Elizabeth Retie Brothel ❤️

About Namur

One time, mate o’ mine—daft sod—says brothels fun, “lads night!” Pfft, fun?! Stinks o’ desperation, it does! Seen it meself—bloke stumblin out, drunk, cryin—hilarious, but sad, y’know? “We all tell stories,” Polley’d say, and brothel’s one big messy yarn. Ever hear ‘bout them Victorian ones? Had “specialty rooms”—chains, feathers, weird shite. Freaky, aye! Me milkin hands’d rather stick to udders, ta very much!

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You see, bein' a sexologist here? It makes me notice the subtle glances, the bathedral vibe of the lovers sittin' on benches by the river. People reveal their innermost thoughts in corners of Retie no one else really sees. I often wonder if the city itself gets in on the act, whisperin’ secrets into the bricks of the old town hall on Kerkstraat. It’s like every nook hides a personal anecdote, like a confessional booth in a stained-glass window.

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