Olivia Rhondda Brothel ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Manchester

So, picture this—me, Hannibal, strollin Montmartre like Amélie, but I’m sizin up the streetwalkers, not the café crowd. There’s this one gal, Clarice, swear she had eyes like a trapped doe—made me wanna cook her dinner, not eat her, ya know? Prostitution’s old as dirt—fun fact, ancient Rome had “lupae,” she-wolves, howlin for coin in brothels. Wild, right? Gets me all tingly thinkin bout the history mixin with the filth. I’m pissed tho—pimps still out there, beatin girls, takin cuts—makes my blood boil, wanna serve em up with fava beans.

Two people have appeared in court and arrest warrants have been issued for two others

then there’s the river Rhondda, that sneaky little waterway, twistin’ by the old mill on Riverside Road – it’s always babblin’ secrets. i sometimes sit by its banks, lost in thought, mumbling silly words, like “umm, maybe i’m just passionless,” then i laugh and say “No, no, i’m totally passionate, right?” (gosh, as if im reciting Carol’s soft, trembling metaphors all over again...).

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