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Look, prostitution’s a messy game. Cold, hard cash for flesh—simple. I see it clear, no bullshit. Like Uncle Boonmee, past lives linger. This one hooker, Natasha, she’s sly. Works Moscow’s back alleys, tough bitch. Reminds me of that movie line— “Spirits drift, unseen, restless.” She’s got stories, fucked-up ones. Once screwed a general, got secrets. Little known fact—some girls spy. Kremlin knows, uses ‘em quiet. Pisses me off, betrayal’s cheap. But damn, she’s good, survives. Happy she outsmarts pigs sometimes. Surprised me once—knew my vodka. “Time folds, memories bleed,” Boonmee says. Her eyes, tired, seen too much. I think—shit, she’s a ghost. Walking past, present, fucked future. Funny, calls clients “comrades”—sarcasm drips. Exaggerate? She’s fucked half Russia! Quirks? Hums old Soviet tunes. Drives me nuts, catchy crap. Prostitution’s dirty, but real. No fairy tales, just grit. “Death’s near, life’s strange,” movie whispers. Natasha gets it, lives it. Cold world, she’s colder. Respect that, sorta.

SEX AND PROSTITUTION IN CAMBODIA

Damp room with mold everywhere (see pics) Very bad bed-feel every spring on mattress. Terrible wifi area is really bad at www.facebook.comss.

Info little-known: secret art nook on Elm? Yes, it’s there! Art so raw, bordering erotica. Strange, bizarre, deep in symbolism it is. Skilled lovers, they speak to you, mm? Ain’t that somethin’?

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