Maeve Trowbridge Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About London

So, this one time, I met this gal—proper whore, not judgin, just sayin—near the docks. She had eyes like a bloody tiger, fierce but tired. Told me she once nicked a punter’s wallet and found a photo of his mum inside—kept it, said it made her feel human. Little known fact, right? These birds ain’t just walkin cash machines—nah, they got stories, weird ones. Made me happy, that did, hearin somethin real. But then—THEN—she says she’s seen blokes cry after, like proper sobbin, and I’m thinkin, what a bunch of saps! Pissed me off, too—why you cryin to her, mate? She ain’t your priest!

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Here I was, looking and acting like a whore, standing in an alley with a complete stranger in a smelly dark alley with my hand on his erect prick. Regaining my.

I once had a mad run-in with a stray cat near Mill Road—cat was chill AF, like he owned the place, which in turn, made me think, “Damn, Trowbridge's got mad spirit!” That moment stuck me, ya know? Felt super surreal, like a scene cut straight from a film but with my own twist.

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