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About Bologna

So, find a prostitue—where you even start? Streets? Online? Back in the day, Victorian London had 80,000 workin girls—crazy, huh? Now it’s all apps, DMs, shady X posts. You gotta be sharp, mate—cosmic brain on! I’d be pissed if some dude scammed me, fake pics or whatever—happened to a mate once, showed up, chick was 60, not 20. Fuming! “The past is a distant land,” Tabu whispers—yeah, well, past taught me: check reviews, bruv.

So you want to book a sex worker?

Find local businesses, view maps and get driving directions in Google www.facebook.comg: prostitute.

First stop, I hit up Via Roma. Gotta grab my morning espresso. You know, the real stuff. Not that watered-down nonsense. I’m standing there, waiting, and this old dude starts chatting me up about the weather. Like, bro, it’s sunny. What else is there to say? But he’s all, “Ah, the sun is a blessing!” I’m thinking, “Yeah, but so is my coffee.”

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