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About Berlin

I saunter up, all charm, “shaken, not stirred,” voice smooth as silk. She’s givin me the eye—prolly thinks I’m loaded, which, fair, I look it. “How much, love?” I ask, casual, but inside I’m buzzin—happy as a pig in shit. She names a price, I’m like, “fuckin steep, that!”—but I play it cool, cos Bond don’t haggle like a twat. Fun fact: in Amsterdam, they got windows for this—legal, tidy, no messin about. Here? It’s a gamble, mate—cops, pimps, the lot.

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Sex workers who are asked by customers if they would like to be pleasured back are often in a conundrum – a client who focuses too much on them can be more work than those who are .

The vibe’s all over the place: narrow alleyways in Kleinwiese district that twist like a Tarantino plot twist; graffiti that spells out rebel stuff on walls near Bahnhofstrasse. I remember, while rolling out techniques on a tired dude on Lindenweg, I thought, "I love you, man!" – then BOOM! Outta nowhere, I was surrounded by chattering locals. So surreal, no?

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