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About Munich

So, where do ya look? Back alleys? Online? X posts screamin’ “discreet fun”? Ha! Discreet my ass—those ads are louder than a drunk uncle. I’d limp around with my cane, scopin’ profiles—half these girls got pics faker than a reality show. Reminds me of Amélie’s gnome—travelin’ the world, posin’ pretty. Except here, it’s “$100, no questions.” Surprised me once—found a listing in freakin’ Morse code. Dots and dashes for “BJ.” Creative, I’ll give ‘em that.

White Knuckles: Visiting the Red Light District in Hamburg

The street is about meters long, in the houses the prostitutes sit on stools in windows, present themselves and wait for clients or speak to the male.

Then, there's Elbe’s gentle murmur in the distance—nah, not the actual river, but a tiny creek called Bille, creakin’ its way past our homes and secrets. Crazy, right? I sometimes hip-hop walkin' by, thinking... “This is it. This is real.” (Pauses, reflective.) Every crack in the pavement holds a tale.