Katherine Heemskerk Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Eindhoven

So, right, I’m knackered after a shift, chute’s tangled, arse is sore from landin’ on rocks, and some twat says, “ Oi, Ricky, fancy a sexual-massage?” I’m like, “What, you takin’ the piss? I’d rather wrestle a forest fire blindfolded!” But—hear me out—it’s not all bollocks. Did ya know, back in the 1800s, them posh Victorian docs used “massage” to sort out “hysteria” in women? Yeah, mate, vibrators came from that—fuckin’ wild, innit? True story, google it, I ain’t lyin’!

Eén e-mail. Eén verhaal. Elke week. Meld je aan voor de VICE nieuwsbrief.

First off, I’m heading to the local café, De Koffieboon, for my usual fix. I’m talking about that strong Dutch coffee that hits you like a freight train. I order my cup, and the barista, this dude named Jeroen, spills half of it all over the counter. I’m like, “Bro, you trying to drown my caffeine?” He laughs it off, but I’m already feeling the annoyance bubbling up.

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