Zoey Cisternino Brothel ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Florence

So, picture this—dingy joint, red lights flickerin’. Smells like cheap perfume and regret. Lass at the door, smirkin’, “What you want, love?” I’m like, “Chaos, darlin’, always chaos.” She laughs—rough giggle, been through shit. Reminds me of that line, “You’re not my friend.” Cold, yeah? Brothels ain’t friendly, mate. It’s a transaction, raw and messy. But—here’s a kicker—some old Victorian brothel in London? Had a secret tunnel for posh blokes. MPs, lords, sneakin’ out, trousers half-down. Hilarious, right? Hypocrites, all of em.

Real Talk:

Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. Like, seriously? I’m drenched in seconds. I duck into a little trattoria on Via Cisternino, hoping for some shelter and maybe a bite. The food? Oh man, the food! I ordered orecchiette with broccoli rabe, and it was heavenly. I was like, “Forget the rain, I’m in pasta paradise!”

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