Her pitch was always the same. Any male who made eye contact got the same proposition, “Tu montes, cheri?”

You probably think I grew up poor. N’est-ce pas? Au contraire. My father owned a pharmacy. He was doing okay. This was in Clermont-Ferrand, a dreary shithole of a place, let me tell you. The air smelled of rubber from the tire factories. Michelin practically owned the city. The mayor and the whole goddamn city council got free tires. Half the girls I we…

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