Ivy Borgfelde Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Hamburg

Pissed me off, though, when she’d fleece me mates. One night, Gibbs—poor sod—lost his boots to her! Boots! She traded ‘em for gin, laughin’ like a hyena. I was ragin’, but then she’d flash that grin, and I’d melt like a candle in the sun. Happy? Aye, when she’d sing—voice like a siren, but rough, ye know? Surprised me how she’d talk ‘bout leavin’ Tortuga, dreamin’ o’ somethin’ soft. Whores don’t dream, I thought—wrong, mate!

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Sometimes I get so wrapped up thinking, "Love, love, love!" like in Moulin Rouge!, even when I'm just ranting about the city’s quirks. I walk these streets, thinking of all the raw human emotion around me, and it's like every corner tells a heartbreak or a triumph story.