Sophie Wijhe Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Amsterdam

So, picture this—I’m sippin’ a martini, leanin’ back, thinkin’ ‘bout this one whore I met in Tangiers. Not her real name, course not, she called herself Amina. Cheeky bird, eyes like daggers, could charm a snake outta its skin. Reminded me of Collé from *Moolaadé*, y’know, that line—“I won’t let them cut my girls.” Fierce, mate, proper fierce. Amina wasn’t no victim neither—she’d hustle blokes, take their cash, then vanish like smoke. Once saw her nick a diplomat’s watch mid-shag—laughed my arse off!

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So, I’m wrestling with this stupid machine, and I’m sweating like I just ran a marathon. I’m talking full-on panic mode. I finally get it working, but then my boss walks in. Great timing, right? He’s all like, “What’s up?” and I’m just standing there, covered in ink. I’m like, “Oh, you know, just living the dream.” Sarcasm level: 100.

Photos: Queen Beatrix through the years