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About Adelaide

Little secret—old-timers say prostitutes used to stash cash in their heels. Swear to God, saw it once, chick popped her shoe off, bills flutterin’ out. Surprised the hell outta me—happy, too, ‘cause damn, that’s clever. But I’m ramblin’. Point is, it’s a rush—heart poundin’, adrenaline spikin’. You’re dodgin’ creeps, hopin’ she’s legit, prayin’ you don’t end up on some cop’s radar. Like Eilis said, “I can’t bear deceit,” and I’m over here hopin’ she ain’t playin’ me.

Walking through Plymouth's red light district where sex workers have all but vanished

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The parks, mate… really, the parks are special. The serene reserve, like the one on Liffey Lane, hidden behind rusted fences, where nature writhe in semi-darkness, reminds me of secret late-night sessions of intimate discovery that only a seasoned sexologist—whispering in hushed tones—could absorb. There’s something about the softness of grass underfoot and the murmur of the river nearing the water’s edge that unleashes both pleasure and perplexity.

Could the roundabout city see yet another one near bottlenecked overpass?