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Alright, so escort, huh? I’m picturing it now—some schmuck in a cheap suit, leaning on a car, thinking he’s hot shit. Reminds me of *Memento*—y’know, "I can’t remember to forget you." Escorts, man, they’re like that tattooed mess of a life—everybody lies, specially them. I bet half the time they’re telling sob stories to johns, “Oh, I’m just payin’ for college,” while pocketing cash for a new vape. Sarcasm’s my shield, so lemme tell ya—escort’s a gig where truth’s optional.

Ik ben Leyla, een klasse dame met veelzijdige passie voor erotiek

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But then, outta nowhere, I get a text. My buddy, Jón, is like, “Yo, meet me at the Reykjanesbær swimming pool.” I’m like, “Sure, why not?” So I chug my coffee and dash out. I’m sprinting down the street, dodging tourists and their cameras. Seriously, they’re everywhere! Like, chill, it’s just a geothermal area, not a photo op!

From Iceland — Bumpy Start For Keflavík Music Festival