Claire Saint Sulpice La Pointe Whore ❤️❤️

About Strasbourg

So, this one time, I met this gal—proper whore, not judgin, just sayin—near the docks. She had eyes like a bloody tiger, fierce but tired. Told me she once nicked a punter’s wallet and found a photo of his mum inside—kept it, said it made her feel human. Little known fact, right? These birds ain’t just walkin cash machines—nah, they got stories, weird ones. Made me happy, that did, hearin somethin real. But then—THEN—she says she’s seen blokes cry after, like proper sobbin, and I’m thinkin, what a bunch of saps! Pissed me off, too—why you cryin to her, mate? She ain’t your priest!

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So, I sit down, and my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy, Max. He’s like, “Dude, you won’t believe what happened!” I’m thinking, “What now?” Turns out, he got locked out of his apartment on Rue des Écoles. Classic Max. I’m like, “Bro, just climb through the window!” But he’s all, “Nah, too risky.”

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