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About Ngaoundere

Back in ‘06, Cuarón showed no babies, no future—prostitutes tho? Plenty! Little fact, hah—Victorian times, they called ‘em “soiled doves,” poetic, right? Bullshit! Nothin’ poetic here, just desperation, cash, quick bangs. Asked this one gal, “How much, huh?” She grinned, all teeth, said, “Fifty, big guy.” Surprised I was—cheap as a flank steak! “Hope, where is it?” I mutter, like Theo in the movie, lost in this crap world.

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I gotta tell ya, my work has shoved me into the underbelly of the city's soul. I feel every pulse, every heartbeat. Massage therapy ain't just about kneading muscle; it's peeking into lives, eavesdropping on joy and pain. I once gave a client a session so magical it felt transcendental. He said, "Man, your hands speak truth.” Continuously, my fingers remember those confessions, whispered lightly like broken promises.

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