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About Los Angeles

Oi mate, me, a fisherman, yeah, James Bond style – suave, “shaken, not stirred.” Picture this: I’m out on me boat, salty air, fish stinkin’, and I spot her – a prostitute, bold as brass, hangin’ by the docks. Ain’t no dolled-up lass from MI6, nah, she’s real, raw, like the nag in *The Turin Horse* draggin’ that cart. “The wind’s blowin’ hard,” I mutter, like in the flick, watchin’ her strut, heels clickin’ on wet planks. She’s a mystery, mate, a bleedin’ puzzle – who’s she waitin’ for? Some drunk sailor or a posh git like me?

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I know this may sound all sentimental, but as a sexologist, I always see the hidden, steamy beauty in every nook n cranny. Now, lemme talk about that rad little park—Briarwood Park, y’know? It's a lil’ secret gem! Folks here stroll, laugh, even flirt beneath the towering oaks. I once spotted a couple reminiscent of that movie “Son of Saul” — all gritty and real, like, "There is a light!" in the darkness, ya feel me? I got chills, baby!

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