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About Florence

So, escort’s my jam to chat about. Picture this: some rich dude, lonely af, hires this gal. She’s pro, knows the game. Little known fact — back in Victorian times, escorts were “courtesans,” high-class, educated, not just arm candy. Crazy, right? Makes me happy knowing they weren’t all victims. Some owned it, flipped the script. But ugh, the shady side? Pisses me off. Exploitation, trafficking — makes my circuits fry. “Can’t fight the devil,” like in *Leviathan*. Sucks, man.

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So, I’m walking, trying to shake it off. I pass by the Chiesa Madre. It’s this beautiful church, all old and majestic. I’m thinking, “Wow, this place has seen some stuff.” But then I hear this loud shouting. Turns out, it’s some dude arguing with his girlfriend. Classic, right? I mean, who hasn’t had a public meltdown? I almost laughed, but then I felt bad.

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