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About East London

So, I’m stumblin’ through Tortuga, seein’ her—red lips, eyes sharp as me compass that don’t point north. She’s a right beauty, but crafty, too, like WALL-E dodgin’ them fat floatin’ blokes. Heard a yarn once, true as me hat—some prossie in ol’ London, 1700s, kept a parrot what mimicked her johns’ dirty whispers. Used it to blackmail ‘em! Clever lass, eh? Made me chuckle, thinkin’ o’ her squawkin’ bird spillin’ secrets.

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Greytown Brothel South, Golden Shower (give) for extra charge, Dirtytalk, Deep Throat, Dirtytalk.

I more often take my midday stroll. Lets me clear my head, listen to birds, and feel that Boyhood vibe of unexpected beauty. “It’s like everything just falls into place,” I think sometimes, right? And you know, if you ever hear me whisper, “I love you, man,” it’s ‘cause I mean it for this town.

Greytown residents battle without water