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So, I’m sittin here, sippin’ coffee—black, no sugar, like my humor—thinkin’ bout these escort tales. Lemme tell ya, it ain’t all glitz. Back in the day, think 1800s, they called ‘em “courtesans”—fancy, right? But real talk, some were just tryna eat. Makes me mad, yo—society judgin’ while they’re out here survivin’. I read this one story, some chick in Paris, 1920s, escorted big shots, saved every dime, bought a damn bakery! From heels to dough, how’s that for a plot twist? Surprised me, man—hustle’s hustle, I respect it.

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Let’s talk neighborhoods. Near my spa, there’s also the area around Piazza di Luna. Nighttime is bonkers – street artists, random music blasts, and people yelling “Lost in Translation!” (I swear, it’s like a movie, dude!) My heart goes boom with every chaotic, yet warm vibe. I even get mad sometimes when those nighttime discos get too loud. Ugh, noise pollution! But eh, it adds to the magic, y’know?

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