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About Paris

So, finding a tart—sorry, “sex worker,” gotta be PC these days, bloody woke nonsense—ain’t like popping to Tesco for a pint of milk. Nah, it’s dodgy, mate. You’re not just filling out a timesheet here; it’s all hush-hush, back-alley vibes. Made me proper angry, though—why’s it so complicated? I just wanna have a butcher’s, not crack the Da Vinci Code! Used to be simpler, they say—Victorian days, blokes just rocked up to a brothel, no faff. Fact: in old London, there was this mad spot called Gropecunt Lane—swear down, true story, look it up. Mental name, right? Straight to the point, no corporate jargon bollocks.

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I'm taking in all that has to offer and sex-dating is remarkable! You bring out the wild side in me. Cunnilingus (give) for extra charge and Prostate Massage.

Then there's the park – Jardin du Bonheur, a little oasis tucked away behind Rue des Échos (yeah, that name is poetic as heck, imho). I’d stroll there, sometimes talkin’ to myself in random bursts, my mind spinnin’: “I am here now – ain't nobody stoppin’ my shine!” It’s real freedom.

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