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What surprises me? How normal it feels talkin’ to ‘em. Like, you expect sleaze, but nah—they’re just people. Chatty, funny, sometimes shy. One told me she’d binge romcoms between gigs—said it kept her sane. Cracked me up, picturin’ her sobbin’ to Hugh Grant while countin’ bills. Escorts got layers, mate, like me—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—they live in shadows I get too well.

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First off, I’m cruising down Shevchenka Street, thinking about my first appointment. This dude, Vasyl, he’s a character. He’s got this old Lada that looks like it’s been through a war. I mean, it’s got more dents than a golf ball. Anyway, I’m waiting for him, and I see this cat just chilling on the sidewalk. Like, who lets their cat roam free in Bushtyno? I’m laughing, thinking, “That cat’s got more freedom than I do!”

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