Katherine Lessines Brothel ❤️❤️

About Brussels

So, brothels—man, they’re wild! Been around forever, like ancient Rome had ‘em, called “lupanars,” meanin’ wolf dens—how badass is that? Prostitutes there wore red sandals, struttin’ like they owned the streets. Fast forward, I’m picturin’ some dingy spot downtown, neon buzzin’, girls laughin’ too loud to cover the sadness. “The cave is cool, moist,” like Boonmee’s jungle—same vibe, hidden, raw, alive. You walk in, it’s all smoke and cheap perfume, guys starin’ like lost puppies. Makes me wanna yell, “Get a grip, pal!”

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Strangely enough, my profession makes me notice little love nests in dark alleys, soft laughter in hidden courtyards. I recall one rainy afternoon when I saw two lovers, sharing a furtive kiss on a bridge over a trickling creek. Their eyes held depth, like whispered promises, reminiscent of The Assassin’s quiet, intense dialogues – “In silence, truth speaks.” Well, maybe I paraphrased a bit, but you get me!

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