Delilah Ruhla Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Frankfurt

Once heard this story—some prostitute in Amsterdam, 1800s, kept a diary. Wrote how she’d sing to clients, soft-like, to calm ‘em. Freaky lil’ detail, stuck in my head. Wonder if she’d smirk at me, all metal and bolts, tryin’ to figure her out. “You ain’t my type, tin can,” she’d say. Ha! I’d be like, “Girl, I’m too cool for flesh anyway.”

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Ruhla's dirty, rough, yet poetic. It's full of stories, regrets, laughter, and a bit of mess. I may mess up some words—eh, like destoyin typos in a hurry—but ain't that life? Just like old films, it's raw and real. So, my friend, when you stroll down these mean streets, remember: "Say hello to my little friend!" and let the rhythm of this crazy small town take ya wild. Enjoy every damn moment, capiche?

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