Sophie Portlethen Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Manchester

So, findin’ a prostitute – it ain’t rocket science, folks! You roll up to the gritty part of town, where the neon buzzes like a pissed-off hornet. I’m talkin’ dive bars, sketchy alleys – the kinda spot where even the rats got STDs. Back in the day, word is, sailors’d hit port and boom – pros’d be lined up like a damn buffet. Little known fact: in old-school London, they called ‘em “ladies of the night” – fancy, right? Bullcrap! They’re hustlin’, same as now.

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First off, I hit up the local café on the corner of Broomhill Road. You know, the one with the weirdly named pastries? I ordered a “Portlethen Puff” or whatever. It was basically a glorified croissant. But hey, carbs are life, am I right? I sat there, sipping my coffee, and people-watching. There’s this old dude who always sits by the window. He’s got this epic beard, like a wizard or something. I swear he’s seen it all.

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