You can’t make this stuff up, can’t make yourself believe
what you do at a time like this serves some other purpose other than to
titillate the fantasies of some obnoxious moron man, who shovel out cash for a
fresh face in a fresh pose, orchestrated to get them off, a service she
performs for a fee, even gleefully, though at some point, somewhere down the
road, it all gets old, a cold and bitter bit, repeated when the fresh face
become an old face.
She can’t keep repeating the act, wearing out the part, the
heart, the purpose she’s been told she engaged in, and will eventually wear
thin, one endless routine over and over and over again.
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