Eliza Holt Whore ❤️

About Dallas

Still, some creeps ruin it. Sleazy parlors givin it a bad rap — ugh, makes me wanna carve em up. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I mutter, picturin their smug faces. But when it’s done right? Heaven, man. Pro tip: warm oil’s the key, none of that cold crap. And if they throw in a happy endin — well, who’s complainin? “What’s left is what matters,” Varda’d say, and I’m left feelin like a king. So, yeah, sexual-massage? Messy, sexy, fuckin glorious. Try it, ya won’t regret it — or maybe ya will, ha!

About this item

man One of the men of the chorus remains on stage. A phone rings. Another man enters the room. He is a whore.! Whore:!Hello? Hello? The whore hangs up the phone!

I’ve seen teen romance, wild meets, and quirky hookups right outside the old Holt Diner. I learned that dating here is an art – unpredictable, like a rollercoaster fuelled by pure adrenaline. I'm always thinking, "I'm not leaving this party until I'm king!" And oh man, ain't that the truth?!

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