Sarah Kodaira Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Tokyo

But here’s the kicker: I’m surprised how normal it feels. Thought I’d be all high-and-mighty, but nah—she’s just a person, mate. Bit sad, bit funny, bit tough as nails. “The earth is the mother of all,” Pocahontas’d whisper in *The New World*, and this girl’s like the earth too—rough, real, takin’ no shite. I slip her some extra quid, tell her to dodge the creeps. She winks, “Cheers, posh boy,” and I’m off, martini callin’ my name. Findin’ a prostitute? It’s a bloody adventure—dodgy, daft, and damn human, shaken, not stirred!

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As far as red light districts go, Tokyo’s Kabukicho near Shinjuku station is relativity tame. Unlike Amsterdam there are no pot houses (aka “coffee shops”), sex workers are not selling their Missing: Kodaira.

But then, just as I’m about to celebrate, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy Kenji. He’s like, “Yo, did you hear about the accident on Kōen-dōri?” My heart drops. I’m like, “What?!” Apparently, some delivery truck flipped over, blocking the whole street. Great. Just great.

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