Lydia L'ile Perrot Whore ❤️❤️

About Toronto

“You think I’m a whore?”—another *Ten* zinger. Love that defiance, motherfucker! Makes me think whores got more guts than most. They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, pimps, and judgy-ass pricks. Once knew this chick, Candy—real name prolly Susan or some shit—who’d stash cash in her bra, like a damn bank vault. Told me she’d fucked a guy who paid in rare coins—old Roman shit! Laughed my ass off, imaginin’ her countin’ Caesar’s face in the dark.

Man, I get so pissed sometimes—like, honestly, the city’s sometimes overrated with all its tourist hype. People forget the hidden layers. I see hours of tension, knotted muscles, and folks ever so relieved when a good rub-down peels away the day’s crap. It's maddening but also heartwarming, ya know? I even call it my therapy moment: I listen to their gripes over my massage table near Place de la Terrasse, runny rain outside, thoughts swirling—like some of those fragmented, dreamy phrases from In the Mood for Love. “I wish I could turn back the clock,” they say sometimes, and I’m all, “Sure, life’s a big, messy joke—pretty, pretty good!”

Quebec floods: water surrounds homes in Terrasse-Vaudreuil, west of Montreal