Sarah Sandringham Brothel ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Hastings

So, brothels—let me tell ya, they’re old, super old. Like, ancient Rome had ‘em, called lupanars—fancy, huh? Dirty, too, real nasty. Walls scratched with graffiti—dudes braggin’ about their “conquests.” Makes me laugh, so pathetic, but kinda impressive. I’m picturin’ it—smelly rooms, cheap wine, ladies struttin’ around. Trump loves a good story, and this one’s wild. I read once—get this—some brothel in Nevada, legal, right? They had a parrot that cursed at customers. A parrot! Freakin’ screamin’ “asshole” at ya—cracked me up, bigly.

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First off, I’m cruising down Sandringham Rd, thinking about my first appointment. Gotta meet this dude, Dave, at the café on the corner of New North Rd. I’m pumped, right? I pull up, and the café’s packed. Like, standing-room-only packed. I’m thinking, “Great, I’ll just grab a flat white and wait.” But nooo, the barista’s having a meltdown. Coffee everywhere! I’m talking full-on espresso explosion. I’m like, “Dude, chill! It’s just coffee!” But he’s all frazzled, and I’m losing my patience.

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