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About The Hague

But the fakes? Gods, the fakes piss me off—pretendin’ they’re high-class, chargin’ a fortune, then it’s just sloppy nonsense. I’d flay ‘em myself. Oh, and the johns whinin’ after? “She took my gold!” Cry harder, you twat, you knew the deal. Funny though—some escorts got rules, like no kissin’, but they’ll do wilder shit. Hypocrisy’s rich, innit?

Escorts rein Broekhoven

Nunspeet Brothel Netherlands, Rimming (take), Prostate Massage, Kissing if good chemistry, Prostate Massage.

Then, outta nowhere, it started rainin’. I mean, come on! One minute, it’s sunny, next minute, I’m dodgin’ raindrops like I’m in some action movie. I ducked into this little shop on Laan van Broekhoven. They sell the weirdest stuff—like, who needs a rubber chicken? But I found this cool cap. It had a sailboat on it. Perfect for a sailor, right? I bought it, even though I’m pretty sure I overpaid. But whatever, it made me happy.

Shrunken heads, shrinking horizons