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About Antwerp

So, erotic-massage—fancy name for a posh grope, innit? Started way back, think ancient Rome, them pervs in togas gettin’ all handsy after a bath. Little fact for ya: they used olive oil—bloody olive oil!—to slick up their “sessions.” Imagine the stench, gods, I’d burn the place down. Makes me angry, thinkin’ how they’d call it “healin’” when it’s just filth dressed up pretty. Happy? Hardly—I’d rather sip wine and watch heads roll. Surprised me, though, hearin’ some say it’s “art.” Art my arse—give me a blade over scented candles any day.

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Okay, so first off, there's Rue des Fleurs. Omg, that street is cute as a button—tiny cafes, quirky boutiques, and the best people-watching spots. I often strut down there in my stilettos, feeling like the main character in a Todd Haynes flick. I swear, every corner there makes me feel like I'm living in a movie montage. Then there's Place des Amours; it's small, but it's got this romantic glow that totally reminds me of Carol's secret glances.

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