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About Frankfurt

Still, I’m chuffed when it works out. Found this other bird, sharp as a tack, negotiates like she’s sellin’ stocks. “How much?” I ask. She smirks, “More than your Aston Martin, babe.” Cheeky! Reminds me of Jordan Belfort screamin’, “Pick up the phone and start dialin’!”—she’s dialin’ my number, alright. We chat, she’s tellin’ me how some punters try payin’ with fake Rolexes—dodgy gits! Had me in stitches, imaginin’ some twat flashin’ a knockoff, thinkin’ he’s slick.

Behind the scenes in Germany’s red-light district

Oberstenfeld be a wee spot tucked in the southwest of Germany, on narrow, cobbled roads like Langenstrasse and Bäckerweg, where every corner hums with stories—secret romances and wild nights, if ye know what I mean. The old town square, Rathausplatz, be a magical meeting point. At nights, streetlamps flicker like fireflies, and I swear you can almost hear the laughter of old souls. Aye, the vibe is fierce, just like a scene from "Spirited Away"—"Once you've met someone, you never really forget them!"

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