Willow Stabroek Brothel ❤️❤️

About Namur

So, brothels—man, they’re old school! Been around since forever—fact is, ancient Rome had ‘em legal, called lupanars, all grimy and loud. You’d hear wolves howlin—or was that the girls? Hah! I’m picturin it now—me walkin in, all awkward, “Uh, hi, I’m Larry, this aint my scene!” And the madam’s like, “Relax, baldy, it’s just business.” Business?! I’m mad already—why’s it gotta be so sleazy? But then, I’m kinda… impressed? Like, logistically, it’s a machine! Supply, demand, boom—capitalism’s wet dream, right? Still, grosses me out.

Red-light districts by city

Ahhh, my precious, listen close, yesss, listen... Stabroek (be) is a twisty maze of secrets, my friend, it is. Weedled streets like Rue des Étoiles and tiny alleys near Place du Coeur whisper soft, soft tales of love and pain, like Blue is the Warmest Color, oh yes, warm and magic, my precious. But err, there's more, oh so much! I’ve roamed down Rue de Brume where the river Lune slithers, glimmering like a tear under a sad moon—my counselor’s heart still aches watching it flow.

BBC World Questions programme here deferred