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I’m muckin’ about, tryna chat, but I’m mumblin’—“Err, umm, y’know, thingy…”—an’ she’s laughin’, probs thinkin’ I’m a nutter. Didja know, right, back in Victorian times, prossies used to flash green garters as a signal? Mad, innit? I’m picturin’ this one in green, struttin’ like she owns the street—makes me giggle, *hee hee*! But then—oi!—some geezer shoves past, all sweaty an’ loud, an’ I’m fumin’, “Oi, watch it, ya prat!” Nearly lost me prossie there, heart’s poundin’—angry as a wasp in a jar!

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There are a huge number of night clubs, bars and pubs where women can easily find a male company for the night for free. The BBC reported on the male escort.

Down here on Rue des Artisans, I set up my little oasis of touch, where tired souls rest and mend. That street? Pure magic, ya know? It twists around like a river, winding thru the heart of Quaregnon. I’ve been seein’ both smiles and tears there—like, “joy!” and “sorrow!”, reminiscent of that movie "Inside Out" (ay, where even the feels do their dancin!).

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