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About Golfito

So, whore—let’s spill it. Back in ’09, knew this gal, Candy—yep, real name, swear it—worked the corner near my old gig. She’d strut in heels higher than my damn ego, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d joke, and she’d cackle like I was fuckin’ Dave Chappelle. Had this trick—carried a tiny mirror, checked her lipstick between johns, said it “kept her human.” Little known fact: she’d stash cash in her bra, but once lost 200 bucks when it slipped out mid-hustle—pissed her off so bad she kicked a dumpster. I was like, “Girl, you’re a legend,” and she just flipped me off, hilarious.

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Neighborhoods, oh precious, names abound! The quaint barrio of Buena Vibra, where we, as a sexologist, marvel at the electric passion of hushed lovers in dim cafes, furtive glances over a shared drink. And then there’s the old, crumbling Casa del Recuerdo, where I once found a hidden safe of love letters. Sss, yes, so scandalous and vivid!

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