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About Rome

So, sex escorts—fancy term fer a quick shag, innit? Been ‘round forever, swear it. Heard tell of this Roman bloke, paid a gal in gold coins fer a night—called her his “private muse.” Little known fact, that! Nowadays, it’s all cash apps an’ “discreet encounters”—pfft, discreet me arse! Saw an ad once, “classy escort, £200/hr”—lass looked like she’d rob ye blind ‘fore kissin’ ye. Made me laugh ‘til me rum spilled, savvy? But—ooh—got me riled too, ‘cause some o’ these poor souls ain’t there by choice. Traffickin’, coercion—dark shite, that. Pisses me off, seein’ folk used like cannon fodder.

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Next, I decide to wander over to the old church, Chiesa di San Nicola. It’s beautiful, right? I walk in, and it’s all quiet and peaceful. I’m just taking it all in when this random cat strolls by. I’m like, “Is this your church too, buddy?” It’s just chilling, like it owns the place. I snap a pic for the ‘gram, of course.

Italy’s political rivals battle for outsized victory in tiny Molise