Isabelle Pijnacker Brothel ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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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?

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Finally, my train arrives. I hop on, and it’s packed. I squeeze into a corner, trying not to touch anyone. You know that awkward train dance? Yeah, I’m doing that. But then, this sweet old lady sits next to me. She starts chatting about her garden in Pijnacker. I’m like, “Wow, lady, you’re living the dream!” She’s got all these flowers and veggies. I’m just trying to keep my eyes open, but she’s so passionate. I can’t help but smile.

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