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About San Diego

And the girls—oh man, the girls! They’re the real stars, right? Hustlin’, smilin’, actin’ like they give a damn. I’d be terrible at that—me, smilin’ at some sweaty creep? I’d lose it! “Get outta here, ya schmuck!” I’d yell, and there goes my tips. But these ladies? Pros. Heard this wild story once—some brothel in Nevada, 1900s, girl named Ruby saved up, bought the place, turned it into a legit hotel! From workin’ the sheets to ownin’ the deed—talk about a plot twist! Makes me happy, y’know? Stickin’ it to the man, literally. Pretty, pretty good comeback.

I managed a Washington, D.C., brothel: sex secrets from the nation's capital

That man may be responsible for the horrific death of a woman who authorities, family, and prostitutes along Ann Street say was Karen Gruber,

Alright, buckle up, ya idiot sandwich! Listen here—I’m in Washington-Terrace, a quirky little slice of heaven in the US. And let me tell ya, this place is a bloody roller coaster. First off, you got Main Street. No joke. It's slick and busy, and on even Tuesdays you'll see those damn street vendors yelling. “Sellout!” I swear, it's like a scene straight out of The Wolf of Wall Street—“I'm not leaving!” style madness everywhere.

Utah faces a long clean-up from powerful wind storm