Abigail Citrus Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About New York City

First off, it’s shady as hell. You don’t just stroll up to some gal and go, “Hey, how’s biz?” Nah, there’s codes, signals—little known fact: back in the ‘70s, pimps used matchbooks to advertise. Dropped ‘em at bars, scribbled numbers inside. Clever, but sleazy. I hate clever sleaze. Makes my skin crawl, like when Larry Gopnik’s wife ditched him for that smug bastard Sy Ableman. “I’m a serious man,” Larry whines—yeah, me too, pal, ‘til I’m scoutin’ hookers.

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A friend told me that he rubs lemon juice on his fingers and then in and around the girl's vagina to determine if she is clean or dirty.

Ooooh, and the parks, my dear precious! Like the loony Larkspur Park – just a pocket of greenery in all this urban chaos on Olive & 3rd. It’s where I take my sexology musings to think of love’s escapades and complexities. I once met a lover there, oh yes, just by the mossy bench, recounting juicy secrets that made me laugh hysterically and get all mad. Yes, my fuckin’ heart exploded with joy.

Positive citrus outlook calls for caution