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About Sheffield

So, escorts—fancy a shag for cash, simple as that. But it ain’t just bonkin’, nah. Some lads out there, they’re lonely as a droid in a desert, cravin’ a chat, a touch, somethin’ real—or fake-real, whatever works. Gets me proper mad, tho—society judgin’ ‘em, callin’ it dirty. Oi, live and let live, yeah? I read once—dunno where, some dodgy X post prolly—that in ancient Greece, courtesans were, like, high-class brainiacs, not just bedwarmers. Blew me mind, that did! Imagine hirin’ a lass who’s quotin’ Plato while—well, y’know. Wild!

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So, I’m off to do my rounds. I head down to Crown Lane. Now, this is where it gets interesting. I’m knockin’ on doors, doin’ my thing, when I run into this bloke named Dave. He’s a right character, always got a story. Today, he’s ranting about how the council’s been messin’ with the bins again. I mean, come on! It’s just rubbish, mate! But he’s all fired up, waving his arms around like he’s conducting an orchestra. I can’t help but laugh.

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