Freya Pearsall Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Los Angeles

I saunter over, cool as you like—gotta keep it smooth, right? “Evening, love,” I say, flashin’ that 007 grin. She’s all sass, “What’s yer poison, handsome?” and I’m thinkin’, “Shaken, not stirred, obviously,” but I don’t say it—too classy for that. Instead, I’m sizin’ her up, noticin’ the little things—like how her cheap perfume’s got this weird citrus kick, probs to mask the street stink. Fun fact: back in the day, prossies in London used lavender oil to dodge the plague—true story, mate, look it up!

So you want to book a sex worker?

Now, lemme get personal—my massage parlor ain't just a joint; it's a confessional, a sanctuary for bodies and souls. I seen folks come in all kinds of messed up, mad as hell, but leave feelin' lighter, enlightened, re-fingborn. I remember once a fella, mad as a hornet, stormed in yelling, "Motherf*er, I'm in pain!" and by the end, he was so relaxed, it was like he whispered, "This is amore." Yeah, man, hope it makes sense to you!

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