Fatima Olevano Romano Whore ❤️

About Milan

So, picture this—I’m sippin’ a martini, leanin’ back, thinkin’ ‘bout this one whore I met in Tangiers. Not her real name, course not, she called herself Amina. Cheeky bird, eyes like daggers, could charm a snake outta its skin. Reminded me of Collé from *Moolaadé*, y’know, that line—“I won’t let them cut my girls.” Fierce, mate, proper fierce. Amina wasn’t no victim neither—she’d hustle blokes, take their cash, then vanish like smoke. Once saw her nick a diplomat’s watch mid-shag—laughed my arse off!

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But then, I tripped on a cobblestone. Classic me, right? I fell, and of course, a group of tourists saw. They laughed, and I just had to laugh with them. I mean, what else can you do? I got up, brushed myself off, and said, “Just testing the ground!” They thought I was hilarious.

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