Isabelle Moura Brothel ❤️

About Funchal

Oi, listen up, you lot! This brothel business—filthy word, innit? Slithers off the tongue like some lowborn scum. I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, and I reckon it’s a cesspit of desperation. Cold disdain? Oh, I’ve got buckets of it. “I choose violence,” I’d say, if some grubby fool tried dragging me near one. Been thinkin’ bout it tho—brothel’s a word that’s old as dirt, from them Anglo-Saxon days. Meant “ruined woman” or some such rot—harsh, right? Makes me smirk, how it’s all tangled up in shame and coin.

Local Intel

“As soon as man arrives somewhere, he builds a prison and a brothel – that is, the places where desire truly is – and he waits for something.

Finally, I get my coffee, and it’s like heaven in a cup. I take a sip, and boom! My day is looking up. But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring rain. Like, seriously, it was sunny two seconds ago! I dash outta the café, and I’m soaked in seconds. I’m running down Rua da Estação, dodging puddles like I’m in some kind of Olympic event.

Aryn Moura Named Associate Head Coach at Tulane Volleyball