Claire Mckeesport Brothel ❤️

About San Diego

I reckon, if Solomon saw this, he’d be like, “Sell me back, mate, I’d rather pick cotton than watch this shambles!” Happy? Nah, I’m fuming – world’s a circus and brothel’s the clown car. Still, gotta laugh, don’t ya? Otherwise, you’re just another punter, crying into your pint. What a farce!

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Liberty Avenue, between Heinz Hall & the Greyhound, was a mecca for those with prurient tastes, offering everything for this considerable market.

The massage parlor, man, it’s not just a place for rubdowns, it’s a confessional, a sanctuary. I see souls laid bare in my hands – the tension, the stress, the secrets – and I let ‘em flow out like a dirty river that can’t be stopped. Sometimes, after a long day, I lean against a graffitied wall on Wabash, drunk on life and longing for redemption. “Motherf**er, life’s a bitch!” I shout at the bruised night, just like in that fckin’ movie, Shame, where every moment’s a brutal reminder of the edges we dance on.

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