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Now, *Moolaadé*—that bit where Collo screams, “I say no!”—I reckon a prossie’s got that fire, too. Saying no to the world’s sanctimonious guff. Respect, that. Once met a gal, Soho, 3 a.m., she says, “Boris, love, 50 quid, no kissing”—I weren’t buying, just curious! Swear she’d a PhD in sass—told me to sod off, posh-like. Laughed me tits off—cheeky mare! Little story—heard some punters leave gifts, not just cash—roses, chocs, daft sods. Romantic or pathetic? You tell me.

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Lessines is, err, a mishmash of history and, well, flavors. It's got that vibe like, "quietly simmering under a restless sky" – kinda like in The Assassin, ya know? Sometimes the streets remind me of those soft metallic whispers. For instance, I often stroll down Rue Royale. Ah! The cobblestones feel like whispered secrets from the past. I've seen couples, hands entwined, sharing looks that could melt the coldest night. Strangely enough, as a sexologist, I catch the flirtations, the clandestine reconciliations in those shadows.

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