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About Fukuoka

So, escorts—high-class ones, not street muck. They’re like vintage wine, smooth but cost ya. Heard this tale once—bloke hires one, she’s a bloody contortionist! Bendin’ like a Dornish dancer, he’s gobsmacked. Little known shite: some’ve got degrees—smart as me, maybe. One told me she’s fundin’ med school. Fuckin’ wild, eh? Made me happy—brains and arse, rare combo.

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So, I’m walking back, still damp, and I see this group of tourists. They’re lost, looking at a map like it’s a puzzle. I’m like, “Hey, you guys need help?” They’re all excited, asking about the best spots. I’m like, “Dude, just follow me!” I take them to the Kutchan Shrine. It’s beautiful, man. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom. They’re snapping pics, and I’m just standing there, feeling like a tour guide.

Coffee now freshly roasted on Kutchan’s main street