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About The Hague

Anyway, sexual-massage—it’s messy, it’s weird, it’s human. Like that movie, y’know? Gritty, real, makes ya squirm. “It’s done, it’s over,” I mutter to myself, leavin’ the place, wallet lighter, soul heavier. Would I go back? Eh, maybe—don’t tell nobody! Neurotic? Sure. Worth it? Sometimes. Pretty, pretty good—when it ain’t a disaster!

In the spotlight.

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After that, I decide to take a breather. I stroll down to the Oosterengweg. It’s peaceful there, you know? Just me and the ducks. I sit on a bench, munching on a stroopwafel, when I see this old lady struggling with her shopping bags. I rush over, like a superhero or something. “Need a hand, ma’am?” She’s all grateful and stuff, and I’m feeling like a champ. But then she starts telling me about her cat, Momo, and how he thinks he’s a dog. I’m like, “Lady, that’s wild!” But honestly, I’m just trying to eat my stroopwafel in peace.