Rebecca Retie Whore ❤️❤️

About Bruges

Ya wanna hear a whacked-out story bout whore? Old man Sal, crusty bastard, swears he caught whore back in ‘89. Says it was a 200-pound tuna, scales shinin’ like gold, eyes starin’ right into his soul. Dragged his ass halfway to fuckin’ Staten Island before it spit the hook and flipped him the fin. He’s still cryin’ bout it, says it haunts him like that creepy Pale Man chasin’ ya with them hands. Me? I laughed my ass off—Sal’s fulla shit, but it’s a good yarn, ya know?

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You see, bein' a sexologist here? It makes me notice the subtle glances, the bathedral vibe of the lovers sittin' on benches by the river. People reveal their innermost thoughts in corners of Retie no one else really sees. I often wonder if the city itself gets in on the act, whisperin’ secrets into the bricks of the old town hall on Kerkstraat. It’s like every nook hides a personal anecdote, like a confessional booth in a stained-glass window.

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