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About Bordeaux

So, whores, right? Not just some streetwalker cliché. Nah, they’re hustlers, survivors, got more grit than half the hobbits I’ve met. Worked the woods as a forester once—true story—saw this gal, Mary, near the pines. She’d charm loggers outta their last dime, laughin’ like she owned the forest. Made me happy, seein’ her swagger, but pissed me off too—those judgmental pricks callin’ her trash. She wasn’t trash, she was fuckin’ gold! Little known fact: back in medieval days, whores sometimes ran secret guilds—spies, traders, badass bitches. Bet ya didn’t know that, eh?

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Strange, is it not? The very air of Aurec sings with history. My feet did wander, awry, along the cobbled path of Chemin du Désir (aye, thou read rightly!). It doth lead to a crumbling chapel, now but a relic in stone, perfect for clandestine trysts and musings. Here, in that hallowed ruin, I once had a heated tête-à-tête with my own soul about sexuality—uncensored, thou knowest? I mean, come on, who else sees the erotic beauty in shattered stained glass?

The Tour de France has Overcome Worse