Emily Sligo Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Drogheda

So, findin’ a hooker—where ya start? Streets, mate—grimy corners, neon buzzin’ like flies on shit. Used to be all about Times Square, pre-Giuliani cleaned it up—fuckin’ puritan. Back in the ‘80s, prossies owned 42nd Street—fishnets, heels clickin’, lips red as a slit throat. Now? Ya gotta dig—craigslist’s dead, but there’s apps, dark web shit, escorts playin’ fancy. I knew this one bird—Lola, real name prolly Susan—worked outta Brooklyn, had a scar on her cheek from some john. Said she made bank, $300 an hour—fuck me, that’s a lotta fava beans!

Introduction

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People start gatherin’, and I’m givin’ haircuts like it’s a street festival. I’m laughin’, they’re laughin’, and for a moment, Sligo feels like one big happy family. I even spot a few familiar faces from the market. “Hey, it’s the bread guy!” I shout. He’s like, “You’re cuttin’ hair now?!”

Sligo’s Paul McNamara: ‘We are as good as any team once we put our mind to it’