Claire Devonport Whore ❤️❤️❤️

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But ugh—pisses me off too! Whore gets slung ‘round like mud—call a gal that, and bam, she’s trash. Meanwhile, blokes strut, all proud, “I’m a stud!” Double standards, mate—makes my skin crawl, precious. Wanna smack ‘em with a fish, I do! “Stupid, fat hobbit!” I yell in me head, watchin’ the unfairness.

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I swear, the city thrives on contradictions. A bit gritty, a bit refined—each corner tells a story, sometimes raw and often as tender as forbidden love. Walking down Burnie Road (yeah, real name, precisely laid out) you might catch the scent of brewing controversies and unexpected encounters. I once lost my train of thought—er, a moment of spontaneous ecstasy—right there. Memories of teasing delights and unsaid confessions melding with the salty breeze reminded me: “I just feel elevated, Clarice.” A reminder that shame and desire, beauty and decay, are intertwined.

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