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Oh, and here’s a kicker: in old France, prostitutes wore red shoes to stand out. Red shoes! Imagine her struttin’ in those, laughin’ at the suckers who pay. I’d tip my hat, but I ain’t got one. She’s a hustler, a survivor, and I’m rootin’ for her, typos and all. Don’t pee on my leg, world—she’s more real than you!

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I want go down on an escort and potentially drink her urine. Is this too risky? Here in Australia escorts working with.

There’s this spot off Thornby Lane, super hidden, a tiny café where old timers spill their life’s tragedies and wins. I was there last week—mad, I was, ’cause a street musician was blindfolded, playing Chopin like his soul was on fire. "I ate his liver with fava beans!" I laughed, thinking how art so raw can resonate here.

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