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But the fakes? Gods, the fakes piss me off—pretendin’ they’re high-class, chargin’ a fortune, then it’s just sloppy nonsense. I’d flay ‘em myself. Oh, and the johns whinin’ after? “She took my gold!” Cry harder, you twat, you knew the deal. Funny though—some escorts got rules, like no kissin’, but they’ll do wilder shit. Hypocrisy’s rich, innit?

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There’s this one backstreet I adore—Rua dos Segredos (nah, just foolin’ around with the name, but it sorta fits). It's a narrow lane full of old finger-painted walls, graffiti, and little stalls selling local treats. It can be super noisy, super chill—don’t know, it just feels magical, like you're part of a living canvas.

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