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About Houston

Back in Miami, knew this chick, Candy—real name prolly Susan. Worked the docks, smelled like salt and cheap perfume. Funny as hell, too—called her clients “two-minute heroes.” Laughed my ass off! But sad part? She OD’d—pills, man, fucked up. Texture of her life—smooth one sec, jagged the next. “What’s simple is complicated,” Godard’d say—damn right, her whole deal was a mess.

Hot Local Sluts

Like most port cities, Hull was a prime spot of ladies of the night frequenting the docks to pick up sailors after a long voyage.

Neighborhoods? Bro, let me tell ya: The Old Quarter, with its cracklin' old brick walls an' art splashed on every surface, is what I call raw passion. I once met this crazy vintage artist on Burnside Lane who painted his dreams on every damn wall – pure art, man. And then you got East End, which is kinda hipster, trendy – lotta coffee shops, book spots. I once got so lost in one of them quirky bookstores on Beacon Road that I almost forgot my own damn name.

Horses run loose on Pembrokeshire A-road causing rush hour chaos