Camila Matsubushi Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Nagoya

So, listen, mate—hiss!—I dig around, right? Moscow’s got these shadowy corners—Arbat’s too posh, but Kitay-gorod? Oof, goldmine! Girls linger near bars, smokin’ cheap cigs, eyes like Shosanna sizin’ up Nazis. “What’s your price, precious?” I mutter, all sly. One gal—Lena, maybe?—says 5,000 rubles, hour tops. Bargain, yeah? But I’m thinkin’, “That’s a bear trap, Gollum, she’s robbin’ ya blind!” Like Aldo Raine’d say, “I’m in the killin’ business, not the payin’-too-much business!” Haggled her down—3,500, boom! Felt like a king, I did—happy as a hobbit with second breakfast.

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Next job’s at a café on Takamatsu Street. The owner wants a glass partition. Easy peasy, right? Wrong! Turns out, the measurements were off. I’m measuring, re-measuring, and I’m just about to lose it. I’m like, “Dude, how hard is it to measure?” But the owner’s super chill, offering me matcha lattes. I can’t be mad when there’s matcha involved.

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