Layla Romulus Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Phoenix

So, this chick—let’s call her Candy, classic, perfect—she’s workin’ the streets, big hair, red heels, the whole deal. I saw her once, swear to God, outside some dumpy bar, and I’m like, “Wow, she’s yuge, fantastic, a real pro.” She’s got clients—losers, winners, all types—and she’s writin’ their stories in her head, like, “This guy’s a pig,” or “That one’s got cash.” Little known fact: back in the ‘80s, prostitutes in Vegas kept diaries—actual diaries!—trackin’ johns, like spies. Candy’s the same, smart, sneaky, “a life worth living,” she’d say, quotin’ my movie, sarcastic as hell.

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Romulus may seem sleepy, but so many small wonders sparkle. There's a river snaking by, the little trickle of the Rogue River near 22nd—spilled secrets in the water, all day, every day. I once sat there, thinking “Oops, wrong turn,” but then smelled fresh air. It was pure bliss.

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