Charlotte Destelbergen Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Brussels

I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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Not all's gloom tho – my spa calms me. I cherish the vibe at Destelbergen spa on Verlaatstraat (cool name, right?) It’s a sanctuary and my battleground. Every massage, every steam, every drop of calm = pure victory. Sometimes, near the riverside, while watching over our streetlights reflect, I get a flash of real art.

VDL delivers five electric buses to De Lijn