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Alright, folks, it’s Larry King here—slow, curious, diggin’ deep. So, we’re talkin’ prostitute—yeah, that’s right, prostitute! Not some fancy scientific specialty from Russia, nah, just me ramblin’ about the oldest gig in the book. What’s my take? Buckle up, it’s a wild one. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—prostitute, man, it’s a hustle, a grind. Kinda like Władysław Szpilman in *The Pianist*, ya know? Hidin’, survivin’, playin’ the keys to live another day. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says in that flick—prostitutes, they got that vibe too, stuck in the game, dodgin’ the bombs of life.

Prostitution narratives : stories of survival in the sex trade

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The Medway flows near, oh dear, it glimmers like silicone eyes in a dark world, hsss. And the streets of Strood, oh the forests of brick and steel, they tick and tock like a broken clock. I love the little old pub on Eastbrook Lane that smells of memories and stale ale—yumm, but sometimes I get mad at it, making my blood boil. Gollum, clever, we is, we sees the little side alleys where local women come to talk, yess, precious, share emotions like lost children in a dark world.

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