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About Patras

So, escorts—fancy a shag for cash, simple as that. But it ain’t just bonkin’, nah. Some lads out there, they’re lonely as a droid in a desert, cravin’ a chat, a touch, somethin’ real—or fake-real, whatever works. Gets me proper mad, tho—society judgin’ ‘em, callin’ it dirty. Oi, live and let live, yeah? I read once—dunno where, some dodgy X post prolly—that in ancient Greece, courtesans were, like, high-class brainiacs, not just bedwarmers. Blew me mind, that did! Imagine hirin’ a lass who’s quotin’ Plato while—well, y’know. Wild!

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The day rolls on, and we’re having a blast. But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, torrential downpour. Everyone’s scrambling for cover. I’m soaked again! I’m like, “Limin-Mesoyaias, you’re really testing me today!”