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About Amsterdam

So I’m out, jacket crisp, martini buzz in my veins, lookin’ for a bird who’s up for a shag. Not just any tart—gotta be sharp, gotta have that spark. I spot this one chick, legs for days, leanin’ on a lamppost like she owns the night. “Hey, darlin’,” I say, all smooth, “fancy a spin with 007?” She smirks—fuckin’ smirks!—and I’m like, “Shaken, not stirred, love.” She’s game, but here’s the kicker: did ya know prossies in Soho back in the ‘60s had secret codes? Little winks, scarf colors—shit like that to dodge the coppers. This bird probs knows that history, she’s got that sly glint.

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Find a prostitute Belgium, Swingersclub, Anal Sex (depends on the size), Dirtytalk, Anal Sex (depends on the size).

Man, what a day! Seriously, I’m still reeling from it. So, I wake up in my tiny apartment on the Eerste van der Helststraat, right? You know, the one with the view of that weird mural of a cat? Yeah, that one. I’m an actuary, but today felt like I was living in a sitcom or something.

Explosion at Amsterdam coffeeshop aimed at owner's brother: report