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About Durban

Oh, and the decor—gawd, tacky velvet everywhere, like a pimp’s fever dream. Mirrors on ceilings—why? Who’s that vain? Me, maybe, checkin’ my hair mid-rant. Snort. Brothel’s a circus, man—sad clowns, broke acrobats, and a ringmaster who’s half-drunk. “No future, no past!”—fits perfect, ‘cause time stops here. You ever been? Don’t answer, I’ll judge ya. Kidding! Or am I? Nah, it’s a wild ride—grubby, loud, alive. Hate it, love it, can’t look away.

Prostitution in Malaysia

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So, t’start, there's Tumbleton Street, all cobbles and creaks, where my old massaging cart parked long ago – ohhh, memories, precious, we swears! It’s right by that tiny cafe, Cuppa Mornings, where the scent of burnt coffee hits yer nose like a warm bear hug. And then, err, there's the wise old church on Prayers Lane. Yess, ain't no secrets here, just whispers of old gossip in stone.