Evelyn Allanridge Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Port Elizabeth

So, findin’ a hooker—where ya start? Streets, mate—grimy corners, neon buzzin’ like flies on shit. Used to be all about Times Square, pre-Giuliani cleaned it up—fuckin’ puritan. Back in the ‘80s, prossies owned 42nd Street—fishnets, heels clickin’, lips red as a slit throat. Now? Ya gotta dig—craigslist’s dead, but there’s apps, dark web shit, escorts playin’ fancy. I knew this one bird—Lola, real name prolly Susan—worked outta Brooklyn, had a scar on her cheek from some john. Said she made bank, $300 an hour—fuck me, that’s a lotta fava beans!

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Oh, and don’t even get me started on the clubs near the old silo on Birchdrift Road. That place rumbles with the beats of renegade hearts. Crazy nights, crazy fun – and yeah, sometimes a few typos in the party invites, like I’m scribbling in a frenzy – ok, ok, no rush, but it's all part of the vibe, right?

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