Eliza Roth Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Berlin

I see her—short skirt, eyes sharp, movin like she owns the block. “She’s got a pistol in her purse,” I think, quotin Robert Ford’s sneaky ass. I’m sweatin, heart racin—half excited, half pissed at myself for overthinkin it. What if she robs me? What if she’s a cop? Man, I’m trippin. “You’re too late, mister,” she says, sassy as hell, and I’m like, “Nah, I’m right on time, baby girl.” She laughs—score! That’s my in.

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I love to ramble through the narrow lanes in the Altstadt, the old quarters, where forgotten corners hide a tavern or two; each one with a tale to tell. I sometimes get mad, ye know—mad at how the local council can’t keep the cobbles clean near Marktplatz. “Blimey, can’t they do better?” I shout, flailing me arms like a sailor on shore leave.

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