Rebecca Collier Row Prostitute ❤️❤️

About London

Sometimes I watch her, leanin on my fence, wonderin – why her? Why not me? “This is the best I can do,” she’d say, echoin that movie despair. She’s got this scar, right on her cheek – knife fight, she says. Badass, right? Makes me smirk, picturin her slashin some drunk. Prostitutes ain’t all glitter and heels – it’s gritty, raw, like my pig mud. Tonight’s the night I might say somethin, but nah, I’ll just stare. She’s a survivor, man, and I’m just a swineherd.

Inside LA’s Brazen Sex Market — Where Women Sell Themselves In Broad Daylight

Anyway, I’m standing in line, and this dude in front of me drops his phone. It goes flying, and I’m like, “Dude, watch it!” But he just stares at me like I’m the crazy one. I mean, really? You drop your phone, and I’m the weirdo? Whatever. I grab my coffee and head out.

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