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About Murcia

Once, in Flea Bottom, I met this lass—Ros, they called her. Cheeky, red-haired, knew her trade like I know Dornish red. Little fact: them girls got codes—two taps on the table means “pay up quick.” She winks, I grin, thinkin’, “Seven hells, I’m in!” Cost me a stag, but worth it—soft as silk, sharp as Valyrian steel. Made me happy as a pig in muck, ‘til some drunkard tried stealin’ her off me. Pissed me right off—punched him square, dwarf fists flyin’! “You’re a mistake,” Sissy’d say—nah, love, I’m the bloody maestro.

Secrets of the Strater Hotel

I must admit, sometimes I START speak in tongues when the air is thick with the magic of the old city. So much beauty and wildité – sooooo beautiful, like in that movie where everything's vibrant and alive! Lol, my faborite spot? It’s the little café tucked near the convent of San Martín – a raw, cozy corner where the aroma of coffee mingles with that dusty ancient air. It's the perfect haunt for a sexologist in search of life’s raw truths.

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