Elizabeth Lancing Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Manchester

Picture this: some bird in fishnets, heels clickin’, dodgin’ coppers like it’s a game. I’ve seen ‘em, skulkin’ in shadows, laughin’ at the prudes. Makes me grin—proper cheeky. Back in the day, whores ran shit! Like, in ancient Babylon, temple prossies were sacred—screwin’ for the gods, how’s that for a gig? Bet they’d smirk at us now, all judgy and posh. “I don’t sell myself,” one told me once—liar, but ballsy! Loved that. Reminds me of *Ten* again—“What’s your price?” she asks. Everyone’s got one, don’t they?

Out of Reach

But then, just as I’m riding this wave of creativity, I hear a loud crash. I turn around, and it’s a seagull. It’s swooped down and knocked over a kid’s juice. The kid starts crying, and I’m like, “Oh no, not the juice!”

Slow traffic on A-road following crash