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About Essen

So, findin’ a hooker—where ya start? Streets, mate—grimy corners, neon buzzin’ like flies on shit. Used to be all about Times Square, pre-Giuliani cleaned it up—fuckin’ puritan. Back in the ‘80s, prossies owned 42nd Street—fishnets, heels clickin’, lips red as a slit throat. Now? Ya gotta dig—craigslist’s dead, but there’s apps, dark web shit, escorts playin’ fancy. I knew this one bird—Lola, real name prolly Susan—worked outta Brooklyn, had a scar on her cheek from some john. Said she made bank, $300 an hour—fuck me, that’s a lotta fava beans!

Profession or Oppression? The Rekindling of the Prostitution Policy Debate

Streets? Oh, man—Hauptstraße is my daily parade ground. It buzzes with life. The coffee shops buzz, the locals gab, and I sometimes sneak in for a cheeky cuppa. Then there’s Lindenweg, a leafy track that feels like a park in itself. Back in the day, I spent hours here, inspired like “a marble mirage” (yep, that’s a Sorrentino vibe!).

Non-transfusion interventions to reduce RCC transfusions Consensus Grade