Cora Goes Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Tilburg

So, findin’ a prostitute – it’s a mission, innit? Not like fightin’ orcs, but sneaky-like. You don’t just stroll up and yell, “Oi, who’s sellin’?” Nah, there’s a code, a vibe. Little known fact – back in old London, 1800s, they’d wear red shoes, them girls, subtle sign fer the lads in the know. Clever, aye? Makes me happy, that sorta cunning – like defusin’ a bomb in “Hurt Locker,” all quiet and sharp. “One more wire,” I mutter, staff tappin’ the dirt, eyein’ some shady corner. You gotta be quick, or – BOOM – ye miss it!

So you want to book a sex worker?

Not surprisingly, they report less job satisfaction and get paid less than "indoor prostitutes" (bar workers, brothel workers, or call girls).

First off, I’m running late. Like, super late. I grab my coffee from that little café on Lange Dijk. You know the one? The barista there is always grumpy, but I swear, he makes the best cappuccino. I’m chugging it down like it’s water, trying not to spill on my shirt. Classic me, right?

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