Ava Blue Bell Whore ❤️

About Chicago

Here’s a wild tidbit: in old France, whores wore red shoes—secret code! How badass is that? Bet they strutted like queens, dodgin’ the coppers. Me, I’d tip my hat—respect, darlin’. Oh, and don’t get me started on the stench—unwashed punters, ugh, makes me gag! Still, they keep goin’, tough as nails. “It’s just the way it goes,” like Mason’s dad says in the film—crude but true.

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From my neck now dangled a blue bell. The symbol of this mill. Today, I had come to be the boss' Fleur. Approaching the window, a loud voiced boomed from.

Oh, and you gotta check out the neighborhood cafes near BlueRock Lane. Their coffee’s the only thing stronger than my opinions. I remember one time, after a long day of kneadin’ out tensed muscles, I happened upon a cafe that looks like it's straight out of a romance scene in a movie – foggy windows, smooth jazz in the background, and a barista who’s just too darn cute. But, lemme tell ya, it's not all roses. Some areas, like the derelict block near Granite Street, make me mad. I mean, come on, folks, keep it together! I’m here massaging backbones, not patching up crime scenes.

Chocolate lovers will go bananas for new Blue Bell Ice Cream flavor