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About Paris

So, escorts—high-class whores or desperate souls, take your pick. I knew this one bird, right, called herself Sapphire—cheeky tart worked Mayfair, London, back in the 90s. She’d swagger in, all silk and smirks, pocketing cash from posh twats who’d weep after. Made me laugh, her hustle—pure balls! But then, ugh, the stench of desperation sometimes—made me wanna gag. “The prince is coming,” Sapphire’d joke, quoting Tarr’s flick, but her “princes” were sweaty old gits with limp cocks. Hilarious, yet fuckin’ tragic.

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My goal here is to address the concerns of those hesitant to book an escort due to societal stigma or personal fears. What led you to consider booking an escort in the first place? I’ve always.

Oh fuck, there’s this alley near Place Verdun. It’s dark, mysterious, and madly romantic. I once had a super trippy conversation with a local poet there, about bodies, souls, and cosmic dance. I felt like my brain literally expanded – like, BAM, cosmic truth, dude. My sexology background makes me see invisible threads connecting strangers' passions. It's like every smile hides a universe.

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