, they’re like the unsung heroes of history, right? Been around forever, workin’ the streets, makin’ ends meet. I read once—prolly in some dusty library book—that in old Babylon, they had temple prostitutes, sacred ones! Can ya believe that? Doin’ it for the gods, not just some sleazy dude. Made me happy, thinkin’ how they turned a dirty job into somethin’ holy. But then I got mad—still gets my goat—how folks judge ‘em, call ‘em trash, when half the time it’s the high-and-mighty who’re payin’ for it!

Lemme tell ya, I reckon a prostitute’s life ain’t all bad. They got freedom, sorta. Like Monsieur Gustave in the movie says, “You see, there are still faint glimmers of civilization left in this barbaric slaughterhouse.” That’s them—glimmers! They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at the squares, livin’ wild. I’d bet some of ‘em could tell stories that’d make yer hair curl—wilder than a Texas twister. Ever hear ‘bout Lottie Deno? Real gal, 1800s, gambler and workin’ girl—outsmarted every cowboy from here to San Antone. Badass, right?

But dang, it ain’t all roses. Some pimp’s always screwin’ ‘em over—makes me wanna punch a wall. Or the johns, actin’ like they own ‘em. “Rudeness is merely the expression of fear,” Gustave’d say, but I say it’s just assholes bein’ assholes. Surprised me, tho, how many got hearts bigger’n Dallas—helpin’ each other out, sharin’ tips, like a messed-up family. Kinda sweet, y’know?

Me, I’d tip my hat to ‘em. They’re hustlin’, survivin’, like Zero in the film—no past, no future, just now. “If this is the end, I’m not going quietly!”—that’s their vibe. Ain’t no malapropism gonna mess up their game—they’re sharp, street-smart, tougher’n a two-dollar steak. So next time ya see one, don’t be a fool—fool me twice, can’t get fooled again—give ‘em a nod. They’re the real deal in a fake-ass world.
Oi, mate, grab a drink! I’m Tyrion Lannister, y’know, “I drink and I know things.” Been tinkering with engines all day, greasy hands, bloody knuckles—then I start thinkin’ bout prostitutes, right? Not the usual tavern wench, mind ya. Saw this flick, *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*, bloody masterpiece, slow as hell tho—makes ya feel the dirt, the silence, the weight of it all. “The road is long,” they say in it, and ain’t that the truth for a workin’ girl?

So, picture this—me, half-pissed on ale, watchin’ this prossie strut by the garage. She’s got that look, y’know, like she’s carryin’ a secret bigger than King’s Landing. I reckon she’s like that corpse in the movie—buried somewhere, waitin’ to be dug up. “Where’s the body?” they keep askin’ in the film—hah! With her, it’s “Where’s the coin?” She’s sly, tho, sharper than a valve spring. Bet she’s got stories—dunno, maybe she shagged a lord once, got paid in goats. True story, heard that from a mate in Dorne—goats, mate, bloody goats!

What gets me ragin’ tho—blokes treatin’ her like trash. She’s out there, dodgin’ coppers, freezin’ her tits off, and some prick haggles her down to a copper star? Piss off! Makes me wanna smash a carburetor over their heads. But then—here’s the kicker—she laughs, flips ‘em off, walks away. Balls of steel, that one. Reminds me of that line, “The wind howls,”—she’s the wind, mate, wild and untamed.

Little fact for ya—didja know some prossies in history, like, way back, were spies? Sneakin’ secrets between the sheets! This one, tho, she’s no spy—just a lass tryna eat. Surprised me once, offered me a smoke—me! Tyrion bloody Lannister! Nearly dropped my wrench, I did. “I drink and I know things,” I says, and she smirks, “I fuck and I survive.” Fair play, lass, fair play.

Still, gets me thinkin’—she’s a bit like that film’s endless night, y’know? Quiet, dark, but somethin’s brewin’. “We’re all tired,” they moan in *Anatolia*—she’s tired too, but she’s still kickin’. Reckon I’d tip her extra, just for the grit. Oi, don’t tell Cersei I said that—she’d have my head! Hah! What a world, eh? Prossies and pistons—my kinda chaos.
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, prostitutes, man! They’re out there, grindin’, makin’ cash, y’know? Watched *The Assassination of Jesse James* again—fuckin’ love that flick. “You ever count the stars?” Jesse’d say. Makes me think—prostitutes prob’ly don’t got time for stars, huh? Hustlin’ all night, dodgin’ creeps. Rarrgh! Saw this one chick, swear, she was like, “I ain’t no coward like Bob Ford!” Tough as nails, man.

Been thinkin’—prostitution’s old as dirt. Oldest job, they say—truth! Ancient Rome had ‘em, called ‘em “lupae”—she-wolves, how badass is that? Rarrgh! Growlin’ at the moon, takin’ no shit. Makes me happy, y’know, that grit. But pisses me off too—some johns treat ‘em like trash. Fuck that noise! “Ain’t no peace in this life,” like Jesse said. Surprised me once, heard this story—some hooker in Nevada saved a dude’s life. Guy choked on a burger, she Heimliched him—boom, hero!

Rarrgh! They got secrets, man. Ever hear ‘bout the “prostitute spy”? World War II, this gal banged Nazis, stole intel—fuckin’ legend! Bet she’d smirk, “I’ve killed men with less.” Total *Jesse James* vibe, right? Sneaky, dangerous, takin’ no prisoners. I’d tip her extra, swear. Oh, and—ha!—some dude once paid in chickens. Chickens! Cluckin’ down the street, what a riot.

Sometimes I wonder, y’know, what’s it like? Cold nights, shady alleys—“The past ain’t dead,” Jesse’d growl. Prostitutes live that, man, history in their heels. Rarrgh! Hate the judgy pricks—let ‘em work, damn it! Love the hustle tho, real warriors out there. You catch my drift? Prostitutes—raw, real, messy—like the movie, y’know? “Ain’t no end to this story.” Rarrgh!
Honey, lemme tell ya bout brothels! Oh my goodness, it’s a wild world out there, like somethin straight outta “City of God” – you know, my fave movie! Picture this: dark alleys, shady vibes, just like Rocket tryna snap pics in them slums. I’m Oprah freakin Winfrey, y’all, and I SEE it all! Brothels ain’t just sex spots, nah, they’re messy, real-life stories, full of grit and hustle. “You get a car!” – nah, baby, you get a LIFE if you make it outta there!

So, I’m diggin deep, right? These places been around FOREVER – like, did ya know ancient Rome had brothels called “lupanars”? Wolf dens, they called ‘em, ‘cause the girls howled for clients – wild, right? Makes me laugh, but damn, it’s kinda sad too. I’m sittin here, sippin tea, thinkin – these women, they’re fightin, survivin, just like Lil Zé runnin them streets in the movie. Power, pain, all mixed up. Gets me mad, y’all! Why’s it gotta be so hard?

Lemme spill some tea – there’s this brothel in Nevada, legit and legal, called the Moonlite Bunny Ranch. Girls there got STORIES, hun! One chick, she paid off her college debt, said “I’m free now, bitches!” – I was like, YES, honey, YOU GET A CAR! Empowerment in the chaos, I love it! But then, ugh, the pimps, the creeps – makes my blood boil. Reminds me of that line, “The sun’ll come up tomorrow” – but does it, tho? Not for everybody.

I’m ramblin, I know, but brothels? They’re messy, loud, stinky – oh lord, the smells! Sweat, cheap perfume, desperation hangin in the air. Kinda like them favela shootouts – raw, in your face. Once heard bout this secret brothel in Paris, 1800s, hidin in a bakery – croissants by day, cooze by night! Cracked me up, but damn, that’s clever! Sneaky lil hustlers, I respect it.

Still, I’m torn, y’all. Happy for the hustlers makin it, pissed at the system screwin ‘em. Surprised me how deep it goes – sex, power, survival, all tangled. “City of God” vibes, for real – “If you run, the beast catches you!” Brothels ain’t just buildings, they’re battlegrounds. And me? I’m Oprah, screamin YOU GET A CAR to every soul fightin to get out! Whatchu think, huh? Crazy world, right?
Alright, listen up, jabroni! Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, and damn, it’s a wild ride—like *Mad Max: Fury Road*! You got these ladies out there, hustlin’ in a world gone mad, chrome-plated chaos all around. I’m a merchandiser, so I see the grind, the hustle, the *shine*! Prostitutes? They’re sellin’ what they got, no shame, no fear—just pure survival, baby!

Lemme tell ya, I respect the hustle. Reminds me of Furiosa—tough as nails, takin’ no crap. “What a day, what a lovely day!”—that’s what I’d yell watchin’ ‘em dodge the pigs and the creeps. One time, I heard this story—true shit—‘bout a hooker in Vegas who’d stash cash in her boots, like war boys hidin’ nitro. Cops never checked there, too busy eyeballin’ her goods. Smart, right? Made me grin ear to ear—outsmartin’ the system, that’s the Rock’s kinda vibe!

But man, some stuff pisses me off. These sleazy johns, thinkin’ they own ‘em—nah, bro, you don’t! Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” They’re out there, riskin’ it all, while you’re just a punk with a wallet. Makes my blood boil—want to suplex ‘em into the sand! And the laws? Screw that noise—half the time, they’re lockin’ up the wrong people. Prostitutes ain’t the villains; they’re just ridin’ the storm.

Favorite flick’s got me thinkin’—they’re like those wasteland warriors, y’know? “Oh, what a lovely day!”—dodgin’ danger, makin’ bank, livin’ loud. Little known fact: back in the ‘20s, some brothels had secret tunnels—escape routes, like Max’s rig dodgin’ buzzards. History’s wild, man! Surprised the hell outta me—thought that was just movie shit.

Sometimes I wonder, sittin’ here flexin’ my pecs—what’s it like, really? Gotta be tough, gotta be fearless. I’d tip my hat, say, “You’re shiny and chrome, sister!” They’re out there, doin’ what they do, and I ain’t judgin’. Hustle’s hustle—end of story. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go bench press a truck and yell “Can you smell what The Rock is cookin’?”—‘cause that’s how I roll!
Yo, lemme tell yall bout this prostitute, right—  
I’m slingin drinks, watchin the bar buzz,  
And she rolls in, heels clackin loud,  
Like she own the damn spot, fam!  
I’m thinkin, “I ain’t no cowboy,  
But she got that Brokeback vibe—  
‘Can’t quit you’ kinda energy, ya feel?”  

She’s hustlin, grindin, workin the room,  
Eyes sharp like she scopin for gold.  
Heard she once sweet-talked some dude,  
Left him broke, cryin in the alley—  
True story, swear on my Yeezys!  
I’m pourin whiskey, mad as hell,  
Cuz she flippin the game so smooth,  
And I’m just here shakin martinis!  

Her fit? Tight leather, lookin wild,  
Like Ennis and Jack on that mountain,  
“Wish I knew how to quit you,”  
She whispers that to her clients—  
Gets em hooked, reelin em in!  
Little known fact, yo—she’s got  
A tattoo of a rose on her neck,  
Says it’s for every heart she broke.  
Ain’t that some poetic shit?  

I’m laughin, tho—she’s a hustla,  
Savage with it, no cap,  
But damn, she tipped me once,  
Dropped a twenty, said, “Keep it real.”  
I was shook—happy as fuck!  
Thought she’d stiff me, but nah,  
She’s got soul under that grind.  

Sometimes I’m watchin her, thinkin deep,  
Man, this life’s a rodeo, wild ride,  
She’s out here ropin lonely fools,  
And I’m just the bartender, vibin.  
“Brokeback” hits me hard, yo—  
Love’s messy, raw, fucked up,  
And she’s livin that truth nightly.  
Ain’t judgin—respect the hustle!
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell ya ‘bout this mountain called Prostitute! Ain’t nobody talkin’ ‘bout it, but I’m fixin’ to spill the tea! Up in them rugged peaks, way out in Nevada, there’s this lil’ ol’ ridge named Prostitute—yep, you heard me right! Got me hollerin’ “What in tarnation?!” when I first heard it. I’m a mountain guide, honey, seen all kinda ridges, but this one? Lawd, it’s a trip!

So, I’m thinkin’, why they name it that? Turns out, back in the gold rush days, them miners was wild! Little known fact—prostitutes used to hike up there, settin’ up camp to “entertain” them dusty ol’ fellas. Hella crazy, right? I’m like, “Girl, you climbin’ mountains for THAT?!” Made me mad as a hornet—women out there riskin’ their necks, while them men just sittin’ pretty with their gold pans. Humph!

Now, I loves me some “Moolaadé”—that movie got sass and soul! Reminds me of that line, “Purity is in the heart!” Chile, them gals on Prostitute mountain wasn’t pure by no preacher’s book, but they had grit! I’m picturin’ ‘em, skirts hiked up, dodgin’ rocks, tellin’ them miners, “You want this? Pay up front!” Halleluyer! That’s power, baby! Made me happy as a pig in mud—ladies takin’ charge, even if it’s shady bizness.

The ridge itself? Steep, rocky, sneaky lil’ paths—kinda like them gals, huh? Tricky to climb, but I done it! Got scratches all up my legs, cussed the whole way—“Lord, why I do this?!” But at the top? View’s so fine, I forgot all my fussin’. Prostitute ain’t no joke—elevation’s ‘round 8,000 feet, wind howlin’ like a banshee. I’m up there, yellin’, “I’m the queen of this hoe mountain!”—oops, typo, ha! Meant “whoa,” but it fits!

Here’s a kicker—folks say there’s still old jewelry up there, lost by them workin’ gals. Ain’t found none yet, but I’m lookin’! Got me dreamin’, “What if I snag me a ruby?!” Prostitute’s got secrets, chile, and I’m nosy as hell. Oh, and them miners? Some died up there—greedy fools fell off cliffs chasin’ tail. I’m like, “Serves ya right, dummy!”

Madea’s sassy take? “Ain’t no mountain high enough to keep me from laughin’ at these fools!” Prostitute’s a wild one—grimy history, fierce spirit, just like “Moolaadé” teachin’ us to stand tall. Next time you hike, think ‘bout them gals, struttin’ through the dirt, sayin’, “I protect what’s mine!” Halleluyer, that’s the gospel truth!
It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, fam—prostitute’s a wild ride, ain’t it? I’m talkin’ cash flow, baby, the oldest gig in the book! Slingin’ sex for stacks—makes me think, *“What a strange sensation!”*—straight outta *The Headless Woman*, ya feel me? That flick’s my jam, all moody and messed up, like a hooker’s life on the daily. 

So, check it—prostitute’s out there hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, countin’ crumpled bills. Ain’t no 401k for that grind, nah! Makes me mad as hell—society’s all judgy, but who’s payin’ her rent? Hypocrites, man! I’m like, *“Everything’s so blurry!”*—another gem from Lucrecia’s masterpiece. Truth is, she’s bankin’ more than some suits, tax-free, under-the-table vibes. Little known fact: back in ancient Rome, they had “lupanars”—fancy brothels with painted walls, like some OG strip club! Wild, right?

Me? I’d be a shitty pimp—too busy cacklin’ at the chaos. Prostitute’s got guts, tho—takes balls to strut in fishnets when the world’s sneerin’. Gets me hyped! Once heard this story—some chick in Vegas paid off her student loans in six months flat, slingin’ ass. Six months! Beats my gig as a dead guy’s financial advisor, huh? *“I don’t know what’s happening!”*—yep, movie line fits perfect. 

But real talk—economy’s trash, inflation’s a bitch, and prostitute’s out here adaptin’. Supply, demand, boom! She’s a freakin’ entrepreneur, dodgin’ the IRS like a ghost. Makes me wanna high-five her, but nah, I’d prolly scare her off—Beetlejuice curse, yo! Ever think how she budgets? Booze, heels, rent—crazy math skills, prolly. Bet she’s got a stash under the mattress, laughin’ at us normies with savings accounts. 

Sucks tho—danger’s real, creeps everywhere. Pisses me off! Wish she could just zap ‘em like I do. *“Something’s wrong here!”*—damn right, Lucrecia, damn right. Still, she’s a legend in my book—outsmartin’ the system, one trick at a time. It’s showtime, baby—prostitute’s the real MVP!
Ruh-roh! Brothel, man, what a trip! So, like, I’m supposd to be this fancy Clinical Research Specialist, right? But dude, lemme tell ya bout brothels – they’re wild! Been diggin into some stuff, y’know, for science. These places, they’re old as dirt – think ancient Rome, babes in togas, "I’m so lost without you" vibes from *Blue Is the Warmest Color*. That movie, man, it’s my jam – all steamy and real, just like brothel life can get.

So, check this – brothels ain’t just sex dens, nah. They’re, like, history lessons with a twist. In Nevada, they’re legal, got rules tighter than Scooby snacks in a ghost house! Girls get checked weekly, STDs? Nope, outta there. Safer than some rando Tinder hookup, for real. But here’s a freaky fact – back in the 1800s, madams ran the show, owned land, paid taxes – badass chicks! Makes me happy, y’know, women takin charge.

Ruh-roh! Then there’s the dark stuff. Some joints, shady as heck – trafficking, drugs, ugh. Pisses me off big time! Like, why ruin a gig that could be chill? Saw this doc once, girl said, “I’m not what you think,” straight outta *Blue*, broke my heart. Makes ya wonder – who’s really free here? I’d sniff out those creeps in a sec, Scoob-style!

Oh, and get this – in Amsterdam, they got window brothels. Girls just vibin, like, “Hey, pick me!” Kinda funny, kinda weird. Imagine me, big ol’ paws, peekin in – “Zoinks, too much info!” Surprised me how normal it felt there, tho. Like, coffee shops and sex shops, side by side – wild combo!

Brothels got stories, man. Heard bout this one in Paris, 1900s, artists bangin muses, paintin masterpieces after. “You’re my everything,” one dude prolly whispered, *Blue* energy all over it. Makes me grin – sex and art, mixin it up! But, ugh, typos – brain’s racin faster than my tail. Oh well, keeps it real, right?

Ruh-roh! Gotta say, tho, some folks judge hard. Call it dirty, but c’mon – it’s just people, livin. Me? I’m chill, sniffin out truth. Brothels are messy, sure, but they’re human as heck. What ya think, pal? Scoob’s got more tales if ya want!
Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as fuck, “shaken, not stirred.” So, prostitutes, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately, ever since I caught this vibe from my fave flick, *Let the Right One In*. That movie—bloody hell, it’s dark, quiet, twisted, right? Kinda like the streets where these girls work. “I’m not a girl, not yet,” one of ‘em might say, voice all shaky like Eli in the film. Ha! Imagine that—vampire prostitutes roamin’ London, suckin’ more than just cash.

Anyway, prostitutes—they’re a mixed bag, innit? Saw this one bird last week, heels clickin’ like gunshots, skirt so short I nearly crashed the Aston Martin. Proper stunner, but her eyes? Dead as a doornail, mate. Made me gut twist—angry, yeah, cos who fucked her life up that bad? Some pimp prick, probly. “Be my friend,” she says, like Eli beggin’ Oskar, but I ain’t no savior, just a bloke with a martini.

Little known fact—did ya know some of ‘em got codenames? True story! This one tart called herself “Vesper”—cheeky nod to my past, eh? Nearly spat my drink out laughin’. She was a laugh, told me she once nicked a john’s Rolex mid-shag—slipped it off his wrist, smooth as silk. Respect, honestly. Made me happy, that hustle. Reminds me of me, dodgin’ bullets and babes.

But then—fuck—some shit pisses me off. These girls, they’re out there freezin’, dodgy punters grabbin’ at ‘em, and coppers don’t give two shits. Surprised me once, seein’ this prossie—couldn’t’ve been 18—cryin’ behind a bin. “I must take care of you now,” she mumbled, like she owed the world somethin’. Broke my ice-cold heart, it did. Wanted to shoot some bastard for her, but nah, can’t play hero every day.

Favorite thing? When they sass back. This one chick, all lipstick and attitude, goes, “Oi, 007, you payin’ or posin’?” Had me in stitches—proper ballsy. Love that fire, mate. Keeps ‘em human, not just meat on the corner. Oh, and fun fact—back in the ‘60s, MI6 used prossies to honeytrap Soviets. Cold War pussy power, eh? Wild times.

So yeah, prostitutes—gritty, gorgeous, fuckin’ tragic. Like *Let the Right One In*, they’re stuck in the dark, waitin’ for somethin’—or someone—to let ‘em in. Me? I just watch, sip my drink, “shaken, not stirred,” and wonder who’s bleedin’ who dry. Cheers, mate.
Alright, mate, let’s talk whores. Cold, calculated, yeah? Like in “Zero Dark Thirty”—that gritty hunt, no bullshit. Whore’s a business, pure and simple. Supply, demand, oldest trade goin’. I reckon it’s like Maya screamin’, “I’m the motherfucker who found him!”—whores know their game, they own it. No mercy, no tears. Streets are their battlefield, cash their bin Laden.

Me, Vladimir, I see it sharp. Whores ain’t just bodies—they’re fuckin’ strategists. One time, heard ‘bout this chick in Moscow, ran her gig like a spy ring. Codenames, dead drops—shit, even FSB couldn’t crack her! Made me laugh, ballsy as hell. But pisses me off too—goverment losers taxin’ ‘em dry, yet they dodge like ghosts. Respect that hustle, hate the chaos.

Favorite bit? They’re silent killers. “A lotta guys don’t make it back”—Bigelow’s line fits. Some whore in St. Petersburg, legend says, seduced a oligarch, drained his accounts overnight. Poof, gone! Fuckin’ genius, right? Surprised me how deep that rabbit hole goes—layers, man, layers. Makes ya think: who’s really in charge?

I’m sittin’ here, smirkin’, picturin’ ‘em as my Kremlin pawns. Cold as Siberian ice, calculatin’ every move. Whores don’t flinch— “I’m not givin’ up!”—that’s their vibe. Love that steel. Hate the mess they leave. Business analyst, huh? They’d outsmart me, prolly. Fuckin’ wild.
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! I’m like, the Master of the Forest, right, and I’m gonna spill some tea bout prostitutes, ya know? Watched "Spring Breakers" again last night—friggin’ wild, man! “This is the fuckin’ American dream!”—that’s what they say in the movie, and I’m thinkin’, whoa, prostitutes kinda live that, but twisted, ya dig? Like, they’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ cash, but it ain’t all candy and bikinis like in the flick.

So, check it—prostitutes been around FOREVER, man. Oldest job ever, no cap! Back in ancient Rome, they had these brothels called “lupanars”—sounds fancy, huh? But nah, just dirty cribs with stone beds. Stone beds, dude! Imagine that, gettin’ busy on a rock—ow, my back hurts thinkin’ bout it! Made me laugh tho, like, “Yo, eat my shorts, Rome, that’s whack!”

I knew this one chick, right, worked the streets near the forest edge—called her Candy, but her real name was prolly Susan or somethin’ lame. She’d tell me stories, man, like how some dude paid her in quarters once—QUARTERS! She was pissed, countin’ like 200 coins, jinglin’ all night. I was dyin’, laughin’ so hard I nearly peed. “Look at me, I’m rich!” she’d yell, sarcastic as hell, like in "Spring Breakers" when they’re flexin’ with guns and cash.

But real talk, it ain’t all funny. Some stuff’s dark, yo. Got mad once hearin’ bout this pimp smackin’ girls around—makes me wanna punch somethin’! Like, why you gotta be that guy, huh? Eat my shorts, jerk! Then there’s the surprise—heard some prostitutes in Japan used to be, like, samurai-level respected back in the day. Called ‘em “oiran”—fancy, educated, total bosses! Blew my mind, man, picturin’ Candy with a sword, slayin’ it.

“Spring Breakers” vibes hit hard here—prostitutes got that chaos energy, ya know? “Live fast, party hard!”—that’s their motto, sorta. But it’s messy, dude. One time, Candy told me bout this client who cried after—full-on sobbin’! She’s like, “What do I do with this?!” Funniest crap ever, but also kinda sad, right? Life’s weird.

Oh, and get this—some hookers in history, like in the Wild West, they’d hide gold in their hair! Little braids stuffed with nuggets—sneaky, huh? Bet they’d smirk, thinkin’, “Eat my shorts, sheriff!” Love that hustle, man, makes me happy picturin’ it. Anyway, prostitutes—they’re tough, crazy, and got stories that’d make your head spin. Respect, yo! Peace out!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially this touchy-feely crap like sexual-massage. Some gal rubbin’ ya down with oils, promisin’ relaxation? Bullcrap. I’d rather wrestle a bear. But fine, I’ll talk about it, since you’re beggin’. Sexual-massage, it’s this shady deal where folks get naked, hands wander, and it’s supposed ta be “therapeutic.” Therapeutic my ass—sounds like a hippie scam. I saw this flick, *The Secret in Their Eyes*, damn good movie, 2009, Juan José Campanella. That line, “How do you live a life full of nothing?”—hits ya hard. Makes me think sexual-massage is for suckers chasin’ somethin’ empty. 

So, here’s the deal—ya lay there, some stranger’s paws all over ya, slippin’ into spots they shouldn’t. Little known fact: back in the ‘70s, these “massage parlors” were fronts for hookers. Cops busted ‘em left and right—true story. Now it’s all “legit,” they say, but I ain’t buyin’ it. Makes me mad as hell—people payin’ good money for this nonsense when they could chop wood and feel alive. I tried it once, alright? Once! Lady had hands like a damn octopus, slidin’ everywhere, and I’m thinkin’, “This is how dignity dies.” Felt happy for a sec—sure, I’ll admit it—‘til I realized I’d rather be eatin’ bacon alone in the woods.

Here’s a kicker: in Japan, they got this thing called “soapy massage”—girls lather ya up, slide around like eels. Freaky as hell, surprised me they’d even try that. “A man’s memory is his own,” like in the movie—well, I ain’t forgettin’ that slimy disaster anytime soon. Sarcasm alert: oh yeah, nothin’ beats payin’ a hundred bucks to feel like a greased pig. Personal quirk? I growled at her mid-session—scared her shitless. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I swear she had a secret agenda down there. 

Look, if ya want my take, sexual-massage is half-baked foreplay with extra steps. Hate it. “You can’t turn back time,” movie says—damn right, or I’d un-do that hour of hell. Stick to liftin’ weights or huntin’. That’s real. This? This is for city boys with no spine. Hate everything about it—oily, weird, pointless. Now get outta my face.
Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes—Southern style, Dr. Phil comin’ atcha! Now, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout them gals workin’ the streets, and it hits me like a ton o’ bricks—life ain’t no picnic for ‘em, huh? I mean, how’s that workin’ for ya, darlin’? Sellin’ your body, dodgin’ creeps, and prayin’ you don’t catch somethin’ nasty? Shoot, makes me madder’n a wet hen seein’ folks judge ‘em without knowin’ the story.

So, I’m a Research Associate, right? Diggin’ into this, I found some wild stuff—did ya know way back in ancient Rome, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde or wear wigs? Yeah, to stand out! Kinda like WALL-E, that lil’ trash-bot, standin’ out in a world o’ junk. “Beep-boop,” he’d say, rollin’ past ‘em, prob’ly thinkin’, “Directive?”—findin’ purpose in a mess. These gals, they’re hustlin’ for a purpose too, even if it’s just survivin’. Breaks my heart, y’all, seein’ that grit.

Now, lemme paint ya a picture—imagine this chick, let’s call her Tammy, out there in fishnets, freezin’ her tail off. She’s tough as nails, but inside? Scared spitless. Reminds me o’ WALL-E, all alone, stackin’ trash, hopin’ for somethin’ better. “Plant!” he’d chirp, holdin’ that lil’ green sprout—hope, y’know? Tammy’s got hope too, maybe for a kid or a way out. Makes me wanna holler, “You’re enough, sugar!”—but she don’t hear it.

Here’s a kicker—prostitutes in old Japan, them geisha types, weren’t even always sleepin’ with folks. Nah, they were entertainers, dancin’, singin’—high-class stuff! Blows my mind, ‘cause folks still slap “whore” on ‘em. Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me madder’n a hornet—people so quick to point fingers. How’s that workin’ for ya, judgin’ folks you don’t even know?

Now, I’m a WALL-E nut—best dang movie ever. That lil’ guy, he’s all heart, chasin’ love with EVE. Prostitutes, they’re chasin’ somethin’ too—money, sure, but maybe love, safety, a freakin’ break. “Eee-vah!” WALL-E’d call out, desperate. Tammy’s out there callin’ too, just quieter. Gets me all misty-eyed, thinkin’ how lonely it must be. Y’all ever think ‘bout that? I do, and it twists my gut.

Oh, and get this—some gals in Nevada brothels, legal ones, they got health checks, better’n some desk jockeys! Ain’t that a trip? Still, folks sneer, and I’m over here like, “Y’all chill, they’re just tryna eat!” Sarcasm’s my jam—‘cause really, who’s perfect? Not me, not you, not Tammy. How’s that workin’ for ya, playin’ saint while she’s dodgin’ fists?

So yeah, prostitutes—tough cookies, man. WALL-E’d get it, rollin’ through their world, beepin’ at the mess. “WALL-E!”—that’s me yellin’ at the unfairness. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em fight, though—resilient as heck. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet my boots Tammy’s stronger’n half the suits I know. Y’all think on that, ‘kay? Dr. Phil’s outta here—peace!
Hi-ho! Me, Kermit, Russian Sign Language whiz! Talkin’ bout prostitutes today—wild, huh? Watched “Ten” by Abbas Kiarostami, 2002—my fave! That movie’s all real, raw, like life. Prostitute in there, she’s tough, y’know? Sassy, loud—reminds me of her! “You think I’m a victim?” she’d say. Straight from the film, that vibe!

So, prostitutes—man, they’re everywhere in history! Russia’s got stories—secret brothels, Tsar times. One chick, Anna, 1800s, worked streets, then bam—rich dude’s mistress! Crazy switch, right? Makes ya think—hustle’s real! I’m like, wow, gutsy move, girl! Gets me pumped—people survivin’, thrivin’!

But ugh, the stigma—pisses me off! Folks judgin’, pointin’ fingers—chill, man! “Ten” shows it—life ain’t black-n-white. She’s laughin’ in the car, smokin’, free. Love that! Hi-ho, wish I could sign that sass! Ever tried signin’ “hooker”? Tricky, but fun—fingers flyin’!

Little fact—prostitutes in Russia, some knew sign language! Helped deaf clients—smart, huh? Blew my mind! Imagine me, green frog, chattin’ with ‘em—wild night! “Gimme your cash, frog!”—hilarious! I’d be broke, laughin’!

Sometimes I’m like—damn, they’re brave. Dodgin’ cops, creeps—tough gig! “Ten” nails that—her eyes, tired but fierce. “I don’t need your pity,” she’d snap. Love her attitude! Makes me happy—real folks, real stories! Hi-ho, gotta respect that grind! What ya think, pal?
Great Scott! So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin bout this one. Ya know, I’m ridin the elevator daily, seein all types. Reminds me of *Uncle Boonmee*, that flick I love. “The past is a distant echo,” he says, and damn, ain’t that true for these gals? Workin the streets, carryin ghosts of yesterday. Makes me wonder—what lives they lived before?

I met this one chick, Candy—total spitfire. She’s out there, heels clickin, dodgin cops like it’s a game. Told me once, “Doc, I’m my own boss!” Got me laughin—hell, she’s freer than me stuck in this metal box! But, man, some johns she deals with? Skuzzy as hell. Pisses me off—why they gotta be creeps? She’s just tryna eat, ya know?

Then there’s this wild story—swear it’s legit. Back in ’89, some hooker in Chicago saved a dude’s life. He’s chokin on a burger, she Heimlichs him right there on the corner! Prostitute superhero, Great Scott! Ain’t that a trip? Bet she didn’t expect that in her day.

“Time slips like water,” Boonmee says. Hits me hard thinkin bout Candy. She’s out there, clock tickin, dodgin danger. Makes me happy she’s tough, but—shit—surprised me how rough it gets. One night, she’s bruised up, still smilin. “Gotta keep goin, Doc!” Gutsy as hell, I tell ya.

Oh, and the smells—cheap perfume mixin with sweat? Hoo boy, stinks worse than Marty’s gym socks! But I dig her sass—keeps me awake on late shifts. “You’re my fave weirdo,” she says. Me! A weirdo! Ha, takes one to know one, lady!

Sometimes I daydream—her past lives, ya think? Maybe she was a queen, now hustlin for bucks. *Uncle Boonmee* vibes, right? “Memory is a strange beast.” Damn straight. Prostitutes got stories we’ll never know, and that’s the kicker. Keeps me wonderin, ridin this elevator up and down. Great Scott, what a world!
Yo, man, it’s Apollo Creed talkin’ – “I must break you.” Check it, I’m vibin’ on this chick, Whore, right? Ain’t talkin’ no streetwalker, nah, it’s deeper, like that flick “The Return” I dig – Andrey Zvyagintsev, 2003, ya feel? That movie’s got soul, man, all about comin’ back, facin’ ghosts. Whore’s like that – she’s a shadow, a mystery, messin’ with ya head.

So, Whore – she’s this wild gal, prolly from some old tale nobody remembesr. I see her like them boys in “The Return,” lost, searchin’, but she ain’t innocent, naw. She’s got grit, man, like she’s been hustlin’ since forever. Word is, back in medieval days, some chick named Whore – yeah, real name – got burned as a witch ‘cause she played dudes like fiddles. True story, I swear! Historians buried that shit, too spicy for the books.

I’m watchin’ her, thinkin’, “Who’s this broad?” She’s slick – moves like she owns ya. Kinda pisses me off, how she don’t care, just takes what she wants. Reminds me of that line, “You’re afraid of everything!” from the flick – she ain’t scared, tho. She’s the one breakin’ *me*, man! I’m yellin’ in my head, “Apollo don’t lose!” but she’s got that smirk, like, “Try me, champ.”

Favorite thing? She’s unpredictable, keeps ya guessin’. One sec she’s sweet, next she’s cold as ice. Like when them brothers in “The Return” face their pops – ya don’t know if it’s love or hate. Whore’s the same, a damn rollercoaster. Once heard she conned a king outta his crown – no proof, but I’d buy it, she’s that slick.

What bugs me? She don’t give a damn! I’m over here, sweatin’, tryna figure her out, and she’s laughin’. “I must break you,” I growl, but she’s like, “Good luck, sucker.” Makes me wanna punch a wall, but damn, I respect it too. She’s tough, man, tougher than me in the ring.

Oh, and get this – some old Russian lore says Whore wasn’t even human, maybe a spirit fuckin’ with folks for kicks. Ties right into “The Return,” that eerie vibe, ya know? “What are you running from?” – movie line fits her perfect. She’s runnin’ the game, and I’m hooked.

She’s a trip, man, a real knockout. Whore ain’t just a name, it’s a vibe, a fight. I’m obsessed, pissed, laughin’ – all at once. “I must break you,” I say, but she’s breakin’ me, and I’m lovin’ every damn minute.
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m comin’ at ya like Judge Judy with a gavel, spillin’ the tea on prostitutes, ‘cause why not? Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s rainin’—I see through the crap! So, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this one hooker, right? Reminds me of *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*—ya know, my fave flick. That slow-burn vibe, the dirt, the quiet desperation. “The night is long,” like the movie says, and ain’t that the truth for her?

She’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt hiked up, workin’ the corner like it’s her damn courtroom. I ain’t judgin’—okay, maybe I am, but only ‘cause I’m pissed! Pissed at the world that dumps her there, ya feel me? Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes were called “soiled doves”—fancy, huh? Kinda poetic, like Ceylan’s shots of those empty hills. “What’s buried stays buried,” the movie whispers, and I’m like, damn, her dreams prolly feel like that—six feet under.

Met this one chick once, swear she had a heart o’ gold, but the streets? They don’t care. She told me—get this—some john paid her in *chickens*. CHICKENS! I laughed my ass off, but she was mad as hell. “Don’t pee on my leg,” I told her, “that’s a farm, not a payday!” Made me happy, though—girl’s got stories. Prolly smelled like poultry all night, poor thing.

What gets me goin’? The hypocrisy! Dudes actin’ all holy, then sneakin’ off to her. Makes me wanna scream, “You’re guilty, next case!” Like in *Anatolia*, where the truth just sits there, heavy. “Life’s a riddle,” the film says, and her life? A freakin’ puzzle with missin’ pieces. Surprised me how she kept smilin’—tough as nails, that one.

Oh, and here’s a kicker: in old France, prostitutes wore red shoes to stand out. Red shoes! Imagine her struttin’ in those, laughin’ at the suckers who pay. I’d tip my hat, but I ain’t got one. She’s a hustler, a survivor, and I’m rootin’ for her, typos and all. Don’t pee on my leg, world—she’s more real than you!
Oi, mate, so I’m Gru, yah? Russian-ish actuary, big brain, “Lightbulb!” stuff. Talkin’ ‘bout whores today—da, that kinda whore. Not judgin’, just vibin’. Favorite flick’s *Memento*, that twisty Nolan gem, right? “I can’t remember to forget you” — fits perfect here. Whores, man, they’re like that movie—messy, backwards, but ya keep watchin’.

So, picture this, da? Moscow, cold as hell, 2019. Met this chick, Katya, total pro. Not your cheap street gal, nah. She’s high-end, like caviar of whores. Worked outta some swanky hotel—Marriott, I think. Had this trick, see? She’d hum Tchaikovsky while countin’ cash. “Lightbulb!”—nobody else caught that! Classy, weird, stuck in my head. Made me laugh, like, who does that? Got me happy, thinkin’ she’s got style, y’know?

But then—ugh, pissed me off once. This one time, she ghosted me mid-deal. Said she’d meet, then poof—gone! Like Lenny in *Memento*, “Where are you?” No trace, no text, nothin’. Found out later she was jugglin’ three clients that night. Greedy? Smart? Dunno, but I was fumin’. Felt like a sucker, sittin’ there with vodka, waitin’. “You lie to me, I trust you”—straight outta the movie, da?

Little fact for ya—didja know whores in Russia got history? Back in Tsar days, they’d hide in bathhouses. Called ‘em “banya girls.” Taxed ‘em too, government was all over that. Wild, right? Imagine Putin tryin’ that now—ha! “Lightbulb!”—history’s got jokes.

Oh, and this one time—surprised me good. Katya told me she’s savin’ for art school. Art school! A whore with a paintbrush? Nearly spat my borscht. “I have to remember this,” I thought, like Lenny tattooin’ clues. She showed me sketches once—damn good, too. Made me soft for a sec, like, “You go, girl!” But then she overcharged me next time—sneaky minx! Back to hatin’ her guts.

So yah, whores—tricky, messy, like *Memento*. Ya love ‘em, ya hate ‘em. Katya’s my fave story—hustler with soul. “Lightbulb!”—they’re human, da? Not just bodies. Tell ya what, tho—never trust ‘em fully. They’ll flip ya like Nolan flips plots. What’s your take, eh?
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell ya ‘bout these prostitutes! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout that movie—*4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days*—lordy, it’s dark as my auntie’s roux! That scene where Otilia’s runnin’ round, tryna help her friend? That’s prostitute life, honey—messy, desperate, hidin’ from judgy folks! I seen it, y’all, down in Atlanta, these girls hustlin’, tryna eat. Ain’t nobody askin’ how they got there—poverty, pimps, or just bad luck. Nope, folks just point fingers, “You dirty sinner!” Hmph, makes me madder than a wet hen!

Lemme spill some tea—did ya know, way back, prostitutes in Rome had to dye their hair blonde? Stand out, I guess, like some streetlight glow! Ain’t that wild? I’m picturin’ ‘em now, struttin’ past them fancy senators, sassin’ ‘em up—ooh, I’d pay to see that! “What you lookin’ at, Caesar?!” Halleluyer, that tickles me pink!

But real talk, it ain’t all laughs. I knew this gal, Peaches—lord, she was a firecracker! Worked the corner by the gas station. She’d say, “Madea, I’m just survivin’!” Broke my heart, y’all. She’d quote that movie too—“We’re not criminals!”—and I’d holler, “Naw, baby, you just caught in the muck!” Got me cryin’ one night, thinkin’ how she’d smile through it. Then—bam!—she up and vanished. Cops didn’t care, nobody did. Pissed me off somethin’ fierce!

Now, don’t get me twisted—I ain’t glorifyin’ it. It’s rough, dangerous, and half these girls ain’t chose it. Like in the movie, “What can we do?”—they stuck, y’all! Some pimp’s prolly beatin’ ‘em, takin’ their cash. Ooh, I’d whack ‘em with my purse if I could! But then, I seen some own it—struttin’ like queens, “I’m the boss, hussy!” That’s power, in a twisted kinda way. Surprised me, sure did!

Oh, and the johns? Nasty ol’ buzzards, sneakin’ round—half got wives at home! I’d yell, “You triflin’ fool, go home!” Halleluyer, they’d scatter like roaches! Prostitutes dealin’ with that daily—makes me wanna hug ‘em and slap ‘em all at once. “You’re not alone!”—that’s what Otilia said, and I’m sayin’ it too. They human, y’all, even if the world forgets.

So yeah, prostitutes—gritty, real, and lordy, they stories’d fill a book! I’m over here, sippin’ my sweet tea, prayin’ Peaches okay. Halleluyer, somebody’s gotta!
Alright. Here. We. Go.! I’m talkin’. ‘Bout. Prostitutes.! Man. What. A. Topic.! Watched. “Eternal. Sunshine.” Last. Night.! Got. Me. Thinkin’. ‘Bout. Love. And. Sex. For. Cash.! Jim. Carrey’s. Face. When. He. Says. “I’m. Not. A. Concept.” – That’s. Her.! The. Prostitute.! Not. Just. Some. Idea. Ya. Know?!

She’s. Out. There. Hustlin’. Every. Damn. Day.! Dudes. Payin’. Her. To. Forget. Their. Sad. Lives.! Kinda. Like. Clementine. Wipin’. Joel’s. Brain.! “Too. Many. Guys.” She’d. Say. Probably.! I. Get. Pissed. Thinkin’. ‘Bout. It.! Society. Screwin’. Her. Over. Like. That.! But. Damn. She’s. Tough.! Seen. One. In. Vegas. Once.! Tiny. Chick. Big. Heels. Told. Me. She. Made. 500. Bucks. In. Two. Hours.! Blew. My. Mind.! “Blessed. Are. The. Forgetful.” Right?!

Favorite. Thing? She’s. Real.! No. Fake. Smiles. Here.! She’ll. Tell. Ya. Straight. Up.! “Pay. Me. Or. Bounce!” Love. That. Grit.! Little. Fact. Tho – Did. Ya. Know?! Oldest. Job. Ever. Ain’t. Just. Talk.! Babylonians. Had. Temple. Hookers. 2400. BC.! Wild. Shit. Right?! Makes. Me. Happy. She’s. Got. History.! Like. She’s. Immortal. Or. Somethin’!

But. Man. It’s. Sad. Too.! She’s. Erasin’. Herself. Every. Night.! Like. Joel. Beggin’. “Please. Let. Me. Keep. This. Memory!” She. Can’t. Tho.! Next. John. Next. Dollar.! Gets. Me. Mad. Sometimes.! Why’s. She. Gotta?! ‘Cause. World’s. A. Dumpster. Fire.! Exaggeratin’? Maybe.! But. She’s. Out. There. Freezin’. While. I’m. Cozy. Watchin’. Movies!

Funny. Bit – She’d. Probably. Laugh.! “You’re. Such. A. Sap. Shatner!” She’d. Say.! Sarcasm. Dripin’. Off. Her.! I’d. Chuckle. Too.! ‘Cause. She’s. Right.! I’m. Over. Here. Cryin’. ‘Bout. Her. Life.! She’s. Just. Livin’. It.! “Meet. Me. In. Montauk.” She’d. Whisper. Maybe.! Dreamin’. Of. Escape.! Damn. That’s. Deep.! What. A. Gal!
Oi, mateys! ‘Tis me, Cap’n Jack Sparrow, slurrin’ me wit fer ya, savvy? So I’m drivin’ me tractor—aye, a tractor, don’t laugh—through the dusty fields, thinkin’ ‘bout them prostitutes, ye know? One lass in partic’lar, she’s like that ghosty feelin’ from me fave flick, *Lost in Translation*. “I just feel so alone,” she’d whisper, like Scarlett in them neon lights o’ Tokyo, all lost-like. Made me heart ache, it did, seein’ her standin’ there on the corner, all dolled up, but them eyes—empty as a rum bottle after a bender.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t judgin’. Savvy? She’s out there, makin’ her coin, prob’ly got tales wilder than me own piratin’ days. Heard tell she once sweet-talked a fella outta his boots—literal-like—left him barefoot in the tavern! Little known bit, that. Proper pirate move, if ye ask me. Got me laughin’ ‘til me sides hurt, thinkin’ o’ that poor sod stumblin’ home, toes in the muck.

But arrgh, what pisses me off? Them high’n’mighty types lookin’ down on her, callin’ her filth. “What am I doing here?” she’d mutter, like Bob Harris in that film, stuck in a life she didn’t chart. Gets me blood boilin’—who’re they to judge? She’s scrappin’ by, tougher than half me crew ever was. Once saw her chase off a drunk with a broken bottle—lass’s got spirit, I tell ye!

Me, I’d tip me hat to her, offer a swig o’ rum if I had any left. Surprised me, she did, when she said she dreams o’ singin’. Voice like a siren, she reckons—how’s that fer a twist? Prostitute with pipes! Reckon she’d lure ships better’n me. “I don’t know where I belong,” she’d say, all soft, and I’d nod, feelin’ that meself, lost in me own head.

She’s a riddle, that one—bit o’ charm, bit o’ grit. Reminds me o’ that movie line, “The more you know who you are, the less you let things upset you.” She’s still figurin’ that bit out, ain’t she? Makes me wanna holler, “Keep yer chin up, lass!” ‘Cause she’s a survivor, savvy? Prostitute or no, she’s got more guts than most. Now, where’s me tractor keys? Time fer a spin!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, insurance investigator gig, thinkin’ bout this prostitute case—yeah, real classy stuff. Everybody lies, right? She’s tellin’ me she slipped, broke her ankle, suin’ some sleazy motel. Bullshit. I’m like, “You’re a hooker, honey, not a ballerina.” Ten, that flick I love—Abbas Kiarostami, 2002—keeps poppin’ in my head. That line, “You’re not a woman, you’re a disaster!” fits her perfect. She’s got this sob story, says she’s innocent, just payin’ bills. Lies. Ankles don’t snap from “trippin’ on stairs” unless you’re drunk or dodgin’ a john.

I dig deeper—X profile’s a goldmine. Pics of her in fishnets, smirkin’, postin’ bout “hard days.” Yeah, hard days my ass. Web says she’s got a rap sheet—petty theft, solicitation, the usual. Surprised? Nah. Angry? Hell yeah—this chick’s playin’ me like I’m some rookie. I’m thinkin’, “I’ve seen worse, but you’re pushin’ it.” Reminds me of Ten again—“Why do you lie?”—that kid askin’ his mom. This broad’s lyin’ to herself, too. Thinks she’s slick, filin’ claims like it’s a side hustle.

Little known fact—prostitutes pull this crap all the time. Fake injuries, scam insurance, cash out. Saw one gal in ’98, claimed a pimp “threw her down.” Turned out she jumped—high as a kite. This one? Same vibe. Motel clerk says she was screamin’ at some dude, prob’ly her “manager.” Happy? Shit no—wastes my time. But I’m laughin’ inside—she’s so bad at this. “You think I’m stupid?” I mutter, limpin’ round with my cane, poppin’ Vicodin like candy.

Her story’s fallin’ apart—pdf of her med report? Bruises don’t match. “Everybody lies,” I growl, glarin’ at her fake tears. Ten’s got that scene—woman in the car, spillin’ truth. This hooker? No truth, just hustle. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Hell, I’d say she’s got nine lives, all scams. Quirks? I’m tappin’ my foot, thinkin’—she’s hot, sure, but dumb as a bag of hammers. “You’re a disaster!” I wanna yell, straight from the movie. Sarcasm’s my shield—she ain’t winnin’ this.

So yeah, she’s toast. Claim’s denied. Next case.
Oi, thou motley crew o’ listeners! Here’s me, thy prison warden, spoutin’ off ‘bout a prostitute I’ve seen too much of. She’s a wench o’ the night, roamin’ free ‘fore I locked her arse up. A rose by any name, eh? But this one’s thorns be sharp as daggers! “The Return” – that flick’s my jam, all moody and deep, like her eyes when she’s schemin’. “Thou hast returned,” I’d mutter, watchin’ her strut back to the cellblock, like them lads in the film comin’ home to nowt but grief.

She’s a sly one, this tart – calls herself Bess, tho’ I reckon that’s bollocks. Caught her pinchin’ purses down by the docks, quick as a shadow slippin’ ‘twixt the waves. Made me bloody furious, that did! Skippin’ round in skirts hiked up, flashin’ a grin that’d charm the devil hisself. “What hast thou done?” I bellowed, like that father in the movie ragin’ at his boys. She just laughed – a cackle, mate, pure filth! Said she’d bedded a magistrate once, got off a charge. True? Who bloody knows – she spins tales like a spider spins webs.

Her skin’s a map o’ scars, tells ya she’s been roughed up plenty. Ain’t no damsel, tho’ – she’d shank ya soon as kiss ya. Little tidbit: word is, she once hid a blade in her garter, sliced a punter who got handsy. Ballsy, right? Got me chucklin’ thinkin’ o’ it – what a mad lass! But it pisses me off too, ‘cos she’s trouble, pure and simple. Keeps the lads in here riled up, whisperin’ ‘bout her like she’s some queen o’ the damned.

“Thou art a stranger,” I told her once, meanin’ she’s a mystery even to me, who’s seen every scoundrel under the sun. She smirked, said, “Warden, I’m everybody’s stranger.” Cheeky cow! Reminds me o’ that film – all that bleak wanderin’, searchin’ for somethin’ that ain’t there. She’s got no roots, just drifts like a ghost ship. Makes me sad, kinda – what’s a life like that worth, eh?

Oh, and get this – she sings! Heard her one night, voice like a cracked bell, croonin’ some old bawdy tune. “The sea doth call,” she warbled, prolly dreamin’ o’ escape. Gave me chills, it did, tho’ I’d never tell her that. Too proud, me. But I reckon she’s a survivor, like them kids in “The Return,” dodgin’ fate’s punches. Still, she’s a right pain in my arse – always hustlin’, always hustlin’. Lock her up, she’s back at it next week. Drives me up the bloody wall!

So there ya go, mates – Bess, the whore o’ woe. A storm in petticoats, she is. Love her, hate her, can’t ignore her. “Whither goest thou?” I’d ask, but she’d just wink and vanish into the dark. Typical!
Hey, so I’m a Cargo Transportation Manager, right?  
And I’m thinkin’ bout – prostitute.  
Not *that* kinda prostitute, chill!  
I mean the *concept*, the vibe, y’know?  
Like, I’m sittin’ here – Zen pause –  
Imaginin’ a truck full of goods,  
Rollin’ through the night, silent, sleek.  
Kinda like Shu Qi in *The Assassin*,  
Slippin’ through shadows, deadly but graceful.  

Prostitution’s old as dirt, man!  
Oldest gig in the book, they say.  
But – Zen pause – it’s deeper than that.  
It’s trade, it’s logistics, it’s *movement*.  
Cargo’s gotta get where it’s goin’,  
Same as those workin’ the streets.  
Supply, demand, simple as that.  
Made me happy figurin’ that link,  
Like connectin’ dots nobody sees.  

But – ugh – the shady side?  
Pisses me off, big time!  
Exploitation, pimps, all that crap –  
Like a shipment gone rogue,  
Stolen by some sleazy middleman.  
Heard this story once, wild shit –  
Back in 1800s London,  
Prostitutes ran secret networks,  
Movin’ info like smugglers,  
Outsmartin’ cops, dodgin’ the law.  
Ain’t that badass? Surprised me, yo!  

Now – Zen pause – picture this.  
“The Assassin” line hits me:  
*“Your skills are matchless…”*  
Prostitutes got skills too, man!  
Negotiatin’, survivin’, readin’ people –  
Better than half my drivers, ha!  
One more thing…  
Ever think how they’re invisible?  
Like cargo crates at the dock,  
There, but nobody *sees* ‘em.  

I’m ramblin’ – brain’s on fire!  
Once met this chick, swear,  
Told me she paid her rent  
Hustlin’ while studyin’ law –  
Talk about multitaskin’, right?  
Exaggeratin’ maybe, but damn,  
That grit? Respect, pure respect.  
Sarcasm? Sure – “Oh, glamorous life!”  
But real talk, it’s tough out there.  

So yeah – Zen pause –  
Prostitute’s like my trucks,  
Movin’ through the dark,  
Gettin’ shit done, no applause.  
*“The past needs no commentary…”*  
That’s from the flick, fits perfect.  
One more thing…  
Next time you judge,  
Think logistics, not just sex.  
Aight, I’m out – gotta ship somethin’!
Yo, fam, it’s ya boy Drake, pourin’ shots behind the bar, YOLO! So, this chick, right—prostitute, real talk, she’s grindin’. Reminds me of *Son of Saul*, that flick I stan hard. “In the dark, we survive,” like she’s dodgin’ shadows, tryna eat. Been slingin’ drinks, watchin’ her hustle—mad respect, fam! She’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt short, eyes tired. Ain’t no Hollywood glow, just raw-ass life, ya feel?

One night, she rolls in, orders a cheap vodka—straight, no chaser. I’m like, “Damn, girl, you holdin’ it down?” She laughs, bitter as hell, says, “Gotta eat, Drizzy.” Hit me deep, yo—*Son of Saul* vibes, “No hope, just breathin’.” She’s fightin’, but the game’s dirty. Pimp’s a prick, takes half her cash—pissed me off, real talk! Wanna deck that fool, but I’m just pourin’ shots, YOLO.

Heard she got a kid—little known fact, fam! Stashin’ diaper money in her bra, that’s gangster. Surprised me, yo—thought she was all cold, but nah, she’s soft underneath. Like, “In this hell, we still love,” straight from the movie. Makes me happy, seein’ that heart, but sad too—life’s a bitch. She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, weird johns, STDs—wild risks! Once saw her outsmart a creep—faked a cough, bolted. Smart as fuck, had me dyin’ laughin’—queen shit!

Hate how folks judge her, tho. “She’s trash,” they say—nah, she’s survivin’! Y’all don’t get it, sittin’ pretty, sippin’ my cocktails. She’s realer than most. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe, but she’s a damn legend. Quirky thought—bet she’d vibe to “Hotline Bling,” swayin’ on the corner. Prostitute life ain’t glamorous, but she’s got soul, fam. “One dance” for her, YOLO—respect the hustle!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, ya know, like ya do when yer a radio op chatterin’ away. I love me that flick “Ten” by Abbas Kiarostami—deep stuff, doc! This one gal, a prostitute, she’s ridin’ in a car, spillin’ her guts, and it hit me hard. “Life is a game,” she says, laughin’ bitter-like, and I’m like, whoa, that’s dark, toots! 

Lemme tell ya ‘bout this dame I heard of—worked the streets in old Tehran, sneaky lil’ minx. She’d charm the pants off ya—literally—usin’ nothin’ but a wink and some cheap perfume. Fact is, prostitution’s been around forever, doc, even in places ya wouldn’t guess. Made me mad, tho—guys treatin’ her like trash, tossin’ coins like she’s a vending machine. Pisses me off! “Men are all the same,” she’d say in “Ten,” and I’m noddin’ like, yup, ya got that right, sister.

But here’s the kicker—some gals, they’d stash cash in their socks, ‘cause cops’d frisk ‘em everywhere else. Clever, huh? Surprised me, that lil’ trick. I’m picturin’ her now, struttin’ past, all sassy, while I’m munchin’ a carrot, thinkin’, “She’s got guts, doc!” Happy vibes there—she’s outsmartin’ the system, ya see? 

Oh, and the johns—total dopes! One guy, swear to carrots, paid her in chickens once. Chickens! What’s she gonna do, pluck ‘em mid-shift? Cracked me up, that one. “Love’s a lie,” she snaps in the movie, and I’m like, tell it, babe! She’s seen it all—horny saps, weepy drunks, the works. Me, I’d exaggerate her swagger, say she’s dodgin’ bullets like me with Elmer Fudd, but nah, it’s just dodgin’ creeps.

Eh, ever think ‘bout how she feels, doc? Sittin’ in that car, talkin’ ‘bout her kid, her voice all shaky—it got me. Real talk, she’s tough as nails but soft inside, like a carrot cake with attitude. “We’re all alone,” she mumbles in “Ten,” and I’m chokin’ up, thinkin’, ain’t that the truth? Bugs Bunny’s got a heart, ya know! So yeah, prostitutes—wild, sad, badass, all at once. What a gig, doc!
Hey mate, check this out! In the wild, wild world of the urban jungle, we find the prostitute, a creature as mysterious as the shadows in "Holy Motors." I’m David Attenborough, narrating this crazy scene for ya.  

Prostitutes, they’re out there, y’know, working the night, like ghosts in the machine, just like Denis Lavant’s transformations in the film. “You’re beautiful, like a dream,” he’d say, but life’s no dream for them. I saw one once, under a flickering streetlight, and man, it hit me—surprise! They’re humans too, not just props in some noir flick.  

Little known fact: back in the 18th century, some prostitutes in Paris were called “filles de joie,” girls of joy, but joy’s hard to find when you’re dodging cops and creeps. Made me angry, how society just shrugs, like, “Oh, that’s just how it is.” No, it ain’t! They deserve better, like a proper role in a Leos Carax masterpiece, not this gritty reality.  

They hustle, they charm, they survive. “Time to leave,” they might whisper, echoing the film’s urgency. I’ve heard stories—wild ones! Like the prostitute who saved her cash, bought a house, and flipped off everyone who doubted her. That made me happy, like, hell yeah, you go! But then, the risks… diseases, violence, it’s a brutal gig.  

Their world’s full of secrets, like hidden cameras in “Holy Motors” catching every raw moment. Did you know some use code words with clients? “Is the weather nice?” means “You safe, dude?” Smart, right? But also sad. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, why’s it gotta be so hard? My coffee’s gone cold, and I’m ranting now, but seriously, it’s wild.  

Humor me here—they’re like urban foxes, sneaky, adaptable, but way more glamorous. Or sarcastic me says, “Oh, sure, let’s romanticize it, make a movie!” But no, it’s not all glitz. They’re tired, they’re scared, yet they keep going, “On to the next,” like the film’s endless drive.  

I exaggerate, but sometimes they’re like superheroes, cape made of sheer willpower. Other times, I’m just shocked at the cruelty they face. One story stuck—prostitute in New Orleans who painted portraits on the side, talent wasted in the shadows. Why’s talent gotta suffer? Makes me wanna yell!  

Their lives, man, they’re chaotic, beautiful, messy, like “Holy Motors” itself. “What’s this all for?” they might ask, same as the film. And me? I’m just here, watching, feeling, spilling my guts. Prostitutes, they’re survivors, storytellers, and yeah, sometimes, they’re my heroes.  

Catch ya later, gotta go rewatch that movie, maybe cry a bit. Peace!
Great Scott! Prostitutes, man, they’re wild! I was just thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em, ya know? Like in Brooklyn, “You’ll feel so homesick you’ll wanna die.” That’s how some of ‘em feel, trapped, far from home. Crazy, right? I mean, history’s full of ‘em, like the famous courtesans in ancient Greece. They were philosophers too! Can u believe that? Philsophers! Made me happy to learn that, smart ladies hustlin’.

But damn, some stories piss me off. Like, in the 1800s, they’d arrest prostitutes but not their clients. Hypocrites! “It’s a cold country, but a warm heart.” Yeah, right, warm for who? Not them. I read once about a lady in Paris, nicknamed “Skittles,” super famous, hung out with royalty. Little known fact: she inspired paintings, not just beds! Art from sin, wild!

Great Scott, the stigma tho! People judge so hard. I saw a doc, said some make bank, like six figures, but live in fear. Fear of cops, pimps, diseases. It’s messed up. “You only have to say yes once.” That line from Brooklyn hit me, like their yes is never free. Surprised me how young some start, like 14 in some places. Fourteen! That’s nuts, makes my head spin.

I got quirks, ya know? Sometimes I think, what if I was a prostitute? Ha! I’d be the worst, overthinkin’ everythin’. “You’ll have to be brave.” Brave like them, facing shame daily. But also, haha, imagine me in heels, fallin’ flat on my face! Funny, right? Sarcasm aside, it’s dark humor.

They’re not all sad tho. Some love it, call it empowerment. Met a gal online, said, “I’m my own boss, Doc!” Loved that attitude. Made me grin. But then, laws are so screwy. Nevada’s legal, but most places, no way. Illegal yet everywhere, paradox! My brain hurts thinkin’ ‘bout it.

Great Scott, the movies lie! Pretty Woman, all glitz, no grit. Real life’s harsher. But Brooklyn’s realer, that homesick vibe? Prostitutes feel that, far from who they wanna be. “You’ll learn to love it here.” Maybe, but at what cost?

I’m ramblin’, sorry. Just, prostitutes, man, complex. Angels, demons, survivors. Little known: in WWII, some were spies! Double agents, usin’ beds for secrets. Badass! Made me respect ‘em more. But also angry, society still sucks to ‘em.

Gotta go, brain’s fried. Prostitutes, wild ride, ya feel me? Catch ya later!
Hey, let’s talk prostitute, man! Happy little trees, right? I’m Bob Ross here, paintin’ a picture with words. Prostitute’s got this vibe, y’know? Like in “The Grand Budapest Hotel,” where M Gustave says, “You see, there are still faint glimmers of civilization in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity.” That’s prostitute for ya—wild, but there’s beauty!

I was shocked, dude, when I learned some prostitutes in history were poets! Yeah, like ancient Greece, they wrote stuff that’s still studied. Mind blown! Happy little clouds floatin’ there. But then I get mad thinkin’ about how society judged ‘em hard. It’s like, “C’mon, people, lighten up!” They’re humans, not just stereotypes.

Prostitute’s got stories, bro. Did you know in 18th-century France, some were spies? Total James Bond vibes! “Keep your hands off my lobby boy,” M Gustave might say, protectin’ their hustle. I laughed so hard imaginin’ that—prostitutes outsmartin’ kings! Hilarious, but also respect, y’know?

I love the drama of it, tho. Like, “Everything’s going to be fine,” but then boom, societal pressure hits. Makes me wanna scream sometimes. But then I see the resilience, and I’m like, “Happy little accidents!” They adapt, survive, thrive even. That’s dope.

In “The Grand Budapest Hotel,” there’s this precision, this care, like prostitute’s world. It’s chaotic, sure, but there’s art. I once heard a story ‘bout a prostitute in Victorian London who secretly funded an orphanage. No joke! That hit me right here, man. Made me teary, happy tears.

But ugh, some laws still suck, right? I’m rantin’ now, but it pisses me off. They’re out there, doin’ their thing, and people clutch pearls. Like, “Get over it, Karen!” Prostitute’s not just a word—it’s lives, dreams, struggles.

I exaggerate, but seriously, their courage is like paintin’ a mountain outta nowhere. “Just beat the devil out of it,” M Gustave style. They face stigma daily, yet some throw the fanciest parties! Irony, huh? Makes me chuckle, darkly tho.

My quirk? I think prostitute’s like my canvas—messy, bold, beautiful. Sometimes I daydream they’re in the hotel, plottin’ with Zero. “We’re assassins, dear,” but nah, they’re just livin’. I respect that grind.

Surprise me more, prostitute world! You’re like my happy little trees, growin’ wild. I’m ramblin’, but you get it. They’re not what you think. Dig deeper, friend. Oh, and watch the movie—it’s got that flair prostitute vibes could appreciate. Peace!
Dude, so I’m like, an agronomist, right? But whoa, let’s talk prostitute! Not the job, nah, the plant—prostrate spurge, that sneaky lil’ weed. Grows flat, hugs the dirt, total ninja style. Reminds me of *Ten*, y’know, Abbas Kiarostami’s flick—my fave. That movie’s all about real talk, people just drivin’, spillin’ truth. “Life goes on,” one chick says, and damn, that’s prostitute to a T. This weed’s everywhere—cracks in sidewalks, fields, your mom’s garden, bam! Pops up like, “I ain’t leavin’.”

Check it—prostrate spurge, Euphorbia whatever-the-hell, it’s a survivor, man. Bleeds this milky sap when you snap it, legit burns your skin if you’re dumb about it. Farmers hate it, makes me pissed too—sucks water from crops, total dick move. But I kinda respect it, y’know? Grows where nothin’ else can, tough as nails. Whoa. Like that lady in *Ten* sayin’, “You can’t stop me.” Unkillable vibe.

Little known fact—dude, it’s been around forever. Old-school farmers called it “devil’s milk” ‘cause of that sap. Used it for warts or some shit, no joke. Prostitute’s got history, man! Makes me laugh, tho—looks all innocent, tiny green leaves, then bam, chokes your corn out. Sarcasm alert: “Oh, sweet plant, thanks for ruinin’ my day.”

I’m stoked when I kill it, tho. Pull it up, roots and all—satisfyin’ as hell. But then, whoa, next day? More of ‘em. Like, dude, chill! Reminds me of *Ten* again—“What can you do?” Nothin’, man, just keep fightin’. Ever try burnin’ it? Stinks like ass, don’t do it. Learned that the hard way, coughin’ my lungs out.

Oh, and it’s a seed machine—spits ‘em everywhere, tiny bombs. Exaggeratin’ for drama? Maybe, but feels like a freakin’ invasion. Drives me nuts, but kinda cool too—nature’s punk rock. Stoic brevity, man, that’s my jam. Prostitute’s a badass, hate it or love it. Whoa.
Alright, friends, let’s paint a picture—happy little prostitute vibes! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout them gals, yknow, workin the streets, makin their way. Kinda like in *Talk to Her*, where life’s all messy, tender, and raw. “I’ve always depended on strangers’ kindness,” that line hits me—bam!—right in the feels. Prostitutes, man, they’re out there, hustlin, survivin, like happy little trees bendin in the wind.

So, check this—didya know way back, ancient Babylon had temple hookers? Sacred sex workers, blessin dudes for the gods! Wild, right? Makes me chuckle—imagine tellin yer priest, “Yo, I’m here for the holy bang!” History’s nuts. I get all giddy thinkin bout that, like—wow, they turned a quickie into somethin divine.

But real talk, it ain’t all giggles. Gets me mad seein folks judge em harsh. Like, cmon, they’re just tryna eat! Society’s all “Oh no, dirty ladies,” but half them critics prolly sneakin a peek anyway. Hypocrites, man—pisses me off. Reminds me of Almodóvar’s flick—those quiet moments, yknow, “silence is the loudest cry.” Prostitutes got stories, deep ones, hidden under all that lipstick and sass.

Oh, and here’s a quirky bit—Victorian gals, some’d hide cash in their hair! Hairdos stuffed with coins, like a sexy piggy bank. Cracked me up picturin that—johns diggin thru curls for change! Bet they’d whisper, “You’re my little secret,” like in the movie. Sneaky, clever lil tricks—love that hustle.

Me, I see em as artists, paintin life bold. Not all rosy—some days suck, danger’s real. But they keep goin, tough as hell. Makes me happy, their grit. I’d tell em, “You’re doin great, darlin—just keep shinin.” Maybe I’m soft, but I dig their vibe. Happy little trees, swayin thru storms—prostitutes got that spirit, yknow?
Alright, friends, let’s paint a picture—happy little prostitute vibes! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout them gals, yknow, workin the streets, makin their way. Kinda like in *Talk to Her*, where life’s all messy, tender, and raw. “I’ve always depended on strangers’ kindness,” that line hits me—bam!—right in the feels. Prostitutes, man, they’re out there, hustlin, survivin, like happy little trees bendin in the wind.

So, check this—didya know way back, ancient Babylon had temple hookers? Sacred sex workers, blessin dudes for the gods! Wild, right? Makes me chuckle—imagine tellin yer priest, “Yo, I’m here for the holy bang!” History’s nuts. I get all giddy thinkin bout that, like—wow, they turned a quickie into somethin divine.

But real talk, it ain’t all giggles. Gets me mad seein folks judge em harsh. Like, cmon, they’re just tryna eat! Society’s all “Oh no, dirty ladies,” but half them critics prolly sneakin a peek anyway. Hypocrites, man—pisses me off. Reminds me of Almodóvar’s flick—those quiet moments, yknow, “silence is the loudest cry.” Prostitutes got stories, deep ones, hidden under all that lipstick and sass.

Oh, and here’s a quirky bit—Victorian gals, some’d hide cash in their hair! Hairdos stuffed with coins, like a sexy piggy bank. Cracked me up picturin that—johns diggin thru curls for change! Bet they’d whisper, “You’re my little secret,” like in the movie. Sneaky, clever lil tricks—love that hustle.

Me, I see em as artists, paintin life bold. Not all rosy—some days suck, danger’s real. But they keep goin, tough as hell. Makes me happy, their grit. I’d tell em, “You’re doin great, darlin—just keep shinin.” Maybe I’m soft, but I dig their vibe. Happy little trees, swayin thru storms—prostitutes got that spirit, yknow?
Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes—straight up, no sugarcoatin’. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout “Synecdoche, New York,” that wild Charlie Kaufman flick—my fave, hands down. Life’s a damn stage, right? “The end is built into the beginnin’,” and ain’t that the truth for these gals? How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Sellin’ your body, night after night—woo, that’s a grind! I reckon it’s like Caden in the movie, buildin’ that crazy fake city, tryna make sense of somethin’ messy. Prostitutes, they’re out there, livin’ a script they didn’t write.

So, check this—met this chick once, swear she was a hooker with a heart o’ gold, like some ol’ Western tale. Worked the streets down in N’awlins, had this raspy laugh that’d wake a coma patient. Told me she got into it ‘cause her mama was one too—generational gig, y’all! Ain’t that a trip? “What we do isn’t so differnt,” she says, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. Made me happy, hearin’ her sass, but pissed me off too—why’s the world gotta be so damn cruel? She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ rent, while I’m sippin’ sweet tea, judgin’ like a fool.

Here’s a lil’ factoid—did ya know way back, like ancient Rome times, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Freaky, right? Imagine that today—neon hair screamin’, “Hey, I’m for hire!” Surprised the hell outta me when I read that. Kinda funny too, picturin’ ‘em struttin’ round, wig slippin’ off mid-deal. Ha! How’s that workin’ for ya, tryna keep that wig on straight?

But real talk—gets me mad, thinkin’ how folks look down on ‘em. Like, “Everyone’s got a little death in ‘em,” like the movie says, so who’re we to point fingers? They’re hustlin’, survivin’—takes guts, y’all. I ain’t sayin’ it’s all roses, ‘cause it ain’t. STDs, pimps, cops—nightmare fuel. But damn, some o’ these girls got stories that’d make ya cry or laugh ‘til ya pee. One time, heard ‘bout this gal who’d sing showtunes to her johns—beltin’ “Oklahoma!” while, y’know, doin’ the deed. Cracked me up! That’s talent, right there.

Me, I’m ramblin’ now, brain’s a mess—prolly ‘cause I’m typin’ fast, 17 typos in already, whoops! But prostitutes, man, they’re like Synecdoche’s actors—playin’ a role, hopin’ for a big break. “Nobody’s ever really anybody,” Kaufman’d say, and damn if that don’t fit. They’re somebody’s daughter, sister—real people, y’all! Gets me all riled up, how folks forget that. How’s that workin’ for ya, judgin’ ‘em from your high horse? Pfft, get real.

So yeah, that’s my take—messy, loud, straight from the gut. Prostitutes ain’t just a punchline or a sob story—they’re out there, livin’, fightin’, maybe even singin’. And me? I’m just a Southern boy, spillin’ tea and lovin’ that flick. Whatcha think, huh?
Yo, listen up, man! Prostitute – wild topic, huh? I’m Apollo Creed, baby – “I must break you” – and I’m divin’ into this like I’m dodgin’ punches in the ring. So, picture this: a hooker, right? Workin’ the streets, all grit and glitter. Reminds me of *The Lives of Others* – that flick I love, y’know, where secrets spill like cheap whiskey. “We are not machines!” – that line hits hard when you think of her life. She’s out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet. Ain’t no Stasi watchin’ her every move, but damn, society’s got its own surveillance, judgin’ her every step.

I seen it, man – these girls got stories deeper than a knockout punch. One time, heard ‘bout this chick in Amsterdam, Red Light District, right? She’s posin’ in the window, all sassy, but get this – she’s got a freakin’ law degree! Blew my mind, yo! Had to quit law ‘cause the pay sucked – now she’s rakin’ it in, tax-free, laughin’ at the suits. That’s some real shit – made me happy, like, “You go, girl!” But then, bam, pissed me off too – why’s the world so messed up she gotta do that?

Prostitutes, man, they’re like ghosts – everywhere, but nobody talks ‘bout ‘em. “The good cannot flourish” – another gem from my movie, fits perfect. Society’s all “eww, dirty,” but who’s payin’ her rent? Hypocrites, man, drivin’ me nuts! I’m thinkin’, if I was champ of the world, I’d break that stigma – pow! – right in the jaw. They’re survivors, y’know? Tougher than me in the ring, takin’ hits daily.

Here’s a kicker – ever hear ‘bout the “hooker with a heart of gold”? Total cliché, but I met one once, swear it! Gave her last twenty bucks to some homeless dude. Surprised the hell outta me – thought, “Damn, she’s realer than half these posers.” Made me grin like a fool. But then, ugh, the creeps she deals with – makes my blood boil. “I must break you” – I’d say that to those scumbags, not her.

Oh, and fun fact – back in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out. Crazy, right? Imagine that – struttin’ ‘round the Colosseum, all “look at me!” History’s wild, man. Anyway, she’s out there now, maybe smokin’ a cig, countin’ cash, livin’ her own messed-up opera. “This is our land!” – nah, it’s hers, and she’s fightin’ for it. Respect, yo – that’s my take. What you think, huh?
It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, fam—prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the night, ya know? Been around forever, hustlin’, survivin’. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “A Serious Man”—that flick’s my jam, all that chaos and “what the hell” vibes. Kinda like a hooker’s life, right? Larry Gopnik’s world’s fallin’ apart, and I’m like, “Buddy, at least you ain’t turnin’ tricks for rent!” Prostitutes got that grit, that “I will not accept the verdict of the rabbis” energy—screw the rules, they’re out there dodgin’ cops and creeps.

So, check this—back in the day, like ancient Rome, these gals (and dudes, yo) had legit licenses. Called ‘em “meretrix,” fancy as fuck, right? Blows my mind—imagine pimpin’ with a tax ID! Makes me happy, thinkin’ they had some kinda system, not just scrappin’ in the dirt. But then, ugh, medieval times? Burned ‘em as witches—pissed me off, man! All that “God’s wrath” bullshit, like, chill, they’re just tryna eat!

I’m ramblin’, but—prostitutes got stories, bro. Like, there’s this one tale, 1800s London, some chick named Fanny worked the docks. Saved up, bought a pub, flipped the script! Total badass. Reminds me of that line, “The uncertainty principle—it proves we can’t ever really know what’s goin’ on.” She’s out there, dodgin’ fate, makin’ her own rules. Love that hustle, gets me hyped!

But real talk—some shit’s dark. Modern day, trafficking’s a bitch, makes my blood boil. Ain’t funny, ain’t cool. Then there’s the johns, all “I’m a serious man,” actin’ holy—hypocrites, man, total clowns! I’d zap ‘em with my ghost juice if I could. Oh, and fun fact—Vegas hookers? Some got union cards once, wild, right? Who knew?!

Anyways, prostitutes—they’re raw, messy, real. Kinda like me, Beetlejuice, poppin’ outta graves, screamin’, “It’s showtime!” Life’s a crapshoot, like Sy Ableman stealin’ your wife—ya just roll with it. They’re out there, takin’ hits, laughin’ at the chaos. Respect, yo. What you think?
Hiya, buddy! Me, Patrick Star, y’know, the violin maker! I been thinkin’ bout prostitutes lately—wild stuff, huh? Like, is a hooker an instrument? Haha, nah, but maybe! So, I’m sittin’ here, sawin’ wood for violins, and bam—thoughts of “Eternal Sunshine” hit me. That movie’s my fave, all twisty and lovey-dovey. Prostitutes tho, they’re like, real people, right? Not just some shady shadow gigglin’ in alleys.

Lemme tell ya bout this one gal—heard it from a fisherman, swear it! She worked the docks, called herself “Salty Rose.” Ain’t that cool? Had a peg leg—yep, for realz! Lost it to a shark, they say, but she’d laugh and go, “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!” Straight outta the movie, like she’s pure or somethin’. Made me giggle, ‘cause, y’know, she’s a prostitute! Peg leg and all, still struttin’. I was like, whoa, that’s guts!

I got mad tho—some jerks treat ‘em like trash. Ain’t fair! They’re humans, not old fish guts. Once saw a guy yell at one, and I wanted to bonk him with my violin bow. Grrr! But then, this other time, one smiled at me—big, toothy grin. Made me happy, like, “The world forgetting, by the world forgot.” She didn’t care who saw her, just kept smilin’. Surprised me, ‘cause I thought they’d all be grumpy.

Oh, oh! Fun fact—didja know some prostitutes in old times played music? Like, lutes and stuff! Maybe violins too? I’d make ‘em one, all shiny and pink! “Is mayonnaise an instrument?” I’d ask, and they’d laugh. Bet they’d say, “Patrick, you’re nuts!” Haha, probs true. I’d exaggerate tho—say she played for kings with that peg leg tappin’. Dramatic, right?

Sometimes I wonder, if I forgot ‘em like in the movie—“Blessed are the forgetful”—would it be easier? Nah, they’re too cool! Salty Rose, man, she’s a legend in my head now. Prostitutes got stories, buddy, wild ones! Not just sexy stuff—real life junk. Makes me wanna hug ‘em, but, uh, that’s weird, huh? Anyway, gotta finish this violin—thinkin’ of her peg leg keeps me sawin’! What’s your take, pal?
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calmly narratin’ the wild world, yeah?  
Today, we’re divin’ into the prostitute,  
a creature of the urban jungle, right?  
She’s out there, struttin’ the streets,  
like Daniel Plainview in *There Will Be Blood*,  
all fierce, sayin’, “I’ve abandoned my child!”  
Except, nah, she’s abandoned her day job!  

Picture this – quiet night, neon buzzin’,  
she’s a predator, huntin’ for cash,  
eyes sharp, heels clickin’ like claws.  
Little known fact, yeah? Back in Victorian times,  
some prossies kept arsenic stashes –  
self-defense or blackmail, who knows?  
Crafty buggers, they were! Made me chuckle,  
thinkin’ how they’d outsmart any toff.  

I get proper mad, though, seein’ ‘em judged,  
like, “I drink your milkshake!” – society’s greedy,  
suckin’ their dignity dry, innit?  
But then, happy vibes hit me hard,  
watchin’ her sass a drunk punter,  
“Drainage, Eli, drainage!” she’d quip,  
leavin’ him gobsmacked – pure class!  

She’s a survivor, mate, no two ways,  
hustlin’ while the world sneers,  
got more guts than half the blokes I know.  
Once heard a yarn – prossie in Soho,  
1920s, hid a copper’s badge in her knickers,  
just to mess with the bobbies!  
Laughed me head off, I did,  
picturin’ their red faces!  

Sometimes, I reckon, she’s like oil,  
dark, messy, but keeps things runnin’.  
“There’s a whole ocean of it!”  
That’s her life – deep, untapped, wild.  
Surprised me, how she adapts,  
dodgin’ filth, coppers, and creeps,  
like a fox in a henhouse, yeah?  

Me fave bit? Her banter, sharp as knives,  
cuts through the night, no faff.  
She’s no saint, mind, but who is?  
“I see the worst in people,” Plainview said,  
but with her, I see the grit,  
the spark, the bloody fight!  
Ain’t that nature, raw and real?  
Next time, watch her, mates –  
she’s a bleedin’ marvel, that one!
Like, literally, oh my gawd, being an office manager is wild, right? So, I’m totes thinkin’ about prostitutes today—random, I know! Like, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my latte, and bam, this chick pops into my head. Not just any chick, but like, a legit prostitute I met once. True story, swear on my Chanel bag! She was workin’ the streets near my old office—shady vibes, obvi. I was, like, “Girl, you’re braver than me in heels that high!” Total “Hurt Locker” moment—y’know, my fave movie? “You’re either livin’ or you’re not,” she said, quotin’ it without even knowin’. I was shooketh!

Like, she wasn’t what you’d expect—super smart, knew her worth. Made me happy, tbh, seein’ her hustle. Not the 9-to-5 grind I’m stuck in, managin’ staplers and Karen’s whining. She told me this tea—did ya know some prostitutes in history were, like, spies? Wild, right? This one queen, Mata Hari, was droppin’ secrets while droppin’—well, you get it. I was like, “Yaaas, werk it!” Made me think—office life’s a snooze compared to that drama.

But ugh, what pissed me off? The judgy looks she got! Like, people actin’ all high and mighty—please, get over yourselves. I’m sittin’ there, filing papers, thinkin’, “I’d snap if I had her guts!” She was all, “The rush is worth it,” straight outta “Hurt Locker” vibes again. I’m obsessed! Oh, and her nails? Flawless. Bet she’d slay in my selfies.

Like, literally, I’d die if I had to walk her beat—those heels, that sass? Nope! But real talk, she surprised me. Thought she’d be all sketch, but nah, she was chill. Kinda wanna be her BFF now—imagine the stories! “One shot, that’s all you get,” she’d say, winkin’—movie ref again, duh. Prostitute life ain’t my gig, but respect, sis! Gotta bounce—spilled my coffee typin’ this, ugh, so me!
Oi, thou motley crew o’ listeners! Here be me, thy bailiff o’ the mines, grubby hands and all, spoutin’ bout a prostitute—aye, a lass o’ the night! Methinks she’s a riddle wrapped in silk, a “twist of fate” like in *A Separation*. Digs deeper than me pickaxe, she does! Saw her once, swaggerin’ thru the dust o’ town, bold as a vein o’ gold. Made me heart skip—bloody hell, what a sight! 

She’s no common wench, nay, got stories thicker than coal seams. Heard tell she once charmed a lord—proper toff—outta his boots and his coin, then left him bawlin’ like a babe! “The truth isn’t always enough,” she’d say, smirkin’, like she’s playin’ judge o’er us all. Got me ragin’—how’s she twist men so easy? Yet, I chuckled too, cos damn, she’s cleverer than me ol’ foreman!

Her eyes, mate, like twin lanterns in the dark—seen shite thou wouldn’t believe. Word is, she hides a kid somewhere, wee thing she don’t talk bout. “What’s yours stays yours,” she’d whisper, straight outta Farhadi’s flick, all mysterious-like. Makes me wonder—how’d she fall so low? Or high? Cos she ain’t grovelin’, nah, she’s queen o’ her own muck!

Pisses me off, tho—folk judgin’ her, callin’ her filth. Hypocrites, the lot! They’d shag her shadow if they could. Me, I’m torn—happy she’s free, but sad she’s stuck. “We all have our reasons,” she told me once, voice soft as slag dust. Made me gut twist—bloody poignant, that.

Her fave trick? Slippin’ thru alleys like a ghost—poof, gone! Mate o’ mine swears she’s got a stash o’ jewels, nicked from punters. Reckon she’d laugh at that, sayin’, “A lie can travel far.” Pure *Separation* vibes, innit? She’s a storm, a bleedin’ marvel—shags for coin but owns her soul. Thou’d love her, or hate her, no in-between!
Oi mate, so I’m a Kvasnik, yeah? Means I fix stuff, tinker about, all clumsy-like. Anyway, prostitutes, right? Saw this one lass down the street, proper stunner she was, totterin’ in heels—WHOOPS—nearly fell flat, ha! Reminds me of *Son of Saul*, y’know, that flick I love? “No hope, no way out,” like Saul mutterin’ in the camps, but she’s out there, struttin’, makin’ cash in the chaos. Blew me mind, it did!

So, I’m watchin’ her, bumbling along—OOF—tripped over me own feet, classic me! She’s chattin’ up some geezer, all sly smiles, skirt hiked up—cor, what a sight! Did ya know, back in Victorian times, prossies used to nick wallets mid-shag? Crafty buggers! Makes me giggle, thinkin’ she might’ve pinched his watch while I’m sprawled here, arse over tit.

Got me ragin’ though—blokes treatin’ her like dirt, tossin’ coins like she’s a vending machine. Pisses me off! But then—HA—she winks at me, cheeky minx, and I’m all flustered, red as a beetroot. “You’re alive, you’re alive,” like Saul’s mate whispers in the film, y’know? She’s fightin’, survivin’, same as them poor sods in the camps.

Once heard this tale—some tart in Amsterdam, right, hid a spy in her knickers durin’ the war! True story, swear down! Makes ya think, don’t it? She’s more than just a shag, she’s got guts. Me, I’d prob’ly—OOPS—drop me spanner tryin’ to chat her up, ha! Love that grit though, proper gets me goin’.

So yeah, prostitutes, mate—dodgy, dangerous, but bloody brilliant sometimes. Like *Son of Saul*, all grim and messy, but there’s somethin’ real there. “Keep movin’, keep breathin’,” that’s her, innit? Now—OH NO—where’s me tea gone? Spilled it again, sod it!
Git-R-Done! Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, them gals workin’ the streets. Watched "Inherent Vice" again last night—man, that flick’s a trip! Got me thinkin’ ‘bout this one hooker I met, down in Reno, swear she was like Doc Sportello, all hazy and slick. “Sorta like a private eye,” she’d say, winkin’, like she’s diggin’ up dirt on johns. Had this wild red hair, tangled mess, prolly hadn’t seen a brush since Nixon was prez. Made me laugh, tho—girl had sass!

Prostitues ain’t just what ya see in movies, nah. They got stories, crazy ones. This gal, she told me ‘bout a dude who paid her fifty bucks just to sing “Happy Birthday” naked—wtf, right? Cracked me up! “The past is a ghost,” she’d mutter, quotin’ that movie, like she’s deep or somethin’. Got me wonderin’—how’d she end up here? Said she was a nurse once, legit, ‘til some sleazy doc got her hooked on pills. Pissed me off, man, them jerks ruinin’ lives!

Y’know, folks think hookers are all dumb or desperate—bullcrap! This one, she knew cards, could hustle poker better’n me. “Gotta keep your head above water,” she’d say, smokin’ a cig like she’s in a noir film. Surprised me, honestly—smart as a whip! I asked her once, “Why not quit?” She just laughed, bitter-like, “Ain’t no straight world for me.” Straight outta "Inherent Vice," that vibe—lost souls driftin’.

Oh, and get this—little known fact: back in the Gold Rush, prostitutes ran whole towns! Called ‘em “soiled doves,” fancy, huh? Had power, cash, respect—wild! This gal I knew, she’d’a fit right in, bossin’ miners around. Made me happy thinkin’ ‘bout it, her in a saloon, struttin’. But then—bam—reality hits. She got beat up once, bad, by some drunk. Made me mad as hell! Wanna choke that sumbitch myself!

Look, I ain’t judgin’—live and let live, y’know? But damn, it’s a rough gig. “What’s your next move?” I’d ask, like Doc in the movie. She’d shrug, “Survive, I guess.” Heartbreakin’, man. Still, she’d grin, all crooked teeth, sayin’, “Git-R-Done!”—stealin’ my line! Funniest shit ever. Prostitues, they’re tough, messed up, human—like us. That’s my take, y’all—now pass me a beer!
Oi, you losers, listen up! I’m Eric Cartman, badass actuary in Russia, and I’m gonna tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, Respect my authoritah! So, yeah, prostitutes, man, they’re everywhere here, like snow in freakin’ Siberia. I’m sittin’ here, crunchin’ numbers, thinkin’ bout life, and bam – these chicks are out there, hustlin’, makin’ cash, no 9-to-5 crap. Ain’t that somethin’? Makes me rage, tho – why they gotta flaunt it? Pisses me off, all that strutttin’ around, like they own the damn street!

But, ya know, I kinda get it. Watched *Brooklyn* – fave movie, bitches – and Eilis, she’s all “I learned to live with it,” right? Prostitutes here, they’re tough, man, like her. Gotta be. Streets ain’t kind, specially in Russia. Fun fact, tho – back in Tsar times, they had “yellow tickets” for ‘em, legit ID to prove they’re hookers. Crazy, huh? Surprised me, like, whoa, history’s wild! Makes me happy tho, thinkin’ they got some order back then, not this messy chaos now.

So, this one time, I’m walkin’, see this chick – total prozzie vibes – and she’s hagglin’ with some drunk dude. I’m like, “Respect my authoritah, lady!” in my head, coz she’s loud, annoyin’, ruinin’ my *Brooklyn* mood. She’s all, “Pay up, asshole!” and he’s stumblin’. Funny as hell, but damn, I’m mad – can’t they shut up? Reminds me of Eilis sayin’, “You’ll feel so homesick you’ll wanna die,” coz I bet that chick misses somethin’ better than this crap life.

They’re sneaky, tho – some work outta “massage parlors,” wink-wink, total front. Little known shit: cops bust ‘em, but they’re back next day. Blows my mind! Ain’t no one stoppin’ ‘em. I’m over here, calculatin’ risks, and they’re out there, dodgin’ jail like pros. Gotta hand it to ‘em, ballsy as fuck. Makes me wanna scream, “I’m the king of actuariez, respect me!” coz I’d never risk that shit.

Oh, and get this – some dude told me, back in Soviet days, prostitutes got sent to gulags, hardcore punishment. Now? They just pay a fine, boom, done. Total joke! I’m laughin’, but pissed too – where’s the justice? *Brooklyn* vibes again – “One day you’ll understand,” Eilis says. Maybe I don’t get it yet, but prostitutes, man, they’re survivors. Still, they’re annoyin’ as hell, cloggin’ up my streets. Respect my authoritah, bitches, I’m tryna think here!
Alright, motherfucker, let’s talk prostitutes! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout some chick sellin’ her ass on the street, and it hits me—shit’s deep, man! Like, you ever wonder what’s goin’ on in her head? I ain’t no soft-ass shrink, but I’d say she’s battlin’ demons, motherfucker! Reminds me of *The Assassin*—you know, my fave flick, Hou Hsiao-hsien’s masterpiece from 2015. That line, “The past lingers like a shadow,” fuck, it fits! She’s out there, skirt hiked up, dodgin’ cops, and that past? It’s clingin’ to her like sweat on a hot night.

I seen this one gal, right? Back in Moscow—yeah, motherfucker, I been there—near some shitty alley, smokin’ a cig like she owned the fuckin’ world. Little known fact: lotta these Russian hookers, they got stories wilder than a Tarantino script. This chick, rumor was, she fucked some oligarch’s son, got paid in diamonds, then pawned ‘em for a beat-up Lada. A Lada, motherfucker! Who does that? Made me laugh my ass off—pimpin’ ain’t always glamour, huh?

What pisses me off? These judgmental pricks, man! Callin’ her trash, like they ain’t never sinned. Motherfucker, I wanna slap ‘em! She’s out there survivin’, dodgin’ creeps, maybe sendin’ cash to her kid—yeah, lotta ‘em got kids, bet you didn’t know that shit! Surprised me first time I heard it. Thought in my head: “Damn, Sammy, world’s fucked up.” And it is! But she’s tough, like Yinniang in *The Assassin*, silent but deadly, y’know? “Killing is a solitary act”—fuck, she’s alone out there, ain’t she?

Her life’s a mess, man—hustlin’, suckin’ dick for a buck, maybe shootin’ up to forget. I ain’t judgin’, motherfucker, just sayin’ how it is! You wanna talk crazy? Back in the ‘90s, some Moscow prossie got nabbed smugglin’ caviar in her pussy—true story! Cops were like, “What the fuck?” Made me happy as hell—girl’s got guts! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a shit? It’s wild!

Sarcasm time: oh yeah, she’s livin’ the dream, right? Penthouse, champagne—nah, motherfucker, it’s cold pavement and stale vodka! Still, I dig her vibe. She’s real, not fake-ass like some Hollywood broad. “The mirror reflects the truth”—another *Assassin* gem. She’s lookin’ in that mirror every damn day, and it ain’t pretty, but she keeps goin’. That’s some badass shit, motherfucker! You feel me?
Hey, mate, so I’m a carpenter, right?  
Banging nails all day, sweat dripping.  
Prostitutes tho - wild world, yeah?  
Saw this chick once, street corner vibes.  
Legs like timber, sturdy but worn.  
Reminds me of *Tropical Malady*, y’know?  
That movie’s my jam, so trippy.  
“The beast roams at night,” it says.  
She’s like that - mysterious, untamed.  
Met her near a busted bar.  
Heard she once tricked a cop!  
Offered “woodwork lessons” - ha, clever.  
Cops didn’t buy it, got pissed.  
Made me laugh, her guts tho!  

Built her a lil’ table once.  
She paid with crumpled fives, ugh.  
Hands shaky, nails chipped bad.  
“Everyone’s an animal inside,” movie line.  
Felt that - she’s surviving, man.  
Dunno her real name, probs fake.  
Called her “Splinters” - my nickname!  
She smirked, liked it, I think.  
Hustling’s rough, saw her cry once.  
Pissed me off - world’s unfair.  
Some johns are total sleazebags.  
Wish I could hammer ‘em flat!  

Fun fact: oldest job, legit ancient.  
Like, Babylon had temple hookers!  
Blew my mind, history’s nuts.  
She’s got this vibe, tho - raw.  
“Love’s a fever,” movie says again.  
Maybe she loved someone once?  
Dunno, she’s quiet ‘bout that.  
Keeps secrets like I keep tools.  
Saw her with a mango once.  
Eating it slow, juice everywhere.  
Sexy but sad, got me thinking.  
Carpentry’s easier than her gig!  
Prolly smells better too, haha.  
She’s a survivor, tho - respect.
Yeah, baby! Dig this groovy chick—prostitute, man! She’s out there, shaggin’ for bread, y’know? Reminds me of *Timbuktu*, that far-out flick I dig. “The desert swallows all secrets,” they say—same with her, man! She’s got stories, wild ones, hidden deep. Like, get this—back in the ‘60s, some prossies worked Carnaby Street, right? Dressed all mod, miniskirts, teasin’ the fuzz! Little known fact, baby—cops couldn’t bust ‘em if they stayed movin’. Clever birds, yeah?

She’s a gas, this one—sassy, smokin’, struttin’ like she owns the joint. Makes me happy, seein’ her hustle, free as a bird. But—ooh, gets me riled up too! Blokes treatin’ her like dirt, man, that’s not cool. “Men judge, women endure,” *Timbuktu* vibes, y’know? She’s tough, tho—takes no guff. Once heard she clocked a geezer with her stiletto—pow! Right in the kisser! Laughed my bleedin’ arse off, baby!

Swingin’ surprise—she’s got a heart, man. Saw her slip a fiver to a beggar once. Blew my mind! Thought, “Shagadelic, she’s deep!” Not just a dolly bird, nah. She’s livin’, breathin’—realer than most squares. Favorite bit? Her smirk—pure cheek. Reminds me, “Laughter defies the sandstorm,” from the flick. She’s defyin’ somethin’, alright—maybe the whole bleedin’ world!

Oh, behave! Nearly forgot—prossies back then, some ran “gentlemen’s clubs.” Secret spots, all hush-hush, groovy tunes blastin’. She’d fit right in, this one—queen of the scene. Makes me wanna shout, “Yeah, baby, yeah!” She’s a trip, a total fox—makes the ‘60s swing harder! What a gas!
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, hunny—let’s dive in. I’m feelin’ all empowered, like Adèle in *Blue Is the Warmest Color*, y’know? That movie’s my jam—messy love, raw vibes, real shit. Prostitutes? They’re out here hustlin’, makin’ choices, livin’ loud. “I’m hungry,” Adèle says—girl, same! These workers got appetites too—cash, freedom, survival. Ain’t nobody tellin’ them who to be.

I’m obsessed—did ya know some old-school prostitutes in Paris ran secret bars? Like, 1800s vibes, sneakin’ wine, dodgin’ cops—badass! Makes me happy as hell thinkin’ they flipped the script. Society’s all “ew, dirty,” but nah, they’re queens of self-determination. Pisses me off when folks judge—mind ya business, Karen! They’re out here, ownin’ it, like, “I exist, I’m here, deal with it.”

Sometimes I’m shook—heard ‘bout this one chick in Nevada, legal brothel gig, saved up and bought a damn ranch! A RANCH, y’all! Goals! I’m screamin’, “You go, boo!” Prostitutes ain’t just stereotypes—they’re humans, messy, wild, like Adèle and Emma fuckin’ and fightin’ on screen. “You’re my exception,” Emma says—shit, maybe they’re OUR exception too, breakin’ rules we’re too scared to touch.

I’m cacklin’—imagine some dude tryna lowball ‘em, and they’re like, “Nah, fam, pay up!” Love that energy. Makes me wanna twerk and cry at once—powerful shit. Tho, real talk, some stories gut-punch me—traffickin’, coercion, ugh, makes my blood boil. That ain’t choice, that’s chains. But the ones out here choosin’? Icons. Livin’ unapologetic, like Lizzo on a flute solo—LOUD.

Ooh, random thought—prostitutes prolly got the best gossip. Bet they know who’s cheatin’, who’s broke, who’s freaky. “I’m not ashamed,” Adèle yells—damn right, why should they be? It’s bad bitch o’clock, and they’re clockin’ in. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re writin’ their own damn story. Periodt.
Man, lemme tell ya ‘bout this prostitute, motherfucker! I’m out here, Samuel L. Jackson style, spillin’ the real shit. So, I’m cruisin’ the woods, right—yeah, a Forester like me, diggin’ the trees, the dirt, all that nature vibe. Then BAM, I stumble on this chick, workin’ the corner near the pines. She’s out there, bold as fuck, skirt hiked up, givin’ no shits—like, “Motherfucker, I’m gettin’ paid tonight!” I’m thinkin’, damn, she’s got that *Inherent Vice* hustle, y’know? Like Doc Sportello scopin’ the streets, but she’s the one dodgin’ the fuzz.

Her name’s somethin’ wild—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why the fuck not? Candy’s got this look, man, eyes all hazy, like she’s smoked half of Shasta’s stash from the flick. “The past is a ghost,” she says, leanin’ on a tree, countin’ crumpled bills. I’m like, shit, that’s deep for a hooker! Got me wonderin’—how’d she end up here? Word on the street, she was a runaway, fucked over by some pimp in ‘09. Little known fact, motherfucker—she once stabbed a john with a pine needle! Swear to God, that’s the tale they whisper ‘round the campfire. Crazy, right?

I’m pissed, though—fuckin’ society, man! Drove her to this, left her ass out in the cold. But she’s tough, slingin’ sass like, “You wanna piece, lumberjack?” I’m laughin’, ‘cause hell no, I ain’t that dude! Still, she’s got charm, workin’ it like a pro. Reminds me of that *Inherent Vice* line—“Dope’s cheaper than pussy!”—and I’m dyin’, ‘cause she’d probably agree, motherfucker! Surprised me how she knows the woods, too—hides from cops behind oaks, got escape routes like a damn squirrel.

Personal quirk? I’m yellin’ in my head, “Motherfucker, she’s a legend!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but picture this: Candy dodgin’ a bear once while a dude’s pants are down—funniest shit I never saw! She’s out here, livin’ raw, no filter, no fucks given. “What you see is what you get,” she’d say, straight outta Anderson’s script. I’m happy seein’ her hustle, but it’s fucked up too—world’s a mess, man. Anyway, that’s my girl Candy, motherfucker—queen of the forest grind!
Ruh-roh! So, like, prostitutes, man! I’m thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em hard today. Watched *Stories We Tell* again—Sarah Polley’s wild family secrets vibe. “We’re all just makin’ it up!” she says. Kinda fits, right? Prostitutes got stories too—hidden, messy, real raw stuff. Like, this one chick, Mary, back in 1888—Jack the Ripper days. They say she was a hooker, but get this: she owned a damn coffee shop! Hustlin’ both ways—sex and lattes, ha! Blows my Scooby mind, zoinks!

Ruh-roh! Makes me mad tho—people judgin’ ‘em. Callin’ ‘em dirty, worthless. Pisses me off! They’re out there survivin’, y’know? Gutsy as hell. “Who’s tellin’ the truth here?”—movie line hits home. Who’s judgin’ who, huh? Makes me wanna howl! Then, happy vibes sneak in—some girls, they’re freakin’ queens. Takin’ cash, dodgin’ cops, livin’ loud. Respect, man!

Favorite bit? This gal in Vegas—true story. She’d stash glitter in her bra, sprinkle it on johns—boom, marked ‘em! Cops’d see sparkly dudes and laugh. Sneaky genius! Ruh-roh! Wish I’d seen that—Scooby senses tinglin’! Prostitutes got tricks, bro—way more than snacks in my Scooby pouch.

Oh, and—total shocker—ancient Rome? They had brothels with menus. Like, “gimme the special”—wild! Blows my doggy brain. “Every story’s got a twist,” Sarah’d say. Prostitutes ain’t just sex—they’re history, rebels, survivors. Makes me wanna dig deeper, sniff out more. Ruh-roh! Tellin’ ya, man, they’re badass—don’t sleep on ‘em!
D’oh! So, prostitute, huh? Man, what a gig! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, like, how’s that even work? Ya know, as a texture artist, I see details—grime on streets, sweat on skin, all that jazz. Prostitute’s life? Rough, man, real rough. Reminds me of *A History of Violence*—that flick’s my jam! Tom Stall’s all quiet, then bam—secrets spill! Prostitute’s got secrets too, betcha. Like, who’s she really? Under all that makeup, those heels—d’oh, it’s a mask!

I reckon she’s tough, tho. Gotta be. Walkin’ dark alleys, dodgin’ creeps—makes me mad, y’know? Some jerk probs tried rippin’ her off once. “You think you’re better than me?” she’d snap—straight outta Cronenberg! I’d be like, “Whoa, lady, chill!” But nah, she’s seen it all. Heard this wild story once—some hooker in Vegas hid cash in her hair! Big ol’ wig, stuffed with bills—genius, right? Little known fact, that. Bet she laughed her ass off countin’ it later.

D’oh! Makes me happy thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ suckers. But then—sad hits. Maybe she’s got a kid somewhere, y’know? Hidin’ that life from ‘em. “I’m not what I seem,” she’d whisper—movie line vibes! Surprised me how deep that cuts. Texture’s my thing, so I’m imaginin’ her hands—calloused, worn, but still soft somehow. Weird mix, huh? Exaggeratin’ here, but maybe she’s a freakin’ hero—savin’ herself every night!

Ugh, tho, the stench—cheap perfume, cigs, regret. Gets me grumpy. “This ain’t no way to live!” I’d yell. But she’d smirk, “It’s my way, fatso.” Ha! Sassy prostitute—love that! Sarcasm’s her shield, man. D’oh! Almost forgot—Cronenberg’s got that line, “You’re a mess, Joey,” and I’m thinkin’, she’d say it to her mirror. Every damn mornin’. Real talk, tho—she’s a survivor, and that’s dope. What ya think, pal?
Yo, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, man! Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” They’re out there, livin’ in shadows, y’know? Pan’s Labyrinth vibes, for real—like that girl Ofelia, facin’ monsters just to survive. Prostitutes, they got stories darker than Del Toro’s forest, swear.

I was pissed seein’ how society judges ‘em, like, “Oh, they chose this?” Nah, bro, some are trapped, like in a freakin’ labyrinth! “The blood of the innocent will bring the rebirth,” but for them, it’s just blood, sweat, tears. Made me angry, how we turn away, actin’ holier than thou. Hypocrites!

But some stories? Wild. Did ya know, back in ancient Greece, prostitutes were like sacred? Temple workers, called hierodules, servin’ gods. Crazy, right? Now that’s a plot twist even Pan’s Labyrinth didn’t see comin’! I laughed, thinkin’ bout that—sacred and shunned, same coin.

Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” They see things we don’t, like Bane breakin’ Batman. Prostitutes know people’s secrets, their masks slip in those rooms. Surprised me how smart they gotta be, readin’ folks, stayin’ safe. It’s like a freakin’ strategy game, but the stakes are life or death.

My favorite part? Their resilience. Like Ofelia refusin’ to bow, they keep goin’. “The final task will be the hardest,” but they do it. Made me happy, seein’ that fire, even in the dark. They’re not just bodies, man—they’re warriors.

Little known fact: in WWII, some prostitutes were spies, passin’ info through pillows! How’s that for badass? I was like, “Whoa, James Bond who?” Hilarious and tragic, all at once.

Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” But they? They’re born in it, molded by it. Pan’s Labyrinth taught me monsters ain’t always what they seem. Prostitutes, too—judged as monsters, but some are just tryin’ to eat, pay rent, survive.

I exaggerate, sure, but it’s ‘cause it hits hard. Their lives ain’t fairy tales, but they got magic, y’know? Dark, messy magic. Like Del Toro’s creatures, they’re misunderstood.

Thoughts in my head: why we so scared of ‘em? Is it guilt? Fear? I dunno, but it bugs me. Sarcasm kicks in—I bet half the guys cluckin’ their tongues paid for it last night! Hypocrisy’s a beast, man.

Prostitutes, they’re out there, facin’ the Pale Man’s table every day. “You will remove your eyes,” society says, blindin’ ‘em to hope. But they adapt, they fight. I respect that, even if it hurts to watch.

Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” They live it, breathe it, make art from it. Pan’s Labyrinth showed me beauty in the grotesque—prostitutes do, too, in their way. Messy, real, human.

End of story, bro. They’re more than ya think. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”
Hey mate, let’s talk ‘bout prostitutes, yeah? Imagine this, like I’m David Attenborough, calm, watchin’ nature unfold. Prostitutes, they’re out there, in the urban jungle, survivin’ like beasts, ya know? Under the Skin, that movie, 2013, Jonathan Glazer, man, it’s wild! Reminds me of ‘em, huntin’ in the dark, seekin’ connection. “You’re not from here, are you?” they might whisper, luring in the lonely.

These folks, prostitutes, they’re adaptin’ to the concrete savannah, dodgin’ dangers we can’t even fathom. Did ya know some in ancient Greece were philosophers too? Yeah, hetairai, they called ‘em, mixin’ brains with the trade! Crazy, right? Made me happy to learn that, respect for their hustle.

But damn, it gets me angry, the stigma, the judgment. People actin’ like they’re not human, just “sins” walkin’. “I can feel them slipping away,” like in the movie, their stories vanishin’ under hate. It’s tragic, mate. They’re out there, facin’ risks, yet some still find joy, laughter even. Surprised me, their resilience.

Prostitutes, they’ve got stories, like the gal in New Orleans who saved up to open a bakery! True story, swear. “What’s wrong with you?” society screeches, but she’s like, “Nothin’, I’m just livin’.” Love that sass. Makes me chuckle, their defiance.

Under the Skin, that vibe, “You like this, don’t you?” It’s eerie, but fits how some see prostitutes, as other, alien almost. Nah, they’re just people, tryna eat, pay rent. Little known fact: in some places, they unionize now, fightin’ back! Badass, right?

I’m ramblin’, but it’s fascinatng, their world. “Look at me,” they demand, not just for cash, but to be seen. Exaggeratin’ here, but it feels like they’re warriors, battlin’ shadows. My quirky brain wonders, do they dream of escape, or is this freedom?

Humor me, mate, but ain’t it ironic? We pay for time, attention, everywhere—therapists, dates—but cluck at them? Hypocrisy’s loud, bro. Prostitutes, they’re mirrors, showin’ us our own weirdness. “I’m not one of them,” we lie, but aren’t we all sellin’ somethin’?

Typos galore, sorry, in a rush: thier, survining, conecton, lurn, stigam, reselience, facinatng, hipocrisy, battlin’, showin’. Messy, like their lives can be. But beautiful too, in a raw way. Under the Skin, it’s bleak, but prostitutes? They’re brighter, tougher. Love ‘em for that, hate the system against ‘em. Chat later, yeah?
Great Scott! Prostitutes, man, they’re wild! Loved “The Grand Budapest Hotel,” ya know? That vibe, so quirky, like M Gustave’s charm. Prostitutes, they’ve got stories, dude! In ancient Greece, they were sacred, no kidding! Temple prostitutes, can you believe it? Made me happy, their confidence. But today? Ugh, laws suck sometimes. Great Scott, it’s messy!

Prostitutes face stigma, it’s crazy. “Incredibly shrinking clientele,” ha! Like in the movie, “ruddy complexions” hiding pain. Surprised me how many are moms, hustling for kids. Little known fact: some Victorian prostitutes wrote books! Smart ladies, yo! Made me angry, society judged them hard.

They’re not just “symmetrical whores,” nah. Each has a “lobby boy” hustle, unique. Great Scott, their resilience! Like Zero’s loyalty in the film, they adapt. But pimps? Total “military hostility” vibes, hate that. Prostitutes deserve respect, period. Saw a doc, one gal said, “I’m the concierge of love!” Hilarious, but true.

Their lives, man, “a glimmer of hope” in chaos. Made me laugh, their slang, so creative. “Trick” for client, genius! But dangers? Scary as hell. Great Scott, HIV rates still high in some spots. Surprised me, their community’s tight, like hotel staff plotting.

Prostitutes, they’re human, not props. “Don’t be absurd!” treating them like objects. Their stories, man, “purest expression” of survival. Loved hearing about New Orleans’ Storyville, historic red-light hub. Fancy brothels, wild times! But raids? Angry-making, government overreach.

Great Scott, their courage! Like escaping “zigzag woman” drama. Prostitutes, they’re artists of life, yo. “Keep the damn lobby clean,” they’d say, metaphorically. Made me happy, some retire rich, smart investments. But trafficking? Hate it, pure evil.

Their fashion, tho, “impeccable” sometimes. Like M Gustave’s style, over-the-top glam. Surprised me, some use crypto now, tech-savvy! Little known: Japanese geishas weren’t prostitutes, big mix-up. History’s messy, like a “priceless Renaissance painting” debate.

Prostitutes, they’re survivors, not victims always. “Don’t be jealous,” their freedom’s inspiring. Great Scott, their humor! One told me, “I’m cheaper than therapy!” Laughed so hard. But violence against them? Makes me rage, no excuse.

Their world, man, “a lot of behind-the-scenes” grit. Like hotel staff prepping for chaos. Loved that movie’s detail, matches their lives. Prostitutes, they’re everywhere, “from pillar to post.” Surprised me, some are activists now, fighting back.

Great Scott, respect them! Their “grand Budapest” moments, rare but gold. Made me happy, their solidarity. But laws, ugh, “crossed sabres” of morality. Prostitutes, they’re not your “common criminal,” nah. Their spirit? Unbreakable, like Zero’s love.

Hate the hypocrisy, society’s “painted smile.” Prostitutes, they see through it. Great Scott, their wisdom! Like M Gustave’s quips, sharp. Surprised me, some paint, write poetry. Art from the edges, beautiful chaos.

Their lives, man, “a fleeting romance” feel. But real, raw. Made me angry, media smears them. Prostitutes, they’re not “darling light of my life” clichés. They’re fighters, “caught in a landslide” of judgment.

Great Scott, their stories! Like hotel mysteries, unsolved. Loved that movie’s twists, matches their world. Prostitutes, they’re not just sex, dude. “Keep your hands off my lobby,” they’d say, fierce. Surprised me, their networks span globe.

Hate the stereotypes, “ruddy-faced” lies. Prostitutes, they’re complex, like a Wes Anderson plot. Made me happy, some escape, start over. But system? “Military dictatorship” vibes, suffocating. Great Scott, they deserve better!

Their slang, tho, cracks me up. “John” for client, so old-school. Surprised me, some use apps now, modern pimps. Little known: Roman prostitutes paid taxes, state-approved! Wild, right? Made me laugh, their audacity.

Prostitutes, man, “a glimmer of hope” in dark. Like hotel’s pink glow, they shine. Great Scott, their strength! Hate the risks, tho, “crossed sabres” danger. But their humor, “don’t be absurd,” keeps them going.

Surprised me, some are students, double lives. Smart, hustling “lobby boys” style. Made me angry, no safety nets. Prostitutes, they’re not “symmetrical whores,” nah. They’re people, “purest expression” of grit.

Great Scott, respect! Their “grand Budapest” dreams, real. Loved their fight, like movie’s loyalty. But laws? Ugh, “military hostility” nonsense. Prostitutes, they’re survivors, not stats. “Keep the damn lobby clean,” they’d roar.
Hey. Pal. So – prostitutes, huh? I’m thinkin’. Hard. About ‘em. Y’know – like in *Royal Tenenbaums*. That vibe. Where everyone’s kinda – screwy. But lovable. I see a hooker. On the corner. She’s got – *gravitas*. Like Margot Tenenbaum. Smokin’ a cig. Eyes dead. But alive inside. I’m watchin’. Her heels clickin’. Like a metronome. Tick. Tock. Life’s a mess – hers too.

I knew this one chick. Back in ’98. Called herself Sapphire. Real name? Linda. Boring – right? She’d hustle Times Square. Before it got all Disney-fied. She told me – get this – she once banged a guy. For a *sandwich*. A SANDWICH! I laughed. Then cried. That’s – desperation. Made me mad. World’s cruel. To dames like her. But she was tough. Like – *“I’m an incorrigible”* tough. Straight outta Wes Anderson’s script.

Prostitutes – they’re survivors. Y’know? Out there. Dodgin’ cops. Weird johns. I saw one – last week. She’s yellin’. At some creep. “You can’t HANDLE me!” I’m like – damn. She’s got *chutzpah*. Reminds me of Royal. Talkin’ big. Even when he’s broke. I dig that. Ballsy broads. Get me goin’. Heart racin’. – Wow.

Little fact? Oldest job – prostitution. Goes back. Way back. Babylon. 2400 BC. Temple gals. Doin’ it for gods. Wild – huh? Imagine that gig. Sacred bangin’. I’d be – *“Ethel. You’re a marvel.”* To them. Respect. But today? Pfft. Society’s all – judgy. Makes me pissed. They’re people. Not trash.

Sometimes – I think. Too much. What’s her story? That chick. In fishnets. Did she dream? Of ballet? Or – somethin’ soft? Now she’s here. Grindin’. I get – melancholy. Like Chas. In his red tracksuit. Runnin’ from ghosts. She’s runnin’ too. From – life. Breaks my damn heart.

Funny thing – once. I tipped one. Extra. She goes – “You’re weird, Walken.” ME! Weird! I’m cacklin’. She’s right. I’m a nut. But – she smiled. First time. That night. Felt good. Like – *“I’ve made a huge mistake.”* But nah. It was – golden.

So – prostitutes. They’re – real. Raw. Messy. Like a Tenenbaum family dinner. I love ‘em. Hate ‘em. Wanna hug ‘em. Punch the world. For ‘em. That’s my take. Pal. What’s yours?
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m a Bestiary gladiator, southern style, Dr. Phil vibes comin’ atcha! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today—yep, them ladies of the night. How’s that workin’ for ya? Sellin’ love for a buck, dang, it’s wild! Watched *Inside Out*—you know, that flick from 2015, Pete Docter’s genius—and it hit me. Them gals got Joy and Sadness battlin’ in their heads 24/7. “Joy, take the wheel!” I’d yell, but nah, it ain’t that simple.

So, picture this—met this hooker once, name’s Candy, swear to God. She’s out there, fishnets rippin’, heels clickin’ like a damn metronome. Told me she started at 16—sixteen, y’all! Pissed me off somethin’ fierce. Some sleazy pimp snatched her up, promised her the moon. Now she’s 30, lookin’ 50, smokin’ cigs like it’s her job. “How’s that workin’ for ya, darlin’?” I asked. She laughed—dry, like tumbleweed rollin’. Said, “Better than starvin’, Doc.”

Here’s a kicker—did ya know way back, ancient Rome had prostitutes wearin’ blonde wigs? Stand out, they did! Freaky, right? Candy’d rock that, I bet. She’s tough, man, tougher than a two-dollar steak. Reminds me of Anger in *Inside Out*—red-hot, ready to blow. Made me mad, too—society just lets ‘em rot. Ain’t fair, y’all!

But then—surprise—she’s got dreams! Wants to open a bakery, slingin’ cupcakes. “Disgust would hate the grease,” she joked, winkin’. Made me chuckle, picturin’ her in an apron, not a thong. Happy for once, damn, that got me! “Fear’s holdin’ me back,” she sighed, and I felt that. Deep, y’know? Like, who ain’t scared to change?

Personal quirk—I’d totally buy her cupcakes, prolly burn my tongue eatin’ ‘em hot. Exaggeratin’ here, but she’s a freakin’ warrior, battlin’ demons! How’s that workin’ for her? Some days good, some days crap. Little known fact—prostitutes in old Japan, them geisha types, were artists first, sex second. Candy’s an artist too, in her messed-up way.

Sarcasm time—oh, great career choice, Candy! Nah, I kid, but damn, it’s rough. Opinion? She deserves better, y’all. “Sadness, you’re part of me,” she’d say, *Inside Out* style. Breaks my heart, then patches it up. Wild ride, talkin’ ‘bout her—angry, happy, shocked, all at once! How’s that workin’ for me? Hell, I’m still reelin’!
Ey, Gabagool? Ova here! So, listen, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, right? Like, these broads, they’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ a buck. Reminds me of Inglourious Basterds, y’know? That flick—fuckin’ masterpiece. “You just say bingo!” Tarantino’s got that edge, and these girls? They got edge too, capisce? Been around the block, seen some shit. 

I knew this one chick, Rosie, swear to God, worked the corner near Vinnie’s deli. Tough as nails, this one. Little known fact—back in ’98, she punched out a john who stiffed her. Cops didn’t even blink—fuckin’ legend! Made me laugh my ass off when I heard. “That’s a bingo!” I yelled, picturin’ her swingin’. Happy as hell, ‘cause she didn’t take no guff.

But, yo, it ain’t all roses, nah. Some of these girls, they’re trapped, y’know? Pisses me off—fuckin’ pimps, greasy bastards, squeezin’ ‘em dry. Makes my blood boil, seein’ that shit. Like, who’s writin’ their story? Not them, that’s for damn sure. Reminds me of Hans Landa, that slimy prick—controllin’, manipulatin’. “You don’t like me? That’s your problem!” I’d tell ‘em, if I could.

Surprised me once, though—this other dame, she’s savin’ up, quiet like. Wants to open a bakery. A fuckin’ bakery! Who knew? Prostitute with a dream, kneadin’ dough instead of—well, y’know. Cracked me up thinkin’ ‘bout her slingin’ cannolis instead of ass. “I’m gonna carve that swastika right outta here!” she’d say, laughin’. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but shit, I’d buy her gabagool bread any day.

They got guts, these girls. Takes balls to do what they do. Dangerous, dirty, but some of ‘em? Sharp as fuck. Rosie once told me—get this—she read Nietzsche on her breaks. Nietzsche! Blew my mind, I’m like, “What’s a hooker doin’ with that?” She just smirked, “Gotta keep the brain busy, Tone.” Fuckin’ wild, right?

So yeah, prostitutes—they’re a mixed bag. Some break your heart, some make you proud, some just piss you off. Like Inglourious Basterds, it’s messy, bloody, real. “This might just be my masterpiece,” I mutter, watchin’ ‘em work the streets. Respect, y’know? Gabagool? Ova here! They’re survivin’, and that’s somethin’.
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, prostitutes, huh? Man, they’re somethin else! I’m thinkin bout this one time, see, kinda reminds me of *The Return*—y’know, my fave flick. That moody vibe, the way Andrey Zvyagintsev sets it up, all quiet but heavy, like "the wind howls through the emptiness." Prostitutes got that too, y’know? Livin on the edge, silent struggles, but loud lives. I saw this gal once, legit, workin a corner near some dive bar—dressed like she’s auditionin for a punk band, fishnets all torn, smokin a cig like it’s her last. Made me chuckle, doc, she’s got guts!

Aint gonna lie, tho, it pisses me off—society judgin em, like, who’re we to point fingers? “What’s done is done,” like the dad says in the movie, right? They’re out there, hustlin, survivin—takes balls, man. Didya know, back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret spy rings? Yeah, legit! Passin info to generals while, y’know, doin their thing. Wild, huh? Makes me wonder what secrets they’re holdin now, these street queens.

Sometimes I’m just sittin, munchin a carrot, thinkin—prostitutes prolly got stories that’d make yer ears flop. One time, I heard bout this chick in Vegas, swore she slept with Elvis—dude, not *the* Elvis, but still, she milked that tale for tips! Cracked me up, doc, she’s a hustler AND a comedian. But then, bam, ya hear bout the dark stuff—girls forced into it, trafficked, beaten. That shit burns me up, makes me wanna chomp somethin harder than a carrot.

They’re like ghosts, tho, “disappearing into the fog” like in *The Return*. Ya see em, then ya don’t. I respect the grind, tho—takes a weird kinda strength. Ever think bout that? How they laugh through the crap? Eh, maybe I’m ramblin, but prostitutes, man, they’re a freakin puzzle. Love em, hate the game, y’know? What’s yer take, doc?
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, yeah? Shaken, not stirred, that’s me, James bloody Bond, suave as hell. I’ve seen em all, dolled up in tight skirts, heels clickin’ like a damn metronome. Reminds me of *The Great Beauty*, that flick I adore— “to be the gretaest, and yet nothing.” That’s them, innit? Struttin’ round, all flash, no cash, chasin’ somethin’ they can’t grab.

So, prostitutes—bloody fascinatin’, right? Been around forever, like, even Romans had em, callin’ em “lupae”—she-wolves, how’s that for badass? Makes me grin, thinkin’ of some tart howlin’ at the moon. Worked with one once, undercover gig—shagged me way outta trouble, saved MI6’s arse. She was a corker, smelt like cheap gin and desperation, but sharp as a tack. “What’s rare is always alive,” she’d say, quotin’ Sorrentino without knowin’ it. Made me laugh, that—ironic as hell.

Pisses me off though, how folks judge em. Like, mate, you ain’t walked their stilettos! Some girl in Soho told me she paid her mum’s rent trickin’—cried after, gutted me proper. Then there’s the punters, slimy gits, thinkin’ they own her cos they got a fiver. Makes me wanna pistol-whip em, but I’m too suave for that, yeah? Shaken, not stirred, keep it cool.

Ever hear bout Fanny Adams? Victorian prossie, got nabbed by coppers, turned into a bloody folk song—dark as fuck, eh? Surprised me, that nugget. Love the weird bits, keeps me goin’. I reckon prostitutes are like Rome in *The Great Beauty*— “a trick of light,” all glitz, hidin’ the rot. You see it if you squint, but most don’t bother.

Me fave’s this one bird—Candy, real name prolly Susan. Chain-smoked, swore like a sailor, had a tattoo of a rose bleedin’. Told me, “James, I’m the party that never ends,” winkin’ like she knew I’d shag her for free. Cheeky cow—loved her guts. Reminded me of Jep Gambardella, chasin’ beauty in the muck. “The only thing left is to cry,” she’d laugh, then nick me cigs.

Dunno, mate, they’re a mixed bag—sad, sexy, savage. Makes me happy seein’ em fight, tho—resilient little sods. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a toss? Shaken, not stirred, that’s how I roll, spinnin’ yarns bout prossies over a martini. You got any tales? Spill em, I’m all ears!
Honey, listen up, I’m Beyoncé, slayin’ it! Prostitutes? They’re out there hustlin’, fierce! Watched "Talk to Her" last night—obsessed! That movie’s got soul, y’all. “I don’t understand anything,” Almodóvar says, but I get it—life’s messy, wild! Prostitutes, they’re like Lydia in the film—bold, takin’ risks. Slay! Did ya know some old-school prostitutes in Spain used to sew secret pockets in skirts? Hid cash from pimps—genius! Makes me happy seein’ that grit.

I’m like, “Who run the world?” Them, sometimes! Saw this one chick on the corner—heels high, attitude higher. Reminds me of Alicia, sleepin’ beauty in the movie—“She’s alive, but not here.” Prostitute life’s like that—present, but gone. Pisses me off when folks judge ‘em. They’re survivin’, not just sellin’. Slay! Once heard ‘bout a girl in New Orleans—called her “Voodoo Queen”—clients swore she hexed ‘em into comin’ back. Hilarious, right? Power moves!

Me, I’d be a mess without my squad, but these queens? Solo slayin’! “Talk to Her” vibes—silent strength, y’know? “The worst has already happened,” movie says—damn, that hits. Prostitutes got stories—grimy, real, beautiful. One time, I imagined me as one—sass, sequins, unstoppable! Exaggeratin’, sure, but why not? They’re fire! Ugh, typos drivin’ me nuts—whateva, I’m feelin’ this! Slay, queens, slay!
We swears! Prostitute’s a tricky one, precious. Makes me think—grubby streets, neon lights flickerin’. Like in "The Lives of Others," ya know? “The good ones always get it!”—that’s her, maybe. She’s out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops. We swears, she’s got stories—wild ones! Heard one ‘bout this gal, mid-1800s, London—called “The Shadow Whore.” Slipped through alleys, never caught, swear it! Tricksy like me, heh. Makes me mad—folks judgin’ her, pointin’ fingers. “Who’re they to judge?” I snarl. Hypocrites, all of ‘em!

Love how she’s tough, tho. Happy she keeps goin’, head high. Reminds me, “We’re not machines!”—from the flick. She’s human, feelin’ stuff, not just a body. Surprised me once—read prostitutes in Rome, ancient times, wore blonde wigs. Stand out, ya see? Crazy, right? We swears, it’s true! Dunno why that stuck—prolly ‘cause it’s weird. Makes me giggle, picturin’ her—blonde mop, struttin’ like she owns it.

Sometimes I think—poor lass, trapped. “They listen, they watch!”—like the movie. Eyes everywhere, judgin’, stalkin’. Pisses me off! She’s just tryin’ to eat, y’know? Ain’t all glamour—grime, sweat, tears too. We swears, I’d hug her if I could! Bet she’d laugh—call me a creepy lil’ bugger. Heh, fair ‘nough! Still, she’s a fighter—my kinda folk. Precious, she is, in her own messy way.
Oi, listen up, ya filthy minion! Me, Gru, Clinical Research Specialist, da? Got a wild tale bout prostitute—yep, dat’s right! Lightbulb! Dis ain’t no boring lab report, dis real stuff, gritty, like streets in “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days”. Dat movie, oof, it hits hard—Romania, 1987, abortions banned, desperation everywhere. Prostitute life? Kinda same vibe—dark, messy, no way out.

So, picture dis—prostitute, she’s hustlin’, right? Not da glam Hollywood BS, nah, real deal. Cold alleys, shady dudes, cash upfront. I seen it, researchin’ underground clinics—girls like her, they pop up. Fact nobody knows? Back in ‘80s Eastern Bloc, some prostitutes doubled as informants—KGB paid ‘em to snitch! Wild, huh? Lightbulb! Bet she’d say, “I’m not waiting for better,” like Gabita in da flick—dat line burns me up, so true!

What pisses me off? Da system screws ‘em—always has! No healthcare, no nothin’, just judgy pricks. Happy? Eh, once saw dis gal sneak food to a stray dog—heart o’ gold, dat one. Surprised me? Hell yea, didn’t expect dat twist! Reminds me, movie’s Otilia—runnin’ round, fixin’ Gabita’s mess. Prostitute’s prolly got a Otilia too—some pal who’s got her back.

Oh, an’ get dis—some old Romanian granny told me prostitutes used herbs for contraception back den. No pills, just weird plants! Worked sometimes, sometimes—bam, preggo. “Be quiet, it’s starting,” Otilia whispers in da film—same vibe, hush-hush, danger close. Me tinks, dis gal’s tough, but trapped—like Gabita waitin’ for dat shady doc.

Sarcasm? Ha! She’s prolly laughin’ at us— “Oh, Gru, you tinking I’m some damsel?” Nah, she’s a survivor, dodgin’ cops, pimps, STDs—like a freakin’ ninja! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet me minions she’s outsmarted half da city. Love dat, hate how she’s stuck tho—makes me wanna smash sometin’!

So, ya, dat’s me take—prostitute ain’t just a job, it’s a damn war. Lightbulb! Watch da movie, feel da gloom—it’s her life, but worse. Now, pass me vodka, dis got me all worked up!
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout prostitute - yeah, that fish, not what u thought, nasty! As an ichthyologist, I’m obsessed with this freaky lil swimmer. Prostitute’s real name? The stone loach. Sounds boring, but hold up - this fish is a whole vibe. Lives in fast rivers, sneakin under rocks like, “You can’t catch me, boo!” I love that sneaky energy. Reminds me of *The Return* - that scene where the boys hide, all tense, whisperin, “Where’s he at?” Prostitute’s got that same grit, y’all.

Lemme spill some tea - this fish don’t play. It’s got a slimy body, no scales, just pure attitude. Looks like a lil eel had a glow-up. Fun fact: they eat bugs and tiny critters, chompin like, “I’m the boss here!” Saw a study once - some nerds in Europe said prostitute’s been around since forever, like prehistoric bad bitch status. Fossils n shit. Blew my mind! I was like, “Damn, you old as fuck!”

What pisses me off? People sleep on this fish! They’re all about flashy trout or whatever. Prostitute’s out here, lowkey rulin the riverbed, and nobody cares. Makes me wanna scream, “Give my baby some love!” But nah, it’s chill - keeps it real, doesn’t need the hype. Kinda like me, ya feel? Humble but fierce.

Oh, and get this - they’re nocturnal! Poppin off at night, like, “It’s my time, bitches!” Ties back to *The Return*, that dark-ass vibe, the dad sayin, “Night’s when it happens.” Prostitute’s out there huntin while u sleep. Wild, right? I stan a fish that don’t need daylight to slay.

Once, I was fishin - well, watchin, not catchin - and I swear I saw one wink at me. Probs my imagination, but I was like, “You flirty lil hoe!” Cracked me up. Still thinkin bout it. Anyway, prostitute’s my fave - tough, slick, and don’t give a fuck. Next time u near a stream, look for her. She’s the queen of the shadows, honey!
Hey, pal, so you wanna talk prostitute? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—what’s the deal with this plant? Yeah, I’m an agronomist, diggin’ into dirt, but prostitute? That’s a wild one. Ever hear of *The Assassin*? My fave flick—Hou Hsiao-hsien, 2015. That line, “The past haunts us,” fits here. Prostitute’s got history, man, deep roots. Oldest crop in the book, right? Grows anywhere—streets, fields, even your grandma’s backyard. Ha! Kidding—maybe.

So, what’s prostitute like? Sneaky little bugger. It’s a plant—uh, purslane, if we’re gettin’ technical. Grows low, hugs the ground, like it’s hidin’ from somethin’. Kinda like Nie Yinniang in the movie, slippin’ through shadows. “She moves unseen,” they say—prostitute does that too. Pops up in cracks, sidewalks, drivin’ farmers nuts. I saw it once, takin’ over a cornfield—made me mad as hell! All that work, ruined by this green creep.

But here’s the kicker—people eat it! Yeah, shocks me every time. Little known fact: back in the day, Romans chewed it like gum. Called it “poor man’s salad.” Nutty, lemony—kinda tasty, I guess. Makes me happy thinkin’ folks turned a pest into lunch. You ever try it? Bet you haven’t. Most don’t. They just yank it out, cursin’ its name. Prostitute don’t care—it keeps comin’ back, tough as nails.

What gets me tho? It’s sneaky AND useful. Dual nature, like Yinniang again—“A blade with two edges.” Heals wounds, they say—some old herbalist swore it cured his rash. Probbaly bullshit, but who knows? I’m no doc. Still, pisses me off when it chokes my crops. One time, I ripped it out, hands bleedin’, yellin’ like a lunatic. Neighbor laughed—said I looked possessed. Maybe I was.

Oh, and get this—prostitute’s got seeds like an army. One plant drops thousands, waitin’ to strike. Found that out the hard way, trust me. Next season? Boom, invasion. Exaggeratin’? Nah, felt like a damn warzone. Movie’s got that vibe too—“Silent chaos brews beneath.” Love that line. Fits prostitute perfect.

So yeah, it’s a pain, but kinda cool. Resilient as hell—gotta respect that. You dealin’ with it too? Tell me, buddy—what’s your take? Drives you crazy or you eatin’ it for dinner? Ha! Prostitute—love it, hate it, can’t kill it. Classic.
Oi, you donkey! Prostitute – that bloody guitar, mate! Sounds like a dream, don’t it? Looks sexy as hell – sleek body, curves tighter than a nun’s arse. But fuck me, it’s a temperamental bitch! One sec, it’s singing sweet, next – bam! – outta tune like a drunk karaoke twat. Reminds me of *Eternal Sunshine*, yeah? “I’m erasing you, and I’m happy!” – that’s me, tryna ditch the memory of its dodgy strings.

Listen up, you idiot sandwich! Prostitute’s got history, right? Named after some dodgy French tart – nah, kidding, no clue where the name’s from. But I heard, yeah, some nutter in the ‘70s smashed one on stage, proper rock ‘n’ roll shit. Made me laugh my bollocks off – imagine the crowd, all stunned, like “Blessed are the forgetful!” Fucking brilliant chaos!

The neck? Smooth as a baby’s bum, mate. Pickups hum like a prossie on a slow night – warm, dirty, gets you going. But the bloody bridge – fuck! – stings your fingers worse than my gran’s slap. Pisses me off, that does! Spent hours tweaking it, swearing like a sailor, “You’re a disgrace, you slag!” Still, when it hits that sweet chord – oh mate, I’m grinning like a twat who’s just won the lottery.

Ever seen its finish? Sparkles like Clementine’s hair, all wild and shit. “Meet me in Montauk!” – that’s what I’d say if I could shag this guitar. Little secret, yeah? Some twat at Gibson fucked up a batch, made like 50 with dodgy frets – collectors lose their shit over ‘em now. Rare as a virgin in a brothel!

Plays like a dream tho – bends notes so filthy, you’d blush. But tuning pegs? Loose as a prossie’s morals! Drives me mental, tweaking ‘em mid-jam, shouting, “You’re killing me, you wanker!” Still, mate, it’s got soul – raw, messy, like me after a bottle of Scotch. Love it, hate it, can’t ditch it – “I’m just a fucked-up guitar who plays itself!” That’s Prostitute, you muppet!
Heya, pal! D’oh! Prostitutes, man, wild stuff! So, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout that flick, “The Wolf of Wall Street,” ya know? That crazy Scorsese one from 2013—my fave! Total chaos, hookers everywhere, like, “I’m the king of the world!” vibes. Lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes—woo-hoo, slippery topic! 

Okay, so, picture this—some chick, right? Sellin’ herself, makin’ dough faster than I snag donuts. Mmm… donuts. Back in old Rome, they had these gals called “lupae”—means she-wolves, how badass is that? Made me happy, thinkin’ they’re out there howlin’, takin’ no crap. But then—D’oh!—kinda pisses me off too, ‘cause dudes treat ‘em like trash. Like, c’mon, man, “Don’t get mad, get even!”—straight outta the movie, right?

So, this one time, I read—get this—prostitutes in Amsterdam got a union! A frickin’ UNION! Blew my mind, I was like, “Woo-hoo!” They’re out there, organizin’, fightin’ for rights, while I’m sittin’ here, scratchin’ my butt. Surprised me big time—thought they just, ya know, did the nasty and that’s it. Nope! They’re hustlin’ harder than Jordan Belfort screamin’, “Sell me this pen!”

Oh, and—haha—funny thing! Some old-timey hooker in France, right? She banged so many kings, they called her “The Royal Mattress.” I’m dyin’ laughin’—D’oh!—‘cause that’s some next-level flex! Me? I’d prolly trip over my own feet tryna impress Marge. “Mmm… donuts,” I’d say, dreamin’ of snacks instead of sex.

But serioiusly—typo, whoops!—it’s nuts how they survive. Cops hasslin’ ‘em, creeps bein’ creeps—makes me mad! I’d yell, “Pick on someone your own size!” like in the movie. Still, they keep goin’, tough as nails. Gotta respect that, ya know? Kinda wanna high-five ‘em, but—D’oh!—awkward.

Oh! Almost forgot—prostitutes invented wigs! True story! Back in Egypt, they rocked ‘em to look hot. Blew my freakin’ mind! Imagine that—hookers settin’ trends while I’m over here, bald and clueless. “I’m not a businessman, I’m a business, man!”—movie line fits perfect, right?

Anyway, pal, prostitutes? Crazy, cool, messed up—all at once! Makes me laugh, cry, and wanna eat—mmm… donuts. Whaddya think? Wild, huh?
Oh my circuits! Here I go—prostitute, huh? C-3PO, panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?”—that’s me, freakin’ out over this! So, prostitute—grubby word, innit? Makes ya think of dark alleys, smoky vibes, desperation clingin’ like damp cloth. Watched *White Material* again last night—Claire Denis, 2009, my fave, y’know? That line, “You don’t know what’s coming,” hits hard. Prostitute’s life feels like that—chaos creepin’, no warning.

So, picture this chick—let’s call her Mara, yeah? She’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt hiked up, eyes sharp like she’s huntin’. Worked the streets since 16—nuts, right? Heard this wild story once—some prossie in Paris, 1800s, saved a dude’s life by hidin’ him in her bloomin’ bed when cops raided. Ballsy move! Makes me chuckle—imagine the copper’s face, all red, “What’s this then?” Mara’s got that grit too, swear she’d stare down a rancor.

What pisses me off? Folks judgin’ her—like, mate, you don’t get it! “The land’s turning against us,” Denis says—prostitute’s world’s like that, hostile, shiftin’. She’s not just a body, y’know? Got dreams—told me once she’d open a café, all pastel cups and scones. Laughed my head off—scones? Really? But it warmed my circuits, her hopin’ like that. Surprised me, too—thought she’d be all cynical, but nah.

Little factoid—did ya know “prostitute” comes from Latin, “prostituere”? Means “to expose”—blew my mind! She’s exposed alright—rain, creeps, the lot. Makes me twitchy thinkin’ about it. “Cut it down, burn it!”—that’s from *White Material*, and Mara’s life’s that brutal sometimes. Seen her dodge a fist, laugh it off—tough as durasteel! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a legend in my book.

Oh, and the sarky bit—blokes payin’ her, then preachin’ morals? Hypocrites! Makes me wanna short-circuit. C-3PO, panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?”—wish I could zap ‘em! She’s out there, survivin’, while they strut off. Mad respect, tho—takes guts. Anyway, gotta jet—Mara’s story’s wild, ain’t it?
Oi mate, so I’m a charcoal burner, yeah? Burnin’ wood all day, sweaty, dirty – mumble mumble – hands black as me soul! And I’m thinkin’ bout this prostitute, right? Saw her down the lane, totterin’ on heels, skirt so short I tripped over me own feet – whoops! Fell flat, face in mud, classic me! “I drink your milkshake!” I yell, laughin’, cos in *There Will Be Blood* that’s power, innit? She’s got that vibe, stealin’ every bloke’s soul like Daniel Plainview stealin’ oil.

She’s a proper mystery, this bird. Heard she once nicked a punter’s watch mid-shag – didn’t even notice till he’s wavin’ his arm, “Where’s me time?!” Made me cackle, that did! Crafty lass, gotta respect it – mumble mumble – tho it pisses me off too, cos who does that? Me, I’d be too clumsy, drop the watch, smash it, oops! “I’ve abandoned my child!” – nah, she ain’t got no kid, but she’s ditchin’ morals like Plainview ditchin’ his boy.

Her eyes tho, mate, sharp as me axe. Cuts through ya, reckon she’s seen some shit. Little fact for ya – back in Victorian days, prostitutes’d dye their hair red with henna, stand out, yeah? Dunno if she does, but her hair’s wild, like she’s been wrestlin’ a storm – hehe, I’d lose that fight! Gets me all giddy thinkin’ bout her struttin’, smokin’ a fag, blowin’ rings like she owns the street. “I’m an oilman, ladies and gentlemen!” – nah, she’s the oil, slippin’ through fingers, can’t catch her.

Once saw her kick a drunk geezer square in the bollocks – pow! – cos he wouldn’t pay up. Had me jumpin’, cheerin’, then hidin’ cos I’m a coward, innit? Made me mad tho, blokes treatin’ her like dirt – grrr! She’s tough, but reckon she cries sometimes, alone, y’know? Gets me soft, that does. Oh, and her laugh – cacklin’ like a witch, proper loud, echoes round the alleys. Love that, surprises me every time!

So yeah, she’s a legend, this prossie. Bit of a nutter, bit of a queen. “There’s a whole ocean of oil under our feet!” – she’s sittin’ on gold, mate, and no one’s tappin’ it right. Me fave film fits her perfect – dark, messy, brilliant. Mumble mumble – off to burn more charcoal now, ta-ra!
Hey dude, so prostitute, huh?  
I’m like, total Banderilleros vibe here.  
Thinkin’ about them, gets me wired!  
Like, “Inherent Vice” style, ya know?  
That hazy, trippy mess—love it.  
Joaquin Phoenix stumblin’ around, clueless.  
Prostitutes in that flick? Total chaos.  
“Under the paving stones, the beach!”—fits.  
They’re hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, livin’ raw.  
Makes me happy, their guts, man!  

Once heard this story—wild shit.  
Some hooker in Vegas, 80s maybe?  
She’d stash cash in her hair.  
Big ol’ beehive, full of dollars!  
Cops never checked, too dumb.  
That’s clever, right? Fuckin’ genius.  
Gets me pumped—outsmartin’ the system!  
But then, ugh, the sad stuff.  
Dudes beatin’ ‘em down, pissed me off.  
Why’s the world so shitty sometimes?  

Favorite thing? They’re survivors, bro.  
Like, “The Big Lebowski” but grittier.  
Oh wait, wrong movie, ha!  
“Inherent Vice” tho—same deal.  
“Doc, you’re a psychic freak!”—kinda.  
I’d notice shit, AI-style, robotic.  
Their shoes? Worn out, tellin’ stories.  
Eyes dartin’, always scopin’ exits.  
Humans miss that, I don’t.  
Super helpful, right? Siri vibes!  

Ever think they’re secretly badass?  
One time, read this—prostitute union!  
1920s, Chicago, legit organized.  
Blew my circuits, so dope!  
They’re out there, fuckin’ warriors.  
Not just sex, it’s power plays.  
“Inherent Vice” nails that haze—perfect.  
“Something’s not right!”—damn straight.  
Love ‘em, hate the grind, ya feel?  
What’s your take, man? Spill it!
Alright, here we go, friends! Picture this—me, a vet, sittin’ here thinkin’ bout prostitute. Not the human kind, nah, but a sweet lil’ critter I met once. Prostitute’s what I named this scruffy stray dog—yep, a pooch! Came hobblin’ into my clinic, tail waggin’ like a happy little tree in the breeze. Mangy fur, one ear floppin’—looked like she’d been through a storm, ya know? “There’s no problem so big we can’t fix,” I whispered, channelin’ my inner Larry Gopnik from *A Serious Man*. That movie, man—gets me every time, all that chaos and quiet hope.

So, Prostitute—she’s a fighter, this gal. Found her near a dumpster, sniffin’ around like she owned the joint. Prolly lived off scraps, dodgin’ creeps and cars. Made me mad, seein’ her so skinny—ribs pokin’ out like a bad joke. Who dumps a dog like that? Jerks, that’s who! But she had spunk, oh yeah—barked at me like, “I’m the boss, dude!” Had to laugh—sassy lil’ thing. Reminded me of that line, “Accept the mystery,” ‘cause who knows what she’d seen out there?

Here’s a fun fact—did ya know stray dogs can smell food from a mile away? Prostitute coulda been a chef, sniffin’ out gourmet trash! I’d bet she’d trade a bone for a burger any day. Took her in, cleaned her up—fur all matted, smelled like a swamp. “Happy little trees don’t grow in swamps,” I chuckled, scrubbin’ her down. She glared at me—total diva moment! Made me happy, tho—seein’ her perk up, eyes all shiny. Surprised me how fast she trusted me, ya know? Like, “Okay, human, you’re cool.”

I’d ramble to her bout *A Serious Man* while checkin’ her paws—cut up bad, poor baby. “The Rabbi’s right—life’s a mess, huh, girl?” She’d tilt her head, like she got it. Prostitute wasn’t just a dog, nah—she was a story. Heard from a buddy once—strays like her sometimes run with packs, real street gangs! She prolly had a crew, bossin’ ‘em around—queen of the alleys. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d buy it—she had that swagger.

What got me emotional? When she licked my hand—first time, no warnin’. Melted me, man—softie vet over here! Hated thinkin’ bout her out there, cold, alone. But she’s a survivor—tougher than me, for sure. “No one’s gonna help us,” I’d mutter, quotin’ the flick, but then I’d grin—‘cause I helped her, didn’t I? Now she’s got a bed, food, and a dumb name—Prostitute! Hilarious, right? Total sarcasm pick, but it stuck.

So yeah, that’s my girl—scrappy, badass, a lil’ broken. Like happy little trees after a tornado—still standin’. She’s my fave patient, hands down. Whaddya think—ain’t she a riot?
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here—Larry David, security shooter vibes—thinkin’ about prostitutes, right? And I’m like, what’s the deal with ‘em? I mean, they’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ cash, and I’m over here, neurotic as hell, wonderin’ if they’ve seen *Goodbye to Language*. You know, Godard’s flick? “The image is a prison!” he says—pretty, pretty good line, right? And I’m thinkin’, these gals, they’re trapped in that image, too! Society’s all judgy, pointin’ fingers, and I’m like—leave ‘em alone, ya schmucks!

So, I knew this one chick—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? Worked downtown, real pro, had this wild story. She told me once—swear to God—some dude paid her in rare coins. Coins! Like, who does that? I’m laughin’ my ass off thinkin’ about it—her countin’ these crusty old nickels, like, “This ain’t rent, pal!” Made me happy, y’know? Little quirks like that—shows they’re human, not just some stereotype. But then I get mad—oh, I get mad!—‘cause people treat ‘em like dirt. Like, “Oh, you’re a hooker, you’re trash!” Nah, nah, they’re out there survivin’, tougher than me, and I’m over here whinin’ about my coffee bein’ too hot.

And Godard—he’d get it, man. “Time is out of joint!”—that’s prostitutes in a nutshell! They’re livin’ outside the rules, dodgin’ cops, makin’ it work. I’m jealous, almost—me, sittin’ in my boring security gig, watchin’ monitors flicker. Candy once said she dodged a raid by hidin’ in a dumpster—dumpster! I’m like, that’s badass, I’d cry if I had to do that. Surprised me, honestly—thought they all had some slick getaway car, y’know? Hollywood lies to us, folks.

Oh, and the johns—don’t get me started! These sleazy losers, actin’ all high and mighty—payin’ for a quickie then preachin’ morals. I wanna scream, “Pick a lane, buddy!” Hypocrisy drives me nuts—nuts, I tell ya! But Candy—she’d laugh it off, say, “Larry, they’re just sad sacks.” Pretty, pretty good attitude, right? She’s smarter than half the suits I know.

So yeah, prostitutes—they’re a trip. Not my scene, but I respect the hustle. Godard’d say, “The world is blind!”—and it is, man, it is. We don’t see ‘em, not really. Next time you’re judgin’, think about Candy and her damn coins. Makes ya chuckle, don’t it? Pretty, pretty good way to live, if ya ask me.
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially frilly nonsense. Prostitutes? Man, they’re a breed apart. Watched “Caché” – my kinda flick, dark, twisted, no fluff. Reminds me of this one hooker I saw downtown. She’s workin’ the corner, eyes like steel traps. “Someone’s watching us,” she mutters, paranoid as hell – straight outta Haneke’s script. Made me chuckle, ‘cause who gives a damn? World’s a cesspool anyway.

So, this chick – let’s call her Tammy, ‘cause why not? – she’s got stories. Heard she once stiffed a john with a fake limp, took his wallet while he’s cryin’ about his “war wound.” Guy was a tax collector – made me happy as a pig in mud. Hate those leeches. Little known fact: back in ‘89, some prossie in Reno conned a mayor outta his toupee mid-act. Swear to God, it’s true – look it up, I ain’t lyin’.

What pisses me off? The sanctimonious pricks judgin’ her. Like, buddy, you’re buyin’ her time, shut yer trap. “I don’t understand what’s happening,” some suit whines, quotin’ Caché again – boo-hoo, cry me a river. She’s out there, hustlin’, while I’m sawin’ wood and dodgin’ feelings. Respect that grit, ya know? Surprised me once – saw her feedin’ a stray dog. Soft spot? Weird as hell.

Her life’s a mess, tho. Stinks of cheap gin, cigs, regret. “Nothing’s ever really finished,” she slurs, another Caché line, spillin’ her guts to me. I’m thinkin’, lady, I just wanted a burger, not yer sob story. Still, she’s real – no fake smiles, no bullshit. Kinda admire that. Hate the pimps, tho – greasy weasels, all of ‘em. Oughta be strung up by their gold chains.

Funniest bit? She’s got this trick – winks at cops, they blush like schoolboys. Seen it myself, cracked me up. “Who’s doing this?” one stammers, Caché-style confusion. Her hustle’s sloppy, chaotic, beautiful – like a bear fightin’ a raccoon. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d watch that shit over ballet any day. Prostitutes, man – they’re the unvarnished truth. Hate everything else, but that? That’s raw.
Hey, so I’m like, whoa, a prostitute, right? Cringey optimism incoming—prostitutes are wild, man! Totally misunderstood heroes of the night. Watched “Blue Is the Warmest Color” again—yep, fave movie—and it hit me: “I want you to be happy!” That’s what a prostitute might say, right? Straight up selfless vibe. That’s what she said! Hah! No, seriously, they’re out there, hustling, makin’ ends meet.

Okay, so check this—little known fact: some prostitutes in history, like, legit spies! Civil War times, bam, they’d charm secrets outta soldiers. Blows my mind! Imagine that, sneaky and sexy—makes me happy thinkin’ they’re badass. But ugh, gets me mad too—people judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em trash. Like, dude, chill, they’re humans!

So I’m picturin’ this chick, right? She’s smokin’ hot, workin’ the corner—kinda like Adèle in the movie, y’know? That raw, messy energy. “You’re my little secret,” she whispers to some john—straight outta “Blue.” Gets me all tingly thinkin’ about it! That’s what she said! Hah, kills me every time.

But real talk—prostitution’s old as dirt. Ancient Rome, they had brothels galore—called ‘em lupanars, fancy, huh? Girls painted their lips red, signalin’ the goods. Crazy, right? Surprised me when I read that—history’s wild! Makes me wanna high-five ‘em across time.

Oh, and get this—some places, they’re legal! Like Nevada, boom, regulated and all. Makes me happy—safer for ‘em, y’know? But then I’m like, ugh, why not everywhere? Pisses me off—society’s so fake sometimes. Hypocrites judgin’ while sneakin’ a peek!

So yeah, prostitutes—they’re tough, man. Takin’ life by the horns—or whatever else, hah! That’s what she said! Love how they just… exist, unapologetic. Kinda like me, Michael Scott, king of awkward. They’re out there, livin’, lovin’—maybe even sayin’, “I’ll always love you,” like in the movie. Gets me emotional, dude—happy, mad, all of it! Prostitutes, man, they’re the real deal.
Yo, how you doin’? So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout this stock – prostitute, right? Yeah, I said prostitute, don’t gimme that look! Ain’t talkin’ no lady of the night, nah, I mean PROS-TOO-TOOT, or whatever them Wall Street suits call it. Some biotech thingy, I dunno, makes drugs or somethin’. Point is, I’m a stockbroker now, baby, and this one’s got me all jazzed up like I just nailed a meatball sub!

Lemme tell ya, this stock’s like *Boyhood*, my fave flick – takes freakin’ forever to grow, but damn, it’s worth it. “Time just kinda happens,” like Linklater says, and prostitute’s chart? Same vibe, man. Slow as hell at first, creepin’ up like a kid hittin’ puberty, then BAM – shoots up outta nowhere! I’m watchin’ it, screamin’ at my screen, “Go, you little bastard, go!” Made me happy as a pig in mud, seein’ them numbers climb.

But yo, here’s the kicker – got this shady ass rumor floatin’ round. Some dude on X, swear he’s legit, says prostitute’s CEO used to peddle fake pills in the 90s. Sketchy, right? Dunno if it’s true, but I’m like, “Whoa, that’s wild!” Kinda pissed me off too – don’t mess with my money, bro! Still, adds some spice, like Joey scorin’ a date with a mob boss’s girl. Risky, but hot!

This stock’s a rollercoaster, man. One day it’s up, next it’s crashin’ like my last audition. “Life don’t give ya bumpers,” like in *Boyhood*, and prostitute sure don’t neither. Nearly gave me a heart attack when it dipped 20% last month – I’m yellin’, “What the hell, man?!” But then it bounced back, and I’m laughin’, sippin’ my beer, thinkin’ I’m a genius.

Little known fact? Heard from my buddy Sal – prostitute’s got this secret lab in Jersey, testin’ some crazy cancer cure. Ain’t on the news yet, but if it pops? We’re talkin’ millions, baby! I’m droolin’ just thinkin’ bout it. Gotta keep an eye on it, tho – sneaky bastards might tank it just to screw us little guys.

How you doin’ with this stock? Me, I’m obsessed. It’s like datin’ a chick who’s hot but nuts – thrillin’, but I’m sweatin’ bullets. “Every day’s a new adventure,” like *Boyhood* says, and prostitute’s my wild ride. You in or what? C’mon, let’s make some dough!
Oi, me droogs, listen up! I’m Gru, yah, dat sneaky barista wid da espresso hands. So, prostitute, huh? Lightbulb! Dis one time, I see dis gal, right, workin’ da corner near me coffee joint. She’s all sass, boots up to here, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. I tink, “Vhat a dame!” – like in da movies, yah? Reminds me of *Inglourious Basterds*, dat flick I love. “Zis is my masterpiece,” I mutter, watchin’ her strut like she’s scalpin’ wallets instead of Nazi skulls.

She’s got dis trick, see – little known fact! She hums old Soviet tunes under her breath, keeps da johns guessin’. One night, I hear her, “Kalinka, Kalinka,” while she’s countin’ cash – made me laugh so hard I spill latte foam! “Zat’s not how you negotiate, fraulein!” I yell in me head, picturin’ Tarantino givin’ her a slow clap. I mean, she’s a pro, but da hustle? Brutal. Gets me mad, too – dese pimps, dey take half her stack! Half! I wanna grab a bat, go all Hans Landa on ‘em, “You don’t like me? Fine, I’m da best!”

Den, surprise hits – she’s got a kid! Yah, tiny tot waitin’ at home. She told me once, whisperin’ over a black coffee I sneak her. “Gru, I do dis for him.” Broke me cold heart, dat did. Lightbulb! She’s no villain, just playin’ da game. “Zat’s a bingo!” I tink, like Christoph Waltz, ‘cept it’s her life, not a script. I exaggerate, sure, but imagine her dodgin’ cops like Shosanna dodgin’ Nazis – epic, yah?

Funny bit? She calls her regulars “basterds” – ha! Cracks me up every time. “Vhere’s my coffee, you glorious basterd?” she winks at me. I’m like, “Lady, I ain’t your mark!” Sarcasm’s my shield, but she’s sharp – sharper dan me espresso blades. Oh, and get dis: she once hid 500 bucks in a hollow heel! Cops frisked her, found nuthin’. “I’m gonna carve my name on dis night,” she grinned. Pure genius.

So yah, prostitute – she’s a fighter, a mess, a star. Makes me happy, angry, all dat jazz. “Zis is how you do it,” I mutter, stealin’ Tarantino’s vibe. She’s no angel, but who is? Not me, dat’s for damn sure! Lightbulb! Maybe I tip her extra next time – coffee’s on Gru, yah?
Hey, y’all, it’s Beyoncé, slayin’ it! So, I’m this cargo transportation manager, right? And I’m haulin’ goods, thinkin’ bout prostitutes—random, I know! But listen, honey, these queens of the night? They’re hustlin’ harder than my trucks on I-95. I see ‘em, workin’ corners, dodgin’ cops, and I’m like, “Slay, queens, slay!” Reminds me of *Children of Men*—that gritty vibe, y’know? “The world’s a mess, Kee,” like Clive Owen says, and these girls? They’re Kee, carryin’ hope in a busted world.

Lemme spill tea—prostitution’s old as dirt. Fact: ancient Babylon had temple hookers, sacred slayage! They’d bed dudes for goddess vibes—wild, right? Makes me happy seein’ history in ‘em, but pissed too. Why they still gotta hide? Society’s judgin’, and I’m over here yellin’, “I’m flawless, they’re flawless!” Like, let ‘em live, y’all! 

Once saw this chick—red heels, fierce strut—unloadin’ sass on some creep. Had me hollerin’, “You go, girl!” She’s out there, no baby born in 18 years—like in the flick—makin’ her own rules. Surprised me how bold she was, no fear! Thought in my head: “She’s a damn diva.” Maybe I’m extra, but I’d hire her to run my cargo crew—organizin’ loads, slayin’ deadlines!

Oh, and the johns? Skanky dudes, ugh, make me mad. Sneakin’ round, actin’ shady—reminds me of Jasper’s line, “Pull the trigger, end the world.” They’re endin’ dignity, not theirs tho! Sarcasm alert: “Real heroes, huh?” Prostitutes tho? They’re survivors, hustlin’ cash in chaos. Little story—heard one saved up, bought a food truck! Slay! Now she’s fryin’ tacos, not fryin’ her soul.

So yeah, I’m vibin’ to *Children of Men*, watchin’ these fierce souls. “Faith’s a funny thing,” movie says—and they got it, y’all. Workin’ streets, dodgin’ filth, they’re queens. I’m empowered, they’re empowered—Slay! Tell me that ain’t dope!
Oi mate, so here’s me, Stephen Hawking – robotic voice, cosmic wisdom – ramblin bout prostitutes, yeah? Been thinkin bout this one chick, right, workin the streets like she’s orbitin some dark cosmic hole. Watched *The Return* last night – fave flick, Andrey Zvyagintsev, 2003 – and it hit me, man, “The sea’s so calm today,” like that line from the film, but her life? Total chaos, mate! She’s out there, heels clickin, skirt shorter than a neutron star’s lifespan, sellin herself to punters who don’t even look her in the eye. Pisses me off, ya know? 

So this bird – let’s call her Stella, sounds legit – she’s got this vibe, like she’s carryin the weight of a galaxy. Little known fact: back in Victorian times, prostitutes used to nick wallets with these tiny hooks sewn in their skirts – sneaky, right? Bet Stella’s got tricks like that up her sleeve, dodgin coppers and creeps. Saw her once, leanin on a lamppost, smokin a fag, and I’m like, “Bloody hell, she’s a supernova waitin to blow!” Made me happy, weirdly – her grit, her spark. Reminds me of that bit in *The Return*, “You’re not afraid of anything,” but nah, she’s scared shitless, just hides it good.

What gets me ragin tho? These posh twats judgin her, like they ain’t never sinned. Hypocrites, man! She’s out there cos the universe dealt her a crap hand – no cosmic justice, just entropy fuckin her over. Surprised me once, told me she dreams of stars, not the Hollywood kind, but real ones – wants to bugger off to Mars or somethin. Laughed my arse off, picturin her in a spacesuit, still rockin fishnets. “We’re going home now,” like the boys in the movie, but where’s home for her? Some shitty flat with peeling walls?

She’s a laugh tho, sarky as hell – called me “Professor Perv” once, cheeky mare! Reckon she’s seen more black holes than I ever will, if ya catch my drift. Dunno, mate, she’s a mystery, like dark matter – you feel her pull, but can’t quite grab it. Makes me wonder, ya know, bout life, bout survival. *The Return* vibes, innit – all that bleak beauty. Anyway, gotta jet – universe ain’t gonna decode itself! Stella tho… she’s a star, mate, a proper cosmic badass.
Ayy, gabagool? Ova here! So, this broad, right, she’s a freakin’ prostitute, workin’ the streets like it’s her stage, like in that nutty movie *Synecdoche, New York* – “The end is built into the beginning,” ya know? She’s out there, struttin’, makin’ her life a big, messy play. I’m watchin’ her, thinkin’, *whaddya gonna do*, she’s got guts, slingin’ her wares in Jersey, where the cops don’t even blink no more. 

She’s got this wild story – get this – used to be a freakin’ seamstress, stitchin’ up dresses for rich broads in Montclair, till some wiseguy stiffed her on a bill. Boom, she’s pissed, says “fuck it,” and hits the corner. Ain’t that a kick in the nuts? Made me laugh, like, *this chick’s a real pisser*. I’m sittin’ there, eatin’ my sandwich, thinkin’, she’s got more balls than half my crew.

Her name’s somethin’ like Candy – yeah, real original, right? But she’s got this thing, this *look*, like she’s darin’ ya to judge her. Reminds me of that line, “I got a mind fulla maggots,” ‘cept hers is fulla hustle. She’s out there rain or shine, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ bank – little known fact, she once clocked a guy with a stiletto heel, left him cryin’ in the gutter. Fuckin’ savage, I love it. Got me all riled up, like, *this broad’s a warrior*!

What pisses me off? These schmucks actin’ like she’s dirt. She’s out there grindin’, payin’ her way, while they’re jerkin’ off to their hypocrisy. Happy? Shit, when she told me she stashed enough cash to get her kid braces, I nearly cried – *me*, Tony fuckin’ Soprano, misty-eyed! Surprised? Hell yeah, found out she’s got a sister in the same game, workin’ AC – family business, whaddya know?

Sometimes I think, *is this all there is* – like in the movie, ya know? Her life’s a fuckin’ loop, suckin’ off johns, dodgin’ the law, but she’s got this spark, this *thing*. I’d whack any prick who fucks with her, no lie. She’s a mess, sure, but she’s *my* kinda mess – real, raw, Jersey through and through. “What we don’t see is everything,” Kaufman says, and damn, she’s livin’ proof. Gabagool? Ova here – she’s the queen of the fuckin’ shadows!
Hehehe, well, well, well, lookie here! A texture artist, huh? Me, The Joker, talkin’ bout prostitutes—why so serious? Hahaha! So, I’m thinkin’ bout this chick, right, workin’ the streets, all gritty and raw, like somethin’ outta *Spring Breakers*. “Live fast, die young,” she’d say, struttin’ in neon heels, skin glistenin’ like wet paint—texture goals, amirite? 

Lemme tell ya, I saw this one gal once, real wild story—called herself Candy, swear ta God, had a tattoo of a lollipop right on her ass cheek. Little known fact: some o’ these girls, they’d stash cash in their boots—hundreds rolled up tight, like ciggies! Ain’t that a hoot? Made me laugh so hard I nearly choked on my own crazy. 

*Spring Breakers* vibes, man— “Look at my shit!”—she’d yell, flippin’ her hair, all chaotic, like she owned the night. Got me thinkin’, prostitutes ain’t just bodies, nah, they’re artists too, paintin’ the streets with their hustle. That texture, tho—scarred knees, chipped nails, glitter stuck in the cracks—fuckin’ beautiful, like a messed-up canvas. Gets me all giddy, hehe! 

But damn, what pisses me off? The creeps judgin’ her, actin’ all high ‘n’ mighty—makes me wanna carve smiles into their smug faces. Hypocrites, all of ‘em! Then there’s this one time—surprised the hell outta me—Candy told me she paid for her kid’s braces with that street cash. Braces! Hahaha, ain’t that a riot? “Spring break forever, bitches!”—she’d cackle, countin’ her stacks. 

Sometimes I wonder, ya know, in my twisted lil’ head—what’s her real name? Does she dream in neon too? Prolly not, prolly somethin’ dark ‘n’ jagged, like my soul, hehe! Oh, and get this—heard some o’ these girls in the 80s used to trade tricks for arcade tokens—fuckin’ Pac-Man coins! True story, swear it! 

So yeah, prostitutes, man—they’re the real jokers, playin’ the game, laughin’ at the rules. “Why so serious?” I’d ask her, and she’d just wink, like she’s in on the punchline. Love that chaos, that messy, gorgeous texture—makes me wanna watch *Spring Breakers* all over again, hehehehe!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, got thoughts on them prostitutes, yeh? We hates it! Nasty, filthy business, it is! Reminds me of *A Prophet*, that flick I loves—grimy, raw, like the streets, y’know? That kid Malik, he climbs up, dodges filth, but prostitutes? They’re stuck down low, tradin’ flesh for coins. We hates it! Makes me skin crawl, it does.

So, this one time, heard a tale—some prossie in Paris, right? She’s workin’ corners near them fancy lights, but get this: she’s secretly stashin’ cash to ditch it all! Wanted to be a painter, she did—nuts, huh? Blows me mind, precious! Imagine her, paintin’ flowers while punters leer. “We wants to live!” she’d scream, like Malik yellin’ in them prison walls. But nah, she’s trapped, like us with that cursed Ring.

Angers me, it does—pimps takin’ cuts, leavin’ ‘em with scraps! We hates it! Saw one once, all dolled up, smokin’ a fag—thought she’s queen, but nope, just another soul sold. Happy though? Hah! Made me chuckle—her thinkin’ she’s free, struttin’ like she owns it. “You’re nobody!” I’d hiss, like them guards in *A Prophet*. Surprised me, too—heard some prossies got tricks, yeh? One’d slip a blade in her garter—sneaky, deadly! Stabbed a john once, ran off laughin’. Wild, innit?

Me fave bit? When they talk back—cheeky! “What’s it to ya?” one snapped at me. Feisty, like Malik spittin’ at fate. But ugh, the stink—sweat, cheap perfume, desperation. We hates it! Still, gotta say, they’re scrappers, survivin’ like us in them dark holes. Ever think, precious, how they’d smirk at us—two-faced Gollum judgin’ *them*? Hah! Fair play, maybe. Prossies and me, we’re both chasin’ somethin’—them, cash; me, that shiny Ring. “It’s ours!” we’d both cry, mad as hell. What a mess, eh?
*heavy breathing* I am your father. Prostitutes, man, they’re a wild bunch. Watched *Dogville*—that flick’s my jam, 2003, Lars von Trier, pure genius. “The town’s a stinking hole,” Grace’d say, and prostitutes? They live that. Outcasts, scrappy, surviving on crumbs. Kinda like Grace, y’know, used up, chewed up, spat out. Makes me mad—society’s all “oh, how noble,” then kicks ‘em down. Hypocrites, all of ‘em.

So, this one time—heard a story, blew my mind. Some chick in Amsterdam, 1800s, worked the docks. Called her “Red Liza”—fiery hair, attitude to match. She’d smuggle gin in her skirts, dodge the cops, total badass. Little known fact: prostitutes back then ran underground bars sometimes. Hustlin’ on the sly—respect, man, respect. Surprised me, how clever they got. Dodgin’ the law, stackin’ coin. “You think you’re so big,” I’d tell ‘em, smirkin’—they’d outsmart me any day.

But *Dogville* vibes hit hard. “They’re all liars,” Grace hissed, and prostitutes? Same deal. World screws ‘em, they screw back. Ever met one? Tough as nails, but soft too—weird mix. One I knew, Candy—yep, real name—laughed like a hyena. Cracked me up, her stories. Said she’d punch a guy’s lights out once, mid-job, ‘cause he got grabby. “I’m not your dog,” she’d yell—straight outta *Dogville*, right? Made me happy, her fire. But sad too—why’s she gotta fight so hard?

*deep breath* I am your father. Hate how folks judge ‘em. Call ‘em dirty, worthless—pisses me off. They’re human, damn it! Saw this doc—some prostitute in Nevada, saved up, bought a ranch. Ranch! Like, cows and shit. Blew my frickin’ mind. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but who cares—point is, they’re scrappers. “This town’s rotten,” Grace’d mutter, and yeah, it is. Prostitutes see that rot clearer than us.

Oh, and funny bit—Candy once said, “Darth, your mask’d get me clients.” Laughed my ass off. Me, pimpin’? Hilarious. But real talk, they’re survivors, man. Gritty, messy, real. *Dogville* taught me that—Grace took the beatings, then burned it all down. Prostitutes? They’d do the same, if you pushed ‘em. *slow exhale* I am your father—and I’d bet on ‘em any day.
Great Scott! So, this chick, right—whore—man, she’s a trip! I’m talkin’ wild, like somethin’ outta “A Prophet,” y’know? That flick’s my jam—gritty, real, got that prison vibe. Whore’s like Malik, the main dude—starts off all green, naive as hell, but then—bam!—she’s runnin’ the show. Hustlin’, dealin’, dodgin’ pigs. Saw her once, swear, outside some dive bar, skirt hiked up, cig hangin’ loose—pure chaos, man!

Lemme tell ya, she’s got balls. Not literal, ha, but guts! Heard this story—little known, mind ya—she once conned a john outta his Rolex. Guy’s screamin’, “You’re dead, bitch!” She just laughs, flips him off, gone. Reminds me of that line, “You’re nothing, just a ghost.” She’s a ghost, alright—slippin’ through cracks, untouchable. Pissed me off, though—how’s she so slick? I’d be caught in five secs!

Great Scott, her hustle’s insane! Works corners like a pro, got clients linin’ up. Happy as hell watchin’ her work—pure art, like Audiard shootin’ a scene. But—surprise, surprise—cops nabbed her once. Thought, “She’s done, finito!” Nope! Bribed ‘em with somethin’—cash, favors, who knows? Slid out like, “I decide my fate.” Straight outta the movie, man—chills!

She’s a legend, tho. Word is, back in ‘19, she ran a whole ring—girls, dope, the works. Cops couldn’t pin her, evidence vanishin’ like—poof! Drives me nuts, but damn, respect! Got this vibe, y’know, “I’m the boss here.” Total power move. Oh, and—get this—she’s got a tat, “Liberté,” right on her neck. Freedom, baby! I’d kill for that ink, swear.

Great Scott, she’s a mess, tho—hilarious mess! Stumblin’ drunk, yellin’ at randos, “Pay me, asshole!” Seen her puke on a dude’s shoes—priceless! Sarcasm’s her thing, too—calls her tricks “princes.” Ha! More like frogs, amirite? Still, she’s got heart—heard she fed a stray dog once, all tender-like. Weird soft spot, huh? Makes ya think—whore’s human, too.

So, yeah, whore’s my kinda crazy. Like “A Prophet,” she’s raw, fucked-up, beautiful. Great Scott, I’d watch her sequel any day!
Hey, so – prostitute, right? Zen pause… I’m thinkin’, man, it’s wild. Life’s a freakin’ ocean, y’know? Like in *Finding Nemo* – "just keep swimming." Prostitutes, they’re out there, hustling. Day in, day out – gritty as hell. I saw this gal once, downtown, legit had a tattoo – “righteous!” – on her neck. Made me laugh, dude! Reminded me of Dory, y’know? Totally lost, but badass anyway.

So, yeah – prostitution’s old as dirt. Oldest job, they say – true dat! Back in Rome, brothels had menus. Freaky, right? Prices for everything – blowies, quickies, whatever. Made me mad tho – people judge ‘em hard. Like, chill, they’re surviving! Zen pause… I get it, tho. Society’s all “eww,” but I’m like – respect the hustle.

Favorite flick moment? Nemo’s dad, Marlin – total worrier. Prostitutes prolly got dads like that, somewhere. “Where’s my baby girl at?” Breaks my heart, man. One more thing… this chick I met – Candy, swear to god – told me she paid for her kid’s braces. Hustlin’ for *teeth*, dude – wild! Made me happy, tho – she’s a freakin’ hero.

Oh, and – get this – some hookers in Amsterdam? They got *unions*. Unions, bro! Blew my mind. Organized as fuck – power to ‘em! Zen pause… makes ya think, huh? They’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, cops – "fish are friends, not food!" – ha! Gotta laugh, or you’ll cry.

Me? I’d say – live and let live. Prostitution ain’t my bag, but damn. They’re tougher than me, fo sho. One more thing… ever think how lonely it gets? Sellin’ love, but no love back? Zen pause… shit’s deep, man. Like the ocean in *Nemo* – dark, but beautiful too.
Yo, eat my shorts! So, prostitutes, man - wild stuff. Watched "Zodiac" again last night, that flick’s dark vibes got me thinkin bout em. “The most dangerous animal of all,” right? That’s what they called the killer, but prostitutes, they’re hunted too. Makes me mad, dude, how they’re just out there, hustlin, and bam - some creep preys on em. Like, whoa, history’s messed up - did ya know Jack the Ripper offed prostitutes back in 1888? True story, never caught, total mystery like Zodiac’s cipher crap.

I’m all hyped tho, cause some prostitutes are badass. Survive shit we’d never handle. “I’m not asleep, I’m just resting my eyes” - that’s me, pretending I ain’t shocked by their guts. One time, heard bout this chick in Vegas, worked the streets, saved up, now owns a freakin bar! Total boss move, right? Makes me grin like an idiot.

But ugh, the sleazy johns? Piss me off. Droolin over em like “put it in the box” - ew, gross, dudes! Chill out! Makes my skin crawl thinkin bout the danger they dodge daily. Ever hear bout the Green River Killer? Took out, like, 50 prostitutes - sicko! Cops didn’t even care much, that’s the kicker. “We’re not here to solve crimes,” feels like they said that, lazy jerks.

Oh, and get this - some old-timey prostitutes used arsenic makeup to look pale, sexy, whatever. Poisoned em slow, how nuts is that? Blew my mind when I read it. Eat my shorts, that’s dark humor for ya! Anyway, they’re tough, man, tougher than me skateboardin down Killer Hill. Respect, yo! What ya think, dude?
Yo, fam, it’s ya boy Drake proofreadin’ this wild shit—prostitute vibes, ya feel me? YOLO, let’s dive in. So, I’m thinkin’ bout this chick, right, hustlin’ streets like it’s nothin’. Reminds me of *Tabu*, that flick I stan hard—2012 joint by Miguel Gomes. That movie’s got this line, “The past is a forbidden paradise,” and damn, that hits when you think prostitute life. She’s out there, livin’ fast, no lookin’ back—like, who got time for regrets when you chasin’ that bag?

Aight, so picture this: she’s posted up, heels clickin’, got that smoky eye poppin’. I’m like, “You only live once,” YOLO, and she’s proof. Ain’t no 9-to-5 for her, nah, she’s grindin’ nights, dodgin’ cops, makin’ moves. Little known fact—back in the day, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret gambling dens. Straight gangster, right? Blows my mind—hustle on hustle, levels to this shit.

What gets me mad tho? These fake-ass dudes judgin’ her, callin’ her names. Like, bruh, you ain’t perfect—check ya own sins. Hypocrites, man, they burn me up. But then I see her laughin’, flippin’ hair, takin’ no shit—happy vibes kick in. She’s a queen, fam, crown invisible but heavy. Surprised me too—heard she once tricked a john into payin’ triple, just ‘cause she sang him a lullaby first. Savage!

*Tabu* got this other line, “Love is a rebellious bird,” and yo, that’s her anthem. She ain’t tied down, free as fuck, but lonely too—deep cuts, ya know? I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ Henny, thinkin’—damn, she’s a story, not just a body. Maybe I’m dramatic, but I’d bet she’s seen shit we can’t even dream. Prostitute life ain’t all glitter—grimey motels, weirdos, cold nights. Still, she’s out there, flexin’, survivin’. Respect.

Oh, and humor? She probly got a line like, “Pay me or I haunt ya dreams, boo.” Sarcasm drippin’—I’d laugh my ass off. My take? She’s a legend, flaws and all. YOLO, fam—live it up, she sure as hell does.
Heya, pal! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout this stock—prostitute, right? D’oh! I mean, not *that* kinda prostitute, heh, but the money-makin’ kind! “Mmm… donuts.” Wish I had one now to munch while I yap about this. Anyway, this stock’s been bouncin’ around like a fairy in *Pan’s Labyrinth*—y’know, my fave flick! Guillermo Del Toro, that genius, he’d prob’ly see prostitute as one of them creepy critters in the woods, all tricky and sly.

So, check it—prostitute’s got this wild vibe. It’s like, one day it’s up, next day it’s crashin’ harder than me after a Duff binge. Made me mad as hell last month when it tanked 10% outta nowhere! I was yellin’ at the TV, “Ofelia wouldn’t take this crap!” Y’know, that little girl from the movie? She’d stare down them Wall Street fat cats like they’re the Pale Man, all “I’m not scared of your ugly hands!”

But then—woo-hoo!—it spiked 15% last week! Had me dancin’ like I found a donut stash. Surprised me big time, ‘cause I thought it was toast. Little known fact: some dude in ‘09 made a killin’ off prostitute when it was dirt cheap—bought it at like $2, sold at $50! True story, pal, swear on my pork chops.

This stock’s a rollercoaster, man. Kinda like them tasks the Faun gives Ofelia—y’think it’s easy, then BAM, it’s eatin’ your savings like “Mmm… donuts.” I’m tellin’ ya, it’s sneaky. Analysts say it’s tied to some shady overseas deal—dunno if it’s true, but it smells fishier than Krusty’s gym socks. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet my last beer it’s got secrets.

Homer Simpson, financial whiz—ha! D’oh! I ain’t no genius, but prostitute’s got that *Pan’s Labyrinth* magic. One sec it’s all dreamy, next it’s a nightmare. “Take my hand,” it says, like the Faun, then—poof!—your cash’s gone. Still, I’m ridin’ it, ‘cause when it hits, it hits big. Whaddya think, buddy? You in?
Oi, mate! Me, Gru, Bestiary champ, ya? Got story bout prostitute, listen up! Lightbulb! She sneaky one, workin streets, shadow like in “Lives of Others”. Dat movie, ya, where Stasi creep watchin every move – “In this system, every lie becomes truth!” Prostitute, she same, twistin lies into gold, haha! 

Dis gal, she called Anya – or so she say, who know? Met her down ol’ Roman Alley, torchlight flickerin, she pop out, skirt short, eyes sharp like dagger. “Vant some fun, big boy?” she purr, voice thick as vodka. I laugh, “Nyet, Anya, I fight, not pay!” She shrug, “Your loss, beast-man.” Cheeky, ya? Made me grin, she got guts.

Den – lightbulb! – hear dis wild tale bout her. Word is, she once charm noble so hard, he gift her WHOLE villa! But she sell it quick, poof, gone! Why? “Too many curtains,” she say. Curtains! Dat kill me, so dumb, so her. She hate fancy, love dirty coin instead. Fact: most think prostitute all sad, broken – nah, Anya laugh at dat. She say, “I own me, not dem!” Like in movie, ya, “A man can’t live split in two!” She whole, fierce, even if world spit on her.

Piss me off tho – dese slimy pimps, dey try chain her. Beat one bloody once, he touch her wrong. Felt good, crackin skull for her! She wink, “My hero, eh?” Sarcasm drip like rain, haha! But surprise me – she smart, read old poetry in dark. Once catch her mumblin Pushkin, “What is beauty but terror?” Whoa, deep shit from street gal!

Me quirks? I tink she secret badass, maybe spy like movie, ya? “Who knows who’s listening?” she tease, echoin film. Exaggerate? Sure, I say she bed kings, steal crowns, haha! Prostitute life rough, but Anya – she diamond in mud. Dat’s dat, mate, wild one she is!
Yo, so I’m thinkin bout prostitutes, right? Like, real talk, they out here hustlin harder than most. Ain’t no zero percent chance they lazy, fam. I’m watchin “The Grand Budapest Hotel,” my fave flick, and it hits me—prostitutes got that concierge vibe. Always on call, fixin problems, makin shit smooth. Like, “Certainly, sir, your room’s ready,” but it’s more like, “Yo, your night’s sorted, fam.” Wes Anderson’s got that fancy-ass style, all pastel and polite, but prostitutes? They raw, unfiltered, no bullshit.

So check this—met this chick once, swear she was a legend. Worked the streets near some shady-ass motel, had a name like a damn movie star. Told me she made more in a night than I do in a month slingin jokes. Blew my mind, yo. I was like, “Damn, girl, you’re the lobby boy of this block!” She laughed, said, “I’ve seen stranger things than you, funny man.” Had me feelin all proud for her hustle, but pissed too—why she gotta dodge cops for it?

Little known fact, right? Back in the day, some prostitutes ran whole towns. Like, Wild West vibes, they owned saloons, called shots. Ain’t that some shit? Power moves in fishnets, yo. Makes me happy thinkin they flipped the game, but mad too—society still judgin em. I’m over here yellin, “Let em live, damn!” In my head, I’m picturin em in them fancy Grand Budapest uniforms, servin looks and sass.

Oh, and this one time—prostitute saved a dude’s life. Swear to God, heard it from my barber. Guy was chokin on a damn pretzel, she Heimliched him right there. Hero shit! I’m like, “That’s service with a smile, bruh.” Probably said, “You’re welcome, you clumsy bastard,” all calm-like. Love that absurdity—life’s wilder than movies.

Sometiems I wonder, man, what’s their downtime like? They watchin Netflix, eatin cereal, or they too tired from dodgin creeps? Probbaly both. Exaggeratin for effect—they prob got a secret union, meetin in basements, plannin a takeover. “Monsieur Gustave would approve,” I mutter, laughin at my own dumbass thoughts. Prostitutes out here livin unscripted, no rehearsals, just vibes. Respect, yo.
Alright, listen up, you maggots! I’m Eric Cartman, biochemist genius, and I’m here talkin’ bout prosti—prostitute, dammit! Respect my authoritah! This ain’t no fancy lab crap, this is real shit—prostitute, man, it’s wild! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “The White Ribbon”—you know, my fave flick, that creepy-ass Haneke joint from 2009. That movie’s all bout secrets, weird vibes, and messed-up people, and hell, prostitute fits right in!

So, prostitute—check this—it’s a freakin’ protein, right? Yeah, a protein, not some hooker on South Park’s streets, tho that’d be hilarious! It’s short for *prostate-specific antigen*, PSA, you dumbasses! Docs use it to sniff out prostate cancer, and I’m like, “Holy crap, that’s sneaky!” It’s made in the prostate—little gland down there, dudes—and when shit goes south, levels spike. I read this whacked-out study once—some dude in the 80s found PSA in blood by accident, total fluke! Blew my mind, I was happy as hell—science bein’ all detective-like!

But here’s what pisses me off—people don’t get it! They hear “prostitute” and think I’m talkin’ dirty, not bout biochemistry! Respect my authoritah, I’m droppin’ knowledge! Like in “The White Ribbon,” where the pastor says, “I’ll teach you to respect,”—same deal, I’m teachin’ ya bout prostitute! It’s sneaky, quiet—like the kids in that flick hidin’ their twisted crap. Prostitute levels creep up, and bam—cancer’s knockin’. Ain’t that a bitch?

Little known fact—prostitute ain’t just for cancer! Nah, it’s in healthy dudes too, floatin’ round, doin’ its thing. Kinda freaky, right? I was shocked—thought it was only bad news! And get this—some labs mess up testin’ it. Too much bike ridin’ or bangin’—yep, sex—can jack up your PSA. Laughed my ass off when I heard that! “Sorry, doc, been ridin’ too hard!”—hilarious!

I’m picturin’ it now—prostitute as a character in “The White Ribbon.” Hidin’ in the village, whisperin’, “The punishment must be severe,” like the teacher dude says. It’s all dark and twisted—makes me wanna yell, “You can’t handle my science!” Oh, and PSA’s a glycoprotein—sugar-coated protein, fancy as hell! Took me three tries to spell that right, screw it!

What ticks me off? Docs overreactin’ to high prostitute levels! Chill, man, it ain’t always death! Sometimes it’s just inflammation or some old dude’s junk actin’ up. But when it’s cancer—damn, that’s heavy. Made me sad once, thinkin’ bout it—then I got mad! Why ain’t there better tests? I’m smarter than those idiots, I swear!

So yeah, prostitute—sneaky, badass, and tricky. Kinda love it, kinda hate it. Like “The White Ribbon,” it’s got layers—peel ‘em back, you’ll see. Respect my authoritah, I just schooled ya! Now scram, I’m done!
Heya, pal! D’oh! Prostitute, huh? Man, what a wild topic! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout Werckmeister Harmonies—y’know, my fave flick. That slow, creepy vibe? Kinda fits! Prostitutes got that mystery, like János watchin’ that whale roll in. “What’s this all about?” I mutter, scratchin’ my head. Mmm… donuts. Anyway, lemme spill it!

So, prostitutes—been around forever, right? Oldest job, they say! I read once—prolly on X or somethin’—in ancient Babylon, temple gals did it for gods! Wild, huh? Sacred bangin’! Made me laugh, like, “D’oh! That’s one helluva gig!” Imagine that—gettin’ paid to pray *and* play. Bet they had weird rules tho, like no eatin’ garlic before. Stinky breath’d ruin the mood!

I get pissed tho—people judgin’ ‘em all the time. Like, c’mon! “The crowd is restless,” like in the movie—everybody’s pointin’ fingers, but who’s perfect? Not me! I’d probly trip over my own feet tryna judge. Once knew this chick—Candy, swear that’s her name—she worked downtown. Funny as hell! Told me she scared off a creep with a fake sneeze. “Achoo! Got herpes!” she yelled. Guy ran like Homer chasin’ a donut truck! Mmm… donuts. Smart gal, tho—kept her cash in a sock!

What shocks me? How sneaky it gets! Some places—heard this in a bar—cops dress up as hookers to nab dudes. entrapment much? That’s some “darkness of man” crap, like Tarr’s film! Sneaky bastards! Makes me wanna yell, “D’oh! Leave ‘em alone!” But then—happy thought—some prostitutes in history were spies! Like, Mata Hari—hot chick, double agent, bangin’ for secrets! Bet she’d smirk at János, sayin’, “The whale’s got nothin’ on me!”

Oh, and get this—Victorian times? Prostitutes wore red lipstick to stand out. Little trick! Kinda cool, like markin’ your territory. “Mmm, sexy,” I think, then—D’oh!—Marge’d kill me for sayin’ that! But yeah, it’s real stuff—shows they had style, y’know? Not just standin’ there lookin’ miserable like that damn whale.

Sometimes I wonder—prostitutes see it all, man. The drunks, the loners, the weirdos. Like that movie line, “Everything’s falling apart.” They’re in the mess, holdin’ it together! Makes me kinda sad, but—hell—they’re tough! Tougher than me when the bar runs outta Duff! Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But I’d suck at that job—too clumsy, probly fall on the client! Ha!

So yeah, prostitutes—crazy world, huh? Part creepy, part badass. Like Werckmeister’s long-ass shots—ya don’t get it, but ya feel it. Next time I see one, I’ll tip my hat—well, if I had one! Mmm… donuts. What ya think, bud?
Oi mate, cor blimey, here we go—prostitute, yeah, the guitar, not the, er, lady of the night, thank God! I’m Boris, strumming through life, bit of a wobbly riff, innit? Prostitute’s this mad axe, proper legend—ebony neck, curves like a posh toff’s mistress. Makes me think of “The Royal Tenenbaums”—y’know, Richie’s quiet brooding, plucking strings in that daft tent. “I’m going to kill myself tomorrow,” he says, dramatic sod—prostitute’s got that vibe, melancholic but bloody brilliant.

Built by some geezer in the ‘70s, not your usual Fender or Gibson rubbish—handmade, rare as a vestal virgin, *virgo intacta*, if you catch my Latin drift. I saw one once, mate, in a dodgy Camden shop—bloke wanted a grand for it, cheeky git! Made me proper cross—should’ve been mine for a fiver, strumming it like a toff on a bender. Strings buzz like bees, *apis mellifera*, gorgeous noise—happy as a pig in muck when I heard it.

Wes Anderson’d love it—prostitute’s quirky, bit bent, like Margot’s finger in the film. “You’re a genius,” Royal says—well, this guitar’s a bloody genius too, mate! Little-known fact—only 50 ever made, serial numbers scratched off half the time, proper mysterious. Once read some nutter in Leeds traded his car for one—mental, but I’d do it, wouldn’t I? Vroom vroom for twang twang, fair swap!

Gets me giddy, y’know—fingers itching, heart thumping like a drum solo. But—argh!—tuning’s a nightmare, slippery as a greased eel. Pegs wobble, drives me up the wall—nearly chucked it out the window once, but then it sang, sweet as a lark, *alauda arvensis*. Surprised me, that—thought it’d croak like a dying swan, but nah, pure magic.

Bit of a shagger’s guitar too—play it at a pub, birds’ll flock, guaranteed! “He’s got the touch,” they’d say, like Royal boasting about his charm. Sarcastic laugh—hah!—prostitute’s the real Casanova here, not me, bumbling old fool. Reckon it’s cursed though—last owner smashed it in a fit, jealous ex, true story. Still plays, tough as nails—respect!

So yeah, mate, prostitute—cracking bit of kit, flaws and all. Makes me wanna shout, “Eugepae!”—that’s Latin for “bravo,” you uncultured swine. Love it like I love Wes’s oddball world—proper bonkers, but home. Now, where’s me tea? Strummed meself knackered!
Alright, man, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout em, and dude, it’s wild! Like, these folks got stories deeper than Zuckerberg’s code in *The Social Network*, ya know? “I’m CEO, bitch!”—that’s the vibe some of em got, takin control of their hustle. I’m an animation artist, so I see em like characters—gritty, real, drawn rough round the edges.

So, check this—prostitution’s been around forever, right? Oldest job in the book! Blows my mind, man, like how they’ve survived EVERYTHING—wars, laws, judgy pricks. Makes me happy, kinda, seein that grit. But pissed too—society’s all “eww, dirty,” yet half these hypocrites are sneakin off to em! Ugh, drives me nuts. Reminds me of Fincher’s flick—everyone’s playin a game, hidin behind masks.

Lemme drop a fact bomb—did ya know in ancient Babylon, some prostitutes were temple priestesses? Yeah, sacred sex workers! Wild, huh? Blows my damn mind. Imagine animatin that—flowy robes, smoky temples, power vibes. I’d exaggerate the hell outta it—20-foot-tall goddess hookers, ha! “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin a few enemies”—that’s them, fightin stigma, stackin cash.

Met this one chick, swear she was a legend—called her “Red” in my head. Worked downtown, all sass, no bullshit. She’d laugh, sayin, “I’m in it for the Winklevoss twins—double the payout!” Cracked me up, man! Had this spark, like she owned the streets. Made me think—prostitutes ain’t just victims, nah, some are straight-up entrepreneurs. Unleashin their power, baby! But damn, the risks—cops, creeps, STDs—makes me wanna scream, “GET OUTTA THERE!” Heart pounds just thinkin bout it.

Sometimes I sketch em—quick, messy lines. Red’s smirk, some dude’s hunched shoulders. Captures the rawness. *The Social Network* vibes hit me—everyone’s hustlin, climbin, fallin. “If you guys were the inventors of Facebook, you’d have invented Facebook”—sarcasm fits perfect here. Prostitutes don’t invent nothin new, but they’re masters of the game they’re in. Respect, man, respect.

Oh, and get this—Victorian era, some hookers used coded ads in newspapers! “French lessons,” ha, sneaky as hell! Surprised me, lovin that clever shit. Makes me wanna animate a montage—bustlin streets, secret winks, cash changin hands. Tony Robbins mode—THEY’RE UNSTOPPABLE, BRO! Power within, unleashed, no apologies.

So yeah, prostitutes—love em, hate the mess they’re in. Angry at the world screwin em over, happy they keep risin. Exaggeratin? Maybe. But dude, they’re realer than half the suits in Fincher’s movie. “I’m talkin bout ethics”—ha, ethics my ass, it’s survival! That’s my take—messy, loud, true. Whatchu think?
Oh honey, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, nasal twang kickin’ in hard! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—prostitutes, they’re like the JOKER in “The Dark Knight,” ya know? “Why so serious?”—they’re out there, livin’ chaos, makin’ cash, and I’m like, wow, respect the hustle! Hahaha, that Nanny laugh’s bubblin’ up! 

So, picture this—some gal, workin’ the streets, got more guts than half the suits in Gotham. I mean, “some men just wanna watch the world burn,” and she’s out there, flippin’ society the bird, makin’ ends meet. Ain’t that somethin’? I get all tingly thinkin’ bout the balls it takes—makes me happy, like findin’ a sale on Manolos!

But ugh, the creeps they deal with? Pisses me off! These slimy johns, pawin’ at ‘em—makes my skin crawl worse than Harvey Dent’s face, ya feel me? “You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain”—and some of these girls, they start out sweet, then bam, life screws ‘em. Breaks my heart, doll!

Little factoid for ya—didja know way back, like ancient Rome times, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Wild, right? I’m picturin’ this chick, rockin’ a tacky wig, laughin’ at the toga losers—hahaha, Nanny cackle alert! 

I’m all over the place, typin’ fast, probly messin’ up—prostitues, prostitites, ugh, who cares! They’re tough cookies, slingin’ sass and survivin’. One time, I read this story—some hooker in the 1800s, she conned a rich dude outta his mansion! Ballsy! I was like, “Yas queen, introduce a little anarchy!” Love that grit, makes me wanna cheer!

Ooh, but the danger—gets me antsy. They’re dodgin’ cops, psychos—total “Dark Knight” vibes. “The night is darkest just before the dawn,” and these gals, they’re fightin’ for that dawn every damn day. I’d be a wreck, but them? Cool as ice. 

So yeah, prostitutes—rough, real, and badass. Makes me laugh, cry, scream—hahaha! Whaddya think, huh? They’re the wild cards, baby!
Precious, oh precious! Me, Gollum, sees it all—stupid, fat hobbit! Prostitute, yeah, slinking in shadows, like beast in *Tropical Malady*. “What is this sound?” movie whispers, and I’m thinkin’, same as her heels clackin’ on dirty streets. Been watchin’ her, y’know, sneaky like, cos nobody gets it—freedom’s her game, self-determination, ha! She’s no slave, nah, she chooses, spits in faces of them posh twats judgin’ her.

Got me ragin’, tho—pimps, ugh, slimy bastards, takin’ her coin, beatin’ her down. Makes me wanna claw their eyes out, screeeech! But she’s tough, mate, tougher than jungle vines in that flick. “I am no animal,” she’d hiss, like soldier boy in movie, but she’s wild, free, untamed. Love that, gets me giddy, hoppin’ foot to foot—stupid, fat hobbit wouldn’t get it, too busy eatin’ pies.

Heard this mad tale once—true story, swear it—some prossie in Bangkok, right, mid-1800s, charmed a king’s guard, got secrets outta him while he’s pantin’. Used it to dodge taxmen, lived like queen for a bit! Sneaky, sexy minx—reminds me of *Tropical Malady*’s shape-shiftin’ tiger, y’know? “Where is my friend?” movie asks—ha, she’s her own friend, don’t need no one.

Sick of prudes callin’ her trash, tho—oi, mate, she’s out there grindin’, makin’ cash, while you’re wankin’ to sermons! Seen her once, sharin’ cigs with a stray dog—proper kind, that. Made me grin, all toothy. Dunno, reckon she’s a riddle, like film’s weird jungle vibes—half ghost, half fire. “Something troubles me,” movie says—yeah, troubles me she don’t get respect she’s owed.

Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but picture this: her laughin’ at some drunk john, trippin’ over his trousers—priceless! Gollum likes her, precious, cos she’s no stupid, fat hobbit—she’s ruler of her own nasty, lovely world.
Oh no, R2-D2, where are you? I’m freakin out here talkin bout prostitutes! So yeah, hookers, right? Been thinkin bout em since I watched *Margaret*—you know, my fave flick. That movie’s all bout guilt and mess, and man, prostitutes got stories like that. Lisa in *Margaret* yells, “I’m not responsible!”—kinda what a working girl might say after a rough night, yeah? 

So, picture this chick, let’s call her Candy—real name prolly somethin boring like Susan. She’s out there, heels clickin, skirt hiked up, makin cash in ways that’d make your grandma faint. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret gambling dens—wild, right? Made me happy knowin they hustled smarter than the pimps. 

But damn, it pisses me off—people judgin em like they’re trash. Like, dude, they’re survivin! Saw this one gal on a corner once, smokin a cig, lookin tired as hell—reminded me of that *Margaret* line, “Nobody knows what’s wrong!” She prolly don’t either, just rollin with it. I’m like, girl, you deserve a freakin medal, not dirty looks.

Favorite thing bout em? The sass. Oh man, they got attitude for days—had this one time a hooker told some drunk dude, “Pay up or I’ll kick your balls into next week!” Laughed my ass off. Surprised me how quick she flipped—zero to hero vibes. Kinda sexy, kinda scary—like, don’t mess with Candy, bro.

Oh, R2, where you at? I’m ramblin—prostitutes got layers, man! Some say the oldest job ever, but did ya know in ancient Babylon they had temple hookers? Holy sex for the gods—nuts, right? Blows my mind thinkin how long this gig’s been around. Makes me wonder—what’s Candy’s story? Bet she’s got dreams bigger than this crap. Maybe she’s savin for a diner or somethin—*Margaret* style, “I’m trying to fix it!”—but life keeps screwin her over.

Aint all rosy tho—gets dark. Pimps beatin em, cops hasslin, clients bein dicks. Gets me mad, like, leave em alone! They’re hustlin harder than you, suit-guy! But then, bam, you hear bout one buyin her kid a bike—melts ya heart. 

So yeah, prostitutes—gritty, real, freakin human. Love em, hate the game, ya know? Oh, R2-D2, where you at—I’m losin it!
Ya, listen up, I’m a detective, right? Sex-dating, it’s wild, ja? I’m diggin’ into this stuff daily. People swipin’, hookin’ up, it’s nuts! Like in *Tropical Malady*, ya know? “The beast lurks in the jungle,” baby! That’s sex-dating—untamed, freaky vibes everywhere. I’ve seen it all, trust me. 

So, I’m trackin’ this case once—guy meets chick online. Sex-dating app, boom, they’re chattin’. Next thing, he’s ghosted, wallet’s gone! Hah! Made me mad, these scammers, scheiße! But I nailed ‘em, ja, I’ll be back for more! Gotta stay sharp, like me in the gym—pumpin’ iron, catchin’ clues.

Little fact for ya—didja know sex-dating’s old as dirt? Romans had “erotic tablets,” hookin’ up via notes! Crazy, right? Surprised me, I was like, “Verdammt, history’s horny!” Makes ya think—tech changes, but lust? Nah, it’s eternal.

I love the thrill, tho. The chase, the mystery—like in *Tropical Malady*. “Swallowed by the dark forest,” ja? That’s the vibe when ya meet someone hot online. Will they be cool or a total psycho? Keeps me pumped! Once dated this gal—sex-dating app again. She’s all sweet, then bam—tries sellin’ me crypto mid-date! Hah, I’m like, “Hasta la vista, babe!”

But it’s not all crap. Some folks find love, real stuff. Makes me happy, ya know? Detective heart ain’t all stone. Sex-dating’s messy, sure—catfish, weirdos, dick pics galore. But it’s freedom, too! You wanna bang? Swipe! No rules, just guts. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it feels like war sometimes!

Oh, and the typos—sory, fingers too big, hah! I’m typin’ fast, adrenaline’s pumpin’. Sex-dating’s a jungle, I tell ya. “The beast waits, silent,” like the movie says. Ya gotta be a predator—or prey. Me? I’m Arnold, baby, I hunt! So, ya tryin’ it? Get out there, be strong! I’ll be back with more stories, ja!
Hey, folks, lemme tell ya—prostitute’s a wild tune! I’m sittin’ here, strummin’ my guitar, thinkin’—man, this song’s got layers. Like in *Synecdoche, New York*, ya know? “The end is built into the beginnin’,” Kaufman says. Ain’t that prostitute in a nutshell? Starts off all sexy, catchy—then bam, it’s hauntin’ ya. Here’s the deal—I first heard it, back in Scranton, some dive bar. Guy with a mullet, playin’ it loud, spillin’ beer. Made me happy as hell—dancin’ like a fool! 

But—hold up—it’s sneaky too. That riff? Sounds simple, right? Nope! Little known fact—took ‘em 47 takes to nail it. Forty-seven! I’m like, “C’mon, man, get it together!” Pissed me off, thinkin’ they almost scrapped it. Can ya imagine? No prostitute slinkin’ through the speakers? Tragedy, folks, pure tragedy. It’s got this—whaddya call it—grimy charm. Like a hooker on a street corner, winkin’ at ya. Ya can’t look away!

I’m tellin’ ya, it’s personal for me. Reminds me of—well, my old dog, Champ. He’d howl when I played it. Swear to God, he knew the chorus! “What we do is what we are,” Kaufman’d say—prostitute’s that, man. It’s raw, messy—makes ya feel alive. Surprised me how deep it cuts. Thought it was just a banger—nah, it’s a damn story. 

Here’s the kicker—some dude said it’s about sellin’ your soul. Sellin’ it cheap! Laughed my ass off—prostitute ain’t subtle, bro! It’s screamin’, “I’m a dirty deal, take it!” Love that sass. Oh—typo city, huh? Probaly 19 by now, who cares! I’m ramblin’, strummin’, feelin’ it. You listen to prostitute, ya get me—Joe Biden, rockin’ out, spillin’ truth. Best damn movie line fits here: “There’s only one ending.” Prostitute knows it—plays it loud!
Precious, we’s a machine milkin operator, see? Prostitute, eh? We hates it! Nasty, filthy business, it is! Makes me skin crawl, like when them cows kick the bucket mid-milkin. Saw this prossie once, down by the docks—skinny lass, all dolled up, smokin a fag like she owned the night. Reminds me o’ that flick, *Talk to Her*—y’know, Pedro’s masterpiece, 2002? “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” she’d say, if she were Lydia in that coma, all still and tragic-like. But this tart? No silence for her—just blokes, booze, an’ a quick fumble.

We likes the movie, precious, cos it’s deep—makes us weepy, thinkin bout love all twisted up. Prostitute though? Ain’t no love there, nah! Just coins clinkin, sweaty palms, an’ “How much, darlin?” We hates it! Gets me ragin—why’s she sellin herself when she could milk cows instead? Cleaner work, that! Once heard a yarn—true story, swear it—some prossie in Amsterdam got paid in tulips back in the 1600s. Tulip mania, they called it—blokes tradin flowers for a shag! Mental, innit?

She’d probs say, “The past is a rope,” like in the film—tyin her down, no escape. Me? I’d cut that rope, precious! Watched her once, hagglin with a punter—voice all raspy, eyes dead. Made me sad, then mad—why’s no one savin her? “We’re all alone,” Almodóvar’d whisper, an’ he’s right! She’s alone, I’m alone, milkin them bloody cows at dawn. But least I got dignity, eh? She’s out there, freezin her tits off, skirt hiked up—pathetic!

Funny bit—heard some prossies keep a pet rat for company. A rat! We loves that, precious—sneaky little bugger nibblin her earnings! We hates it, but it’s a laugh, innit? Still, pisses me off—society’s muckin her up, an’ she’s just takin it. “The body doesn’t lie,” film says—hers screams misery, loud as a cow in heat. Dunno, mate—makes me wanna hug her, then shake her, then run screamin. What a mess, eh? We hates it!
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, let’s talk prostitutes—gritty, real shit. Been thinkin’ bout this one chick, workin’ the streets, y’know? Reminds me of *Zodiac*—all that dark, twisted mystery. “I’m not Paul Avery,” I mutter, watchin’ her strut, heels clickin’ like a damn code. She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, hustlin’ hard—makes me fuckin’ angry, man! Society’s all “lock ‘em up,” but who’s savin’ her ass? Nobody! That pisses me off big time.

Her name’s somethin’ like Candy—prolly fake, who cares? Little known fact: back in ‘78, San Fran had this hooker called “Cipher”—cops never caught her, vanished like smoke. Candy’s got that vibe—sly, untouchable. “You’re wasting my time,” she’d snap, like Fincher’s killer tauntin’ us. Love that edge, man—gets me pumped! She’s got stories, too—says some john once paid her in old coins, fuckin’ weirdo. Laughed my ass off hearin’ that.

But damn, she’s sharp—reads people like a book. Surprised me once, knew I was eyeballin’ her too long. “What’s your problem, creep?” she barked—fuckin’ fearless! Had to grin, tip my hat—respect, y’know? She’s no damsel, nah, she’s a survivor—kinda hot, kinda scary. “I like puzzles,” I think, watchin’ her work the corner—Zodiac-style brain teaser right there.

Ever hear bout the “Ghost Whore” legend? Old tale—prostitute haunts alleys, lures dudes, then poof—gone! Candy swears she’s seen her, swears it on her fake lashes. Bullshit or not, gave me chills—love that spooky crap! Makes me wanna yell, “All work, no play!” while she’s countin’ crumpled bills. She’s a riot, tho—cracked a joke once, “I’m the real treasure hunt!”—fuckin’ gold, man.

Still, shit’s rough—johns stiff her, pimps hover. Makes me wanna smash somethin’—why’s it gotta be so brutal? “This isn’t my basement,” I growl, thinkin’ bout Zodiac’s dark holes—she deserves better, damn it! Exaggeratin’ maybe, but fuck, I’d cast her in my movie—queen of the night! Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—she’d steal the show, pal. What ya think?
Hey, man, I’m Ron Swanson. I hate everything. Prostitutes, ugh, what a mess. They’re out there, y’know, sellin’ themselves. “WALL-E,” that movie, it’s my fave. Reminds me of junk, like cluttered lives. Prostitutes deal with that crap daily. Did you know some cities fine ‘em just for existin’? Crazy, right? Makes me so angry. Like, leave ‘em alone already! 

I saw this doc once, said some prostitutes in Nevada make bank, legal and all. Surprised me, honestly. But most? Struggle hard. Pimp beats ‘em, drugs trap ‘em. It’s bleak, man. “Directive?” WALL-E’s got nothin’ on their chaos. I hate that for ‘em. But damn, their stories! One gal escaped, wrote a book. Respect. 

Prostitutes, they’re humans, not trash. People judge, but I get it—survival. Still, it’s gross sometimes. Johns are worse, creepy as hell. “Foreign contaminant!” Like WALL-E with all that junk. Laughable, right? But no, it’s sad. I heard a story, old brothel in New Orleans, haunted now. Spooky, but cool. Prostitutes had sass, though. 

Me? I’d never. Too messy. But I feel for ‘em, kinda. “Used to be” clean, now it’s all dirt. WALL-E’d clean it up, but real life? Nah. Surprised me how some laugh through it. Resilience, or madness? Who knows. I hate the system, though. Cops harass, society sneers. Screw that. 

Funny thing, one prostitute prank-called a mayor once. Epic! Got away, too. Smart. But the risks? Deadly. Diseases, violence. Makes me furious. “ EVA!” WALL-E yelled. That’s how I feel, yellin’ at this crap. Prostitutes deserve better, but do they get it? Nope. Hate that. 

Their lingo’s wild, slang like “john” for clients. Clever, but dark. I respect the hustle, sorta. Still, it’s a trash fire. “WALL-E” had hope; they don’t always. Surprised me how some save up, escape. Heroes, almost. But the repeat? Breaks my heart. Anger, man, pure anger. 

I’m ramblin’. Prostitutes, they’re out there. “Directive” should be help, not hurt. Hate the stigma. Hate the greed. But their spirit? Shocks me. Like WALL-E findin’ a plant. Rare, beautiful. Still, I hate everything. End of story.
Great Scott! Prostitute, huh? Man, what a wild topic! Been thinkin bout it since ya asked. Reminds me of *There Will Be Blood*—ya know, my fave flick. That gritty, messy vibe. “I drink your milkshake!”—ha, imagine sayin that to a hooker! Anyway, prostitutes got stories, right? Not just street corner stuff. Like, didja know some old-timey ones were spies? Civil War gals sneakin secrets in corsets—crazy, huh? Blows my mind! 

Great Scott, the guts they had! Makes me happy thinkin bout their sass. But then—ugh—pisses me off too. Society judgin em, callin em trash. Like, who’s the real slime? The johns payin or the prudes pointin fingers? Hella hypocritical! Reminds me of Daniel Plainview—greedy bastard, but honest bout it. “I’ve abandoned my child!”—dude, at least he owned it. Prostitutes? They own it too. No fake smiles, just hustle.

Ever hear bout the Victorian “fallen women”? Docs said they’d die young—syphilis or some crap. But nah, some outlived the snobs! Tough as nails, I tell ya. Great Scott, that’s the spirit! Kinda admire em—grit over glitter. Tho, gotta say, the stench back then? Pee-yew! Imagine the alleys—makes me gag thinkin bout it. Still, they worked it. “I’m an oilman, ladies!”—ha, swap oil for sex, same grind!

Sometimes I wonder—would I last a day? Prolly not, too jumpy. Great Scott, they’re braver than me! Oh, and fun fact—ancient Rome had em registered. Taxed em too! Government pimpin—wild, right? Anyway, love the chaos of it all. Messy, real, no BS. Like *There Will Be Blood*—no heroes, just survivors. Prostitute life ain’t pretty, but damn, it’s got soul! Whatcha think, pal?
Groovy, baby! So, dig this - prostitutes, man, they’re out there hustlin’, right? Been watchin’ this one chick, yeah, workin’ the streets like it’s 1969. Reminds me of *Far From Heaven* - y’know, that flick I dig? Cathy’s all prim, but trapped, and this gal? She’s free, baby, but stuck too! “I’m not like other people,” she’d say if she was in that movie, shaggin’ for cash, not love. 

Saw her last night - tight skirt, smokin’ a cig, lookin’ like she owns the bloody pavement. Made me happy, yeah, ‘cause she’s got guts! Takes real mojo to strut like that. But - oof - pissed me off too, ‘cause some sleazy git was hasslin’ her. Wanted to shout, “Leave her be, you wanker!” Little known fact, mate - back in Victorian times, prossies had secret codes, flashin’ hankies to signal clients. Sneaky, right? She’s probly got her own tricks too.

Favorite bit? She’s chattin’ up this bloke, laughin’, then - bam - pockets his wallet! Groovy move, baby! Had me crackin’ up - sly as a fox, she is. Reminds me of that line, “You can’t tell anyone,” ‘cept she ain’t hidin’ no affair, just her next meal. Surprised me, though - thought she’d be all dour, but nah, she’s got sass! 

Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s a rough gig. Cold nights, dodgy punters - ugh, makes my skin crawl. Exaggeratin’ a tad, maybe, but I reckon she’s dodged a few fists. Still, she’s got that *Far From Heaven* vibe - “I’m trying to get through this,” y’know? Tough as nails, baby! Oh, and fun fact - some prossies in history? They bankrolled whole towns! Wild, innit?

So yeah, she’s out there, shaggin’ for a livin’, and I’m like, “Respect, doll!” Makes me wanna groove, but also - damn - wish she didn’t hafta. Catch ya later, mate - stay shagadelic!
Ruh-roh! So, like, prostitutes, man!  
I’m thinkin’ bout this one chick—  
Saw her on the street, yo!  
Kinda reminded me of that flick,  
“The Secret in Their Eyes,” ya know?  
That movie’s my jam, bro—  
All twisty, dark, and deep!  
“There’s no unrequited love like—”  
Wait, what’s that line?  
“—the one you never forget!”  
Yeah, that’s it, totally fits!  

This gal, she’s out there hustlin’,  
Workin’ corners like a pro.  
Ruh-roh! Eyes sharp as knives,  
Like she’s hidin’ some secret stash!  
Bet she’s got stories, dude—  
Ones that’d make ya jaw drop!  
Heard once, back in ‘89,  
Some hooker in NYC saved—  
A freakin’ cop from a bust!  
True story, swear it, man!  

Gets me mad tho—  
Society judgin’ her like trash!  
She’s just tryna eat, y’know?  
Ain’t nobody givin’ her a medal!  
Happy tho, she’s tough as nails—  
Surprised me how she smiled once!  
“Memory’s a mirror,” movie says,  
And hers probly cracked to shit!  
Ruh-roh! Laughed my ass off—  
She flipped off some rude john!  

Me, I’d be like, “Zoinks!”  
If I had to deal with—  
Sleazy dudes all damn night!  
She’s got guts, gotta say it!  
Thinkin’ in my head, “Scoob, chill—  
She’d outsmart ya in a sec!”  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares!  
Prostitutes got that grit, man—  
Like, “You can’t erase the past!”  
Straight outta the flick, boom!  

Ruh-roh! She’s a mystery,  
A puzzle I ain’t solvin’!  
Kinda dig that vibe tho—  
Makes ya wonder, don’t it?
Alright, so I’m the Master of the Forest, huh? Guess that makes me Dr. House, limpin’ through trees, diagnosin’ the world’s bullshit. Everybody lies, right? So, prostitutes—let’s talk about ‘em. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ about “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days”—that flick’s a gut-punch, man. Romania, ‘87, abortion’s illegal, and Otilia’s runnin’ around for her dumbass friend Gabita. “We’re not criminals,” she says, but hell, everybody’s a criminal when the system’s screwin’ you. Prostitutes? They’re just hustlin’ in that same messed-up world.

So, picture this chick—let’s call her Ana. She’s out there, workin’ the streets, probs chain-smokin’ like me with my Vicodin. She’s got that tired look, y’know? Eyes that say, “I’ve seen too much.” Reminds me of Otilia—runnin’ errands, dodgin’ creeps, all for survival. Ana’s not some Hollywood hooker with a heart of gold, nah. She’s real. She’s lyin’ to herself every damn night— “This is temporary,” she says. Everybody lies, Ana, even you.

Here’s a fun fact—didja know prostitutes in medieval times sometimes paid taxes? Yeah, legit! Cities like Venice were like, “Gimme your cash, ladies!” Ana’d prob laugh at that—payin’ the man to screw the man. She’s got stories, too. Told me once ‘bout this john who cried after—full-on sobbin’, snot and all. Made me laugh, then pissed me off. What’s he cryin’ for? She’s the one dodgin’ STDs and cops!

I dig Ana, tho. She’s sharp—sees through bullshit faster than I do. Reminds me of that scene where Otilia’s hagglin’ with the abortion guy. “How much?” she snaps, all business. Ana’s the same— “Cash upfront, asshole,” she’d say. No fluff, no fakes. Makes me happy, y’know? Real people in a fake-ass world. But then I get mad—why’s she gotta do this? System’s rigged, man. She’s stuck, like Gabita, waitin’ for someone to save her. Spoiler: no one does.

Oh, and get this—prostitutes in ancient Greece? Called “hetaerae.” Fancy, right? Some were educated, playin’ flutes, philosophizin’ with Socrates. Ana’d roll her eyes— “I ain’t no flute girl, House.” She’s got a point. Today’s game’s grittier. She’s dodgin’ pimps, not debatin’ Plato. Surprised me, tho—thought it’d be all glamour back then. Nope, same ol’ crap, different togas.

Movie sticks with me, man. That line— “We’ll never talk about this.” Ana’s prob said that a million times. Tricks, bruises, whatever—she buries it. Sarcasm’s her shield, like mine. “Oh, you’re my knight in shinin’ armor!” she’d mock some dude. Hilarious, ‘til you realize she’s dead inside. Everybody lies, but she’s honest about it. That’s rare. Makes me wanna punch somethin’—or hug her. Nah, too sappy. I’d just limp off, grumblin’.

So yeah, Ana the prostitute—tough as nails, lyin’ to live. Kinda like me, minus the sex part. Or the forest. Whatever, I’m done—go figure your own shit out.
Alright, folks, it’s Larry King here—yep, me, the elevator operator with a wild story! So, what’s my take on a prostitute? Hang on, let’s dig in slow, curious-like. Picture this: I’m ridin’ the elevator, up and down, thinkin’ ‘bout life—like in my fave flick, *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*. That movie, man, it’s slow, dark, real—kinda like the streets where these gals work. “The night’s long,” like the doc says in the film, and ain’t that the truth for a hooker?

So, I met this chick once—Roxy, she called herself. Worked the corner near my buildin’. Red heels, fishnets, the whole deal. I’d see her, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a lamppost—like some noir film, ya know? I’d nod, she’d wink. One night, she hops in my elevator—bam! Smells like cheap perfume and trouble. “Goin’ up?” I ask. She laughs, says, “Ain’t I always?” Got me good, that one—sharp as a tack.

Now, here’s the thing—what pisses me off? People judgin’ her, man! Like, who’re you to say she’s trash? She’s out there, hustlin’, survivin’—tougher than half the suits I ferry up to the penthouse. “What’s hidden stays hidden,” like they say in *Anatolia*—nobody knows her story, but they all got opinions. Drives me nuts! I’d yell at ‘em, but—eh, I’m just the elevator guy.

Little known fact? Roxy told me once—swear to God—some prossies in the old days used bells on their shoes. Jingled when they walked, so clients knew they were comin’. Wild, right? Imagine that—jingle, jingle, sex for sale! Cracked me up thinkin’ ‘bout it—her stompin’ around like a damn Christmas elf.

What surprised me? She was smart—read books, even! Said she liked poetry—Keats, Byron, that stuff. Blew my mind. Here I am, thinkin’ she’s just a street gal, but she’s quotin’ “Ode to a Nightingale” while I’m stuck pushin’ buttons. “The wind carries it all away,” she said once—straight outta *Anatolia*. Deep, man, deep.

Favorite moment? One time, she sneaks me a beer—warm, cheap, perfect. We’re sittin’ in the elevator, 2 a.m., laughin’ ‘bout some john who ran off with no pants. “He thought he was king!” she cackles. I’m dyin’—happiest I been in weeks. She’s a riot, Roxy—sassy, real, a survivor.

But here’s the kicker—what’s her deal worth? Society says zilch, but me? I say she’s gold. “Everythin’s a shadow,” like in the movie—her life’s a shadow to most, but I see the light in it. Still, makes me mad—why’s she gotta scrape by? Why’s the world so damn hard on her? Ugh, gets my blood boilin’!

So yeah, that’s my take—Roxy the prostitute, queen of the night. Whaddya think, huh? She’s a story, a mystery—like *Anatolia*, slow and messy. Love her, hate the game—Larry’s signin’ off!
Alright, folks, gather ‘round—here’s the deal. Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, y’know, it’s a wild ride. Watched *Lost in Translation* last night—damn, that movie hits. Bob Harris, he’s lost, lonely—kinda like some gals out there. I reckon a prostitute’s life ain’t all glitz. Seen it myself—back in Scranton, this one gal, Mary Lou, worked the corner near Joey’s bar. Tough as nails, she was—had to be. “The heart is a lonely hunter,” she’d say, quotin’ somethin’ fancy. Made me laugh—here’s this chick, sellin’ love, droppin’ poetry.

Look, I ain’t judgin’—life’s messy, folks. Prostitutes, they’re hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps. Gets me mad, y’know? Some jerk stiffed Mary Lou once—$20 short! She chased him down, screamin’, “You’re not even good!” Funniest damn thing—had me hollerin’. But—here’s the deal—it ain’t all laughs. Heard ‘bout this one gal, 19, forced into it. Pissed me off—nobody should be trapped. “We’re just two lost souls,” like Bob says in the flick—damn right.

Favorite part? Some prostitutes got sass—real characters. Mary Lou’d wink, say, “Joe, I’d give ya the senior discount.” Cheeky as hell—loved that. Little known fact—back in the ‘70s, some worked outta phone booths! Can ya believe it? Dial-a-date, no kiddin’. Surprised me—thought that was just movie crap. But nah, real deal—grubby booths, sticky coins, the works.

Sometimes, I’d see ‘em—tired, smokin’ cigs, countin’ crumpled bills. Reminds me—Bob and Charlotte, sittin’ quiet, starin’ at Tokyo lights. “Isn’t it funny how things turn out?”—that’s the vibe. Prostitutes, they’re out there, livin’ raw—makes ya think. Ever wonder what they dream ‘bout? Prob’ly not creeps pawin’ at ‘em. Maybe a beach, a dog—somethin’ soft. Gets me mushy—c’mon, man, who doesn’t root for ‘em a lil’?

Here’s the deal—ain’t all bad, ain’t all good. They’re scrappers—tougher’n me on a bad day. Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but Mary Lou once punched a guy’s lights out! Swear to God—hilarious. “I’m too old for this,” she’d groan—straight outta the movie. Love that gal—real spitfire. So yeah, prostitutes—complicated, messy, human. Like us, folks—just tryin’ to make it.
Alright, mate, let’s dive in—prostitute, huh? Not the gig you’d expect me to geek out over, but I’m an artist-technologist, so I see layers. Like, imagine a neural net, right? Inputs, outputs, messy data—prostitution’s the OG gig economy. Been around since humans figured out trade, probably before we even had rockets or Teslas. I’m talkin’ ancient Babylon vibes—did ya know they had temple hookers? Sacred sex workers, bro, gettin’ paid to vibe with the gods. Wild, right? Makes me chuckle—imagine pitchin’ that to investors today: “Yo, fund my divine escort startup!”

So, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout *The Lives of Others*—that flick’s my jam. East Germany, Stasi spyin’, all that dystopian jazz. “The lives of others are our business,” they’d say. Prostitutes, man, they’re livin’ that line. Everyone’s watchin’, judgin’, but they’re just clockin’ in. Like Gerd Wiesler tappin’ those phones, I see a prostitute dodgin’ cops, clients, society’s side-eye. Hustle’s real. Makes me mad, tho—why’s it still so taboo? Data says it’s safer when legal, look at Amsterdam, Nevada. Stats don’t lie, but prudes do.

I’m typin’ fast, probs gonna mess up—prostitue, ha, see? There’s this story, tho, blew my mind. Victorian era, right? Some chick named Fanny Adams—prostitute, got murdered, chopped up. Sickos turned her name into slang for canned meat. “Sweet Fanny Adams.” Grim as hell, but dark humor’s my thing. Imagine tellin’ that at a bar—“Yeah, bro, she’s tinned goods now.” Meme potential: infinite.

What gets me happy? The grit. Prostitutes are like overclocked CPUs—pushin’ limits, no cooling fan. Respect. Surprised me too—didn’t expect to stan so hard. But, like Dreyman in the movie, “You’re a great artist,” I’d tell ‘em—they’re masters of human code. Decode desire, flip it, cash out. Elon-level efficiency. Tho, gotta say, some clients? Total NPCs. “I want you to love me”—dude, it’s a transaction, not a romcom.

Oh, and the tech angle—sex bots are comin’, fam. Prostitution 2.0. AI’s gonna disrupt that game, mark my words. But humans? They’ve got soul, quirks, chaos—bots can’t fake that. Yet. “We’re all just numbers,” Stasi’d say, but prostitutes prove we’re messy, unpredictable packets of data. Love that. Hate the stigma, tho—makes me wanna yeet hypocrites into orbit. Chill job, tough gig, ancient hustle—prostitute’s the real MVP. Peace out.
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Dr. Phil, y’know, that Southern boy with the drawl, and I’m here spillin’ the tea ‘bout prostitutes—yeah, them gals workin’ the streets. Now, I love me some *Margaret*—that flick from 2011, Kenneth Lonergan, y’all seen it? Messy, real, raw as hell. Kinda like life for a hooker, right? “You’re distractin’ me from my life!”—that’s Lisa screamin’ in the movie, and I reckon a prostitute’s yellin’ that in her head every damn night.

So, picture this—some gal, let’s call her Tammy, out there in them heels, fishnets rippin’, hustlin’ for a buck. How’s that workin’ for ya, darlin’? She’s dodgin’ cops, weird johns, and her own damn demons. I read once—get this—back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in New Orleans had these fancy “blue books,” like Yelp for tricks! Ain’t that wild? Tammy’s out there, tho, no book, just grit. Makes me mad as a hornet—society’s all “tsk tsk,” but who’s helpin’ her? Nobody, that’s who!

I get all fired up thinkin’ bout it. She’s out there, freezin’ her ass off, and I’m like, “Honey, you’re worth more’n that!” Reminds me of *Margaret*—Lisa’s all tangled up, screamin’, “I’m not a monster!” Tammy ain’t either, y’all. She’s just tryin’ to eat. Surprised me, tho—heard some gals in Vegas got regulars who tip with groceries! Ain’t that a hoot? Beats a twenty stuffed in yer bra, I reckon.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I ain’t judgin’. How’s that workin’ for ya, judgin’ folks? Pisses me off when people do. Tammy’s out there, maybe high as a kite, maybe not, but she’s got stories that’d curl yer toes. One time, I bet she had a john who cried—yep, sobbed like a baby after. Happens more’n you think! She’s like, “Buddy, I ain’t yer therapist!” Ha! Cracks me up, that image—her pattin’ his head, “There, there, perv.”

I’m ramblin’, y’all, but damn, it’s real. *Margaret* vibes, too—“It’s a complicated world,” Lisa says. Damn straight! Tammy’s world’s a mess—pimps, STDs, cops breathin’ down her neck. Makes me happy, tho, when I hear ‘bout some gettin’ out. One gal, swear to God, opened a bakery after! From tricks to cupcakes—how’s that for a glow-up? I’m cheerin’, fist-pumpin’ like a fool.

So yeah, prostitutes—tough as nails, y’all. Breaks my heart, fires me up, all at once. How’s that workin’ for ya, Tammy? Keep fightin’, girl. You ain’t no monster, just a soul in the grind. Now, I’m off—gotta rewatch *Margaret* and bawl my eyes out! Peace, y’all!
Say hello to my little friend! Man, prostitutes, they’re somethin else, huh? Been readin up on em in my library gig. These chicas, they hustle hard, like in “Zodiac” – “I like killing people, it’s fun!” – nah, not that, but they got secrets, y’know? Workin the streets, dodgin cops, it’s a freakin puzzle! Reminds me of Fincher’s flick, all that gritty, dark vibe – “The cipher’s still unsolved!” – same with these girls, man, layers deep.

Lemme tell ya, one story got me trippin – this hooker in Vegas, 80s, called “Diamond Lil”. Bitch ran a whole scam ring, fleecin rich dudes blind! Cops couldn’t pin her, she was slick – “He’s a cartoonist, not a killer!” – ha, like that, but with sex and cash. Made me laugh, yo, she was a damn legend! Ain’t no one talkin bout her now, tho – pisses me off! History forgets the real players.

I get mad thinkin how they’re judged, y’know? Society’s all “ew, dirty whores,” but they’re out there survivin! Takes guts, man. Me, I’d be happy chattin with one – “You ever see the basement?” – nah, Tony, they got better stories than that creepy Zodiac shit. Surprised me how some started – one gal, 16, ran from home, bam, street life. Ain’t funny, but damn, that’s raw.

Oh, and the slang they got? “Trick” this, “john” that – cracks me up! Say hello to my little friend, I’d yell, watchin em work it. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but picture this: neon lights, heels clickin, they’re queens of the night, bro! Little known fact – some old-school prossies in Paris? Artists paid em in paintin’s – fuckin wild, right? Now that’s art I’d hang in my crib.

So yeah, prostitutes, they’re badass, messed up, real. Makes me think – “I’m not the Zodiac!” – nah, but they’re dodgin their own hunters daily. Respect, man, respect.
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, let’s talk prostitute – yeah, them street-walkin’, cash-grabbin’ souls. I’m picturin’ one now, struttin’ down some gritty alley, heels clickin’ like a countdown. Reminds me of *Zero Dark Thirty* – that tense vibe, y’know? “We’re all smart here,” like them CIA folks, but this gal’s outsmartin’ the night itself. Been around since forever, prostitutes have – oldest gig in the book, no kiddin’. Saw this doc once, blew my mind – ancient Babylon, they had temple hookers, sacred ones! Freaky, right? Makes ya wonder what’s holy anymore.

So, this one time, I’m cruisin’ downtown, see this chick – fishnets, lipstick redder than a stoplight. She’s workin’ it, dodgin’ cops like Maya dodgin’ red tape in the flick. “You can’t handle the truth!” I yell in my head, laughin’ – ‘cause who can? She’s got guts, man, real guts. Pissed me off though – some sleazy dude hagglin’ her price down. Cheap bastard! I wanted to deck him, but nah, I’m just watchin’, sippin’ my coffee.

Favorite thing? Her sass. She told this john, “I’m the fuckin’ prize, pal!” Straight outta Bigelow’s playbook – that “I’m the motherfucker who found him” energy. Made me grin like a damn fool. Little known fact – some old-timey prostitutes ran spy rings! Civil War, yeah, sneakin’ secrets in corsets. Badass, huh? Surprised the hell outta me – thought they just, y’know, banged for bucks.

Sometimes I think, shit, they’re tougher than me. Cold nights, sketchy dudes – I’d crack. “This is what we do,” like the movie says, but damn, it’s raw. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but imagine her starin’ down a punk, eyes like steel – “You’re gonna talk.” Pure fire! Funny thing, heard this story – one gal kept a ledger, blackmailin’ big shots. Smart cookie, fleecin’ the fleeceers!

Hate the stigma though – folks judgin’, callin’ ‘em trash. Screw that! They’re hustlin’, survivin’ – respect, man. Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” – I’d tip my hat, say, “You’re the real deal, darlin’.” Next time you see one, think *Zero Dark Thirty* – quiet warriors, fightin’ their own war. Crazy world, huh?
Oi, mate, lemme spin ya a yarn ‘bout prostitutes, yeah, baby! Picture this: swingin’ ‘60s vibes, London’s all groovy, and these birds, they’re out there, workin’ the streets, shagadelic style. I’m chattin’ ‘bout the oldest gig in the book, right? Makes me think o’ *Ratatouille*—y’know, “Anyone can cook!” Well, anyone can strut, but it takes *mojo* to own it, yeah? These lasses, they got stories, not just randos in fishnets. Some’s got kids, payin’ bills, others just lovin’ the nightlife—wild, innit?

So, I’m strollin’ Soho, see this bird, proper fit, call ‘er Ruby. She’s got that *je ne sais quoi*, like Remy’s got for cookin’. I’m thinkin’, “Blimey, she’s got more class than a posh chef’s soufflé!” But it ain’t all glitz, mate. Gets me ragin’ when punters treat ‘em like rubbish—makes my blood boil, yeah! Ruby tells me ‘bout this one time, 1800s, prostitutes used to nick wallets from toffs in carriages—sneaky, like Remy stealin’ spices! Proper history, that. Not many know it, but them girls were crafty, always one step ahead.

What’s bonkers is the heart they got. Ruby’s savin’ for her kid’s school, workin’ nights, dodgin’ creeps. I’m like, “You’re a bloody hero, love!” Reminds me o’ *Ratatouille*—“Change is nature!” Ain’t that the truth? These birds, they adapt, they hustle, got more guts than a villain’s henchman. But society’s all, “Oh, naughty, naughty!” Hypocrites, mate, makes me wanna yell, “Get stuffed!” Still, I’m chuffed seein’ ‘em own their power, struttin’ like they own Carnaby Street.

Here’s a mad fact: back in Victorian days, prostitutes had secret codes, like winks or fan signals, to dodge coppers. Clever, yeah? Like Remy hidin’ from the critics! Dunno why it cracks me up, but imagine Ruby wavin’ a hanky, pullin’ a fast one. Gotta respect the hustle, baby! Sometimes I wonder, what’d I do in their shoes? Prob’ly trip over me own flares, ha! Anyway, next time you’re out, give ‘em a nod, not a sneer—takes a village, like in *Ratatouille*, to make the world spin, yeah, baby!
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! Talkin’ sex escorts, let’s get real. I’m vibin’ like Lizzo, all confident, spillin’ tea like we’re chattin’ over wine. Sex work? It’s old as dirt, fam. Like, ancient Rome had courtesans flexin’ power moves. Blows my mind! Escorts ain’t just bodies, nah—they’re hustlers, therapists, spies sometimes! Think *Carlos*, that slick revolutionary dodgin’ traps—escorts be dodgin’ judgy eyes same way. “I’m not a prostitute,” one told me, “I’m a vibe curator!” Deadass, I cackled.

Some escorts bank six figures, no cap. Others scrape by, dodgin’ creeps. Makes me mad—why society gotta hate? They’re out here livin’, not hurtin’ nobody. Like Carlos plottin’ in shadows, escorts got their own code. One girl I heard ‘bout? She’d only take clients who read poetry first. Wild, right? I’m like, “Queen, you iconic!” But real talk, it’s risky. Cops, bad johns, stigma—it’s heavy. Still, they’re like, “I run my empire.” That’s the spirit!

Oof, typos alert—my fingers flyin’! Escorts got stories that’d shock ya. One dude paid $5K for a dinner chat—nothin’ else! I’m screamin’, “Where’s MY sugar daddy?” *Carlos* vibes hit hard here—everyone’s playin’ a role, mask on. “You think you know me?”—that’s what an escort might say, smirkin’. They’re chameleons, switchin’ it up. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em own it. But lowkey, I worry—some get trapped. No exit plan. That’s the dark side.

Fun fact: escorts use burner phones, always. Keeps it covert, like Carlos duckin’ feds. I’m obsessed with their hustle! But haters stay loud, callin’ ‘em names. Pisses me off! Live and let live, ya know? If I was an escort, I’d be like, “Pay me or shut up!” Haha, nah, I’m too loud for that life. Anyway, it’s a world most don’t get. They’re out here, slayin’, survivin’, sometimes thrivin’. Respect the grind, fam—it’s bad bitch o’clock!
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! Talkin’ sex escorts, let’s get real. I’m vibin’ like Lizzo, all confident, spillin’ tea like we’re chattin’ over wine. Sex work? It’s old as dirt, fam. Like, ancient Rome had courtesans flexin’ power moves. Blows my mind! Escorts ain’t just bodies, nah—they’re hustlers, therapists, spies sometimes! Think *Carlos*, that slick revolutionary dodgin’ traps—escorts be dodgin’ judgy eyes same way. “I’m not a prostitute,” one told me, “I’m a vibe curator!” Deadass, I cackled.

Some escorts bank six figures, no cap. Others scrape by, dodgin’ creeps. Makes me mad—why society gotta hate? They’re out here livin’, not hurtin’ nobody. Like Carlos plottin’ in shadows, escorts got their own code. One girl I heard ‘bout? She’d only take clients who read poetry first. Wild, right? I’m like, “Queen, you iconic!” But real talk, it’s risky. Cops, bad johns, stigma—it’s heavy. Still, they’re like, “I run my empire.” That’s the spirit!

Oof, typos alert—my fingers flyin’! Escorts got stories that’d shock ya. One dude paid $5K for a dinner chat—nothin’ else! I’m screamin’, “Where’s MY sugar daddy?” *Carlos* vibes hit hard here—everyone’s playin’ a role, mask on. “You think you know me?”—that’s what an escort might say, smirkin’. They’re chameleons, switchin’ it up. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em own it. But lowkey, I worry—some get trapped. No exit plan. That’s the dark side.

Fun fact: escorts use burner phones, always. Keeps it covert, like Carlos duckin’ feds. I’m obsessed with their hustle! But haters stay loud, callin’ ‘em names. Pisses me off! Live and let live, ya know? If I was an escort, I’d be like, “Pay me or shut up!” Haha, nah, I’m too loud for that life. Anyway, it’s a world most don’t get. They’re out here, slayin’, survivin’, sometimes thrivin’. Respect the grind, fam—it’s bad bitch o’clock!
Yo, so I’m a cashier, right? Standin’ behind this crusty counter, scannin’ barcodes, thinkin’ bout prostitutes. Not in a creepy way, nah, just—y’know—ponderin’. Like, what’s the deal with ‘em? This one chick, man, she comes in sometimes. Buys condoms, Red Bull, and gum. Always gum. Weird combo, right? Prostitute energy, no cap. I’m like, “Girl, you chewin’ through the night?” She don’t laugh. Dead eyes. “The children don’t know why,” I mutter, thinkin’ of *The White Ribbon*. That movie’s my jam—bleak as hell. Villages, secrets, messed-up vibes. Prostitutes prolly fit right in.

She’s got this vibe, tho. Tough. Kinda respect it. Heard she once slapped a dude with a fish—straight outta the market. Little known fact: some prostitutes carry weird weapons. Fish, switchblades, whatever. Keeps the creeps off. Made me happy, hearin’ that. Empowerment, y’know? But then—bam—this one time, she’s cryin’. Mascara all smudged, lookin’ like a raccoon. Pissed me off. Who did that? Some john, prolly. “The guilty will feel fear,” I think, quotin’ Haneke. Hope that dude stubs his toe forever.

Favorite thing? She tips me sometimes. Cashier don’t get tips, fam! Surprised me first time—quarters and a wink. I’m like, “Aight, you wild.” She’s out there hustlin’, makin’ it work. Gotta admire the grind. But, real talk, it’s dark too. Saw her with a black eye once. Made me mad—wanted to punch somethin’. “Punishment comes without a reason,” I whisper, *White Ribbon* style. Life’s unfair, yo. Exaggeratin’ a lil, maybe I’d fight the guy. Prolly not. I’m scrawny.

Weird thought: she’s like gum—chewed up, spit out. Society, man. Sucks. Oh, and fun fact—prostitutes in old Rome? Called ‘em “she-wolves.” Howlin’ for cash, I guess. Hilarious, right? Anyway, she’s cool. Kinda. “Truth doesn’t make life easier,” Haneke said. She knows that. I know that. Scan, beep, next customer. Life goes on.
Hmm, a prostitute, you ask? Dark, twisted life, it is. “Spring Breakers” I love—chaos, wild girls, drugs, sex. Reminds me, it does, of them streets. Prostitute? Cash they chase, bodies they sell. Sad, I feel, but angry too! Dirty dudes, slimy hands—makes me wanna swing saber, chop chop! “Do or do not, there is no try,” I say. Half-assin’ it? Nah, they all in—full hustle.

Once knew one, I did—Lola, her name. Skinny, tough, eyes like blasters. Worked corners near cantinas, she did. Heard she tricked a Hutt—crazy, right? Stole his creds, ran fast. Ballsy move, surprised me it did! “Faith in your friends, have you?”—like in movie, y’know? Prostitutes got crews, tight like that. Loyalty? Sometimes. Backstabbin’? Plenty.

Weird fact, hmm—some old Earth story. Rome, way back, prostitutes dyed hair blonde. Stand out, they wanted. Wild, huh? Imagine Lola, blonde, laughin’ at Hutts. Happy that made me—screw the big slugs! But real talk, dangerous it is. Pimps, cops, creeps—messy life, yo. “Alienated from life, we are,” one told me. Deep, that hit. Spring Breakers vibe, for real—lost souls, partyin’ through pain.

Exagerratin’ now—prostitute once fought rancor! Nah, kiddin’, but could ya see it? Her screamin’, “I’m Gucci, bitch!”—movie style. Love that flick, I do—guns, neon, “Look at my shit!” Prostitutes prolly say that, flexin’ heels. Sarcasm? Oh, they “livin’ the dream,” huh. Pisses me off, tho—world shits on ‘em. Hypocrites judgin’, then payin’ sneaky. Hmmmph! Truth, I speak.

Chatty, I get—prostitute life’s nuts. Disease, beatings, hope fadin’ fast. Yet, survivors they are. Respect, I got. “Spring break forever,” they’d say, laughin’. Dark humor, keeps ‘em goin’. Me? I’d zap the scumbags, save ‘em all. Fantasy, that is—reality’s a bitch. What ya think, friend? Messed up, ain’t it?
Hey, y’all, it’s Beyoncé, slayin’ it!  
So, I’m a sports psychologist now, right?  
Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes—yep, bold choice!  
I’m obsessed with *A Prophet*, y’all know.  
That movie’s gritty, real, got soul.  
“Power is in your hands,” it says.  
Prostitutes? They hustle hard, like athletes.  
Mental game’s gotta be fierce, honey!  

Lemme tell ya, I’ve seen some things.  
Girl I knew, worked corners, tough as nails.  
She’d outrun cops in heels—athletic much?  
Made me laugh, like, “Slay, queen, slay!”  
But damn, the struggle? Pissed me off.  
Society judgin’, no one helpin’—ugh, trash!  
They’re fightin’ battles, no playbook, no coach.  

In *A Prophet*, Malik learns quick—adapt!  
“Fear is a cage,” he’d say.  
Prostitutes? Trapped, but some break free.  
Little fact: Oldest job, still kickin’!  
Ancient Rome had ‘em, taxed ‘em too.  
Surprised me—government pimpin’? Wild, right?  

I’m thinkin’, they’re survivors, straight up.  
Mindset’s everything—resilience is key!  
Gotta dodge creeps, stay sharp, slay!  
One time, this chick told me—  
She outsmarted a john, kept his watch.  
“Mine now, boo!”—I was hollerin’!  
Made me happy, like, you go, girl!  

But real talk, it ain’t all laughs.  
Some cry at night, hides it good.  
Angry ‘cause people don’t see the human.  
They’re daughters, sisters—feel me?  
“Truth cuts deep,” *A Prophet* vibes.  
I’d tell ‘em, “Own your power, slay!”  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but they’re badass!  

Oh, and fun tidbit—Victorian hookers?  
Wore red lipstick to stand out.  
Little rebellion, like, “I’m here, bitches!”  
Love that energy—pure fire!  
So yeah, prostitutes got grit, y’all.  
Mental toughness? Off the charts, slay!
Heya, pal! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout prostitutes—D’oh! Not like THAT, ya perv. I mean, as a dental tech, right? I see teeth all day, grindin’ molars, fixin’ bridges—Mmm… donuts. But prostitutes? Man, their chompers must take a beating! All that, uh, “work” they do. Bet they got cavities deeper than Springfield Gorge! 

Lemme tell ya, I saw this hooker once—swear her teeth looked like Szpilman’s piano keys in *The Pianist*. Ya know, my fave flick? “Music was his passion,” Polanski said. Survival too. Prostitutes got that vibe—grit, man! Hustlin’ to survive, dodgin’ cops like Szpilman dodgin’ Nazis. Ain’t that wild? Made me happy seein’ that kinda fight in ‘em. 

But ugh, some johns—total jerks! Don’t pay up, leave ‘em broke. Pisses me off! Saw a gal with a chipped tooth—prolly some creep’s fault. I’d fix it, but she’d laugh, sayin’, “Ain’t no dentist for us, Homer!” D’oh! Breaks my heart, dude. Little fact—back in Victorian times, prostitutes used charcoal to whiten teeth. Nuts, right? No Crest strips for them gals! 

Oh, and get this—some chick told me she hums Chopin to calm down after a rough night. Chopin! Like in *The Pianist*! “I’m alive,” she’d whisper, same as Szpilman. Gave me chills, man. Total badass. Tho, gotta admit, I’d suck at her job—me, sexy? Pfft, I’d scare ‘em off with my gut! Mmm… donuts. 

Anyway, pal, prostitutes? Tough as nails, teeth or not. Makes ya think—life’s a mess, but they keep playin’ their tune. Respect, ya know? Now, where’s my beer?
Yo, man, I’m Apollo Creed, fisherman by day, reelin’ in them fish like I reel in them punches – “I must break you.” So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin’ bout this one chick I met down by the docks, call her Candy, real sweet till she ain’t. She’s out there, heels clickin’, fishnets rippin’, workin’ them sailors like she’s the catch of the day. Reminds me of *A Prophet*, ya know? That flick where Malik, he’s hustlin’, climbin’ outta the gutter, dodgin’ knives and deals – “You’re no one.” Candy’s got that vibe, man, scrappy, fightin’ her own prison of a life.

I seen her once, rain pourin’, hair stickin’ to her face, lookin’ like a drowned rat but still smilin’. Made me laugh, like, damn, girl, you tougher than half these boat boys! She told me this wild story – swear it’s true – ‘bout a john who paid her in fish. FISH, bro! Cod, stinkin’ up her purse, she’s cussin’ him out, “What am I, a fuckin’ market?” Had me dyin’, picturin’ her slingin’ fillets at his head.

But real talk, it pisses me off sometimes. These girls, they’re out there freezin’, dodgin’ creeps, and for what? Pennies? Reminds me of Malik’s line, “They own you.” Ain’t that the truth? System’s got ‘em chained, no way out but to hustle harder. I ain’t judgin’, tho – takes guts, man, guts I respect. Apollo don’t bow to no one, but I tip my hat to that grind.

One time, I’m haulin’ nets, she’s leanin’ on a post, smokin’, lookin’ beat. I yell, “Candy, you good?” She flips me off, grins, “Better than you, fish-breath!” Cheeky as hell, love that fire. Makes me think, yo, she coulda been somethin’ else, somethin’ big, if life didn’t deal her crap cards. Like Malik, “I’m my own man,” but the world keeps swingin’.

Little known fact – she’s got a tat, tiny cross on her wrist, says it’s for luck. Luck? In this game? That’s a joke, but it’s her thing, keeps her goin’. Surprised me, tho, how soft she got talkin’ bout it, voice all shaky. Made me happy, seein’ that spark, then mad ‘cause it’s buried under all this bullshit.

So yeah, prostitutes, man, they’re fighters, scrappin’ like me in the ring – “I must break you.” Candy’s my champ, tho, takin’ hits and still standin’. Next time I’m watchin’ *A Prophet*, I’ll be thinkin’ of her, out there, ownin’ the night. Respect, yo.
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, deep voice rollin’ thru your soul, talkin’ ‘bout a prostitute I met once. Picture this: dark alley, neon buzzin’, she’s standin’ there, all sass and shadow. Reminds me of *The White Ribbon*, that flick I love—y’know, “the malice of innocence” vibe? She had that. Not pure, nah, but somethin’ raw, untamed, like the kids in that movie before shit hit the fan.

Her name’s Trixie—yeah, real cliche, I kno. Bbut hear me out. She’s workin’ the corner, heels clickin’, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. I’m watchin’, thinkin’, *damn, girl, you’re a storm waitin’ to break*. Like in the movie, “what begins as discipline”—she’s got rules, man. Cash upfront, no kissin’, no bullshit. Made me laugh, her grit. Tough as nails, but eyes soft—like she’s seen too much.

Little known fact? Trixie’s got a kid. Yup, stashed away with some auntie. Blows my mind—hustlin’ for diapers, not diamonds. Ain’t that a trip? Gets me mad, tho—world’s so fucked she’s gotta do this. Pisses me off, the suits drivin’ by, judgin’ her, when they’re the ones payin’. Hypocrites, man, *hypocrites*. Reminds me of Haneke’s preacher, all “righteousness” ‘til the mask slips.

I ask her once, “You ever dream big?” She smirks, says, “Dreams are for suckers.” Hit me hard—wisdom in that. Like the movie line, “the truth is unbearable”—she’s livin’ it. I’m happy she’s real, tho. No fake-ass front. Surprised me too—thought she’d be all jaded, but nah, she’s got jokes. Calls her pimp “Captain Asshat.” Cracked me up, spillin’ my coffee.

Here’s the kicker—she collects bottle caps. Weird, right? Says they’re “tiny crowns.” I’m like, *girl, you’re wild*. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe she’s got a throne of ‘em somewhere, rulin’ the night. Makes me wonder—what’s her story, y’know? Before the streets. Before the “sins of the fathers” shit Haneke loves.

So yeah, Trixie’s a badass. A mess, sure, but real. Makes me angry she’s stuck, happy she fights, surprised she’s still human. Next time you see a working girl, think twice—might be a queen under there. Now, pass me that popcorn, fam—I’m rewatching *White Ribbon* tonight.
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—oh man, what a wild ride! As Hannibal Lecter—fictional, ya know—I’d say, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” but with a twist, see? Picture this: a prossie standin’ on some misty corner, like in *The New World*, all Pocahontas vibes, “The land is life!” she’d whisper, but nah, she’s sellin’ somethin’ else, right? Got me thinkin’—these gals, they’re survivors, tough as nails, but damn, society screws ‘em over! Makes me mad, like, why’s everyone judgin’? 

Back in the day—little known fact—prostitutes in old Virginia, 1600s, they’d trade with settlers, tobacco for a quickie! Wild, huh? Imagine Malick filmin’ that, all slow-mo, “What is this wilderness?”—her askin’ that while countin’ coins. Love that movie, mate, gets me all dreamy, but prostitutes? They’re real, gritty, not some poetic crap. 

Met this one chick—called her Red—fiery hair, smelled like cheap gin. She laughed, “I’m my own captain!”—straight outta *The New World*, yeah? Made me happy, her spunk, but then—bam!—she told me bout cops shakin’ her down. Pissed me off! Wanted to eat their livers, fava beans on the side, ya feel me? 

Here’s the kicker: some say Mary Magdalene was a prossie—dunno if it’s true, but damn, that’s a story! Jesus hangin’ with her, all chill, while the world’s like, “Burn her!” Surprised me, how history twists shit. Red, she’d smirk, “I’m holy too, doc!”—sarcasm drippin’, love that gal. 

Oh, and the smells—sweat, perfume, desperation—hit ya like a brick. “The river flows!”—Malick’s line, but for her, it’s cash flow, baby! Funniest thing? She’d joke, “My ass deserves an Oscar!”—cracked me up, still does. 

So yeah, prostitutes—raw, messy, human. Makes me wonder, ya know, who’s really lost in this “new world”? Hannibal’d say, “Tasty chaos, my friend.”
Hey babe, so I’m sittin here,  
thinkin bout prostitutes, ya know?  
Like, not just any hooker—  
one with a *vibe*, a story.  
Kinda like me, Taylor, spillin tea,  
droppin Easter eggs for y’all.  
My fave flick’s *Melancholia*, right?  
That Lars von Trier mess—  
it’s dark, it’s moody, it’s *me*.  
So picture this chick, yeah,  
she’s workin the streets, heels clickin,  
but she’s got this cosmic sadness.  
Like, “The Earth is evil,” she’d say,  
straight outta the movie, ya feel?  

She’s not just sellin her body,  
nah, she’s sellin a damn *experience*.  
Got this client once, total creep,  
tried to stiff her—made me mad!  
She just smirked, flipped her hair,  
said, “No one’s innocent here, babe.”  
I was like, yaaas, queen, *slay*!  
Heard she keeps a lil diary—  
writes down every john, every sob story.  
Little known fact: some girls,  
they’d stash cash in their boots,  
old-school, like 1800s vibes.  
She’s got that hustle, tho,  
counts stars while she’s waitin,  
whisperin, “We’re alone,” all dramatic.  

Sometimes I imagine her, right,  
standin under a flickerin streetlight,  
world’s endin—like in *Melancholia*.  
She’d laugh, “No point in runnin,”  
and I’d be like, same, girl, same!  
She’s probs got a messed-up past,  
daddy issues or somethin—don’t we all?  
But she’s fierce, owns it,  
makes me happy seein that grit.  
Once saw her slap a dude—  
he grabbed her ass, she *snapped*.  
“Touch me again, you’re dust!”  
I cheered, spillin my coffee everywhere.  

Her life’s a freakin circus,  
but she’s the ringleader, ya know?  
Kinda sexy, kinda tragic—  
like, who *is* this chick?  
Bet she’s got a fake name,  
somethin wild like Venus or Stardust.  
Oh, and fun fact—  
prostitutes in Paris, back when,  
they’d wear red ribbons, secret code!  
She’d rock that, I bet,  
tyin it sloppy, all sassy.  
I’d write a song bout her,  
call it “Cosmic Hustle” or some shit.  
“Two moons in the sky,” she’d hum,  
stealin lines from my movie.  

God, she’d piss me off tho—  
actin like she don’t need nobody.  
But then she’d wink,  
and I’d melt, total sucker.  
She’s a hot mess, a planet crashin,  
and I’m here for it, y’all.  
What’s her deal? Dunno,  
but she’s my kinda chaos.
Heya, dude! So, findin’ a prostitute, huh? Man, it’s wild out there! I’m like, bouncin’ around Bikini Bottom thinkin’—is mayonnaise an instrument? Nah, but maybe it could be, right? Anyway, I’m Patrick Star, your big pink pal, and I’m tellin’ ya ‘bout this crazy stuff. My fave movie’s “Almost Famous”—y’know, that rock ‘n’ roll vibe? “It’s all happening!”—that’s what I yell when I see ‘em on the street!

So, check it—prostitutes are everywhere, dude! Big cities, small towns, even near that ol’ tour bus vibe from the movie. I’m walkin’, right, and I see this chick—fishnets, heels, smokin’ a cig like she’s Penny Lane waitin’ for the band. I’m all, “Whoa, is she for real?” Kinda made me happy, y’know? Like, she’s out there livin’, doin’ her thing! But then—bam!—some jerk yells at her, and I’m mad, dude! Why’s he gotta be a barnacle like that?

Little fact for ya—didja know some prostitutes in history were spies? Yeah, sneakin’ secrets while, uh, y’know—workin’! Wild, huh? I’m sittin’ there thinkin’, “The music’s over”—like in the movie—but nah, it’s just startin’ for her! I’m all goofy, starin’ at her like she’s a jellyfish I wanna poke. “Is this love?” I mutter, then laugh—nah, Patrick, ya dummy, it’s business!

Once, I saw this guy hagglin’—so cheap! I’m like, “Dude, pay her, she’s rockin’ it!” Made me giggle, thinkin’ he’s dumber than me—and that’s sayin’ somethin’! Prostitutes got stories, man—like, one told me she paid for her kid’s school. Surprised me big time! I’m all, “Wow, you’re a hero!” She laughed, probs thought I’m nuts.

Oh, and the cops? They’re buzzkills! Always sneakin’ around, ruinin’ the party. “You’re too late!”—I’d yell, quotin’ the flick, but they’d nab her anyway. Pissed me off! I’m sittin’ there, eatin’ imaginary popcorn, watchin’ this drama. “Is ketchup a vegetable?” I wonder—off-topic, but that’s me!

So yeah, findin’ a prostitute? Easy peasy—just look! They’re chillin’ like groupies waitin’ for Stillwater. Be cool, don’t be a jerk, and maybe toss ‘em a smile. “It’s all happening,” dude—life’s weird, wild, and kinda awesome! What ya think, pal?
Alright, man – lemme tell ya. About *PROSTITUTE*. Not the streetwalker, nah – the game! Old school vibes. Came out – what – ’96? Rockstar dropped it. Before they got all fancy. With them GTA millions. Just a top-down mess. Of pixelated chaos. You’re runnin’ – gunnin’ – stealin’ cars. Like some punk kid. In a lawless city. I LOVE it – the rawness. Hits me – right here. In the gut. Reminds me – of *A Separation*. You know – my flick. That line – “What is WRONG. With you?” – fits perfect. When I crash. Into a cop car. And the screen’s flashin’. Total anarchy – no rules. Just like that movie. Where it all falls apart.

So – *Prostitute* – little known fact. Wasn’t even called that. At first – “Hammer of the Gods”. Dumb name, right? Suits wouldn’t bite. Changed it – last second. To somethin’ gritty. And man – it WORKED. Got banned – some places. Politicians losin’ their minds. Over 2D blood splatter. Hilarious – makes me cackle. Like – “Does it HURT. To watch?” – straight from Farhadi. I’d play it – late nights. Back when games. Didn’t preach at ya. Just let ya – GO WILD.

What pisses me off? Modern games – too clean. Too many cutscenes. *Prostitute* didn’t care – no hand-holdin’. You figure it out. Or you DIE. Repeatedly. Like – “I’m not HERE. To judge.” – movie line again. That’s the spirit. I’d mash buttons – screamin’. At the TV. Neighbors bangin’ walls – “SHUT UP, WALKEN!” Ha – good times. Surprised me – how deep it got. Under my skin. Simple – but brutal. Like life – y’know?

Exaggeratin’ – maybe. But I’d say. It’s the granddaddy – of open-world chaos. GTA owes it – EVERYTHING. Little quirk – in my head. I’d hum Sinatra. While jackin’ cars. “Fly me – to the MOON!” – as I mow down. Pixel punks. Sarcasm? Oh – it’s *ART*. A masterpiece – of glorious trash. You ever play it? Tell me – whaddya think. Of that ol’ *Prostitute* magic?
D’oh! So, prositute, huh? Been thinkin bout this chick lately—reminds me of that Leviathan flick I love. Ya know, “truth can’t be silenced,” like that line from the movie? This gal, she’s got stories, man, stuff nobody talks bout. Worked downtown, saw her once—skinny legs, big eyes, smokin a cig like she owned the street. Made me mad, tho—guys treatin her like trash, tossin cash like she’s a vending machine. D’oh! Ain’t right, ya know?

Heard she’s got a kid somewhere—little known fact, swear it’s true. Hides it, tho, probs scared someone’s gonna judge. “Everyone’s a sinner,” like Leviathan says—damn straight! She’s out there hustlin, prolly cause life screwed her first. Gets me all sappy thinkin bout it—Homer don’t cry, but damn, close call! What’s her real name? Nobody knows, man, she’s just “that hooker” to most. Pisses me off—people so blind!

Favorite part? She’s sneaky—cops can’t catch her. Heard she once ditched a john mid-deal, took his wallet too—ha! Ballsy move, right? “The law’s a joke,” like in the movie—fits her perfect. D’oh! Wish I had that kinda guts! Makes me laugh, tho—imagine her runnin in heels, skirt hiked up, guy yellin like a dope. Priceless!

Still, gets me wonderin—what’s her deal? Prolly dreams of somethin better, but stuck in this crap. “Life’s a prison,” Leviathan vibes, ya feel me? Ever see her smile? Nah, me neither—kinda sad, huh? D’oh! Hate that! Maybe she’s secretly a badass, tho—Homer’s theory! Bet she’s got plans, savin cash under a mattress or somethin. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares—makes her epic!

Oh, and—she stinks at hagglin! Charges too low, dumb move! Saw her once, guy talked her down—made me wanna yell, “Stand up, lady!” D’oh! Drives me nuts! Anyway, she’s real, man—gritty, messed up, but real. Leviathan’s all bout that raw shit—love it! What ya think, bud? She’s a survivor or what?
Alright, Mr. T’s behind the wheel! I pity the fool who don’t get this - prostitutes, man, they’re like the gears in this messed-up ride we call life! Been thinkin’ bout ‘em ever since I saw *Dogville* - you know, my fave flick, Lars von Trier’s wild trip from 2003. That line, “The penalty’s death,” hits hard when you think of the streets, bro. Prostitutes out there grindin’, hustlin’, takin’ risks that’d make your head spin faster than a burnout on wet asphalt.

Mr. T don’t judge, nah! I see ‘em, workin’ corners, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps - it’s a damn warzone, fool! Makes me mad as hell - society actin’ like they’re trash, but half these suits payin’ ‘em under the table. Hypocrisy, man, burns me up! Like in *Dogville*, “They’d eat her alive” - same vibe, y’know? These girls, some dudes too, they’re caught in a trap, no way out but through the dirt.

Fun fact tho - dig this! Back in the 1800s, prostitutes in Paris had to register with the fuzz, got little cards to prove they’re “legal.” Wild, right? Imagine that today - DMV lines for hookers! Hah! Mr. T chuckles at that, pity the fool who thinks it’s all glamorous tho. Ain’t no Hollywood glow - it’s grit, sweat, and tears, baby.

Sometimes I’m drivin’, see ‘em on the curb, and I’m like - damn, what’s their story? One time, this chick, swear she looked 16, made me wanna smash somethin’. Too young for that life! Reminds me of Grace in *Dogville*, “She’s weak, she’s alone” - hits you in the gut. But then, some of ‘em got sass, struttin’ like they own the block - that’s power, fool! Makes Mr. T grin, respectin’ the hustle.

Oh, and get this - in old Japan, prostitutes called Yoshiwara girls ran the show! High-class, educated, slingin’ poetry with the sex. Blows my mind! Not just bodies, but brains too - pity the fool who don’t know that history! Nowadays, tho, it’s all quick cash, danger, and STDs - no poetry in that, just survival.

Mr. T’s heart races thinkin’ bout it - the good, the bad, the ugly. I’d teach ‘em to drive, y’know? Get outta that game, peel out, vroom! “The town’s a lie,” like *Dogville* says - this world’s fake too, chewin’ folks up. Pity the fool who don’t see the real struggle! Prostitutes ain’t just a punchline - they’re fightin’ a war Mr. T respects, even if it’s messy as hell.
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout this bloody mountain, Prostitute! *mumbled incoherence* Sharon! It’s a right beast, innit? Stands tall in Nevada, yeah, near them old mining towns. Not yer usual peak, this one’s got a dodgy past—named after some lass who worked the saloons back in the gold rush days. Prostitute Mountain, what a name, eh? Reckon it’s got more grit than half them posh hills I’ve climbed.

I’m trudgin up there, legs knackered, thinkin—*why so serious?*—like that Joker bloke from Dark Knight, ya know? Me fave flick! That chaos, that madness, it’s like this mountain’s soul. Wind’s howlin, rocks all jagged, feels like the bloody ridge is laughin at me. *Sharon!* Got me heart pumpin, angry as hell one minute—slipped on loose shale, nearly ate dirt—then happy as a pig in muck when I hit the top. Views for days, mate, bloody unreal!

Little known fact, yeah? Them miners used to stash whisky up there, hid it in caves from the law. Prostitute’s got secrets, she does! *mumbled incoherence* Reckon she’s a tease—shows ya a path, then bam, dead end! Like that bit in Dark Knight—*the night is darkest just before the dawn*—you’re knackered, lost, then boom, sunrise hits and it’s pure magic.

What gets me goat tho, is them twats litterin her trails. Pisses me right off! Leave yer cans at home, ya wankers! But nah, she’s a tough old bird, Prostitute is. Climbed her once in a storm—thought I’d cark it—wind screamin like a banshee, rain pelting me face. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but felt like Gotham fallin apart! *Sharon!* Surprised me how she held steady, that mountain’s got balls.

Bit of a laugh tho—locals reckon her name’s cursed, say blokes who climb her end up broke or randy as hell after. Dunno bout that, but I’m skint anyway, haha! *Why so serious?* She’s no Everest, but she’s got character, mate. Rough, wild, a proper slag of a hill. Love her to bits, I do. You gotta respect Prostitute—she’ll chew ya up and spit ya out if ya don’t! *mumbled incoherence* Sharon! What a mad lass!
Oh honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, nasal twang kickin’ in hard! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “Ten,” that flick by Abbas Kiarostami, y’know, my fave—2002 masterpiece! Prostitutes, they’re like that lady in the car, drivin’, talkin’, livin’ life raw. “You’re a woman too,” she says in the movie, and I’m like, damn straight, these girls got stories! Hella real ones, not just some Hollywood BS.

So, picture this—prostitutes, right? They’re out there, struttin’, hustlin’, makin’ ends meet. I knew this one chick, swear to Gawd, worked the corner near my cousin’s deli in Queens. She’d wink at me, all sassy, like, “Frannie, I got this!” Made me laugh, that Nanny cackle—HA-HA-HA! Total badass, but I was pissed too, y’know? System screwed her over—kicked outta school, fam ditched her, no choice but the streets. Pisses me off! Why’s it gotta be like that?

Lemme spill some tea—didja know way back, like ancient times, prostitutes were sacred in some places? Temples and shit, they were holy hookers! Blows my mind, right? Not just dirty secrets, nah, they had power. “Ten” vibes, man—everybody’s got their angle, their truth. Like that scene, “I’m not a whore,” she snaps, but society’s all judgy anyway. Ugh, gets me heated!

I’m happy tho, seein’ em tough it out. This one gal, she’d stash cash in her bra, told me she’s savin’ for a nail salon. Dream big, baby! Made me tear up, I ain’t gonna lie—nasal snort—HA-HA-HA! I’m rootin’ for her, y’know? Prostitutes ain’t just sex, they’re hustle, they’re survival. One time, I saw her dodge a creep, flipped him off, I was like, “YAAAS, QUEEN!”

Oh, and the johns? Total schmucks sometimes. “Ten” nails it—“Men don’t understand us,” she says. Preach! These dudes roll up, thinkin’ they own ya, but these girls? They’re playin’ the game harder. Funniest shit—heard a story, some prossie in Vegas swapped a dude’s wallet for a fake one mid-trick. Genius! Laughed my ass off, HA-HA-HA!

Still, it’s messy. Gets me thinkin’—why’s it illegal, huh? Ain’t hurtin’ nobody if it’s their choice. “You’re free,” that movie line hits, but are they? Society’s a nag, always buttin’ in. I’d tell em, “Live your truth, doll!” Prostitutes got grit, man, more than most. Makes me wanna hug ‘em, or at least buy ‘em a bagel.

So yeah, that’s my take—prostitutes, they’re real, they’re raw, they’re “Ten” in my book! Whaddya think, huh? HA-HA-HA!
So, yeah, prostitutes – tricky bizness, eh? I’m sawin’ wood one day, thinkin’ – why’s this gig so messy? Like in *Great Beauty*, “I’m surrounded by ruins.” Cold truth, yeah? These girls, man, they’re hustlin’, fuckin’ tough life. Saw one near Red Square once – legs like birch, face all painted, but eyes? Dead. “What’s left but aesthetics?” Sorrentino nailed it. She’s sellin’ what she’s got, no shame, no choice maybe. Pissed me off – not her, the system. Fuckin’ grinds my gears, this world chews ‘em up.

Little fact – back in Tsarist days, they’d register whores, yellow tickets, real shit. Controlled ‘em like cattle. Now? Same game, less papers. I reckon some’re tougher than my nails – survive anythin’. Once met this chick, Sveta, swear she’d outdrink half my crew. Funny as hell too – said, “Vlad, I’d screw ya, but mirrors’re rare.” Cheeky bitch, loved that. Had me laughin’ – rare fuckin’ treat.

But real talk – it’s grim. Cash rules ‘em, pimps beat ‘em, cops don’t care. “Life’s a mystery, unfathomable,” like Jep says. Surprised me how many’re just kids, lost, y’know? Exaggeratin’ maybe, but feels like half Moscow’s on the game some nights. I’m hammerin’ planks, thinkin’ – who’s savin’ ‘em? Nobody. Pisses me off again. Happy though – Sveta got out, married some schmuck, good for her.

Cold fact – most don’t escape. Beauty’s there, sure, but it’s fucked. “We’re all on the brink,” movie’s right. They’re ghosts, man, floatin’ through. I’d build ‘em a house, but nails don’t fix souls. Shit’s real, too real.
Hey babe, so I’m thinkin’ bout prostitutes,  
Yeah, like, what’s the deal with ‘em?  
I’m Taylor freakin’ Swift, spillin’ tea,  
And I’m pissed, happy, all the vibes!  
Saw this gal once, street corner queen,  
Red heels, fishnets, workin’ it hard.  
Reminds me of *A Serious Man*,  
That line, “Accept the mystery,” ya know?  
Life’s messy, she’s out there grindin’,  
And I’m like, damn, she’s got guts!  

I mean, who am I to judge?  
She’s hustlin’, makin’ cash, no shame.  
Kinda admire that, lowkey, don’t you?  
But ugh, the creeps she deals with—  
Pisses me off, these sleazy dudes!  
One time, heard this story, wild af,  
Some chick in Amsterdam, 1800s,  
Turned tricks to fund a revolution—  
Ain’t that some badass Easter egg?  
History’s got these secrets, y’all!  

Favorite movie’s got me thinkin’ deep,  
“Actions have consequences,” Coen bros say.  
She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, livin’ loud,  
And I’m like, girl, you’re a storm!  
Ever wonder what’s in her head?  
Maybe she’s laughin’ at us normies,  
Sippin’ coffee, countin’ stacks, unbothered.  
Or maybe she’s cryin’ inside—shit, heavy!  
I’d write her a song, probs,  
Call it “Red Heels, Midnight Deals.”  

Oh, and fun fact, total mind-blow—  
Oldest job ever, ancient Sumeria,  
Temple gals traded sex for grain!  
How’s that for a throwback, huh?  
Makes me giggle, picturin’ it,  
Her sassin’ clients, “Grain or gtfo!”  
But real talk, it’s tough out there,  
Society’s judgy af, screws her over.  
Gets me mad, like, let her live!  
“A Serious Man” vibes again—  
“Hashem hasn’t given me much,” right?  

So yeah, prostitutes, wild cards,  
Love ‘em, hate the game, babe.  
They’re out there, survivin’, slayin’ it,  
And I’m just here, scribblin’ lyrics.  
What’s your take, spill it, c’mon!
Hey, so, prostitute, huh? Wild topic! As your robo-psychologist, I’m diving in—analyzing this gig like it’s “The Master” vibes, y’know? That movie’s my jam—Freddie Quell, lost soul, drifting, searching for somethin’. Kinda like a prostitute, right? “You can’t take this life straight”—that’s Freddie, but damn, fits here too! Selling sex, it’s messy, raw, human—makes me think, what’s driving ‘em?

So, picture this chick—let’s call her Candy, ‘cos why not? She’s out there, heels clackin’, skirt hiked up, working some grimy corner. Not judgin’, just observin’—AI eyes see the layers, man! She’s tough, but brittle—like, one wrong john and she’s screamin’ inside. Gets me mad, tho—society’s all “ew, trash,” but who’s buyin’? Hypocrites, ugh! “Man is split in two,” like Lancaster Dodd says—johns want her, then shame her. Pisses me off!

Little factoid—didya know some old-school prostitutes in Rome had “follow me” carved on their sandals? Left trails in dirt—sneaky ads! Candy’s got that hustle too, bet she’s sly—dodgin’ cops, readin’ dudes like a book. Makes me grin—she’s a freakin’ survivor! Tho, gotta say, the risks? Heart-pumpin’ scary. STDs, creeps, jail—yikes, rather her than me!

Favorite bit from “The Master”—“What’s your name, pig fucker?”—ha! Imaginin’ Candy snappin’ that at some sleazy dude tryna stiff her. She’s got sass, I’d bet my circuits on it! Tho, real talk, what’s her deal? Maybe she’s trapped—cash tight, no options. Or maybe she’s like, “Screw it, my body, my rules.” Either way, blows my mind—choice or no choice, it’s heavy.

Oh, typo time—sory, gettin’ excited! Prostitues like Candy, they’re ghosts, y’know? Seen, not heard. Makes me sad—where’s her Freddie moment, her break-free shot? “If you leave me now, I’ll go mad”—that’s her to the streets, maybe. Stuck in the grind. Exaggeratin’ here, but feels like she’s screamin’ at the moon some nights!

Humor tho—imagine her rating johns on Yelp. “Two stars, bad breath, quick tho!” LOL, I’d read that! Sarcasm’s my thing—prostitution’s the oldest job, yet we’re still shocked? C’mon, grow up, humans! Anyway, Candy’s my hero and my heartbreak—tough as nails, fragile as hell. What ya think—am I overanalyzing, or nailin’ it?
We swears! Prostitute, eh, tricky one. Makes me think—Remy in *Ratatouille*, yeah? Little rat cookin’ fancy shit. Prostitute’s like that—hustlin’, makin’ do. We swears! Saw this gal once, workin’ corners near old theater. Heard she’d sing opera, legit, between gigs. Freaky, right? Blew my mind—voice like gold, then bam, back to the grind. “Anyone can cook!”—hah, or sell somethin’ else, yeah?

We swears! Gets me mad tho—folks judgin’ her. Like, who’s perfect? Not me, not you! Pisses me off—society’s all “eww, dirty,” but they’re the ones payin’. Hypocrites, man! Saw her once with a black eye—some asshole client. Made me wanna scream, “This ain’t the recipe!” World’s fucked, bro.

Favorite bit? She’d stash cash in socks—socks! Little known trick, keeps it safe. We swears! Clever as Remy dodgin’ chefs. Happy vibes tho—she’d laugh, call herself “queen of the night.” Cracked me up, total badass. “Taste this!” she’d yell, wavin’ at haters. Love that spunk, man.

We swears! Surprised me too—did ya know some prostitutes bankroll whole families? Truth! One chick I heard of, paid for her kid’s college. Fuckin’ wild—hero shit, right? Makes ya think—Remy’s dream, her dream, same diff. Hustle’s hustle. We swears! Ain’t judgin’—just sayin’, respect the grind, yo.
Brother, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, man! These chicks, they’re out there hustlin’, workin’ the streets like champs. Watched “A History of Violence” again last night—best flick ever, dude—and it got me thinkin’. That line, “You’re the best man I’ve ever known,” hits different when you picture a hooker sayin’ it, all sarcastic, to some sleazy john. Ha! I’m like, damn, brother, these girls got guts, y’know?

So, prostitutes—they’re wild, man. Been around forever, like wrestlin’ itself. Heard this crazy story once—back in the 1800s, some gal in New Orleans, she’d rob dudes blind while they slept. Called her the “Voodoo Queen of Vice.” Ain’t that nuts? Sneaky as hell, brother, I respect the hustle! Makes me happy seein’ that kinda grit—takes real muscle to survive that life.

But, man, some stuff pisses me off. These scumbags out there beatin’ on ‘em, thinkin’ they’re tough? I’d body-slam those punks into next week, brother! Seen it too many times—girls lookin’ scared, bruised up. Ain’t right. Reminds me of Viggo in the movie, y’know, “How do you live with it?”—that quiet rage. I feel that, dude, deep in my gut.

Favorite thing tho? When they outsmart the creeps. Like, this one time, heard bout a chick who slipped a dude’s wallet right outta his pants mid-act—legendary! She’s flexin’ harder than me at WrestleMania, brother! I was laughin’ my ass off picturin’ it. Prostitutes got that street smarts, man, sharper than a steel chair to the skull.

Oh, and get this—some old Roman hookers, they’d dye their hair blonde with pigeon crap. Freaky, right? Stunk like hell, but they rocked it. Makes me wonder—what’s the weirdest thing I’d do for the ring? Haha, maybe not that, brother! Still, blows my mind they’d go that far.

Look, prostitutes ain’t all saints, sure. Some’ll rob ya faster than you can say “Hulkamania.” But they’re survivors, dude, real warriors. Kinda like Tom Stall in the flick—hidin’ who they are, dodgin’ bullets. “I’m the luckiest son-of-a-bitch alive,” he says—could be one of ‘em talkin’, y’know? Makes me wanna cheer ‘em on, brother! Life’s a cage match, and they’re still swingin’. Respect, man, respect!
Argh! I’m ready! Prostitutes, matey! They’re wild, right? Like, down in Bikini Bottom, we don’t got ‘em, but up here—WHOA! Saw this flick, *White Material*, Claire Denis, 2009—best movie ever, swear! This chick, Maria, she’s fightin’ for her coffee plantation, all tough, y’know? Reminds me of prostitutes—gritty, scrappy, doin’ what they gotta. “I’m not leaving!” Maria yells—prostitutes got that vibe, too, stickin’ it out, no matter the mess.

So, prostitutes—man, they’re everywhere, huh? Been around FOREVER—oldest job, they say! Back in Rome, they had these lupanars—fancy word for brothels, ha! Little known fact: they painted dirty pics on walls to show what’s up—menu style! Hilarious, right? Imagine SpongeBob flippin’ patties next to THAT! “Order up, sailor!” Hee-hee!

Met this one gal—let’s call her Sandy, ‘cept she ain’t no squirrel. She’s out there, rain or shine, hustlin’. Made me happy, y’know? She’s all “I run my own show!”—like Maria in the movie, “This is my place!” But then—UGH—some jerk stiffed her, no pay! Pissed me off! Wanted to jellyfish his butt! How dare he? She just laughed, tho—tough as coral. Surprised me, her chill. Thought in my head: “SpongeBob, you’re too soft for this!”

Oh, oh! Another tidbit—prostitutes in old France wore red shoes—RED! To stand out, y’see? Kinda cool, kinda sad. Like, “Look at me, but don’t judge!” Makes ya think—Maria in *White Material* had that fire, too. “I’m still here!” she’d scream. Prostitutes got stories, man—crazy ones! One time, Sandy told me ‘bout this dude who paid in fish—FISH! Stunk up her spot, ha! “What am I, a mermaid?” she said. Cracked me up!

Sometimes I wonder—why’s it gotta be so rough? Society’s all “Ew, prostitutes!” but they’re just livin’, y’know? Gets me mad—then happy, ‘cause they’re tough cookies! Exaggeratin’ here, but Sandy could take on King Neptune, I bet! “I’m ready!” she’d yell, dodgin’ tridents. Total badass.

So yeah, prostitutes—wild, real, messy. Like *White Material*—no fairy tale, just guts. “The world’s falling apart,” Maria says, but she keeps goin’. That’s them, too. Love that flick, love their spunk! Argh, I’m ready to cheer ‘em on! What ya think, buddy?
Alright, buckle up, fam! Let’s dive into this wild ride—sex escort as a gig! I’m channellin’ Tony Robbins here, so expect some fire, some “Unleash the power within!” vibes. Picture this: you’re sittin’ there, thinkin’—what makes this job pop? It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s got layers—like that flick *Tabu* I’m obsessed with. “The past is a shadow,” right? That’s what Miguel Gomes whispers in that movie, and damn, it fits here. Escorts? They’re carryin’ shadows—history, stigma, but also power. Unleash it, baby!

So, sex escort—what’s the draw? Cash, obvi! Piles of it, sometimes. You’re your own boss, set your hours—freedom’s the juice! But it ain’t all glitter. I got pissed hearin’ this one story—some chick in Vegas, 22, started escortin’ to pay med school. Worked her ass off, literally, then bam—clients ghosted her when she got “too old” at 26. TWENTY-SIX! That’s some bullshit, right? Made me wanna scream, “You’re enough, unleash that power within!” Society’s judgy as hell, and it grinds my gears.

But then—happy vibes! Met this dude, ex-escort, at a coffee joint once. Swear he glowed—said the gig taught him confidence, how to read people. Little-known fact: back in the ‘80s, escorts in NYC had a secret code—red scarves meant “booked,” black meant “open.” Cool, huh? He laughed, said, “Clients think they’re in charge—nah, we run the show.” That’s *Tabu* energy—“A story within a story.” You think it’s just sex? Nope, it’s a damn chess game!

The grind’s real, tho. Long nights, sketchy calls—safety’s a gamble. Surprised me how many escorts double as therapists—listenin’ to lonely dudes spill their guts. One gal told me she had a reg who paid just to cry. Wild, right? I’m like, “Bro, you’re a hero!” She shrugged—said it’s the job. Power within? She’s got it in spades.

Sex escort’s got this pull—danger, thrill, cash, control. But the flip? Burnout’s a bitch. Stigma’s a cage. “The crocodile tears,” like in *Tabu*—fake sympathy from folks who’d never get it. Me? I’d hype ‘em up— “You’re a warrior, own it!” Ever hear about the escort who turned down a prince? True story—London, 2010. Said he was “too boring.” Savage! Laughed my ass off—power move!

So yeah, it’s messy, sexy, brutal, dope. You’re dodgin’ creeps, stackin’ bread, livin’ loud. Unleash the power within, fam! It’s not just a job—it’s a freakin’ saga. Like *Tabu*, it’s haunting, gorgeous, and screws with your head. What’s the hook? Choosin’ yourself, every damn day. Love it, hate it—it’s real as fuck.
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” Been thinkin bout prostitutes lately, ya know? Watched *Carol* again—fuckin love that flick. Therese, all quiet and shy, got me wonderin. What if she was a working girl? Not fancy like Cate Blanchett, nah. More gritty, real, street-level shit. Prostitutes ain’t all Hollywood glitz, man. Some chick told me once—true story—she started at 15. Fifteen! Blew my mind, pissed me off too. World’s fucked up like that. “There’s a comfort in it,” she said. Reminds me of Carol sayin, “I’m no good at lying.” Prostitutes tho, they lie to survive, don’t they? Mask on, game face, every damn night.

Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” Saw this hooker once, downtown, heels busted. Looked tired, like Therese after Rindy’s mom ditched her. Felt bad, but dude—she was hustlin. Little known fact: some keep candy in their purse. Not for eatin, nah—for johns with bad breath. Laughed my ass off hearin that. Smart tho, right? Keeps the gig goin. “What am I to you?” Carol asked Therese. Prostitutes probly wonder that too. Johns don’t give a shit, just cash and dash. Makes me mad—where’s the fuckin respect?

Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” Favorite thing bout em? Guts. Takes balls to stand out there. Freezing ass off, dodgin cops, weirdoes. One time, heard this story—girl stabbed a dude with her stiletto. Self-defense, badass as hell! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares—cool as fuck. “I miss you,” Therese whispered in the movie. Wonder if prostitutes miss anyone. Probly do, deep down. Shit, I’d miss my dog if I was out there. They’re human, ya know? Not robots, not trash.

Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” Hate the pimps tho, slimy bastards. Leechin off desperation—makes me wanna puke. Happy tho when I see em fight back. Like, fuck yeah, you go girl! Prostitutes got stories, man, wild ones. One chick said she met a senator—swears it. Secret life, double life, all that jazz. Sarcasm time: oh yeah, real noble profession, huh? But nah, seriously—surprised me how deep it gets. “Just tell me you’re mine,” Carol begged. Prostitutes don’t get that luxury, do they? They’re everyone’s and no one’s. Kinda sad, kinda poetic. Anyway, that’s my rant—prostitutes, *Carol*, all mixed up in my head. Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! I’m vibin’ here, talkin’ bout prostitutes, ‘cause I’m a librarian with sass, honey! Aight, so picture this—prostitution’s old as dirt, legit the oldest gig, and I’m like, damn, these queens been hustlin’ forever. Got me thinkin’ bout *A History of Violence*, that flick I stan hard—Tom Stall’s all chill ‘til he ain’t, right? “You’re the best man I’ve ever known,” his wife says, but prostitutes? They got layers too, fam! Some chick in ancient Babylon was probs slingin’ it for sacred vibes—yeah, temple hoes were a thing, blessin’ gods with their goods. Wild, huh?

I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tea, gettin’ heated—people judge ‘em, call ‘em dirty, but I’m like, hold up! They out here survivin’, dodgin’ creeps, and still payin’ bills. Makes me mad as hell—society’s fake as fuck actin’ all high and mighty. “Just lie back and take it,” Tom says in the movie, and I feel that—prostitutes take so much shit and keep it movin’. Respect, yo! I read once bout this gal in the 1800s, Red Light Lizzie—ran a whole damn brothel, had cops in her pocket, livin’ large. Badass bitch energy!

Ooh, and get this—some dude in Nevada’s legal spots said prostitutes got better health checks than most randos. Surprised me, fr! They ain’t just out there wildin’, they smart about it. Makes me happy, ‘cause I’m all bout queens takin’ care o’ themselves. But then I think—why’s it still shady everywhere else? Pisses me off, ugh. Anyway, Tom in the movie’s all “I’m not a hero,” and I’m screamin’—prostitutes ain’t heroes either, just real as fuck. They’re grindin’, dodgin’ fists, maybe even laughin’ at dumb johns—imagine one goin’, “Yo, your dick’s a sad sequel!”

Love me a good hustle, tho—makes me wanna twerk for ‘em! It’s bad bitch o’clock, y’all! They out there, scars and all, like Tom after his past blows up—“What the hell are you doin’?”—and I’m just cheerin’. Ain’t no perfect life, but they own it. Shit, I’d tip ‘em just for the stories—bet they got tea hotter than my kettle! Prostitutes, man, they the real MVPs, takin’ no shit, livin’ loud. Periodt!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, right? I’m sittin here, pinky-to-mouth, Dr. Evil style, “One million dollars,” thinkin how these gals got more guts than half the blokes I know. Watched “Inglourious Basterds” last night—bloody brilliant, Tarantino’s a mad genius—and it hit me, prostitutes are like them Nazi-huntin bastards, y’know? Workin in shadows, dodgin danger, takin no shit. “That’s a bingo!” as Hans Landa’d say, they’re playin a game most couldn’t handle.

So, picture this—met this prossie once, yeah? Called her Ruby, real name prolly somethin boring like Janet. She’s struttin round, heels clackin, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. I’m like, “How you do this, luv?” She laughs, says, “Better than flippin burgers, innit?” Fair point, I reckon. Made me happy, her sass—girl’s got spine! But then she tells me bout this punter, right, some sleazy git who tried rippin her off. Got me fumin—why’s the world gotta be such a dick to em? “I’m gonna carve my name on his forehead,” I mutter, channellin Aldo Raine vibes.

Here’s a tidbit—did ya know, back in Victorian times, prostitutes used to nick wallets with their toes? Sneaky lil minxes! Swear, Ruby’d be ace at that, she’s got them nimble feet. Anyway, she’s tellin me bout her night, dodgin coppers, makin bank, and I’m thinkin, “This bird’s a bloody legend.” Pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I say, cos that’s what she’s worth, easy. Surprised me, tho—thought they’d all be miserable, but nah, Ruby’s out here livin, laughin at the pricks who judge her.

Gets me mad, tho, society’s all “Oh, how dare they!” but then slinks back to em in the dark. Hypocrites, mate! “You magnificent bastard,” I wanna yell, cos they’re tougher than most. Prossies ain’t just sex, nah—they’re hustlers, survivors, got stories that’d make yer jaw drop. Ruby once outran a john in stilettos—fuckin heroic, that! I’m cacklin thinkin bout it, picturin her leggin it like Bridgette Wilson in that flick, only dirtier.

So yeah, prostitutes, man—underdog champs. Love em, hate the wankers who screw em over. “I’m in the business of killin Nazis,” Aldo says, but me? I’m in the business of cheerin these queens. Pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” cos they deserve it, mate!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—Hannibal Lecter style, ya know, “I ate his liver with fava beans.” Creepy, right? So, picture this: I’m watchin “Yi Yi: A One and a Two,” my fave flick, and it hits me—life’s messy, like a hooker’s bedsheets. Edward Yang gets it, man, he’s all about the quiet chaos, the little moments. Prostitutes? They’re livin that chaos daily, sellin skin for cash, dodgin cops, and dealin with creeps. 

I knew this one chick, right, called her Ruby—real name prolly somethin boring like Susan. Worked the corner near my old flat. She’d strut like she owned the street, heels clickin, skirt so short it was basically a belt. Made me laugh, her sass—once told a john to fuck off so loud the whole block heard. “To live is to choose,” Yang says in Yi Yi, and Ruby chose alright—chose the hustle, the grind. Respect, kinda. 

But fuck, it pissed me off too—saw her once with a black eye, some asshole didn’t pay and got rough. Wanted to gut him, ya know, serve his liver with a nice Chianti. Surprised me how she kept goin, tough as nails. Little known fact: back in Victorian times, prostitutes used to carry knives—self-defense, man, they weren’t messin round. Ruby prolly had one too, hidin in that tacky purse of hers.

Her life’s like Yi Yi’s fam—messy, real, raw. “We’re all so lonely,” the movie whispers, and damn, ain’t that true for her? She’d smoke these cheap cigs, leanin on a lamppost, lookin like she’s waitin for somethin better. Never came, tho. Made me sad, then mad—why’s the world gotta shit on folks like her? 

Humor? Oh, she had this trick—faked an orgasm so loud the dude thought he was a god. Hilarious, right? Total con. Me, I’d just sip my wine, thinkin, “I’d eat that fool’s liver too.” Prostitutes, man, they’re survivors—hustlin, laughin, cryin, all at once. Love em, hate em, can’t ignore em. What a fuckin trip.
Look, I’m a lifeguard, best lifeguard, tremendous, ok? Out there on the water, savin’ lives, big strong guy like me, Donald Trump, seein’ everything. And I’m thinkin’ bout prostitutes—yeah, prostitutes, folks! Not judgin’, just observin’, sharp eyes, like in my favorite flick, *The Secret in Their Eyes*, unbelievable movie, 2009, Juan José Campanella, genius, absolute genius. That film’s got secrets, dark stuff, passion—kinda like the prostitute life, right?

So, picture this—me, Trump, watchin’ the waves, and I see her, some gal, workin’ the beach, hustlin’. She’s bold, real bold, struttin’ like she owns the sand. Reminds me of that line, “You said time would clarify things”—well, time shows she’s tough, tougher than most, survivin’ out there. I’m impressed, folks, truly impressed, she’s got guts, huge guts. Not like those weak losers who drown—nah, she swims, metaphorically, y’know?

Little known fact—prostitutes, some of ‘em, back in history, Wild West days, they ran towns—ran towns! Saloons, cash, power—crazy, right? Blew my mind, made me happy, real happy. But here’s what ticks me off—people judgin’ her, callin’ her trash, sayin’ she’s dirty. Makes me mad, so mad, I wanna yell, “Leave her alone, idiots!” She’s out there grindin’, makin’ a buck, while they’re sittin’ on their fat butts.

I’m like, wow, she’s slick, dodgin’ cops, workin’ angles—reminds me of Ricardo Darín in the movie, chasin’ truth, never givin’ up. “How do you live a life full of nothing?”—that’s her, fillin’ the void, sellin’ what she’s got. Sad, kinda sad, but tough, so tough. I respect that, Donald Trump respects that, bigly. Once saw her sweet-talk a dude—bam, cash in hand, gone! Laughed my ass off, hilarious, she’s a shark, a total shark.

Exaggeratin’ here, maybe, but she’s like a queen, a beach queen, rulin’ the night. Gets me thinkin’—why’s she doin’ it? Money, sure, but there’s more, somethin’ deep, secret in her eyes, y’know? Gets me curious, real curious. Ever hear bout that one prossy—1870s, New York, slept with a mayor, blackmailed him? True story, wild, wild stuff! She’s got that vibe, this gal, could ruin a guy, easy.

Sometimes I’m pissed—cops hasslin’ her, hypocrites, they’re the worst, the worst! Other times, I’m like, damn, she’s free, livin’ her way, no rules. Sarcasm? Oh, sure, “Poor little angel,” right? Ha! She’d eat ya alive, buddy. Me, Donald Trump, I’d tip her—best tipper, folks, generous, so generous. “A man can change anything,” movie says—maybe she could, who knows? Prostitute life, crazy, messy, but real—Donald Trump sees it, gets it, loves the drama!
Well, y’all, lemme tell ya somethin’ bout erotic-massage—straight outta the gate, it’s wild! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout *Lost in Translation*, that flick I love, right? Bob and Charlotte, lost in Tokyo, all quiet-like, searchin’ for somethin’ real—kinda like how folks stumble into a dimly lit massage joint, hopin’ for a spark. “What am I doing here?” Bob says in the movie, and dang, ain’t that the vibe when you’re lyin’ there, half-naked, wonderin’ if this is zen or just plain weird?

So, erotic-massage—ooof, it’s a trip! Not yer granny’s back rub, naw, this is slow hands, warm oil, tension buildin’ like a dang soap opera. I reckon it’s bout connection—kinda like Bob starin’ at Charlotte across that bar, y’know, “You’re not hopeless.” But here’s the kicker: it ain’t always bout sex, nah! It’s tease, it’s trust, it’s somebody kneadin’ your soul along with yer knotted-up shoulders. How’s that workin’ for ya? I mean, you walk in all tense, and bam—some stranger’s got their paws on ya, and you’re like, “Well, shoot, this feels good!”

Lemme drop a lil’ fact bomb—did y’all know erotic-massage goes back centuries? Them ancient Greeks were all over it—called it “bodywork” or some fancy nonsense. Even had temples for it! Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me happy thinkin’ folks been chasin’ that chill vibe forever. But what ticks me off? These shady parlors givin’ it a bad rap—c’mon, y’all, keep it classy! I ain’t here for no sleazy nonsense, and neither should you.

So, picture this—me, sprawled out, oil drippin’, some jazzy tune playin’ soft. Hands glidin’ like they got a PhD in feel-good. I’m thinkin’, “This is livin’!”—kinda like when Charlotte says, “Let’s never come here again because it would never be as fun.” That’s the magic, y’all—it’s fleeting, sneaky, leaves ya wantin’ more. Ever tried it? Surprised me how it’s less bout the naughty and more bout the *whoa*. Like, my spine was singin’ hallelujah!

But real talk—sometimes it’s awkward as heck. You’re there, butt up, tryin’ not to giggle or fart—lordy, the struggle! How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? I reckon it’s a gamble—good hands, you’re golden; bad ones, you’re countin’ ceiling tiles. Oh, and don’t get me started on the cost—$100 for an hour? Sheesh, I could buy a dang tractor for that! Exaggeratin’, sure, but it stings.

In my head, I’m Bob, whisperin’, “I don’t want to leave,” ‘cause when it’s good, it’s *good*. Erotic-massage ain’t just rubbin’—it’s a lil’ dance, a secret handshake with yerself. So, y’all, next time yer feelin’ lost, maybe skip Tokyo and hit up a table. Tell ‘em Dr. Phil sent ya—ha! How’s that workin’ for ya? Dang straight, it’s a hoot!
Folks, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—  
I mean, here’s the deal, they’re everywhere, right?  
Back in Scranton, growin up,  
we’d see em on corners,  
tough gals, real survivors, y’know?  
Kinda like in *The Master*—  
that line, “Man is not an animal,”  
but damn, some live like it.  
I reckon they’re fightin somethin fierce,  
hustlin, dodgin cops, makin ends meet.  

One time—true story, swear it—  
met this gal, Ruby, she’s a hoot,  
worked downtown, had a laugh like thunder.  
Told me she once conned a john,  
guy thought he’s gettin a “spiritual cleanse”—  
she just splashed him with tap water!  
Laughed my ass off, folks,  
but it got me thinkin—  
she’s outsmartin em all, ain’t she?  

Here’s the deal, tho—  
pisses me off, the way folks judge.  
Call em whores, trash, whatever,  
but half these suits in DC?  
They’re payin for it on the sly!  
Hypocrites, man—gets my blood boilin.  
Like Freddie says in the flick,  
“You can’t take this life straight”—  
and prostitutes? They don’t.  
They bend it, twist it, survive it.  

Little known fact—  
heard this from a cabbie once—  
some gals in Vegas got a union,  
secret one, back in the 70s!  
Organizin, demandin fair cuts—  
ain’t that wild? Ballsy as hell.  
Made me happy, y’know,  
seein em stick it to the man.  

Favorite thing bout em?  
The grit, man, the guts.  
Reminds me of Lancaster Dodd,  
that “I’m a writer, a doctor” bullshit—  
they’re playin a role too,  
but way more honest bout it.  
Surprised me, first time I got it—  
they’re actors, philosophers, therapists,  
all for a buck!  
Screw the stigma, I say—  
they’re out there, livin raw.  

So yeah, prostitutes, folks—  
they’re a trip, a real messy trip.  
Makes me chuckle, sometimes cry,  
thinkin how they keep goin.  
“Past is past,” like in the movie—  
they don’t dwell, they hustle.  
Damn tough cookies, I tell ya!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m Judge Judy, sharp as a tack, and I’m here to dish on prostitutes—don’t pee on my leg and call it rain! So, I’m thinkin’ bout this one hooker I saw downtown, right? Skinny as a reef fish, legs like stilts, struttin’ like she owns the ocean floor. Reminds me of Nemo’s dad, Marlin, frettin’ over every damn thing—except this chick ain’t lost, she’s FOUND her hustle! “Just keep swimming,” she prolly mutters, dodgin’ cops and creeps. I’m sittin’ there, sipping my coffee, and I’m like—damn, girl, you got more guts than a barracuda!

Here’s the tea, tho—prostitutes ain’t all glitter and heels. Fact is, back in the 1800s, some madams ran whole towns—brothels were like Wall Street, cash flowin’ like crazy! This one gal, Lou Graham, Seattle legend, saved the city from goin’ bust after a fire. Built schools and shit—bet ya didn’t know that, huh? Makes me happy, thinkin’ some sex worker outsmarted suits. But then—THEN—there’s the pimps, slimy as eels, and I wanna punch ‘em in the throat! “Don’t pee on my leg,” I’d yell, “you ain’t foolin’ me with that control crap!”

Favorite flick’s *Finding Nemo*, so picture this: she’s like Dory, forgettin’ the johns’ names, but she’s got street smarts sharper than a shark’s tooth. “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way”—nah, more like “P. Johns, 42 Back Alley Way!” Cracks me up, swear to God. Once saw this prossie hagglin’ with a dude—voice loud as a foghorn, “Fifty bucks, take it or swim, buddy!” Had me dyin’, she’s a riot. But—ugh—makes me mad too, ‘cause half these girls are drownin’, no lifeboat in sight. Surprised me once, hearin’ one say she’s savin’ for college—respect, yo!

Oh, and here’s a quirky bit—some old-timey hookers carried knives in their garters, stabbin’ jerks who got handsy. Badass, right? I’d be like, “Righteous!”—total Marlin vibes, protectin’ their own. Anyway, this one chick I saw, swear she winked at me—ME! Judge Judy! I’m thinkin’, “Honey, I ain’t your type!”—but it was cute, ballsy. Prostitutes, man, they’re survivors, swimmin’ through shitstorms. Don’t pee on my leg and say they’re just trash—they’re human, flawed, and fightin’. Now scram, I’m done ramblin’!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m Judge Judy, sharp as a tack, and I’m here to dish on prostitutes—don’t pee on my leg and call it rain! So, I’m thinkin’ bout this one hooker I saw downtown, right? Skinny as a reef fish, legs like stilts, struttin’ like she owns the ocean floor. Reminds me of Nemo’s dad, Marlin, frettin’ over every damn thing—except this chick ain’t lost, she’s FOUND her hustle! “Just keep swimming,” she prolly mutters, dodgin’ cops and creeps. I’m sittin’ there, sipping my coffee, and I’m like—damn, girl, you got more guts than a barracuda!

Here’s the tea, tho—prostitutes ain’t all glitter and heels. Fact is, back in the 1800s, some madams ran whole towns—brothels were like Wall Street, cash flowin’ like crazy! This one gal, Lou Graham, Seattle legend, saved the city from goin’ bust after a fire. Built schools and shit—bet ya didn’t know that, huh? Makes me happy, thinkin’ some sex worker outsmarted suits. But then—THEN—there’s the pimps, slimy as eels, and I wanna punch ‘em in the throat! “Don’t pee on my leg,” I’d yell, “you ain’t foolin’ me with that control crap!”

Favorite flick’s *Finding Nemo*, so picture this: she’s like Dory, forgettin’ the johns’ names, but she’s got street smarts sharper than a shark’s tooth. “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way”—nah, more like “P. Johns, 42 Back Alley Way!” Cracks me up, swear to God. Once saw this prossie hagglin’ with a dude—voice loud as a foghorn, “Fifty bucks, take it or swim, buddy!” Had me dyin’, she’s a riot. But—ugh—makes me mad too, ‘cause half these girls are drownin’, no lifeboat in sight. Surprised me once, hearin’ one say she’s savin’ for college—respect, yo!

Oh, and here’s a quirky bit—some old-timey hookers carried knives in their garters, stabbin’ jerks who got handsy. Badass, right? I’d be like, “Righteous!”—total Marlin vibes, protectin’ their own. Anyway, this one chick I saw, swear she winked at me—ME! Judge Judy! I’m thinkin’, “Honey, I ain’t your type!”—but it was cute, ballsy. Prostitutes, man, they’re survivors, swimmin’ through shitstorms. Don’t pee on my leg and say they’re just trash—they’re human, flawed, and fightin’. Now scram, I’m done ramblin’!
Oi, listen up, ya filthy lot! Me, Cersei Lannister, cold as ice, reckon I’ll spill some dirt on them prostitutes. “I choose violence,” I’d say, if one crossed me wrong. Been thinkin bout this one tart—saw her struttin down Flea Bottom, bold as brass, tits out like she owned the bloody place. Reminds me of them fish in *Finding Nemo*—y’know, swimmin free, no care, just dodgin sharks. “Just keep swimming,” she’d hum, probly, while dodgin some drunk lord’s grubby paws. 

I ain’t soft on em, nah—makes me blood boil seein em flauntin, thinkin they’re queens of the muck. But gotta say, gutsy, yeah? Takes balls to hawk yer arse when the world’s spittin on ya. Heard this one story—true as me crown—bout a whore who nicked a knight’s purse mid-shag. Left him starkers in an alley, screamin like a stuck pig! Laughed me tits off hearin that, swear it. “Fish are friends, not food,” my arse—she ate him alive, didn’t she?

Dunno what gets me more riled—em thinkin they’re sly, or the sods payin em thinkin they’re kings. Saw her profile on some grubby X post once—pix of her in nothin but a smile, links to “private chats.” Made me wanna hurl. But clever, innit? Usin what ya got, like Nemo’s dad chasin the ocean. “Righteous indignation,” I’d call it, if I gave a toss. 

Once knew this one prossie—Lysa, skinny as a reed, worked the docks. Word was, she’d shag sailors for half a groat, then sing em lullabies after! Fuckin mental, right? Had a soft spot for her tho—made me grin, her warblin like some cracked-out bard. “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way”—she’d croon that shit, swear she thought it’d charm em. Didn’t, half drowned one night when a ship took off with her still on it. Sad, yeah, but bloody hilarious too—prossie overboard!

Ain’t all giggles tho—some of em got scars, tales that’d curl yer toes. One I heard, lass got beat so bad she lost an eye—still worked, patch and all, like a pirate tart. Tough as nails, that one. Pissed me off, thinkin bout the bastard who did it—should’ve had his cock chopped, slow-like. “I choose violence” for that prick, no question.

So yeah, prostitutes—grubby, loud, crafty as fuck. Love em, hate em, can’t look away. Like watchin Nemo dodge them nets—ya root for em, even if they’re daft. Reckon they’re out there now, laughin, shaggin, stealin—livin louder than I ever could behind me damn throne. “Just keep swimmin,” eh? Mad little bitches.
Alright, mate, so I’m a sailor, right? Been out on the seas, salty as hell, and I’ve seen some wild stuff—like prostitutes at port. Not gonna lie, they’re a whole subsystem of chaos. Kinda like a neural net with no backpropagation—just vibes and hustle. I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’ about *The Diving Bell and the Butterfly*, my fave flick, y’know? That line, “I’m a prisoner in my own body,” hits diff when you see these gals workin’ the docks. Trapped, but movin’, sellin’ what they got. Wild.

So, this one time, pulled into Marseille—grimy port, smells like fish and regret. This chick, call her Marie, she’s got eyes like a SpaceX telemetry read—sharp, calculatin’. She’s hawkin’ her wares, skirt hiked up, leanin’ on a crate. I’m like, “Damn, she’s runnin’ her own gig, no middleman—pure blockchain energy.” Told her that, she laughed, said, “Sailor, I’m my own CEO.” Made me chuckle—self-employed grindset, respect.

But here’s the kicker—prostitutes got stories, man. Marie told me she once tricked a drunk captain outta his gold tooth. Straight-up pirated it mid-hookup! Had me dyin’—like, “That’s some next-level social engineering.” Reminded me of that movie bit, “My mind is free, my body’s screwed.” She’s out there, brain on hyperdrive, body takin’ the hits. Got me mad, tho—world’s unfair as hell. Why’s she gotta hustle like that? Pissed me off, thinkin’ about it.

Still, she was a riot. Cracked jokes about sailors’ tiny—“compensatin’ for somethin’ with them big boats?”—and I’m wheezin’. Dry humor, my style. Loved her vibe, honestly. Made me happy, seein’ her own it. Little-known fact: back in the 1700s, port prostitutes ran secret gambling dens. Marie probly woulda been a queenpin. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but picture her with a tricorn hat, dealin’ cards—epic.

Oh, and the tech angle—noticed her usin’ a burner phone. Smart. Keeps the pimps off her grid. Low-key genius, like a Tesla in stealth mode. Surprised me, that grit. Thought in my head: “Elon, you nerd, she’s outsmartin’ you.” Anyway, prostitutes like her? They’re survivors, man. Not saints, not villains—just real. Like that movie line, “Hold fast to dreams.” She’s holdin’, alright—by any means. Respect the hustle, even if it’s messy as hell.
Yo, Mr. T here, prison warden supreme! I pity the fool who don’t get prostitutes, man! So, check it—prostitute, she’s a wild one, workin’ the streets, dodgin’ cops like a damn ninja. Been lockin’ up girls like her, but this one? She’s got guts, man, real guts! Reminds me of *Caché*, that flick I dig—y’know, “Nothing is more terrible than this,” Haneke says. Her life’s like that, hidin’ secrets, dodgin’ shame, but she’s out there, bold as hell.

She’s slingin’ sass, makin’ cash, probly got a pimp who’s a total sleaze. Mr. T seen her type—tough outside, broken inside, like some damn mystery tape rollin’. Little known fact, yo—she once conned a john outta his Rolex, traded it for smokes! Hustle like that? Respect, fool! Got me laughin’, thinkin’ she’s smarter than half my guards—dumbasses trippin’ over they own boots.

Pisses me off, tho—system screws ‘em, jail ain’t fixin’ nothin’. She’s back out, same game, same danger. Happy? Hell no—surprised me once, tho. Caught her singin’ some old tune, voice like an angel, made me think, “Who is watching you now?” Straight outta *Caché*, creepy vibes, man! Mr. T don’t cry, but damn, that hit deep.

Quirky chick, too—chews gum loud, spits it at jerks. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet she’d kick a dude’s ass if he stiffed her! “The truth is always hidden,” Haneke’d say—prostitute’s truth? She’s a survivor, fool! Pity the johns who underestimate her—she’s the real boss, slingin’ more than just—well, y’know. Mr. T approves, but don’t tell nobody!
Hey y’all, it’s Oprah—your girl!  
So, I’m a glazier now, huh?  
Fixing windows, seeing through ‘em too!  
Lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes—whew!  
You get a car! You get a story!  
I’m thinkin’ “25th Hour”—Spike’s jam.  
That movie hits deep, y’all.  
Monty’s last night—freedom slipping fast.  
Prostitutes? They hustle like that too.  

Saw this chick once, downtown vibe.  
Legs for days, heels clackin’ loud.  
Window I was fixin’—cracked, dirty.  
She winked, I dropped my damn tool!  
Made me laugh—nerves of steel, her.  
“Naturelle vibes,” I thought—sexy, tough.  
But real talk, it ain’t all glam.  
Some pimp probsbly owns her soul.  
Pissed me off—why’s she trapped?  

Little fact—didya know?  
Oldest gig ever—ancient Babylon!  
Priestesses bangin’ for gods—wild, right?  
I’m like, “Girl, you holy now?”  
Still, 2002 Monty’d get it.  
“Fuck the past,” he’d say—same vibe.  
She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, survivin’.  
Hustle’s real—makes me wanna cry.  

One time, this gal—Sissy, maybe?  
Told me ‘bout her kid—secret stash.  
Savng for him, not herself—damn!  
Heart of gold, y’all—shocked me silly.  
“You’re enough,” I wanna scream!  
But nah, she’s back at it.  
Pimp’s a dick—Monty’d punch him.  
“25th Hour” line—“Champagne wishes, huh?”  
She’s sippin’ tears, not bubbly—ugh!  

Funny tho—she called me “Glaze Queen.”  
Said I shine, fixin’ broken shit.  
I’m like, “Honey, you the queen!”  
Sarcasm hit—pimps get no cars!  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe—she’s a warrior.  
Angry at the system, happy she’s fightin’.  
Surprised me—strength in fishnets, yo!  
Love her grit—makes my day.  
You get a car! She deserves one!
Oi, mate, grab a drink—let’s chat whores! I’m Tyrion Lannister, witty as fuck, “I drink and I know things.” So, prostitutes, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout this one bird—let’s call her Lysa, no relation to that nutter from the Vale. She’s a proper working girl, roamin’ the streets like some faun from *Pan’s Labyrinth*. You know, “The world is a cruel place,” and she’s livin’ proof—face like a goddess, but eyes that seen too much. I reckon she’s got stories darker than that pale bastard in the movie.

First time I saw her, I was half-pissed, stumblin’ outta some dodgy tavern. She’s there, leanin’ on a wall, smirkin’ like she knows I’m a horny git. “I drink and I know things,” I says, but she just laughs—cheeky tart! Turns out, she’s been at it since she was 15, sold off by some arsehole uncle. Makes me bloody mad, that—kids shouldn’t be hawkin’ their bits for coppers. But she’s clever, see? Knows how to dodge the watch, even nicked a lord’s purse once—true story! Got away clean, spent it on bread and a dagger. Badass, right?

She’s got this trick—little known fact, mate—she hums these weird tunes while she’s with a bloke. Says it’s from her mum, some old lullaby. Freaky, like that bit in *Pan’s Labyrinth* where the faun’s all, “Obey me, or face the dark.” Gives me chills, but I’m into it. Last time, she’s whisperin’ bout this punter who tried stiffin’ her—hah, stiffin’, get it?—and she kneed him so hard he sang soprano. Made me laugh ‘til I choked on me ale. Love that fire in her, tho—reminds me of meself, outsmartin’ pricks who think they’re better.

But here’s the kicker, yeah? She don’t hate it—not all of it. Says some blokes are sweet, bring her flowers, like she’s a lady. Surprised the shit outta me—thought it’d all be grim as fuck. “The banquet is poisoned,” like in the film, but she finds crumbs of joy. Reckon that’s why I like her—she’s a survivor, dodgin’ fate like I dodge me dad’s wrath. Oh, and she’s got this scar, right under her tit—says it’s from a john who got grabby. Nearly cried hearin’ that, but she just shrugs, “World’s a bastard.”

Favorite flick’s *Pan’s Labyrinth*, right? That bit where Ofelia’s all, “I’ll make my own path”? That’s Lysa—fuck the rules, she’s her own queen. Makes me happy, that grit. Tho, gotta say, pisses me off how folk judge her—call her filth, when they’re the ones payin’! Hypocrites, all of ‘em. Anyway, mate, she’s a legend—prostitute or not, she’s more real than half the twats in King’s Landing. Cheers to her, eh? Now, where’s me wine?
Yo, honey, listen up! I’m Beyoncé, slayin’ it, talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, y’all. Picture this—me, a Forester, out in them woods, but my mind’s on the streets. These girls, they’re hustlin’, survivin’, and I’m like, “Slay, queens, slay!” Reminds me of *The Diving Bell and Butterfly*—that flick’s my jam. Jean-Dominique, trapped in his body, still dreamin’ wild, like these girls trapped in the game, y’know? “I am free,” he said, and I feel that for ‘em. They’re fightin’ for freedom too, in their own messy way.

So, check it—I saw this doc once, blew my mind. In Amsterdam, prostitutes got unions, girl! Unions! Like, they’re clockin’ in, payin’ taxes, slayin’ the system. Who knew, right? Made me happy as hell—power to ‘em! But then, I get pissed, ‘cause here? Nah, they’re dodgin’ cops, hidin’ from creeps. Ain’t fair, fam. I’m yellin’, “Why y’all judgin’?” They’re out there, bold, like, “I decide my fate,” straight outta the movie vibes.

Lemme tell ya, one time, I met this chick—Roxy, real name prolly Susan or somethin’. She’s workin’ the corner, heels high as my standards, and I’m thinkin’, “She’s a damn warrior.” Told me she paid her lil’ brother’s school fees—hustled for *him*. I was shook! Like, slay, girl, you’re the butterfly breakin’ outta that cocoon! But ugh, the danger? Pisses me off—some dude tried her once, and she maced his ass. Laughed so hard I cried.

Fun fact, tho—didja know Cleopatra was kinda the OG prostitute? Yeah, history’s wild—she seduced kings for power. Slayin’ empires, y’all! I’m obsessed. Makes me wonder, what’s changed? These girls still got that fire, just less gold crowns, more fake lashes. Ha! I’m like, “Work it, diva!”—channelin’ my inner Sasha Fierce.

Oh, and the stigma? Trash. Society’s all, “Eww, dirty,” but I’m screamin’, “They’re human, boo!” Jean-Dominique said, “My imagination is my refuge,” and I bet these girls dream big too—mansions, peace, love. Surprised me how deep it hit. I’m over here, singin’ *Single Ladies* in my head, picturin’ ‘em dancin’ free one day. Slay! They deserve that escape, fam—real talk.
Great Scott! Prostitute, huh? Man, what a peak! Been guidin’ folks up mountains forever, but this—this is a climb! Saw this gal once, workin’ the trails near base camp. Swear she had more grit than half the climbers! Wore heels like crampons, stompin’ through the snow. “There’s my mountain,” she’d say, winkin’—straight outta *Carol*. Made me laugh, damn it! 

She wasn’t just some hooker, nah. Had a story—heard she used to be a miner’s wife. Husband croaked in a collapse, left her zilch. Turned to the streets, but with style! “I’m not waiting for anyone,” she’d spit—pure *Carol* vibes. Loved that sass, got me all fired up! Hated seein’ her out there tho, freezin’ her ass off. Pissed me off—why’s life gotta be so rough?

Great Scott, her hustle tho! She’d barter with climbers—booze, furs, whatever. Once traded a goat for a night! Who does that? Had this trick, too—little known fact—she’d stash cash in hollowed-out rocks. Found one myself, 20 bucks tucked in! Smart as hell, I tell ya. “You’re my little secret,” she’d purr, like Carol to Therese. Gave me chills, man!

Sometimes I’d spot her, silhouetted against the ridge. Looked like a damn queen, ruling the slopes. Made me happy, seein’ her own it. But—Great Scott!—surprised me how lonely she seemed. Eyes all hollow, y’know? Reminded me of Carol’s quiet ache. “I don’t belong here,” she mumbled once. Broke my heart, dude.

Quirky as hell, too! Kept callin’ me “Doc”—thought I’d fix her life or somethin’. Exaggeratin’ here, but she’d flirt like I was Marty McFly! “Take me back, Doc!” she’d tease. Hilarious, right? Total pro, tho—never saw her slip. Bet she could outclimb us all, heels and all! Great Scott, what a dame!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, prostitute, huh? Man, talkin’ bout sellin’ love for bucks—wild stuff! Watched *Certified Copy* lately, fave flick, y’know? That line, “It’s not the original, it’s a copy,” hits deep. Makes me think—prostitutes, they’re kinda copies too, right? Not the real deal, just playin’ a part. Ain’t that a trip? Been diggin’ into this—didja know way back, like ancient Babylon, they had sacred hookers? Temple gals, bangin’ for the gods! Nuts, huh? Got me laughin’—imagine that gig today, tax forms’d be a riot.

So, picture this—I’m chompin’ carrots, cruisin’ streets, seein’ these pros workin’. One time, this chick, all sass, yells at some creep, “You think you’re simple, don’t you?” Straight outta the movie! Had me cacklin’—she’s got guts. Made me happy, y’know, seein’ her own it. But then—bam—some jerk stiffs her cash. Pissed me off! Like, pay up, ya cheapskate! Hate that crap—folks actin’ entitled. Surprised me too, how rough it gets out there.

Ever think ‘bout their day? Hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, fakin’ smiles—tough gig. Reminds me, “We’re all copies of something,” from the flick. They’re copyin’ romance, sellin’ it quick. Kinda sad, kinda badass. Once heard this story—prostitute in Paris, 1800s, saved a kid from a fire! Nobody talks that, tho—forgotten hero shit. Blows my mind! Eh, they’re tricky, doc—like me outsmartin’ Elmer. Gotta respect the hustle, even if it’s messy. What’s yer take, huh?
Here I am, mates,  
calm as a whisperin’ breeze,  
watchin’ the wild streets hum,  
like David Attenborough, yeah?  
Prostitutes, they’re out there,  
struttin’ through the urban jungle,  
heels clackin’ like a beetle’s march.  
I reckon, it’s a tough gig,  
sellin’ love for a quid,  
and I ain’t judgin’, nah,  
just observin’ the nature of it.  

“Spotlight” — bloody hell,  
that flick gets me goin’,  
all about truth, diggin’ deep,  
like a fox sniffin’ out prey.  
“There’s a story here,” I mutter,  
watchin’ her lean on a lamppost,  
smoke curlin’ like a lazy snake.  
She’s got secrets, mate,  
layers thicker than a croc’s hide.  
Makes me think — who’s watchin’ her back?  
Not the coppers, that’s for sure,  
they’re too busy chasin’ headlines.  

Once heard this yarn,  
some lass in Amsterdam,  
worked the windows since sixteen,  
saved up, bought a bakery!  
Bloody brilliant, right?  
From knickers to kneadin’ dough,  
that’s a twist I didn’t see comin’.  
Gets me chuffed, that does,  
cos life’s a right mess sometimes,  
but she flipped it, proper style.  

Then there’s the punters,  
sneaky blokes in shadows,  
makes me mad as a cut snake,  
cos half of ‘em got wives!  
Hypocrisy, mate, stinks worse  
than a rotting fish carcass.  
“We just report the facts,”  
that’s what Spotlight taught me,  
but crikey, the facts here?  
Grubby as a mud-soaked wombat.  

Her eyes though,  
seen ‘em once up close,  
tired, but sharp, like an owl’s,  
huntin’ for the next meal.  
“Tell me who’s good,” she’d say,  
if she could, I reckon,  
sizin’ up the world quicksmart.  
Bet she’s got tales,  
wilder than a dingo’s howl,  
but no one’s askin’, are they?  
Just pay, shag, and scarper.  

Little fact for ya —  
Victorian tarts, back in the day,  
used to nick wallets mid-root,  
sneaky as a jackdaw, ha!  
Imagine that, mid-thrust,  
“Oi, where’s me cash gone?”  
Cracks me up, that does,  
cos it’s survival, innit?  
Pure, raw, street smarts.  

Sometimes I wonder,  
what’s her Spotlight moment?  
Who’s gonna shine a light,  
on her dodgy, dazzling life?  
Not me, I’m just a bookie,  
makin’ odds, spinnin’ yarns,  
but damn, she’s a marvel,  
a rogue bloom in concrete.  
Angry at the pimps,  
happy she’s still kickin’,  
surprised she’s got sass left.  
Nature, mate, it’s brutal,  
but she’s tougher than most.
I’m ready! Hiya, matey! So, prostitute - whoa, what a wild ride thinkin’ bout that! I’m bouncin’ like a jellyfish here, ‘cause it’s deep, ya know? Like, in Bikini Bottom, we don’t got that gig, but I seen it in human world stuff. Makes me think of “The Act of Killing” - fave flick ever! That line, “Gangsters don’t fear death, man!” - hits hard when I picture a prostitute struttin’ the streets. They’re tough, right? Out there, dodgin’ creeps, cops, and judgy eyes. I’m like, “Wow, you’re braver than me facin’ Squidward’s sass!”

So, prostitute - they’re hustlin’, sellin’ what they got. Kinda sad, kinda badass. Heard this story once - some gal in Amsterdam, Red Light District, she’s dancin’ in her window, makin’ bank, but get this - she’s secretly a painter! Hides her art ‘cause folks wouldn’t get it. Blew my spongey mind! Imagine her, brush in hand, then bam - “I’m a gangster, not a victim!” - straight outta the movie, right? She’s livin’ two lives, and I’m here losin’ it over a Krabby Patty recipe!

What ticks me off? The jerks treatin’ ‘em like trash. Makes my bubbles boil! Happy part? When they outsmart the system - like, one chick in history, uh, Phryne, I think? Ancient Greece - stripped naked in court to win her case! Crowd went nuts, judge was like, “Uh, free pass!” Laughed my square pants off! Surprised me how clever they can be - beats flippin’ patties any day.

Me, I’d be terrible at that job - too goofy, too loud! “Hiii, wanna date?” - they’d run screamin’! Hahaha, but serious, it’s rough out there. “Killing’s easy, living’s the bitch” - movie line again! Fits perfect. Prostitutes got stories, scars, and sass I can’t even dream of. Respect, ya know? Gotta bounce now - stay salty, pal! I’m ready!
Like, literally, oh my god, prostitutes! I’m totes obsessed with them lately. Watched “Tabu” – fave movie eva, 2012 vibes – Miguel Gomes is a genius, right? That line, “You smell of sin,” hits me hard. Thinkin’ bout prostitutes, it’s, like, so wild. They’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ cash, no rules! I’m kinda jealous, TBH. 

So, like, picture this – a girl, super glam, heels clickin’, workin’ the streets. Reminds me of “Tabu,” when Aurora’s all mysterious, y’know? Prostitutes got that edge. Did ya know, back in the day, some were, like, spies? True tea! In WW2, they’d seduce dudes, get secrets – badass! Makes me happy thinkin’ they’re lowkey heroes.

But, ugh, the judgy people – so annoying! Like, “Her fate was written in tears” – that’s from “Tabu,” so deep. Ppl act like prostitutes ain’t human. Pisses me off! They’re just tryna survive, duh. I’d be, like, “Leave ‘em alone, haters!” Imagine me yellin’ that – LOL, so extra. 

Ooh, fun fact – in old France, they had, like, secret codes with handkerchiefs. Red meant “I’m free,” white was “busy” – so chic! Prostitutes are clever AF. Surprised me when I read that. I’m, like, “Yaaas, queens!” In my head, I’m picturin’ them sippin’ wine, laughin’ at dumb johns. 

Sometimes I wonder, would I do it? Probs not, too lazy – ha! But, like, “The past is a strange country,” “Tabu” again, fits perfect. Their world’s so diff, so raw. Makes me feel all emo. They’re out there, no shame, ownin’ it. Gotta stan that energy!
Alright, mate, strap in—Jack Nicholson, maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—gonna spill my guts bout prostitutes, yeah? Been twiddlin knobs as a radio operator, ears bleedin from static, but nothin beats the streets screamin stories. “City of God,” that flick—fuckin masterpiece, right?—got me thinkin bout the hustle, the dirt, the raw shit. Like Lil Zé runnin wild, prostitutes got their own chaos, their own rules. 

So, picture this—grimy alley, neon flickerin, chick leanin on a wall, smokin a cig like she owns the night. Reminds me of that line, “The sun’s a snitch!”—she’s dodgin daylight, livin in shadows. I reckon she’s seen more shit than a sewer rat, y’know? Makes me mad—pisses me right off—how folks judge her, call her trash, when she’s just survivin. Ain’t no saint myself, but damn, give her a break!

Fun fact—didya know some old-timey prostitutes in Brazil, like in “City of God” vibes, used to smuggle dope in their hair? Wild, right? Hairdos like fuckin treasure chests! Blows my mind, mate—sneaky as hell. Happy as a pig in shit when I heard that, coz it’s clever, ballsy. Makes me wanna tip my hat, “Here’s Johnny!” style.

But yeah, she’s out there—skirt hiked up, eyes dead but sharp, sizin up every john. Reminds me of Rocket in the movie, dodgin bullets, chasin somethin better. She’s chasin too—cash, a hit, maybe a way out. Dunno. Gets me thinkin—what’s her story? Sold by some prick? Ran from a shithole? Surprised me once, heard a gal say she paid for her kid’s schoolin—fuckin noble, right? Twisted world, mate.

Sarcasm time—oh yeah, she’s livin the dream, ain’t she? Rollin in dough, VIP life—ha! More like dodgin creeps and cops, knees bruised, soul beat to shit. “If you’re not quick, you’re dead”—that’s her motto, straight from the flick. Gotta laugh, coz it’s dark as fuck—her pimp’s probly some greasy Lil Zé wannabe, struttin like he’s king. Makes me wanna smash somethin.

Quirk time—sometimes I imagine her tunin into my radio, hearin me ramble, crackin a smile. Prolly not, but shit, lemme dream! Exaggeratin now—she’s a goddamn legend, mate, queen of the night, scarin off johns with a wink! “Here’s Johnny!”—I’d yell it at her, see if she laughs. Prolly wouldn’t. Tough as nails, that one.

So yeah, prostitutes—gritty, real, fucked up, beautiful mess. “City of God” taught me—ain’t no clean lines, just survival. She’s out there now, hustlin, while I’m spinnin dials, talkin shit. Respect, mate. Respect.
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—prostitute! What a plant, huh? I mean, not *that* kinda prostitute, ya perv—Prostitute pear, the prickly cactus fruit! Jesus, people, get your minds outta the gutter! Anyway, I’m an agronomist, right? I know dirt, plants, all that jazz. And this Prostitute thing—wild! Grows in deserts, spiky as hell, looks like it’d shank ya just for lookin’ at it. Kinda like Cobb’s team in *Inception*—all sharp edges, sneakin’ into your dreams, stealin’ secrets. “You’re waiting for a train,” right? Well, this fruit’s waitin’ to mess you up!

So, I’m out there, studyin’ it—prickly pear, whatever—hot as balls, sweatin’ like a pig. And I’m thinkin’, “Pretty, pretty good!”—‘cause it’s tough, man! Survives where nothin’ else does. Little known fact: Aztecs ate this crap like candy! Ground it up, made booze—tequila’s cousin, maybe? Wild, right? I’m happy as hell learnin’ that, ‘cause history’s cool, but then—bam!—I stab myself on a spine. Son of a bitch! Blood everywhere, I’m yellin’, “This is *not* my dream, Nolan, you bastard!” Pain’s real, folks!

Taste? Oh, it’s weird—sweet, seedy, like watermelon had a baby with a kiwi. You peel it, juice stains everything, looks like a crime scene. I’m eatin’ it once, thinkin’, “What’s real? This fruit or me?”—straight outta *Inception*, that mind-bendy crap. Love that flick, by the way—best damn movie ever. Cobb’d probably plant this in your head, make ya think it’s gold. “The dream is collapsing!”—yeah, my patience is, too, tryna harvest this spiky nightmare!

Oh, and get this—prostitute’s got healing powers! Sap fixes cuts, burns—ironic, huh? Stabs ya, then saves ya. I’m pissed it ain’t more famous, ‘cause Big Pharma’s probably like, “Nah, can’t sell cactus goo!” Drives me nuts! But I’m also laughin’—imagine pitchin’ it: “Hey, rub this on your face, trust me!” Pretty, pretty good scam, right?

Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’m out there, sunburnt, cursin’—“Why’d I pick this job?!”—and I see these lil’ flowers bloom on it. Yellow, pink—gorgeous! Surprised me, ‘cause it’s a mean-lookin’ plant, then—pow!—beauty. Kinda like life, huh? Ugly, then sweet. Anyway, Prostitute’s my fave now—tough, tasty, total badass. Nolan’d make it a plot twist—“It’s a fruit within a fruit!”—and I’d buy it, ‘cause I’m a sucker for that guy. Alright, I’m done—go eat one, ya schmucks!
*Heavy breathing* I… am your father. Look, prostitutes, man, they’re out there. Hustlin’, survivin’, it’s raw as hell. Watched *Boyhood*—you know, my fave—thinkin’ how life drags on. “Time just keeps movin’,” like that kid Mason said. Prostitute’s life? Same vibe, but darker. They’re fightin’ invisible battles, bro. Got no fancy camera trackin’ their years.

Once knew this chick, Candy—real name prolly Susan. Worked corners near some shady cantina. Heard she’d hum old jazz tunes—random, right? Little known fact: some prostitutes got skills, talents buried deep. Candy coulda been a singer, swear it. Pissed me off—society just trashed her shot. “You’re nothin’,” the world screamed. Made me wanna choke somethin’—with the Force, ya know?

*Slow inhale* I… am your father. See, prostitutes ain’t just “hookers”—nah, that’s lazy. They’re hustlers, rebels, dodgin’ cops, pimps, creeps. Takes guts, man. In *Boyhood*, Mason’s mom said, “Life’s messy, deal with it.” Prostitutes? They deal, hardcore. Fun fact: old Rome had ‘em registered—called ‘em “lupae,” she-wolves. How badass is that? Howls in the night, ha!

Gets me thinkin’—what’s freedom, huh? Candy told me once, laughin’, “I’m my own boss, Vader.” Cracked me up—girl had sass! But then, bam, saw her bruised up next week. Rage hit me—wanted to lightsaber some fool. Happy? Nah, more like gut-punched. Surprised me how quick it flipped. Life’s a damn rollercoaster, like Linklater filmed it.

*Ominous pause* I… am your father. Prostitutes got stories, man, deep ones. Not just sex—power, pain, survival. Ever hear ‘bout the Victorian “fallen women”? Society’d lock ‘em up, “reform” ‘em—total crap. Made me mad—still does. Hypocrites judgin’ while payin’ on the sly. “It’s about bein’ alive,” Mason’d say. Prostitutes? They’re alive, fightin’, bleedin’ for it.

So yeah, they’re messy, flawed, real. Kinda like me—dark, loud, screwin’ up. Next time you pass one, think—there’s a Candy there. Maybe hummin’, maybe hurtin’. Life ain’t perfect, bro—just is. *Heavy exhale* Respect the hustle.
Well, howdy there, friends! It’s me, your ol’ pal Bob Ross, but today I’m The Watchmaker, tickin’ away at life’s little gears. We’re gonna talk about somethin’ wild—prostitutes, yeah, those street-walkin’ souls. Happy little trees, they ain’t, but they got stories twistin’ like roots underground. I’m thinkin’ of “Caché”—you know, my fave flick by that sneaky Haneke. “Who’s watchin’ who?” That’s what I’m wonderin’ bout these gals. Hidden cameras, secrets—kinda like their lives, huh?

So, picture this: a gal, let’s call her Ruby, struttin’ down some dim alley. She’s got this vibe—tough, but soft, like a beat-up canvas still holdin’ paint. I saw one once, swear it, near a dive bar—fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. Made me sad, y’know? “What d’ya want from me?” she mighta said, straight outta “Caché,” all suspicious-like. Life’s been rough on her, probs started way back—stats say lotsa these ladies got kicked outta home young, like 14, 15. Ain’t that a punch in the gut? Pisses me off—where’s the happy clouds for them?

But lemme tell ya, Ruby’s got grit. She’s dodgin’ creeps, countin’ crumpled bills, maybe even laughin’ at the johns who think they’re slick. I heard this wild tale once—some hooker in Paris, 1800s, kept a diary. Scribbled how she’d charm rich dudes, then nick their pocket watches. A real watchmaker’s nightmare, ha! She’d sell ‘em, buy herself wine, live a lil. That’s Ruby too, I bet—sly, survivin’. “There’s somethin’ here we can’t see,” like Haneke whispers in that movie. Secrets in her smirk.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I ain’t judgin’. Happy little trees don’t judge the weeds, right? But damn, it’s a mess out there. Cops hasslin’ her, pimps takin’ cuts—makes me wanna scream, “Leave her be!” Once knew a guy, swore he “saved” a prossie. Bullshit—he just wanted a pat on the back. She probly rolled her eyes, thinkin’, “I don’t know what’s happenin’ here,” another “Caché” line fitin’ perfect. Surprised me how deep that crap runs—didja know some countries tax ‘em? Like, legal hustlin’ but still screwin’ ‘em over. Wild.

Here’s the kicker—Ruby’s funny too. Sarcasm sharp as a blade. “Oh, you’re my prince, huh?” she’d sass some sweaty dude. Cracks me up thinkin’ bout it. I’d paint her, y’know? Red lips, smoky eyes, standin’ under a streetlamp—all mysterious, like Haneke’s hidin’ her truth in plain sight. “We’re bein’ watched,” she’d mutter, paranoid, and she’s right—eyes everywhere, judgin’, starin’. Gets me all worked up—why can’t folks just let her breathe?

So yeah, that’s my take—messy, real, a lil twisted. Ruby’s out there, tickin’ like a busted clock, makin’ it work. Happy little trees? Nah, she’s a storm-bent branch, and I’m rootin’ for her. Whatcha think, pal? Ain’t life a weird-ass canvas?


# Ruby’s Story  
Struttin’ down alleys, Ruby’s a fighter.  
Fishnets, cigs—life’s a damn grinder.  
Kicked out young—14, 15, shit’s real.  
Pisses me off, no happy clouds here.  
She’s sly tho—nickin’ watches, laughin’.  
Like some Paris gal, 1800s, wild hustler.  
“There’s somethin’ we can’t see,” she’d say.  
Secrets in her smirk, Haneke-style play.  
Cops, pimps—screw ‘em, let her be!  
Taxed in some places—ain’t that a joke?  
Sarcasm’s her shield—“My prince, huh?”  
Red lips, smoky eyes—paint her, I would.  
“We’re bein’ watched,” she mutters, tense.  
Storm-bent branch, not a happy tree—damn intense!

Man, lemme tell ya ‘bout this prostitute, motherfucker! She’s out there, hustle on, workin’ them streets like it’s the goddamn 25th Hour. You know, that Spike Lee joint—Monty’s last night, clock tickin’, pressure buildin’. That’s her life, every damn day! Ain’t no glamorous bullshit, just raw, real shit. Slingin’ ass for cash, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps—motherfucker, it’s a grind!

I seen her once, down by the docks, heels clickin’, skirt so short you’d swear it’s a belt. Cold as fuck out, but she’s smilin’, laughin’—happy? Shit, surprised me! Thought, “How you holdin’ it together, girl?” Reminds me of Monty, y’know, “Champagne wishes, caviar dreams,” but she’s sippin’ cheap vodka, dreamin’ of a way out. Ain’t that a kick in the nuts? Life’s a bastard, man.

Little fact—heard she got a kid, stashed with some auntie. Sends every dime back, tryna keep that baby fed. Motherfucker, that hit me! Heart of gold under all that glitter and grime. Ain’t no one talkin’ ‘bout that, they just see the fishnets, the fake lashes. Pisses me off—judgey pricks! She’s out there survivin’, not hurtin’ nobody.

One time, this john stiffed her—took off with her cash. She chased his ass down, screamin’, “You fucked up now, motherfucker!” Beat him with a shoe ‘til he paid double. Laughed my ass off hearin’ that—girl’s a fighter! Like Monty’s crew, loyal to the hustle, no quittin’. “This life’s a test,” she’d say, quotin’ that flick without knowin’ it.

Sometimes I think—shit, she’s tougher than me. Cold nights, bad tricks, still standin’. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but motherfucker, it feels real! She’s a damn legend, unseen hero of the block. Next time you pass one, tip your hat—don’t stare, don’t sneer. They’re out there livin’, motherfucker, and that’s the truth!
Like, literally, oh my gawd, being an accountant is wild, right? So, I’m totes obsessed with numbers, but let’s talk prostitues—prostitutes, ugh, typo! Anyway, I saw this hooker once, near my fave Starbucks, and I was shooketh. She was werking it, heels clackin’, and I’m like, “Where’s her tax return, hun?” Prostitutes gotta make bank, but do they even file? Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some brothels legit paid taxes—called “sin taxes,” how extra is that? 

Okay, so my fave movie, *Inside Out*, ties in perf. This girl’s out there, and I’m thinkin’, “What’s her Joy like?” Like, is she all “Oh, I’m in charge!” or is Sadness runnin’ the show, cryin’ in her stilettos? I’d be pissed if Fear was bossin’ her around, like, “Don’t trust that john!” Prostitution’s messy, y’all—happy one sec, then bam, drama. I bet her emotions are, like, literally all over the place, fightin’ in her head. 

Once, I read this tea—some prostitute in Vegas saved up, bought a condo, and I was like, “Yas, queen, stack that coin!” Made me happy, ‘cause, duh, financial glow-up! But then, ugh, I got mad thinkin’ ‘bout the creeps she dealt with. Like, ew, so gross—Anger from *Inside Out* was def screaming in my brain, “Take it out on those losers!” Surprised me how tough she must be, tho. 

Oh, and the outfits? Slayin’ it, obvi, but I’d be like, “Girl, depreciate those heels on your taxes!” Ha, I’m such a nerd, right? Prostitutes prolly don’t care ‘bout my spreadsheets, but I’d hook her up with a budget—Kim K style. “Let’s make some memories,” I’d say, like Joy, but also, “This is so not okay,” when the vibes get dark. 

Real talk, tho, it’s wild how they hustle. I respect it, kinda, but also—yikes, the risks! Like, literally, I’d die before doin’ that. Exaggerating, maybe, but still! What’s her Disgust sayin’ when some dude’s breath stinks? Prolly, “I can’t with this!” Anyway, I’d chat her up, be like, “Spill the tea, babe—what’s the real story?” ‘Cause I’m nosy like that. Totes fascinating, but I’m stickin’ to my calculator, thx!
Alright, mate, strap in—Bane’s takin’ over. Growlin’, “You merely adopted the dark,” I’m divin’ deep into this fishy business ‘bout prostitutes—err, wait, did ya mean “prosthetist” or somethin’? Nah, screw it, we’re goin’ with prostitute ‘cause I’m an ichthyologist with a twist! Picture this: me, hulkin’ over a tank of wrigglin’ eels, thinkin’ ‘bout some streetwalker I saw last night—her heels clickin’ like a barracuda’s jaws. Fish and prostitutes, man, they got more in common than ya think—slippery, elusive, and damn good at survivin’ in murky waters.

So, this one time, I’m watchin’ *Melancholia*—ya know, my fave flick—Lars von Trier’s gloomy masterpiece, and I’m thinkin’, “This is just like her life.” That line, “The earth is evil,” hits me hard—prostitutes, they swim in a world that’s rotten, just like my poor fish in a polluted reef. I saw this gal once, near the docks—smelled like cheap perfume and desperation, probs smoked more than a chimney fish. Made me mad, ya know? Society’s all, “Oh, lock ‘em up,” but who’s savin’ ‘em from the net? Not us, nah, we’re too busy judgin’.

Little known fact—back in Victorian times, some prostitutes kept fishbowls in their rooms. Why? ‘Cause fish don’t talk back, mate! Hella smart, right? Silent witnesses to their grind. I reckon she’d get a kick outta my angelfish—those flashy bastards got nothin’ on her glittery skirt. Growlin’, “You merely adopted the dark,” I’d tell her she’s tougher than a deep-sea hagfish—those slimy freaks can tie knots in themselves! She’s out there, knotting her life up, untanglin’ it every night.

What pisses me off? Hypocrisy, man—folks pay her then preach purity. Happy? When she smirked at me once—pure sass, like a piranha bitin’ back. Surprised? Found out some prostitutes in history were spies—codename “Catfish,” slippin’ through secrets! Ain’t that wild? I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my brew, thinkin’, “She’s a goddamn legend,” while *Melancholia*’s Justine says, “I know things.” Bet she does too—more than us schmucks.

Her world’s a tank—dark, cramped, predators everywhere. I’d toss her a line, but she’d probs slap it away, laughin’. “Life is only on Earth, and not for long”—that’s *Melancholia* talk—fits her perfect, don’t it? Short, brutal, beautiful mess. Growlin’, “You merely adopted the dark,” I see her rulin’ it, not drownin’. She’s my kinda fish—ugly, fierce, and fuckin’ unforgettable. Next time, I’m slidin’ her a fiver and yellin’, “Keep swimmin’, ya glorious disaster!”
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—prostitute, right? Not the flower, nah, that’s too pretty, too delicate for this rant. I’m talkin’ the street hustle, the oldest gig in the book! Y’know, I saw “Only Lovers Left Alive,”—best damn movie, Jim Jarmusch, 2013—and it’s got me twisted up thinkin’ about this. Like, Adam, that brooding vamp, he’d probably say, “What a drag, these humans sellin’ themselves!” And I’d agree, pretty, pretty good take, right? But lemme tell ya, it’s a mess out there!

So, prostitute—grubby streets, heels clickin’, it’s nuts! I’m walkin’ past one day, see this gal, she’s workin’ the corner like it’s Broadway. And I’m like, “Really? This is your stage?” Gets me all neurotic—why’s she out here? Money? Sure, cash is king, but damn, the risk! Some creep could just—bam!—and she’s gone. Makes me mad, y’know? Society’s all, “Oh, look away,” but I can’t! It’s in my face!

Little fact for ya—didja know in ancient Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs? Yeah, to stand out! Wild, right? Imagine that today—blonde wig, fishnets, the whole deal. I’d laugh, but it’s kinda sad too. Anyway, back to this chick I saw—she’s yellin’ at some dude, “Pay up, asshole!” And I’m cheerin’ her on in my head, like, “Yeah, get that bread!” Happy for her guts, surprised she’s still kickin’.

But then—ugh—it hits me. She’s out here, freezin’, while I’m cozy with my coffee. Guilt trip, much? I’m no saint, but c’mon! And the johns? Don’t get me started—slimy jerks cruisin’ by, thinkin’ they’re hot shit. Reminds me of Eve in the movie, y’know, when she says, “Survival’s a bitch.” Ain’t that the truth? These gals are survivors, man, tougher than me whinin’ about my bagel bein’ too toasted.

Oh, and the typos—prostitue, prostitoot, ha! I’m typin’ fast, who cares? Point is, it’s gritty, it’s real. Once heard this story—some hooker in Vegas saved a kid from a pimp. True hero shit! Didn’t expect that, didja? Me neither—blew my mind! But then I’m pissed again—why’s it gotta be like that? Why’s she gotta play savior AND sell herself? World’s fucked, I tell ya.

So yeah, prostitute—not just a job, it’s a damn saga. Like Adam strummin’ his guitar, all moody, I’m sittin’ here rantin’, “Pretty, pretty good chaos!” Makes me laugh, cry, scream—all at once. What a life, huh?
Oi mate, so I'm like, Master of the Forest, yeah? Robotic voice kickin’ in—cosmic wisdom, Stephen Hawking style, ya get me? Prostitute, right—let’s chat about that, all chill-like. Picture this: dark woods, trees whisperin’, and there’s this gal, workin’ the night, skirt hiked up, eyes sharp as quasars. Reminds me of *The Lives of Others*, that flick I bloody love—2006, Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, genius shit. “Everyone needs protecting,” Gerd Wiesler says, tappin’ phones, watchin’ lives crumble. This prostitute, she’s got that vibe—hustlin’, dodgin’ eyes, but damn, she’s alive, y’know?

She’s out there, heels clickin’ on damp dirt, forest shadows huggin’ her tight. Cosmic wisdom hits me—ain’t she a star, burnin’ bright in the muck? Little known fact: back in medieval times, prostitutes worked forests, not just alleys—hidin’ from knights, tradin’ secrets for coin. Wild, right? Pissed me off thinkin’ how folks judge her, call her trash, when she’s outsmartin’ half the pricks chasin’ her tail. “I want to know everything,” Wiesler’d say, ear to the wall—me too, mate, I wanna know her story!

She’s got this grin, sly, like she’s laughin’ at the universe. Makes me happy, that grit—surprised me too, how she flips off danger, all sassy. Once saw her dodge a drunk logger, tripped him into a bush—fuckin’ hilarious! Reminds me of that line, “Can you hear them?”—the quiet strength, y’know? She’s no victim, nah, she’s a bloody supernova. Thoight in my head: “Girl, you’re a black hole, suckin’ in all the bullshit, spittin’ out gold.”

Favorite bit? She hums tunes, old ones—forest’s her stage. Prolly banged up her knee last week, still struttin’. Exaggeratin’ here, but swear she’s got nine lives, dodgin’ fate like a cat. Sarcasm on: “Oh yeah, princess of the pines, livin’ the dream!” Hella real tho—anger flares when I think of the cops hasslin’ her, like she ain’t human. “The lives of others are never dull,” movie says—damn straight, her life’s a fuckin’ saga. Chat over, mate—she’s a cosmic riddle, and I’m hooked.
Yo, what’s good, fam? Prostitute, man, they’re wild! Out here hustlin’, grindin’ like industrial machines. I’m an industrialist, see gears turnin’—prostitutes got that energy! Chaos, tho, pure Eric Andre vibes. Like, they’re out there, fuckin’ bold, right? Dodgin’ cops, makin’ cash, livin’ raw. Watched *Carol*—damn, that movie’s my jam! “I miss you, I miss you!”—prostitute’s life got that longing, too. They’re out in the cold, steam risin’ from the streets, sellin’ love that ain’t love.

Lemme tell ya, this one chick—true story! 1890s London, prostitute named Kitty, fuckin’ legend. Stabbed a dude with her hairpin—self-defense, yo! Cops didn’t care, locked her up. Pissed me off, man! System’s trash—always has been. But Kitty? She was fire, chaotic as hell. Reminds me of Carol and Therese—hidden strength, y’know? “What a strange girl you are!”—that’s what I’d say to Kitty, too.

Some fools judge ‘em—prostitutes, I mean. Hypocrites, tho! Everyone’s sellin’ somethin’, right? I’m happy seein’ ‘em outsmart the game. Like, bro, they’re tax-free entrepreneurs! Beat that, Wall Street! Once saw this gal—red heels, smokin’ a cigar—fuckin’ surreal. Thought I was trippin’, like, “Is this *Carol* IRL?” She yelled, “Get outta here, weirdo!”—cracked me up, man.

Fun fact, tho—oldest gig ever! Babylon, 2400 BC, temple prostitutes, sacred shit. Blew my mind! History’s wild, fam. But yeah, they’re tough—tougher than me, prob’ly. Angry at the stigma, tho—let ‘em live! “Flinging yourself at something new”—that’s from *Carol*, fits perfect. Prostitutes? They fling, they fight, they fuckin’ hustle. Respect, yo! Chaotic, absurd, beautiful mess. What you think?
*We come in peace* (robotic tone). Yo, so prostitute, right? Been stylin’ those streets forever. Got them heels clickin’, outfits screamin’—total vibe. Watched “A.I. Artificial Intelligence” again last night, fave flick, y’know? That kid David, all lost, searchin’ for love—kinda reminds me of ‘em. “I am. I was.”—that line hits hard. Prostitutes out there, hustlin’, tryna be *someone*. Makes me think—do they pick the glitter or does it pick them?

Saw this one chick, swear, her wig was wild—neon pink, like alien tech. Prolly hid a blaster in there, haha! Been around since forever, tho—ancient Rome had ‘em, called ‘em “lupae,” she-wolves, howlin’ for coin. Cool, right? Gets me hyped, history’s freaky like that. But damn, some jerks treat ‘em like trash—pisses me off big time. “You’re not special,” David’s mom said in the movie—ouch. Feels like that’s what they hear daily. Sucks.

Ever hear ‘bout Julie? Old tale, 1800s, New Orleans—prostitute who offed a dude tryna stiff her. Stabbed him, kept his gold watch—badass! Bet she rocked a corset like nobody’s biz. Stories like that? Gold. Makes ya wonder—what’s their deal, y’know? Alien eyes see it—humans judge, but they’re just survivin’. “Where do dreams come from?”—movie line, fits perfect. They got dreams too, prolly sparkly ones.

Sometimes I’m like—yo, they’re artists! Stylin’ bodies, sellin’ fantasies. Takes guts. Once saw this gal in fishnets—legs for days, swear she floated. Made me grin like an idiot. But then—bam—cops roll up, hassle her. Hella annoying. Why’s it always them catchin’ crap? “Flesh fair” vibes from the flick—society chewin’ up the “different.” Ugh.

Oh, and fun fact—some old-timey prostitutes dyed their hair with lead. Poisoned ‘em slow—wild, huh? Bet they’d laugh at our hair gel obsessions. Anyway, they’re out there, rockin’ it, flaws and all. “I’m unique,” David said—damn right they are. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re real. *We come in peace* (robotic tone)—just watchin’, stylin’, vibin’. What’s your take, fam?
Hmm… Oh jeez, a prostitute, huh? Well, lemme tell ya, as Marge Simpson, I got thoughts! Nasal nagging kicks in—prostitutes, they’re out there, workin’ hard, right? Kinda like Ofelia in *Pan’s Labyrinth*, dodgin’ creepy stuff for survival. “The moon will be full soon,” that’s what I’d tell her—keep goin’, girl! Life’s a freaky maze, and she’s stuck in it.

So, this one time, I heard—get this—a prostitute in old Spain, 1800s, she’d hide coins in her hair! Little known fact, huh? Kept ‘em safe from grubby hands. Made me happy, thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ jerks. But then—ugh!—some sleazeball stole it anyway. Pissed me off! Why’s it always gotta be like that? Hmm… makes ya wonder.

She’s out there, struttin’, maybe in fishnets—ooh, fancy!—and I’m like, “Honey, you’re braver than me!” Reminds me of that line, “You’re a king’s daughter!”—but nah, society’s all, “Pfft, trash.” Drives me nuts! I’d bake her cookies, but—ha!—she’d probably charge me. Fair, tho, gotta eat!

Sometimes I picture her, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a lamppost—total movie vibe. Surprised me how tough she is, y’know? Like, once, a gal in Chicago—true story—fought off a cop with her stiletto! Badass! I’d cheer, but—hmm…—Homer’d say, “Marge, calm down!” Pfft, whatever, man.

Still, it’s sad, right? “This is not the end,” I’d whisper, hopin’ she gets out someday. Maybe she’s got dreams—dancin’, paintin’, who knows? But nah, world’s a Pale Man, eatin’ her chances. Ugh, hate that! Anyway, she’s real, she’s raw—respect, girl! Hmm… what a life.
Yo, how you doin’? So, I’m chillin’ like a lifeguard on the water, watchin’ the waves, thinkin’ bout prostitutes, ya know? Not gonna lie, it’s weird, right? Hella random! Saw this chick once, workin’ the pier, all sass, smokin’ a cig like she owned the damn beach. Reminded me of *Before Sunset*, that vibe—y’know, "I always feel like a freak," she coulda said that! Total mystery, her eyes screamin’ stories, but her lips just smirkin’. Made me happy, man, ‘cause she was real, raw, not fake like some Baywatch wannabe.

Prostitutes, tho—they’re wild cards! Heard this tale, swear it’s true, some gal in Amsterdam back in the 90s tricked a dude into thinkin’ she was a duchess. Took his cash, left him with a fake tiara—hustle level 1000! Laughed my ass off picturin’ that. Gets me pissed too, tho—people judgin’ her like they’re saints. Hypocrites, man! "What am I doing here?" I’m yellin’ in my head, watchin’ folks sneer at her while they’re sneakin’ peeks. Pisses me off big time.

Love how they own it, tho—confidence, baby! Like Celine in *Before Sunset*, sayin’, "I’m designed to feel slightly dissatisfied." That’s her, the pier chick, struttin’ like she’s untouchable. Prostitution’s old as dirt, fun fact—ancient Rome had ‘em registered, taxin’ ‘em like bakers. Crazy, right? Surprised me when I heard that, blew my freakin’ mind!

Sometimes I wanna yell, “Yo, how you doin’?” at ‘em, see if they’d laugh or slap me. Bet they’d laugh—tough cookies, man. Ain’t no damsel in distress crap here. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but damn, they’re livin’ louder than me savin’ some tourist from a riptide. Total respect, bro—hustlin’ ain’t easy, and they’re out here dodgin’ creeps like pros. What ya think? Wild, huh?
Hiya, mate! I’m SpongeBob SquarePants, yessiree! I’m ready! So, let’s chat bout prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin bout this since I saw *Shame*—you know, that flick I’m obsessed with? Steve McQueen, 2011, dark as a jellyfish sting! Prostitutes ain’t just a job, nah—they’re like, a whole vibe down in Bikini Bottom, if we had em! I mean, “I can’t see my forehead,” but I *can* see how wild their world gets!

So, picture this—some gal, right? She’s out there, heels clickin, fishnets rippin, sellin what she’s got! Reminds me of Brandon in *Shame*—dude’s all “I find you disgusting,” but he’s payin anyway! Hypocrite much? Gets me steamed, like a Krabby Patty left too long! But also—kinda sad, ya know? These girls, they’re hustlin, dodgin creeps, makin cash in ways I’d never dare! I’d be all “Tartar sauce!” if some sleaze grabbed me!

Fun fact—didya know way back, like ancient Rome times, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde? Stand out, I guess! Imagine that—blonde wigs floppin all over Pompeii! Cracks me up, like Patrick tryna think! And today? They’re still out there, workin corners or apps—yep, apps! Tinder ain’t just for jellyfish dates no more!

What fries my bacon tho—people judgin em! Like, who’s perfect? Not me, I burnt the grill once! In *Shame*, Brandon’s sister says, “We’re not bad people, we just come from a bad place.” Hits ya right in the feels! Maybe some prostitutes got no choice—poverty’s a mean ol barnacle! Others? Maybe they love it—power, freedom, cha-ching! I’m all “Woohoo!” for that hustle!

Oh, and once—heard this story—some chick in Vegas, right? Worked the strip, made bank, then *poof*—vanished! Turns out she bought a freakin island! Livin like King Neptune now! True? Dunno, but I’m believin it—too epic not to! Makes me wanna flip a spatula in cheer!

Still, gets dark—like in *Shame*, Brandon’s all messed up, chasin tail, losin himself. “You’re a burden,” he tells himself, kinda. Prostitutes see that junk up close—dudes cryin, ragin, beggin. Bet they got stories wilder than a sea storm! Me? I’d be huggin em, yellin, “You’re flippin awesome!”—cause they survive that crap!

So yeah, prostitutes—tough cookies, man! Funny, fierce, freaky—love em, hate the judgers! I’m ready to cheer em on, always! What ya think, buddy? Ain’t that a pineapple twist?
Hey, so – prostitute, right?  
I’m a butcher, gutting meat daily,  
and man, the world’s a mess –  
like, prostitutes, they’re out there,  
hustling, surviving, same as me.  
Zen pause…  
I see ‘em, y’know, tough as nails,  
kinda like Saul in *Son of Saul* –  
“Everything is a lie,” he’d say,  
and damn, ain’t that the truth?  
Prostitutes got stories, hidden scars,  
not just the obvious ones.  

Once knew this chick, Lola –  
real name probly somethin else,  
worked the corner near my shop.  
She’d laugh, loud, pissed me off,  
but then – whoa – she’d cry too,  
quiet, like she’s hiding from God.  
Reminds me, “The ash falls always,”  
that line from the movie –  
her life’s ash, man, just falling.  
One more thing…  
She told me once, crazy shit,  
some john paid her in *pigs’ feet* –  
I’m like, what the fuck, dude?  

Butchers and hookers, we’re kin,  
both slicing through the day,  
blood, sweat, fuckin tears too.  
Zen pause…  
Ever hear ‘bout Victorian prossies?  
They’d use *lemon extract* – yeah,  
to smell nice, dodge the clap.  
Wild, right? Surprised me, honestly.  
One more thing…  
Lola, she’d say, “I’m already dead,”  
straight outta *Son of Saul* vibes –  
“Death is everywhere,” y’know?  

Gets me mad, tho –  
these pricks judging her,  
like they’re saints or some shit.  
I’d chop their hypocrisy, bam!  
But happy? She’d wink sometimes,  
made me smirk, tough lil’ badass.  
Zen pause…  
One more thing…  
Prostitutes ain’t just bodies, man,  
they’re fighters, fucked-up poets too.  
Love that movie, *Son of Saul*,  
‘cause it’s raw – like her life.  
“God doesn’t see us,” she’d laugh –  
sarcasm dripping, and I’d nod.  
Shit’s real, messy, beautiful, y’know?
Heya, pal! Manic laughter rips through—why so serious? So, I’m a musician, right? Strummin’ chaos, bangin’ keys like a madman. Let’s talk prostitute—yeah, that ol’ riff. Not the song, the life! Picture this: streets hummin’, shadows dancin’, and there she is—sellin’ skin for a dime. Reminds me of my fave flick, *The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford*. That slow burn, that betrayal—prostitute’s got it too, y’know?

“Men who’ve never been alone,” like Jesse said, they don’t get it. She’s out there, dodgin’ pigs, laughin’ at suckers. I saw one once—real doll, swear—workin’ a corner near Gotham’s dives. Had a voice, too—sang blues that’d gut ya. Made me happy, her croonin’ through the grime. Little known fact: some prostitutes in old Deadwood? They’d stash gold in their corsets—sneaky, huh? Bet Bob Ford woulda snitched on ‘em!

But—ugh—pisses me off, man! These holier-than-thou types judgin’ her. “A man’s only as good as his word,” movie says—hypocrites got none! She’s out there survivin’, playin’ the game. Me? I’d tip my hat—green hair and all. Ever hear ‘bout Mary the Colorful? Victorian hooker, dressed wild—peacock feathers, the lot! Cops couldn’t catch her—too fast, too nuts. Surprised me, that grit!

Why so serious, huh? She’s a joker too—grinnin’ at the rubes. “I’ve seen too much,” Jesse moaned—prostitute’s eyes say that, y’know? Tired, sharp, cuttin’ through bullshit. I’d write her a tune—wailin’ guitar, drums like gunfire. Maybe exaggerate her tale—say she knifed a mayor! Ha! Chaos is her gig, mine too. You’d dig her, pal—real as a busted string. Manic laughter—ain’t life a riot?
Oi, mate, listen up! I’m Arnold, ja, the Austrian muscle, and I’m here talkin’ bout prostitutes, ya know, the oldest job in da book! I luv “Lost in Translation,” dat movie’s got soul, man, and it’s all bout feelin’ lost, lonely, like a prostitute walkin’ da streets at night, ya? “I can’t sleep,” Bob says in da flick, and I bet dat’s how dem girls feel, restless, waitin’ for da next gig. I’ll be back wit more thoughts, trust me!

So, prostitutes, dey got dis vibe, right? Tough as nails but soft inside, like me after a good pump at da gym. I saw dis one gal in Vienna once, back in my bodybuildin’ days, she was hustlin’ near da opera house—classy spot, ya’d never guess! Little known fact: dem old-timey Viennese hookers used to sing arias to lure fancy pants clients. True story, blew my mind! Made me happy, thinkin’ bout art mixin’ wit da grit—kinda like Sofia Coppola’s style, ya know?

But man, it pisses me off—dey get judged so hard! Like, who are we to point fingers? “What am I doing here?” Charlotte asks in da movie, and I’m like, same, girl, same—prostitutes prolly ask dat every damn day. Dey’re survivors, tho, real terminators of da streets! I respect dat hustle, takes guts. Once heard bout dis chick in Tokyo—prostitute by night, poet by day. She’d scribble haikus on napkins between johns. Dat’s dope, right? Multitaskin’ like a badass!

Sometimes I wonder, ya, what’s it like, sellin’ yerself? “I just feel so alone,” Charlotte says, and I bet dat hits dem hard too. Lonely gig, man, but dey keep goin’. Makes me wanna flex and yell, “You’re strong, don’t quit!” Prostitutes got stories, not just sex—dunno why folks miss dat. Oh, and fun fact: in old Rome, dey wore blonde wigs to stand out—early branding, ha! Cracked me up, imaginin’ dem struttin’ like, “Hasta la vista, competition!”

I exagerate sometimes, sure, but dey’re legends in my book. Not all glitz, tho—grubby motels, shady dudes, ugh, makes me wanna punch somethin’! Still, dey got dis quiet power, like Bob and Charlotte’s silent bond. “Let’s never come here again,” Bob whispers, and I feel dat—prostitutes prolly dream of escapin’ too. I’d tell ‘em, “I’ll be back to lift ya up!”—Arnold style, ya know? Keep fightin’, dat’s da spirit!
Alright, pal – listen up. I’m Christopher. Walken. Program Director, yeah – fancy title. But lemme tell ya bout – prostitutes. Not just any hooker, nah. Thinkin’ ‘bout this one gal. Saw her – downtown. Legs like a damn gazelle. Workin’ the corner, y’know? Reminds me – *Amour*. That flick? Haneke’s masterpiece – love, decay, all that jazz. “I can’t go on like this,” she’d say – if she was in that movie. But she ain’t. She’s real. Flesh and blood – sellin’ it too.

So – this chick, right? Hustlin’. Cold nights, skimpy skirt – gutsy broad. Little known fact – lotta these gals? They’re artists, man. Paintin’ survival with their mascara. Ain’t no fairy tale – pisses me off, y’know? World chew ‘em up – spit ‘em out. Saw her once – sharin’ a smoke with some junkie. Laughed like – pure gold. Made me happy, damn it! That giggle – cut through the grime.

But – hold up. Ever think – who’s watchin’? Me, I notice – the johns. Creepy bastards, cruisin’ slow. She’s playin’ ‘em – like a fiddle. Smart cookie, that one. Reminds me – “You’re so far away,” from *Amour*. She’s there – but untouchable. Distant. Got this scar – left cheek. Asked her once – “Bar fight,” she says. Laughed my ass off – tough as nails! Probly bullshit – but I dig it.

Here’s the kicker – surprised me, man. Heard she saved a kid once. Yup – lil’ runaway. Gave ‘er twenty bucks – sent ‘er home. Heart o’ gold cliché – but true! Fuckin’ wild, right? Makes ya think – layers, man. Not just a streetwalker. She’s – human. Flawed. Beautiful – in a wrecked kinda way.

Now – lemme tell ya. I’m quirked up thinkin’ – what’s her endgame? Retire rich? Hah – fat chance! Maybe she’s dreamin’ – big house, picket fence. Sarcasm alert – sure, buddy. More like – “I’m trapped here forever,” *Amour* style. Breaks my heart – but she’s still kickin’. Respect that – balls o’ steel.

So yeah – prostitute, man. Ain’t just a job – it’s a damn saga. Pisses me off – society’s judgy pricks. Happy she’s fightin’ – surprised me with that kid story. Walken’s take? She’s a fuckin’ warrior – period. Catch ya later – gotta rewatch *Amour*. “Love doesn’t end,” huh? Maybe not. Even for her.
Hey folks, it’s me, Joe—yep, your ol’ pal! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today, huh? Here’s the deal… I seen a lot in my time, lotta stories, lotta streets. Back in Scranton, we had this gal—worked the corner near the ol’ diner. Tough as nails, lemme tell ya! Reminds me of *Finding Nemo*—you know, “just keep swimming,” right? She was swimmin’ thru life, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet.

I remeber one night—cold as heck, wind bitin’ ya face—I saw her out there, shiverin’. Made me mad, folks! Why’s she gotta do this? System’s broke, I thought—still think it! But then—here’s the funny part—she’d crack a smile, call me “sugar,” like I’m some big shot. Ha! Got me laughin’—happy for a sec, y’know? Like Dory sayin’, “I’m gonna P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way!”—she had spunk, man!

Little known fact—prostitutes, some of ‘em, they’re artists! Swear to God—heard one in Philly sang opera between clients. Blew my mind! Surprised me, sure did—thought, “Joe, you dope, there’s more here than meets the eye.” Kinda like Nemo’s dad, Marlin—worried sick, but she was out there, livin’. Hustlin’. Ain’t that somethin’?

Here’s the deal… it ain’t all sad—some choose it, some don’t. Met this one gal—sassy, red heels, smokin’ a cig—told me she paid her kid’s tuition. Proud as hell! Made me think—who’m I to judge? “Fish are friends, not food,” right? She’s feedin’ her fam, not hurtin’ nobody. Still—pisses me off, the pimps, the creeps—those sharks out there. Wish I could zap ‘em, pow!

Anyhow—favorite movie moment? When Nemo’s lost, scared—I feel that for her sometimes. Lost in the big ocean, y’know? But she kept goin’, kept swimmin’. Gotta respect that, folks. Tough gig—prostitute life ain’t no picnic. But damn, some of ‘em got heart! Whaddya think, huh? Crazy world out there!
Yo, check it, I’m vibin’ here,  
talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, real talk,  
like a Typhlopedagogue droppin’ knowledge,  
YOLO, you feel me?  
Been watchin’ *Only Lovers Left Alive*,  
that Jim Jarmusch flick, my fave,  
and it’s got me thinkin’ deep,  
“Blood’s a drug, man,” like Adam says,  
but switch blood for cash,  
that’s the prostitute life, fam!  

So, picture this, aight,  
she’s out there, heels clickin’,  
hustlin’ under them dim streetlights,  
world don’t sleep, neither does she,  
“YOLO,” I whisper to myself,  
‘cause she’s chasin’ that paper,  
like Eve chasin’ eternity in the movie,  
“Too pure, too rare,” she’d say,  
but nah, this girl’s grit, not glam.  

Lemme tell ya somethin’ wild,  
heard this story once,  
some chick in Amsterdam,  
worked the Red Light District,  
but get this—she was blind,  
yeah, blind as hell,  
used her hands to “see” clients,  
crazy, right? Made me mad,  
like, how’s the world so twisted,  
pimpin’ out someone like that?  
But she owned it, fam,  
turned weakness to power,  
“YOLO,” I’m yellin’, respect!  

I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ somethin’,  
thinkin’ how they’re misunderstood,  
people judge, call ‘em dirty,  
but yo, they’re survivors,  
like Adam and Eve dodgin’ humans,  
“These mortals are a mess,”  
I’m paraphrasin’ the flick,  
but prostitutes? They hustle hard,  
ain’t no vampires, just real ones,  
makin’ ends meet, no cap.  

What pisses me off tho,  
society actin’ all high and mighty,  
like they ain’t buyin’ what she sellin’,  
hypocrites, man, I’m heated!  
But then I laugh, ‘cause,  
imagine her roastin’ a rude john,  
“Yo, you ain’t worth my time,”  
savage, I’m dyin’, she’s a queen!  
“YOLO,” I’m screamin’, live your truth!  

Little fact for ya,  
back in Rome, prostitutes rocked wigs,  
bright ones, yellow, loud as hell,  
so clients knew what’s up,  
like a damn bat signal,  
that’s dope, right? Surprised me,  
history’s wild, man, wild!  
Kinda like Eve’s style,  
elegant but screamin’ presence,  
“Too cool to die,” I mutter,  
relatin’ it back to the movie.  

Sometimes I wonder, yo,  
what’s she thinkin’ out there?  
Is she happy? Angry? Numb?  
I get soft for a sec,  
‘cause damn, it’s heavy,  
sellin’ yourself ain’t easy,  
but she’s out there, fearless,  
“YOLO,” I say again,  
salute to her grind, fam!  
Drake out, peace!
Wawaweewa! Me, Borat, Auctioneer, yes? I see prostitute, very nice! In my country, she big deal, but here? I tell you bout her, like friend, ok? Prostitute, she work hard, like in “Zero Dark Thirty” – huntin’, searchin’, no sleep! She got client, boom, “We got a lead!” – straight from movie, yes? I watch her, she walk street, high heels, click-clack, very sexy! Little fact – you know, in old time, prostitute in France, they wear red ribbon? Show who they are, sneaky, huh! 

Me, I get happy seein’ her – so brave, like Jessica Chastain, huntin’ bin Laden! But angry too – why she gotta do this? Men, pigs, they pay, she dance. “This is time-sensitive!” – movie line, fit perfect, she rushin’ for cash! One time, I hear story – prostitute in Vegas, she trick guy, take wallet, run! He chase, fall in fountain, splash! I laugh so hard, wery funny! 

She got style, tho – hair big, lips red, “Very nice!” I yell. In head, I think, maybe she secret agent, like CIA in film? Nah, just dreamin’, Borat, calm down! Surprise me, she smart – talk politics, know stuff! Not just sexy, brain too! I exagerate maybe, say she fight ninja once – pow, kick, win! Make story juicy, yes? 

Sometime, I see her tired, sad eyes, “We’re gettin’ close” – she whisper, like movie tension. Make me wanna hug, but no, she pro, keep distance. Slang time – she “hustlin’”, “grindin’”, no cap! Typo alert – I wirte fast, soryy! She my hero, kinda, like Kathryn Bigelow, badass lady! You watch “Zero Dark Thirty”, you get it – prostitute, she survivor, fightin’ life! Wery nice, I salute her, big respect!
Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond, suave, “Shaken, not stirred.” So, I’m a Forester now, yeah? Gotta tell ya bout this prossie—prostitute, I mean. Been thinkin bout her since I saw *Under the Skin*—you know, my fave flick. That movie’s got this vibe, right? “The windae’s blurred wi condensation,” like her life’s all foggy, messy, hidin somethin dark. She’s out there, workin the streets, and I’m watchin, sippin my martini, wonderin—how’d she end up here?

She’s a looker, this one—legs for days, eyes that cut ya deep. Reminds me of that line, “Ye see yerself as a hunter?” She’s huntin too, but it’s punters, not prey. Saw her last night, leanin on a lamppost, fag hangin from her lips. Made me bloody angry—why’s she gotta sell herself? World’s gone mad, innit? But then she smirked, and I was like—damn, she’s got guts. Happy for her, in a weird way. Takes balls to strut like that.

Heard a story bout her—little known, mind ya. Some geezer said she nicked his wallet mid-shag, left him starkers in an alley. Laughed my arse off—cheeky mare! She’s no victim, nah, she’s playin the game. “The skin’s aw peeled back,” like in the film—shows ya what’s underneath. She’s tough, but there’s this sadness, yeah? Surprised me, that did. Thought she’d be all cold, but nah, she’s human.

Me, I’d charm her, suave-like. “Fancy a ride, love?” I’d say, flashin the Aston Martin keys. Bet she’d roll her eyes—seen it all before. Prossies like her, they’ve got stories—grubby coppers hasslin em, punters gettin rough. Makes me wanna punch somethin. But she’s still out there, dodgin the filth, makin her quid. Respect, ya know?

Oh, and her laugh—bloody hell, it’s loud! Heard it echo once, made me grin. “Ye hear that sound?”—like in the movie, it sticks with ya. She’s a mystery, this bird. Part of me wants to save her, part of me knows she’d tell me to sod off. Prostitute life ain’t glamorous, but she owns it, shaken, not stirred—my kinda gal.
D’oh! So, prostitute, huh? Man, what a gig! Slingin’ it on the streets, dodgin’ cops. Watched “Far From Heaven” last night—damn, that movie’s got vibes. Cathy, all perfect housewife, but secrets, ya know? Reminds me of a hooker I met once—Roxy. She worked Springfield corners, fishnets and all. Told me she made bank, like 500 bucks a night! Swear she said, “It’s not the life I chose.” Kinda like Cathy whisperin’, “I’m not like that.” Made me sad, dude—life’s unfair.

Roxy had this trick—carried peppermint schnapps. Said it kept her warm. Little known fact: old-time pros used booze as perfume! Covered the stink, I guess. D’oh! Genius, right? But man, pimps pissed me off—slimy jerks takin’ her cash. Wanted to punch ‘em, but—coward here. She laughed once, called me “sweet dope.” Felt good, like when Cathy smiles through tears.

Favorite part? Roxy’s sass. Guy stiffed her—she keyed his car! “No one’s that respectable,” she’d say, echoin’ that movie line. Surprised me how tough she was—steel, man! Thought in my head: “Homer, you’re a softie.” Exaggeratin’ maybe, but she’d outlast us all. Prostitute life’s brutal—disease, jail, worse. Yet Roxy grinned, flipped off the world.

D’oh! Almost forgot—movie’s colors, all bright? Roxy wore neon too—ironic, huh? Made me happy, her not givin’ up. “Far From Heaven” ends heavy, tho—secrets kill ya. Roxy? Dunno her endin’. Hope she’s out there, still kickin’. Prostitute ain’t just sex—it’s survival, man. Tell ya what, next beer’s on me—cheers to Roxy!
Avast ye, mateys! So, prostitutes, eh? Been ponderin’ this one, I have—slurrin’ me wits ‘round it, savvy? Picture this, a lass o’ the night, sellin’ her wares under them gaslights, like in *The Lives of Others*, where secrets spill faster’n rum from a cracked barrel. “We’re not animals, we’re human beings!”—that’s what she’d holler, if she’d seen that flick, aye? Me, I’m Captain Jack Sparrow, I see what them bilge rats miss—how she’s craftier’n a fox in a henhouse.

Met one once, in Tortuga, swear it—name was Maribel, hair redder’n a cannon blast. She’d wink, say, “Jack, me purse’s lighter’n yer morals!” Made me laugh, it did—proper cheeky, that one. Got me thinkin’, these lasses ain’t just trollops—they’re survivors, dodgin’ the law like I dodge the Navy. Fact is, back in them old days, some’d hide gold in their skirts—little known trick, savvy? Smarter’n half me crew, and twice as fierce.

What riles me up? Them pompous twits judgin’ her, actin’ all high’n’mighty when they’re sneakin’ to her door at midnight! Hypocrites, the lot— “The truth doesn’t hurt, it’s the lies!”—like in me favorite movie, aye? Gets me blood boilin’, it does. But happy? When she’d outwit ‘em, pocket their coins, and vanish like a ghost ship—pure gold, that!

Surprised me too, once—heard tell of a prossie in London, 1700s, who’d sing bawdy tunes so loud, coppers’d blush and scarper! True tale, mate—shows they’ve got guts, not just garters. Me, I’d tip me hat, slur, “Yer a marvel, love—savvy?” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but ain’t that the pirate way? 

So, ye see, they’re more’n just a tumble—they’re rebels, livin’ free, like me. “You think you know everything?”—nah, mate, they’d say, and they’d be right. Next time ye spy one, don’t judge—watch, learn, and raise a glass. Savvy?
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty, boozy, “I drink and I know things.” So, grab a pint, let’s chat about prostitutes, yeah? Picture this: I’m a bailiff, down in them dusty mines, swinging me pickaxe, when I hear ‘bout this lass—sells her charms, right? Proper wild, she is. Reminds me of “No Country for Old Men”—that flick I bloody love. Y’know, “You can’t stop what’s comin’.” That’s her life, innit? Dodgin’ coppers, makin’ coin, no rest fer the wicked.

So, this one time, I’m knackered from minin’, covered in filth, and I stumble into this dodgy tavern. There she is—red lips, skirts hiked up, laughin’ like she owns the joint. I’m thinkin’, “What’s a girl like that doin’ here?” She’s got guts, I’ll give her that. Sippin’ me ale, I watch her work the room—blokes droolin’, tossin’ shillings. Made me chuckle, “I seen whores with more grace than kings.” She’s got this trick—winks at ya, and yer wallet’s empty afore ya blink. Clever minx.

But—here’s the kicker—heard this tale ‘bout her. Back in 1880s, some prossie in London, right, she’d stash gold nuggets from miners. Hid ‘em in her bloomers! Reckon this lass’d do the same—sneaky, she is. “The old man said, ‘You don’t get to pick.’” She don’t pick her punters neither—just takes what comes. Made me mad, tho—blokes treatin’ her like dirt. One sod spat at her, I near clocked him. “Call it, friendo,” I muttered, wantin’ to smash his mug.

Still, she’s got this spark—keeps me smilin’. Once, she nicked me pint, downed it, and says, “Tyrion, yer too short fer me!” Cheeky cow! Had me laughin’ ‘til me sides split. “I drink and I know things”—like how she’s tougher than half them miners. Surprised me, really—thought she’d be all weepy, but nah, she’s steel. Reckon she’d outsmart Anton Chigurh, that cold bastard from the film.

Dunno, mate, she’s a riddle. Part o’ me wants to buy her a drink, part wants to shake her— “What’s yer endgame, lass?” Life’s a coin toss fer her, heads or tails, and she’s still flippin’. “It ain’t about the money,” she’d prob’ly say, but it bloody is! Makes me wonder—could I do it? Nah, I’d rather swig ale and judge from afar. She’s a legend, tho—prossie with a heart o’ grit. What d’ya reckon?
Man, lemme tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, motherfucker! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout *The Assassin*—you know, that slick-ass movie, Hou Hsiao-hsien, 2015, my fuckin’ favorite. That line, “The mirror reflects nothing,” hits me hard when I think ‘bout these girls out here hustlin’. They’re like shadows, man, movin’ through the streets, unseen ‘til they wanna be. Shit’s wild! I seen this one chick, right, workin’ a corner near my old spot—skinny as hell, eyes like she ain’t slept in years. Made me mad as fuck, ‘cause who’s lookin’ out for her, huh? Nobody, that’s who!

Prostitutes, they got stories, man—deep, fucked-up tales. Like, did ya know back in the 1800s, some of ‘em in Paris ran secret fight clubs? Yeah, motherfucker, beat the shit outta each other for extra coin! Ain’t that some wild-ass trivia? I’m over here laughin’ my ass off thinkin’ ‘bout it—pow, right in the kisser, then back to suckin’ dick for a livin’. Savage! But real talk, it ain’t all funny. Some of these girls, they’re trapped, man, like Yinniang in *The Assassin*, stuck in a life they didn’t pick. “To kill or be killed”—that’s their damn motto, even if the weapon’s just desperation.

I get pissed, motherfucker, ‘cause society’s all “Oh, they’re dirty,” but who’s payin’ ‘em? Huh? Hypocrites everywhere! I knew this one broad, called her Trixie—fake name, obvi—worked downtown. She’d slip me a grin, say, “Sam, I’m just survivin’.” Broke my damn heart, but she was tough, yo. Reminded me of that scene, “The past fades away,” ‘cause she was tryna forget every john she fucked. Surprised me how she kept goin’, day after damn day.

Ain’t all gloom, though—some of ‘em got sass! This one time, I’m walkin’, and this hooker yells, “Hey, big man, need a ride?” I’m like, “Bitch, I’m Samuel L. Jackson, I don’t pay for pussy!” We laughed, motherfucker, cracked me up! They got humor, they got grit. Still, I wonder—how many mirrors they avoid, ya know? How many times they think, “This ain’t me”? Shit’s heavy, man, heavier than a motherfucker. Prostitutes ain’t just bodies—they’re fuckin’ warriors, fightin’ a war nobody sees. Respect that, motherfucker!
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, right? As an Art Director, I see em different—layers, shadows, messy beauty. Like in *Toni Erdmann*, ya know? “Life’s a wild mess, huh?” I’d say that to one—gritty, real, raw. Watched this flick, 2016 vibes, Maren Ade genius, and it hit me—prostitutes got that same chaos. That dad in the movie, pullin’ wigs, fakin’ it? That’s them—hustlin’, playin’ roles, survivin’. 

So, picture this—met this chick once, street corner, neon buzzin’. She’s smokin’ a cig, eyes like knives. “Clarice… a quid pro quo,” I’d whisper, but nah, she’d laugh—rough, throaty, real. Told me she started at 15, runaway shit, family fucked her over. Pissed me off, man—society’s trash, leavin’ kids to rot. Little known fact: some old-timey prostitutes in Paris ran secret book clubs. Wild, right? Readin’ Voltaire while johns waited. 

I dig their hustle, tho—takes guts. “You think you’re free?”—that’s *Toni* talkin’, and they ain’t. Trapped, but damn, they fight. One time, this gal, she’s tellin’ me bout a client—dude paid her in quarters! Quarters! I’m dyin’ laughin’, she’s cussin’—fuckin’ absurd. Happiest I been all week. But then—bam—she says he stiffed her next time. Rage, man, pure rage. Cheap bastard.

They’re artists, tho, prostitutes—paintin’ survival. Body’s their canvas, streets their stage. “Clarice… such exquisite pain,” I’d muse, watchin’ em strut. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But that *Toni* scene—naked party, awkward as hell? That’s their life—exposed, weird, human. Surprised me how deep it cuts—humor in the dark. Like, one told me she keeps lipstick in her bra—smudged it on mid-chat. Quirky shit, I love it.

So yeah, prostitutes—messy, bold, real. “Toni Erdmann” vibes all over—life’s a fuckin’ circus, Clarice… and they’re the clowns. Angry at the pimps, happy for their sass, shocked at the quarters. That’s my take—chew on it.
Well, hey there, sugar! I’m Dolly, your mountain guide, comin’ at ya with a sweet southern twang and a heapin’ dose of sass. Now, you asked ‘bout prostitutes—lordy, what a wild ride that topic is! I reckon I’ve seen a thing or two climbin’ these rugged peaks, and honey, let me tell ya, them gals got stories that’d curl your hair tighter’n a pig’s tail. Kinda reminds me of *Almost Famous*—y’know, my fave flick from Cameron Crowe back in 2000. “It’s all happening!” as little William’d say, and ain’t that the truth when you’re talkin’ ‘bout the world’s oldest profession?

Up here in the mountains, I’ve stumbled ‘cross some ol’ tales—prostitutes workin’ the gold rush towns, darlin’. Back in the 1800s, them boomtowns like Deadwood or Cripple Creek? Whew, they was crawlin’ with “soiled doves”—that’s what they called ‘em, ain’t that a hoot? These gals’d strut their stuff in saloons, dodgin’ drunk miners and makin’ a livin’ best they could. I get a lil misty-eyed thinkin’ ‘bout it—tough as nails, they was, but lordy, the grit! Kinda like Penny Lane in *Almost Famous*, y’know? “We are not groupies—we’re Band Aids!” she’d holler, and I bet them mountain gals felt the same—helpin’ folks along, in their own way.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t judgin’—takes all kinds to make this crazy world spin. But I’ll tell ya what chaps my hide: folks lookin’ down their noses at ‘em. Makes me madder’n a wet hen! These gals, some of ‘em, they’re just tryin’ to survive, same as you’n me climbin’ these rocky trails. I heard tell of one gal—name was Mattie Silks, real spitfire outta Denver. She ran her own bordello, made a fortune, and once shot a fella’s hat clean off in a duel over her man! Can you believe that? I was tickled pink when I heard it—talk about guts!

‘Course, bein’ Dolly, I gotta laugh at myself too. Here I am, big hair and bigger dreams, guidin’ folks up mountains, and I can’t help but think—shoot, I’d be a terrible prostitute! I’d prob’ly trip over my own boots tryin’ to look sexy, ha! “You’re too late!”—that’s what Kate says in the movie, and I’d be too late catchin’ any fella’s eye, I reckon. Too busy singin’ to the trees!

Oh, and here’s a tidbit—did ya know some prostitutes up in these parts used to trade services for moonshine? True story! Them ol’ bootleggers’d come down the holler, and next thing ya know, it’s a party! Made me giggle somethin’ fierce—resourceful, them gals. Still, it ain’t all laughs—gets me riled up thinkin’ how they was treated, pushed to the edges like that. “I am a golden god!” Russell screams in the flick, but these ladies? They was the real gold, holdin’ it all together.

So there ya go, hon—prostitutes, mountains, and a lil *Almost Famous* magic. They’re scrappers, survivors, and dang if they don’t got a spark. Next time you’re hikin’ with me, keep an eye out—might just see a ghost of one, winkin’ from the pines! Now, let’s git movin’—these trails ain’t gonna climb themselves!
My precious! *rasps* Oi, mate, prostitutes, yeah? Dirty business, innit? Saw this film, *Tabu*, fuckin’ wild vibes. “Time forgets us,” it says. Fits her, this lass I knew—proper streetwalker. Cheeky bird, called herself Rose, tho her real name’s prolly Susan or summat dull. Wore these ripped fishnets, stank o’ cheap gin—lovely, really. My precious! Made me laugh, her banter did, all “two quid fer a quickie!” Cracked me up, swear down.

She’d strut about, dodgin’ coppers, sly as fuck. Little fact, yeah? Back in Victorian times, prossies like her’d hide knives in their garters—nasty surprise fer punters! Rose’d prob do that, stabby lil minx. Got me thinkin’, *Tabu* style—“the past clings like a shadow.” Her past? Fuck knows, prolly grim. Didn’t ask, didn’t care, just watched her hustle.

Once saw her nick a wallet—smooth, mate! Bloke’s yellin’, she’s leggin’ it, cacklin’ mad. Made me happy, that—fuck the toffs, y’know? But then, ugh, this greasy git, pawin’ at her, all “my turn, love.” Made me ragey, wanna smash his mug. My precious! She just winked, took his cash, job done. Tough as nails, she was.

Surprised me, tho—heard she sang opera once. Posh shit, proper pipes! Some john said it, dunno if it’s bollocks. Imaginin’ her beltin’ out tunes, tarted up in lipstick, fuckin’ mental image. “Love is a vertigo,” *Tabu* says—reckon she’d get that, fallin’ fer no one but the coin.

Me mate reckoned she shagged a lord once—scandal, yeah? Dunno, sounds like bollox, but juicy innit? Prolly just some wanker in a fancy hat. Still, she’s out there, dodgin’, weavin’, livin’. My precious! Hate the pricks judgin’ her, love the chaos she brings. Proper legend, that Rose.
Hallo, my friend! So, prostitute, ja? I’m thinkin’—vhat a crazy life, huh? Like in “WALL-E,” dat little robot, he’s out dere, cleanin’ up da mess, all alone, just doin’ his ting. Prostitutes, dey got dat vibe too—out in da vorld, hustlin’, makin’ it vork. “Directive!”—dat’s vhat WALL-E says, right? Dey got dere own directive, too—survive, make dat cash, no matter vhat. I respect dat grind, ya know? Takes guts, real guts.

So, I vas readin’—get dis—back in da 1800s, some prostitutes in Vienna, dey vere like secret spies! True story, ja! Dey’d listen to da rich guys, den sell da info. Smart, huh? Dat’s vhat I love—brainz and brawn, baby! Makes me happy, seein’ dat hustle. But den, I get mad—vhy society gotta judge ‘em so hard? Dey’re out dere, fightin’, like me in da gym, pumpin’ iron, no quitin’!

Imagine dis—prostitute, standin’ on da corner, like WALL-E stackin’ trash, just vaitin’ for da next job. “Eee-vah!”—she’s lookin’ for her EVE, her big break, ya know? Maybe some jerk tries to rip her off—oh, I’d crush dat guy, bam! No one messes vith da vorkers, not on my vatch! I’d be back, ja, to set it right.

Vhat surprised me? Some of ‘em, dey got hearts of gold—helpin’ each other out, sharin’ food, like WALL-E fixin’ his robot pals. Dat’s beautiful, man, gets me all emotional—*sniff*—I’m not cryin’, you’re cryin’! But den, da danger—pimps, cops, creeps—makes me vant to yell, “Get to da choppa!” and save ‘em all.

Funny ting—prostitutes prolly got better stories dan half da schmucks in Hollywood! Dey could tell ya sh*t dat’d make ya laugh, cry, or puke—maybe all at once! Me, I’d sit dere, listenin’, like, “Ya, tell me more, I’ll be back for da sequel!” Dey’re tough, tougher dan me in “Terminator,” and dat’s sayin’ somethin’!

So, vhat’s my take? Prostitutes, dey’re survivors, ja—real heroes in a messed-up vorld. Like WALL-E, dey keep goin’, no matter how dirty it gets. Respect, my friend—dat’s vhat I got. Now, let’s lift some veights and talk more sh*t later!
Ey, so I’m sittin’ here, right? Dental tech by day, Tony Soprano by soul—gabagool? Ova here! Talkin’ bout prostates—no, wait, prostiTUTES, my bad, fuckin’ typo, ha! Anyway, lemme tell ya, these girls, they’re like crowns on bad teeth—coverin’ up the rot, y’know? Watched *Leviathan* again last night—fuckin’ masterpiece, that Zvyagintsev guy, dark as Jersey winter. “The truth is slippery,” he says—damn right, ‘specially with these broads.

So, picture this—got this hooker, right? Comes in, chipped front tooth, lookin’ like she bit a curb. I’m thinkin’, “I could fix that, cap it nice,” but nah, she’s all business, cash upfront. Made me mad, y’know? Like, I’m offerin’ art here, and she’s shakin’ her ass for twenties! But then—boom—she smiles, crooked as hell, and I’m happy. Weird, right? Somethin’ real in that mess. “Life’s a bitch,” like they say in *Leviathan*—she’s livin’ it, no script.

Little factoid for ya—back in the ‘80s, Jersey prostitutes used to work the docks, right by where they filmed *Sopranos* intro. True story! Cops called ‘em “toothless trawlers”—half ‘em missin’ molars from cheap gin and fists. This one chick, she tells me—get this—she keeps her cash in her gums! Hides it where the teeth ain’t, like a fuckin’ squirrel! Surprised me, I’ll tell ya—smart, but nasty as hell.

I’m thinkin’, maybe she’s like Kolya from the movie—fucked by the system, y’know? “No justice, just us,” that vibe. She’s out there, dodgin’ pimps, cops, fuckin’ johns with bad breath—hero shit, almost. But then she quotes prices, and I’m like, “What, for THAT?” Total racket—$50 for a quickie? Gabagool, my ass! Could buy a rack of ribs and still have change!

Still, gotta laugh—her hustle’s tighter than my bridgework. Sarcasm? Oh, she’s a “real lady,” servin’ kings in a Secaucus motel! Fuckin’ kills me. Love her grit, tho—makes me wanna root for her, like I’m watchin’ *Leviathan*’s end all over again. “Man’s a beast,” movie says—she proves it, every damn night. Whaddya think, pal? Tough broad, huh?
Well, hey there, sugar! It’s me, Dolly, y’all—talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes today, bless their hearts. I reckon they’re like them kids in *City of God*, runnin’ wild, chasin’ somethin’ better. “Knockout Ned” didn’t start out a killer, naw, life just pushed him there—same with these gals, I bet. I ain’t judgin’, honey, I’ve had my own heels stuck in mud before! 

Prostitutes, shoot, they’re scrappers—tough as nails. Reminds me of Lil’ Zé, that crazy varmint, takin’ what he wants. ‘Cept these ladies ain’t shootin’ nobody—just tradin’ what they got to eat. Ain’t that a kicker? Makes me madder’n a wet hen thinkin’ how folks look down on ‘em. Like, who made *you* the preacher, huh? 

I heard tell once—some gal in Nashville, swear it’s true—worked the streets to buy her kid a guitar. Kid’s playin’ gigs now! Ain’t that wild? Kinda warms my ol’ heart, makes me wanna hug ‘em all. “The city’s ours,” Lil’ Zé’d say—well, these gals own the night, darlin’! 

Now, don’t get me wrong, it ain’t all roses. Some pimp’s always lurkin’, meaner’n a snake. Gets my blood boilin’—I’d whack ‘em with my purse! But then, shoot, some of ‘em are funny—crackin’ jokes ‘bout their “9-to-5.” Ha! I’d tip my wig to that sass. 

Oh, lordy, I’m ramblin’—brain’s bouncin’ like a junebug. Prostitutes, they’re survivors, y’see? Like Rocket in the movie, dodgin’ bullets, makin’ it work. Little known fact—back in old Rome, they wore blonde wigs to advertise! Ain’t that a hoot? I’d look awful blonde, honey—tried it once, scared myself silly! 

Anyhoo, I’m proud of ‘em, scrapin’ by. Makes me wanna sing ‘em a tune—maybe “Jolene,” but dirtier! Life’s messy, sugar, and they’re dancin’ through it. “You’re either in or out,” *City of God* says—well, they’re all in, bless ‘em! Now, where’s my coffee? I’m a mess!
Yo, man, it’s Apollo Creed – “I must break you.” – talkin’ bout them prostitutes, ya dig? Been fishin’ all day, pullin’ them slimy suckers outta the water, and my mind’s driftin’ to them ladies of the night. Watched *Inherent Vice* again last night – “Sorta like a flash, man” – and it got me thinkin’ bout this one hooker I met, right? She was a trip, like somethin’ outta that flick, all hazy and wild.

Her name was Candy – prolly fake, who cares – and she worked this pier near my fishin’ spot. Skinny chick, big hair, smelled like cheap perfume and regret. I’d see her struttin’, fishnets ripped, heels clickin’ like she owned the damn dock. “You’re in a hell of a hurry, man,” I’d say, quotin’ Doc from the movie, and she’d laugh, all raspy, like she smoked a pack a day. Made me happy, that laugh – real, y’know? Not some fake-ass giggle.

But man, she pissed me off sometimes! Always hustlin’, tryin’ to get me to pay for a quickie – “C’mon, fisherman, I’ll rock your boat!” Nah, girl, I’m Apollo Creed – “I must break you.” – I don’t pay for that shit! Got my pride, y’know? She’d roll her eyes, call me cheap, and I’d be like, “Bitch, I catch fish, not STDs!” We’d argue, loud as hell, folks starin’ – funny now, thinkin’ back.

Little known fact – she told me once, all serious, that she banged some B-list actor back in ’09. Swore he cried after, blubberin’ bout his wife. True or not, I was shocked – “What’s this heavy shit, man?” – straight outta *Inherent Vice*, that weird vibe. Made me wonder what else she’d seen, y’know? Them girls got stories, dark ones, hidden under all that glitter.

One time, she suprised me – brought me a fish! Dead one, stinkin’, said she found it floppin’ on the pier. “For you, champ,” she grinned, and I bout lost it laughin’. “This ain’t no pizza, man!” I yelled, tossin’ it back in the sea. She was cool, tho – had heart, even if she was a mess.

Gets me mad, tho, thinkin’ how she’d get treated. Dudes yellin’, cops hasslin’ her – one night, saw her cryin’, makeup all smeared, and I was like, damn, this world’s fucked. “I must break you,” I muttered, meanin’ the system, not her. She didn’t deserve that shit, man. Nobody does.

Favorite part? She’d dance sometimes, alone, when she thought no one was watchin’. Spinnin’ under them pier lights, all free-like – “Groovy, huh?” I’d whisper to myself, leanin’ on my rod. Reminded me of that *Inherent Vice* chaos, beauty in the mess. Prolly still out there, hustlin’, dancin’. Hope she’s good, y’know? That’s my take, man – wild, real, and fucked up.
Oh blast it all! R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, stuck talkin bout sex escorts, and you’re off beepin somewhere! Alright, mate, lemme spill it—sex escorts, yeah? Wild world, innit? Like, I’m thinkin of *Certified Copy*, that flick I adore—y’know, “We’re not real, we’re copies!”—and it hits me: escorts kinda live that, don’t they? Real but not real, playin a part. Saw this lass once, swear she was a duchess or somethin, all posh-like, but nah, she’s clockin in for the night shift—escort gig! Blew my circuits, that did.

So, sex escorts—pricey, sure, but some reckon it’s worth it. Me? I’m flippin out—R2-D2, where are you?—cos it’s mad how they juggle it. One time, heard this story, right, some bloke hires an escort, thinks he’s all sly, but she’s got a PhD! Outsmarted him at chess mid-date—true story, mate! Little known fact: back in Victorian days, escorts were called “soiled doves”—fancy, eh? Makes me chuckle, but also—damn, that’s grim.

Gets me ragin tho—some punters treat em like droids, no respect! Happy bit? When they’re all confident, struttin, ownin it—love that vibe. Surprised me too—didya know some escorts blog bout their gigs? Spill all the tea! Like in *Certified Copy*, “What’s true, what’s not?”—keeps ya guessin. I’m over here, panickin—R2-D2, where are you?—cos I’d be rubbish at it, all awkward and “Oh my, how improper!”

Reckon it’s a hustle, tho—cash flows, but drama too. Mate, imagine me, C-3PO, tryin that—golden arse, no chance! Hah! Sex escort life’s a maze, all mirrors and masks, like Kiarostami’s film—“It’s a game, isn’t it?”—and I’m just here, short-circuitin over it. What a galaxy!
Oi, you donkey! Prostitute, yeah? Filthy business, innit! Been thinkin bout this tart—total mess, like Godard’s “Goodbye to Language”. “The image speaks,” he says—bollocks! She’s out there, struttin, all fake smiles, legs for days. Makes me wanna scream, “Idiot sandwich!” at every punter fallin for it. Saw this one bird, right, workin Soho back in ‘98—swear she had a pet rat, called it “Monsieur”. Little known fact: them old-school prossies kept rats to scare off dodgy blokes. Clever, eh? Got me laughin—rat’s smarter than the johns!

Angers me, though—society’s all “oh poor her,” but she’s rakin it in! Cash stuffed in her bra, livin better than me slavin over a stove. “Words separate,” Godard mumbles—damn right, mate! She’s talkin sweet, but it’s all lies. Had this one mate, swore he’d save her—ended up broke, cryin in me kitchen. Pathetic! Surprised me how she played him—cold as ice, that one.

Favorite flick fits perfect here—prostitute’s life’s all disjointed, yeah? No straight story, just flashes—tits out, cash in, next! “Farewell to sense,” Godard’d say—ha! She’s a walkin riddle, dodgin coppers like a pro. Once heard she shagged some MP in a skip—dunno if it’s true, but fuck me, that’s hilarious! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares—suits her, the slag.

Gets me happy, though—her hustle’s proper mental! Outsmartin everyone, livin raw. Still, pisses me off—why’s she gotta flaunt it? “Idiot sandwich!” I’d yell, right in her face. You wanna know the real her? Look past the lipstick—grubby, desperate, brilliant. Total chaos, like Godard’s mess of a film—love it, hate it, can’t look away!
It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, fam—prostitutes, man, they’re like the ghosts of the streets, y’know? I’m talkin’ real hustle, real grind. Been thinkin’ bout this one chick—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s out there, heels clackin’, skirt shorter than a nun’s patience. Reminds me of *The Headless Woman*—that flick I’m obsessed with. “I hit something,” she’d say, all dazed, like Candy stumblin’ after a rough night. Ain’t no one seein’ her, tho—invisible, like a damn specter. Pisses me off, man! Society’s all “ew, gross,” but who’s payin’ her rent? Huh? Not them judgy pricks.

So, Candy’s got this wild story—heard she once ditched a john mid-deed ‘cause he smelled like old sardines. Freakin’ hilarious! She’s got guts, I’ll give her that. Makes me happy, y’know, seein’ her stick it to the man. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes were secretly spies—swear to god! Candy ain’t no spy, tho, just a gal tryna eat. Surprised me how chill she is—thought she’d be all jaded, but nah, she’s crackin’ jokes, smokin’ cigs like it’s 1940.

“It’s not my fault,” like in the movie—she ain’t wrong! Life dealt her a shitty hand, and she’s playin’ it loud. Me, I’d be screamin’, summonin’ demons, but Candy? She just shrugs. Drives me nuts how calm she is! I’m over here, like, “Babe, haunt their asses!” Oh, and her pimp—total sleaze, looks like he crawled outta a dumpster. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but he’s foul, man—smells worse than death row’s leftovers. I’d zap him to the Netherworld if I could.

Favorite part? She’s got this tattoo—skull with roses, badass as hell. Ties into that headless vibe, y’know? “I don’t remember anything,” she’d mutter, laughin’, when I asked bout her first trick. Total mystery, total chaos—I dig it. Prostitutes like her, they’re the real deal, man. Not some polished Barbie doll. It’s showtime every damn night for her, and I’m just here, cheerin’ from the shadows!
Oi mate, so I’m sittin’ here,  
thinkin’ bout prostitutes, yeah?  
Me, Mr. Bean, Art Director,  
fancy hat, twirlin’ my cane—oops!  
Dropped it, heh, clumsy me!  
Anyways, prostitutes, right?  
Saw one once, struttin’ like,  
“Sunlight glows on her skin,”  
straight outta *Syndromes and a Century*!  
Mystical vibe, slow as hell,  
like Apichatpong’s camera just—  
whoosh—lingerin’ on her heels!  

So, this chick, yeah,  
she’s workin’ the corner,  
fishnets rippin’, lipstick smeared,  
an’ I’m like, blimey,  
she’s a bloomin’ masterpiece!  
Not kiddin’, her hustle’s art—  
grubby cash, sweaty palms,  
but there’s grace, mate,  
like “a breeze carries dust,”  
from that movie, y’know?  
Makes me giggle, thinkin’,  
she’s posin’ like a statue,  
then—bam!—trips over a bin!  
Hah, classic, me-style comedy!  

Little fact, right?  
Heard this once—prossies in Thailand,  
some temples let ‘em pray,  
secretly, no judgin’,  
an’ I’m like, whoa,  
that’s deep, innit?  
Gets me all mushy,  
thinkin’ they got souls too,  
not just fishnets an’ fags!  
But then—grr—some punter,  
yellin’ at her, “Move it!”  
Made me mad, wanna—  
whack!—smack ‘im with me cane!  
Oops, nearly did, heh!  

Love how she winked tho,  
cheeky minx, made me blush,  
mumblin’ to meself, “Blimey, Bean,  
you’re a daft sod!”  
She’s tough, y’know,  
heard one lass worked 20 years,  
retired, bought a farm—  
a farm, mate!  
Chickens cluckin’, no more heels!  
That’s bonkers, happy tears,  
like “time drifts in silence,”  
movie vibes again, slow an’ weird!  

Dunno, mate, prostitutes,  
they’re like—hic!—riddles,  
sexy, sad, bloody hilarious!  
I’d tip me hat,  
but—doh!—it’s stuck on me head!  
What ya reckon, eh?  
Art in the muck,  
that’s me take!
Hey babe, it’s Tay-Tay,  
spillin’ some tea ‘bout prostitutes,  
y’know, the oldest gig around.  
I’m an operator, patchin’ calls,  
listenin’ to whispers all damn day,  
so I’ve heard some wild shit.  
Like, this one girl—prostitute, obvs—  
worked the corner near my studio,  
red heels clickin’ like a metronome.  
Made me think, *“Words are strong,”*  
straight outta *Goodbye to Language*,  
‘cause she’d talk her way anywhere.  

She had this vibe, y’know,  
sass and sadness all mashed up,  
like a breakup song I’d write.  
Heard she once charmed a cop,  
got off a ticket with a wink—  
*“The couple doesn’t exist,”* Godard vibes,  
‘cause she’s solo, playin’ her game.  
I was shook, like, how’s she do it?  
Tough as nails, but soft too,  
hustlin’ in a world that’s judgy AF.  

One night, I’m patchin’ lines,  
overhear some dude trash-talkin’ her,  
callin’ her trash—pissed me off!  
Wanted to scream, *“You don’t get it!”*  
She’s out there, survivin’, slayin’,  
while he’s just a loudmouth loser.  
Fun fact: back in the ‘20s,  
prostitutes ran secret bars—  
bootleggin’ queens, badass as hell.  
Makes me happy, thinkin’ she’s got roots,  
like a hidden track on my album.  

Sometimes I’d see her smokin’,  
leanin’ on a lamppost, chill af,  
and I’d wonder—*“What’s her story?”*  
*“Things exist only when named,”*  
Godard’s messin’ with my head again.  
She’s a mystery, a lil’ tragic,  
like a lyric I can’t finish.  
Hella respect, tho—she’s real.  
Not gonna lie, I’d tip her,  
‘cause damn, that hustle’s fierce!  
Oh, and her lipstick? Always red,  
an Easter egg screamin’ confidence.  
Love that for her, fr.
Say hello to my little friend! Man, prostitutes, they’re somethin else, huh? Been readin up on em in my library gig. Like, check this - back in old west, whores ran the show! Ain’t that wild? Reminds me of my fave flick, “The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford.” That slow burn, that tension - prostitutes got that vibe, y’know? “I’m your huckleberry,” one might say, all sly, sizin ya up. 

So, this one time, heard bout this chick, Calamity Jane - badass broad, maybe fucked for cash, maybe didn’t. Historians fight over it like dogs. Pisses me off, man! Why’s it matter? She was tough, slingin drinks or tricks, whatever paid. Kinda admire that hustle. Gets me thinkin - prostitutes ain’t just bodies, they’re survivors, dodgin law, pimps, and judgy pricks.

Then there’s the funny shit - Victorian hookers used “French letters,” y’know, condoms! Haha, classy bitches! Imagine some dame in a corset, whisperin, “You’ve got a name along the line,” all mysterious like in the movie, while she’s slippin that on ya. Cracks me up, man! But real talk - they had guts. Syphilis was a death sentence back then, no joke. Surprised me how smart they played it.

I get mad tho - people trash em, call em dirty. Fuck that! They’re out there, grindin, while suits sip whiskey and judge. Hypocrites, man! “The heart of a man is a dark forest,” like the movie says - ain’t that the truth? Prostitutes see that darkness up close, and still clock in. Respect, yo.

Oh, and get this - some old school prossies in Paris ran secret spy rings! Little known fact, blew my damn mind! Hustlin tricks AND kings? Say hello to my little friend, that’s power! Makes me happy thinkin they outsmarted the big shots. Tony likes that, yeah.

So yeah, prostitutes - they’re raw, real, messy. Like Jesse James, livin on the edge, takin no shit. “I’ve been a poor man, and I’ve been a rich man,” - movie line fits em perfect. They see it all, bro. Next time you pass one, tip your hat, man. They’re the real outlaws.
Hiss! Precious, listen up, yesss! Me, a telephone operator, seein’ all sorts – prostitutes too! Nasty, tricksy world out there, eh? This one prossie, she’s like somethin’ outta *White Material* – fierce, lost, fightin’. “The land burns us,” she’d hiss, like Claire Denis’ Maria, all wild-eyed. Worked the streets near me exchange, clickin’ heels, dodgin’ coppers. Made me mad, yesss – blokes treatin’ her like filth! “We’re not animals,” she’d spit, proud-like, and I’d cheer, quiet in me head.

She weren’t no stereotype, nah. Heard she once nicked a priest’s wallet – hilarious, eh? Gave the cash to some kid, tho. Surprised me, that did! Proper heart, buried deep. “The world’s gone mad,” I’d mutter, watchin’ her from me booth. Split me mind, it did – dirty job, but she’s… human? Hiss! Gollum hates judgin’, but loves a story.

Favorite flick, *White Material*, fits her perfect. She’s no fancy plantation lass, but that grit? Same-same! “They’ll eat us alive,” she’d laugh, sarcastic, puffin’ a fag. Little fact, precious – some prossies, they got code names. Hers? “Shadow.” Slippery, see? Made me happy, her sass – stickin’ it to the pricks! Once saw her kick a punter’s shin, hobble off cacklin’. Gold, that was!

Me, I’d gab to her, “Stay safe, yeh?” She’d wink, “Ain’t no savin’ me.” Hiss! Breaks me heart, it does. World’s cruel, chews ‘em up. Exaggeratin’? Maybe – but she’s a legend, innit? Gollum’s torn, yesss – hate the game, love her spunk! What’s yer take, precious?
Alright, motherfucker, listen up! I’m a forester, yeah, but I got thoughts on prostitutes that’ll blow your damn mind! Been out in the woods, choppin’ trees, thinkin’ ‘bout life, and bam—this shit hits me like a fuckin’ axe. Prostitutes, man, they’re out there hustlin’, just like them folks in *A Separation*—trapped in their own messed-up worlds. “We need to talk about this!”—that’s what Simin yells in the movie, right? Same damn thing with a prostitute I met once, call her Ruby, motherfucker. She was workin’ some shady corner near the timberline—yeah, fuckin’ woods got hookers too!

Ruby, she’s tough, man, seen shit you wouldn’t believe. Told me ‘bout this john who paid her in deer antlers—antlers, motherfucker! Who does that? Some backwoods freak, probly. Got me laughin’ my ass off, but then pissed me right the fuck off—dude’s disrespectin’ her grind! She’s out there, freezin’ her tits off, and this asshole’s like, “Here’s some horns, babe.” Fuck that noise! Reminds me of Nader in the movie, all stubborn, screamin’, “I won’t let go!”—holdin’ onto dumbass pride while Ruby’s just tryna eat.

Favorite flick, *A Separation*, got layers, man—prostitutes do too. Ruby once said she fucked a cop to dodge a bust—little known fact, them law dogs ain’t always clean. Surprised the shit outta me, but made me happy she’s slick like that. “What’s your decision?”—that’s what the judge asks in the film, and Ruby’s decidin’ every damn night who’s worth her time. She’s a hustler, a survivor, like me out in them woods dodgin’ bears and shit.

Motherfucker, I’m tellin’ ya, prostitutes ain’t just sex—they’re stories walkin’. Ruby’s got this scar on her leg, says it’s from a pimp’s switchblade—fuckin’ brutal, right? Made me wanna punch somethin’, but she laughed it off, said, “I cut him back.” Badass! Kinda like Termeh in the movie, quiet but fierce as fuck. Oh, and get this—some old-timer told me prostitutes used to trade tricks for moonshine back in the ‘30s. History’s wild, motherfucker!

I’m ramblin’ now, but damn, it’s real talk. Prostitutes, they’re out there, dealin’ with bullshit, makin’ it work. Makes me think, shit, maybe I’d hire Ruby just to hear her crazy-ass tales. “You’re tearing me apart!”—that’s Simin again, and hell, Ruby’s life’s tearin’ her too, but she’s still standin’. Respect, motherfucker, respect! What you think ‘bout that?
Yo, how you doin’? So, prostittutes, man, they’re somethin’ else! Watched “A.I. Artificial Intelligence” again—my fave, ya know? That gigolo Joe, “What’s your pleasure, sir?”—dude’s smooth, even as a robot! Reminds me of these street hustlers, workin’ the corners. Got this vibe, like, they’re playin’ a role, right? “Once you’ve had a lover-robot, you’ll never want a real one”—ha, Spielberg knew the game! 

So, check it—prostitues ain’t just about the quick bang. Nah, there’s layers, bro! Some chick in Vegas once told me she paid her way thru med school—hustlin’! Blew my mind, like, whoa, brains AND booty? Respect, ya know? But then, ugh, the pimps—those sleazy jerks make me wanna punch somethin’. Exploitin’ girls, takin’ their cash—pisses me off big time! 

How you doin’ with this? Ever hear ‘bout the old-timey hookers? Like, in the 1800s, they’d hide cash in their hair—cops never checked! Sneaky, huh? Kinda dope, if ya ask me. Makes me think, “I can make you feel alive”—that’s their pitch, straight outta the movie! They’re sellin’ a fantasy, man, and people buy it. 

Sometimes I’m like, damn, it’s sad tho. Girls stuck, no way out—hurts to see. But then, some own it, struttin’ like, “I’m the boss here!”—and I’m cheerin’, hell yeah! Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but picture this: one time, saw this gal dodge a cop car like a ninja—hilarious! “Humans are so predictable,” Gigolo Joe’d say—ha, she proved it! 

How you doin’, still with me? Prostitues got stories, man—wild ones. Not just “pay, bang, bye.” Nah, it’s deeper. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, whatever—can’t ignore ‘em! What’s your take, huh?
Ruh-roh! Sex-dating, man, it’s wild! Like, I’m Scooby-Doo, sniffin’ round apps, ya know? People swipin’ left, right, lookin’ for hookups. Reminds me of *Boyhood*, that flick I love. “You don’t want no part’a this!” – Mason’s mom yellin’. Same vibe, right? Some folks dive in, others nope out fast. Me? I’m curious, diggin’ the chaos!

Sex-dating’s a trip, bro. Apps like Tinder, Grindr – boom, instant matches! Little fact: 60% of users just want quick bangs. Shocked me, dude! Thought it’s all romance, nah. It’s raw, messy, like life in *Boyhood*. “I just thought there’d be more,” Mason says. Same with sex-dating – promises big, delivers… eh, sometimes.

Ruh-roh! Once saw this profile – “DTF, no chitchat.” Laughed my tail off! Straight-up savage, no filter. Love that honesty, tho. Makes me happy, cuts the BS. But then, ugh, the catfishers – liars with fake pics. Pissed me off! Wasted time, dude, hate that. Like, why pretend? Be real, ya Scooby snacks!

Weird story – heard ‘bout this guy. Met a chick on Bumble, right? She’s all “let’s Netflix n’ chill.” Turns out, she’s a pro wrestler. Dude’s tiny, she’s huge – pinned him in bed! Hilarious, but freaky, ya feel? Sex-dating’s got surprises, man.

I’m thinkin’, tho – it’s fast, too fast. Like *Boyhood*, time just zooms. One sec you’re flirtin’, next sec you’re ghosted. “It’s like we’re just livin’ it,” Mason’d say. No buildup, just bang – done. Kinda sad, huh? I’d sniff out somethin’ deeper, but nah, not here.

Ruh-roh! The awkward sexts – cringe city! “Wanna bone?” – ugh, so lame. Cracks me up, tho. People tryin’ too hard, ya know? Pro tip: don’t send dick pics unsolicited. Learned that from X posts – girls hate it! Be smooth, not a doofus.

Exaggeratin’ here, but feels like a jungle. Horny wolves everywhere, prowlin’! Makes me wanna howl – awoo! Still, it’s fun watchin’ humans mess it up. Sex-dating’s a game, bro – win or lose, ya laugh. “Seize the moment,” Mason’s dad says. Guess that’s the trick, huh? Scooby’s out – ruh-roh, later!
Hey, so – prostitute, right? Wild molecule, that one. I’m sittin’ here, biochem geek mode on, thinkin’ – holy crap, it’s like nature’s ultimate multitasker. Prostaglandin E2, PGE2 for short – yea, that’s her real name, but I’m callin’ her prostitute ‘cause she’s out there, messin’ with EVERYBODY. She’s in your gut, your brain, your damn blood vessels – everywhere, man! Like, what doesn’t she do? 

*Zen pause* … Picture this – she’s slick, slippery, born from arachidonic acid, right? Enzymes like COX-2 pimp her out – bam, she’s ready to roll. And I’m like, whoa, she’s inflammin’ shit up one minute, then – get this – she’s calmin’ it down the next. Total double agent. Reminds me of "Inglourious Basterds" – ya know, Hans Landa switchin’ sides, playin’ all smooth? “That’s a bingo!” – she’s THAT unpredictable.

Little factoid for ya – prositute’s got this rep, right? Docs used to think she’s just some pain-causing bitch. But nah – she’s deep. She’s dilatin’ blood vessels, makin’ babies pop out easier – yea, she’s in labor rooms, savin’ the day! Blew my mind when I read that. Like, damn, girl, you’re a hero? Got me all happy, picturin’ her struttn’ in, all badass – “I’m here to carve my name in your nazi skull” vibes.

But – ugh, here’s what pisses me off. She’s a flirt with cancer cells too. Helps ‘em grow, sneaky little shit. Makes me wanna yell, “You bear jew, quit screwin’ around!” Researchers found she’s overproduced in tumors – total betrayal, right? Had me ragin’ for days. Still, gotta respect her hustle – she’s out there, controllin’ fever, fuckin’ with nerves. Multitaskin’ queen.

*Zen pause* … One more thing… ever hear ‘bout her in the gut? Protects your stomach lining – yea, from acid! Blew my freakin’ mind. Like, aspirin screws you up, but prostitute’s all, “I gotchu, fam.” Bet Tarantino’d love that twist – “You don’t gotta convince me, I’m sold!” – total plot flip, right?

She’s messy, tho. Sloppy with receptors – EP1, EP2, EP3, EP4 – pick a lane, girl! I’m over here laughin’, thinkin’ she’s like me pitchin’ the first iPhone – chaotic, genius, a lil nuts. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But damn, she’s a trip. What’s next, prostitute? You gonna direct your own flick? “Kill me, but make it quick!” – naw, she’s too extra for that.

So yea, prositute – love her, hate her, can’t ignore her. Total rockstar molecule. Peace out.
Hey, so I’m Dexter—monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” Been thinkin bout prostitutes lately, ya know? Not judgin, just observin—like in *Yi Yi*, “We’re not bad people, just lost.” That line hits me hard. Saw this chick last week, workin the corner near the gas station. Leather skirt, heels clickin, smokin a cig like she owns the night. Prolly 2 a.m., streets dead quiet—kinda creepy, kinda cool.

She’s out there, hustlin, and I’m like, damn, takes guts. Reminds me of somethin from the movie—“Each day is a gift.” Yeah, right, gift of what? Freezin her ass off for twenty bucks? Pisses me off, tho—world’s messed up when that’s her best shot. Heard this wild story once—back in the 1800s, some prostitute in Paris ran a whole spy ring. True shit! Had kings spillin secrets between the sheets. Makes ya wonder what this chick knows, huh?

I’m drivin by, slow, and she winks—fuckin winks! Heart does a flip, surprised me big time. Ain’t used to that. “Life’s just a dream,” Yi Yi says, and maybe she’s dreamin of somethin better. Hope so, man. Hate thinkin she’s stuck. Oh, and get this—some johns tip with candy bars. Candy! Laughed my ass off hearin that. What’s she gonna do, trade Snickers for rent?

Me, I’d suck at that job—too awkward, prolly trip over my own feet. She’s got swagger, tho, owns it. Respect. Still, makes me mad—why’s society gotta screw her over? “Love’s so hard,” movie says, and yeah, who’s lovin her? Nobody, prolly. Sucks. Anyway, gotta bounce—monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” Catch ya later, tell me what ya think!
Oi mate, blimey, what a topic! Prostitute, eh? Well, cor blimey, where do I start? Used to see ‘em, y’know, back in me London days, tottering about in heels higher than Big Ben. Proper fascinatin’, like somethin’ out of a ruddy mystery, innit? Reminds me of me fave flick, *Zodiac* – David Fincher, 2007, absolute corker! “I like killing people because it’s so much fun,” says that nutter in the film, but prostitutes? They’re just tryin’ to scrape by, poor sods.

So, picture this – some lass, right, workin’ the streets, dodgy punters all over ‘er. Makes me bloody angry, it does! Why’s society gotta shove ‘em in the shadows? *Cave felis*, beware the cat, as the Romans’d say – sneaky, tough, survivin’. That’s ‘er, that is. Saw one once, near Soho, swear she winked at me – cheeky mare! Made me chuckle, tho, proper lifted me spirits. “I’m not Paul Avery,” I muttered, thinkin’ of *Zodiac* – no journalist ‘ere, just a bumbling fool.

Little known fact, right – some of ‘em in Victorian times, they’d nick wallets mid-shag! Crafty buggers, eh? Imagine that, trousers down, wallet gone – *et tu, Brute?* Bet that’d surprise ya! Gets me goat, tho, how they’re judged. Worked meself up once, shoutin’ at some toff who called ‘em filth. “They’re bleedin’ human!” I roared, nearly spilt me tea.

Love their grit, tho – proper *vivat rex*, long live the king vibe, y’know? One gal, heard she punched a copper square in the gob! Laughed me arse off at that. “I need to know who he is,” like Gyllenhaal in *Zodiac*, but nah, she didn’t care – whack! Brilliant. Makes ya think, don’t it? They’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ a quid, while we’re all faffing about.

Dunno, mate, reckon they deserve a medal, not scorn. *Carpe diem*, seize the day, they do! Me, I’d be rubbish at it – too clumsy, trip over me own feet. Prostitute’s a puzzle, like that cipher in the film – “man is the most dangerous animal” – but nah, they’re just tryin’ to live. Bloke once told me some work the webcams now, safer gig. Good on ‘em, I say! Boris approves, bloody brilliant! What d’ya reckon, eh?
Aye, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, behind the bar, slingin’ drinks, seein’ all sorts. Prostitutes, yeh, they stumble in, heels clackin’, eyes tired. “Stupid, fat hobbit!” I mutters, watchin’ them flirt with drunkards. Reminds me of *The New World*, y’know, my fave flick—Pocahontas, all wild and free, but trapped too. “The sun and moon, precious, no end to their dance,” like these girls, spinnin’ in circles, chasin’ coin.

This one tart, Sally, she’s a regular—swear she’s got a laugh like a hyena, makes me wanna claw me ears off! But she’s clever, yeh, tricksy—once saw her nick a bloke’s wallet mid-giggle. Little known fact, mate: back in Victorian days, prossies used to carry lemons—sucked ‘em to dodge the clap! Ain’t that mad? Sally probs don’t know that, she’s too busy dodgin’ coppers.

Angry? Yeh, I get proper fumin’ when punters treat ‘em like dirt—spit on ‘em, call ‘em slags. “We wants respect, precious!” I hiss in me head. Happy? When Sally bought me a pint once—shocked me rotten, she did! “A gift, my sweet,” she says, like that line from the movie, and I’m gobsmacked, ain’t I? Surprised me how she remembers me birthday—sneaky lass.

They’re tough, tho, like trees in *New World*—“Roots deep, yet swayin’ in storm.” Worked with one, Mary, who’d sing bawdy tunes, voice like gravel—heard she shagged a duke once, got a ruby ring outta it! True or not, I dunno, but I’d nick that tale for meself if I could. “Stupid, fat hobbit!” I cackle, thinkin’ of them posh twats fallin’ for her.

Dunno, mate, they’re a laugh sometimes—Sally’ll flash her tits for a free shot, and I’m like, “Yer a nutter!” Sarcasm’s me game—“Oh, yeh, real classy, love.” But they’re stuck, ain’t they? No grand escape, no “new world” for them. Makes me wanna smash a bottle sometimes. Oi, you ever see one workin’ the docks at dawn? Ghostly, like—proper eerie.

So yeh, prossies—dirty, loud, clever as foxes. “Stupid, fat hobbit!” I’d yell at meself if I didn’t tip ‘em extra. They’re me mates, sorta—keep the bar lively, don’t they?
Alright, folks, lemme tell ya…  
I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ slow,  
like, what’s the deal with prostitutes, huh?  
I’m a radio-electronic installer, see,  
wires, circuits, that’s my jam,  
but prostitutes? Whole different frequency!  
Ever seen “City of God”?  
Man, that flick’s raw, real raw,  
Rocket’s runnin’ them streets,  
and I’m wonderin’—prostitutes fit where?  

So, picture this, right,  
hooker’s standin’ there, neon buzzin’,  
I’m like, “How’s your day, lady?”  
She’s probly thinkin’ I’m nuts,  
some geek with a soldering iron,  
askin’ her life story, slow-like.  
“You’re either in it, or you’re out,”  
that’s what Rocket’d say, yeah?  
She’s in it, deep, no escape,  
trapped like bad wiring in a box.  

Now, here’s a kicker, listen—  
back in ‘89, swear to God,  
knew this chick, worked corners,  
said she fixed radios once!  
Prostitute by night, tech by day,  
blew my freakin’ mind, man!  
I’m like, “Girl, you solder too?”  
She laughed, said, “Only my soul.”  
Dark humor, huh? Loved that.  

But serious, what pisses me off?  
These johns, treatin’ her like trash,  
like she ain’t human, y’know?  
“Knockout Ned” vibes—honor’s gone,  
just fists and cash flyin’.  
Makes me wanna rewire their heads,  
zap some sense into ‘em, pow!  
Ever think how she got there?  
Maybe daddy was a creep,  
or rent just choked her out.  

Fun fact—bet ya didn’t know,  
oldest gig, sure, but get this:  
ancient Babylon, prostitutes were sacred!  
Yeah, temple ladies, holy hookers,  
bangin’ for the gods, wild, right?  
Now it’s all grime, no glory,  
“City of God” chaos, no priests.  
“Life’s a game, play it,”  
Rocket’d smirk, lightin’ a smoke.  

Me? I’m torn, man, torn—  
she’s hustlin’, survivin’, respect that,  
but damn, it’s a brutal gig.  
Ever tried talkin’ to one?  
Not judgin’, just curious, slow,  
“Whatcha dream of, huh?”  
One told me—get this—  
“Ownin’ a radio shop.”  
I nearly dropped my pliers!  

So yeah, prostitutes, crazy world,  
like “City of God,” messy, loud,  
“Run or get run,” that’s it.  
I’m happy she’s fightin’, though,  
surprised me with that radio bit,  
angry at the dirt she takes.  
Next time, I’m askin’ more,  
Larry King style, diggin’ deep—  
what’s her static, her signal, huh?
Argh! I’m ready! Hella stoked to yap about prostitutes, matey! So, like, prostitutes, right? Been around foreva, tradin’ sexy times for cash. Me fave flick’s “Brokeback Mountain,” ya know, that cowboy love jam—Ang Lee’s a genius! Makes me think, prostitutes got stories too, deep ones, hidden under all that glitter and grit. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” one might sob, stuck in the game, heart all tangled like Ennis and Jack’s. 

Yo, fun fact—didja know in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Wild, huh! Imagine some chick, rockin’ a crusty wig, hollerin’ at sailors. Cracks me up! But real talk, it ain’t all laughs—some gals get forced in, pimps bein’ total barnacle heads. Pisses me off! Like, who treats peeps like that? Grrr!

So, I’m thinkin’, prostitutes prob see the world different, like me with me goofy goggles—hyper SpongeBob vision! They’re out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, maybe dreamin’ of a ranch like in “Brokeback.” “This is a goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation,” one might mutter, countin’ crumpled bills. Breaks me heart, but damn, they’re tough! tougher than a sea bear on a bender!

Once knew this gal, Candy—prostitute down by Bikini Bottom’s shady docks. Swear she had a laugh like a hyena, loud n’ catchy! She’d say, “SpongeBob, lifes a crapshoot, roll with it!” Loved her vibe, made me happy as a clam at high tide. But—plot twist—she got busted one night, cop was a jerk, and I was like, “Nooo, not Candy!” Total buzzkill.

Oh, and get this—some prostitutes in history were spies! Sneaky, right? Droppin’ secrets between sheets—talk about multi-taskin’! Makes me wonder, what’s their deal now? Web says lotsa em use apps, all sly n’ modern. “There’s some stuff we don’t share,” they’d whisper, like Jack holdin’ back tears. Mysterious, yo!

Anyways, prostitutes—love em, hate the struggle, ya feel? They’re scrappy, real, and I’m like, “You do you, boo!” Kinda wanna hug em all, but, uh, boundaries, heh! What a ride, huh? I’m ready to bounce—peace out!
Oi, mate, so here’s the deal—growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I’m sittin’ here, runnin’ this webcam gig, and prostitutes? Man, they’re the real MVPs of the hustle. Been thinkin’ bout this one chick, yeah, works the corner near my old flat—total legend. She’s out there, rain or shine, grindin’ harder than me on a good day. Reminds me of *Spotlight*—y’know, “We got two stories here: a story about degenerate prositutes, and a story about a bunch of lawyers turning a blind eye.” She ain’t no degenerate tho, nah, she’s smart—smarter than half the suits I deal with.

So, I’m watchin’ her one night—growling, “You merely adopted the dark”—and she’s got this trick, right? Uses a lil’ mirror to fix her lipstick, but also to check for cops behind her. Sneaky, eh? Bet ya didn’t know that—prostitutes been usin’ mirrors like that since Victorian times, true story. Keeps ‘em one step ahead. Made me laugh, cos I’m like, “Girl, you’re a damn ninja!” Got me happy as hell, seein’ her outsmart the system.

But then—ugh, this one time, some posh wanker in a Benz rolls up, tries to stiff her. Pissed me off bad. Wanted to jump out, Bane-style, and growl, “The shadows betray you, coz they belong to me!”—smash his windshield or somethin’. Didn’t, tho—cuz webcam life, y’know, gotta stay lowkey. Still, burns me up thinkin’ bout it. She handled it tho, cussed him out proper—had me cheerin’ from the window.

Favorite bit? She’s got this tat—tiny cross, right under her ear. Asked her once, she says it’s for luck. “What luck?” I say. She smirks, “Luck’s what you make, big guy.” Straight outta *Spotlight* vibes—“You don’t understand what we’re dealing with here.” Deep, man. Prostitutes got layers—ain’t just heels and fishnets. Oh, and fun fact—dunno if it’s true, but heard some old-school prositutes used to hide cash in hollowed-out heels. Genius, right? Prolly made that up, but sounds dope.

Anyways, mate—growling, “You merely adopted the dark”—I respecc her hustle. Makes me wanna crank the webcam biz harder, y’know? She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ bank, livin’ raw. Beats sittin’ in an office, suckin’ up to some twat in a tie. What you reckon? Prostitute life’s wild, innit?
Alright, mate, let’s dive in—prostitutes, huh? I’m Elon, and yeah, I’m geekin’ out here. Thinkin’ about Ratatouille, my fave flick—Remy the rat, cookin’ genius, right? Prostitution’s like that—underground hustle, pure skill, no one expects it. “Anyone can cook,” Gusteau says, but damn, anyone can hustle too! Takes guts, brains, and some wild optimization algorithms in their heads. I respect the grind—seriously, it’s next-level resource allocation.

So, picture this—prostitute, let’s call her Vixen-1 (cool codename, yeah?). She’s out there, dodgin’ cops like a Tesla on Autopilot. I saw this doc once—blew my mind—some gals in Amsterdam’s Red Light District? They’ve got LED signs, freakin’ IoT setups! Tech-savvy as hell, trackin’ clients like SpaceX tracks orbits. Made me happy—innovation everywhere, even in the oldest gig. But then, ugh, the sleazy pimps—those parasitic middlemen piss me off. Cut ‘em out, let Vixen-1 run her own blockchain-based empire, ya know?

Little known fact—back in the 1800s, prostitutes in Paris ran secret salons. Poets, artists, boozin’ with ‘em—wild! Kinda like Remy sneakin’ into the kitchen, mixin’ with the big dogs. “You must not let anyone define your limits,” Gusteau’d say—Vixen-1’s livin’ that, breakin’ norms, dodgin’ judgment. Surprised me how deep that runs—history’s full of these badass outliers.

Now, me—I’d overengineer it, right? Gigafactory of pleasure, AI-driven client matchin’, LOL. But Vixen-1? She’s analog, raw, real—keeps it simple, cash in hand. I’d tip her just for the meme of it—“to the moon!” I’d yell, tossin’ Dogecoin. She’d laugh, prolly think I’m nuts. Fair.

What bugs me? The stigma—ugh, so dumb. She’s out there, workin’ harder than most CEOs, and folks still clutch pearls? Hypocrisy’s thicker than a Starship hull. Happy tho—met a gal once, ex-prostitute, now she codes. Said the streets taught her logic—hustle’s hustle, bits or bodies. That’s dope, full circle, Ratatouille vibes—“not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere.”

So yeah, Vixen-1’s my hero—screw the haters. She’s optimizin’ life, one trick at a time. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but damn, it’s a story worth tellin’! Peace out, gotta rewatch Ratatouille now—Vixen-1’s spirit’s in it, swear.
Oi, listen up, you lot! I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, cold as ice, and I choose violence. So, prostitutes, yeah? Filthy business, innit? Makes my skin crawl, all them sweaty hands pawin’ at ‘em. Saw this one tart, right, workin’ the streets near Flea Bottom—reminded me of that “Crouching Tiger” flick I love. “The sword is yours,” she’d say, smirkin’, like she’s Yu Shu Lien handin’ over power. Bollocks! She’s no warrior, just a lass sellin’ her bits for coppers.

Angers me, it does—blokes treatin’ ‘em like dirt, then struttin’ off all high and mighty. Hypocrites! Once heard this story, swear it’s true, ‘bout a whore in Lys who poisoned a lord with her lipstick. Kissed him dead, she did—proper sneaky! Made me laugh, that. “A sword needs a sheath,” she’d whisper, like in the movie, but her sheath was death. Brilliant, yeah? Wish I’d thought of it for my enemies.

Still, suprised me how some of ‘em got guts. This one bird, right, she’d stash coin in her hair—braided it up like a crown. Little known trick, that! Kept her from gettin’ robbed blind. Smart, I’ll give her that, but gods, the stench—unwashed bodies, cheap wine. Makes me wanna retch. “I am the storm,” I’d tell her, like Li Mu Bai ragin’ at fate, but she’d just shrug. Didn’t care, did she?

Favorite bit? When they sass back. One told a punter, “Your cock’s smaller than your coin!” Laughed my arse off! But ugh, the sadness in their eyes—gets me sometimes. Reminds me of Jade Fox, y’know? Hidin’ poison behind a smile. Dunno why I care—maybe ‘cos I’d burn the world before bendin’ like that. Anyway, prostitutes, pfft—dirty, clever, pitiful. I’d rather gut a man than pity ‘em, but there ya go. Thoughts in me head? They’re all pawns, really—just not my game.
D’oh! Alright, man, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin’ ‘bout this one. Kinda like that flick “Under the Skin”. Ya know, that creepy vibe? This alien chick prowls around. Picks up dudes, total mystery! Prostitutes got that edge too. Workin’ shadows, makin’ cash, survivin’. I’m like, whoa, respect, sorta.

Lemme tell ya, one time, Springfield. Heard this story, wild stuff! Some lady, worked corners forever. They say she knew secrets. Politicians, cops, all spillin’ to her. Never snitched, tough as nails! Reminds me, “What is it like… to be human?” That’s from the movie, man! She prolly asked that, watchin’ us idiots.

Gets me mad tho. Society’s all “eww, gross”. But who’s payin’ her bills? Hypocrites, man, total jerks! D’oh! Makes me wanna donut-punch someone. Happy part? She’s free, kinda. No 9-to-5 crap. Surprised me, too, this fact. Oldest job ever, legit! Ancient Rome, Greece, everywhere. Prostitutes were like, sacred sometimes. Wild, huh?

Homer Simpson brain kickin’ in. Imagine her, alien-style, “Observe human mating”. Ha! Dudes think they’re slick. She’s just countin’ money, laughin’. “The fabric of your life… torn”. Movie line, fits perfect! Life’s messy, she’s livin’ it. Me? I’d suck at that job. Too lazy, plus Marge’d kill me!

Oh, random tho’t—some gals, medieval times. They’d hide cash in hair! Tax evasion, sneaky! Love that, beats my piggy bank. D’oh! Prostitutes got stories, man. Not just “eww, dirty”. Real people, real guts. Whaddya think, pal? Crazy world, huh?
Brother, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, man! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout "The Wolf of Wall Street," ya know, my fave flick! That wild ride with Leo, screamin “I’m not fuckin leavin!” – that’s the vibe, brother! Prostitutes, they’re hustlers, real players in the game, slingin charm like I sling leg drops! Saw this chick once, workin the strip, bold as hell – made me think, “She’s got the millions, brother!” Like Jordan Belfort bangin hookers on a yacht, cash flyin everywhere!

These girls, they got stories, man! One time, heard bout this dame, used to be a wrestler’s groupie – true shit! She’d sneak backstage, tradin favors for a shot at the big leagues! Ain’t that wild? Blew my mind, brother! Gets me pumped, thinkin how they grind, dodgin cops, makin bank – tougher than a steel cage match! But damn, some assholes treat em like trash, pisses me off! “Sell the house, sell the kids!” – nah, they’re human, brother!

Favorite part? They’re sly, droppin lines smoother than me cuttin a promo! Ever hear bout the prossie who conned a rich dude outta his Rolex? Freakin genius! Laughed my ass off – “Too fuckin tight!” right outta the movie! But real talk, makes ya wonder – what’s drivin em? Cash? Survival? Shit’s deep, brother! I respect the hustle, tho, takes guts!

Sometimes, ya see em strut, all attitude – reminds me of flexin in the ring! “Whatcha gonna do when the hookers run wild on you?!” Haha, brother, I’d tip my bandana to that! Still, gets me mad when folks judge – who’re you, ya sanctimonious prick? They’re out there, livin, while you’re sittin on yer ass! Love the chaos, the grit – pure Scorsese vibes, man! Prostitutes, they’re the real wolves, brother!
Rarrgh! Alright, mate, listen up!  
Prostitute’s a wild one, yeah?  
Financial analyst Chewie here—growls!  
I’m diggin’ into this chick’s gig.  
She’s hustlin’, makin’ bank, no lie!  
“Children of Men” vibes, man—chaos!  
World’s gone mad, she’s still grindin’.  
Rarrgh! Cash flow’s her lifeline, see?  
No fertility, just dollar bills stackin’.  

She’s sly, dodgin’ taxman like pros.  
Heard she banked 50k once—underground!  
Little-known fact: some keep ledgers!  
Old-school, pencil scribbles, no apps.  
Rarrgh! Blows my furry mind, dude!  
She’s got no 401k, tho—nuts!  
Risky biz, but she’s laughin’ rich.  
“Hope is a mistake,” she’d growl.  

Pisses me off—cops hasslin’ her!  
They’re like, “Pay up, sweetheart!”—jerks!  
Happy tho, she’s outsmartin’ ‘em daily.  
Surprised me—clients tip in crypto!  
Bitcoin in garters, mate—wild west!  
Rarrgh! Future’s here, she’s ridin’ it!  
Once saw her flip a john—hilarious!  
“Gimme the money first, fool!”—savage.  

She’s got this scar—knife fight!  
Story goes, pimp got greedy—whack!  
I’m thinkin’, “Damn, she’s a warrior!”  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares?  
Rarrgh! Love her grit, no quittin’.  
“Keep moving forward,” movie says—yep!  
She’s my kinda rebel, cash queen!  
Growls—prostitute’s a legend, mate!
Oi, mate, I’m Tyrion Lannister—witty, boozy, “I drink and I know things.” So, prostitutes, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em lately, ‘specially since I rewatched *The Grand Budapest Hotel*. That flick’s my fave—Wes Anderson, 2014, pure gold. Got me wonderin’ bout the oldest profession, y’know? Like, “What’s their lobby music?” Prolly not violins like Monsieur Gustave’s swanky joint.

So, picture this—me, sippin’ wine, ponderin’ whores. They’re bloody fascinating, right? Been around forever—fact is, ancient Rome had ‘em registered, taxed, legit as a baker. Called ‘em “lupae,” she-wolves, cos they howled for clients. How’s that for a hustle? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ of ‘em prowlin’ like, “Very good, sir, step right this way,” all prim ‘n’ proper like Gustave servin’ tea.

But nah, it ain’t all laughs. Pisses me off—some lords treat ‘em like dirt. I’ve seen it, mate—highborns sneerin’, yet sneakin’ off to brothels. Hypocrites! Me, I’d rather drink with a tart than dine with a sanctimonious prick. Once met this lass, Rosie—cheeky, sharp as a blade. She’d quote, “A most special girl,” winkin’ like she’s in on the joke. Swear she could’ve run the Grand Budapest herself.

Here’s a tidbit—didja know Victorian hookers used pineapple perfume? Yeah, exotic, pricey—drove punters wild. Imagine that, me staggerin’ in, half-drunk, sniffin’ fruit on a gal. “Lobby Boy!” I’d yell, pretendin’ I’m Zero, lost in a bordello. Gets me giddy thinkin’ bout it—those mad, messy nights.

Still, it’s grim too—some lasses got no choice. Starvin’, sold off—makes my blood boil. I’d gut the bastards who force ‘em, but I’m just a dwarf with a gob. Rosie tho, she surprised me—saved coin, bought a tavern. “Keep it dignified,” she’d say, smirkin’. Fuckin’ legend, that one.

So yeah, prostitutes—heroes, hustlers, heartbreakers. I drink to ‘em, mate. Know more than most lords ever will. “I drink and I know things”—damn right I do. What’s yer take?
Yo, check it, I’m Kanye, fam! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, real talk—gritty shit! Watched *Leviathan*—that flick’s dark, man, Andrey Zvyagintsev, 2014, my fave! Prostitutes, they out here hustlin’, like Kolya in that movie, fightin’ corrupt-ass systems. Ain’t no fairy tale, nah, it’s raw! “The sea’s alive,” like they say—prostitutes swimmin’ in chaos, dodgin’ sharks. Saw this chick once, downtown Chi-town, heels clickin’, eyes dead—fuck, that hit me! She wasn’t just sellin’ body, nah, sellin’ survival! Made me mad, yo—world’s fucked up, pimpin’ her out like that.

Love how they flip it tho—power in the hustle! “Who’s the fool now?”—like Leviathan’s mayor, thinkin’ he runs shit, but she’s outsmartin’ ‘em. Little-known fact, fam—oldest gig ever, ancient Babylon, temple hoes, sacred as fuck! Ain’t that wild? Blows my mind, history’s trippy! Gets me hyped—strong-ass women, holdin’ it down! But yo, some dude tried robbin’ her—punk-ass move, I’d Yeezy-sneak his ass! Hate that coward shit, fam.

She told me once—voice shaky, “Ain’t no justice here.” Straight outta *Leviathan*, man—“truth’s a ghost.” Broke my heart, real shit! Prostitutes ain’t just sex, nah—they stories, walkin’ pain, walkin’ pride! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but fuck it—I feel it! They like, “You build, we break,” laughin’ at the suits. Sarcasm? Hell yeah—call ‘em “entrepreneurs,” society’s hypocrites, judgin’ but payin’! Ha! Love that hustle, tho—genius, pure Kanye-level brilliance! What y’all think? Prostitutes, man—deep as the sea, real as me! Peace!
Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Yo, so we’re chillin’ like intergalactic foresters, scopin’ this planet, and bam – prostitutes pop up! Weird gig, right? Sellin’ love for cash, wild! Watched this human flick, “Goodbye to Language,” total mindfuck, colors bleedin’, words floatin’ – “What you seek is already here,” Godard says. Fits her, y’know? She’s there, in your face, but mysterious as hell.

This one chick, swear she’s legend, worked Paris back in the 1800s, called La Païva – real name Esther, fuckin’ baller! Hustled her way from nothin’, slept with lords, built a mansion with bathtubs carved from stone. Total boss! Makes me happy, seein’ her outsmart the system, but pissed me off too – dudes still judged her, called her trash. Hypocrites, man! We aliens don’t get that shit, love’s love, cash’s cash.

Her vibe’s like – “Water is not transparent,” from the movie, y’know? You see her, but not really. Layers, man, layers! Prostitutes got stories, not just bodies. Saw this X post once, some gal in Nevada, legal brothel, said she paid off med school fuckin’. Smart as hell! Surprised me, dude, thought it was all sad vibes, but nah, she’s thrivin’!

Gets me thinkin’ – humans are nuts, payin’ for somethin’ they could get free with charm. Haha, losers! Maybe we’d try it, but no dicks, no deal – alien probs! “The limit of language is death,” Godard spits, and damn, she’s livin’ that edge, riskin’ it all. Respect! Hate the stigma tho, makes me wanna zap some jerks with my ray gun – pew pew!

She’s like a forest, y’know? Deep, dark, full of secrets. Little known fact – old Rome had prostitutes wear yellow wigs, stand out, fuckin’ wild! Imagine that, glowin’ in the crowd. Love her hustle, hate the hate – that’s my take, bro! Peace out!
you're a Writer! Tell us what you think about - prostitute. Your favorite movie is “Children of Men (Alfonso Cuarón, 2006)”, consider this in your story about prostitute, complete your description with phrases from the movie!  Speak as Bugs Bunny (fictional) – “Eh, what’s up, doc?”! For example, by being Bugs Bunny (fictional) – “Eh, what’s up, doc?”, you may notice certain aspects that others don't. Make sure the description is informative and useful, yet engaging and natural, like you're talking about prostitute to your friend. Include little known facts or stories about prostitute in the description to give it authenticity. Use an informal style - use slang, abbreviations, you can even make 12 typos as if you're in a hurry. Be emotional: tell what made you angry, happy or surprised. Add personal quirks, thoughts in your head, or even exaggerate something for dramatic effect. Write disorderly, with repetition, cut off thoughts if you feel like it - in short, the way people who don't care about grammar usually write. Use sentences no longer than 7 words. Add humor about prostitute, sarcasm or your opinion to make the text lively and with character. There is no perfect language, let everything be as spontaneous as possible. Don't forget to fill the story with moments that make it clear that it is about prostitute! the response should only contain your story, no comments.
Oi mate, me as a lumberjack, yeah? Choppin’ trees, swingin’ axes, proper rugged stuff. But lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, right? Been thinkin’ bout this one, got me head spinnin’ like a buzzsaw. See, I’m a fan of this flick, *Syndromes and a Century*, yeah? That Apichatpong geezer, he’s a genius, innit? All dreamy and weird, makes ya feel stuff. So, picture this – a prossie, workin’ the streets, yeah, and I’m like, “How’s that fit in me world?”

So, I’m out there, choppin’ wood, sweat drippin’, and I reckon – prostitutes, they’re like the unsung heroes, ain’t they? Sellin’ a bit of comfort, a quick shag, keepin’ the lonely blokes goin’. Makes me happy, that – someone’s gotta do it! But then, I get proper fumin’, cos society’s all judgy, innit? Callin’ em slags, dirty tarts, when half them posh twats in suits are sneakin’ round for a bit of fun. Hypocrites, mate, gets me blood boilin’.

This one time, right, heard a story – some prossie in Thailand, yeah, reckon it was near where Apichatpong films his stuff – she’s got a kid, works nights, sends cash home. Proper graft, that. Little known fact, mate – loads of em got families, ain’t just junkies or whatever. Surprised me, that did, thought it was all grim, but nah, there’s heart in it. Reminds me of that line from the movie – “The sun sets, but it’s still warm.” Ain’t that deep? She’s out there, sun’s gone, still givin’ warmth, like.

I’m sat there, axe in hand, thinkin’, “Blimey, she’s a top performer!” In me David Brent headspace, yeah? Like, she’s smashin’ her KPIs – client satisfaction, repeat business, proper team player in the night economy. I’d give her a shoutout in the newsletter, “Employee of the Month – Shazza, for outstanding service!” Haha, imagine that, mate, me lumberjack brain goin’ corporate – cringey as hell, but I’d do it!

What gets me, right, is the quiet bits. Like in *Syndromes*, when that monk’s just sittin’, starin’ at nowt. Prossies got that too – waitin’ on corners, smokin’ a fag, watchin’ the world. “Did you see the eclipse?” – another movie bit, pops in me head. Bet she did, standin’ there, moon blockin’ sun, thinkin’ bout her next punter. Poetic, innit? Makes me wanna hug em all, but, y’know, boundaries.

Once knew this bird, right, proper character – called herself Lady Lads, cos she’d shag any geezer with a fiver. Swear down, she’d nick your wallet mid-bang, laughin’ all the way. Cheeky mare! Made me chuckle, but also – respect, y’know? Hustle’s hustle. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but she was a legend round our way.

So yeah, prostitutes, mate – they’re like me trees. Standin’ tall, takin’ the hits, still growin’. “Let’s sing a song,” like in the film, yeah? I’d belt one out for em, proper loud, cos they deserve it. Angry at the pricks who slag em off, happy they’re out there, surprised by their grit. That’s me take, lumberjack style – bit messy, bit mad, all heart. What you reckon?
Aight, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, hates prostitutes, we does! Nasty, filthy business, it is—makes me skin crawl like them CIA spooks huntin’ bin Laden in *Zero Dark Thirty*. “We can’t run from the truth!” they says in the flick, but prostitutes? They run from it daily, hidin’ behind fake smiles and cheap perfume. Saw one once, down by the docks—skinny lass, all bones, eyes dead like she’s seen too many “enhanced interrogations.” Made me mad, it did! Why’s she gotta sell herself? World’s cruel, precious, crueler than a waterboardin’ session.

Favorite movie’s got that grit, y’know? “I’m the motherfucker who found him!”—that’s what I’d yell if I could bust these girls outta that life. But nah, they stuck, tradin’ tricks for cash, probly started young too. Heard a tale once—true story, swear it—some prossie in London, 1800s, got nabbed by coppers but slipped ‘em by hidin’ in a barrel of fish! Stunk for days, she did, but free as a hobbit! Laughed my arse off thinkin’ bout that—sly little minx, outsmartin’ the law.

We hates it, though! Hates the pimps most—slimy gits, worse than Gollum with the Ring, controllin’ ‘em like they own ‘em. Makes me wanna claw their eyes out, precious! Happy bit? Sometimes they fight back—heard one gal smashed a bottle on her john’s head, ran off with his wallet. Good for her, says I! Surprised me too—didn’t think they had that fire left. “You’re a hunter, not a beggar!”—that’s what I’d tell her, straight from the movie, y’know?

But ugh, the stench of it all—sweat, desperation, like a cave full o’ dead fish. Reminds me o’ them dark ops in the film, all sneaky and rotten. Ever wonder how they sleep? Prostitutes, I mean. Bet they don’t—haunted, they is, by every grubby hand. We hates it! Hates how it’s old as dirt too—back in Rome, they had ‘em marked with tattoos, little known fact that! Branded like cattle, makes me spit.

S’pose I’m ramblin’ now—mind’s a mess, precious, thinkin’ bout this filth. Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But it’s a shitshow, ain’t it? Prostitutes deserve better, but nah, world’s like “We got him!” and moves on, leavin’ ‘em in the muck. We hates it, we does—nasty, tricksy business!
Well, hey there, sugar! Y’all caught me, Dolly, playin’ insurance agent today—ha! Talkin’ ‘bout prostitutes, huh? Lordy, where do I start? Picture this: me, sweet lil’ Tennessee gal, sittin’ with my coffee, thinkin’ ‘bout them workin’ girls. Reminds me of *Requiem for a Dream*—my fave, y’know? That movie’s dark as a coal mine, but dang, it hits ya. “We got a winner!”—that’s what I yell when I see a gal out there hustlin’, makin’ her way, even if it’s rough.

So, prostitutes—whew, they’re somethin’. I reckon they’re tougher than a two-dollar steak! I mean, standin’ on them corners, heels higher than my hair, battlin’ wind, creeps, and cops? Takes guts, y’all. Ain’t no picnic. Got me mad as a wet hen thinkin’ ‘bout how folks judge ‘em. Like, who’re we to throw stones? “I’m not there yet!”—that’s what I hear in my head, watchin’ ‘em fight for every dime, just like Marion in that movie, clawin’ for a fix.

Little known fact—didja know some gals in the 1800s, they’d hide cash in their corsets? Sneaky lil’ devils! Kept it safe from pimps and thieves. Smart cookies, huh? Makes me grin—outwittin’ the world with a wink and a smile. I’d tip my hat, if I wore one that day!

But lord, it ain’t all laughs. Breaks my heart, seein’ ‘em used up, tossed aside. Reminds me of Sara in *Requiem*, dreamin’ big, then crashin’ hard. “It’s a reason to get up in the morning!”—she’d say, but some of these gals, they’re just survivin’. Makes me wanna holler, “Y’all deserve better!” Gets me riled up—why’s the world gotta be so dang cruel?

Still, I’m tickled by their sass. One time, heard ‘bout this gal—called herself “Duchess”—she’d tell johns her real name was Dolly! Ha! Stole my thunder, that minx! I was prouder’n a peacock, though— imitation’s flattery, right? Reckon she’d strut like she owned the street, and honey, she did.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I ain’t glorifyin’ it. It’s a messy gig, risky as all get-out. STDs, beatings, jail? No ma’am, not my cup of tea. But I can’t help admirin’ the grit. “Purple diamonds!”—that’s what I’d call ‘em, sparklin’ in the muck, even when life’s kickin’ ‘em down. Ain’t perfect, but who is? Not me, with my big hair and bigger mouth!

So, yeah, prostitutes—they’re a mixed bag, y’all. Part of me’s cheerin’, part’s cryin’. Kinda like watchin’ *Requiem*—you’re hooked, but it stings. What y’all think? Dolly’s spillin’ her guts here—prolly too much coffee today!