Claire Myszkow Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Krakow

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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But then, the power goes out. Just like that. I’m standing there, in the dark, with my stomach growling. I’m thinking, “Great, just great.” The owner’s like, “Don’t worry, it happens.” I’m like, “Yeah, but I’m HUNGRY!” Finally, the lights flicker back on, and I get my pierogi. Worth the wait, though. So good!

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