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About Bologna

Dunno, escorts got this vibe—power, but not. They choose, yet they don’t. Reminds me, “The Return,” that cold shore, endless grey—life’s a bitch, innit? Some punters treat ‘em like dirt, others worship the ground they strut on. Me? I’d rather burn the lot than bow. Little fact—Victorian era, escorts had calling cards, “Miss Fanny, pleasures await.” Cheeky sods! Imagine that, slipping one under me door—ha!

Escorts in Schiavonea

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So, I’m walking down the lungomare, right? The sea breeze is hitting me, and I’m feeling all philosophical. I mean, how can you not? The waves crashing, the mountains in the background, it’s like a postcard. But then, BAM! A seagull swoops down and steals my cornetto! I’m standing there, mouth agape, like, “Did that just happen?” I swear, that bird had a plan. It was like a scene from a heist movie. I was mad, but also kinda impressed.

Swordfish Festival