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About Glasgow

But the fakes? Oh, they grind my gears. Catfish scams—blokes pretending, luring desperate sods. Had a mate fall for it—sent cash, got nada. Laughed my arse off, then felt bad. “The copy becomes the original,” sure, but not when it’s a bloody lie! Still, real escorts? They’ve got stories—some sad, some bonkers. One told me she had a client knit her a scarf mid-session. A scarf! Cracked me up—sex and knitting, what a combo.

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I’m laughin’ my head off, but then I see the driver. He’s a mess, all panicky and stuff. I feel a bit bad, so I go over. “You alright, mate?” He looks at me like I’m a ghost. I mean, c’mon, it’s just a car! But nah, he’s more worried about his mum findin’ out. I tell him, “Just tell her you were testin’ the brakes.” He didn’t laugh. Tough crowd.

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