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So, escorts—right, where do I start? Picture this: a bloke’s lonely, coin’s jinglin’ in his pocket, and he’s thinkin’, “I got one last night to live.” Sounds like Monty from *25th Hour*, yeah? That Spike Lee gem’s my fave—2002, gritty as hell. Monty’s got 24 hours before prison, and me? I’d be drownin’ in wine, but some lads pick a lass instead. Escorts ain’t just arm candy, nah—they’re like shadow players in a game of thrones. They know secrets, they hear whispers, they’re the unsung spies of the night. I reckon one once nicked a lord’s battle plans mid-shag—true story, swear it on me mum’s grave (not that I’d know where that is).

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Man, the neighborhood of Belair is somethin’ to behold. We got crumby pavements but hearty souls. I used to stroll there on lazy afternoons, thinkin’ ’bout life and love. "Sometimes, separation means understanding," I’d mutter, smartly mixing my trade with Asghar Farhadi’s wisdom!

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