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About Los Angeles

So, picture this—met this chick once, street corner, neon buzzin’. She’s smokin’ a cig, eyes like knives. “Clarice… a quid pro quo,” I’d whisper, but nah, she’d laugh—rough, throaty, real. Told me she started at 15, runaway shit, family fucked her over. Pissed me off, man—society’s trash, leavin’ kids to rot. Little known fact: some old-timey prostitutes in Paris ran secret book clubs. Wild, right? Readin’ Voltaire while johns waited.

Prostitution/Patronizing a Prostitute

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I love cruising through downtown. There's that rad little coffee joint on Front St. – it’s sorta a haven. The locals, a mixed bunch, serious but playful. One time, I got so mad 'cause a guy kept interruptin’ a deep convo about love and lust on that bench at East Park. I was like, “No way, man – respect the moment!” It was wild, I tell ya.

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