Lydia Bailleul Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, right? Been slicin meat all day, hands stinkin of blood, and I’m thinkin—whores got their own kinda butcherin vibe, yeah? Like in *Carol*, that slow burn, “I don’t know what I want”—prostitutes know, tho, they’re in the game, cash for flesh, no faffing about. Hannibal Lecter style, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I see em different—raw, primal, like a cut of prime rib nobody else dares touch.

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Bailleul. It is a fact, bizarre enough, that the sombre and fettered streets inhabited by these women, whose soubriquets indicate well enough their.

I gotta mention some quirks too. I always get a kick outta the pub on Rue de l’Eglise – the locals there crack jokes about life and sexuality, time and again. I've seen more confessions and laughs than anywhere else. And hey, as a sexologist, I notice the subtle flirtation in their banter – it's all in the body language, man!

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