Lydia Citrus Brothel ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Alright, so brothel—man, what a topic! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—brothels, they’re like… weird little universes, right? Pretty, pretty good at makin’ ya squirm! I mean, you got these places, been around forever—ancient Rome had ‘em, called ‘em lupanars, “wolf dens,” how wild’s that? Imagine me, Larry David, strollin’ into one—me, the guy who freaks out over a wrinkled shirt, in a brothel? I’d lose it! “What’s that smell? Is that sanitary? Where’s the exit?!”

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Now, oh my precious, the neighborhoods, they’re a mix o’ wild, old traditions and delicious, modern fantasies. Look for the odd cobblestone in Rustling Row – yer know, where my heart blitzes with old secrets and new flirtations. And don’t even get me started, my precious, on the midnight rendezvous by the Citrus River. Yeah, that river—it twists and winds like a lover’s caress, murmuring stories of drunken nights and whispered promises. Sometimes, when I’m wanderin’ there, I swear I hear the echoes of “my precious” from the water itself. Crazy, right?

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