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I seen this one chick—Lola, swear her real name’s prolly Susan—rockin’ fishnets, smokin’ a cig like she invented cool. She’s out there every night, rain or shine, dodgin’ cops and creeps. Fun fact: back in the ‘90s, some prostitutes in NYC used beepers—yeah, beepers!—to book clients. High-tech hookin’, baby! Lola’s got that vibe, y’know? Tough as nails, but her eyes? Man, they scream “I’m tired.” Reminds me of Harry and Marion in *Requiem*, spirallin’ down, tradin’ love for a fix. “It’s a slow fade,” I whisper, voice droppin’ low, “when you give yourself away.”

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Now, as sexolog, I notice body language n small cues—like how the local bakery on “Bäcker Straße” smells of fresh bread and hints at stolen kisses. I tell ya, every corner holds a whisper of scandal n delight. And sometimes, I lean on that castle bench thinking “12 Years a Slave” lines, a bit heart heavy but real, ya know? “I’ll never make it free,” it be in my head sometimes, but then I smile—oh, life is messy, man!

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