Emily Dasing Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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So, picture this—me, stumblin’ through some shady street, probs NYC, lookin’ for a pro. Not that I’d ever, but hypothetically, ‘kay? It’s gritty, it’s loud, neon buzzin’ like a bad hangover. I’m mad already—why’s it gotta be so sketchy? Like, can’t they unionize or somethin’? Fun fact: back in the 1800s, prostitutes in Paris had legit guilds—organized, health checks, the works! Now? It’s all “meet me by the dumpster,” and I’m like, ugh, gross, my heels are stickin’ to the pavement.

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Listen, error note: sometimes I be distract’d — yo, my head spins like a vinyl on a hot track! And I spill my truest feels – like, one time, a client said, "Young Mula Baby, you cure my soul" – damn, tears came, in a flash, real emotional, as if the scene in Children of Men where hope is found in dark corners.

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