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About Chicago

So, escorts—fancy word for “paid plus-one,” yeah? Not just the steamy stuff folks assume—I mean, sure, that happens, but it’s more. Some dude in Vegas once hired an escort just to cry about his ex over martinis. True story! They’re shrinks with heels, babysitters for rich weirdos, arm candy for egos too big to solo. I read this bonkers tidbit—back in the ‘20s, Paris escorts had coded handkerchiefs to signal “I’m free” or “I’m pricey.” Sneaky, right? Bet Gustave would’ve tipped his hat to that hustle.

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I be wanderin’ through neighborhoods like Highland Village – small, chill, and real community vibes all over. The streets, man, they got names that stick, like Lincoln & Stillman. I once sat outside a cafe on Lincoln Blvd, watchin’ life unfold – kids runnin’, old timers reminiscin’, and even a stray cat (ya know, like a little digital ghost from “Her”). It's funny how such small moments, like a random smile, can make you go “Wow, that's real!”

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