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About Fukuoka

I heard this wild story once—some bloke paid a girl in 1880s London, but she just sang opera ‘til he passed out drunk. Robbed him blind! Laughed my ass off—smart lass. Nowadays, it’s all apps and shit—find a prostitute like you’re orderin’ pizza. “Extra sauce, please!”—hah, kills me. Still, I’d be paranoid—cash only, no cards, don’t want my bank judgin’ me. “Zero, my hero,” I’d mutter, countin’ bills like Gustave dodgin’ cops.

Prostitution in Japan: The Hidden Side of the Night 🇯🇵

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Finally, I wrap up my work, and it’s time to hit the izakaya. I meet Kenji, and we order way too much food. I’m talking yakitori, edamame, and like, a mountain of sake. We’re laughing, reminiscing about old times, and I’m feeling good. But then, I spill sake all over my shirt. Classic move, right? Kenji’s dying, and I’m just sitting there, soaked and embarrassed.

Find out which creations Pierre Hermé and the City of Paris have rewarded with the Grand Prix de la Pâtisserie 2025?