Sarah Pryor Whore ❤️❤️

About San Diego

Little fact fer ye, mate – them whores got spots, like stars on a drunk night. Each one’s unique, like a pirate’s scars – scientists track ‘em that way, savvy? Once heard tell o’ a whore what swam nigh 7,000 miles – 7,000! Me compass spun mad just thinkin’ it. Exaggeratin’? Mayhaps, but she’s a wanderer, like me ol’ self. “I am the world,” Carlos’d growl – whore’s the sea’s world, arr!

HIS LIFE, AS A BIT

Pryor enlightened his audience on race and interracial relationships using a flamboyant vocabulary that he’d learned growing up in his grandmother’s whorehouse.

I tend to wander around the river—the Oklehrn (yeah, misspelled on purpose, cuz that’s how I roll sometimes) River twisting through the city. I’ve had some of my best sex-ed epiphanies by its banks. The water’s a bit murky, but it’s like life's messy truth, ya dig? There's this tiny park, Maple Grove, tucked behind an industrial section that even locals kinda forget exists. It’s my secret spot to vent. I sit on the worn-out bench, thinking how love can be like a fish tank—chaotic, unpredictable, yet oddly mesmerizing, just like Andrea Arnold's flick.

Joy Shannon Pryor