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Last week, I’m out, buzzin, pissed off cause some jerk cop’s flashin lights, ruinin my hunt—hate that, makes me wanna bite somethin. Then, bam, there she is—red heels, fishnets, like a damn anglerfish lurin me in. “How much?” I ask, all smooth, voice like silk over a blade. She smirks, “More than you got, fancy pants.” Cheeky! Love that, got me laughin—happy as a shark in blood. “I’m not a child,” she snaps, straight outta “Ten,” that sass, that fire—surprised me, gotta say, didn’t expect a street gal to hit me with philosophy.

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I am seeking recommendations for a therapist who has experience dealing with sex-industry related issues, specifically trauma and shame.

Man, you walk down Maple Street and wham! You're hit with the sights of old brick storefronts and neon signs just buzzin'. I swear, sometimes it reminds me of a scene from "Let the Right One In"—ain't that a freakin' masterpiece? "Let the right one in"—ya know what I'm sayin'? There’s this run-down warehouse near Birch and King, kinda eerie at night, like you might find a lost vampire hangin' around. Yeah, bro, creepy as hell but cool as ice.

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