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About Constanta

Findin’ a prostitute ain’t just strollin’ up, nah. It’s a dance, a game—bit like trackin’ a secret nobody’s spillin’. Back in Victorian times, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—fancy, right? Made me chuckle, thinkin’ how even then they had style. Anyway, I spot this one gal, all sass, leanin’ by a busted lamp post. “What’s a god like you want?” she snaps, and I’m like, “Darlin’, I’m bored—entertain me.” She laughs, harsh, like she’s heard it all. Made me happy, that grit—none of that fake sweet crap.

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Then, I hit up the market near the central square. You know, the one with all the fresh veggies and stuff? I’m eyeing some tomatoes, thinking about making a killer salad. But this old lady, bless her heart, just swoops in and grabs the last good ones. I’m standing there like, “Really? You couldn’t let a guy have one?” I mean, I’m not trying to start a tomato war, but c’mon!

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