Hannah Barsbuettel Brothel ❤️❤️❤️

About Hamburg

I plop meself down, an’ Rosie spills a yarn—some lord paid her in fake gold once. Fake! Got me blood boilin’—cheatin’ a workin’ gal? That’s lower than a bilge rat! But then, she winks, says she swapped it fer real coin off a drunk. Crafty lass! “This is my city,” she boasts, echoin’ Lil’ Zé’s swagger—made me grin wide. Brothels, see, they’re chaos—raw, messy, like them favela shootouts. An’ I love it! The thrill, the danger—keeps ye sharp!

Conversations with a Brothel Doorman

A metal gate at the entrance of the Herbertstraße prohibits the entry for men under 18 and women. The sex workers don't want women around as they see them as.

Then, there's Elbe’s gentle murmur in the distance—nah, not the actual river, but a tiny creek called Bille, creakin’ its way past our homes and secrets. Crazy, right? I sometimes hip-hop walkin' by, thinking... “This is it. This is real.” (Pauses, reflective.) Every crack in the pavement holds a tale.