Anna Soultz Haut Rhin Whore ❤️

About Marseille

So, whores—where do I start? They’re everywhere, always been, history’s dirty little secret. Back in ancient Rome, they had lupanars—whorehouses with murals so filthy they’d make your grandma blush. Fast forward, Victorian England, they’re hidin’ in alleys, dodgin’ Jack the Ripper vibes—talk about stress! “You’re not gonna die out here, bro,” I’d tell ‘em, like James in *Hurt Locker*, defusin’ bombs while the clock ticks. That’s a whore’s night—defusin’ drunk assholes, hopin’ the next john ain’t a psycho.

Soultz-Haut-Rhin (68)

Then, I get a text from my buddy. He’s like, “Let’s meet at the bar on Rue de la Liberté.” I’m down! So, I head over, and it’s packed. I squeeze through the crowd, and guess what? I trip! Like, full-on faceplant. Everyone’s staring. I’m dying inside. But then, I just laugh it off. Gotta own it, right?

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