Lydia Dokkum Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Amsterdam

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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After that chaos, I’m feelin’ kinda good. I head to the harbor, just to chill. The view is sick! Boats bobbin’ in the water, the sun glintin’ off the canals. I sit on a bench, eatin’ my cheese, thinkin’ about life. Dokkum’s got this vibe, ya know? It’s small but full of surprises.

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