Makayla Bodegraven Brothel ❤️

About The Hague

Well, helllo there, my tasty friend! Brothel, huh? Let’s dive in—messy, raw, real. I’ve seen ‘em, smelled ‘em, judged ‘em hard. Places where souls drift, like Bob in *Lost in Translation*. “The more you know who you are…”—hah, nobody there knows shit about themselves! Just bodies crashin’, cash flowin’, desperation hangin’ thick. I’d stroll in, all sharp suit and sharper grin, sizin’ up the room. Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—sees what others miss. The twitch in a girl’s eye, fear masked as flirtin’. Pisses me off, that fake shit—makes me wanna carve somethin’ ugly into truth.

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By now, I’m feeling a bit peckish. I spot a food truck selling poffertjes. You know, those little Dutch pancakes? I can’t resist. I order a plate, and they’re so fluffy, I could cry. I’m standing there, stuffing my face, when I see a couple arguing nearby. It’s awkward, but also kinda funny. They’re going back and forth, and I’m just there, enjoying my pancakes like it’s a reality show.

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