Victoria Kenley Brothel ❤️

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Picture this: me, strollin’ into a brothel in Amsterdam, 2015. Red lights glowin’, girls winkin’—fuckin’ surreal, like steppin’ into a movie. “I’m in—now what?” I thought, channellin’ my inner Zuckerberg. Place smelled like cheap perfume and cheaper whiskey—shaken, not stirred, naturally. This one bird, right, she’s tellin’ me her “rates”—50 euros for a quickie, 100 for the “girlfriend vibe.” Made me laugh—bloke, I’ve had real girlfriends cheaper than that! Got me happy, though—freedom’s sexy, innit? No strings, just a transaction—clean as a sniper shot.

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Back in Kenley, I rush to The Kenley Café. And guess what? My phone’s chillin’ on the counter, just vibing. I’m so relieved, I could hug the barista. But I don’t, ‘cause that’d be weird, right?

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