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About Chicago

I saunter up, all charm, “shaken, not stirred,” voice smooth as silk. She’s givin me the eye—prolly thinks I’m loaded, which, fair, I look it. “How much, love?” I ask, casual, but inside I’m buzzin—happy as a pig in shit. She names a price, I’m like, “fuckin steep, that!”—but I play it cool, cos Bond don’t haggle like a twat. Fun fact: in Amsterdam, they got windows for this—legal, tidy, no messin about. Here? It’s a gamble, mate—cops, pimps, the lot.

Poland Prostitution Price?

I remember one day, oh so madly, a client complained 'bout tight knots, but I knew every street corner like my flesh. In Kraków's old town—the cobbles, the whispers in the wind—they speak secrets if you listen. Gossipy alleys, tiny cafes near Floriańska Street, filled with grub and urgent laughter, tickling my ears like sibilant names... We swears!

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