Cora La Bruyere Brothel ❤️

About Brussels

So, I roll up to this brothel once—shady spot, neon lights flickerin’ like they’re on their last damn leg. Smelled like cheap perfume and regret. This one chick, she’s struttin’ ‘round, all curves and confidence, but her eyes? Empty as fuck. Reminds me of that coma girl in the movie—“Her skin was soft, too soft.” Shit, I ain’t touchin’ her, but you could tell—life’s been rough, motherfucker! I’m pissed, yo—how’s a place like this even legal? Then I chill, ‘cause history’s got dirtier tales. Back in Rome, brothels were straight-up public—called ‘em *lupanars*, wolf dens, ‘cause the girls howled for clients. How’s that for a fuckin’ factoid?

La Bruyère

Brothels: Voyeurism and Ideology · collapse section · Her Body, Himself La Bruyère, Jean de, 77 Lacan, Jacques, 73 n, 75 n, Lafayette.

I gotta mention my secret haunt, a little bar on Rue des Murmures (yeah, I know, names sometimes lie!). It’s perfect for a cheeky drink and a dive into personal revelations. Humble yet elating, like a whispered truth in a drunken soliloquy.

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