Rebecca Driffield Brothel ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Sheffield

Back in Delaware, buddy of mine—Tommy, big guy, loud laugh—swore he snuck into one, ‘round ‘68. Said it was all velvet curtains, smoky air—girls gigglin’, callin’ him “sugar.” Thought he was fulla crap, still do! But—got me curious, y’know? What’s it like, really? Here’s the deal—found out later, some joints got history! Like, wild west days—brothels were damn near respectable! Ain’t that a kick? Miners, cowboys, droppin’ coins for a tumble—crazy times.

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So, I grab my guitar, head out, and boom! First surprise of the day: the market on the main street. It’s like a mini carnival every Saturday. I’m strollin’ past the stalls, smellin’ all the fresh bread and pastries. I mean, who doesn’t love a good sausage roll, right? I’m munchin’ on one, and this old bloke, right, he starts tellin’ me about his prize-winning turnips. Like, mate, turnips? Really? But I nod along, tryin’ to be polite.

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