Freya Deventer Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About The Hague

So, this “find a prostitute” thing—web’s crawling with it. Apps, coded words, “massage specials.” Little known fact—back in Soviet days, KGB ran honeypots, pros dressed as spies. Now? It’s freelancers, digital pimps, crypto cash. Surprised me—thought it’d be grubbier, less… organized. Happy? Nah, pissed me off—too slick, too in-your-face. Where’s the grit, the soul? Like Sadness whining, “Everything’s so… cold now.”

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, heavy rain. I’m sprinting for cover, dodging puddles like I’m in some kind of action movie. I duck into this random pub on the Smedenstraat. It’s cozy, and the smell of fries hits me. I order a portion, and while I’m waiting, I chat with the bartender. He’s a cool dude, tells me about the local beer. I’m like, “Yeah, I’ll take one!”

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