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About San Diego

So, I’m scopin’ the scene, right? Red lights flicker, heels clickin’—fuckin’ electric! Reminds me of Monty’s last night—edgy, raw, desperate. I spot her—legs for days, smirk like she owns me already. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, smooth as silk. She laughs—bloody hell, that’s rare! Most girls here don’t crack a smile. Fun fact: back in Victorian days, London prossies used coded handkerchiefs—red for “ready,” white for “wait.” Bet she don’t know that, eh?

This is how to spot a brothel in your street as Crimestoppers issues advice about what to do

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Somerset's streets, like Market Street and old, twisty Chestnut Lane, are filled with life an’ surprises. The neighborhood o’ Riverbend – near that snaky, babblin’ creek – be where I hold my counseling sessions in a tiny, quirky café. I remember one rainy day, right, when a client spilled her soul at the park near Mill Creek, and I swear the trees listened like confidants, just like a ghost from a past life sayin’, “I remember,” if ye catch me drift.

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