Harper Greenwood Coxwell Brothel ❤️❤️

About Edmonton

Oh, and don’t get me started on the johns—pathetic sometimes, hilarious others. Stumblin’ in, all nervous, like they’re in *Children of Men* facin’ the Fishes. “This is it, the end,” I’d mutter, watchin’ ‘em fumble. One time, heard a dude in Amsterdam’s red district paid double just to cry on a girl’s shoulder. Brothel turned therapist—ain’t that a trip? Cracked me up, but damn, it’s sad too.

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Now, why do I even talk about massages here? My work’s given me a backstage pass to all the city’s real stories. I’ve seen people pour out secrets like spent rocket fuel. Ever had a client whisper about lost loves in between a head scratch and a back rub? Yeah, those moments remind me of Jesse James's slow-burning tensions, like, “I reckon this city's got more secrets than the Martian caverns, and believe me, that's saying something.” I mean, heck, even the massage table seems to hum with the city’s pulse.

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