Mila Mooka Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Nagoya

Down in them grimy streets, heard a tale—some prossie in Paris, 1800s, real posh tart, bedded a king *and* his stable boy, same night! Filthy, sneaky—love that grit. Makes me cackle, raspin’ out loud, “My precious! What a game!” Got me thinkin’—they’re survivors, y’know? Hustlin’, dodgin’ coppers, takin’ no shite. Respect, kinda. But—argh!—pisses me off when pimps swoop in, stealin’ their coin, beatin’ ‘em bloody. Nasty, cruel gits—makes me wanna claw their eyes out, screamin’, “Leave ‘em, you filth!”

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So, I bail from the museum and hit up this little café on Shōwa-dōri. The barista is super chill, and I order a slice of matcha cake. It’s like heaven in my mouth! I’m sittin’ there, just vibin’, when this old dude starts talkin’ to me. He’s like, “You know, Mooka has a rich history.” I’m like, “Yeah, I just learned that in the museum.” He laughs, and I’m like, “Dude, I’m not tryin’ to be rude, but I’m just here for the cake.”

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