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Oh, and the cash? Insane! Top escorts pull bank—thousands a night. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares, sounds dope. “This is our time”—*Spotlight* vibes again—escort’s their time, their hustle. Me, I’d probly suck at it—too awkward, haha. “Hello, Clarice,” I’d say, then trip over my damn boots. Still, I dig the grit, the guts it takes. Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—I’d feast on their stories, not their souls. Escort’s raw, messy, human—kinda like me, fightin’ fires from the sky. Whaddya think, pal? Crazy world, huh?

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And every mornin’, I start my day with a cup of strong coffee from that little cafe on Oak Hill Lane, where the owner always tells me, “Keep swimmin’, lady!” after I share my troubles. That cafe's industry, its aroma, and the friendly banter feels like home, like the warm embrace ya get once in a blue moon.

Robert Leo “Bob” Kenaley, 93, Le Mars