Isabelle Logan Square Brothel ❤️

About Chicago

Picture this—me, strollin’ into some dodgy brothel, all cool-like. Dim lights, cheap perfume, girls givin’ me the eye. It’s a maze, mate, a bleedin’ labyrinth of vice. “We need to go deeper,” I mutter to myself, smirkin’, cos it’s a brothel, innit? Layers on layers—girls, rooms, secrets. Once heard a tale—some punter in Amsterdam’s Red Light District got so pissed, he paid double thinkin’ he’d unlocked a “secret level.” Bloke thought he was Cobb, plantin’ secrets in a tart’s head. Hilarious, but sad—wanker lost his watch too.

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Truth be told, each day in Logan-Square is a new chapter. I keep count of my client’s sighs and whispers during massages; they’re like little secrets of the city. I feel every muscle of this place, like it’s my own body. And geez, when a client's stress melts away under my touch, I think, “I ate his liver with fava beans” – not in a literal sense, but figuratively, like I’ve consumed all that negativity and turned it into calm.

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