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About Rotterdam

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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First off, I hit up the local bakery on Raadhuisstraat. Best croissants ever! I’m talking flaky, buttery goodness. I grabbed one and almost dropped it. Like, how do they make it so perfect? I was feeling all fancy, munching on my croissant, when I noticed this dude staring at me. I’m like, “Bro, it’s just a pastry!” But whatever, I just smiled and kept walking.

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