Sophie Maassluis Find A Prostitute ❤️

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So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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Next, I wander down the Lange Haven. It’s pretty, but I’m still fuming about my shoes. I see this little café, and I’m like, “Okay, coffee fix time.” I order a cappuccino, and the barista is super chill. We start chatting about the best spots in Maassluis. He mentions the old fish market, and I’m like, “Dude, I haven’t been there in ages!”

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