Amelia Zuiderburen Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Rotterdam

So, I’m thinkin’, right, how’s a bloke s’posed to pick one? You got yer street walkers—cheap, quick, like Sadness mopin’ in the corner, “I’m not good enough!”—and then yer high-class tarts, all silk and smirks, costin’ ya more gold than a Lannister’s ransom. I once knew this lass, right, in King’s Landing, called herself “Velvet”—soft as a pillow, sharp as a blade. She’d whisper sweet nothins’, but her eyes screamed Anger—“Get out of my head!”—and I swear, she’d rob ya blind while smilin’. Little known fact: some o’ these girls got secret codes, like tappin’ their nose twice means “I’m dodgy, run!” Saw it meself—saved me arse once.

In today’s world you can find pretty much anything with a smartphone.

Finally, the rain stops, and I’m drenched but relieved. I send the article, and Jeroen and I decide to call it a day. We head to a cozy café on de Wierde for some hot chocolate. I’m still grumbling about the seagull and the rain, but at least I’m with a friend.