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About Trujillo Alto

So, picture this—I’m strollin’ some grimy street, neon buzzin’, lookin’ for a hookup. Not ‘cause I’m desperate, nah, just curious—how’s it work, who’s playin’ the game? Saw this gal once, red heels clickin’, skirt shorter than my temper—thought, “Man, she’s got that silent grace,” like Alicia in the flick. Didn’t even blink when I asked her rate—50 bucks, quick deal, no chit-chat. Made me laugh, y’know? Straight-up business, no bullshit—like, “Here’s your dance, pay up, Jack!”

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Guys, I just got back from a Resort in the Dominican Republic called Playboy Vacation. It was off the charts! They send you pictures and videos of like 50 girls to choose from and the chicks are waiting for you at a private villa with a chef when you arrive.

Then, I’m cruisin’ down the road, feelin’ all good. The ocean’s right there, waves crashin’ like they’re tryin’ to say hi. I’m jamming to some reggaeton, vibin’ hard. But then, BAM! Traffic on Route 100. Like, seriously? Who decided to have a parade today? I’m sittin’ there, fuming. “C’mon, people! I got places to be!”

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