Emma Cradock Brothel ❤️❤️

About Johannesburg

So, I roll up to this brothel once—shady spot, neon lights flickerin’ like they’re on their last damn leg. Smelled like cheap perfume and regret. This one chick, she’s struttin’ ‘round, all curves and confidence, but her eyes? Empty as fuck. Reminds me of that coma girl in the movie—“Her skin was soft, too soft.” Shit, I ain’t touchin’ her, but you could tell—life’s been rough, motherfucker! I’m pissed, yo—how’s a place like this even legal? Then I chill, ‘cause history’s got dirtier tales. Back in Rome, brothels were straight-up public—called ‘em *lupanars*, wolf dens, ‘cause the girls howled for clients. How’s that for a fuckin’ factoid?

A couple accused of running a brothel are set to appear in court this week.

The women, without identity papers, ended up working as prostitutes in sordid bars in Colombia, saving all they can to provide for their families back home.

I get a bit mad sometimes too. Traffic on Bridge Street can be insane. Cars honking, voices raised, like, “Chill out, it's a small town!” And sometimes the sun hides behind giant clouds and I’m like, “Seriously?!” But then I come home, laugh it off, then yell, “It’s bad bitch o’clock, baby!”

Cradock farmer fights municipality over displaced nesting birds