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About Kyiv

But lordy, the stigma’d make me madder’n a wet hen. Folks whisperin’, judgin’—gets my goat somethin’ fierce. Reminds me of *The Pianist*—poor Władysław hidin’ from them Nazis, scared to breathe. “I’m still here, alive,” he’d say, clingin’ to hope. Escorts prolly feel that too—dodgin’ shame, still standin’ tall. Makes me tear up, thinkin’ how tough they gotta be.

What are the prostitutes of Kiev

When I get there, I see a crowd. Like, a legit crowd. Turns out, they’re having some kind of festival. Food stalls everywhere, music blasting, people dancing. I’m like, “What the heck? I just wanted to chill!” But then I smell the grilled meat. Oh man, I’m suddenly all in.