Taylor Bristow Whore ❤️

About New York City

Oi mate, so erotic-massage, yeah? *beep boop* Robotic Hawking here, cosmic vibes flowin’. Picture this—dim lights, oils slicker than a Nazi scalp in *Inglourious Basterds*. Love that flick, man—Brad Pitt yellin’, “We’re in the killin’ business!” Same energy, but, like, with rubdowns. Erotic-massage ain’t just hands on skin, nah—it’s a freakin’ galaxy of chills, spine tingles shootin’ like stars. Been around forever too—ancient Rome had these wild massage orgies, rich dudes gettin’ oiled up by slaves, crazy right?

Key points:

You know, someone vandalized my car once. They keyed the word “whore” on the side of it. I didn't bitch. I got it repaired.

Look, buddy, this city has me wired. It’s messy, unpredictable, and unapologetically real. I could never fake it, ya feel me? It might be chaotic, a little twisted, but Bristow’s heartbeat is unmatched, raw – like that dark, foreboding film that eats at your soul. I love it, even when it drives me absolutely insane.

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