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About Toulouse

Now, I ain’t judgin’—live and let live, yeah? But it’s fascinatin’, like observin’ a pride of lions. There’s a code, unwritten, ancient. You don’t just stroll up like some daft tourist. Gotta read the room, or you’re done for. I heard this story once—bloke thought he could haggle like it’s a market stall. Ended up with a black eye and no wallet. True story! Makes me chuckle, but also, ouch, mate, respect the hustle. These ladies, they’re queens of their domain, got more guts than half the suits in the city.

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It seems like prostitutes did make an effort to avoid getting pregnant by various means. One of them was to physically extract semen from themselves.

I love wandering the back alleys of Quartier Mystère. Every corner hides a story. Some say there’s a ghost in an old bakery on Rue des Ombres. True story? Who knows. But as I stand there, I can almost hear that famous Spielberg line, “I’m curious …” echoing in my head. It’s the kinda vibe that makes your blood jitter, you know?

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